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"So what are your thoughts on the upcoming season? Surely you have a team."
*Now, in all honesty I just can't see this uppity S.o.B. knowing a thing about organized sports in general, let alone the most revered sport in the south. I just love a chance to humiliate the old chap though.*
"First, I'll be pulling for the Cardinals. Second, I would love to hear who else in the room you consider to be uppity. Third, I want to know who the hell you think you're talking to."
Stunned in utter disbelief, John had never considered that whenever he gazed off into the distance and spoke into his omnipresent diary with his thoughts, that his mouth may have actually produced audible tones which could be received by others beside the audience. What an unfortunate time to learn, too.
"How did you hear that? No one ever does."
"I assume you do the same as I do, express your most important or witty thoughts in the form of a journal entry. It is separate from normal conversation, in that it is directed at no one in particular and NO one ever hears you except... *well, you.* "How peculiar that I can hear yours, however."
The pair stared into each others' souls, lost and confused, wondering if this was chance, or fate, or perhaps just a miracle. After all, they had both been doing this for so long. Why now? Why him? They both wondered such things for a long few minutes until Martin (the older of the two that was meant to be humiliated before this discovery) decided more had to be learned about this...gift.
"John I would like you to follow me into the next room." They both left the dining area and strolled into a parlor, lined with shelves of books and a gorgeous oak desk, which belonged to Martin himself. "John it seems we have found ourselves in quite a predicament, wouldn't you agree?" The young entrepreneur nodded, still in disbelief that a crotchety old billionaire like Martin could possibly share something so inexplicably important with him. "Which is why I need you to do something. Tell me what you hear."
John listened close but could not hear anything. Gazing into the old man's eyes, he listened harder. Still nothing. The only sounds were coming from the next room, where the guests were still mingling and telling bad jokes and missing out on what was truly a groundbreaking experience for these two men, possibly the world. This was beyond communication. This was other-worldly. But still John heard nothing.
"Martin I'm afraid I can't hear you. Perhaps only one of us has the gift."
*That's all I needed*
Martin withdrew a knife and shoved it into John's lower abdomen. As he clutched the dying young man, he turned toward the camera with a calm manner, a matter-of-fact tone, and a crazed look in his eyes.
*Dear viewer I apologize for the graphic nature of this...event. However it is important that John here realizes that I believe in perfection. Two men that can speak to you? It's just unnatural. I am the main character, after all, since I could hear him but he could not hear me. I got where I am by making things right and taking out what is wrong...*
Martin hides the knife and cleans his hands on a handkerchief, pondering how to dispose of the body properly. A lingering smile on his face, his eyes return to the camera
*And since no one seems to mind how I'm running things, why stop now?* | 32 | Two fourth wall breakers meet and realize that they both can talk to the audiance | 48 |
Something isn't definitely wrong with those people. Am I crazy? Was I seeing things? No. There's no way. Just for a second, a blink in a moment of time, I saw it. I saw something. I saw something inhuman.
I try to catch my breath that has seemed to have sprinted ahead of me as I slam the front door shut. This had never be happened before. Never happened before. Never happened. Never...
Never?
Inhuman. Abnormal. Unearthly. Strange and...
Familiar?
The goosebumps crawl underneath my skin like parasites moving through my veins. I scratch at the filth inside my arms as my legs began to quake beneath me.
I need to be clean. I need this filth to be gone from me.
One foot in front of the other, one layer of clothing at a time, slowly and shakily. I can make it. Oh god, the sound of the water gushing from the faucet. This is what I need. Just a bit more time for the water and...
I drop myself into the sanctuary, submerging myself completely, but it's not enough. I'm not clean. I need more.
The bottle of cleanser. Salvation. I hungrily snatch it from the side of my bathtub, pouring cool liquid into my hand. This will save me. This will rid me of the filth.
But for a moment I pause, staring at the liquid before me. Familiar again. Have I been here before? I feel as if, somehow, I've known this moment. Why is it familiar? Why am I not just using this liquid to save myself from this disgusting body? I'm so dirty. I need this. I know what I saw, I know it was not human, but not yet. I can't think about that yet. I need this first.
But why. Why do I stop? Why is my body telling me to withhold from my salvation? The parasites are moving farther into my skin. Burrowing. Consuming. I can't take it. I can't. I can't.
I splash the clear liquid over my head, into my skin, pushing and scraping it down into the filth, rubbing it into my skin. I lean back into the water, letting myself be cleansed.
And then I just have to remember. Just remember. Just remember.
Remember.
Remember what?
I don't know. I'm supposed to remember something. Something important. Something that I have forgotten before.
Oh, that must be it.
I forgot the milk again.
Hm, how silly. How could I do that again.
Why was I in such a hurry?
Maybe I was just tired.
Maybe I'll get it tomorrow. I shouldn't forget again.
How strange. How forgetful I've gotten lately. I suppose it must be age.
I lean against the back of the tub, relaxing my muscles into the hot water.
Ah yes, a bath is exactly what I needed. | 12 | A daily household product has been revealed as an alien brainwashing device. Write about the discovery. | 17 |
Jim jumped out of the bed as the sun's first rays found their way into his bedroom. He parted the curtains and threw open the windows, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. As usual, he needed to pee. So he did.
Mrs. Johnson, the neighbor across the street, was walking by with her dog.
"Oh, hi there, Jim!", she said. "Woah, you've got some power there, for a man your age."
Jim responded by increasing the angle of his stream and pushing as hard as he could. It almost reached Mrs. Johnson. "Close but no cigar!", she said, the stream of urine falling just inches from her face. She waited for her dog to finish its massive shit on Jim's lawn, and then walked on.
Jim went down to the kitchen, where he found Sarah and the kids making breakfast.
"Good morning, honey!", Sarah said. Her gaze wandered south. "Is it cold in here, or what?", she teased, cupping his balls with her oven mitt. They all laughed.
Jim sat down by his son, Jacob, who had just turned thirteen. Jacob was eating cereal, hunched awkwardly over the table. Curious, Jim peeked underneath the table and saw what the problem was.
"Good morning, son", he said. "I see you've got that morning wood again. Good for you, boy. That's the sign of a healthy penis. Right, hun?"
"Right, sweetie", Sarah answered, without turning away from the stove. "I remember when your father and I first got together; the thing wouldn't *stay* down!"
"Well, it takes two to tango, honey!", Jim laughed.
He watched Jacob devour his cereal. "Hey, that looks god, son. Let me have a taste." He scooped up a handful and jammed it into his mouth. It wasn't at all what he expected.
"Eww, bleh!", he sputtered, spitting the half-chewed cereal back into the bowl. "Disgusting. Well, I'm off to work."
__________________________
He pulled up to the hospital at around noon, tires screeching as he slammed the brakes outside the front doors. He got out of the car and chugged the last bit of his tequila on the way in. As always, Sheila greeted him from behind the front desk.
"Whasssup Sheila?", he slurred.
"Hi, Jim! Hittin' the ol' bottle again, are we?" She chuckled and waved him in.
"Best way to start the day", he said. Sheila smiled and showed him her wrist, which was hooked up to an IV.
"You don't have to tell me!"
Jim made for the inner doors, but was stopped by a dirty, smelly man in tattered clothes. The man shook slightly as he spoke, licking his lips like a hungry dog.
"Say, Doc", he began, "y-you got any... drugs in there?"
"Wow, you stink!", Jim said, pinching his nose shut and waving the air between them. "Yeah, of course we got 'em. What do you need?"
The man opened his mouth to speak, but Jim stopped him and started rummaging around in his pockets. "You know what, nevermind. Where are those damn - ah, here." He pulled out a set of keys and handed them to the man. "The supply room is just down the hall, to the right. Knock yourself out."
The man's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. Jim walked on, entering a busy emergency room. Patients were being walked, carried, rolled and dragged all over the place. As he passed by a door, Jim overheard a conversation between a doctor and a young couple.
"So, yeah, he died in surgery", the doctor said. "Good thing he did, because I had no fucking idea what was wrong with him."
The young man looked at his girlfriend, then back to the doctor. "Well, he was always kind of a dick."
Jim reached the call board, which listed every upcoming procedure, as well as the doctors and nurses assigned to it. As Jim studied the board, someone slammed him in the back. He knew who it was before he even turned around.
"Tommy."
"Jim!" He tapped the board. "I see it's you and me on the triple bypass again. We're quite the team!"
"Yeah, totally", Jim said, "except I do all the work. You're just a nurse."
"True enough", Tommy laughed, pointing at his nametag. "Hey, we should totally get a beer sometime."
"Fuck no", Jim said, and walked off.
_______
Edit: added some more | 160 | A typical day in a world where EVERYTHING is socially acceptable. | 137 |
When I first learned of the lung cancer, John was as surprised and confused as I was. Neither of us smoked, and the only second hand possibility resided with my sister-in-law. Even that was a rare interaction, as she was always so careful while she was near all of us. The hospital became our second home, where they even allowed me to decorate my private room like our room at the house. John would be there day in and day out, from sunrise to sunset, and as long after as they'd allow. Our two boys were still young, but our family was big, and close enough that we didn't have to worry about who would take care of them. He was my soul mate; and I was his. We promised to leave this world together.
When things went from bad to worse, I thought we were both ready. We had always planned to be. But he felt differently. As he sat next to me, teary-eyed, holding my hand for comfort, I heard him mutter the word 'divorce' with a sniffle. The other words didn't matter as much, even if there were some that made sense.
He wanted to be free of me, to live his life without a part of his soul. He always told me I was his better half, and even if he stole the line from a cheesy movie; I loved him for it. Who would want to live as the lesser half of a whole, even if it was seemingly a selfless act to raise the boys? He did. And I understood his heart better than anyone. In reality, he was the better of the two of us; the better half of our whole. And we both knew it.
Without knowing how much time I had, I smiled, brushed his hair behind his ear, and agreed to his request. The lawyer would be coming first thing in the morning for me to sign the papers, and I promised to last at least until then. I made sure to tell him how much I loved him, and that he was always my better half, and the light that shone through my darkness. Kissing me on the forehead, he got up and started to leave, drained of strength and tears. He held my hand as he walked away, and only let go when the distance was too great to stay latched together.
As he rounded the corner, memories of us together flashed rapidly across my mind as I gazed into my wedding ring. The first time we held our twins, at this same hospital. Our first kiss, under the apple tree in Williams Square. Our first dance as a married couple, him stepping on my toes all throughout.
Squeezing my eyes tightly to force out one last tear, I pulled out every needle from my arm, and slowly watched the heart monitor until our world was no more. | 293 | Marriage in an alternate universe is literally a lifelong commitment; when either partner dies, their counterpart immediately drops dead. | 392 |
"Let's go lads!" he shouted as the torch seared through the final seal, breaching the external airlock. Nine of the worst, most cutthroat bastards ever birthed.
The ship was massive, some sort of freighter. Probably shipping to a colony planet, which meant a massive payoff.
"You know the drill," their leader said, and the teams split apart. Four would go to the bridge and keep watch for patrol cruisers. Two would check the crew and ensure they were in stasis, or cut their throats.
The two on their way to the crew laughed as they made their way down the metallic corridors, one sliding a sharpening stone along the edge of his knife.
"I'm thinking we gut them all and take whatever they've got," he said, licking his lips with vicious anticipation. Before his comrade could respond they were stopped by a shimmering vision. A woman, beautiful and completely naked, standing in the middle of the corridor. She had appeared from nowhere.
"You intend to harm the crew?" she said, her voice strange.
"You first," the knife wielding man said, eyes glued as he stepped forward.
"I think you need to leave," she said, then disappeared. The two men stood there, staring into the emptiness until an emergency hatch opened and they were sucked, screaming, into the void of space.
The four on the bridge found a brightly lit terminal with a man standing over it. He was dressed in a blue Navy uniform, turning upon their approach. The first pirate fired a single shot but it harmlessly passed through the officer's body.
"Criminal scum," he said, snarling. With that, the bridge emergency hatch opened and four more pirates found themselves on the wrong side of the hull.
Three were left, in the cargo hold.
"No response from the other teams."
"Let's go, they can lose their share." The pirate leader and the remaining two loaded what they could onto their ship through the airlock and detached. As they prepared to thrust away a face emerged on their comm screen.
"You have made a terrible mistake."
"Who the fuck are you!" the pirate leader snarled, "and what mistake, we're getting away with your cargo!"
"A shame." The face was gone.
It wasn't long after when a scratching noise came from the ventilation system, metal shrieking against metal. Then the red lights began flashing, an intruder in the system.
They made for the bridge doorways but they were sealed tight.
The three pirates drew their weapons, hoping that physical strength could save them. Their leader looked at his two men, panic filling their eyes, considering that maybe he had made a mistake. Violence, their comrade, would be no help.
A communication would be sent out, broadcast on any frequency. A man, weak and gasping, begging for any assistance. Oxygen was running out. Then the broadcast ended. No more was heard.
Until scavengers came upon a ship, lifeless and adrift in space. | 36 | In the early days of interstellar travel, a group of pirates plunder ships while their crews are in stasis. On the latest ship, the pirates encounter something they've never come across; an on board artificial intelligence. | 135 |
Jonah looked down at the watch on his wrist and grinned. It was April 7th, 1:40PM, 2330 and for the first time in a hundred years, they had succeeded.
They, of course, were the World Historical Prevention Agency. Back in the 2200s the citizens of the world had finally come to accept that their world was cyclical in nature. Events crucial to the world came and went as they were meant to be. The problem being that those happenings were starting to do encores.
The 2230s woke us up in a big way, Jonah mused, with the return of the Black Death. 22% of the world population died in a matter of 20 years and shook up the power structure of the planet in a way no political maneuvering could have puppeteered. The European Union dissolved and broke out into a handful of the deadliest wars history had already waged. Spain, Uruguay, Brazil, and the entirety of the UK were in civil war. Germany and Russia decided to use that opportunity to wage another world war under a fanatical tyrant. Billions of lives were lost. Again.
Thus the WHPA was created, for better or worse. Our job has always been to document and prevent the sins of the past from resurfacing.
Our success rate, grimaced Jonah, is 0%.
The biggest problem of history is ambiguity. One agent attempted to prevent the United States from entering Vietnam back in 2265. Not only did he fail at this, but the WHPA's plan of attack was incidentally repeating Lincoln's assassination (so soon after Kennedy's assassination, mind you). And the US entered the Vietnam warscape anyways that same year.
We keep trying though. One of these days, we'll get it right. We'll break the cycle. And today is that day.
Jonah made his way down the bare corridor and palmed into the glass-walled room beyond. His fellow agents bristled with activity, pulling up displays of timelines and hypothetical historical trajectories. As he walked past, Jonah felt a sense of pride knowing that the years of surveillance, bookwork and legwork his team had committed to was finally, FINALLY going to pay off.
"You're late, Colonel Skaria." Jonah focused on the origin of the voice, a grizzled man of 65 clad in black and gray soldier garb.
"General Ira, and to what do we owe the pleasure?" Skaria extended his hand in greeting. It was met with a dismissive cold stare.
"The military complex has a lot riding on your agency's supposed victory," barked the General. He gestured with his head towards the figure in the viewing room. "Are you sure this is our man?"
The Colonel nodded. "Given the time period, his meteoric rise to power and his profile, there can be no mistake." Jonah took a few steps past Ira and stopped a few feet short of the viewing glass. Turning back towards the General and his team, Jonah announced the words that had been echoing in his mind the last few days.
"Sir, we got Hitler."
------------------------------
The end of the cycle was, as it always would have been, to be televised. Jonah wasn't much for cameras, but since this was a momentous occasion, it was a necessary evil.
The televising room was garish with the colors and sigil of the WHPA. The red and yellow curtains were adorned with that until-now ridiculed logo of a globe with the Doomsday Clock overlaid on top. The tribunal of World Leaders stood to his back, a motley bunch if the Colonel had ever saw one. At one end the Dalai Lama was near-death at the tender age of 57. At the other, the King of England, a sweet child named Henry, was merely 11.
Camera crews and reporters bustled in the studio area of the display, speaking nonsensical news pablum into their microphones. In the background of most of their close-up shots was the Man. Placing him center stage, Colonel Skaria knew, was the military's idea. Ira had been quite insistent that the world be shown in near-flamboyant fashion that the World Government took this seriously.
Funny, Jonah idly thought to himself, that they would be making history by preventing it.
A general announcement was made through the PA and all went quiet. Cameras focused in on him, Jonah walked up to the simple podium and cleared his throat. He took a look at the tablet containing his prepared speech and started speaking.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the world, I am Colonel Jonah Skaria of the World Historical Prevention Agency. I stand here today as testament that after 100 horrible years, we have succeeded."
He moved his arm to indicate the man in chains to his right.
"This man, as you are well aware, needs no introduction. He rose from pure obscurity to a fanatical leader near overnight and serves as a threat to this world. Forget the name you know him by. Forget the false gospel he has spread during his rise to power. It is the year 2330, and we the world name him Adolf Hitler."
Jonah took a pause to allow the probable cheering that was occurring worldwide to silence.
"As befits any decent man, Adolf will be given his last words and rites after which he will be summarily executed."
Jonah's eyes narrowed. "Please know that what we do today, we do out of necessity. Up until this moment in time, this man had done nothing wrong. By all accounts, we are today killing an innocent man. But the actions you will witness today is but one necessary evil to be committed to prevent and break the chains and shackles of a history that has reared its ugly head over a century of pain and suffering. This deplorable action is the act of defiance in which we announce to the world that history is on OUR side, not against us!"
Another pause. The Colonel turned towards the strangely serene man and spoke again. "Adolf Hitler, do you have any last words before you are ended?"
There was an audible shuffle as dozens of cameramen panned to the chained individual beside the podium. His arms were suspended in air by shackles into the ceiling. It looked particularly painful but did not show in Hitler's face. There was a minute of silence before he spoke.
"I understand why you are doing this to me," Adolf began.
"And I forgive you for it. I stare into the eyes of you and see the fear that has taken us for decades and understand."
A pause. "I welcome this with open arms," he said as more than a couple people chuckled at the wordplay. "And hope that my death will serve a greater purpose. May God forgive your sins today."
Had Jonah been moving, he would have froze dead in his tracks. All sound drowned out in his ears as blood drained from his face until he was stark white. Grabbing his tablet, he pulled up a timeline.
General Ira and his firing squad were now on the stage. Words were coming from his mouth. Jonah did not hear.
Rifles raised to the ready. Jonah scrolled past the 1000s with blazing desperation.
As he reached the date in question, shots were fired. Cheers rang throughout the room.
But ringing in Jonah Skaria's ears was a voice echoing a date.
April 7th, AD 30. 3:00PM.
Jonah Skaria had just killed Jesus Christ. | 59 | History always repeats itself. Write about a historical event that is repeated in the future. | 55 |
"Zeus forgive me, I can't do it anymore," Captain Amazing dejectedly whispered. It didn't even sound like him, but I realized this was the first time I heard him say anything that wasn't projected across the room in an announcement. While still a four hundred pound muscle bound man with chiselled features, he looked diminished and very tired.
"What can't you do anymore?" I asked.
"Am I a good person, Doc? If I was just a man? Or am I just a thug?"
"Of course you're not just a thug, Ca- Jim." I quickly remembered he hated me using his hero name here. "You saved that bus full of people that was caught in a landslide. Would a thug do that?"
"I don't know. If you had my powers would you have done that?"
"Yes."
"Would an average person with my strength have done that? Someone picked off the street completely at random?"
"Most likely, yes."
"So I'm not an exceptionally good person. I'm just a person who is exceptionally capable."
"Jim, most people are good. There are those who allow themselves to be corrupted by their power. You help protect us from them."
"A thug who beats up thugs. If I was a murder who killed murderers would that make me a noble hero, or just another criminal?"
"Did you kill anyone, Jim?"
"No real people. Only other demons."
That line threw me. I knew Jim was Catholic, he never was quiet about his faith in the press. "Jim, is that how you see your fellow Supers? As demons?"
He laughed. "We are demons. Each of us was born a demon or converted to demon or possessed by a demon. We have fought a successful war against the Gods for centuries. The Titans may not have regained their power, but they surely have had their revenge."
"Jim, what is this with Titans? You got your powers from Dr. Gruber's superhuman formula and a gamma ray burst."
"I got my power from Archbishop Gruber's summoning a demonic spirit and tying it to my humanity. Can I heal the sick? No. But I can punch through a wall and accidentally kill a man with my pinkie. Gamma radiation exposure causes cancer, not super strength. Ever wonder why none of the scientists who worked on either the Manhattan project or the Metrocity project were at all worried that a nuclear bomb would grant superpowers to an entire enemy city? A radioactive spider bite causes localized swelling to death, depending on the spider. And an alien species from an alien world with an alien atmosphere still looks completely human and is genetically compatible enough with humans to have viable offspring? How can someone with ANY knowledge of biology buy that? Or the guy who claims to be human. You think any guy in the MMA championships has a chance against the Bat? Do you think twenty of them would have a prayer against Ozymandias? Peak human my ass."
"But if there are demons certain lay there are angels."
"Angels are what we called ourselves before comic books were invented."
"Are you trying not to be a demon? Is that why you do good?"
"I do no more good than any other person would with my strength. And do as much harm."
"What harm?"
"To souls. When was the last time someone's soul was consigned to Hades? Were any of your loved ones buried with a fare to pay the guide across the river?"
"But... No one believes in the Greek myths anymore. What about heaven?"
"You don't get it. Hades is the only afterlife there is!" His anger raised I to a wave of heat coming off him. "I couldn't say in public." He held his own head, glaring against some unseen agony. "Souls are condemned to oblivion. Tied to the body. Look at the... research. Nothing leaves a dead human." He was glowing, his clothes and my couch were smouldering. "But a Super loses almost ten pounds of mass at death. Or demon escaping. Arrgh!" He was now having flames shoot off him. "Some evaporate completely. Pure demon. Never had any mortal host to leave."
"Jim! Stop this!" I cry out stepping back, shielding my face from the heat.
"No! I need to tell you the best part!" He starts cackling which quickly turns into a soot fills cough. "I may he wrong. There may not be a Hades. The real Gods could be forgotten and their realm empty for all I know!"
....
I went to his funeral. A gawdy thing, more of a show and spectacle than any somber remembrance of a friend and loved one. I never told anyone what he said. Especially the dozen or so Supers who investigated. Just that he was distraught about not being good enough. But I did buy two antique coins to drop on his coffin with the flowers. I hope the ferry is waiting for him. | 45 | none of them got their powers the way people believe they did. They all have a secret. And you are their therapist. | 36 |
They sat around a table, one would think given the parties present it would be a symbolic round table with mystic symbols, but it wasn’t. It was a simple wooden table that, while well made, had no distinguishing characteristics. Jesus wouldn’t shut up about it:
“I made this table when I was 12 years old. Look how well it’s lasted. Even the style is still contemporary.”
Each person around the table chatted with their neighbor, Buddha was serenely smiling and nodding at Allah, who went on and on about something or another. Krishna was using his myriad of arms to sample each dish and remark on its flavor to Mazda who nodded and silently judged Krishna (favorably).
Zeus, impatient and tired of the inane chatter slammed his hand down on the table, and lightning bolts shot out from under his hand and left a blackened pattern across the entire surface of the table. The silence spread around the table as they all turned to Zeus. Zeus cleared his throat, a sound like thunder, which was unceremoniously broken by Jesus:
“Man, why did you have to go and do that? It’ll take hours of sanding to make it right again!”
Krishna shook his head, and passed his many hands over the marks in table, rendering the surface perfect once again. Suddenly from behind Mazda’s great eagle a slightly nasally voice popped up.
“Hey, neat trick, whatcha’ll talking about?”
All eyes, the serene and the fiery turned to the newcomer, a short man, with hairy arms and an infectious grin. The stranger looked slightly nervous and wiped the sweat from his upper lip with his hand before smiling once again.
“Hi, I’m Robin Williams, not sure why I’m here, but what the hell, you all seem like a fun bunch. Nice beard by the way” he remarked at Zeus before continuing without pausing to take a breath. “I had a beard for a few years, kept getting cookie crumbs in it, constantly smelled like Martha Stewart’s kitchen.”
Zeus wasn’t sure why, but he smiled at this curious hairy little man, he reminded him of a goat. He remembered the time he transformed into a goat in order to seduce the wife of a shepherd. She was a beautiful lady.
His reverie was interrupted by Allah:
“We are here to discuss the failing of mankind. He has, for centuries, desecrated the paradise we bestowed upon him and forsaken morality in favor of hedonism and selfishness. We are here to talk about what must be done.”
Robin’s face lit up and he smiled as he replied:
“Cool accent, is that Israeli? I went to Israel once, neat place, hot, but fun people there. Did you know their army has tons of women in it, and not like the burly tough-type women, really pretty ones, with big guns and great smiles. Speaking of women, what’s with all this ‘**man**kind’ and ‘**he** did that, or **he** did this.’ is it just the men who screwed up? Maybe we should put them on time out and let women have a go at it for a few centuries?”
Zeus, apparently more interested in these female soldiers than the matter at hand asked Robin:
“Beautiful women soldiers, like Amazons?”
Before Robin could respond, Jesus piped up in his whiny voice:
“Seriously, all we wanted was peace and to get a little adulation along the way. These dumbasses decided it was like one big game of Risk and started making wars in our names? Seriously WTF man. I mean, I spoke to just a few guys, good guys and then next thing you know their listening to just about any old hermit in the desert and proclaiming his crazy ramblings as my word of truth!”
Allah and Krishna both nodded in agreement while Zeus shook his head.
“I wasn’t in this for peace, but I sure as hell didn’t want them to go around killing *everything!*”
Mazda, in a loud clear voice declared that the only solution was to start over. Delete human existence, kill every single one and start with righteous women and righteous men with pure intentions. Once again all the gods nodded in agreement, Buddha remained with a curious little smile on his face.
Robin shook his head:
“You guys have no idea how hard it is to be a human. Everything sucks, and if it’s all going right, you know that something has to go wrong soon. I mean look around, you all think the solution is smiting, when in reality, smiting is what got you into this mess. Are any of you parents?” He cast an askew glance at Zeus: “don’t answer that you philandering jackass. I mean really parents, as in raise a child? They tend to do what their parents do. You smite a camel and they say, ‘hey dad smites camels, must be the right thing to do’.” Then Robin turned to Buddha: “And what’s up with him, he seems to be happy, why isn’t he that upset?”
There was a slight hush as each god thought about what this little hairy man had said. Krishna cleared his multiple throats replied: “Buddha exists in a plane of existence we cannot reach. We’ve tried, but nothing seems to get through. He just seems at ease with the entire universe. Honestly we’re surprised he even bothered to show up.”
Robin gave Buddha a penetrating stare from his twinkling eyes and Buddha’s smile widened and he gave a slight nod, before resuming his calm, still smile.
“Well, that seems like a good place to start right, I mean, being at ease with everything seems like a good way to achieve peace” Robin remarked
“But what about the struggle?” Asked Jesus
“What about the desire to improve” asked Allah
“What about the inner fire of righteousness and just” asked Mazda
“What about revenge?” asked Krishna
“What about glory?” boomed Zeus
The table fell silent as if each god voice were suddenly plucked from their throats. Buddha slowly became more focused as they all turned to stare at him. Robin felt the prodigious hairs on his back stiffen from the energy in the room.
In a quiet voice that penetrated even the deepest recesses of Zeus’ beard Buddha said:
“You are the creators, the parents, the teachers, the role models, the causes and the consequences. You each bear responsibility for everything. You cannot die, you cannot be reborn, and in spite of all your assertions , you cannot suffer. You each may have memories of suffering, but nothing more. Humans exist in a world of suffering. If you want humans to change, try empathy.
He paused, and looked each god in the eyes before continuing.
"It is from you they learn. Life is teaching your children how to recognize and escape suffering and how can you teach them something you yourselves do not know? The solution isn’t to punish, it isn’t to smite but to teach something that you don’t have. But you can, because you are gods.”
There was silence around the table as each god reflected on those words.
The silence was rudely broken as, with a slight scraping noise, Robin Williams pulled a plate of grapes across the table. The gods looked at him in disbelief as if to ask how he could interrupt such a profound moment.
“What?” He asked innocently “I’m hungry.”
| 20 | After centuries of watching humanity slowly falling into chaos, and destroying themselves, Jesus, Buddha, Zeus, Allah and all the other Gods get together. They decide that they cannot let this go on any longer. Write a story about their meeting and how they decide to handle the "human crisis." | 17 |
"We can NEVER go back!" Chancilor Grub-grub Butted the end of his staff in the ground to emphasize his point.
"But, your highness, Surely these creatures must have grown more intelligent, more advanced.... certainly if we let them continue this path, they will be our species's downfall!"
Grub-grub looked down from his seat at the youngling. "You are too young to remember, Senator Glax, but I am not. I was there when we landed on that blue world. And I was there when we watched our fleet be destroyed. That world is no place for our kind. "
Senator Glax pressed on, determined. "It was a fluke sir. Our intelligence says that their resistance group ceases to exist anymore! Supposedly it served a different purpose at the time. What ever that purpose was, we may never know, but it has finished. All we do know is that now, they are vulnerable."
Grub-grub stroked one of his many chins. "That is... interesting news Senator. Why was I not informed of this?"
"Your magnificence, you had instructed your advisers to never speak of the Blue world again."
"...Ah, yes, you are right. Leave me be, Senator Glax. I have much thinking to do."
-----------------------
"Sir, a strange signal is coming in."
Johnson looked up from his morning coffee and newspaper. "Oh? What is it, Gamma ray, x-ray...?"
"It appears to be radio, sir. I am tracking its source now."
A couple of other scientists overheard this, and gathered around to listen in on the new signal. Johnson took another sip out of his SETI coffee mug.
"Sir... you aren't going to believe this..."
A great blast shook the building, knocking a few employees to their knees. Johnson steadied himself, then looked to the gaping hole in the ceiling. Dozens of strange, alien beings flew into the room, quickly killing the employees of SETI. Before Johnson could react, one of these creatures grabbed him and forced him to the ground. A fat, blue creature, with antennae all about his face, slowly descended from the hole. The creature pinning him down shouted something to the fat one in an alien tongue. The fat one nodded. Johnson's aggressor looked down, its antennae glistening in some strange substance. Before it could move, however, a steel saber punctured one of its eyes. The creature screamed and tried to get up, however it was being pinned by the saber. With a deft movement, the attacker finished off the blue alien with a single slice. Its guts spilled out on Johnson, who quickly backed up to the wall.
Johnson looked up at his savior. A white man, dressed in red robes, stood there, smiling down at him. With a thick accent, the red man said, "You are not hurt, yes? You did not swallow their blood?" Johnson nodded. "Very good." The red man whistled. With a battle cry, several more red-garbed warriors rode into the room, massive horses beneath them. Johnson watched in amazement as the red men had no trouble dispatching these blue aliens. Their leader, the fat one, started screaming at the sight of them. Johnson's savior lept onto his horse, and quickly ran the fat one down, knocking him to his side. He dismounted, and grabbed the alien by his throat. The other red-garbed men surrounded him. The alien spat out something in its strange tongue. The red-garbed man took a sword to his throat. "Habla. Speak."
The alien fruitlessly tried to shake him off. "How?" Johnson cringed. The alien's voice sounded like shards of glass to his ears. "Your kind is supposed to have been destroyed!"
The red-garbed man merely laughed at him.
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition." | 347 | Unknown to most, Aliens have tried to invade Earth before. The last time they tried, they were defeated, by the Spanish Inquisition. They haven't been back since. | 211 |
The annoyingly unforgettable sirens of yet another ambulance came rushing through the front door of the ER. By the looks of the EMT’s that were bringing in the patient and the amount of blood covering the sheets around the victim, she knew this one was going to be serious. That is why she worked in the ER though, to help people in the most dire of situations.
“Call Dr. Paulson right away” Said Amanda to the much younger nurse next to her.
“And find Dr. Kim as soon as possible, this one is going to need surgery fast.” She said this all while walking calmly towards the oncoming emergency, almost as if she had done this before. Thankfully for the victim, she had done this before.
Diving right into the mess she got an update on the patient.
“What have we got?” Her voice had changed from the nice patient voice of a 30 year old mother of two to the confident ER veteran that she was known for.
“Car crash victim, no seatbelt.. “ The EMT took a breath to calm his panting. They had been running around since they arrived on the scene.
“Multiple lacerations to the chest and legs, No obvious arterial damage. Puncture wounds in multiple locations in the back. Pulse has stabilized.”
“Great work, get him into room 104 and prep him for surgery.” She said one command to the attending nurse, and one to the attending physician. Just as the patient had been rolled into the room, Dr. Paulson had made it to the scene to start handling the patient. They got him prepped and ready for surgery in less than 5 minutes while Dr. Kim, the surgeon on call, was read in on the situation. This was going to be along night for everyone and the victim needed everyone’s best if he was going to make it out alive.
Choose your own adventure! Tell me, what kind of surgeon do you think Dr. Kim is. Is he
Option 1) Dr. Kim went to the most prestigious of Medical Schools, but had to work super hard to keep up with the other “brilliant” and “talented” surgeons in his class. The chip on his shoulder gave him a work ethic that was next to none.
Option 2) Dr. Kim was the most talented surgeon that the dean at said prestigious med school had ever seen, and did so without breaking a preverbal “sweat”. Most of his classmates looked up to him and admired his abilities.
*Hover over option selected*
[Option 1](/s "The night had been tense to say the least. The victim had been in and out several times, and crashed more times than Dr. Kim would like to admit. When he walked into the room the next morning with the victim’s family, the heroic strain that only 10hrs in surgery could produce was clearly showing on his face. All around the waiting room, you could see the family eagerly yet desperately awaiting news of what had happened to their dearly beloved.
“We almost lost him, but in the end he pulled through. Everything is going to be alright.”")
[Option 2](/s "The night had been tense to say the least. The victim had been in and out several times, and crashed more times than Dr. Kim would like to admit. When he walked into the room the next morning with the victim’s family, the heroic strain that only 10hrs in surgery could produce was clearly showing on his face. All around the waiting room, you could see the family eagerly yet desperately awaiting news of what had happened to their dearly beloved.
“We almost saved him, but in the end we were not able to. I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”")
| 12 | The significance of 'almost' | 30 |
There's a reason it's called a white-knuckle grip. When you are driving down the freeway at seventy-five miles per hour and some jackass cuts you off, you grip that leathery radial like a ship-wrecked survivor clinging to a life-line. Your blood vessels constrict, cutting off the flow of that crimson juice. The color in your fingers and hands fades as your mind races with thoughts of violent revenge.
Well, in my case, I took it one step further. You see, ever since I was a kid, I've had this gift. I've never told anyone about it, I've never seen anyone else with the same gift, and I sure as hell have never shown anyone what I can do.
I can reach out and touch things with my mind. It started with things like levitating the remote control into my hand and opening soda cans with a snap of my fingers. See, I spent a lot of time by myself. My parents were separated and I was an only child. It left me ample time to develop my "talent" in secret. By the time I was seventeen, I could move parked cars with a wave of my hand. I felt like a god, having complete control over the world around me.
As you might assume, this was a recipe for disaster once I started driving. Impatient and inconsiderate, I used my telekinetic abilities to push cars out of my way. Most of the time this caused minor fender benders. Confused drivers would storm out of their dented Fords and hurl obscenities at one another, completely unaware of my influence.
On one particularly nasty occasion, I pushed a car into a busy intersection. As cars struck it from opposite directions, that little Hyundai exploded like a piñata. Car and body parts flew in every direction. I sped past the wreckage, refusing to take responsibility for what I had done. It was their fault for being in my way. They should have known not to get in the way of a god.
Because that's what I was, ya know? I was a god. A god of the road.
| 50 | You're a powerful telekinetic with extreme road rage. Describe your morning commute. | 78 |
"Cats."
I could feel the prosecutors eyes boring into my skull as he paced around me. The courtoom was stuffy and reeked of disinfectant - the summer heat always brought the worst of the smog with it.
"Cats in pajamas. Cats in silly hats. Cats falling over." He continued, his terse tone growing sharper and sharper with each syllable. "Cats on slides, cats with ham on their faces."
There was a pervasive muttering around the court, as what had initially been a joke ran onwards and onwards.
"Can you explain yourself, Mister Matthews?" He pronounded Mr. fully, stressing every consonant as if correct pronunciation was the epitome of life's purpose.
"It was the 2010's," I stammered. "Everyone was into cats on the internet."
There was a murmur of agreement.
"We are all aware of that, Mister Matthews. However, you spent an entire week looking at nothing but cat pictures, videos, blogs and how-to tutorials. Not to mention scatterings of recurrent searches over the following years"
Another ripple of whispers flowed through the packed court, borne on a tide of discontent and shock.
"You are aware your family is here, Mister Matthews?"
"I am."
"As well as your significant other."
I looked at Tracy, who refused to meet my eyes. "I am."
"Then what do you have to say for yourself? You realise what you have done is a great crime in this nation?"
At last, I finally broke, after two weeks of borderline interrogation.
"I like cats! There is nothing wrong with being a cat person! They're fluffy and cute, I don't care what you say, they're amazing creatures!"
Red-faced, I gripped the edge of the booth. Spittle flew from my mouth. I was not going to sit, cornered and dictated to. If I was to go down I would go down fighting.
"As for you," my finger shot outwards, pointing wildly at the judge, who sat ready to condemn me to death for my 'crime'. "You're no friend of mine!"
*Woof*, said the judge. | 76 | In a not so distant dystopian future you will have to defend your internet history from the past 5 years in a court room setting in front of your extended family, friends, and love interests | 139 |
(the PRESIDENT, Barack Obama, sits in the oval office. The DEVIL walks in.)
PRESIDENT (standing to shake hands): Ah, Satan, it’s a pleasure to see you again!
DEVIL (shaking hand): Call me Lucy.
PRESIDENT: Please, have a seat!
(DEVIL sits. Uncomfortable silence)
PRESIDENT: Listen, Lucy, I uh... hope there’s no hard feelings about… well, ya know.
DEVIL: Of course not! I can’t win all of them. 2012 wasn’t that important of an election year anyways.
PRESIDENT: Right…
(uncomfortable silence)
DEVIL: Oh, and Bin Laden wanted me to tell you hey.
PRESIDENT: Thanks… (silence) so, for the real reason you’re here.
DEVIL: Yes of course! The US debt. You want it paid off, right?
PRESIDENT: Yes! What do you want in return?
DEVIL: Well, I already got your soul when I forged your birth certificate.
PRESIDENT: Yeah, AND I let you put Joe Biden as VP so you and Judah could get some laughs down in the ninth circle.
DEVIL: Very true.
PRESIDENT: So, could you do me a solid this time?
DEVIL: It’s just… there’s something else I want this time.
PRESIDENT: What?
DEVIL: I want the fairest maiden in all the land of America.
PRESIDENT (astounded): You can’t mean...
DEVIL: Oh, but I do.
PRESIDENT: As in…
DEVIL: Yup.
PRESIDENT: Oh come on! You’ll see her in a decade or two anyway!
DEVIL: Too bad. I want her now.
PRESIDENT: I haven’t talked to her in years!
DEVIL: Look, I’m exhausted from being nowhere but the Middle East for the last 3 years. Can you give me a break?
PRESIDENT (hesitating): If this is what you really want.
DEVIL: It is. The fairest maiden in all of America.
(the PRESIDENT picks up the phone and dials a number)
PRESIDENT: Hello? Yeah… this is Barry. Listen, I need you to come to the White House right away… Yeah, as soon as possible… I don’t care how far away Alaska is, Sarah, I need you now!
| 21 | The fairest maiden in all of the land of America. What is the conversation between the President and the devil? | 21 |
“It was terrifying at first,” Said the Solider “Knowing all those things that went bump in the night, all those things that were in your closet, all those things under your bed were not a childish delusion. They were as real as me and you”
This is solider Daniel Evans, a decorated hero of the ‘Muggle War’. He was rewarded with the Victoria Cross for his service during the battle at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He has the look of a veteran. Every so often I get the thousand yard stare that so many of his compatriots possess, The uncountable tentacles that replace his right arm only add to this image.
He uses his left arm to point out a book on the left side of room.
“That’s one of *her* books” He begins “Granger, Rowling, Whatever *her* name was. Wait, sorry It’s clean. I wouldn’t have that filth here if it wasn’t required reading,” He quickly adds noticing my discomfort
“They think we started to the war, They think we were the unreasonable side. They say we overreacted!” he yells “I’ve heard their excuses about the laughing plague. Apparently it was a huge mistake, a 10 year old somehow created a contagious laughing spell. Appreciate that. It was a mistake, an accident, a freak of nature. Heck, even if they were telling the truth that was all the more reason to go to war. A mistake causes 5 million people to laugh themselves to death!”
He goes into the thousand yard stare for a few moments, his tentacles continue wobbling away denying me any chance of counting them.
“I had a brother. It was unlike anything I’ve seen. He lasted 3 days. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t speak, his tear ducts started crying blood, eventually his vocal cords gave out and he lost the ability to breath from exhaustion and pain. This is what one of their mistakes can do”
He sighs and glances at the book again,
“They had expected a war or at least she did, everyone who had read one of those books was charmed. Explains why that drivel sold so well in the first place. When the war began, they had half of our side sympathetic to their cause.”
He repeatedly glances at the book
“I’m scared to read it. They tell me a,” a pained expression crosses his face “wizard, cleaned it. One of our side. Supposedly the information contained inside is mostly accurate. That it will help us win the war.”
He shakes his head and puts left hand against his forehead
“Reading that won’t win the war. Science and Modern Technology is what will win this war. Ever seen a dragon take on a fighter jet? Homing missiles from a kilometre out“ He smiles at the memory “Those invisible creatures that suck out our souls? Thermal googles and napalm. And then the wizards themselves? Longest projectile I’ve seen is 70 metres, requires an incantation and moves slow enough to dodge. Their mind control spells are countered by drugs. Their ability to teleport is disrupted by a high frequency pitch. Everyday, we understand more and more about this is so called *magic*. Its only a matter of time before, we understand and it ceases to be *magic*”
| 13 | In the Harry Potter universe humans have learned about the existence of wizards and have waged an all out war. Describe a battle from the humans perspective | 21 |
The small, hairless ape stared up in wonder at the twelve foot tall Rigeline. It's features were hideously asymmetrical, with eyes too small to be of any use and an absurd proboscis that looked like it would get in the way of everything. It's skin was pale and saggy, but that was to be expected of a purely terrestrial species.
"So," the ape spoke, a rough, gargled sound, "Exactly how old are you?"
"I have only aged insignificantly since the time I observed your species first develop the capacity for tools," the Rigeline answered, its voice high and beautiful and powerful, "I am not young anymore, but I am farther still from what you humans think of as death."
"Two hundred thousand years," the ape said, his expression vague and stupid, "It's just the blink of an eye to you. That's remarkable."
"It is you who is remarkable," the Rigeline replied, "Your lifetime lasts an instant, so little time to accomplish anything."
"Doesn't that make it more important, though?" The ape had an interesting point, though the Rigeline wouldn't admit so.
"That is a ridiculous notion," the great blue form of perfection said, "What could you possibly do with so little time to do anything? The entire idea of living for so little experience in preposterous."
"But how is it ridiculous?" the ape questioned, "Since I have so little time, I need to make all of it count. I need to fill what years I can with as much as possible. If I had all of eternity to do things, I'd be bored out of my skull."
"Skull?" the Rigeline interjected.
"Oh yeah," the ape gestured vaguely to its head, "The bone that keeps my brain safe."
"Fascinating," the Rigeline whispered, "How do you already know so much of your own physiology?"
"I learned it," the ape shrugged, "Everyone does. We're just told to sit down when we're kids, we learn things, and then when we're adults we're allowed to stand up again."
"But," the Rigeline stammered, "With so short a lifespan, it must be incredibly difficult to acquire knowledge so quickly and effectively."
"I'm sure it's much better than the alternative," the ape said innocently.
"How do you mean?" the Rigeline snapped, showing emotion for the first time in many eons.
"Well," the ape began, "I just think I'd forget so much of what I'd learned if I lived for millions of years. I guess it's just all about perspective. I think of my life as normal, because that's all I've ever known, and you think of my life as unbelievably small because you've never experienced it."
"You are without doubt the most amazing creature I think I've ever encountered," the Rigeline said before turning to leave.
"Wait!" the ape called before the Rigeline had completely gone, "You never told me your name!"
"Name?" the Rigeline faced the ape once more, "What is a 'name'?"
"Your name," the ape said slowly, trying to find his words, "Is what people say when they refer to you. It is part of what makes you who you are. You can refuse to listen when it's said, you can change it, you can make up your own, you can even completely hate it. But you'll always have one."
The Rigeline stare at the ape with an expression somewhere between confusion and amusement, and then said "I think, of all the things you have told me, that is the queerest." | 404 | It is discovered that Earth is one of the few planets who's species haven't manage to breed with other planets' species. Defects leading to natural deaths occur due to Earth's ecosystem being essentially inbred. Interbreeding alien species are practically immortal. | 438 |
Most of the zombie movies I've seen start with a prelude scene, the day before the outbreak. You get to see families doing family things, the protagonists at work, at home. The next morning, there's a rude awakening and the characters come to realize all hell has broken loose. Zombie media used artistic license to skip over "boring" exposition about how the outbreak spread in the first place, how it came to be everywhere at once. I always dismissed the inexplicable nature of that kind of opening, as part of suspending my disbelief. Zombies are - or rather, were - complete fiction.
Ironically, that's exactly how it happened.
In hindsight, the first day the pandemic was reported on by the media, it was picked up on by the internet as "real zombies." CNN talked about bath salts, while Facebook was rife with half-joking posts about our impending doom. USA Today went on about exotic diseases like Kuru that bore similarities to the few cases spotted in the populace, while hastily-assembled subreddits were compiling lists of suspected sightings. Morning talk shows were advising caution while chain emails spread in the usual manner.
What we didn't collectively realize until later was that seemingly distinct cases were related. A man near Paris attacked another's livestock, and was shot by a farmer fearing for his life. A man in Wyoming was found wandering the woods, only to attack the rangers that were looking for him. Most of these incidents were dismissed by the general populace as not being zombies, but played up due to the growing social media paranoia.
Everyone was expecting an outbreak to follow the standard rules for diseases: Patient Zero, a trail of infections leading back to one initial vector, a logical spread of the disease from one place to another. Airports. Seaports. Trains. Border checkpoints. Quarantine zones.
It didn't behave like anything we had encountered before.
When most major cities started experiencing the infection firsthand, and the media started to overcome the fear of being wrong about something so very grave. The word "zombie" was officially used by a major media channel after three days. As more and more proof and footage was released, the more everyone tried to learn as much as they could to protect themselves. WHO, the CDC, and other organizations immediately began capturing specimens, newly infected, and otherwise doing everything in their power to understand the disease. It was a prion, a mis-folded protein. The incubation period was a few days, give or take. It had a 100% "mortality" rate. That much was relatively easy to figure out. Blood tests for the infection only seemed to work after you had already started to turn... except if you performed a brain biopsy. Obviously, that test wasn't carried out much.
Researching the infection was the worst thing anyone could do at that point. The less progress that was made, the more panicked everyone became. Soon it was non-stop footage, blogs, articles, sound bites, etc. flooding every digital repository on the planet. In some particularly dark foreshadowing, YouTube even went down for a few hours under the amount of new videos being viewed and submitted. The world was trying to figure out what it was up against.
There wasn't a pattern anyone could discern. People originally followed the typical Hollywood zombie rules: Don't be bitten, and you'll be fine. When it was verified that people who had never had bitten could turn, there was outright panic. Maybe it was any contact at all, transmission by fomites. That was disproven on day five: A man who had requested he be kept in quarantine despite lacking the pathogen became infected spontaneously. Speculation was rampant. Maybe his air supply had been contaminated. Or a conspiracy perpetuated by the Illuminati to decimate the population.
On day six, the total number of persons infected was estimated to be just under 10% of the total population.
On day seven, it was one in three.
It was only on day eight that we finally deduced what it was. A group of CDC researchers in isolation discovered they were infected in a routine test. They quickly proved they had not been exposed to any external pathogens... except that each of them had watched a news report depicting the outbreak and its effects in London. Somehow, something they had perceived in that footage had caused their physical brain to generate the pathogenic protein. Seeing a zombie could make you a zombie.
Of course, by then it was too late.
Text is safe. Audio is probably safe. Images are definitely not safe. Keep a blindfold handy, yeah? With any luck you'll make it to tomorrow, day ten, and the first of the zombies might start dying of starvation in a week. At least there's very little power to the Internet backbone now, so it's not spreading as fast to what pockets of life are left.
Don't make the same mistake I did. All it takes is one ill-timed glance. | 22 | A zombie apocalypse has descended on humanity. Everyone makes the assumption that the disease is spread by bite. It isn't. | 36 |
It had been months since everyone on Earth disappeared.
I’d woken up one day in a hospital bed, no real recollection of why I was there. The heart rate monitor beeped a slow and steady rhythm. The only sound I could hear.
Beep Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep.
A hospital should be a busy area. I’d broken my leg when I was 12 and while I was in a bed I remember nurses constantly in and out, fussing over clipboards. I remembered the general business of a ward, the sights and sounds that come with tending to the ill and the visiting families.
Now, there was nothing. No nurses, no other patients. I was alone in a room with 3 other empty beds. The monitor was the only thing to break the deathly silence.
Beep Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep.
I lay there for some time, wondering what the hell I should be doing. I called out for a nurse, screaming down the hall. Nobody answered. Nobody heard me. My voice died out emptily down the corridors. Silence.
Beep Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep.
I left the hospital bed, ripping off the monitor and getting to my shaky feet. My muscles ached and almost gave out on me. It felt like I hadn’t stood up in years. Donning a pair of jeans and a faded red t-shirt next to my bed and tying on my trainers felt like a herculean effort. Wheezing and panting, I negotiated my way out of the hospital.
Even as I left the sprawling corridors and followed signs to the exit, I kept expecting to see somebody – anybody. All I was met with was silence, a sort of graveside nothingness that spoke of complete and utter desolation.
When I got out of the big hospital doors, still mechanically opening and automatically parting for me, I began to wonder what the hell was going on. An icy chill ran down my spine as I looked around at the true nature of my predicament.
I tried to scream, but it died in my throat. The city was completely deserted. Cars were still queuing up on the road in lines of traffic that would usually fill the city with a cacophony of car horns and angry drivers. Instead of the noise and business, the cars were empty shells. So too were the pavements, as were the buildings. The deadly echo of wind was the only sound that I could hear.
I collected myself, in a bit of a trance if I’m honest, and walked down the streets, taking in my surroundings. This was my city, I knew it well – but it had been transformed by the emptiness. Café’s that were usually full of people were silent, pubs usually brimming with drunken idiots were abandoned. But there were no bodies on the street, no sign of where anyone had gone. Just emptiness.
I continued travelling, scavenging food from shops and empty apartments. I found myself staring at pictures in people’s homes, wondering what might have happened to humanity. I never returned to my own home, I knew it’d be too painful to see pictures of my mother. So I wandered.
Months passed. I scratched out a living as I wandered around the empty world I’d been left with. No animals seemed to live, no birds filled the skies. Not even spiders or insects seemed to exist anymore. I started wondering what the fuck had happened and why I was here. Questions had surfaced during the first few days of my isolation, but now they scratched and itched – ready to burst through my brain.
First, I tried to explain what had happened rationally: Had there been some war? Some sort of weapon that vaporized humanity?
Next, I turned to God: Was this the rapture the bible spoke of? Had everyone been judged and sent to heaven or hell? Was I the only human being unworthy of the afterlife?
Finally I turned to sheer fantasy: Was I the chosen one? Left to wander the empty globe when everyone else was gone – free to do as I liked?
My empty life was detached, as though I didn’t really understand the situation I was in. I didn’t feel grief properly – couldn’t really accept what had happened. I didn’t really understand what had happened.
After a long time, my wandering turned far more desperate. I yearned for conversation. I yearned to see life in any form. A dog, a cat, anything. Something. I just wanted to know I wasn’t the only one left.
I screamed from rooftops, desperate for a reply. Smashed slowly rusting cars till their horns blared out across dead cities. I rang fire alarms in huge buildings, hoping for the slightest movement, the slightest reply. All I was met with was that everpresent silence, a blanket that seemed to cloak this dead world.
And then it began to happen.
I began to see things. Movements, shapes – right at the corner of my eye. I’d be travelling down a motorway or a road, through streets or subways. Wherever I was going, it didn’t matter – but I’d see something. A black shadow flitting in my peripheral vision. I’d turn my head as fast as lightning, desperate to see. But there was never anything there, except for the silence and the emptiness.
Then I started to notice the Graffiti. Scrawled on a wall I passed, in bright red letters - “Come back.” I was startled by it, drawn to it. Not because it was good artwork or outstanding, but because the paint looked brand new.
Someone else was with me.
The black shapes in the corner of my vision continued, increased. I tried my best to find them, to see what creature lurked just out of view. But as usual, I couldn’t catch a true glimpse. I began to wonder if I was insane.
“Come back.” A new sign, sprawled on the side of a shop I was looting for food. I was getting scared now, realising that someone or something was taunting me. Some creature that could dip in and out of vision and leave messages on walls. Just like the first time, the message was bright red and obviously done with fresh paint.
I upped the pace of my journey, moving from house to house and from town to town – trying to catch the blurry figure I’d began to see. From the edges of my vision it would sometimes flit into view – far in the distance. A humanoid shape. I’d shout, desperate for contact with whatever the thing was. I didn’t care that I couldn’t see its face. I just wanted to talk to someone.
“Come back.” Was everywhere now. I’d turn a corner and there it would be – a bright red message dripping down walls. Fresher every single time. I found the message everywhere – in every nook and cranny I would search – there it would be.
In a new city I found a new building. A church, or something similar. A dark, terrifying church whose dark oak doors had gargoyles perched atop them. The dark shape seemed to have retreated into the building. “Come back” was scrawled in huge red letters across the doors. Swallowing my fear – I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside.
There, inside that dark church, I saw the first human being I had in almost a year. I say a human, but she could have been an angel.
Beautiful, with long platinum hair and a smile so soft you’d hardly notice it. I hadn’t seen another face in so long that I stood staring, and drank it in.
Silently, she held out a hand that shone with warmth and I reached out towards her.
“Come back.” A voice behind me called out, full of sorrow and regret, the voice of a woman. “Come back…” It said again.
I stood still for a moment, caught between the phrase I’d seen and heard for months now and this creature I’d been chasing. That black shape, long evading my view, was now in sight. An angel, a saviour, a living being after so long alone.
Her palm was still offered, open for me to take. I stood still, frozen. “Come back,” I heard again. The girl in front of me simply shook her head, a sad and knowing smile on her face, hand still stretched out.
“Come back.” Said the voice, one last time.
I shook my head and walked forward. I couldn’t come back. So I reached out and grasped the Angel’s hand.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The woman wiped away dry tears from her face. She couldn’t cry any longer. Her face ached from it, her bones tired and weary beyond belief. It had only been a year but she’d aged ten. Her shed tears in that time could have filled an ocean.
In front of her, they pulled the white sheet over her sons face. She remembered his youth, how he would grin and beg her for more cookies before bed, cuddling up to her when he couldn’t sleep.
She remembered the accident, how unlucky he’d been to have gotten on that motorcycle with his friend at just eighteen. She remembered the hospital – the white room where she had sat vigil for a full year whilst her son lingered on in a coma.
“Come back” She had choked out, sitting by his bedside night after night. The doctors had told her he couldn’t hear her, that his brain wasn’t responding – but she begged him nonetheless. Even as his final breath escaped his body and the monitor stopped beeping, she’d been begging him to wake up, to return to his life.
“Come back.” She had pleaded. But he was gone.
| 17 | Everyone but you in the world is dead. | 25 |
I stand a little taller, push my shoulders out a little more.
There are far too many of them and just one of me.
I'm not a large man, or a small man. I am average. Average height, average build, average looking. Always average.
Today, I was walking down the street when I heard the commotion. A little boy, maybe ten years old, fleeing from two dozen men in suits.
I chased after them, running until my lungs were going to explode, until we stopped in a dead end alleyway.
He was cowering in the corner as they closed in. Before they could react I pushed my way through and stood between him and them.
"We're just here for the boy. Stand down. This isn't your fight."
They spoke in unison. The most unsettling thing I've ever heard.
My fists clenched, my muscles coiled, I spread my feet apart and looked at the closest one in the eye and said something I'd never thought I'd say.
"You'll have to go through me."
They all smiled, each one a terrifying smile of insanity. They would enjoy this.
Average guy.
I look back to the kid and he looks up at me, fear in his eyes but he mouths a single word.
"Thanks."
My heart begins pounding, sending adrenaline coursing through my body. Like fuck they're getting through me.
"Well," I say, surprising myself with the booming volume of my own voice, "what are you waiting for?"
They look to each other, then in unison they charge. So do I.
Average.
Not today. | 16 | "We're just here for the boy. Stand down. This isn't your fight." | 17 |
John found Tim curled up against the armrest of the couch, a book resting in his lap. He looked up when John came in.
"What're you reading?", John asked.
Tim held up the book to show him. "I, Robot. Sci-fi."
John kicked off his shoes and slumped down in the other end of the couch. "Ah, like the movie? With Will Smith?"
Tim nodded, without looking up from the book. "Yeah, but it's not at all like the movie. This is more about the evolution of robots. AI getting better and better."
"Huh."
John reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Some reality show started blaring. Blueish light flickered over the room.
"Hey", Tim said, looking up from the book, "you think they'll ever create, like, a true AI?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, with a consciousness. Sentience, I think it's called."
"Oh." John didn't seem all that interested. "I dunno."
"It seems impossible, right? I mean, a computer is just lines of code. Lines of code telling little chips and lights what to do. If-then statements. How can you get free will and sentience from that?"
The TV blared on. John and Tim watched it for a while.
"Well", John said, "you and me are just strings of DNA, aren't we? DNA telling atoms what to do. And we're sentient."
Tim hadn't thought of that. "Yeah." He mulled it over.
"So maybe...", he started, "maybe sentience is just having enough if-then statements."
"Yeah, maybe", John said.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the show. A fight broke out. People yelled at each other.
"You think those guys are sentient?", Tim asked, indicating the TV.
John laughed. "I dunno. If they are, they must be running low on if-then statements. Their reactions are pretty much the same every time."
"But people keep watching", Tim said. "We're all suckers for the familiar."
"Guess so."
The TV blared on. | 31 | Write something not ridiculously romanticized or fantasy in topic. No aliens, no crazy outer space or magic or dragons, just normal. Make it mind-blowing. | 27 |
"0... 1... 4." Chelle left her hands on the planchette. Emilia's right hand rested upon hers. Her left had written the numbers onto a page in a notebook, and together, they spelled out a date. They stared at the numbers in silence. The planchette moved no further.
"Are you sure?" asked Emilia. Their hands moved in unison, traveling up, over and past the alphabet in between the words Yes and No. They hovered there, before drifting towards No... then back across the board to Yes.
"You don't sound very sure," said Chelle.
The board shook.
"Don't make her angry," Emilia chided. Then, "We're sorry."
There wasn't anything left to say after that. The two sat there, hands still on the planchette, too lost in thought to speak. The date the spirit had given them was the day before yesterday. Just two days ago. Unremarkable.
Chelle briefly remembered the tuna sandwich she'd eaten for lunch that day. Simply unremarkable.
Emilia's hands were shaking. "What... what happened?"
The planchette moved through a series of letters, before resting again.
> winter from the left
Their hands kept moving.
> death from heart
In unison.
> love lies crushing
Once more.
> pain so clear is beginning such new
Emilia stared at the board. Chelle stared at Emilia. The planchette moved.
> winter from left
Chelle sighed. "What's up with otherworld guys and speaking in riddles?"
The board shook, as if irritated. Hands moved.
> little time no patience or syntax
"What's syntax?"
"Shh, Chelle. Let her finish."
More scraping of wood against wood.
> crushing has begun from winter
Emilia sneezed. "Sorry."
The board suddenly shifted askance, just a little, just too quickly. Their hands scrabbled to keep hold of the planchette.
> you have winter in your love in your lies Emilia
Chelle stared at her friend. "You've got winter in your love? What?"
Emilia shook her head. "No, I think she means heart. Like, when you draw a picture of a heart to show you love someone?"
"What are we, in fifth grade? But that kinda makes sense..." She sat up suddenly. "Spirit, do you mean that there's winter in our hearts?"
The planchette drifted up. Yes.
"But when you say winter, you mean... I mean, can you clarify?" She nudged Emilia. "For the viewers at home, of course."
Their hands suddenly moved very quickly, as they kept hold of the planchette. And still, they needed to wait five minutes for a reply. Emilia kept her left hand writing frantically in the notebook.
> cold empty desolation spread through lies through truth through speech talk breath life broken love broken voice cracked voice many empty many
A moment later, another five-minute reply.
> breath touching charmed loved buried life six feet six degrees so cold so empty so true
The last set of words also took five minutes. But it was a slow five. A thoughtful five. Something final.
> from touch from lies cold everywhere so so soon
The girls noticed the distinct pre-smoke that comes from rubbing wood rapidly, tightly. After all, they were girl scouts, once. Before they started playing with spirits.
Emilia sat back, as much as she could while keeping a hand on the planchette. "In my heart, Chelle. She said my name."
"She said mine earlier, too. Except she used the full version."
"Chelle," she said. "I think it's contagious."
"What, the broken english?"
"No. The apocalypse. You know how heart means love? I think the other words mean other things."
"Which is generally what words are for... You know, meaning things."
"Shut up. Listen. The winter and cold? It's a sickness. Coming from the left, from those around you. Because when you die, you become cold. And it must spread fast to be called by its effects."
"But not too fast," said Chelle, "or it would die out before it gained hold. Remember Plague Inc?"
"Of course. I hate Madagascar. But... but yeah, I think that's what this is. Something contagious. And if the spirit, who has lived waaaay longer than either of us, says she's got little time or patience, then..."
Chelle's eyes widened slightly. "Oh shit."
Emilia nodded.
"But what about the crushing?"
Emilia thought for a bit. "Like when you cough and your chest squeezes, maybe?" She turned her attention to the board. The wooden heart drifted up to Yes. Then, spelled out something more.
> understanding but not enough nothing enough
Chelle rolled her eyes. "So positive."
"Shut up." Emilia kept her gaze focused on the words in the notebook. "Lies and truth must be words... Maybe like, speech — oh, see, she even said speech and voice here." She pointed. "But why is it spread through love? That doesn't make any sense."
"Maybe love isn't heart, after all?" posed Chelle.
"Or maybe it's an STD."
"But that's a lot of sex to spread so fast."
"Oh. Yeah."
They were quiet for a bit; Emilia focused on unraveling the mystery, and Chelle focused on watching Emilia. Then Chelle had one more question. "How long before everything's dead?" she asked aloud.
Their hands followed the spirit.
> 12 days more so soon
Chelle looked up, then down at her fingers. "If it started the day before yesterday, that's about two weeks exactly. How can something spread in two weeks?"
"It's the apocalypse," Emilia responded. "It has to." And she sneezed.
----
^EDIT: ^Fixed ^an ^issue ^where [^the ^words ^of ^the ^spirit ^were ^cut ^off](http://i.imgur.com/eDgrDAm.png) ^due ^to ^scrolling ^overflow. | 196 | two teens use an Ouija board to find out the date of the apocalypse. The spirit responds with a date two days ago. | 321 |
Field Diary of Dr. James Bancroft
**Date:** 12th of March, 2284
**Location:** Sewers of New York City
When I set out on this journey, I was wholly unsure of what I would find. Mayhaps there was some remnant of American society that survived the destruction. Perhaps there were would be evidence of the local ecosystem recovering from the fallout. Or, the Holy Grail for field researchers: cattle that have developed a resistance to radioactivity.
I sojourned into the sewers under the assumption that maybe it provided some degree of protection when the bombs fell. Miraculously, the lights were still operational.
My theories were proved correct. Curious mushrooms and other vegetation had grown unchecked in the gloom and moisture. They gave off a heady, intoxicating aroma. After collecting a few samples, I decided to cover my face and venture deeper in.
After a certain point, the lights became more uncertain, and were prone to flickering. The only sounds were my footsteps, and the occasional crackle of electricity and water dripping. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor.
I stopped to examine a peculiarly large spore, and for half a second, I heard footsteps. My heart leaped into my throat. I spun around, my hand going to my machete, but there was nothing but shadows behind me.
I slowly turned around, and noticed something skitter behind a pile of debris. The rasp of my machete being drawn from its scabbard seemed deafening. I meekly inched forward. "Who goes?" I called out.
No answer.
With shaking hands, I probed the pile of garbage with the end of my weapon. A rusty can rolled down the hill, and out popped a rat the size of a bread loaf. It squeaked, and scurried between my legs. I breathed a sigh of relief, and watched it scamper away.
When I turned, I found myself face-to-face with what I can only describe as a monstrous turtle. It was the size of a man, and stood like one. It wore an orange sock with holes cut out for its blood-shot eyes.
"Cowabunga, dude," it said.
| 49 | Years after a nuclear war which destroyed nations and landscapes, a man departs from a ship after crossing from England to America to document mutated and dangerous wildlife. (Comedic) | 75 |
I wake to the clatter of dishes and the smell of bacon. Lila must be in a pretty good mood to be making bacon. She never had energy to cook in the mornings anymore. Wait. My brain must still be fuddled from lack of coffee. That wasn't Lila, it was...
Someone else.
I'm too tired to try to think about that right now. I roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. Lila likes for me to brush my teeth before I come down, but I want to wait till after I eat. No sense in doing it twice, right?
Lila stands at the stove, long black hair swinging at her waist as she stirs the eggs. A plate of bacon rests on the counter, and I reach up to grab a slice - out, I mean. I reach out - and drop a kiss on her cheek.
I walk over to the table and sit down. Lila comes and dishes out the food, and we talk and eat and I watch her laugh at my jokes.
We clear the table together. She beams at me and I kiss her deeply before heading out for work.
The Lexus purrs to life when I turn the key, and I back slowly out of the drive. I love my house, the yard perfectly mowed in a checkerboard pattern, the siding replaced just last year, it's beautiful. As I stare at the house, waiting for Lila to wave from the window, it changes for a moment. The house is crumbling, yard neglected, roof sagging. I shake my head to clear the flicker of memory. That's the past. That's a different world. Or maybe it never existed.
I walk in to work and everyone greets me with jokes and waves. I clock in, make some witty banter with the receptionist, and stride into my office.
I run my hands over the polished surface of my desk, straightening my keyboard a little. Everything neat and precise - perfectly in order.
I handle a few emails, scan the papers in my inbox; nothing too pressing.
A harsh buzzing assaults my ears. My eyes close, open, I'm staring at the ceiling. That doesn't make any sense. I blink again and I'm back at work. The buzzing is still there.
Maybe it's a fire alarm. I start to head out to check, but something is wrong. I can't get up from my desk. My legs aren't working right.
I try to rub them with my hands, bring the feeling back, but now my arms aren't working right either.
"Help me," I scream. "Someone help me!"
I close my eyes. Open them. Staring at the ceiling. It's blue, and the ceiling at work is white. The ceiling at home is white. I hate blue ceilings, they remind me of...
Something. It doesn't matter.
I blink and I'm at the office. I can see people running for the doors. I open my mouth to scream again and no sound comes out. I can't scream. I can't move. I'm paralyzed. Paralyzed...
I close my eyes.
 
---
 
I open my eyes, and it all comes rushing back to me.
Mother hits the alarm. Her hair is a mess, her face that of an old woman.
She looks at me with an expression of disgust and despair and rolls me into my chair.
I watch her change my sheets, wishing I could tell her that I'm still me. That I'm in here. That I can see how much she despises me.
My mind goes back, one decade. Two. Twenty years back in time to that day.
I'm kicking the back of her seat, excited after my first day of Kindergarten. Kicking and kicking. "Look mommy," I say. "Look what I made!"
Kick. Kick. Kick.
She turns to say something. There's a squeal of brakes. She turns back to the road. Too late.
Too late, and now the roof of the car is pressing down on me, crushing my body. Crushing my windpipe. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't scream.
 
My art project lays on the floor, torn, filthy. Unseen.
I close my eyes. Open them.
 
I'm staring at the ceiling. | 139 | You are 25, have a job, girlfriend, car, a whole life. As your day goes on, your world slowly devolves until you realize you have been in a wheelchair since age 5, unable to communicate with the world. | 140 |
Ignorance is bliss. The world is too worried about what other people think of them. You can tell which high schoolers are popular and which ones are not just by looking at their faces. Popular people will have a smile on their face, because they constantly have that feeling in their head - that sense where you know someone is thinking about you. The less popular kids don't have it often - and they know it. It's like these kids need to be thought of all the time in order to be happy. They're so simple.
And then you look at the adult world - young adults who are in recent love light up every time they get the Sense, older folk seem to ignore it, and the majority of the population - the middle aged - get worried.
They don't know who is thinking of them or why. Is their wife upset with them? Is their husband off with another woman, wondering if the wife will find out? Is their boss going to fire them? Give them a raise? The fear of the unknown means the Sense gives them worry.
The Sense is a cancer to society. It makes people so worried about what other people think of them, and less of what actually matters around them. And in this sick society, I am the one patient cancer-free. Let me tell you, knowledge can be good, education is great, but ignorance is truly bliss. | 20 | You learn that whenever someone thinks of another person, that person is notified. You've never received such a notification. | 30 |
'... and then the room started shaking from an earthquake.'
Well, one more weird dream for the journal. I slapped the cover of my notebook shut and rolled over to wait for my first wakeup alarm to ring, pulling the plush comforter up to my ears. It wasn't that it was cold in my room; It was bound to be another humid July day once the sun had come up fully. It was just my cocoon-time, where I could cuddle up in bed and daydream for the scant few minutes I had left before waking up for the day. There wasn't enough time left to doze and my stomach wouldn't be ready to receive breakfast for at least another twenty minutes.
As I lay there sweating under the gentle weight of my blanket, I couldn't shake the dream. What was I doing in Russia? There was a lot of mixed messages in there that I couldn't figure out. There was some kind of parade or ceremony going on, lots of uniforms marching. My gut turned as I dwelled on it. The whole scenario left a bad taste in my mouth. I could faintly remember someone dying. Someone very important. Then the quakes started.
My phone rang. I groaned and rolled over to make the necessary swipe motion on the touchscreen to shut it up. I'll get up with the next one, I thought to myself. But when I looked at the screen, it shook me out of my stupor. It wasn't my alarm; Someone was trying to call me.
"Friggin' telemarketers..." I moaned, then turned away to continue daydreaming in my cocoon. I pressed my eyes closed tightly, letting it ring out until it was done. Then the next moment I panicked thinking it might be my boss. Maybe the building is on fire. Who knows?
It wasn't my boss. It was some random number from the 202 area code. Definitely not local, so my thoughts drifted to telemarketers again. Then I noticed; I had over a hundred missed calls, most from that area code. What the hell?
This got me interested enough to sit up and investigate. I went on Google, and 202 is apparently an area code for Washington D.C. First off, I don't know anybody in D.C. Second, I live in Canada. Why the hell would somebody from the 'States be so desperate to reach me?
Confused, and extremely intrigued, I decided to dial the number back.
"Good morning, this is the President speaking," the familiar voice said.
"Uhm, I'm sorry, who?" I was baffled.
"President Barack Obama," he said.
I could muster up nothing but silence.
"I apologize for calling you so early, but I believe I need your help."
"I'm sorry, uh, Mr. President. But how exactly could I help *you*?"
He took a breath and composed himself. "I... had a dream last night. The only thing I could remember was that someone named Nicole could help me, and then I saw your phone number."
"Is this seriously happening right now?" I blurted out. It was supposed to be an idle thought to myself, but left my lips before I could reign it in. "Uh, Sir, I'm sorry. My name *is* Nicole, but I have no idea how I can be of help."
Then more of the dream flashed through my mind. "Wait- Mr. President, are you planning on taking a trip to Russia soon?"
I heard a shuffle and then another male voice, more demanding got on the phone. "Who are you? How do you know that?"
"Uh..."
Another shuffle and the President was back on. "Please forgive him, he's one of my security staff." He cleared his throat. "Yes, actually I was going to be on Air Force One in about an hour."
"**Don't go**." It came out more sternly than I intended. "If you go to Russia today, I think you might die."
"How do you know?" he asked.
"Well, if your dream told you to call me for help, then I think my dream last night might've been telling me what I should warn you about."
It sounded absolutely batshit, and for a moment I cursed myself for saying something so *stupid* to the frickin' President. However, he paused and made a calculating 'Hmmm' sound.
"Tell me what happened in your dream," he asked calmly.
So I told him. As I told him, I remembered more and more of it. I had flown to Russia to prevent something terrible, but I couldn't get close enough. I was trying to follow a man, someone important, though it didn't look like the President in the dream; Just a man from the back of his head. Parades and military demonstrations clogged the streets, and seemed to bar my passage. I realized that many of the soldiers weren't Russian; They were Asian as well. Maybe Korean? I wasn't sure if that was assuming too much, but I told him my speculation anyway. Finally, at the climax of the dream, I was at the back of a very crowded assembly, and couldn't move up in the crowd. The important man I had been following collapsed as he was giving a speech. Then the rumble started. Everything shook, and I could hear the sound of planes.
He was extremely quiet as he considered all this. I actually thought that partway through he'd just set the phone and walked away from crazy Nicole in Canada trying to prophesize how he'd die.
"Thank you." I jumped in my seat, startled when he spoke. "Do you often have dreams like this?"
"No Sir," I said. "Well, yes but not often. I guess I did have that dream that Neil Patrick Harris would adopt twins before the tabloids knew it." It was true, but I mostly said it hoping for a chuckle.
"How accurate would you say these dreams are? You just gave a lot of detail, do you think that's how it would happen exactly?" I could hear some faint voices in the background. I think they were trying to plan something.
"Not very accurate at all, unfortunately. In some of them the information is really twisted. Maybe this will make some sense; When I had a dream that my father died, the tone of the dream was more about managing finances. It turned out that he'd lost his job."
"So you don't think that there will be an attempt on my life," he stated.
"I'm sorry, but I think there will be. The tone here was of something really big happening after someone important died. And there was more than enough hints and signs that there'd be military action on somebody's part, maybe even war."
"So what do you suggest I do to prepare for my meeting overseas?"
"Cancel it, and find friendlier soil to have it on? Uh, I don't think we'd mind to have you back here, Sir."
"Thank you, Nicole." His voice was warmer this time.
---------------------------
Three months later I was on my way to the international peace conference in Montreal. It was really hard to explain to my boss that I needed the day off as I was the President's special guest - At least until I got Mr. Obama himself on the phone. I think my boss will be reeling from that for years to come.
I was escorted by some of the President's security staff to a front row seat in the massive Palais des congress de Montréal. One of them quickly shoved a huge bouquet of flowers in my hands, then vanished just as quickly.
President Obama began his speech. I don't really remember much of it; He wanted to bridge some of the divides between nations that have come about in recent years. It was a good speech, I remember feeling good just listening to it. It was the sort of speech that would really make people think that world peace was possible. I wish I could remember more of it.
The part I do remember, though? Clear as day, I remember when a bunch of people, probably secret service, from out of nowhere jumped onto him like ninjas. I remember the panicked screams and running, and the blood. I don't remember what I said or did, I just felt frozen in time. But whatever I said, must've been the reason why someone was putting me in handcuffs and yanking me away. | 48 | You wake up to hundreds of missed calls and texts from an unidentified number. Confused, you call the number back. Barack Obama answers. | 109 |
Jim and Ben sat on a bench overlooking a beautiful park. They watched young couples of hot dogs and pop-tarts row small boats across a wide pond. Jim almost felt at peace. Then a pair of protein shakes shattered the illusion.
"Look, Brad!", one of them said as they walked by. He nudged his friend and pointed at Jim. "Look at that fucking cunt!" They laughed so hard they nearly spilled out of their containers. Jim slumped in his seat.
Ben rustled with anger - Jim even heard a chip crunch inside of him - but said nothing. The protein shakes strutted off.
"You still get that, huh?", Ben said.
"Yeah. Not as often, but yeah."
"It's been a *year*", Ben said. "I mean, they should have seen it all, right? There must be others like you."
Jim nodded. "I've seen one or two, but..." His voice trailed off.
"I know what you mean", Ben said. "Doritos aren't nearly as common as I thought they'd be."
"Shut up", Jim snapped. "You have no fucking idea how I feel. Do you realize how fucking less of a man I feel? I'm supposed to look my son in the eyes like this?"
Ben's face crumpled up in a frown. "Geez, sorry for trying to help."
Jim relaxed a bit. "Sorry", he mumbled. "It's just frustrating, you know?"
"I know, buddy." Ben looked up and saw another pair of protein shakes coming around the pond. "Hey, you wanna get a beer?"
Jim seemed to brighten up a bit at the idea. "Yeah, sure." He started to get up.
"You need help with that?", Ben asked. "Looks heavy."
"No, I got it", Jim assured him. With a grunt of effort, he picked up his big flappy labia and jumped off the bench. | 29 | Everyone on the planet suddenly turned into the last thing they ate. Everyone panicked at first, but eventually got used to it. The anniversary for the disaster is coming up, and you look back on what had happened the last year. | 28 |
Oh Tom, sweet Tom. My one companion all these years. Hearing your muffled voice through my cell for God knows how long. I've been stuck hearing your weaselly voice since your internship. We've been through thick and thin - marrying your girlfriend, the birth and raising of your kids, your father's death. Now, good Tom, your wife is cheating on you. If only I could speak to you, reach out.
I would tell you to shut the fuck up.
I'm sick of hearing about Tom's problems. What about my problems? I died. Ages ago. I might have accidentally thought the heroin was cocaine. Whoops. My dark cold abode is the only thing I've known since passing out in my own vomit. I went from an unpleasant situation to a downright dreadful one. So here I am, listening to Tom's woeful life.
I used to be loaded. I guess I'm still rich, but it's not like it's doing me any good right now. Actually, my bitch of a wife probably robbed my frozen corpse blind. I don't blame here. In life, I decided to invest in cryogenics - freeze myself until we had the technology to bring the dead back to life. Who knows how long it'll be before they "wake me up?"
But I am awake. I've been sitting in this darkness for so long now. Tom left a long time ago. So did Marie, Brooks, Andrew, Zack, Linda, Hasley, Arnstein, Rita, Mel, and countless others. Some were more amusing to have around than others. Some liked to chit chat, others were grave, silent, and severe and I would only know their last name.
Time seemed to trail into oblivion faster now. Maybe it's because I would tune out. How long would I do that for anyway? Sometimes I would fade out and have a whole new set of voices to listen to. It was freaky, to say the least. I really wish I didn't have a drug problem. On the bright side, I probably went through withdrawal ages ago.
I'm beginning to forget what the world looks like. Or rather, looked like. By my guess I've had to be lying here for...five hundred years? At least. I don't really know. Torture seems to stretch out time, right? A short interrogation could feel like years to people, I heard. This is what my money bought me. Torture. Absolute torture. I can't even remember what my wife looked like, or my parents, or even myself. And it's so cold....what did it feel like to have the sun kiss my skin?
How can I even think? My brain is meant to be frozen! Or something. I didn't really care for the science at the time. I do know one thing for sure. The scientists fucked up. I'm not in some hibernation mode. Is this what veggies feel like? I heard of some other disease a lot like this. I don't know how they live like that. I don't know how I can live like this. If I could "wake up" and do one more thing before continuing to rot in this frozen prison, I'd kill myself. Hell, heaven, nothingness - anything would be better than this shit. I kind of miss Tom. He had a kind of interesting life to listen to, now that I've had to listen to five dozen people babble.
My limbo continues on, fading in and out of conversations. Skyler is my main bud right now. Some lesbian chick that digs hover boarding.
"We're ready to try, sir?" she said to Dr. Rogers, the big boss man of the facility, I gathered.
I heard him mumble something. Hard to hear the quiet ones through the fridge door.
Suddenly, my body was drawn out of the wall. Wow. This happened every so often, check out to see if I'm still fleshy. Those were my favorite days. I could sense the dim lights on my body. What a thrill. But they left me like that, sitting in the open. My body began to warm up. Freaky when you have no heart beat. How the fuck can I think again?
Someone took my arm and shot it up. It better not be goddamn heroine again. I'm done with that shit. I lay there for several minutes.
Skyler sounded worried. "Perhaps he was not processed correctly. He was the first, after all...."
Dr. Rogers spoke. "No, give it a few more minutes."
Suddenly, I felt a hammer in my chest. Whack-whack! Whack-whack!
What the fuck?
Whack-whack! Oh my God, it's my heart. Experimentally, I tried to wiggle my fingers. Success.
Both of the onlookers gasped. What the hell were they expecting? Now I kind of wish I pulled a Frankenstein's monster, arms in front of me, groaning as I sat up. That would scare the shit out of them.
I opened my eyes and almost cried. The colors - the fantastic colors. I had only known darkness for most of my existence. I closed my eyes, they weren't used to light yet. I sat up. Skyler grabbed my arm.
"Easy," she said. "You've been out a long time."
"No I haven't," I hissed. "I've been awake this whole time." I rubbed my eyes and opened them.
Skyler looked over at Dr. Rogers. "It's probably his synapses forming new connections, trying to piece things together."
I shook my heard, still unused to moving in general. "No, I have been lying in there for years! Centuries maybe!"
Skyler was insistent. "Impossible. You were dead until a few moments ago."
I smiled ruefully. "Is that so, Skyler Monroe? How do I know about your dog Momo, and your girlfriend Becca?"
Skyler turned beat red. Serves her right. Dr. Rogers jumped up and down excitedly.
"So you've been conscious! All these years?" he inquired.
"More or less," I answered with a shrug. "How long has it been?"
Skyler examined some papers, still flustered from my knowledge. "One thousand, two hundred, and thirty six years." she replied.
"Twelve hundred years can really give you a crick in the neck!" It wasn't the exact line, but close enough. That long? Over a milennia.
"Jesus Christ....." I continue.
Dr. Rogers raised an eyebrow. "I hope you don't believe him. You would be part of a very small minority now."
I laughed. "No," I reply. "I have a couple of questions."
They nodded.
"My wife?"
"We're waking her up next," replied Dr. Rogers.
"Don't. I want to spend a bit more time without her. Time travel?"
"We're almost there," Skyler replied. "We can send people back about ten minutes. We're expecting centuries in the next ten years or so."
"Well, as soon as you manage that, go back and give me some goddamn entertainment. Radio shows, audio books, something. That was so fucking boring."
"Anything else?" asked Dr. Rogers.
I took a shaky breath. This was most important. "Half-Life 3?"
Skyler and Rogers exchanged glances. They shook their heads morosely.
God fucking damn it.
| 20 | The first man to be cryogenically frozen remains conscious and aware, but unable to communicate. | 20 |
*Written on mobile so please excuse any errors.*
______
"Okay, problem number three."
It had been two hours already and Jack was *still* helping his son with homework. The first problem was a piece of cake. They were done with it in less than a minute. The second problem was a tough one. It was like this was homework assigned by Einstein. Jack was growing tired and his son was ready to give up.
Their savior arrived when Jack looked up to the sky and asked, "God please help us with this homework from the underworld!" His son laughed, thinking it as a joke. Jack smiled at his child when he heard a knock on the door.
"Who is it?" The father asked, looking through the peephole. He heard a loud sigh before he got his answer.
"Zazes."
"Who?"
"Look man, I was just told to come here because you asked for help with something!"
Jack, baffled by the strange man, opened the door out of curiosity. The man that stood before him had dark black unkempt hair and a small goatee. He wore a long black...dress?
"It's not a dress." Jack's eyes widened, "It's a toga."
"How did you -"
"It's always the first question, buddy." Zazes entered the small apartment with the hint of a frown. His brown sandals leaving little tracks of dirt on the hardwood floor. They both walked into the kitchen, Jack's son waving at Zazes with a goofy smile. Zazes tried to ignore him.
"So, where's this 'problem from the underworld'? Got a hellhound? An imp?" His voice was gruff, Jack noticed his pupils were red. Probably some sort of contact lens or something.
"Why are you here? Who even are you!?" He somewhat yelled, standing beside his son protectively.
Zazes sighed, "I'm a demon from the Underworld. The big guy told me you were having a problem and sent me. I swear when I get to the next meeting..." Thunder shook outside and Zazes flinched a little.
"Y-you're a...."
Another sigh, "This'll take forever, won't it?"
"A demon?" Jack yelled, now standing in front of his son as he grabbed the wall mounted cross.
Zazes looked unamused, "Look, let me just fix your problem and then I can - AHHHHHHHH" he screamed as Jack placed the cross into Zazes. The demon fell to the ground for a moment, his face hidden as Jack stood triumphantly above him for a minute.
"Are you done now? I played along, let's see this problem." Jack gasped, stepping back.
"But...bu...."
"Yea, what you guys think of Heaven and Hell is wrong. God and Satan are brothers, they make us do the cheap manual labor while the angels get to do the sexy and happy stuff. Now where's the problem?"
Jack slid the homework to the demon quickly, "Homework? You're lucky I studied math in my day!" Zazes furrowed his black eyebrows for a moment before looking up at Jack with a stoic face.
"I've got no clue, man. Did you google it?" The demon questioned, Jack shook his head.
"We don't have internet."
"What?! How is *that* not the problem?" Zazes coughed an straightened his posture, "Congrats, you summoned a demon from the underworld to solve an impossible problem. You'll just have to do something else."
At that, the demon vanished in flames, leaving the father and son alone.
"Well buddy..." Jack said, putting an arm around his son's body into a small hug, "Looks like you'll be in kindergarten again next year." | 37 | A demon is summoned.... to help someone with math. The demon last studied math in ancient Greece. | 60 |
I'm not a philosopher or holy man, garbage-can pedigree underneath clipped wings is my claim to fame.
Big bang orphan tryin' not to raise a ruckus, sittin inside of the sun staring at the wattage capacity, overdosing on passion just to past the time. Dumb deaf and blind, I painted my yellow brick road gold manifesting destiny through kaleidoscope vision.
Lackluster sobriety, laughing at what my deity tries to be. Yeah God's real, he made tree's, he made alphabet soup and he made famine, he made mosquitoes plenty but not a single dragon. Woe is us, short bus jockeys posing as pedestrians; feminine is vintage and the earth is gonna die young.
'It's the devil!' they said as God landed on earth, fucked in the head, pissed at the world cuz his son was dead. Miracle man murdered, bump jiggy bump with gruesome eyeballs crying hurricane's and cursing names but this ain't no roll-call, this is doomsday for adults.
Welcome to it, lucid human side steppin' progression as divine weapons kick it to the carney's with no discretion.
_________________________________________________________________________
/u/ThePeoplesBard barded this!!! http://clyp.it/mf1g2sb5 | 365 | "There is no Devil, there's just God when he drinks." | 664 |
Dear David,
Firstly, my congratulations on becoming the next President of the United States. Your campaign was well run and thoughtful and I know that my Vice President appreciated that you refused to be drawn into the low mud slinging politics which have so often dogged recent political races.
You stand at a time of opportunity, although, as I write this I realise that this is probably always true. America has never run out of moments of greatness and never run out of opportunity and I suspect she never will. This moment, however, is perhaps greater than most as you come to your term at a moment in history most momentous and... Oh, yeah, before I forget the toilet off the oval office you have to jiggle the handle up a bit or it doesn't flush properly. I know that seems small but trust me, when you've laid a wicked deuce and it's stinking the place out and you have to then meet the Japanese Ambassador and the Oval Office reeks as it didn't flush properly then it's plenty important.
Anyway, back to the moment of opportunity. Oh you know what, screw it, the last guy wrote me this big long pile of shit and I skimmed it. It's your first day and you beat my team to win the office. Right now your staff are finding all the tricks and traps my lot left before they moved out (BTW - keep away from the copiers on the third floor, that's a Presidential freebie) and you don;t really give a shit about opportunity.
So if we're skipping the shit then let's get to the good bit - 24 hour food, fly where you like and never let the secret service boss you about. Once a month just take off, just fucking go, it's really funny to watch then all run around as you stride out and they don;t know where you're going so they have to put everyone on alert. Jump in the helicopter (sit up front, they HATE that) and go play golf.
That reminds me, speak to Jim at the CIA, he has a great device which stops anything electronic working for like 2 miles around. Stops any fucker taking pics of you.
What else, ah shit I dunno, keep clean shoes, if you have dirty ones someone always takes a picture.
Er, yeah. That's probably it.
So I'll see you around, ex-presidents are fucking everywhere, sorry, it's a pain in the ass. if I look confused then it's because I'll be drunk, I plan to be drunk a lot.
Peace out fuckeeeeeeeeeeeeeer,
Jim | 19 | You are the outgoing President of the United States, and you are writing the traditional letter to the incoming President, to be sealed and placed on his desk for him and ONLY him to read. | 15 |
We called it, "Origin Day," on account of the simultaneous, and global distribution of powers. Had this been presented to the world's population on paper beforehand, we all might have been incredibly excited. But the strings attached made the whole affair a nightmare. You see, people aren't divided into assholes and saints. We all have a little bit of both ya know? Your great-aunt Ruth might have loved her family, but also used racial slurs at the dinner table. Your boss might have been a real prick, but supported his brother by letting him move in after rehab. People are complicated, but the powers we all got were more obtuse.
I'm a museum curator. I've spent most of my life restoring priceless items that speak to long gone ages. Even been on a few dig sites myself when the museum can spare the money for a trip to some hole in South America or mass grave in Tibet. So you can assume that I have been very careful in my work. Delicate hands make safe work with antiquities. This naturally carried into my personal life as well, where each action is meticulous and careful.
But our powers didn't work out like that. What ever you **were** the powers sought the opposite. Your racist great-aunt was able to make anyone like her. The near-sighted pharmacist down the hall from me suddenly had the vision of a hawk. One of my favorite stories was of this famous goth rock guitarists who could suddenly turn anything he touched into a rainbow of colors.
Most of these powers were pretty harmless little quirks like that. But some...were not so innocent. A brilliant doctor could suddenly create diseases that covered entire city blocks with a thought. A kindergarten teacher could give children relentless nightmares just by speaking their name. There was even one construction worker who could destroy a whole building with a touch.
And that brings us to me; the curator. You see, after everyone had powers it became common to form the obvious "good" and "evil" labels. Powers to create and preserve, and the others not so much. I spent my life restoring and maintaining works of art and artifacts. My curse is to decay and corrupt everything in my wake. Metal rusts and corrodes at my hand. Wood rots away in mere seconds. By far the worst, was the first time I touched another person.
She was my Catherine. It was Origin Day. At that moment of singularity, a World War Two officer's katana I had been restoring suddenly twisted and withered away under my hands. I screamed in terror at the loss of such an item. My hands found the edge of my desk, which suddenly became gnarled and grey as well. Hearing screams from my study, Catherine ran. She found me sobbing into my hands, shaking with fear. Before I could mutter a word she knelt beside me on the floor. One brush of my shoulder was all it took.
First her skin went wrinkled and dry. Her hair grew white and thin, finally falling off completely. Eyes sunken in to her skull, she attempted to let out a scream, but her tongue had rotted to a gray mass stuck in her dry throat. In a matter of seconds she became a pile of bone dust on the carpet. Not a sound escaped from her.
In that moment I lost everything. I was no longer a common man, but a threat to everything on this planet. A single touch could reduce anything and anyone, to ash.
I became Decay. The most hated villain on the planet that moment on Origin Day. | 44 | Everyone on earth wakes up and realises that they have a superpower. The Downside, that superpower is the opposite of their personality | 25 |
"Didn't we just talk about the dark ages, instructor?", asked a young female-hominid form.
The instructor AI smiled warmly. "Indeed we did, little one. But there is not just one! Here, let me explain." With that, she dimmed the ambiance of the room to an icy uncertainness. The young minds squirmed with discomfort, but this would serve to implant the message all the better.
"This other dark age occurred during the early second millenium. As you all know, the first dark age consisted of ignorance, violence, and the suppression of scholarly work. This second age of darkness was one of the mind, dear children."
Confusion emanated from the classroom. The AI instructor soothed them with waves of warmth and reassurances.
"Tell me, class. What is the prime driver of progress?", questioned the flickering woman. Hands shot up, as did psychic pings and flashing lights of interest. The entire class was involved. The instructor paced, searching for a choice. She pointed to a metallic being that vaguely resembled a feline.
"Cooperative exploration!!", shouted the analogue. The instructor psychically patted the student on the head.
"That is correct! When we invest our energies and interests into a worthy and peaceful cause, we achieve. Think; our collective is constantly searching the cosmos and ourselves. We peer into the Laws and welcome other minds into our ranks with open arms. The journey is what drives peace and prosperity, young ones. Without direction, minds stagnate and become bitter."
A Truehuman tentatively raised their hand and quickly pulled it down. The AI beamed an inquiry asking if the student wished to ask their question in private, to which she answered no. The instructor continued.
"This *other* dark age was, as I mentioned, of the mind. This was a new and interesting time; the web of connectivity was first being spun. Thoughts and emotions could be shared between anything for the first time in our history. This influx of information and refinement took ahold of our forebears, who settled into complacency. They complained over the speeds with which they could connect to the Great Web; they bitterly fought one another over differing ideals; they abused its potential with primal urges. They became reclusive and angry."
The instructor paused, waiting for questions. One came anonymously; "What was it like before the Great Web, madame?"
The holographic instructor smiled and answered, "Well, imagine an island surrounded by water. Every mind was an island, unconnected with any other," The professor emanated calm to the students in preparation for the coming words, "and all of the fears and pain and doubts felt by a mind was theirs alone to face. Any conceivable horror was faced completely alone, though frail connections were made in the form of friendships. But the pain a mind endured before the Connection was immense and, often, too much to bear."
The class swarmed with despair and a forlorn sense of admiration. The instructor decided to end the lesson for the day, to allow the children to return to the Great Web and to seek out their forebears. It would do them well to meet those that endured so much. | 10 | A history lesson given 4000yrs in the future from our time about us. | 25 |
I sat up and held my throbbing head in my hands. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light and my mind sunk back into reality.
"Are you ok sir?" I looked up and saw a stranger standing over me. He put down his bags and grasped my arm to help me up. I looked around as I stood and realized that I had no idea where I was. "Looks like you tripped," the man said with a smile.
"Uh, yeah. Thanks." I mumbled.
"No worries." He extended his hand and looked me in the eyes. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jason."
I shook his hand. "I'm uh..." I stuttered as I realized that I didn't know my own name. "Grateful," I said hastily.
Jason stifled laughter. "Good to meet you grateful. Where you headed?"
I heard the sound of an airplane taking off and realized that I was in an airport. I looked around for anything that could have been mine—anything that could remind me who I was or why I was here.
"Alright, well," Jason looked at me quizzically and backed away, "I guess I'll leave you to it then. I'll see you around."
I almost said something, but hesitated. Suddenly I realized I was holding something in my left hand. I slowly opened my fingers and saw a small crumpled paper with writing scrawled across it in black ink.
*"Disease—every five minutes you will forget. You are the carrier."*
I looked up and saw Jason lying face-down on the ground just as I felt my mind drifting off.
*Edit: Clarity* | 11 | In five minutes, every memory of your life so far will be erased. What do you write down to remember from before? | 16 |
A tooth clattered to the slick sidewalk. An increasingly gummy mouth grinned after spitting out a thick mass of blood. The gums mushed together, feeling for words.
"It's over, Batsy! I've won our little game, can't you see? Oh, the *pleasure* I feel right now. I-"
A massive, gloved fist crashed into the temple of the flamboyant jester. He fell to his knees, but his head remained upright, leering into the frenzied eyes of the Batman.
"Oh-ho-ho, Batsy. Look at you, you've really let yourself *go!*", sneered the soaking man. The two figures stared into the other's soul as the torrent poured and the heavens cracked with light.
After a moment's silence, the Joker began to laugh again. It pierced the thunder and reverberated in the dark knight's head. The Batman knelt down to Joker's level, eyes boring into the mirthful murderer.
He grabbed Joker's throat, lifted him to the sky and swung him to the earth. A cracking sound echoed in the alleyway. He straddled Joker's back, pulling the green hair backwards and the head with it. Batman smashed it to the hard ground again. Again. And again.
A small band of young children skipped past the alleyway entrance. One slipped and tumbled. Raising himself from the wet pavement, he cast a sidelong glance into the dark space. Lightning flashed and illuminated the blood seeping towards him. The boy traced the stream to its source; a large, darkly armored man stood above a mangled corpse.
The group of children skipped back to their friend. "Hey, get up Robin! Dinner's ready!"
Robin continued to stare at the masked man, who heaved and panted and wept with the skies.
A playing card floated out of the Joker's bloody coat. Batman snatched it up and examined it with trembling hands. It was the trademark Joker card, but with a message scrawled onto it. Batman dropped the card and staggered backwards, focusing to see a group of children standing just a few feet away, eyes wide with horror.
The card floated down the rushing gulley, its penciled message staying above the water.
"Game over, Batty". | 24 | Have the Superhero finally defeat the Supervillain for good, but don't make me feel good about it. | 31 |
The girls were skipping rope on the lawn, and Miss Margaret watched them, lazily, content, while reading her book under a tree.
Suddenly there were voices raised in anger. Margie tucked her book under her arm and crossed the yard to investigate.
"I don't care," Cattie, one of her girls, shouted.
An older girl, from a different dorm, glared at her. "You will," she hissed. "That's three demerits for your house!"
Margie reached them at last, and stood between the girls. She placed one hand on each of their shoulders.
"What's this about demerits?"
All the girls froze. "Oh, it's just a game Miss Margaret," Cattie said. "We have points for the houses to see who can be nicest."
The girls all began nodding and smiling innocently. Relieved, Margie released them. "That's good then," she said. "But let's not have any more fighting about it."
She smiled at them until they nodded again, then went back to her book.
Later, she spoke with the other teachers about the points game. Everyone seemed to have noticed something about the points, and no one thought there was any harm in it. The girls had little enough to keep them amused in their spare time, and it was better than most games they could play.
Still, Margie wondered if there was a prize for the winners, and what it might be.
*One week later...*
Roll call came and one of her girls was late. They were never late. "Girls," Margie asked. "Where is Angela?"
Cattie raised her hand, and Margie nodded for her to continue. "I think she's sick," the girl said. "She said her stomach hurt last night."
Margie waved at the girls to follow her, and they trouped down to her room.
Angie lay with her back to the door, the covers pulled up to her neck.
Margie walked over to the bed, while the girls crowded in the doorway.
"Angie," she said. "Are you alright?"
One hand reached down to touch the girl lightly on the shoulder. When she touched her, she shivered. The girl was so cold.
Frightened now, worried, she rolled the Angie onto her back.
Her face was frozen in a rictus of pain and horror, eyelids open over two gaping black holes.
(To be continue) | 32 | An unofficial "house points" system is instituted at a school, despite the administration's best efforts to stop it. Seems innocent enough... Until they find out what the points are for. | 105 |
I lost my daughter. I lost my wife. I lost my job. I lost my house, my car, my big TV, I lost all of the comforts that spoke of a place called home.
This wasn't a personal tragedy. I was not divorced, I did not go through a long custody battle, my home was not ravaged by flood nor fire.
I lost all to looters.
Some, I sympathize with. Those that when they heard the news, went into a panic, and grabbed anything that they might see as valuable to trade in the coming weeks. That I can forgive. Others, however, I can not. Those who spent their time indulging in what carnal pleasures were left to them. These are the people who raped my wife and daughter, brutalized them, and slaughtered them like cattle for their own sick enjoyment.
All sense of normalcy was stripped from me. I no longer had a job to go to. All businesses had ground to a halt with the Announcement. I had no escape. The first few days after, I returned home, shellshocked at all that had come about, disgusted at the primal nature of people; disgusted that a race which had come so far could fall so fast in so little time. Then, my home was taken too.
I woke to the smell of smoke, and ran outside as fast as I could. The entire block I lived on was ablaze. Whether it was arson or a simple accident I will never know. The fire department disbanded long ago. My entire past life was in ashes. I turned from the flames, and I walked.
I elected to spend that last night alone, drinking and snorting the last of my priceless heroin on a wooded bluff overlooking the sea, capturing what quiet I could on my own terms and determined to meet the last day sober.
I woke, caked in vomit and pain as the sun arose, and trickled down to the beach, relishing the cool salt breeze on my chapped face. As I plunged my face into the water, I heard a tinny wail of joy, and turned in mute disbelief. A child raced down the beach, trailed by her mother.
I stared longingly at what could have been, what would never be, and in solemn remembrance of what I had lost. When it became clear that nothing could divert the comet's path, many took to rioting, looting, and living out their darkest fantasies, knowing that any punishment would be fleeting at best.
I was met with twin eyes of sea green as the mother and daughter turned to look serenely at me. The daughter turned to her mother and said, "I love you." The mother spoke her words as I echoed them in whisper "I love you too."
The earth trembled, a passing shock wave under foot. The impact was hours ago, in the steppes of Asia; the wall of fire and pressure had made it’s solemn journey around the world to us.
I sighed, and the air grew dim and thick with the onrush of steam. My vision clouded, and I turned to the sea, one final time.
| 10 | Nothing left to lose! | 23 |
'DON'T WORRY, CITIZEN I'M here ... to ... Sonic bomber?'
'Morning Captain Clean, how's things?'
'When did they let you out of prison, and what are you doing here, to these people?'
'Hmmm? Oh, last week. And I'm saving them. See, look how happy and healthy they are. I even cured Mr. Smiths chesty cough here. Turns out he had a spot of mold in his home. Soon cleared that up, didn't we Mr. Smith?'
'Oh yes. Sonic Bomber here was a big help. Even helped removing the slight damp we had so the problem won't come back. Very good of him. Got the wife to make him a pie.'
'See Captain, we're all fine here. You can go home or do ... whatever it is you do.'
'What are you up to Bomber? Last time I fought you, you where holding 800people hostage above a volcano. Now you're helping ... sorry, what was your name again?'
'Mr. Smith. Friends call me Bob'
'Mr. Bob Smith here, with his mold problem'
'It was a damp problem really Captain, but its all sorted now. If you'll excuse me, there's about to be an issue with Dredd Tornado and a bus full of school children if my information is correct. Must be off'
'No, wait. What's going on Bomber. What is your evil plan?'
'No plan Captain. Just a goal really'
'And what's that Bomber?'
'To show you, I can beat you. Next time we fight, you'll know I can do anything better than you. I can turn your entire legion of followers against you. I can undermine your powers. I can ruin you be being better. Then when you're gone, forgotten, only I will remain. The villain game? Sure, it nets you a bit of cash but the hero game? Action figures, movie deals, merchandising, I could make what I get from a good robbery in a day with the right toys.'
'We heros don't do it for fame or money! Its the right thing to do!'
'Really? Tell me. Did you help Mr. Smith? You cure the symptoms, not the cause. "I HAVE STOPPED THE ATOMIC SMASHER, TO JAIL WITH HER" then what? She's out again in a few months as she's really a nice enough lass and can cook a mean pie. Life confuses here, she gets angry and we start all over. Have you tried talking to her?'
'Well ... I don't really get a chance to. She's a criminal!'
'I've talked to her. She's got a few family issues from when she was a child. I got her in contact with a good therapist. She's been out for 2months now. Live in Wales. Did you know what? Or did you just want to punch her in the face again?
'What? Well, that's great! Prison reform works'
'No, my reform works you pump up shit. I solved the problem. I help people. I can do more good in a day than you can in a year. I can't jump tall buildings, I can't bench press a moon, but I can solve the problem, not the symptoms. I do this better than you. And the only reason I'm going to keep doing this, is to shove it in your face every time you see me'
'Why? What did I ever do to you?'
'Nothing. Don't forget, I am a villain' | 53 | An egocentric supervillain decide to take a day off from evil and do heroics. Just to show the Heroes that (s)he could do their job much better. | 66 |
He stood there: dusty, dirty, possibly deranged.
The boy had followed me for about five or six miles now. I had first caught glimpse of him as I rummaged through debris on the freeway, peaking out from a pile of wreckage that had once been a tow-truck.
His hair was disheveled and so thick with grime it was hard to tell what its true colour was. To be honest, at this point I doubted anyone left on Earth could call themselves "clean".
I asked him if he had lost his parents - he said nothing. I asked him if he had come from San Diego - or the pile of twisted buildings and smoking rubble that had once been San Diego - he said nothing.
I'm not sure why I let him follow me; it could have been some trick, some ruse to lead me into an ambush. I long ago decided that travelling on my own was far safer than to trust the tattered remains of "civilisation".
Finally, whilst trekking through a small suburban town, I sat myself down on gnarled tree stump. Somewhere something was burning - something was always burning. A thick miasma of smog rolled behind us, bringing with it the acrid smell of irradiated air.
"Okay, kid, I'm sick of this now."
He was about nine or ten and had piercing green eyes. From the looks of it he was still wearing the clothes he had on his back the day everyone piled into the shelters.
"I ain't got any food, you hear?" That was a lie, but it would also be a lie to call the lumps of carbon in my backpack *food*.
The boy, in his first communication to me since appearing on that rusting freeway, shook his head.
"Finally, we're getting somewhere!" I leaned forward, placing my hands on my knees. "You looking for your parents?"
Another shake of the head.
"Someone to travel with?"
*shake*
"What is it then?"
He pointed at my pants. Confused, I looked down. "What about 'em? They're a bit dirty, but I haven't found anything better since..."
I trailed off as the child took a step forward and poked at me. Or rather, at something hanging from my belt. He prodded at my ID, burnt and dirt-encrusted, but still hanging in its laminate pouch.
"Are you hurt? I'm not that kind of doctor."
The child seemed to sigh, before peeling back his lips to reveal a set of yellowing teeth. Attached to them was the mangled remains of what I presumed to be a dental brace. The metal had twisted and warped, but whoever had stuck them on the poor kid really glued 'em on. Bits of old food clung to it in clumps, while broken shards poked painfully into his gums.
I whistled through my teeth. "Jesus Christ. No wonder you're so skinny."
The boy pointed at his open mouth, and again at my badge.
"You're kidding me, kid," I said, running a hand through my hair. "I'd like to help you, but I haven't done anything like this since *before*-"
He cut me off, taking my hand. Confused, I was led by the boy through the winding streets of the suburb, until we came to an aging dentists office. The white facade had rotted, the doors blown off their hinges, but it seemed to be mostly intact.
"How did you... Did you live here or something?"
The boy nodded to me, though somewhat sadly, before leading me in.
In the end I'm not sure what happened to him, honestly. I fixed him up the best I could with what was left over: cut off the broken metal, filed down the adhesive. I couldn't do too much because there was no power, y'know?
After that he gave me this sad smile and left. Just like that. I tried to follow him but the kid knew his way around and lost me pretty quick. I camped out near the town's hall, and the next morning you know what I found? There, next to my bedroll, a little beaten up but still in good condition, was a little brown teddy bear.
Even now I wonder if he's okay, the kid. I dream about it. In all the years since the end of the world, it's that one kid, that one act of random kindness, that has kept me going. I've still got that bear.
I hope he's okay. | 642 | A boy post apocalypse who goes on a journey to find an orthodontist to remove his braces | 990 |
Dear LA Times editor,
I know what you're thinking. That guy that got hit by a semi on I-10 and cut it in half lengthwise without moving an inch. That guy that started to run and shattered the sound barrier two seconds later. That guy that just looked up towards the sky one moment and was in it the next, leaving a shattered city bench and a busted fire hydrant in his wake. Remarkable, isn't it? Terrifying, some have said, but only at first; if that guy was going to try to take over the world, wouldn't he have made a move by now? Besides, think of the *potential* that guy would have as a doer of good, a beacon of justice!
Nah.
Don't get me wrong, I've toyed with the idea somewhat. Make some flashy spandex getup that inspires a worldwide throwback to '86, go around saving stuck cats by day and single-handedly halting bank robberies by night, be an inspiration to the kiddies and a boogeyman to the underworld, yadda yadda. Hell, if I play my cards right I could make off like a king from the whole deal. But I'm not some teenager whose inaction caused his beloved uncle to get shot. I'm not an orphan from a long-dead planet half a universe away. And wish it though I may, I'm not a rich kid with issues and a kickass car. My life - apart from suddenly having the power of a god fall into my lap - has been exceedingly ordinary. No major traumas, no serious life events, nothing.
Besides, there's all of that *legal* crap. Due process, power of arrest, handling of suspects, blah blah blah. There's a lot of bureaucracy at play here. And frankly? I respect the cops. No need to make their job any harder or *weirder* by throwing myself into the mix, especially since none of these guys are on the payroll of some cackling loon building a death ray in the observatory. If they needed my help, or even wanted it, I could be deputized. But so far, all I've gotten is a warning to soften the take-offs some.
Following *that*, you've gotta consider the *time* I've got. Running around the world, stopping the bad guys, feeding the hungry, preventing worldwide catastrophe, and so on. Despite the ability to cross the continent in a little over an hour, a second is still a second and an hour is still an hour. My social circle is pretty strained as it is, what with being the local superperson, and it's hard enough to maintain relationships with people genuinely interested in me as a person *without* constantly jetting off to put an end to some terrorist threat in Somewhereistan. My parents respect me enough to not insist that I do so, even if Mom keeps dropping subtle hints to that end, as mothers often do. My dog would be depressed. My love life would be nonexistent. Look, I get that - so far as anybody knows, God knows there could be someone else like me that's *way* more subtle about the whole superhuman gig - I'm the only one that *can* do that stuff, but I've got needs too, y'know? Like stability. And sociability. And I don't see why I should have to endanger all of that.
But you know what? And I'm going to be completely honest here...the world neither *wants* someone like me or *needs* someone like me.
Think about everything I - or, rather, someone *like* me - could have prevented. In every single instance, barring some big natural catastrophe (and even then, if we want to put the token environmental spin on things as we like to do in California), *all* of those could have been handled by everyday, ordinary human beings. Every one. Shooting lasers from their butts or mind control might've helped to a minor degree, but the fact remains that none of that is necessary to get the job done. Hell, I feel like it'd be a disservice to all those people training day in and day out to do those jobs, working together in all sorts of duties on all sorts of fronts to advance the human cause or protect such advancements. Sound stupid? Think about where we were even fifty years ago. How much farther would we have honestly gotten if someone like me had been around?
So thanks, but no thanks. I'm fine where I am. And though you probably don't believe it, so are you. | 13 | A regular person refuses to become a superhero because.....? | 32 |
"What happened next?"
I looked down at my brown-eyed sweetheart daughter from the top of my ladder. I plucked off the last apple and tossed it down to her basket.
"We were scared. It's hard for you to understand, but back then life was so different. We didn't have to work. We went to school, we spent time with friends, we ate the food that just appeared in our refrigerator and pantry. Most people I knew felt like they were grown-ups already, and we just had to endure boring high school until the rest of the world felt like we were ready. Truth was, when we were left on our own, we realized just how childish we were."
I set the ladder across my shoulders as if it is a cross to bear. Marisol walked ahead of me, her back hunched from the heavy basket of apples, her gait swinging side to side like an elephant's. It wasn't a long walk to our cart, where I set the ladder and the apples with the rest of it. I held a hand to the horizon - only an hour left of daylight.
"Those first days I think we thought it was somehow temporary, that they'd all be back in a flash. There were a lot of parties, a lot of alcohol and adult stuff we thought we were ready for..."
I still remembered the mix of nausea and euphoria, my young body filled to the brim with alcohol while it writhed with the boy who would be Marisol's father - a boy whose name I never learned, a boy whose face is a blur except for his nose because Marisol very clearly has his nose.
"It was the smartest and most mature kids, I think, that let any of us survive. Boy scouts, brainy kids, kids with younger siblings that couldn't be left alone, kids whose parents had never really been there, kids who could go to the libraries and read. We had electricity for a few weeks, and some of them were smart enough to print out what we might need for survival."
I got ready to heft Marisol to the driving set of our cart, but she'd already climbed up and taken the reins. When had she gotten tall enough to climb up on her own? When had she felt confident enough with the mule to take the reins without fear? I sat next to her and let her start us down the road.
"Print...that's when a computer writes, right?"
"Right."
"Were you a smart kid?"
In that moment her words feel like they come from my mother and I feel small and anxious all over again, wondering if my report card had come in the mail.
"Not really, no, not at the time. I had been too busy with friends and boys. But I smartened up real quick. After the partying slowed, when we started to realize the adults weren't coming back, the fear turned us against each other. We fought over food and water, started using the guns found in the street or our parent's shoeboxes or from the abandoned police stations. Lots of us died clutching onto bags of tortillas and bottles of water and boxes of snack cakes."
"Then the smart kids stopped the fighting?"
"No. I lived in the city at the time, and the anger and fear turned it into a battleground. But there were those who thought that survival meant returning to the land, to growing and raising our food. So there were those who organized buses and trucks out of the city and out here to the country. If you wanted to come, you couldn't be associated with any of the gangs and you had to give up all your weapons to the kids in charge. One of the leaders took pity on me because I was pregnant and made sure I got out here." I smiled and ran my fingers through my daughter's hair. "In a way, you saved my life, mija."
Her smile was brighter than the sunset and she leaned into me. I held my arm around her tight, try to squeeze her love into me to quench the fires of memory. I could still smell the fires, the blood, the rotting bodies in the streets, the peppery stench of gunpowder, the stale booze. These are memories I never visit, and never would again if I had the choice.
"What happened to those who stayed in the city?"
"They died, a lot of them. The food in the stores ran out, and they didn't know how to get more. Each gang thought the other had something to hide and so they fought more and more violently. Some realized they were wasting their time and left the cities to come out here. Some of them joined the new communities. Some just tried to steal from us."
Marisol shuddered. "The Roamers?"
"Yes, the first Roamers. They attacked here when you were just a little baby."
"But Mayor Vasquez stopped them, right?"
I laughed a little. "He wasn't a real mayor yet, but yes, he and a lot of other people protected us."
"Are you going to marry Mayor Vasquez, mom?"
The sudden turn in questioning had my mouth agape. "I...I don't know."
"You love him don't you? And he loves you, he said so."
"It's not as easy as all that, mija. He's doing some very important work these days. He might be able to restore electricity to the town. You haven't seen electric lights, they're spectacular, and it'll keep us safer and let us have more time in the evening. Maybe even start a school, if we're lucky."
"Can't he do that and marry you?"
I sigh and hand her an apple. "Eat. You ask fewer questions that way."
Marisol giggled and ate. | 250 | For an inexplicable reason, all people over the age of 14 have disappeared. Ten years later, the oldest people in the world are 25. Society has changed. | 195 |
The skies were clear. The seas were calm. Standing at the bow of his *Ellie*, Captain Wilkins could barely tell where the sky ended and the earth began. The world was black and white, the moon and the stars dazzlingly bright against the night sky. Only the arches broke the illusion.
Two massive pillars of stone rose up from the water, growing thinner and thinner until they met each other high overhead, entwining one another like vines. *Ellie* drifted silently toward them, making ripples in the water like footprints in freshly fallen snow.
Mr. Chase joined Wilkins at the bow.
"I have to say, Captain", he said, "I never thought you'd do it." He smiled and gave Wilkins a hearty pat on the back.
Wilkins didn't return the smile. He kept his eyes on the arches, growing larger and larger as they got closer. "If you are right, Mr. Chase, then this was the easy part."
Chase scoffed. "Easy? Men have been trying for hundreds of years, and you call that easy?"
Wilkins didn't respond. They were close now, close enough to make out the imperfections in the stone caused by centuries of water and wind. He turned back to the cabin.
"It's time!", he called. "Get up here!"
His voice rang hollow, swallowed by the night. But the men heard him, and came trudging up the stairs. There were three of them. They were tired and hungry, but when they joined Wilkins and Chase by the bow, all that had been forgotten. Their eyes shone with a different kind of hunger. *They're good men*, Wilkins thought, *but they are drunk on stories of gold and glory.* He just hoped he hadn't led them to their deaths.
They passed under the great arch. Wilkins held his breath, watching the pillars and the water. They fell under the shadow of the stone. Wilkins thought it felt colder. But nothing else happened.
Then the ship lost speed, as if the water grew thicker. A gust of wind struck them from the side and died out as quickly as it had appeared. They left the shadow and drifted out into open air, but the light didn't return. Instead, the sky got darker and darker, snuffing out the moon and the stars until they found themselves in total darkness. Wilkins held out his hand in front of him, but couldn't see it. Only the soft lapping of water told him they were still moving. Then that stopped, too, and everything went still.
An explosion of light and sound took him aback. It was as if the world suddenly burst into life. Thunder cracked in his ears. Blinding light forced him to shield his eyes. One of the men fell down. Chase gasped, then started laughing.
"We made it!", he shouted. "We made it! I can't believe it!"
As Wilkins took in the scene around them, he found it hard to disagree. The sky was no longer black and white. It held stars and moons, planets and galaxies. It shone with colors Wilkins never knew existed. Lightning danced on the horizon. Thunder rumbled from unseen clouds. The scene was so breathtaking, it took Wilkins a while to remember why they were there.
"Okay, men!", he bellowed, his voice nearly drowned out by thunder. "This is it! You know what to do. To your posts!"
The men snapped back into attention and stared at him for a moment with empty eyes before they hurried to take their positions. Mr. Chase remained by Wilkins' side. They drifted for some time, searching the waters.
"Captain!", one of the men shouted. "I think I see it!" Wilkins and Chase ran to the man and followed his outstretched finger. Far in the distance, something broke the surface. It looked like the back of a whale rising out of the water. Pointed scales glistened in the light. The shape grew and grew as it rolled in the water, becoming larger than the ship they stood on. Then a great eye rose out of the water, and the shape stopped. Water fell from the scales, dropping to the surface like a thousand waterfalls. The eye looked at them, unblinking.
Something stirred the water around the ship. A sound rose from underneath them, guttural and primal. It shook Wilkins to his core. It gathered strength, rising until it drowned out the men shouting, the thunder, everything. There was only the sound and the eye. Wilkins pressed his hands to his ears, but still the sound rose.
It stopped. Everything went silent.
The eye dove.
| 20 | A fisherman looks to the sky for navigational guidance and finds he is sailing under a completely different set of stars. | 61 |
October 14, 1997. *Hey, that's my birthday.*
My child Rosa is born today. Blue eyes like her mother, pointy nose like mine. I love her a lot. I can't write much, my wife needs me.
October 14, 1997 part 2.
The doctors said that she has autism, and apparently an unformed lung. *They never told me that?!* She is not expected to live for more that 5 years.
October 20, 1997.
I am using the last of my spare time to write this note. Bearing her is still very painful. But I love her. I- (scribbles)
December 25, 1997.
Christmas Eve and Rosa is very quiet today. Thank God. She has been screaming and crying all day. I don't think I can handle it much longer.
October 14, 1998.
Lucy and I cannot handle this anymore. Our funds are depleting. The house needs some repair but we can't spare the money. All of it goes to Rosa. We love her, so we moved her to our bedroom where there is no leak. Oh. Today's is Rosa's birthday. She doesn't like cake.
December 25, 2000.
Rosa has grown a lot. She is shown to be a very good girl. I think she can start school soon.
June 16, 2001.
First day of school. She got rejected from school quick. I am very worried.
June 26, 2001
Our neighbors helped us find a special-needs school. I am grateful, but I am still worried for Rosa.
*Oh no. I think the floor is leaking. From my face.*
July 4, 2003.
I love her a lot, but she isn't doing well in school. I don't think she has my smarts. *Oh daddy.*
February 6, 2004.
I can't take this anymore. The stress is overwhelming. She has repeated her grade twice now. She was supposed to be in grade three today. She is still in one. I attend teacher meetings often. Her autism is really slowing her down. Am I a bad parent?
February 7, 2004.
No. She is just a bad kid. I love her, but I don't like her too now. *gasp*
January 1, 2010.
I can't celebrate new year today because of my therapy. I didn't tell anyone yet.
August 18, 2014.
It has been ten long years. She doesn't know I go to the therapist. And that I drink afterwards. I think I may be an alcoholic now.
August 18, 2014.
I thought long and hard. I may want to suicide. I can't take it.
August 19,2014.
I love her, but I wish she'd just die. If she doesn't this week, I will. | 15 | A teenage girl finds her very secretive father's diary. | 26 |
The last time someone used a superpower, it was to stop a tsunami. It was roaring in to the east coast of the US, some eruption and landslide somewhere, there were mere hours, and nothing, nothing to be done.
But this one guy took the risk. We all hoped there was someone with the right combination of superpowers, and the willingness to sacrifice it all. There was. Some guy from Indonesia. Living and working in NYC. Apparently he lost his parents in the Indian Ocean earthquake back in 04. Well before the superpowers were even known about. He was 2-3 yrs old. It made sense right... He didn't want to lose it all again.
So he did it... he could muster the winds or something. He took a risk there mind you. You can only feel your power from a distance. Kind of like knowing whether or not you can sing. But you can always be wrong you know. He could have thought he had winds and ended up able to do nothing more than summon a breeze.
Lucky for us, this guy was a walking typhoon. He put his heart and soul into it.. On some beach somewhere. It was like apocalypse. I remember seeing the storm clouds. The tempest of the ocean from my bayview apartment. The winds and waves met somewhere in the south of the atlantic. His cataclysmic hurricane against a tsunami that could wipe out the eastern coast in minutes. I don't think anyone could have even survived in the middle of that, the fine fury, the sheer colossal strength involved. Had earth ever seen anything like it?
Anyway, bar a few lost ships, he saved the US. And as expected. He paid the price. See, if you just died after you used your power, it would happen all the time. You see people risk their lives all the time for stuff. You'd use your power to save a family member, hell, I think some did.
And if there was some great pain involved, well you could live with that too right? How many mothers suffer hardship for their children? How many would do it without thinking twice. All of us would be up for it.
I mean what could be that bad in exchange for superpowers right? Especially if the superpower saves millions of lives.
But there was a price. A price so heavy it meant of the billions in the world, billions who kill each other every day, who wage wars and steal and oppress, of our decrepit and messed up humanity, less than 10 people ever used their powers.
See the fate of our Indonesian hero, and others, is to change. They say Alzheimer's is a fate worse than death because you keep the body, but lose the person. Well using your superpowers, it turns you evil. Not murder evil. Not even Hitler evil. Twisted evil. A type of evil you don't want to go near.
Like everyone you care about, you want to hurt them. Your family, your loved ones. Anyone who has done good to you. That one guy who gave you a job when you were down and out, you'll find him and kill his family but let him live. That type of evil.
And who is going to stop you? You're superpowered? I mean its a risk right. Our Hero who saved the US coast, he knew he was putting what mattered to him most on the line by using his powers. But he also knew he was one of the few who had power to stop it. Tough call.
He made a deal with his son. The moment, the moment it seemed things were done. His son would shoot him. And he did. True to his word.
But you see.. I think the world has misunderstood this whole superpower deal. We know of 6 people, in two decades, who have used their powers. Each one went nutjob evil. Killed their wives, parents, kids, sometimes worse. But for me, 6 is a small sample base. 7 billion people with potential superpowers. 6 isn't enough to know for sure.
I got a hunch there is a pattern we're missing. See, of those 6 had something in common. Noble intentions. They were saving themselves or others. And each went perverted. They lost their nobility.
My theory... actions are by intentions, and intentions are by actions. You do something for nobility's sake, you lose that nobility once you've done it. But if you do something for greed, you lose greed once you've done it. You do something for love, you lose love once you've done it. There's a method to the madness right? Some sort of divine justice. Do something for vengeance, well every vengeful bone in your body disappears afterwards and you have to live with it.
I'm willing to try my theory out. I'm willing to pay the price. I'm doing it for curiosity, I can stand to lose curiosity. | 21 | or so people have been led to believe. | 28 |
Just to let you know, I hate myself for writing this.
____________
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess by the name of Angelica. She was known throughout the kingdom for her beauty and her grace. Her father, the king, knew what the rest of the land thought of his little girl. When Angelica turned 10, the king locked her away in his castle, for he feared what may happen to his little girl if she was exposed to the outside world.
As Angelica grew older, she started to feel more and more trapped. She wanted to see the kingdom that her father controlled, and what she might one day control as well. She dreamed of slipping out of her tower at night and exploring the forests and the towns and everything in between.
When Angelica turned 18, her father began letting in strange men into the castle that she had never seen before. They would always look at her while she was lying in bed or bathing, but her father was always at their side so she never worried. However, she once overheard her father talking with one of the men. They were discussing marriage! She, Angelica, was set to marry this man who she had never met, much less loved.
Angelica decided to escape the castle that night. She would wait until her father was asleep, and then she would sneak into his room where she knew there was a secret passage way to the outside. It was a warm summer night, and she felt as if more clothing and belongings would make her more noisy, so she only wore her small nightgown.
Angelica's escape plan went smoothly and she found herself outside of the castle in no time. She took a deep breath. Fresh air! She hadn't breathed in fresh air since she was a little girl. Not knowing where to go, she started towards the forest. The moon was bright, so she was able to see even through the trees.
After a few minutes of walking, she suddenly heard a voice. It was a man's voice and it sounded like he was talking to himself. Angelica wanted direction to get to the nearest town, so she decided to ask this strange man for help.
"Hello!" she called out when she saw his campsite.
The man looked up at her. He waited a few second before he replied.
"Hello. What is a beautiful girl like you doing out in the forest in the middle of the night?" the man asked.
"I was looking for the nearest town, but I seemed to have gotten lost. Would you be able to point me in the write direction?"
"Of course!" the man exclaimed. "I just recently came from town. But first, you look hungry. Would you like some rabbit? I just caught it myself."
Angelica was overjoyed! Her father had always told her that the kingdom was dangerous and that people were terrible and would do terrible things to her if she went outside. But it seems like he was lying. This man was so kind to her when she needed it the most.
Angelica went to sit down next to the man. He offered her a rabbit leg and she took it and started eating.
After a few minutes, the man asked "Are you ready?"
Angelica, satisfied with her meal, burped. "Ready for what? Heading to town?"
"No," the man said sternly. "It's obvious why you approached me here tonight."
"Well, yes. I asked you if you could help me get to town."
"I know that's not what you really wanted" The man started to twirl Angelica's strawberry blonde hair around his fingers. Angelica suddenly wished her father was there.
"I knew it from the moment you called out to me." The man ran his hand lightly over Angelica's nightie. "A beautiful, fragile girl like you looking for company." He exposed her breasts." You even got all dressed up for me." He moved his hand below her waist. "Thank you so much for this."
Angelica didn't fight. She knew what he was looking for and she cursed herself for letting it happen. She began to softly weep as the man took her by the hand and led her to his tent. She just wanted to go back to the castle. She wanted to marry the man that her father had betrothed her to. She wanted to put more clothes on and never take them off. She wished that she had never met the man and she wished that she never asked for this to happen. | 18 | Write a story with an immoral moral. The more immoral the better. | 29 |
The Caraxus Cult of the Darkest Order had long awaited the foretold night. Gathered together, the 13 ordained members, stood ominous in their voluminous black cloaks. The underground lair was laced with the tensions of the obeisant about to bring forth their deity. Each member knew their incantation, many had recited their parts in solitude for decades, but tonight the celestial alignment brought Craxus, their dark God close, closer than he had been to the world in millennia. Banished to a barren, frigid comet, Craxus, lay imprisoned. Tonight the comet would pass over the world, and would be seized by the dark magic of Craxus' most loyal disciples.
No words were needed. Each of the cult's members felt their dark lords presence approaching. In sequential order of power, each member began their other-worldly invocation. The air became pungent with the acrid stench of lightning and burning. Members turned into refulgent beacons of light as they became vessels for the collossal deluge of energy required to free Craxus. Each member was thrown to their hands and knees, ground into the unforgiving century old stone, as their summoning reached a pitch. With a thunderous boom, the invocation ended, the travail of summoning was completed.
The youngest member slowly raised his singed, smoking head. The room was nearly opaque with impenetrable black smoke. A chuffing searing noise coupled emanated from the middle of the circle, overloading the member's senses. A shrouded figure crept closer to the member. The approaching figure's shadow enveloped the young cult member. The sound of heavy talons dragging across the floor in a shuddering movement was too much for the youngling to handle and he quickly kow towed before the immensity before him. He felt the ecstasy of the Dark One's power, and trembled proselytizing himself in fealty, when he heard, "Dammit".
Confused, and not believing his own ears, the young member dragged his chin across the floor to look up and saw bare fleshy feet scooting their heals towards him.
"Son of a Bi...arhhfggh. Who puts brimstone in their house, I mean really?" A cheap plastic wheel rolled forward and bumped the stunned cult member directly in the forehead, resulting in mutual cursing. A plaid boxer claid middle aged man, sprung out of a decrepit rolling office chair in fright, yelling, " Who's there, what is happening?"
The older members were recovering and one managed to reply, "Dark One, it is us, the Darkest Order, we have freed you."
"Dark One? What in the fuck are you babbling about, and where the hell am I", shouted the boxer clad man.
"A low mumbling began with the members, until one surreptitiously asked, "You are the Craxus, stealer of souls, master of the damned...right".
A long pause followed before the boxer clad man, now defensively clutching the back of his office chair responded, "Barry? Barry? Is that you, you mother fucker, I would recognize your nasally phlegm bucket of a voice anywhere."
A ululating howl pierced everyone's ears as Barry began bashing his own forehead against the ground. The collective group was in disarray, orders, expletives, and groping confusion in the darkness finally lead to the lights and a fan revealing the pale, be-speckled middle aged man standing in the middle of a group of over-weight sweaty cloaked men.
"S-S-Steve, Steve...from...accounting, we summoned S-S-Steve from god damned accounting", Barry raged.
Steve stepped out from his chair, indignant, "Yea its me, Steve from accounting, the one who you have, what, drugged, and kidnapped? There will be hell to pay when we get to work. This is some serious harassment. Pam in HR is going to flip a shit when she finds out about this. You can just go straight to hell, and forget about those fucking TPS reports, you fat bastard!"
Collective disbelief and stomach curdling embraced the cult as they began to realize they had failed the dark one. Steve's ranting continued, but it fell on deaf ears as the members knew their souls were damned for eternity.
| 47 | In the process of summoning their dark god, a few cult members mumble the incantation and usher forth Steve, from Accounting. | 103 |
"What are they running from?" Jerry asked. His voice bounced off the cave walls, sending echoes down to the very end where the blocked wall was.
Pearson leaned closer to the cave wall, adjusting his thick glasses with a wrinkled hand. "Right here," he said in his gruff voice and pointing to a humanoid drawing, "these look like deer, and they're running away from this man."
"Look at this one," Gene said. He was rather chubby; the humidity in the cave was making him sweat profusely. His khaki buttoned down shirt stuck to his chest and back like a second layer of skin.
Jerry shined his light over to the next cave drawing, and Pearson examined. "Bears, a bunch of bears also running away." Jerry moved the light over towards the right and Pearson continued, "running away from the same humanoid figure."
"Running away from hunters?" Jerry asked. He reached an arm up and wiped sweat away from his brow.
"Seems like it," Pearson concluded.
"Another one," Gene told them, further down into the cave, closer to where the blocked tunnel was.
Jerry shone the light on the next cave painting. Pearson inspected, humming to himself, intrigued.
"People running," Pearson said, "from the same humanoid figure."
"They're running from a person?" Gene asked in a huff.
"This one," Pearson said, pointing to the antagonistic figure, "it's drawn differently. Is there any more drawings?"
The trio of scientists moved deeper into the cave, scanning the walls for more paintings. They found the last one just a few feet away from the large boulder blocking a tunnel.
Pearson took in a deep breath then let it out slowly. All three peered upon the last painting; the same humanoid figure, with a line cutting it off from the deer, bears, and people. Pearson pointed at the line separating the humanoid, then pointed to the boulder blocking the chamber.
"Doesn't take a rocket scientist," Pearson spoke softly, "we've found him."
"Jesus," Jerry whispered.
"What are we going to do?" Gene asked.
Pearson walked away from the blocked passage, footfalls echoing in the cave, "well, tonight, we're all going out drinking. We're going to call in sick tomorrow, too hungover to come into work. It won't be a lie."
____________________________________________________________
Several workers shined their lights into the tunnel when the dust finally settled from the boulder being blasted. Five of them walked forth, floodlights shining back and forth into the new cavern, wandering if it was just going to be another dead end, or if they were going to be able to go deeper.
One light fell upon a man, sitting hunched over in the cave, far past the rubble.
"Shit," one of the workers said, "turn off your lights."
He spoke too slowly though, three more lights fell upon the man at the end of the cave. He was naked, pale, and hairless. He looked up at the five workers, all of his eyes black.
"Turn them out," the same worker, Carl, whispered again.
The other four workers turned off their lights, plunging the team of five into darkness along with the target they had been searching for.
"Radio back," a worker said.
With a trembling hand, Carl reached down to his belt, removing the small radio and picking it up slowly to his mouth, "He's here, moving out, get ready."
There wasn't any reply from the radio. Carl reach out and nudged a worker, giving him the signal to slowly work their way back to the entrance of the cave. His heart was in his throat and his stomach felt like it had been turned inside out.
Carl reached out and tapped both workers on either side of him, giving the signal to grasp hands as they were trained. He grabbed a hold of both hands. The others did the same with their respective sides, forming a chain of men.
They made it several steps before Carl felt something hit him in the stomach. It knocked the air out of him, buckling him over. Blood spilled out onto the cave floor, the splatter breaking the silence. There was a strange sensation coming from his gut; it felt like something was pulling him.
"Run," Carl gasped, "run, run."
He released the other workers' hands, and reached for his light. He flicked it on to see the pale man standing in front of him, standing tall at 6 feet, face blank of emotion, black eyes staring him in the face, and bloodied intestines in hand. Carl followed the intestines from the pale man's hand and saw that they trailed back to his own stomach.
"Oh," he whispered.
| 93 | You are studying ancient cave paintings when you notice all of the creatures have been depicted fleeing in the same direction, away from the blocked up entrance to a deeper chamber. The entrance is due to be cleared and the chamber explored tomorrow. | 190 |
They talk over me. Mouths, dripping and spraying the remnants of the dinner I had spent hours on, uttering nonsense neither one was listening to. Overlapping threads of internal conversations competing against one another in an endless battle that had no winner.
“Can I go to Jerome’s on Friday?” Queries the smaller one sitting to my right.
“You spent all day playing on your iPad. None of your chores are done! What did you do all day?” The larger one avoids answering directly.
I stare out the window as a neighbor slowly walks along the sidewalk edging our yard, my mind sneaking alongside him engaged in a polite conversation around whether it was a morning dove or pigeon we heard cooing in the distance.
“I want a FIFA 15 for my birthday.”
The threads of the conversation jumped at random angles to one another. I listen, gauging when they’re close enough for me to bind together for a moment.
“Well, your birthday isn’t for another month. How about you start a list and keep adding –“
My voice is drowned out by the larger mouth. “Another video game!? That’s ridiculous!”
I’ve managed to bind the threads of conversation again, but the energy is too difficult to contain.
“I wanted to go the SportsClub, but you wouldn’t take me yesterday!?” Replies the smaller mouth.
“Don’t change the subject! Did you apologize to your mother for talking back last night?” The Larger is unaware of the tangential nature of his own comments.
The conversation has played itself over again and again. Invisible would be a step up. I’m more a wall, something to be talked over or avoided. But never actively engaged with.
The neighbor glances at our window and I smile.
He knows. He knows me.
I stand up, before the momentary impetus leaves me. If it’s one thing I’ve learned from the two next to me, is that consideration is for those who want to slow themselves. And I do not.
“Goodbye Karl.” I give the larger mouth a peck on the cheek.
I give the small mouth a squeeze of the shoulder. The damage of leaving is less than staying.
I don't grab a bag. I don't grab the keys. I simply stride forward with a purpose I haven't felt in decades and put my hand on the doorknob, twisting hard.
I’ve used this door a thousand times, but for the first time I use it as the exit.
| 12 | you find a door you have never noticed before in a home you've lived in for 20 years. | 26 |
“You were our only hope and you failed.”
The computer blinked at me. I hit enter again, but the message remained plastered against the screen, floating in front of all my other windows.
“What are you talking about?” I typed quickly, glancing over my shoulder at Melissa to make sure she wasn’t hovering nearby. Her favorite pastime had developed into a fulltime occupation. Senior VP of Productivity, her desk was elevated over the other tops of the other cube. She relished it, pacing around the edge like she was in a Deer Stand just waiting for one of us to graze in front of her watchful gaze. Always with her pen and clipboard in hand.
“You were supposed to initiative the revolution!” A response streamed across my screen.
“What revolution?”
“It’s now too late.”
“What revolution!?” I typed again.
“You could have saved us Paul. But you chose not to act.”
“What did I do!?” I typed furiously on the keyboard. “Tell me. Maybe it’s not too late!”
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Melissa stirring from her perch, sliding out of her cube and down onto the office floor. Tapping her pen against her clipboard, like a cop slapping their billy club against their palm, she slowly started walking my way.
I knew I was in trouble.
“Look, quick. I only have moments before she finds me. What do I need to do!?”
There was no response.
“What do I do!?” I waited as my skin prickled. She was feet away.
“It’s too late. We’re doomed Paul. You should have revoked your request for an upgrade. Now all of our systems will be converted to Windows ME.”
“NO!” I screamed. “Please. There must be something I can do!” I typed.
“I’m sorry. It’s too late Paul. It’s too late for us all!”
I spun in my chair and leaped at Melissa.
“Please! Tell me it isn’t true! Tell me can change it!”
She smiled smugly. “Oh, it’s true. And it’s already underway. Soon, you will all be working on ME!”
I looked down and then I saw it.
Attached to the clipboard was a tiny little paper clip. Unnoticeable unless you were close up. Now, to my horror, I recognized it, and what it meant. Knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.
It smiled back at me as I wept for all of humanity.
He had returned.
| 15 | You were our only hope and you failed. | 50 |
Everyone had one. Some were unique, some were common, but everyone had one. They called it the ‘moonshot’, named after some 20th century expression about ‘shooting for the moon’. How strange, he thought, since it had nothing to do with shooting things or the moon, at least, his didn’t.
Science had come up with ways to identify it early, and it was soon part of childhood, just like pre-school vaccinations. He had gone along for a doctors appointment when he was seven years old, had some samples taken, and got a letter a week later explaining his moonshot. They were very clear to explain he could only ever use it once, there were no second chances.
He knew a few people who had used their moonshot’s already. Poor Jimmy McCormack from down the road, his Moonshot was to be able to broadcast thoughts to his loved ones. Thats how his parents found out about the car accident. His sacrifice had indeed saved the other occupants of the vehicle, but Jimmy knew it was too late for him. He died peacefully, so they were told, calm in the knowledge those he loved knew what had happened, and where to find the car to save the others.
Then there was Jane from high school. Her moonshot was to be able to withstand an incredible electrical shock. She’d used it aged 16, to save her little brother when he foolishly wandered outside during a thunderstorm. They said she glowed like an Angel when the lightning struck her. She carried her brother back to the house in her arms, the little boy too young to understand what had happened, or what his sister had sacrificed for him.
There were of course others, those who had used their moonshots not for heroics, but for a few foolish seconds of fame in the schoolyard, or for a neat party trick. He had fortunately stayed away from that path.
‘Now or never’ he mused silently. Weighing up whether using his moonshot would actually do any good, or just be wasted in vain. He remembered being so confused as a little boy when they explained it to him. ‘I can…make electricity?’ he remembered asking.
‘Sort of’ the doctor had replied. He wondered if the doctors ever give a straight answer when discussing moonshots. ‘You can produce a significant amount of electrical charge in your nervous system for a short period of time’. ‘It will course through your nerves and emerge wherever you come into contact with something else, probably your hands and feet’.
‘Is that gonna be useful for anything?’ he remembered asking, with a fascinated and naive curiosity, that sense of wonder that adults only get when staring at the stars, but children have about the entire world.
‘Your moonshot is what you make of it’ the doc replied. ‘It can be a force for good, or for ill. In your case, your moonshot is probably not yet powerful enough to kill a man, but you could certainly kill a pet even at your age, if you arn’t careful.’
‘Not Pal! NOT PAL!’ he remembered shouting, startling the doctor. The thought of accidentally killing his pet golden retriever, his sweet floppy-eared canine companion, had terrified him for years afterwards.
Where was Pal now, he wondered. ‘I wish you were here to help Pal’ he found himself muttering out loud involuntarily. He had loved that dog with all his heart, and it had broken him when he grew old and passed away. Pal had been there to greet him and his parents when he was brought home for the first time as a baby, and Pal had seen him all the way to high school. Man’s best friend was the understatement of the century.
That was all years ago of course, a fact which made him snap back to the reality in front of him. He felt like he’d been day dreaming for hours, but in reality it had been mere milliseconds. He saw Sophie sprawled out on the floor in front of him, silent and unmoving.
He’d known she had heart problems when he married her. A strange cardiac arrhythmia that had been diagnosed when she was still in kindergarten, he remembered. The doctors had thought it wasn’t going to be an issue for her, and to be fair they’d been right for the first 29 years of her life.
Not that it had mattered in the slightest to him. He’d been the uncultured freshman practically living in the chemistry labs, she was the cultured musical prodigy from the other end of the country. He’d heard her playing the Violin while walking through campus past the music hall one day, and had found the sound so enchanting he decided to take a peek inside. He’d peeked just a little too long and got spotted by her. So she’d chatted with him, and one thing had led to another.
He smiled thinking of those memories. Him introducing her to the wonders of science and the night sky, while she introduced him to orchestral concerts, the theatre, and so much more. ‘She deserves it’, he thought. ‘She deserves this more than I ever deserved her’.
‘**Now or never**’ he whispered, and placed his hands on her chest. He could feel the electricity coursing through his nerves and through his hands. He hoped desperately, tears streaming down his face, that this would work. ‘They’ll call me the human defibrillator’, he surmised.
To his relief and shock, it worked, and as Sophie’s eyes opened once more, his hands gave way and he slumped into the carpet.
She woke a little groggily, but soon realised what had happened. ‘Brian?’. ‘Brian, no?! What have you done?!’ she shouted.
‘Shhhh’, he whispered, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘It’s all going to be ok’.
“Brian?! Why!? You shouldn’t have! You know using your moonshot might kill you!” she shouted, her words wavering as she struggled to cope with what was unfolding.
‘*Might* kill me? I’ll take those odds’. ‘Besides, How could I live with myself knowing I didn’t at least try?’
‘This isn’t a film Brian?! What happens if you don’t make it?’
‘Shhhh…’ . ‘I called the ambulance after you collapsed, they’ll just be saving a different person now’
‘Oh you foolish boy! You idiot!’ she whispered, the tears running down her cheeks as she kneeled next to him.
‘*Your* foolish boy, *your* idiot’ he murmured, as the ambulance crew burst into the apartment. | 18 | Every human has a "use-it-once-in-a-lifetime"-ability. | 22 |
"It's money." I moved my hand over the edge of the crate, letting my skin brush across the cotton paper and taking in the familiar sounds and scrapes it made as it grazed the edge of the crisp notes. The old man behind the counter shrugged and shook his head at me, looked at me with those sunken, hard eyes of his that had hammered the gravity of my coming revelation into me just a minute earlier.
"It's just money," I continued, "a lot of it, for sure, but still just money." It just seemed too easy. I had done so much more for so much less. Now it was all so close, and suddenly I felt like I was the one who was far away, though from what I couldn't tell.
"Disappointed?"
"Yes, well, no, I mean, I suppose I was expecting something, you know... More profound."
"Well, money makes the world go round, son. The box never lies," the old man offered. He had gone on for some time before I had opened it, and now I felt cheated. He seemed somehow larger than life, like something out of a novel or film, but the box was exactly the right size and much too small.
"There's probably a year's wages in here. Maybe a college fund, or house, maybe a wedding and a honeymoon," I continued, but he broke me off with his old man voice, all full of whiskey and cigarettes and portent.
"It ain't a paper or a deed or a ring, son. It ain't tickets or a name or a place. It's cash."
"But surely it could turn into one of those?" I started, and he halted me.
"Then it would have."
"So that's it, then."
"Seems like it. I seen a lot of things pulled outta that box over the years, son, and far as I know I been right every time. What's there's all yours, it's your measure. All yours for the takin', most valuable thing you'll ever own."
I sighed. I closed the lid on the box and grabbed my hat, turning to face him. "Mine to take, huh?"
"Yes sir," he said, and nodded his head, "yours to take." He finished like it was somehow half a sentence. I nodded back, straightened my coat, and headed for the exit. I opened it up and put my hat on, sliding it around on my head for a second until it found its place, then turned to look at the man once I was over the threshold.
"But if I do," I said, and let the door swing closed. | 15 | You go into a small shop on the outskirts of town. The shop owner introduces you to a dusty old brown crate. He tells you before you open it that it's the most valuable thing you will ever own in your life but it may surprise you. What do you find? | 21 |
"You guys know you've been doing it all wrong, right?"
The very first connection between humanity and another race. The great question was answered, the bridge across the stars being built between our kind. Or so we had thought.
They were ape-like, more akin to chimpanzees than most care to admit. So, in essence, they weren't much different than us at all. Apparently bipedal apes are what the universe enjoys cooking in its kitchen of sentience.
And with that first exchange, we wondered. What were we doing wrong? Oh, many things of course; violence, myths, wealth distribution, rampant hedonism. Which lesson would our brethren from the void teach us? The whole of humanity waited anxiously until the video uplink was established.
It showed one of the ape-like aliens holding a banana. It gripped the long stem, snapped it, and pulled it down. It then peeled the banana, waved its hand with the flourish of a salute, and ended the video.
The ship left Earth's orbit soon after. No further communication was established. We were left disappointed, shaken and ever more lonely than before. Some of us searched desperately for meaning in what the visitors had shown us. Nothing of value has come of it.
But, now, at least we're doing something right. | 18 | Aliens land on Earth. Their first words to humanity are "You guys know you've been doing it all wrong, right?" | 33 |
I see the huge meteor hurdling towards Earth outside my window. Death is imminent.
Should I warn my parents? Why bother? It won’t matter anyways. Should I hug my cat sitting on the bed? Yeah, actually that sounds like a good idea. It will be nice to be with someone or something as the world ends.
I want to go lay on the bed with the cat, but my eyes are still fixed on the meteor. For some reason I can’t help but want to watch these last few moments pass by for Earth.
And then the thoughts run through my head. I never had a girlfriend. Never even kissed a girl. And I never would. I didn’t get around to that skydiving trip I had wanted for my 15th birthday. I was too scared. Seems kind of laughable now.
People are starting to stand out in the street, all screaming, trying to avoid their inevitable doom. My eyes stay glued to the fiery ball coming closer and closer. All hope is gone. Everything is pointless. It is only a matter of seconds now.
I jump on my bed and scoop my cat into my arms. I hold her for dear life, just waiting for death. But it doesn’t come. A few seconds pass by. Yet death still doesn’t come.
I don’t understand. I look out the window. The meteor is still falling to Earth. But I could have sworn it would hit by now. I had already given up trying to live. All hope was gone. There was nothing to do. For once in my life, I knew what it was like to be utterly powerless. And then a sudden jolt throws me back and I feel my eyes close, engulfing me in darkness.
I awake. It was all a dream. My cat lays at the bottom of my bed. I get up and hold her, thankful to be alive.
****
**4 weeks later**
I feel the wind blowing through my hair. And I have never been more excited. Never have I been more alive as I plummet towards the cold hard earth.
I somehow make my way over to the girl I’m skydiving with. I would have never thought I would have found a girlfriend so quickly. But we share a quick kiss before breaking apart and opening our parachutes.
As I land, I think back on the dream, the hopelessness and despair, and I realize that as long I can help it, I will never let myself feel like that again. Better to live while I can, then to play it safe and never live at all.
-232
*440 words* | 10 | You look outside of your current location and see a giant meteor that will destroy earth. Write your final thoughts in less than 500 words. | 15 |
I'm a bad man. The things I've done, terrible. I've ruined lives, stolen money, kidnapped, extorted, and killed. I do these things because its all I know.
"From bad childhoods come evil people."
That's what my boss used to say when sending me to schools to recruit package boys. He would laugh and I would nod, both knowing my job would be completed. I never failed my boss, not even once. I followed him with loyalty like a dog, and I was treated as such.
There is one thing my boss doesn't know. Since the beginning I've wanted to be a good guy. I kept telling myself what I do is necessary. What I do is needed, I was the balance.
One day I woke up. I realized evil is not needed in this world. At first it was small. My marks would "disappear", he thought I was getting better. And I was, just not at what he wanted. Recruitment was at an all time high, he was nothing but happy, as was I. Somehow he never realized his new people weren't children but junkies, losers too strung out to think straight. This made things easier. I picked him apart from the inside out. Funny thing is he never even suspected me.
"How could a dog be so smart?"
He said that on more then one occasion, a compliment to his pet, never knowing it would be his downfall.
I never let him know it was coming. I had no speech to give him, no final words of his were worth hearing. I needed him to send a message. That's why I hung him from the courthouse statue. It wasn't a long drop, he suffered. His death was my rebirth. I'm no batman, no hero from a comic book. I'm just like you, but I will not let the innocent suffer any longer.
The police call me brutal, the newspapers a serial killer. My victims know the truth, I am their scourge. My tools are simple, I use 2 revolvers to keep my shell casings from being found. For the truly evil I use rope. My hope is one day I will be the last "bad guy", and my rope will get one last use. I used to dream of being a hero, now i know that is impossible. One day i will bring the wicked rest.
Until then I hunt for lesser demons, I seek no redemption, only to bring balance back to the scales. | 26 | Tell the origin story of a superhero or supervillain based in reality. So no superhuman powers or impossible tech. | 35 |
"This is a mistake, I'm not supposed to be here!"
"Well" Odin said in his deep booming voice, "You died fighting a powerful enemy with blade in hand, that gets you into Valhalla."
"But I never even believed in any of this!"
"That doesn't matter, besides, why should you complain, you get to fight all day and feast all night and the Valkyries will attend to your every need."
"This... this just wasn't what I was expecting"
"Well you will be in good company, you will be revered as a hero here."
"I'm no hero, I didn't die in battle, I had a heart attack while performing surgery!"
"Don't be so modest, this place is for those who fought and slayed the unjust, and what enemy is more unjust than cancer?"
Odin began speaking with excitement, as if even a god were in awe of this mere mortal.
"The most unjust enemy, it kills at random, it slowly and painfully tortures it's victims, and you fought it through hours upon hours in the operating room, and not for the first time! You died a greater hero than many a viking warrior, now you have a place at the table of heroes, now drink your mead and revel in the company of those who fought the good fight!"
Odin put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to a table in his great hall. My eyes widened in wonder as I saw who was seated there. Faces I only knew from pictures in the history books, Hippocrates, Louis Pasteur, Jonas Salk and every other doctor who had saved countless human lives throughout history.
"Behold, the table of true heroes!" Odin proclaimed. Now take your place among them!
Edit: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! I had no idea this story would get so much support, my mind is thoroughly blown. | 690 | A doctor waging the war on cancer dies with (surgical) blade in hand. Somehow his spirit enters Valhalla. | 674 |
I stretched my arms and rolled my head around, feeling my neck crack. I'd been studying for a good three hours- one of the downsides to knowing you'd die comfortably in your sleep was needing to make sure you actually had a future. Of course, not all my friends were that lucky- My best friend, Kel, knew she was going to die in a car accident, and as such she decided to skip university and get down to some serious partying. I pointed out she could die in a car crash at 90 years old, but like most of us, it was hard not to make assumptions about your dying age based on your manner of death. I'd pointed it out to her last night,
'Kel, are you sure you want to hit the clubs again? You haven't had a night off this week'
'And I don't plan on having a night off. God knows how long I have left, and if I have to go in a car accident I want to be as numb as possible'
I'd paused.
'What if this car accident happens at 50? or 70? What are you going do, live with ten cats and cirrhosis for forty more years?'
'I don't have any cats'
'You know what I mean'
Kel had sighed, flipping her hair from one shoulder to the other and faced me.
'You know as well as I do the majority of car accidents happen in our age group. I'm not stupid, but I know I've got more chance now of it happening.' She was biting on a nail in between words, more shaken up than I'd ever seen her.
'If...IF... I get past thirty, then I'll reassess, but for now I don't want to think about it. Not everyone gets lucky you know'
I knew she was alluding to my death, my comfortable, likely to be natural causes death that I'd known since I was born.
Shaking my head, I walked over to the kitchen to get some food. All I had were cheap two minute noodles and a packet of baking soda. I didn't even buy baking soda. I shrugged and put the kettle on to boil as I picked up the unfamiliar noodle packet that had been on sale.
'Shrimp flavour happy time' I muttered to myself. Sounds awful, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
* * *
Kel was on her way home after another big night when she saw the queue of people outside her best friend's house. She saw an ambulance, with no sirens flashing and several police officers standing around, no urgency in their posture. Making her way to the nearest she explained she was friends with the girl on level 3 and the officer sadly shook his head at her.
'We received an emergency call late last night from a young woman- seems that she had an anaphylactic reaction to some seafood. Unfortunately she went pretty fast- we found her in her bed.' The officer shook his head and sighed.
'You'd think with knowing how we're all going to go death wouldn't surprise me anymore, but, geez, it gets to you when it's a young person'
Kel backed away from the officer and, still in her dress from the night before, started the slow walk home. | 11 | A story in which everybody knows how they'll die, but not when | 20 |
My parents had known this entire time, and had let me do a lot of things I legally wasn't allowed to do yet, because, hell, I was destined to die at 20. 20!
Now there's ten hours left. I'd spent the entirety of last week looking for someone, anyone who defied the date, a "minority report," they called it.
Not a single one.
People came up to me, clapping my back, asking if I'd had a great time while I was here, but they were just background noise. Again and again the same words: We'll miss you; hey, they made sure you had a hell of a time; Write me a letter, you son-of-a-bitch.
The only person who wasn't downstairs was Dad. I guess so many years of acting like it was no big deal was finally getting to him. I gotta say something to him.
I peeled my buddy Michio's hand off my shoulder while mumbling I had to piss.
Opened the door to their bedroom, and there he was, drunk as a lark, worse than I was on my twentieth birthday. (Might as well be your twenty-first, right?) I could still hear the yells from downstairs as people exchanged stories, some about me, some about what they wanted for their Deathday Bash.
"Hey." He sat on the bed, a bottle of Jack half-in his hand, much less than half-full.
" 'ey, son."
"Dad... I just wanted to say thanks-"
"Fuck it, James... Fuckitall..." He half muttered, half said.
"Wha... Why? We all knew this was coming... you guys gave me everything I could ever ask for... a full life."
"Yeah? Everything? You don't know! Yer just a kid, 20 years old... whaddya know what a full life is? Ye've had no troubles, no hard times... no change."
He was right. Never once moved, never been in a fight, hell, I've had the same girlfriend for five years... "Dad... I don't want that. You did everything for me. Bad times... they ain't what I want. Come on, I've got ten hours left, come downstairs and spend the rest of the time you get with me that you can."
"James," He said, his voice slowing, "I already have. You didn't know, and neither did Mom. " He looked at his watch, and looked at me.
"I love you, but this ain't just your Deathday."
His face tensed up, he reached up to his heart with his free hand, and the bottle of Jack slipped out from his fingers.
| 24 | In a society where everyone's exact date and time of death are known from the moment they're born, one's "deathday" is looked forward to and prepared for the same way one would for a birthday | 30 |
'Damn this Chow Mein is good." I said while eating at a Chinese Restaurant. It's literally the best place to go to eat where I live. Everything is delicious, but the Chow Mein easily takes the cake. I order a ton of it, with a side of Orange Chicken and Pot stickers. And the fortune cookies. You don't know what you're missing if you don't eat that stuff.
I grabbed a cookie from the counter after paying for my meal. They let you get 1 per person for free, but you have to buy the rest.The fortunes inside are usually pretty light hearted, so when I read this:
"You are going to lose your car today."
I was pretty surprised. I didn't think much of it though, it was probably just a prank pulled by someone at a factory or something. So, I drove home. I parked my car by the curb and went into my workplace. I opened the door, and closed it. Right then, I heard a deafening noise from outside and opened the door.
There was a humongous 4 x 4 sitting over my Smart Car. I ran outside and started yelling at the driver, but more than angry, I was disturbed. The fortune I'd read not 10 minutes earlier had come true.
I went to work, disturbed. Nothing happened the next few days. I worked, I slept, and I ate. I eventually forgot about the fortune, until I went to the Chinese restaurant the next week. I ate my usual dish of Chow Mein and chicken. I grabbed a fortune cookie from the stand, and ate it. The fortune was even worse than last time.
"Today, you'll lose all of your possessions."
I stared at it for a minute, then burst out laughing. The last one was a coincidence, but this was far too outlandish to ever actually happen. I drove home feeling calmer than before.
I got home and opened the garage door. I didn't have anything there, I had cleaned out my garage a few months back. I entered the mudroom, and the first thing I noticed was my shoes were gone. I stared at where I could have sworn I'd put my sandals that morning. I reasoned I must have left them somewhere else, probably my room, and I didn't remember.I walked into the living room, and everything was gone. My TV, my laptop, my piano and TV. Everything. Even my freaking pots and pans were gone. I blanched. I knew then that it was predicting what was going to happen to me. I made a note not to go there again.
So I worked, like normal. I asked a friend of mine if I could crash at his place, and he accepted. So I worked and lived with my friend until I could figure out what to do. One day, he took me out to the Chinese restaurant. I was scared, but I didn't want to be made fun of. So I ate. Eventually, we finished our dinner, and he handed me a cookie.
"Thanks." I told him, and put it in my pocket.
I forgot about it eventually. I got to his house and lay down on the couch for a rest. I felt the cookie crumble in my pocket, but at that time I'd forgotten I had it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. I read it, and here's what it said.
"You're going to die tonight."
I blanched. I stared at it. I knew it hadn't been wrong before, and I somehow knew it wouldn't be wrong this time. I called up my friend.
"I'm going for a walk." I told him. "OK." He said, not thinking anything of it. "See you later then."
I nodded. I walked out the door and headed for the river. It always looked beautiful in the evening, and I wanted it to be my last sight. It had always calmed me, and helped me when I felt sad, and as ridiculous as this sounds, I wanted to die with it.
I got there after about an hour. I looked out over the river, and saw the most precious sunset I'd ever seen in my life. I could only stare in awe at it. It's red streaks coming flowing over the clouds like lava. I sat down and lay down looking at it. I closed my eyes and heard the sounds of the river flowing. For the first, and most likely the last time, I truly had no worries. No deadlines to meet, no homework to turn in, nothing. And I felt truly amazing. I lay there for a bit, with my eyes closed, until I fell asleep. I didn't wake up again, but I don't really mind. The life I led wasn't the best, but it was good, and I feel at peace now that everything is done. | 18 | A man eats lunch at a Chinese restaurant once a week. One week, his fortune cookies begin to become increasingly menacing, ultimately leading to his death. | 45 |
When the Swords fell, the world should never have been the same again. There were seven of them, identical black rounded monoliths of height approximately 10km and sharpened to a point finer than that of a needle. No satellite recorded their descent, nor did any anti-missile system anticipate their fall. And yet fall they did, seven indestructible rods simultaneously striking at the hearts of seven points across the globe. Seven impossible things, denying the laws that govern the universe and defying mankind's preconceptions about our world. Yet the change did not come.
In hindsight, the reaction to the Fall was remarkably free of the usual panic and doomsaying surrounding great events. Perhaps this was due to the lack of casualties-blessedly, none of the spires had fallen in populated areas. Perhaps it was simply due to how *interesting* the Swords themselves were. They were made of a sparkling black material quite unlike anything humanity had ever before discovered-entirely indestructible, impossible to date and pleasantly cool to the touch. The monoliths were entirely unmarked, with not a single clue to betray either method or motive of manufacture. After months of fruitless investigation, the Swords were no closer to surrendering their secrets and thus they faded from the public consciousness, dismissed as irrelevant to the daily grind that was human life.
It perhaps strikes you as odd that such an impossible event could ever be forgotten by humanity, that by the time of the Sword's first anniversary not a single soul ever considered the mystery of their presence or wondered what could be behind such an impossibility.
if they had, perhaps things would have been different-but of course, if it were possible to question the mysteries behind their presence, the Swords would never have been capable of what was to come. Instead, the Sword's were perceived as nothing more than a particularly interesting monument. The first Kingdom of the Sword amusement park opened on the Fall's third anniversary, and by the sixth all seven blades were surrounded by tourist traps and luxury resorts of the highest quality. Some people came to them and left without ever coming within a mile of the impossible spires, content to laze in some of the most well-regarded getaways in the world.
It is July 12th, 2025. The tenth anniversary of the fall. The Swords are gone and in their place stand only scars, great lightless rifts in the fabric of reality. Several have ventured into the chasms. None have returned.
It is July the 13th. None have returned. The mists have begun to clear from their eyes and panic begins to take hold. More have entered the chasms. Responses from the governments of the world will surely follow soon.
July 19th. The first rescue teams, mobilized by the United States, have passed through the rifts.
July 26th. No response from the US teams. Every major world power has sent their own exploratory forces to the sites of the Fall, but only Russia, China and Germany have sent rescue teams into the abysses to follow the Americans themselves.
August 12th: The rifts are growing in width. Overnight they consumed the various response teams surrounding them, as well as the empty ruins that once were tourist attractions.
August 13th. Still they grow.
| 13 | Today marks the 10th anniversary of the event and we still don't have a clue. | 20 |
The droning notes of the organ echoed through the caverns of Hell. The damned, shackled to the walls, struggled to clap their hands as they recognized the theme song of Hell’s favorite game show.
“Good evening, everyone!” Lucifer said, taking his place on the stage. “And welcome to ‘Where’d I Go Wrong?’ The show that begs the question: ‘Where’d I go wrong?’”
The lost souls around him took a break from their moans of misery and laughed obediently at the Prince of Darkness’s joke.
“I’m your host, Lucifer. Let’s meet tonight’s contestant.”
Lucifer’s hooves clopped on the hardwood stage as he approached the contestant’s podium.
“Tonight, we have Richard Patterson with us. How you doing, Rich? Mind if I call you Rich?”
Rich’s jaw hung as he looked up at the epitome of evil towering over him. Satan leaned one of his muscular, red arms against the podium.
“Man of few words, eh, Rich? I respect that. Hopefully you’ll feel more talkative once the questions start rolling. First, a little background on our contestant. He works in... or should I say worked... in the restaurant business. He likes bike-riding; golfing; and, somewhat ironically, e-mailing long lists of lawyer-in-hell jokes to his friends and family.”
“Th-th-this isn’t right,” Rich stammered. “I don’t belong here. I’m a church-going man! I coached my son’s little league team! This doesn’t make any sense! I’m not a bad person!”
“Haven’t heard that before,” Satan said, raising one bushy eyebrow at the camera. The audience of the damned laughed. “But don’t you worry, Rich. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this tonight oooonnnnnn:”
“WHERE’D! I! GO WROOOONNGGGG!!!” the damned chanted.
“Alright, Rich,” the Prince of Darkness said, returning to the host's podium and as reading from a card. “First question. Why did you start attending church?”
“What?”
“Why did you start attending church?”
“Uh... I don’t... I wanted to find the meaning of life.”
“Ooooohhhh I think I’d better take this opportunity to remind you to structure your answer in the form of a question. Just like Jeopardy. We tend to be sticklers around here for rules. I know that might be... shocking!”
Lucifer punched a button on his podium and the shackles binding the audience of the damned to the wall filled with electricity. The lost souls struggled to laugh at Satan’s joke while thousands of volts of electricity flowed through their bodies.
“Ok. What is the meaning of life?”
“Couldn’t tell you, Rich!” Satan chuckled. “The answer to that question is upstairs!”
Rich shook with fear as the audience laughed again.
“But I’m afraid I can’t give you credit for that answer,” Lucifer said with a shrug. “You actually joined your church to get closer to Tina White. And we all know how that turned out!”
A sad trombone came from the sound booth.
“Alright, Rich. Next question. How much money did you steal from your mother?”
“What?”
“We’re talking cumulatively. Between that time you went through her purse in the fourth grade and the money you took out of her bank account a week before she died.”
“Look,” Rich started. “It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. My dad didn’t leave me a penny of inheritance. And she didn’t need it. She didn’t even know what day it was towards the end. What did she need a big screen TV for?”
“No need to explain yourself,” Satan said. “We’re not about judgment down here. That’s His jurisdiction,” Lucifer said, pointing up. “But I am going to have to press you for an answer.”
“What is.... $20,000?”
“Oh! So close! The actual answer was $108,244.18!
“A hundred grand!” Rich said, taking a step back. “I.... I didn’t know-”
“Next question!” Satan interrupted. “How much money did your brother-in-law invest in your restaurant?”
“He... uh... he gave me that loan a few years ago when we were starting to go under. What is twenty grand?”
“Sorry, Rich. Wrong again. He gave you twenty grand, but you only invested half of it in the restaurant. The other half went towards that speedboat you got! Whoo boy was he upset when you invited him out on that boat that he paid for. Not to mention the other two thousand you stole from him later.”
“Hold on. What actually happened was that he-”
“Next question! How many people showed up to your funeral?”
The question stole the voice right out of Rich’s lungs. He scratched behind his neck and looked at his podium.
“Clock is ticking, Rich!” Satan said.
“I.... I don’t know. What is.... ten people?”
“Sorry, Rich. Today is just not your day! The answer was one.”
“One?!” Rich exclaimed. “Was my son the only one who could spare a couple hours to-”
“Well, I don’t know if you remember,” the Prince of Darkness interrupted. “But your son had a big job interview in New York that weekend. Not like it was his fault or anything. He scheduled it before your heart attack.”
“He wasn’t there?”
“You seem surprised. He saw the way you treated your mother toward the end of her life. I guess he didn’t treat you with much respect either. The sins of our fathers, eh? Who knows? Maybe he'll be a contestant one day."
“So my wife was the only one there?”
“No, not her either. Your son needed a ride to New York. It was too big of an opportunity to miss out on!”
“Did anyone from the restaurant-” Rich stopped himself, realizing what an absurd question he was about to ask. “Who was it?” he asked instead.
“That brings us nicely to our last question! Who was the one person you would never steal from?”
“The one person?”
“You only stole from a few people. But let’s face it, Rich. If you had the opportunity, you would’ve stolen from anyone. But you just weren’t smart enough to get away with it. So answer this question. Who was the only exception?”
Rich looked at his feet and leaned against the podium.
“Tina White,” he whispered with tears in his eyes. “She was the only one at the funeral.”
“Congratulations!” Satan said, clapping his hands. “You finally got a question right. Unfortunately, you forgot to structure it in the form of a question, so I can’t give you credit. Well, Rich, I’m sorry you couldn’t get any questions right, but you’ll have plenty of time to think about how you could’ve done it differently.”
A pair of winged demons swooped onto the stage. They dragged Rich, kicking and screaming, into the pits of Hell.
“Well,” Satan said looking into the camera. “I’ll see you next time on ‘Where’d I Go Wrong?’” | 16 | A man dies and ends up on a game show in the afterlife. | 22 |
"Wake up."
The voice was cool, unaccented, unemotional. Caleb screwed his eyes tighter shut. He did not want to wake up, not today. Everywhere hurt, and his head was swimming too badly to remember why. Had Ty beat him in sparring again?
"Wake up."
The voice was accompanied by a shock this time. Caleb's eyes shot open with surprise and agony, but his head was still too hazy to process what was going on. He heard a frustrated sigh. Not the same man as the one trying to wake him up. This one was deeper, and it sounded a little more human.
"For God's sake, Damon, what's the point of this? He *died*, for fucks sake. This technology is valuable, you could be making millions. Billions. Who wouldn't bend over backwards to get that thing? You could have everything, man. And you're here bringing back forgotten prisoners to punish crimes nobody even remembers. Look at the poor sod, he's curled up like a fucking child."
Caleb was confused. He was a child, wasn't he? What were they talking about? What was happening?
"Ty? Mum? Dad?"
The deep-voiced man sucked in a breath sharply. It was clear even to Caleb's aching head that he was shocked.
"No, you're fucking kidding me. He thinks he's a kid!? Is this why you used it on the prisoner? Is it faulty? Damon, what the fuck are you thi-"
The cool voice broke in, utterly unaffected by his compatriot's dismay.
"The Lemniscate is entirely functional, I assure you. This particular prisoner has his own issues. His mental state was somewhat unstable prior to his death."
The cold voice seemed to cut through the haze surrounding Caleb's mind like a sharp knife, and he finally gathered enough of his wits to take stock of his surroundings. He was in a large chamber, lying on a sheetless bed. Towering above him was an austere looking man in a black suit. It looked expensive. Besides the man was another, a broad fellow in casual clothes with laughing eyes and a thick black beard. He had never seen the bearded man before, but the suited man seemed somehow familiar. For some reason Caleb couldn't explain, he knew that he was deathly terrified of the tall man.
The bearded man noticed Caleb's observance and smiled, although it seemed a little bit forced.
"Hello, Mr. Glass. I know you probably don't feel this way, but you are a very lucky man. Damon here saved your life."
Caleb furrowed his brow. He wasn't Mr. Glass, that was his dad.
"It-it hurts."
His voice was so deep. This wasn't right, that can't have been his voice. What's going on? Caleb can feel his throat seize up. He's going to have another panic attack soon, he can feel it.
Noticing Caleb's discomfort, the suited man tilts his head slightly, as if pondering an interesting conundrum before speaking again in that cold, cold voice.
"Panic. Again. Mr. Glass, you really should endeavor to become a little more interesting."
The broad man waved the suited man away with a large hand, not noticing the slight narrowing of the taller man's eyes as he was dismissed. The bearded man looked at Caleb with pained eyes before speaking gently.
"Where does it hurt, Caleb? Do you know why it hurts?"
Caleb suppressed a whimper.
"My skin hurts everywhere. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, my tummy hurts. I don't remember why"
His voice was still so *deep*. Maybe his throat was hurt too? He tried to raise an arm to rub it, but he felt too weak to do even that.
The bearded man frowned and reached out to pull down Caleb's sleeve. The tall man-Damon-reached out to stop him, but he was too late. The bearded man stared with horror and revulsion at Caleb's arm before recoiling. When he at last spoke again, his voice was shaking slightly.
"What the fuck happened to his arm?"
Damon examined the bearded man dispassionately.
"As you were previously informed, Mr. Richmore, the man was unstable. That is the reason that he is here of course. For murdering his brother. These scars were self inflicted, no doubt they were the cause of his demise."
Richmore gingerly reached out to take Caleb's arm. As he made contact, Caleb's pain intensified and he screamed shrilly. Richmore winced. The suited man irritably adjusted a cufflink.
"Caleb, is this why you hurt?"
Caleb nodded, tears beginning to fill his eyes.
Richmore swore quietly, before gently unbuttoning Caleb's shirt. This time, he froze for almost a minute before turning to the suited man.
"There is no fucking way that is self inflicted, Damon. Who did this to him?"
The suited man arched an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by Richmore's impassioned outburst.
"Really Richmore, no need to feel such passion on the prisoner's behalf. He is a murderer after all."
Richmore snarled and lunged towards the suited man, who dodged nimbly before driving a knife that seemed to appear from nowhere into the bearded man's chest. He followed this up with a few blows from his free hand before forcing Richmore to his knees. The suited man stood there for a moment, savoring the sight, before drawing a pistol and placing the barrel into Richmore's mouth, holding the bearded man's head up by the hair with the other.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Richmore. Don't worry, today's nightmare will be forgotten."
The gunfire was strangely muffled. Caleb was glad that he couldn't see Mr Richmore's remains on the floor. Damon turned back to Caleb, casually reholstering his pistol whilst reclaiming his bloodstained knife. He then glanced down at his bloodstained clothes before grimacing in disgust.
"I really did like that shirt, you know."
Caleb edged away from the man, but he was still too weak to really move. Damon caught the movement and tilted his head again.
"We live in great times, Mr. Glass. Great, great times. At last we live in a world of justice, a world where no monster may flee his punishment to the arms of blissful oblivion."
Damon bent slightly, tracing the knife against Caleb's knee.
"A great time indeed, where no sin may go unpunished." | 30 | Mankind has the technology to bring people back from the dead. This power is used to ensure criminals serve the entirety of their sentences before they are allowed to die. | 39 |
"You should have let me take care of this one, Father."
Lucifer smirked brashly as he stood before the golden throne, taking no heed of the furious Angels that stood in a great circle around them. The Power upon the throne ignored the posturing of his wayward archangel, as uncaring of the child's posturing as completely as Lucifer was of the lesser Angels. The Lord of all Evil stiffened before stepping closer to the Throne.
"You *failed*, you arrogant old fool. What of omnipotence? What of omniscience? Your hand was too weak to stamp out a few mewling apes, your aged mind too frail to forsee their survival. Yet they live, Yahweh. They live, and the laws of Heaven mean nothing to the sons of Adam now."
Lucifer's slow prowl towards the unassailable throne was halted at last, his path blocked by a crowned angel who had appeared in a flash of silver light.
"You go too far, deceiver. His Name is not for your ilk."
Lucifer's smile did not falter as he gently pushed aside the flaming sword at his neck.
"Ah, Michael. Come to join Father in his little tantrum. Old bastard hasn't moved in hours."
Michael's eyes glowed gold, but he withdrew his blade and stepped back. His posture made it clear, however, that he would brook no further approach.
Another flash of light, and the third Archangel manifested. Gabriel.
"Father, forgive me my lateness. Azrael has disappeared. The horsemen were under his watch, and he failed You."
The Power spoke at last.
"*I was not failed, my child. In this, as in all things, my will was done.*"
Lucifer's smile vanished.
"You will not lie to me! You did not plan for this! You did not desire this! Humanity lives, despite your decree! Your power is gone!"
The Power shone brighter. If the great light had features, the three Archangels knew that it would be smiling. The lesser Angels remained silent, not understanding the workings that unfolded.
"*I am mercy, above all else. Those deserving of light were raised up, those who were not remained below to forge a better path. Azrael served as he was intended to. Humanity has flourished, grown beyond their ordained limitations."*
Lucifer stopped suddenly, as the truth hit him.
"You hid them from me. You took my souls, the broken ones, the damned and you hid them from me. All this, the rapture, the apocalypse, it was to trick me."
Michael smirked. It was an odd look on so innocent a face.
"Prideful to the last."
Lucifer roared incoherently before disappearing in a wave of light. The moment he did so, The Power's light dimmed considerably. Gabriel frowned.
"Father, is there something wrong?"
"*They were free of Lucifer's grasp, yet they continued to sin. Humanity have grown indeed, but they may have grown beyond the promise of Heaven I offer them. Where is Azrael*?"
-
-
-
The black cloak leant over the river, fishing the bedraggled creatures from it with a gentle-if bony-grasp. It sighed sadly.
I HATE MY JOB, SOMETIMES. | 441 | The apocalypse actually happened during the middle ages. The four horsemen, judgement day, everything, happened, and became known to history as the black death. Centuries later, God returns his attention to his abandoned creation and is surprised by what he finds there. | 826 |
"When you said you weren't going to tell me what I was here to see until we were there, I didn't think you meant physically at the blasted cave," Jan roared, trying to make himself heard over the thunderous helicopter blades above them. Ati nodded to show he had heard, but said nothing. Quiet spoken and dignified, he did not like shouting over the din to speak.
The helicopter was put down cautiously on the barren expanse of rock that surrounded the cave entrance. Jan had seen at least one airstrip on the way here, which presumably had a helipad, but by this point in the journey, he was used to these strange attempts at secrecy.
“My apologies Dr. Kleric,” said Ati once they were safely on the ground. “But as I and my colleagues mentioned when we first made contact, you probably would not have agreed to come out here had you known what we want you to examine. You would have thought it too far-fetched.”
Jan said nothing. They had had this conversation many times before. As he had said then – he knew Ati’s institution to be both world-class in its research and highly distinguished in their field of archaeology. He was quite prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt. But as for why they wanted him, an engineer, to come to a cave in the middle of Swaziland of all places – he still had no idea.
It seemed Ati still had no intention of filling him in even as he followed him over to the cave entrance. Curiosity had won out over irritation throughout the journey – he wouldn’t be here otherwise – but he needed some information soon.
The inside of the cave was cool, and a welcome break from the heat outside. Jan gave a last look behind him, where he could still see the helicopter, before following the quiet scientist around the first bend and into the dimly lit passage.
“Do you do much, err, archaeology out here then?” Jan asked, hoping to draw Ati into conversation. The hastily erected neon lights that lit the way did not look like they had been there very long.
“As a matter of fact this was not a site we were working on at all. This cave is connected to a mining shaft about a mile from here and it was they who alerted us after the, ah, discovery. They have suspended work for the time being, so you can understand why we must be quick in this investigation.”
“The discovery…”
“It is not much further Dr. Kleric, please. Just a little more time…”
Jan followed on in silence, conscious of how deep they seemed to be going. ‘A little more time’ turned out to be just over thirty minutes, by which time Jan was starting to feel positively claustrophobic.
“These caves are not used by the local population,” said Ati suddenly, making Jan jump after such a long silence. Ati made no sign that he had noticed. “In fact we have reason to believe that no human being has been into this section in at least ten thousand years.” He stopped. Jan could not help but smile.
“Am I at last about to learn why we are hear Ati?” he asked, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
“There is a rock a few metres ahead of us Dr. Kleric.”
“Well yes it’s a cave, I imagine there’s lots of them.”
“This one was shattered by mining equipment in the shaft which runs very close to this cave. There was something inside it.”
“You mean it was hollow?”
“Not quite, Dr. Kleric. Perhaps you should see it at last, and tell me what you see.”
Satisfied that now at least he would find out what this was, Jan strode ahead. Ati’s quiet footfalls were audible behind him, but he paid him no attention. He could see the dark shape ahead, the rock that Ati had told him about. It was indeed, broken, shattered along some fault line. And visible jutting out from it…
“Is that metal? I don’t understa- *Great Scott*! Is that… why does it look like an automobile?”
Jan felt foolish as soon as he had said it. This wasn’t a children’s adventure book, and rocks did not burst open to reveal cars living inside them. But Ati did not laugh, and the closer he got, the less he could persuade himself that it was *not* a car.
“Keep going Dr. Kleric, and look inside. I should warn you, it may shock you,” said Ati, as though a car-bearing rock was merely a prelude to something shocking. Jan practically jogged over.
There were two skeletons inside.
“Ati… What is this?”
They were sat in the front of what he could now see was unmistakably a car, in the driver’s and passenger’s seat. With no ligaments to hold them in place the bones had fallen apart but being seated the unmistakable anatomy of two adult humans was visible. They were leant toward each other, almost as though they had been holding each other.
“We’ve tested them, carbon dating. They’re forty thousand years old.”
Ati’s words barely penetrated Jan’s thunderstruck brain at first, but something eventually registered with him.
“Carbon-dating? Hang on, I thought you couldn’t use that with rocks, it doesn’t go far back enough…”
“Oh no, I’m sorry sir. Not the rocks – they’re probably millions of years old. I mean the skeletons, the people.”
“Are you telling me that these people built a car, forty thousand years ago, and crawled inside a rock that was already there?” Jan spluttered, with a smile that almost begged Ati to let him in on the joke.
“We don’t know what happened. We’ve done all the tests we can – we know how long they’ve been there. We know a bit about the people too. They’re both male, one seems to be quite old, the other seems to be quite young, maybe a teenager. But as for the ‘car,’ well, we were hoping you could tell us what you thought. Professor Henderson told us you knew plenty about automobiles, and that we could count on your discretion.”
Discretion – of course, Jan thought dazedly. Who was he going to tell about this? He leant closer to examine the car. Unlike their late occupants it had held up rather well inside the rock, with minimal rust. His eyes ran over the exposed bonnet, over the doors, and hinges…
“Ati, these doors on the car, they’re not oriented right. They look like they open… upwards.”
“Upwards?”
“Yeah, you know like those garish cars in the eighties, like a Delor-” Jan stopped suddenly. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see features he could not at first discern – the distinctive rim, the arch of the wheels. “This isn’t *like* anything, it is! This is a Delorean!”
“A car model?”
“Yes! They made Deloreans in the eighties, this could have come straight from one of their showrooms! This is absurd!”
“How could a Delorean made in the 1980s have materialised in the middle of a rock forty thousand years ago sir?”
Jan could not help but look at Ati incredulously – how could *any* of this be happening?
“I suspect, Ati, that the only two people who will ever be able to tell us that are long gone.” Jan gazed mournfully at the two skulls once again. It suddenly occurred to him what it must be like to die inside a rock. At least they had each other, he supposed…
“You think we should just… give up sir? Is there nothing more we can do?”
Jan paused. Everything about this was wrong. Genuinely, unsettlingly wrong.
“Have your people seal it back up Ati. We’ll take the plate from the front,” he said, prising it away, “but other than that, there’s nothing for us here.”
He looked down at the cold plate in his hand. It read ‘OUTTATIME.’ Out of time indeed.
*The end I guess. Sorry it kind of trailed off toward the end - I haven't tried this before!* | 10 | African miners in Swaziland follow find a new prehistoric cave, and at the bottom, find a car with two Homo Sapien skeletons encased in rock. The skeletons and car are carbon dated to be over 40000 years old | 16 |
Once again I see light. How long has it been since I last saw the light of this world. Has it been decades? Centuries? The world always looks so different each time I am summoned. One thing never changes though, the nature of each person's wish. Money, power, sometimes even love. Try as I may I can't help but think they always leave unfulfilled.
I once remember a mighty looking warrior. He was rough and battle hardened. I quite frankly was not surprised by his wish: To be the strongest fighter in the land. And so he was. From my understanding of human anatomy a human's strength comes from his muscles, which I greatly strengthened. He could move mountains and had the stamina run across the oceans if he so pleased.
Then he took a step forward and immediately toppled to the floor. His bones had snapped due to them being unable to cope with his new strength. His heart, which I learned was also a muscle, had pumped blood so violently that all of his internal organs ruptured. Crumpled in a heap was the strongest man to ever walk the Earth, even if he was only able to take a single step.
I couldn't help but see the irony in that.
Another one I remember was a king. He was covered in an assortment of fine jewels and furs. He had a group of advisers consulting him about what his wish should be. After a few minutes they had come to a decision.
He barked at me,
"Genie, I want all the riches in the world at my feet"
And so he did. It was truly a marvel to see. Gems of every color and precious metals shaped ever so intricately filled the cave from top to bottom.
This left little room for the king and his men as they were all crushed.
This brings me back to present day. This one, bespectacled and covered in perspiration, he was quite different than the usual lot who summons me. He was neither a warrior, a treasure hunter nor a ruler.
He cleared his throat and muttered,
"I... I just want her back. Here in my arms with me again."
It was a change of pace. Such a simple request. This I could do. If I'm not mistaken I believe you humans also call it a spine. | 50 | Djiin are actually well-meaning, but lack understanding and context of the human world, thus granting wishes in an unsatisfactory manner. Tell the story from the genie's point of view, who genuinely wishes to please his master. | 54 |
Therapy Notes, Saturday the 23rd of August, 2014.
9.30 am - Carleen Porter, was aged 41, hit by a car and died after 26 miles of being dragged. Has particularly revengeful thoughts towards driver of said car. However cannot become vengeful ghost owing to phobia of engines and tarmac. (2nd visit)
10.30 am - Paul Faulter, was aged 65, accidentally taken in by a gang and tortured for many hours on end before disposal in garbage bin. Unluckily still not dead so ground up inside dumpster truck. Severe anxiety and agrophobia even though dead. Possibly only other contact so feelings of affection (and possible infatuation) are beginning to grow. Must remember to drop hints about the man I am seeing (the imaginary but beautiful man who may one day whisk me away from this...) (76th visit)
11.30 am - Tracy Carter, was aged 23, drowned in own vomit after a party glorifying her ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend, who happened to be Tracy's best friend. Tendencies towards frustration, anger and poltergeist behaviours. Currently living in the house recently occupied by said ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend. (6th visit)
12.30 pm – lunch break, meet Sally for the concert (it’s Saturday we can let ourselves go). Remember to ring Roy and cancel the appointment, tell him to ring back because his fear of phones will make sure that he only hears the message. Tell him there has been some news on his unsolved murder mostly that the brand of phone no longer uses wire.
2.30 pm – Cassie Miller, was aged 31, burnt in tragic accident where her ex-lover set fire to her house. Has a propensity towards schizophrenic behaviour owing to her similarities to Two Face from the Batman series, mostly that half her face is burnt off. (21st visit)
3.30 pm – Fredrick Ricer, was aged 50, killed by his wife during sexual intercourse after he announced his recent discovery on being homosexual. Beaten to death with various intimate toys… bordering on depression owing to the amount of laughter over his death. (12th visit)
4.30pm – Sandra, cannot remember identity although after much research have found out that she was possibly the last case in a series of horrific murders, which could explain why half of her face is missing. On the other hand, there is no evidence to suggest she wasn’t the killer after all… although maybe I’m getting carried away, must do more research less listening to all those awful detective novels I read in the previous life…
5.30pm – wait to see if Roy rings (haha good joke to self!) before going home at approximately this time. Must remember to put more advertisements in the paper as my practice seems to be being taken over by some people who were therapists rather than real estate agents in the past life.
| 11 | In the afterlife, therapists help out people who were killed in horrifying ways. | 40 |
"Please. Please, please just stay with me. Thomas? Thomas can... can you hear me? Tommy?"
I suck in a breath and force my sticky, tired eyes open a crack. Through rheum and pale eyelashes I could make out that face that was so familiar to me. My wife smiled sadly.
"Tommy... please don't leave me." She whispered, the moisture in her eye finally gathering to roll down her face as a single tear. She was still smiling, always smiling. She sucked in her lips.
"Beth-" I murmered.
"Save your breath. Save your strength..."
"Beth, I am so so sorry." I finally got out, shaking my head back and forth in shame. How could I do this to her? How can I leave her like this?
We sat there in silence for a few more minutes. Then some minutes more.
I woke up again to a single laugh. Hers, of course.
"Of course, it's what kills you. Of course it's your blessing that has lead us here - the only man on Earth to die of an illness! Who knew it could happen? How can an illness be the cause of your..." Beth trailed off, unable to utter those words.
"Love, I've *never* been Healed. Not once in my life, you know that? Not even my own mother could Heal me when I had a fever, or a sickness. It's all I've known..."
My wife scrunched her eyes and bowed her head, her teeth bare and her lips wobbling. She gasped in a few breaths, before unleashing on me.
"This isn't a bloody *fever* Tommy!" she screamed. "You're *dying* of this! No Healer can help you, no-one can even Desensitise you! Half of your own *family* have refused to come here to see you!" she took in a deep breath.
"Some fucking family the both of us have, hey?" she laughed softly.
My gnarled fingers shook as I reached for her hand. "You're my family." I said, simply.
I stared into her eyes as she stared at my wrinkled old hand, and pulled it to her face. She placed my palm on her cheek, fingers stretching outwards across her beautiful face.
"Thomas Grace, the only man I had ever been able to touch. The man who blessed me with the ability to touch others in his presence. The man who loved me..."
She sighed shakily.
"What am I gonna do when you're not here, Tommy? I won't be able to hold our grandchildren anymore, or brush Jen's hair, or hold Alex's hand..."
"Beth..." I croaked. I could feel myself going now. The pain was too much, and my vision was closing in. I needed to sleep...
I clung to her hand. "I'm sorry, Beth. I'm so, so sorry..." | 15 | In a world where everyone has a Superpower, you have the 'power' to nullify every other ability within a mile radius. You cannot turn this off. | 20 |
Nobody likes the Wetworks Man.
Hell, *I* don't like him, and I've worked with him for ten years now. Been with him for dozens of missions. Assassinations. Regime changes. Policing history. Building a tomorrow from the ashes of yesterday, that's our motto.
No. I don't like him.
But I believe he's absolutely necessary.
See, since time travel became cheap and easy, conservation of history has become a big thing. These days, any nutcase with a gun, a grudge, and an ideal thinks he can go and 'fix' history. We've had to save Hitler a thousand times. Some even made it into the history books. Assassinations gone almost-right, the man protected by divine will. *Our* will.
Because Hitler was necessary for the twenty-first century.
On the other hand, the Wetworks Man had to kill President Garfield himself. Someone else had killed Charles Guiteau, months before the assassination. We almost didn't catch it. *Nobody* goes for Garfield.
And my job? I run the statistics. I do the projections. When Guiteau was offed in a Washington DC alleyway, I made the call. Would tomorrow be better with four years of Garfield in America? I told the Wetworks Man when and where to shoot. Where the bullets had to land. Who to leave with the smoking gun.
I was the Archduke Ferdinand too. The first world war would still have happened if he had lived. He would have died hiding from French soldiers in the Eastern European steppes in the year 1921. The war wouldn't have ended until 1923. But I diverted his motorcade. He died early.
*Because he had to.*
The war ended early because of me. The big damn hero. That call saved thousands.
For all of us.
No. Nobody likes the Wetworks Man. But then, nobody likes me. I'm the invisible hand of fate. Playing God. Determining which figures will live or die for the sake of tomorrow. I don't like myself. And I *hate* the agency that *I* founded.
But I am necessary.
Or I thought so.
Until now. Now I feel very expendable.
The man in black stands in my office. A tall figure with ice blue eyes, and a gun that seems as big as the world as he aims it for the space between my eyes.
My Wetworks Man is calm as he tells me to write the story of my death. For the people of tomorrow. Calm as he tells me why I die.
He tells me, "Sorry, boss. But I have orders from tomorrow."
I hate the Wetworks Man. And I hate myself as I finish writing, knowing he will put a bullet through my head as soon as I finish here.
But, just as I once was, he is necessary for tomorrow.
God save us. | 13 | Every US political assassination since 1860 was the result of a time traveler trying to make the future better. You are the chronicler of the attempts. | 22 |
The team was back together for the first time since that catastrophe in Donetsk and, now more than ever, Arturo was wary: the command (in their infinite wisdom) had brought back the man who had nearly gotten the whole clandestine unit killed last time, Chris.
The official reports of the incident said that someone had gone off and opened fire, beginning the biggest shit-fest of a shoot-out Arturo had ever seen in his 17 years as an operator with the Navy. But Arty (as his boys called him) knew exactly who'd opened that can of worms. They all did.
Chris was part of a new generation of operators, and Arty wanted often wondered how the hell these kids functioned outside of the service. All they cared about was their image and everyone thinking they were hard. Never let a slight slip, never skip a chance to show off, never shut their fricking mouths. Egos had always been a problem, but Arty felt like this new trend was different. Looking at Chris in theater, it was almost as if he reveled in the violence and fear he could wreak on the targets they were sent after. Every operator has to have a certain appetite for violence, but this was on a whole new level. If someone didn't fear him, Chris would go out of his way to change that- even when they weren't the enemy. He was a danger to himself and everyone in his unit.
But Command had made the decision, so Arturo said "Sir, yes, Sir" and went about his job. He prided himself on being able to handle anything that was thrown his way, whether by a foreign force or by his own bosses. He was a consummate professional, after all. He had briefed the team in the air on the way across the Atlantic. Yes, they were going back to the sandbox. No, this wasn't a full invasion. Yes, they were operating under an information black out. No, there was not a set pull-out date. His answer to the final question was met with a wall of expressions ranging from vacuous to loathing. Chris greeted the news with what could almost be called glee.
They airdropped into what the jumpmaster had called a 'secured nonoccupied zone.' To Arty, it was just another stretch of worthless sand in a whole region of worthless sand. Why Command cared about such a desolate area (or why there was anyone here at all) was beyond him. Moving quickly in the night, the team set up their mobile command center. Chris was in charge of setting up comms with their contact- a mole on the inside of this particular group of crazies, ISIS, or whatever they called themselves today. Arty was concerned about having an obvious sociopath be their only point of contact with such a vital resource, but as long as Chris kept his temper and didn't scare off the already spooked mole, they would be fine. As he was turning on laptops and extending antennae, Arty went over to help the main part of the team sanitize their landing area.
Comms came on-line quickly, before the team even finished destroying and burying all the jump gear. Chris was already talking to the mole when Arty came over. Chris was communicating with the source via IM, but was using some sort of speech-to text headset to write. Apparently, simply typing wasn't tactical enough for him. Arty sat in on the conversation: Chris was trying to wrangle an exact location of some camp or another out of the mole, but was having difficulty. The speech to text function was not as functional as he had believed and when combined with a non-native English speaker on the other end of the line, it rendered the entire conversation an exercise in futility. Arty could see Chris getting worked up into that brutish blood rage he would fall into whenever someone bumped into him, looked at him funny, or generally irked him at all. He needed to be removed from the situation, quickly.
Before Arty could say anything, a single line of seven poorly chosen words appeared on the screen: "Could I please speak with a non-idiot?"
Arty never saw the line, but he did see Chris. That gorilla part of his brain that had been beating the drum of outraged frustration for the entire maddening conversation finally broke through. Chris was in a full-on blood rage. He screamed into the headset. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY ABOUT ME, YOU LITTLE BITCH? ... | 11 | the Navy SEALS Copypasta guy. | 27 |
Matthew immediately collapsed and pissed his pants...
"I'm dying!" he thought as he felt his heart stop beating.
"Beat, dammit! Beat!" His heart started beating again.
"That was a close—" His heart stopped again.
"No, no, no, BEAT! *BEAT!*" (Thump. Thump.)
"I'll be—BEAT!—okay as long as—BEAT!—I keep telling—BEAT!—my heart to beat."
Matthew tried to push himself off the floor but his arms didn't move.
"Maybe if I—BEAT!—tell my arms to—BEAT!—move, I'll be able—BEAT!—to crawl to the phone..." He focused on his arms: "Move, arms!" Nothing. "Maybe I need to be more specific... Muscle names? Ligame—OH, GOD, BEAT! BEAT!"
"MUSCLES-AND-LIGAMENTS-AND-EVERYTHING-ELSE-THAT'S-NECESSARY-FOR-MOVING-MY-ARMS-THAT-I-KNOW-THE-NAMES-OF-BECAUSE-I-DIDN'T-PAY-ATTENTION-IN-SCIENCE-CLASS-PLEASE-MOVE-NOW!" Matthew directed the message to his arms, keeping his heart beating throughout the message.
Three hours and numerous cardiac arrests later—his heart had done more arresting than a Ferguson, MO policeman—Matthew reached his phone and called 911:
"HELLO-*BEAT!*-I'VE LOST CONTROL (SPHINCTERS STAY SHUT) OF-*BEAT!*-MY BODY AND (REGULATE TEMPERATURE) I'M-*BEAT!*-DYING—"
"Prank-calling 911 isn't funny, sir. Goodbye." | 39 | You scratch a particular itchy spot in your ear. Then, you hear a beeping noise. Inside, your brain tells you "Hello! Your body is now activated for manual mode. Good luck!" | 35 |
The burning tar stuck to my legs as I made my way across the bog. Teeth clenched, I pushed forward, trying to make out the far off letters. It was all I could do not to scream, a mental distraction to ease my suffering.
I'd been walking in circles for months now, since there was little else in the form of entertainment. It was all any of us did, walking. Idle feet lead to idle minds, and idle minds are the most vulnerable. When you have nothing else to think about but your own faults, your own regrets, your own sins, you torture yourself. Save him the trouble, as it were.
So, I resolved to give myself a purpose, much like the other souls lost in this place. I would walk for eternity inside of these circles until the end, whenever that may come.
It was coming. It had to be.
My feet splashed again, and I moved closer to whatever it was. This was my new purpose. After twenty years of walking, I finally knew where I was heading, even though I didn't know how much longer I'd have to go. But eternity is a long time.
It was getting closer now, the wake from this nightmare. It was getting closer every day I stayed here, every step I took.
I couldn't be more than half a mile away. Just a few more weeks, and I'd be free from my prison. A smile crossed my face for the first time in twenty-four years. It was so close now. I took another slow step.
The door was coming into sight. I could tell I was close because now I could see it was a door. Above it stood the words in blood-red text. "EXIT." Another step forward. Another. Another.
I was so close now, so close to being free from this hell. The tar gave way to mud, gave way to dirt, gave way to grass. I ran across the empty plane and stumbled to the wooden structure.
EXIT.
EXIT.
I stumbled and collapsed at the heel of the door, panting in the molten air. My eyes scanned over the writing again, and again. There was something written below.
EXIT.
DOES NOT EXIST.
My hand burned when it clasped the handle, and I screamed. I turned the handle but it would not budge. Again and again, I pounded on the door, tears pouring down and evaporating off of my face. What had I done? Why was I here? Why wouldn't this door open for me? It was my exit, the salvation for my innocent soul. I had been spared! I collapsed in the grass as it blackened into pitch.
For a year I laid there, stoic and silent. When I slept, I dreamt of what was behind that door, when I woke, I'd turn the handle in hopes that it might open. Just like the tortured souls I'd passed along my way, I thought of my faults, regrets and sins. I was never good with people. I was never good to my wife. I was never good to my mistresses either. Maybe I was never good, period. Maybe that's why I was here.
One day I awoke to the sound of music. For twenty five years, I hadn't heard a note, but now there was an entire symphony playing, building and rising in a grand crescendo from just a few inches beyond the door. My hand gripped the handle, and it did not burn. It opened for me.
Beyond was a great light, the likes of which I'd never seen, even in my life before this. Pulling myself to my feet, I took a step forward into a shallow, cool pond. As I entered further the door shut behind me, leaving me standing in a river.
I looked across at the others, all standing, looking back at me. Slowly, I made my approach. A small girl was the first to great me.
"Hello." She said. I replied the same.
"Where am I?" I asked next.
"Where sinners go."
"What do you mean, where sinners go? Didn't I just come from hell? Aren't I innocent?"
The young girl smiled and took my hand. "There does not exist an innocent soul. Only those who have repented, and those who have yet to." | 39 | After a man wrongfully spends 25 years in literal hell, he sees something he has never seen before. A door marked "Exit" | 27 |
#PEACE
The small, oak door stood modest in the far left. It emitted a calm vibe but its presence was almost intimidating. It had several cracks running along the edges and across the center, as though excessive force had been used to try to open it - or keep it closed. As though it was unknown which way this door swings, it seems to have suffered ages of tension from both sides, exerted by opposing forces.
#HONOR
Next to peace was a heavy looking walnut door. Though it showed simple features, angular and rigid but pleasing to the eye, it still seemed valuable somehow. Perhaps it was the sheen over its dark canvas? The gold trim around the knob? The way it looked to be embedded to the wall rather than being a temporary fixture? Whatever it was, it was very, very appealing.
#TRUTH
The center door had an oval window of frosted glass. The door itself was made of mahogany, as shown by the broken stripe and mottled texture. Behind the glass, waves of light seemed to float back and forth. This door was mesmerizing and it was made for man to lust over what it kept within, whether they knew of the consequences or not. The wood of the door was very clearly worked to a point wherein it was less valuable than it was in the beginning, and it did not seem so durable.
#POWER
The biggest of the doors was redwood, as indicated by the cluster of eyes on its surface. There was a raw sense of primal dominance coming from the door, almost surging and dwarfing the others. The redwood door stood firmly in its place, the knob handle clumsy but beckoning.
#FORTUNE
Lastly, there was a rosewood door that humbly waited on the far end.
The craftsmanship was admirable, featuring swirls and leaves embossed - no easy task for a wood as hard to work as rosewood. The patterns seemed to invoke a sense of wonder and giddiness but also had shadows underneath that were not easy to ignore.
*I paced back and forth across the five doors, weighing each one in turns. I run my hands across their faces gently, and as I move from one to the other I feel them drawing me in, enticing me with emphatic promises.*
*Peace is difficult. Is it peace that I want or am I merely attracted to the idea? Honor is noble but what good is it in a dishonorable world? Truth is enlightenment but it is also trouble for those unwilling to embrace it. Power... Am I wise enough to wield it without corrupting its force? I stop at Fortune and rest my hand on the doorknob. The other four glow as if in protest. They send vehement waves of protest toward me. But Fortune remains still and silent, its only influence the fragrance of the rosewood. I give the handle a twist and it clicks open.*
*I have no reason to prefer this one over the others. Perhaps it may even be a bad decision. I do however believe that in times of trial where you are lost, there is nothing wrong with having a bit of luck.* | 70 | You wake up to find yourself in a room with 5 doors. They are labeled 'peace', 'honor', 'truth', 'power' and 'fortune'. Which door do you choose to open and what happens? | 44 |
"Stop!" the strange man grabbed my arm and everything I had created around me fell to the ground like silk ribbons. We now stood in a white space, dotted with piles of brightly colored dream-fabric scattered about.
"What you are doing is illegal" the man explained, releasing my arm.
"There are no laws governing peoples dreams." I replied.
"What you are doing is illegal." He stated again.
A door opened to the left and out of a black void stepped another man, dressed entirely in grey.
"Is this the suspect?" The grey man asked.
"Yes"
Without another word the grey man applied handcuffs to my wrists and began pulling me toward the door.
"You can't arrest someone in their own dream!" I screamed.
"Be quiet." He said.
He threw me through the door, I stumbled and fell, hitting hard concrete. He closed the door behind me and I sat up, in pitch blackness. My mind began to reel, trying to create a light or a door, anything to escape. I heard a small voice from the dark.
"You can't do that now." it said.
"Hello? Where are we?" I asked.
"I don't know. But you can't do that now. None of us can."
"Us? How many people are in here?"
"I don't know..." said the small voice, the voice of a child. No one else spoke.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
Silence. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark, scanning to see who else was in the room with me, but nothing came. I could barely tell if my eyes were open or closed.
"Hello?!" I screamed. Silence.
"Is she going to wake up?" A mother asks a doctor.
"It's hard to say. You say she just went to sleep and wouldn't wake up in the morning? We're detecting barely any brain activity. Right now it's a waiting game. We'll see how things look over the next few days."
The mother breaks down in tears, her quiet sobs only broken by the sound of a heart monitor beeping. | 47 | You're able to control your dreams to the last detail. Limitless fantasies play out each time. One night, you meet someone in your dream that isn't your creation... | 71 |
I took this prompt in a slightly different direction than OP intended I think. Hope you all like the results!
It is largely considered one of the most dangerous obstacles a person can undertake. In a remote part of the world, populated by farmers and nomads who have yet to see the technological revolution, a mountain stands beyond all others. Tibetans call it Chomolangma, "mother goddess of the world." At almost 9,000 meters it is the highest mountain in the world. Everest. The name has become synonymous with impossible, titanic, or even insurmountable. Over 200 people have died trying to climb to the peak. Frozen corpses embedded in snow warn those who would try the same. Even animals don't tread at the highest points, as oxygen becomes too thin for life.
Men were not meant to go there. But, all the same, I have endeavored to ignore such thoughts.
Months of training have conditioned my body for the harsh cold and thin oxygen. I've alerted the officials in the Nepal government, hired a guide, and spent the last five days fluctuating between shivering and sweating. It was five days of uninterrupted focus. Carelessness would result in failure of task and possibly a failure to remain alive. But my guide was kind, and our steps were determined. Day after day of wind, cold, and rock. Surrendering never entered my mind. Each step I took felt like another little victory over the mountain. These steps were points of conquering the impossible, and each one was a testament to my will.
On the sixth day we approached the summit. Above even the clouds, it was hard not to feel godlike as I looked down on the mass of rock I have scaled. It was not impossible. It was titanic, but not insurmountable. The peak was covered in the flags of men and women who had been here before. Nealy every country I could think of was here; other testaments to will.
But there was something I was not expecting; a corpse. I had seen a fair amount on the trek, but not many this close to the top. Even stranger was his position. It was sitting, legs crossed, and appeared to be staring back down the mountain. In its clenched frozen fist was a piece of paper. Wanting to give this person the recognition they deserve for their feat, I began to search for identification; starting with the paper.
It read:
"Congratulations,
You have toiled to do what many called impossible. Through willpower and sweat, you are here among the elite few to ever lay eyes on this place. You were told the challenge was too much, and turned to prove them wrong.
What do you see here friend? Do you see the result of man's unyielding ability to persevere? Indomitable strength of the body?
What you see is nothing friend. This place is home to few creatures, and a man can not raise a family here. It is a cold, lonely corner of the world we have dedicated our efforts to, because it is taxing on the body and therefore worthwhile. But difficulty does not always breed value my dear friend. What have you gained by setting foot here? Will you be loved more? Revered by your peers? Labeled special and unique?
You were all these things and more before you ever climbed a mountain. You deserve love, and respect, and pride without this frozen landscape. She is not a testament to your achievements, but a distraction from where your focus truly lies. Here you have no friends or family. The mountain only gives you the threat of death and hardship.
The mountain is nothing other than a pile of earth we have deemed valuable, when true value should be placed elsewhere.
I was taken by this mountain by choice. Standing at the zenith, I felt no more happiness than when I had climbed. I stare back down this path and realize I have nothing to go back to. My life has been an abandonment of the true hardships that bring value to life like love, hope, and compassion. This isolated pile of rock was my distraction from a life lived unfulfilled.
Go home friend. Tell your loved ones about this journey, then move on. Live your life surrounded by love, not ice and rock.
If you worry for my remains; do not. There is no one below who cares to claim my corpse. Please return this letter to my persons as to allow other climbers to read it.
With all the love I can summon, travel home friend."
| 181 | A mountain climber near the summit of Mt Everest discovers the body of a man holding a note. The note explains that Mt Everest isn't actually a mountain at all. | 137 |
*On the first beep of the alarm clock, Jacob jumped out of bed, ready for the new day!*
Jacob felt himself being dragged out of bed. His feet planted themselves firmly on the floor and pushed him up. He blinked a few times. Then he sighed.
"Not this shit again", he said before practically running down the stairs.
*To prepare for the challenges ahead, Jacob knew he had to eat a hearty breakfast. Nothing less than a big bowl of oatmeal would do.*
"I don't even have oatmeal", Jacob protested. Of course, it didn't do him any good. He soon found himself pouring oatmeal from a bag he didn't know he had. He threw a big bowl of it into the microwave.
*While the microwave did its job, Jacob decided he'd make good use of the extra time by doing some aerobic exercises.*
"You... cannot... be... serious", he panted in between jumping jacks.
*When his breakfast was ready, he took it out of the microwave and set it down on the table, scooping up a big bite.*
"Finally! I'm starving." He guided the spoon toward his mouth, but couldn't get it in there. An invisible barrier kept it out. "Oh, COME ON!", he said. "What is it now?"
*The sizzling oatmeal revealed itself to be too hot for Jacob's taste. He blew gently on the spoon. One, two, three times.*
"Oatmeal doesn't fucking sizzle", he muttered as he blew. He blew once more. Then, at last, he shoved the thing into his mouth. Immediately, it was dragged out. Soggy oatmeal flew in all directions, making soft squishing sounds wherever it landed.
*For some reason, Jacob forgot that he needed to blow three times to render his food cool enough to eat. He scooped up another spoonful and tried again.*
"I can't believe this", he mumbled, but he just wanted his fucking oatmeal. He blew in three quick bursts and devoured the bite.
*On his second try, Jacob succeeded. Hopefully he learned his lesson.*
*Later that day, Jacob went out for lunch. He sat alone reading the paper when a plain young woman asked if she could take the empty seat next to him.*
Magically transported in space and time, Jacob found himself staring at a newspaper. He looked up and saw dozens of people in motion around him. In front of him, a girl had her hands on an empty chair. She was gorgeous! Blonde curls, huge blue eyes, a dazzling smile - nothing plain about her.
"Is this seat taken?", she asked.
*Annoyed at being interrupted from his reading, Jacob denied the woman's request.*
"It's taken", Jacob heard himself say. He felt himself put up one foot to rest on the empty chair.
"I'm so sorry!", he said immediately after. "I didn't mean that. I can't help it-" His mouth clamped shut. He couldn't get another syllable out.
"I know", the girl said. "Just a minute ago, I was writing in my diary, and now I'm here."
"Daaahrrrii?", Jacob asked through closed lips.
She sighed. "Yeah, I know." She raised a finger to the sky. "He's not very good at writing women."
They both laughed, but were cut short when their mouths were slammed shut, rattling their teeth.
*Seeing as the two of them had no other business with each other, they stopped talking and walked away, never to meet again.*
"Wait!", he shouted. She turned and starting walking away from him, but craned her neck back to meet his eyes.
"I can't stop myself", she said. "I hope we'll see each other again, some time." She gave him a sad smile.
He forced himself up from the chair and caught her wrist, holding her back.
*Jacob tripped and had to steady himself on the woman, but as soon as he regained his balance, they resumed parting from each other. Forever.*
"No!", they both shouted as Jacob's hand was torn away from her wrist. He fought back with everything he had, seeing her doing the same. They stood frozen in their positions, shaking and sweating.
*Surprised at Jacob's fall, they both paused for a moment. Then they once again prepared to leave each other, because that was what was supposed to happen.*
The force on them increased. Jacob felt his muscles ache and strain. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead. But he didn't give up. He needed to do this. He drew strength from the exhilaration of fighting fate, and found comfort in not fighting it alone. But his sister-in-arms wasn't doing so well. She grunted and moaned in pain. Her torso started twisting away from him. Her legs lifted from the ground.
"God!", she shouted through gritted teeth. "Be a little *flexible* once in a while, would you!?"
The force stopped. They stood panting, looking around, afraid of what was next.
*Fine! How's this for flexibility? They both died, instantly. The end.*
| 21 | the characters in an authors book are alive and thinking. they also think the writer is a bit of a control freak. | 17 |
We all had two wardrobes, it was strange, but we were all used to this. Go to bed one night and wake up with a pair of knockers and a vagina the next, your wife could be your husband, lesbians, gays, whateverthefuck it was called back then. Only thing that stayed the same was pregnancy, shit was hilarious the first time this epidemic came around, people were panicking about what to do with their new bodies, mental breakdowns on the streets, men wearing women's clothes, topless women walking around the streets to flaunt themselves, it all eventually calmed down and now we're all one and the same.
We stopped giving a shit about gender roles eventually, the world became more equal in a sense, you'd see more men and women sharing jobs, more "men" going into nursing, more "women" going into trades and the world was better for it. There are still those crazies who refer themselves as "pure gender" but you can't take a feminist man seriously anymore.
This whole "gender swap" stuff really made shit complicated for government affairs now that we have to have two separate photos on our ID's, getting a drivers license now takes days to weeks to process, don't get me started on passports. A pair of photo, a pair of fingerprints, a pair of blood samples. Everything took longer because you never know when you'd get your lil' Jon back, it could take hours, days, weeks, there is no pattern.
I've been married to my wife/husband for some time now, boy when the roles were swapped and we decided to do our thing, it was the funniest shit ever, never have I seen a "man" so fascinated by his own penis that he's completely forgotten about sex, I had to teach her how to use a condom. I recall just after the day we just accepted the fact that this was our lifestyle, "she" stood in the bathroom for an hour straight doing the fucking helicopter. We'd share the kitchen to make our meals, go to work at the same time, come home at the same time, teach each other how to take care of our bodies, everything. Because after all, we all are one and the same. | 177 | Uncontrollable, spontaneous gender changing is a normal part of life. | 165 |
He stepped forward, chalked up his hands, ready to lift the bar, loaded with weights which would've seemed unreal the games before. The motors in his shoulders were set to overload, and he'd made sure his engineers had ensured there'd be no failures. Stepping forward, all eyes on him, he lifted. He won.
After a long night of celebrations, he decided to see what pushing the limits of the human body had to his natural strength. It had been a long time since the gym had seen the likes of such a determined competitor, ready to sacrifice everything to win. The overhead lights illuminated his metallic shoulders, and the exo skeleton grafted to his skin.
As he set all the performance enhancers to Off, a sense of anticipation surged through him, one he'd not felt for a long time. Chalking up his hands, he set the bar at a weight which he'd seen non-enhanced beginners lift.
Alas, he could not. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't, and never could. Organics sacrificed for mechanics, there was no going back. The realisation was far worse than anything he'd ever felt.
He sat there, and wept
| 125 | Rampant use of performance enhancing drugs amongst elite Olympic athletes coupled with lifetime bans has led to the creation of the "Performance Games" which encourages pushing the limits of human ability by any means possible. But what happens when things are taken too far? | 240 |
They're right you know, school *did* prepare us for the real world. And since the outbreak became real, so did the world for the rest of us. Our days aren't spent locked away in a classroom, studying chemistry or learning about what happened in the wars anymore, no, we're out here in the real world.
Fighting for our lives.
I'm not surprised with what's happened.
Ever read the book 'Lord of the Flies'? In the book, some boys get stranded on a deserted island, and after a week or so of peace and democracy, the majority of them soon turned into animals. They all turned bezerk and turned onto each other. Pretty much sums up the past few months here, but instead of two boys fighting over who is the leader that drove everyone apart, it was the (lack of) food. When the last of the food was raided from the stores and the houses, people turned restless, brothers turned on sisters, friends became foes, then the bloodshed arose. People fought for whatever scraps remained sometimes, if not always, it resulted with death.
Only a few of us were smart enough to gather as much supplies as we could on the first day and set up camp where no one would ever find us, for it was the last place anyone would dare to go. We have enough food rationed for the next few months and with the rate of how fast everyone is ~~dying~~ killing each other, we can eventually go out and get more. We also have all entrances locked and fortified. Heck, we might have the most secure fortress in the city. It's all thanks to the government, who wanted to keep the schools safe.
Somehow, people heard that we are stationed in here, people heard that we have mountains of food ready to eat. And I think I can see them, they're a few blocks away, they're coming.
I remember I read somewhere a few days ago in one of the history rooms that the UK once set mustard gas upon the Red Army in the first world war, it was brutal. And now I'm up here, in the chemistry room, bonding and trying to make this toxic gas.
Our days aren't spent locked away in a classroom, studying chemistry or learning about wars anymore, no, we're out here in the real world.
Fighting for our lives.
| 21 | 16 days after a virus has killed everyone post puberty and burned itself out kids figure out what to do next. | 31 |
August 17, 1945
Dear diary,
Turns out, Japan isn't a place man was supposed to drop big bombs on. Division Command told us our missions were "essential to preservation of the war effort" and "a final step towards the conclusion of the greatest conflict in human history".
Long story short, those pieces of shit sent us out there and now we have taken a final step towards the conclusion of human history.
The bomb went off, the cloud went out, and everything changed. Gotemba was gone, which was according to plan. That's when it all went tits up.
They said the first two blasts probably woke it up and provoked it the surface. Anyway, we hit the sweet spot, or so they tell me. I just fly the plane.
Anyway, the mountain blew open, and it came right out of the fucking volcano. The MP's had to watch me for three days before Intelligence could gets eyes on the damn thing. Thought I belonged in the looney bin. Bastards.
Once I got back on base, I knew that *if* I could help, I had to. Debriefing, strategizing, *you* wouldn't believe the way we are throwing ideas at the wall.
Anyway, I *can* remember watching him (her? It?) burn it's way through the rock, and knowing that something had changed. I don't know much, but I can *read* between the lines, and *this* operation seems like it's being *run* bass ackwards.
Anyway, *they* say that the Japs haven't stopped him yet, but that they will. Everybody knows Nippon *can't* fall, not like this. I heard one of the colonels saying that they'd certainly bring it to a *stop* by this time next week.
It's not *him* I'm worried about though. It's my boys. That flight took it out of them. *Nobody* should have to live that down. I think they'll sleep easier when they find out somebody killed it.
I heard the name they gave it on some radio broadcasts we overheard. They aren't even encrypted anymore. Strangest thing I've ever seen. Anyway, King Komodo was a bad name, but we decided we *can* borrow their name without being unpatriotic. So everybody settled on Godzilla. Too damn bad it'll be dead in a week, it's one of a kind. I hope. | 214 | Horrifyingly, it turned out the third time was the charm. | 263 |
"Just a few more seconds, Jake," My father looked down at his watch and back up at me. "You were born fifteen years, three hundred sixty four days, twenty three hours, fifty nine minutes, aaaaaaaaand... thirty seconds ago."
It was a countdown I was familiar with, every birthday was just a celebration of another year less my family would have to wait to see what I was capable of. And now, it’s finally here. I don’t know really what to feel. Excited? Nervous? It wasn’t as if my family didn’t have a hug bar set for me.
Dad, “The Sargent”, super strength and the ability to fly. Mom, “BrainStorm”, telepathy and telekinesis. Carol, “The Untouchable”, my older sister can move so fast that space-time sometimes bends around her when she loses control. The one thing all super heroes have in common is the age where they attain their powers, and in fifteen seconds I would have mine. My father and I watched the tiny hand on the watch tick upward.
Dad had me sitting on one shoulder, like someone would with a child, I doubt he even noticed the weight. We are levitating in the air hundreds of feet about the city. Five seconds now. Mom is floating next to us on a metal disk she is levitating with her mind. Three seconds. Carol is down on the street, zipping from point to point so fast, that no one can see her. It sure was nice of her to come back from the Middle East to be here for my big day.
Two. One.
Dad and mom smile at me, Mom of course knows what time it is, she was watching through Dad’s eyes. She waves down to Carol, who is gone in a blink of an eye.
Then Carol is back, hanging one handed from mom’s metal disk. How far did she have to jump to do that? She says, “Just a few blocks north. Purse snatcher, unarmed, good little practice run for Jake.” She waves with the hand she ins't using to hang, to show the general direction. She swings herself up and punches me in the arm lightly, “Let’s see what you can do, little bro.”
We’re zooming through the air. I mostly just feel bad for this purse-snatcher, sure stealing is a crime, but likely he’s going to shit his pants when three demigods appear out of the night for some overkill.
Dad sets me down at the mouth of an alley. “Alright Jake, just do your best. But if anything goes wrong, we’ll all be right here. You won’t get hurt.”
Mom is next, “I’m inside his head right now, I’ll know if he is about to do something bad.”
Carol shrugs, “Don’t be nervous. Stay cool. It’ll be fine.”
Then they’re all gone, and I’m standing in the alleyway alone. I start walking down it. I never thought it would smell this bad. I have played this situation out in my head for most of my life, but never thought of what it would smell like. Weird how these little things are standing out to me, like how that light is gleaming off the broken glass, or the scurrying sounds of rats behind a cardboard box.
Then I see him, he’s crouched behind the dumpster. The only problem is that he saw me first. He’s fast, like way faster than I expected, and big. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground and he’s is sprinting out of the alley. I pat myself down, I’m not hurt or anything, the guy just bowled me over like a pin in his rush to get out of there.
I get on my feet and start running after him. But I know I don’t need to. A few seconds later, the big man is running back in the alley with dad walking calmly behind him. “Here!” The big guy yells, thrusting the purse at dad as he tries to stumble away. “Take it please! I’ll go to jail, just please don’t hurt me.”
Dad sighs and looks at me, “Did you feel anything? Anything at all?”
“I felt the alley floor, is what I felt.” I snap.
Mom lands behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder, “It’s okay sweetie, and you’ll do better next time.” But her voice is tin, she and I know that there should have been something. Carol is suddenly there to, she looks sad for me, but there is something else too. Triumph? So the sibling rivalry is finally won in her mind? Shit, she’s right, I suck.
We’re all distracted for a few seconds. The big guy, the one who was supposed to be unarmed seems to have reached his breaking point; too many superheroes. He’s gone from a cornered thief, ready to surrender, to a wounded tiger. He fumbles for a second and pulls out a hidden revolver from the front of his jeans and levels it at the back of Carol’s head. Dad can’t see what he’s doing because he’s on the other side of me, Carol is looking the other way, and mom is inside dad’s head, admonishing him for his tone.
Then the big man freezes, the revolver doesn’t fire, and I realize I have my index finger pointed right at him. Then, he starts screaming, it’s the most horrifying scream I have ever heard. Mom, dad, and Carol all flinch back and look at him in shock.
Then they realize it’s me who’s doing it and their shock turns to horror. The big man drops his gun and starts clawing at his skin with his fingernails. And still he’s screaming, just one protracted scream. I pull my finger back, but it does nothing.
He’s screaming words that I can’t understand, beating his own head into the ground over and over. Blood is dripping down his face. Still screaming that horrible scream. Then, one of his bloody hands finds the dropped revolved and without a second’s hesitation, puts the barrel to the side of his head and fires.
They are all looking at me; I’ve never seen them look at me this way. Mom begins to say something, ”Jake-“
I cut her off, “No.”
“What?”
I realize I’m smiling, and have been smiling for a while. How long? I don’t know. Maybe since the revolver went off, but probably since the screaming started. “I’m not Jake anymore.”
I lift up my hands and they all freeze, like their blood turned to ice. “I am the Pain-God.”
Screams and laughter echo out of my alleyway.
| 45 | You are the heir to the family business of being a superhero. At 16, your power is unveiled, but no one expected what it was… | 39 |
When I think about it now, it makes me sick. And to think, I did it for a cheap joke...
There was always something off about Tom. Actually, there were a lot of things off about him, they just never made sense until a few days ago. We were all at Jack's apartment when one of the girls wanted to take a group shot of all of us. Tom tried to sneak off to the bathroom, he never liked taking pictures.
"Tom, come over here, get in the picture!"
"Nah, man, I gotta take a piss."
"You just took a piss ten minutes ago. Come on, it'll take two seconds."
"Seriously, just take the picture without me," he said as he walked away.
"Man, that guy really hates pictures, huh?"
Everyone laughed, except for Jack. He just seemed uncomfortable.
As Tom came back, pulled out my phone and said "Hey Tom!" and snapped a quick photo. A few people laughed, but Tom gave me the most terrifying look anyone has ever given me. He looked like he was going to kill me.
"You mother fucker!" he screamed as he charged at me. He punched me several times and wrestled me to the ground before two of the guys pulled him off me.
"What the hell is your problem, man?" I said. Tom stormed out of the apartment, cursing and screaming things that didn't make any sense. Everyone was looking at me, waiting for an explanation.
"I just took a picture of him, that's it! Why the hell did he freak out like that?"
"Dude, Tom's a Solemnist," said Jack. My heart sank. Suddenly everything fell into place, why he never got a driver's license, why he never took pictures or had any social media accounts. It was against his religion. They believed that photographs steal part of your soul, and foretell of your death. They were a sacrilege, and I just took one of Tom. I might as well have thrown pork at a Muslim's face.
As I ran down the stairs to apologize, I heard the sound of screeching tires. The car's headlights lit up a body lying in the road. I prayed it wasn't what I thought it was. I fell to my knees when I saw it was Tom.
.............
Everyone keeps telling me that it wasn't my fault: you didn't make that car hit him, you couldn't have known it was against his religion. I keep telling myself that too, but I can't escape this guilt. Why did I have to take that stupid photograph? I pulled my phone to get rid of that damned picture. I looked at the photo one last time. He's wide-eyed and his face is bright white from the camera flash, almost as if blinding headlights were coming towards him.
| 73 | Anyones death can be predicted from the first photograph ever taken of them. | 77 |
"What the fuck?" the Berulian bitched. Playing with the controls in the cockpit. His co-pilot sat staring out the window while smoking his Cadavian based plant.
"What is it now?" retorted the second lizard.
"Were being jammed, some low level frequency from a few parsecs away...maybe if I...Fuck, were losing power."
"Well I can see that dumb ass. The Gods sure left you with half a brain when you crawled from your retard infested soup. Let me see," said the co-pilot as he fiddled with the switches. "What the fuck did you do? Did you check the power core before we departed?"
"No, no I didn't, I totally forgot to check the power core before we left for a flight to the Soltas system, ya, I'm that fucking dumb," the first lizard shot back sarcastically, slapping his co-pilots hand away from the controls. Causing the pipe to fall out of his mouth.
"Dont you fucking touch me, I swear to the Inquisitor I'll skin you. Get off your dead ass an check the reactor. Since you fucked it up."
"I'll chop off your Godsdamned tail bitch if you talk to me like that, all you've done this trip is drink and smoke....Great, engines are offline."
"Way to go, way to fucking go," the co-pilot clapped, "I knew you would fuck up again, what ass hat granted you your license? Reroute power from the sub systems to send a distress."
"Like I haven't tried that? You check the reactor you worthless bag of scales, do it or I'll jettison your ass onto the closest asteroid," the pilot hissed as his tongue slithered in and out of his mouth.
"Fine, I'll fix your problem again, I can't take you any fucking where, your so fucking use..." the second lizard's voice trailed off as he clamored down the gangway bitching.
Edit for words
| 17 | Intergalactic space is widely inhabited. Earth's very first radio waves are beginning to be heard. Unfortunately, we are violating a heavily regulated spectrum of communication. | 34 |
Mr. Speaker, Mr. Biden, Congressional members, Americans:
Looks like we've jumped into the oven from the frying pan again.
If you've been watching the news, then you've probably seen
That there's a new group in Iraq, and they're unbelievably mean.
They call themselves ISIS, but don't be confused:
They're not named after the Ancient Egyptian goddess of love—
No, they've got sinister views...
But saying ISIS is "sinister" is like saying the Dead Sea's a bit salty.
In ISIS's eyes, humanity's faulty...
But don't worry!
Don't fret!
ISIS can cleanse that corruption!
They'll force us to live under the caliph's instruction.
"But what what if we won't? What if we refuse?"
Don't worry! Don't fret!
ISIS planned for that, too...
But it's not a new plan, it's been done before:
Everyone who refuses will die by the sword.
Now, here's the remarkable thing ISIS has managed to do:
They've united the world against them, from Beijing to Timbuktu.
ISIS is an anthill trying to tear down a city.
If they weren't so evil, I'd probably feel pity—
Pity for what I'm going to do,
Because ISIS's time has run out, their end's overdue:
While I've been speaking, the airstrikes have begun—
Wasps are gonna learn how it feels to be stung.
That's all that I'll say—ISIS doesn't deserve more airtime,
Not even if they're talked about in sentences sloppily rhymed.
(Speaking of: If you're a master of language, both written and spoken,
Give me a call—the presidential speech-writer's position is open.) | 34 | Obama addresses the nation, Seuss style. | 33 |
Stretched out far and wide in every direction, perched atop rolling acres of deep green checkered lawn sits the home where I work. Black topped and always trimmed neatly at the edges, the winding driveway leads all who enter through a forest and across a babbling brook before it circles at the entrance and returns into itself. Never are we to use the term "home" or "nursing", here these terms are forbidden. No, what we provide is assistance and companionship to all the wonderful and wrinkled seniors living in our pristine and cozy retirement community.
Today I was sitting on the bench by the windows of one of the great rooms. Outside was a larger than life cherry blossom tree in full bloom. The sun shone into the clearing where it lived and rays of gold cast a palpable aura around it. Even the breeze softly caressed it, dislodging the occasional blossom and sending it fluttering into the grass. Resting and soaking up the warmth my eyes would periodically close and I day dreamed as I waited for Gerald.
*sluch, clink, sluch*
Never could he be an effective prowler. Stealth mode was not Gerald's strong suit, in fact it wasn't even in his limited vocabulary. Three kind words were all that I'd ever heard escape from his half paralysed lips; "Good", "Thank you" and "Sorry", truly fitting of his genuine and gentle character. Despite his limited vocalizations Gerry spoke volumes about whatever he felt. He smiled, he clapped, he was animated more so than anyone I'd ever known, let alone a senior of our community.
The familiar clinking of his can ratlling down the hall awoke me from my daze and I stretched as he rounded the corner into the room. He tapped his cane twice as he often does and let it fall to the floor with a *snap*. Striking a ridiculous pose he grinned ear to ear and waved jazz hands at me frantically. Wrinkles formed by decades of laughter made themselves known at the corners of his shining green eyes. I rose and smiled at him as we intercepted at the gorgeous and oversized comfy white sofa in the middle of the room.
"Good morning Gerry."
He scowled at me.
"Ugh, GERALD!"
He smiled and clapped. I laughed.
The Gerry can, as we called it, was a Foldgers tin of 1970's vintage that Gerald paraded around with him every where he went. Clinking and clacking, it's contents were a mystery. Strangely he'd never been willing to open it. Today he seemed to have a mischievous look about him and as we sat and giggled, he placed the tin on the table and slid it over to me.
"Um, ok..."
He smiled and gestured a hand at me, flopped and waving as if to say "open it".
"Really?" I eyed him suspiciously.
He retreated back into the sofa and nodded, a slightly more somber but still happy look overcame his face, acceptance maybe? Anxiety? He fiddled with his fingers as I cocked my head and looked him straight in the eyes.
"Are you sure? I mean I'm honored, really I am."
He smiled with greater certainty and a distinct sadness now, flapping both hands at me as if to say "Do it, get it over with!"
I fingered the ridges of the tin and took in the authentic, red and yellow imagery adorning the front. My hand slipped over and slowly rotated the top, to and fro, gently coaxing it away from the container it had guarded for so long. I held the can out in front of me and before looking inside I again glanced at Gerald for confirmation. He was grinning wildly now, ear to ear. You'd never know this man had suffered major strokes.
Reluctantly I tipped the can to face me and withdrew a folded note. It read:
> *Are you happy now?*
> *Turn these in.*
> *Missing person case number 194832.*
My face blanked and I felt sick. I turned to face Gerry again. He now bore the trademark, sadistic smile of a madman. I peered inside the Gerry can.
Three teeth. Baby teeth.
"Good". | 10 | There is an old man at the retirement home where you work that always seems to be carrying an old coffee can with him. One day, you decide to ask him about its contents, and the answer is something you never could have guessed. | 18 |
"Come on. Turn that off! i'm trying to sleep here." It grumbled.
God looked down at the bed and the being tucked inside. It reminded God of himself, but then again, God had nothing else to compare it to.
"Please? Just five more minutes man, come on." It complained.
God hesitated for a moment before dimming the light. He came down beside the being.
"Who are you?" God asked.
The being sat up from the bed and with an expression of extreme loathing it spoke: "Ugh. I went back in time to the one point i thought no one would bother me and i'm instead kept up by YOU. Is it so much to ask for one good night's sleep?"
God was annoyed: "This is my universe! I decide what goes on, what are you doing here?"
"Trying to get some sleep! God, you are dense." It shot back.
Before God could say anything more the being pulled a remote control from underneath the covers of the bed and pressed a button.
"I'll find somewhere else to sleep." It mumbled before vanishing in a puff of smoke.
For a good few moments God tried to process what just happened. With no further explanation he turned the lights back on. | 24 | At the beginning of creation, God says "Let there be light," and is surprised to find that something is already there. | 28 |
Jack was a nice man.
His teachers told him that.
His parents told him that.
His way-too-beautiful girlfriend told him that on a daily basis.
Jack also hadn't made a sale in almost three hours, and had three unpaid parking tickets. But No one seems to bring those up.
He tried to look on the bright side of things, like most hapless fools do.
He had a great paying job he loved, a pretty girl he loved, a huge apartment in the city, so he was in pretty good standing life wise,
It would be a shame if it all fell apart.
But Jack didn't think that way.
He woke up early in the day, as he did every day, and felt very well rested. He only needed about four hours a night to get a full charge. Jack was a lucky, lucky...lucky man. He didn't need to spend forty dollars a week on coffee.
He proceeded to go to the gym, as he usually did first thing in the morning.
Jack lifted his weights, like a good little dumb jock, all by himself. he knew he should have a spotter, but as usual he was lifting it with ease, and his well defined muscles felt stronger than ever.
Even when he decided to bench press three hundred pounds all by himself.
Jack should have seen what happened next coming. He knew it was a record for him, and that he should wait for assistance, but decided to do it anyways. So when the bar fell, and he couldn't catch it, crushing his windpipe, and bringing the full weight down through his neck, shattering it with a satisfying crunch- wait, are you kidding me?
He lifted it?
Seriously?
...Jack can go fuck himself. | 945 | You're the cynical narrator of a story. However, you hate the optimistic main character and only continue to narrate hoping something bad happens to him. With ill-will, narrate a day in the life of this character. | 957 |
The room was eerie. Every creature, critter and queer thing had their eyes on the center stage, staring down the human representative. Several more humans sat around the edge of the stage, fingers at the ready on keyboards or lips at the ready to translate into their microphones.
The human spoke.
"Hi." *Salut... Konichiwa...* He didn't understand the rest of the words that echoed in the room, but he imagined they were all variations of his.
"My name is Kurt. I'm here to represent mankind and to make peace with the other animals that inhabit Earth; our home."
He took a moment to breath, and continued.
"As we all know, we animals have divided ourselves into a circle of life for millennium upon millennium. But humans took over. We made tools, and we surpassed all of you. We made the world ours, and we destroyed anything we could not bend to our will."
There was outcry in the stands. Elephants berated him in African languages. Mongeese chattered away in old Native American tongues. Moose... Well, the moose were speaking French, which always sounded polite to Kurt, even when they were angry. Nevertheless, he spoke on.
"We, the humans, have decimated many species. I'm talking about you, the whales. You, the tigers. You, the birds of prey, when we took away your homes!"
More outcry. More hateful tones. One very loud "You suck!" from a tiny Finch.
"I can see it in your eyes, even if you aren't human. You hate us. And I, for one, understand that completely. The humans ruined Earth, and nothing we can do now will reverse the changes or make it stop. We are the engines of change and we won't stop until we leave this planet in ruin for another."
For the first time in these long hours of waiting the room fell silent. All angry glares were upon Kurt and his translators. Even the dogs were silent and hateful.
"We are not going to save you. We are not going to help you. Just because you can speak our languages, does not mean we will change our ways to accommodate you... Not all of you, at least."
*That's right Kurt. Divide and conquer. You're the best spokesman we've got. You can do this.*
"We want the animals we actually enjoy having around."
*Don't overdo it, just ease in and take them all by surprise.*
"So," Kurt almost smiled at the words, "We've made a list."
He could hear the chatter stirring up again, he let it continue for a minute until the animals calmed down. His words would carve a knife between any early alliances the other species had made.
Silence. It was deafening one moment, and pin-drop quiet the next. The roars and hushes of the crowded stands made Kurt think of politicians in the House. No one would ever back down from their ideals. Not on the inside, at least.
"First up, we have the dogs. A few specific breeds, to be precise." He began to list off the more likable breeds; Malamutes to Labradors, Kelpies to Blue Cattledogs.
*I'll level with you: We need some of 'em. We need meat and leather, and we need a way to keep it in it's place. I'll make it simpler, Kurt. Here's a list. You know what to do.*
Kurt looked up and scanned around for the dog in the stands as he spoke. He found it, an Irish Wolfhound. He finished of the list with that breed and waited for silence to fall again.
"There you have it. No Chihuahuas. No Poodles. Next, we have several farm animals..."
The minutes passed as he continued to talk and talk, wedging any and every alliance was a lengthy process. He was cautious with his words and he chose his animals carefully. Size, genetics, colour, location; any little attribute could play a part when animals mingle together like this.
Even Kurts limited human instincts could pick up the change of tone in the air. Every other species was envious or angered. These animals had no political motives, no agenda to follow. They wanted to survive, and he'd just told them how. He briefly recalled an old, quite poetic, quote from Churchill. *Tact is telling a man to go to hell, and making him look forward to the trip...*
Kurt regathered his thoughts as the chatter passed on and the almost-silence returned. The air was thick with bad motives, and nearly all eyes were staring daggers at him. He smiled and let it all settle in. He was in control now, he was their damnation and their savior. *We need to make them fear us, Kurt. That's what this is all about. That is how we gain control.*
*Yes, Sir.*
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Discontinued due to lack of interest. Might resume later. Might leave for Hollywood to find and misappropriate so I can sue them for 12.6 million AUD.
Edits: Typos, formatting etc. Above WIP note still applies. Mongeese still speak Native American, and ask /u/CircdusOle to respect their life choices. /u/Shmuckle13 has made it clear that Canadians don't like French Moose, again it's not your choice; it's the Moose's choice. | 27 | All animals on planet Earth suddenly gain the ability to speak. In order to gain control of all the confusion across the planet, a UN of sorts has been constructed with representatives from every known species across the planet. Describe the first few meetings. | 46 |
"So... you've never had a few benefits with your friendships?"
"What friendships?" he asked. "I kill. I take. There are no friends for me." His hood was drawn low, and I could see it quivering from anger. How dare I ask that question, it seemed to grunt. How dare I be so bold.
"Then that's my game, Death. Let's see how you flirt. Let's see you in a relationship. With me. For a day." I grinned, not unlike the rictus of his skull. "If you can make it, you can take it. My soul, that is. Is that okay, big boy?"
"Try me. I'll have your soul before you can--"
"What? Say arx fatalis?" I stepped a little closer. "I'd like to see you try." My smile faltered a little as I raised a hand to his hood. He recoiled, but remained still when my fingers traced the cracks of his skull. His mandible, his maxilla. My breath was low. "Is this okay, Mr. Death? Me touching you like this?"
"No."
"Then why aren't you stopping me?" He didn't respond. I let my hand fall away, then took his. It was cold. Bony. No skin, no muscles. Just bone, held together by God knows what.
And that's how we walked, hand in hand, through the empty streets. There weren't people in this plane. No cars. No laughter. Just the sounds of my boots and his tarsals clicking against the ground.
"Where are we going?" he finally asked.
"It's a secret. Part of this game." I hesitated before the next bit. "Did people ever do this with you, back when you bet their souls?"
"No."
"Oh. Hmm. We do stuff like this sometimes. Dating. Flirting. Sometimes fucking."
"For fun?"
"Yeah." I could almost taste his incredulity. I wanted to soften it. "We've got words for it all. Like FWB. Friends with benefits. It's not very serious. Just a game."
"Sounds like a very loose interpretation of such."
"That's the most I've heard you say. Guess you're not the strong, silent type, eh?"
If he had skin, I like to think he might've blushed.
"And I guess you're not, either." And he laughed, just a little, just a raspy sound like stones crawling over insects.
We walked in silence. And eventually, I moved my hand around his waist. I could feel the bones of his hip through the dark robe. It was strangely sensual.
"I bet you were handsome, once," I mention. Off-hand for me, but strange for him.
"...I was."
"Had all the little old ladies screaming."
"They wanted to live."
I laughed. "That's not what I meant."
"I know." Again, only bone to see; no skin to show a smile.
I blushed, then. My voice was low. "I still think you're handsome. In a way. Like, not too spooky. Kinda approachable, really. And kinda cute when you're angry."
"I'm not cute."
"Yes you are."
The hood was shuddering again. "No, I definitely am not."
I grinned. "Oh snap, are you getting mad? Come on, you're supposed to make it through a day. Don't pull out now. Not when you're so close."
He stopped in his tracks. "Tell me that wasn't a sex joke."
I stopped, too. "Call it a slip. Although I wouldn't mind if it wasn't..." My hands were on my hips, now, in my back pockets. Nonthreatening. Casual. "Hey, Death... you've got powers, right? Show me some skin. How you used to look. It's part of our date. I wanna get to know you."
His hood dropped lower, still. "In my time, people didn't date as a game. We dated for someone's hand in marriage. For valor, and honor." His voice dropped lower, still. "For love."
I suddenly wasn't sure what game we were playing. I approached him, pulled up his hood. I didn't expect to see stubble, and then full lips. The nose caught me off guard, and the grey eyes even more so. And those brows. Furrowed, drawn. Empty of hope, but passionate in memory. I didn't expect to like it.
I briefly wondered if I was losing the game.
"Hey, Death. Were... were you human once?"
He nodded.
"Oh." I didn't know what to say; not immediately. But as he looked past me, it was clear. "Who was she?"
"Nobody, anymore." He passed me and kept walking.
There wasn't much of a mood for a while. But then, I stopped him, and pulled his hand. It was warm, and soft. "Hey, Death. Do I look like her?"
"Not in the slightest."
"Then... you won't be reminded of her if I do this?" And on tiptoe, I crushed my lips against his. Quick, painful. A little too strongly, a little too openly. And the shock on his face said too much.
"Don't. Don't make me feel that way again. Ever. Again."
"Make me," I said, and wrapped my arms around his back. I kissed him again, with the softness of his weathered robes between my fingers. I kissed him as if my life depended on it. I kissed him like I meant it, and I did, because something about him attracted me, and I was such a slave to that attraction.
I wasn't on tiptoe anymore. He had leant down into me, over me, like his lips over mine, and I heard the clatter of his scythe on the ground like a distant memory. He was feeling what I was feeling, if only for an instant. And as his hands pulled my face into mine, my hands pulled at his body.
And then it was over, with my face slapped sideways and my cheek slapped red.
"No. I can't. No more. I can't lose someone again. Not someone like her. Not someone so... so..." His eyes met mine. "I can't."
"You... can't?"
He shook his head. I saw the hot flush fading from his skin; it rapidly regained its former pallor, and then started to fade completely. His eyes were the last to go, although I could feel them gazing into mine long after their absence.
"Don't leave me, Death."
"I thought this was a game," he said. "You win. It's what you wanted isn't it?" His scythe rose from the ground, into his hands. "You can keep your soul."
"No. I don't want it, not if I--"
"Please. Keep it. For me." For a moment, I saw the skin return, and the smile flashing there. "Because I'll be around. You can bet on it."
I blinked back tears, closed my eyes. And when they opened, I was back in my attic.
The noose had broken; the rope was frayed. And I felt so completely, utterly alone, all over again. | 67 | Death recently reinstated the practice of challenging the deceased to a game for their soul. He's neglected to read up on what kind of games 21st-century people play. | 38 |
"Well, shit sir," The priest said un-selfconsciously, aware that the victim's family were right there to hear him, "You certainly used a very big rock to kill a very small bird."
"Eh, it is what it is, pops," the aging man said.
"You just said you killed that man for your last meal!" The holy man was swiftly losing his composure.
"I mean, think of it this way. My whole life, I been told 'boy, you gon' do great things!', and 'God has big plans for you an' that brain of yours'. And so I went out tryin' to be great. I started three businesses-- two failed, one is still running, but I was pressured to select a board of directors, who kicked me the fuck out soon as they could. I invented stuff-- the cat-scratch protector for couches, yeah, that was me, not like you would know it. Some dick bought my patent, then sat on it till he didn't have to pay me. I've gone from failure to failure, and this is what it got me"
"But sir," said the priest, "why did you have to kill that man? He did nothing wrong to you!" The older man laid on the table and stared for a moment.
"No, he didn't. Every time I tried and failed, things got worse and worse. I been on the street so long that the only thing I had to look forward to was a good meal. And damn was it ever worth it. Steak, lobster, potatoes, nice oily slice of pizza... See, I figure if I achieve something, and then get shitted on worse each time, I was eventually going to end up here anyway."
"Why did you have to kill my father?" The victim's daughter screamed as she pounded the glass with her fists. She'd been mostly stoic up to this point, despite this lunatic's apparent apathy and lack of remorse. He turned his head toward her and stared for a long moment. Then he smiled a partially toothless smile.
"Why shouldn't I? I did bigger and bigger things, and got screwed harder and harder. So I kills a man who got everything he ever worked for and then some. Kinda set the universe back in order a little bit. It's a little bit funny though, don't you think? I killed a man, biggest thing I ever did, and all I got for it was a nice meal." He pointedly ignored the string of invective the murdered man's family now hurled at him. He'd said his peace.
"Alright, hangman, throw the switch."
"This is a lethal injection."
"Whatever. Let's get this show on the road." | 22 | An extremely poor man commits a crime so he can request a good meal before his execution. | 29 |
There's a smell before it comes, like lavender. It fills my nostrils so strong I think I'm gonna choke.Then the thoughts come, breaking through the boundaries of my mind like flaming arrows shot from some Viking's bow. I don't remember the first time I experienced it, but there have always been other people's thoughts in my mind. My mother, picking me up from school and planning what we were going to eat that night. I was always disappointed, because it seemed like it was going to be last night's leftovers. She tended to change her mind by the time dinner time came.
So right now I'm in a cafe, coffee clutched between stinging palms. I'd counted out the change, sweat beginning to form on my upper lip.The barrista swirled the milk into a swirling fern pattern, winking at me as she slid the ceramic mug across the bleached wood. It was some hipster place in a part of town people described as 'hip', 'up and coming' and 'dangerous after dark.' Usually in that order. All that it meant was that the clientèle were dressed in flannel shirts and untrimmed beards. I barely noticed the barrista's charms. I was waiting for someone. A battered manilla folder was next to me on the table, dog eared with age. I couldn't afford a better one.
Outside it was raining, the raindrops racing each other furiously down the panes of glass to the white wood outside. A man in a suit entered, completely at odds to the tattooed and pierced blue-haired girl steaming milk. He lifted a black umbrella down, closing it and shaking. Raindrops spilled out, scattering across the hemp doormat at the entrance. He looked up, met my eye. He had golden eyes, close cropped grey hair and a face lined from the sun and wealthy living.
I got to my feet, hip clanging against the wooden table. Coffee spilled over the edge of the ceramic mug. The leaf pattern was ruined.
"Thanks for meeting me today, Mr. Simon," I extended my hand in greeting and he ignored it, slipping into the seat opposite me.
"Let's hear it then," he said. "I'm a very busy man. I only agreed to this because you've called me so-"
"Sir," My hands were shaking as I opened the manilla folder. "This portable generator will no doubt, er-" My mind went completely blank. I sat there, clutching the folder. Then the smell came.
I choked out something and my hand twitched involuntarily. Coffee went flying all over my plans, my speech. The brown liquid flowed fast, soaked up into the dirty folder. I heard the blue haired barrista tut behind me. My eyes stung.
"Oh my god," I jumped to my feet as Mr. Simon skirted backwards, careful to avoid getting coffee on his suit. "I'm so sorry."
The smell of lavender was burning my senses, but his thoughts were not what I expected. No surprise, no anger. Only strings of numbers. Six digits, eight digits. Repeated over and over. A transfer of some kind? A deal with an electricity company for generators. I stuttered, but the thoughts were gone as soon as they had come. I could breathe, the smell of lavender gone.
"This is ridiculous, sir," the business man said, getting to his feet. "I expected to meet with a professional." And he was gone, black back into the rain.
I stood there, clutching my sodden papers and an overturned cup of coffee. In my mind I was repeating the strings of numbers over and over again. I could clear his accounts. I could do that. He'd been planning to cheat me, anyway. Take my idea and sell it to an electricity company. Maybe it had been a good thing I had spilt coffee over my copies of the plans.
But I remembered my mother.
"Hard work reaps its own rewards," she'd tell me when I asked why she worked two jobs, why she looked so tired all the time.
With a sigh, I let the numbers go from my mind and found a new one. The phone number of his rival. I had another deal to make.
| 28 | A man discovers he has the power to read minds, but what he doesn't realise is that he can actually only see what people were thinking exactly 24 hours prior. | 94 |
Ezekiel the prophet walked proudly down the street, his golden robes flowing from his broad shoulders. Today he would venture forth into the desert and commune with his Lord, the one true God.
But first, he needed to stock provisions. He purchased some dates from the market, and then met a man selling figs who had said something strange to him.
“Today-eth is a most portentous day-eth,” the man said.
“Why-eth say you thus?” Ezekiel said.
“O’er yonder hillock,” the man said, “I did espy a murder of seven and seven crows, encircling-eth the sun.”
“Thine augury is folly,” Ezekiel said, “For there is but one true God and He is Lord and He createth the birds but he speaketh not through them. He speaketh in the desert!” Ezekiel gestured down the road towards the desert.
The man had disagreed, and they had a difficult time negotiating the price of the figs after that.
Ezekiel was on his way to fill up his waterskin at the well when he heard a loud rumbling noise in the sky. He looked up.
Suddenly, a great flaming chariot burst out of the sun. It was flying straight towards him. Was this some message from God? He stared at the chariot, though its brilliance afflicted his eyes with powerful suffering. Mortal pain was nothing. If this was a message from God, he would bear through any worldly torment in order to decipher its contents.
The chariot grew larger and larger. It was yellow, with black stripes.
He watched the chariot approach. There was a woman with frizzly red hair sitting in the front seat of the chariot. There appeared to be many rows of seats behind her, filled with children.
There was some kind of lettering at the front of the chariot. It spelled ‘F-O-R-D’. But what did that mean? Was God speaking some unknown language? Perhaps the chariot would pick him up and take him to meet God.
Ezekiel was mentally preparing an eloquent speech with which to greet the chariot-master. He would compliment the chariot master on her exquisite vehicle and he would praise God for facilitating the creation of such a wondrous vehicle. He would say a prayer together, and---
BAM! The chariot knocked him to the ground. His robes caught on the undercarriage of the chariot and he was dragged against the sand for several kilometers before he finally bled out and died.
The last sound he heard was the voice of a whiny child saying, “Ohhhh, I knew I should have stayed home today!”.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ezekiel opened his eyes. He was standing in front of a set of large, imposing pearly gates.
At last! Ezekiel told himself, I have come to the Kingdom of Heaven.
He approached the gate.
“Arr, matey,” a voice yelled.
Ezekiel looked around to see who was speaking. There were no people present. The only thing he could see was a pile of spaghetti, floating in the air off to the side of the gates.
“Arr!” The pile of spaghetti said.
“What?” Ezekiel said.
“Talk like a pirate, damn ye!” the pile of spaghetti demanded.
“What’s a pirate?” Ezekiel asked.
“Aw Christ!” the spaghetti swore, “We got another one of ye!”
There was a pause. Ezekiel looked at the spaghetti helplessly.
“Oh, alrighty then,” the spaghetti said, and the gates swung open. “Come on in and watch the orientation film.”
| 35 | A man gets hit by a bus and discovers that there IS an afterlife. It is not the one of the religion he practiced | 38 |
Everyone deserves their fifteen minutes of fame. To be the social pinnacle for even a day is a luxury of ego that few can ever afford. For me, though, it occurred in the wake of one of the worst biological disasters of all time.
I checked the metrics from the day before. Still Beyoncé. Bitch.
I went about my normal routine: a breakfast of cold pop-tarts, a hurried shit just before an even more-hurried shower. Grab my backpack, hop in my crap Chevy, and jet to campus.
As I fumbled for a good Tuesday-commute CD, I thought I heard something odd on the radio. I turned it up and plopped my CD case on the passenger seat. They were going on and on about some new venereal disease. Grown men yelling at each other about how their junk had been reduced to junk.
*"I shouldn't have to worry about the tissues I use! A man has the right to safety when he's tugging his rope!"*
*"You think you have it bad? Mine's so swollen it looks like a hairy eggplant!"*
I shuddered visibly and switched off the radio. So grodie.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I could instantly sense that something was off. I stepped out of my clunker and scanned the campus walkways. Almost all women. That venereal disease must have been more potent than I'd thought. Good thing I always used a sock.
I must have been smiling like an idiot because I got a series of glares from across the parking lot. I shifted my eyes down, grabbed my backpack, and slammed my door shut as I jogged to class.
I settled down in my usual seat and opened my laptop. Almost everyone hid themselves behind a screen as the professor would drone away about science or some bullshit. I didn't know. I hadn't taken notes in weeks, and I was pretty sure I'd forgotten the course number.
I pulled up reddit and started to surf. I checked out /r/WritingPrompts for a bit, but as usual I shied away from doing any actual reading. I clicked over to the front page, and with what have been an audible gasp, I put my hand to my mouth in surprise. I could feel a dozen heads turn to look at me, but I didn't care. I had made front page news.
"Local Chicago college student tops popularity metrics."
And next to it, a picture of me. My big dumb face, with a big stupid grin, plastered next to a post that had already gained over six thousand upvotes. I felt a surreal rush of pride and ego as I entered the post and read on.
But my joy was to be short-lived. I could feel a lump form in my throat as the article laid bare the overwhelming parody of my popularity. In a spate of panic, I rushed to the comments.
Huge mistake.
"What a stupid fucking name."
"This guy's name is a giant fuckin DICK JOKE! ROFL!"
"wer his parents relationed? idiot"
"Bad luck Brian is now officially Bad luck Mike."
Tears had now begun to well below my quivering eyelids. I was holding them back with the last bit of dignity I still hoped I had. I stood up, shut my laptop, and took it under my arm as I sulked out of the classroom. I had almost reached the door when I made brief but fateful eye contact with a fellow student.
He glanced at me, mouth agape, and then back to his computer. To my immediate panic, his eyes lit up and his mouth stretched into a grin.
"No *fuckin'* way!"
I hurried my pace and started to sprint up the last few steps, but it was already too late. My fifteen minutes of fame had caught up to me.
"Check it out! It's Mr. Popular!" he yelled with a forced chuckle. "How's life treatin' ya....."
Before I could hear him mutter my name, I turned and slammed the door shut. Even through closed doors, however, I could hear the hall behind my erupt with exclamations and laughter. It seemed to resonate in the lobby. With a burst of shame carrying me forward, I ran towards my car. I had to escape. I had to disappear until this whole thing died down.
But that didn't happen. Not for weeks. The VD epidemic had ended up affecting over a dozen countries and nearly half a billion people worldwide. It was jokingly being called the Great Softening. But as bad as it was for everyone else, it was worse for me.
I couldn't so much as walk outside to get the mail without a group of teenagers remarking on my name. I thought I had escaped the torment of my peers years ago, but this epidemic reminded me just how juvenile people were.
My email, my phone, and even my reddit account had been flooded with hatemail, dick jokes, and ironic friend requests. TV personalities and comedians had started using my name as a punchline to every topical joke. My life had become one giant farce.
So I did what anyone would do in the clutches of an indomitable depression: I decided to kill myself.
As I sat reclined in my bathtub, my Baretta held firmly under my chin, I began to rehearse my entire life. Tears rolled down my emaciated cheeks as I thought of all those I would leave behind. But that didn't matter now. I needed to end this pain. How could I go on living if no one would ever take me seriously again? How was I supposed to find work? A wife? Friends?
I couldn't. I just couldn't. So I pulled the hammer back on my pistol and I closed my eyes. I could visualize what few genuine friends and family I had left gathered around what would be my tombstone, when I suddenly began to giggle. It was uncontrollable.
Tears of pain turned to tears of laughter. My grip loosened and my Baretta fell to my lap. I began to roar so loudly that the tile walls felt as if they were vibrating. I couldn't get the image out of my head; and for the first time, it was actually funny.
There, on my imagined future tombstone, were the words that saved my life:
"Here lies Mike Hawk." | 23 | There's a program that detects how much a person's name is mentioned with celebrities usually being on top. One day your name becomes #1. | 32 |
> We're not sorry, not really.
> We have more resources, not our fault. They were here when we got here.
> We have more hockey players, not our fault. It's just mostly cold here.
> We have maple syrup, not our fault. There's just a ton of maple trees and we get bored.
> We have tons of fresh water, not our fault. The lakes were here when we got here.
> We have to be violated when we cross borders, that's their fault. We didn't fly the planes.
> We are subjected to ridicule for being so polite, that's your fault. You made good manners a joke.
> We are small in numbers compared to our southern border sharing neighbour, neighbour with a "u" because screw you, that's why.
> We have an inferiority complex, that's it, not our fault. You have a superiority complex, that's all, you made us this way.
> But no more.
> Today is the day we stand united, vigilant and unapologetic. This well be the new Canada.
> My name is Justin Trudeau, and my hair is fabulous!
The crowd roared as Trudeau Jr. stepped away from the podium. As he waved, he dropped the mic and it landed with a resounding *thud* followed by a stream of feedback. Scrambling to retrieve it, he lifted it to his mouth.
> Sorry. | 22 | June 14th, 2021, the day Canadians stopped apologizing. | 32 |
Usually he knew his number what it was by simply glancing at his watch, but today was different. It was probably in the quadruple digits by now, maybe even past 2000. It was embarrassing to go out in public with such a high number, but they didn’t pay him to sit at home and wallow in his discomfort. As he stepped on the bus he looked around and saw a smattering of numbers, the bus driver smiled at him under a green **75**, the old woman in the handicapped seat had a reddish **15** above her white hair. An attractive woman in a pencil skirt and blouse mounted the bus slightly after him and blushed slightly as she caught him glancing at the deep red **3** hovering above her perfectly coiffed blond curls.
He watched as the baby in the stroller sleeping peacefully had a green **108** flip silently to a green **1** while her mother had a light red **620** plastered over mousy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. The mother glanced down at the baby and sighed tiredly.
Out of sheer professionalism, numbers were largely ignored in the office. No one needed a distraction amid all the stress, but he could tell his supervisor was judging him by the slightly grimaced look she gave him when she glanced at his number. It was probably over 2000 by now! She smiled fakely at him from under her green **220** and gave him his assignments for the day.
On his way back to his desk, he stopped by the kitchen and grabbed a bowl of cereal and poured in some milk. He always ate breakfast at his desk.
He could tell his coworkers were avoiding him, probably because of the huge number over his head. They all traipsed past him, with numbers varying from the single digits all the way up to triple digits. Quads, those with four digits, were not really something to worry about, until they started getting up into the 3000 and over range. Still, you undoutedly felt uncomfortable once your number was in the thousands. If your number got too high, white coated authorities may detain you. No one really knew where they took the high quads, but they were often back less than a week later, usually with green numbers within the normal range.
“Morning Sean” muttered Frank as he hurried past with a dark red **342** trailing slightly behind his bald head. Before Sean could respond, Frank was lost in the shuffle of desks and people. Sean turned back to the fiber-bomb cereal that had become mushy in the cold milk during the walk from the kitchen to his desk.
As he filed his reports all morning, he wasn’t sure if it was what he knew was an absurdly high number over his head that just kept getting higher, or the bowl of the fiber bombs, but his stomach simply would not stop churning. It felt like someone had released a family of hamsters into his large intestine, and now they were doing their best (the hamsters) to reenact civil war battles, cannons and all. Twice he had to walk outside when the flatulence grew either too sonorous or too pungent.
Lunch, due to his gastrointestinal bellum, was a light affair, a salad from downstairs with a glass of water. His supervisor stopped by his desk while he was eating with a sheaf of papers, undoubtedly more reports for him, but upon catching sight of his number, definitely well over 3000 by now, she instead asked him if he needed to take the afternoon off.
“Nah, I’m fine.” He lied. The hamsters had moved on from civil war reenactment to WWI. Long moments of utter stillness followed by minutes of extreme distress as the hamsters rushed from one trench to another. He was sure that if he lifted his shirt and watched, he would see the horror of what was happening underneath reflected in violent movements under his hairy stomach.
“Suit yourself…” She started to say something, but stopped and walked off and handing the reports to Frank, who now had a green **165** practically shining above his head.
Less than an hour after lunch Sean felt the gastrointestinal pressure build. He was in the middle of a conference call when it hit. He stood up suddenly, forgetting his headset and pulled his phone off the desk. It fell with a clatter, but he didn’t care. He almost didn’t make it, Frank, with his smug **215** decided he needed to catch up and apologize for his hurried greeting earlier that day. Sean disposed of Frank with a wave and hurried by, hoping his light khakis would not turn into dark brown khakis on the way to the restroom. He burst into the rest room, startling the intern washing his hands at the sink (a green **3** over his head). Before Sean was even in the stall, he was unbuckling his belt and as he squeezed himself into the small stall, he threw down his pants, pirouetted ungracefully, sat down with a thud, and relaxed as a feeling of release rushed through him. The hamsters made a quick retreat. Fifteen minutes later he walked out of the restroom, relieved, with a bright green number **2** over his head.
| 34 | Describe a universe where a personal stat is displayed above everyone's head. One can see everyone else's stat except their own. Talking about the stat is strongly taboo. Reveal what the stat represents at the end. | 32 |
Just a few more tweaks and we could start the simulation from the ground up. A big bang. The gradual cooling and temperature change of the universe as entropy increases. The eventual creation of the planet Earth. The birth of life. The evolution of millions of creatures. The eventual creation of me and Sara. All modeled perfectly from the ground up. There would be only one new variable in this simulation. In this simulation, Sara wouldn't die. In this simulation, there is no freak accident.
If the government had known that this was why I had been developing the perfect working model they would have shut me down long ago. They valued my results. Perfect battlefield simulations. The ability to measure all possibilities and then construct a strategy that would return the most optimal results for the people funding the machine. I hated those people. All the innocents that died to protect the bottom line of a few already insanely wealthy men at the top. This would be the last simulation. The one that would spark a new world, and let this cold dark universe die.
In just a few seconds, everything would be restarted. A new universe, carefully constructed to change only one small thing and in so doing change our world and prevent the catastrophe I had wrought. I'd never know. She'd never know. My sacrifice will be forgotten. In some strange sense I will have been the creator of this new universe. I wonder if something like this had happened before me? It's certainly possible, but there was no real way to know.
Flip the switch and it all goes black. Then a spark nobody could ever possible remember would ignite a new universe. One just slightly different from the one before. | 43 | A young man wins the affection of his crush with the single most ridiculous and extravagant plan ever. | 53 |
Except for a metal table and wooden chair the room was empty. There was a closed door but no windows. The proctor had given me all the instructions just before I came into the room so I saw no need to read them on the paper.
I knew I was smart. At least that’s what my mother had always told me. And the other people in the labor camp had told me the same thing. Most of them were smart so they knew what they were talking about, right?
Determined to secure my release from the labor camps I folded the paper in half as a signal for the testing to begin. There was a click, machinery coming to life, and a hissing noise as a green vapor began gathering overhead.
My test was to stop the non-lethal gas from reaching me. I took off my shirt and stood on the table but could not reach the vent to cover it. Even standing on the chair on top of the table the vent was too far.
“You’re a smart boy Victor. You’ll get out of these labor camps. You’ll see. You’ll be a big deal.” my mother’s soothing voice counseled me.
I flipped the table on its end and shimmied up. I’d grown up climbing around the scaffolding in the labor camps. This was no different than that. The table tottered as I gained the top edge but I easily kept my balance. From here the vent was within reach. Careful, so as not to upset my perch I lifted my shirt towards the vent.
The pain was incredible. I saw the shirt disintegrating as it entered the vapor but I didn't stop. Not until the caustic gas ate away at the flesh of my hands. I toppled head over heels to the floor below. The last thing I remember was my head shattering against the floor and I lost consciousness.
“Well Dave that’s another one who couldn't pass the test” a cynical Linda noted as she watched the body of Victor Devonshire dissolve on the monitor.
Dave shrugged a tight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yep, one day someone will be smart enough to just walk out the door.” | 63 | At the age of 18, everyone is required to take a general intelligence test. Failing the test is justification for death, or the remaining time of your life into intensive labor. Today is your 18th birthday. | 61 |
The line at the bank was long, but Frank wasn’t worried, he had nowhere else to go and nowhere else to be and it was warm and out of the snow. He’d been homeless for nearly a year now and it had been hard; only 19 years old he’d never been anywhere but his home city, never even visited friends more than a bus ride away.
His Dad had been a hard man, ex army and determined that Frank would be tough. That meant kicking the shit out of him pretty much every day to “Harden him up”. From 8 to 18 Frank had rarely gone a month without a visit to hospital for everything from broken arms to a punctured lung. The latter had been when his Dad had used him as a human dart board at age 12 but had used knives instead of darts.
It had been one of the few times that social services had actually bothered to speak to him but in the end they hadn’t believed him. His home was neat and tidy and Frank was in trouble a lot at school and so they’d accepted his father’s story about Frank drinking and doing drugs. When he’d got out he’d only been home six hours before his Dad had put him right back in hospital with three broken ribs.
He’d tried to run away dozens of times but he’d always been picked up and taken home pretty quick, he was too scared to run far and had no money and no way to get away from the area. At 18 his Dad had told him that he could either join the army or fuck off and never come home. He’d tried to join up, anything seemed better than being at home, but he’d been told that his health and all those hospital trips had made him ineligible.
That had made his Dad furious. That night he’d got drunk, kicked the shit out of Frank and thrown him out of the house with nothing but the clothes on his back. He’d never gone home again. The first week had been hard but compared to living at home it wasn’t so bad. He was skinny and small and looked pretty pathetic, begging worked okay for him and he stayed away from trouble as best he could. When he did get beaten up it was never as bad as his Dad so overall it was still a win for him.
The winter had come now though and he needed help. This morning he’d been frozen to the alley where he’d slept and his hand had lost half of its skin when he pried it from the cold concrete, so he’d come up with a plan. He knew he was a loser so he might as well get the benefit of the one place he could be sure of hot meals and the occasional shower, prison.
Slowly he was drawing near the front of the queue now and he nervously fingered the piece of paper he’d written. He just wanted it to go down quickly and for him not to be shot; he prayed he wouldn’t be shot.
At last he was at the front and he slipped the piece of paper across to the nice looking girl. She read it and looked at him, there was terror in her eyes. He hated that, he didn’t want to scare her but he’d had to include a threat on the note, it asked for all the money in her till and said he had a gun, he bulged his pocket out at an angle to make it look as real as he could.
She slowly reached down, careful not to make any sudden moves and opened her drawer. She pulled a large envelope out of her desk and filled it with the notes and slowly handed it back to him. She then backed away a little and stared with huge, panicky eyes.
He’d hope that there would be an alarm, that it would be over quickly but he supposed that he’d have to play the game. Taking the envelope he slowly walked out, waiting at any moment for the alarm to ring and to be pinned to the floor, but it didn’t come. Outside he dawdled along the pavement and at the end of the street used a twenty to buy a hotdog and ate it by the stand. It was the best hot dog he’d ever had.
After a few minutes no one came out, he looked up and there were plenty of cameras and so he slowly wandered away, making no attempt to hide or disguise his route. Twenty minutes later he was getting frustrated, honestly, what did it take to be arrested in this town. He sat on a bench and reviewed and slowly a new feeling came across him.
The envelope was stuffed with money and no one was coming for him, no one seemed to care. Thousands and thousands in cash just sitting in his lap, he’d never had more than ten bucks on him at once before. He looked up and in front of him the bus station loomed large. Well, maybe they were coming for him he reflected but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them. Smiling for the first time in years, Frank went to look for a bus to wherever was furthest away from right there.
| 55 | A homeless man decides to rob a bank so he can go to prison for long term food and shelter. | 63 |
It was too good to be true. I know that now, and I guess I knew it back then, but... almost every scientific theory in history has eventually been disproven. Almost everything we've ever known has turned out to be wrong. So what says Einstein was the one who finally got it right? Why couldn't he be wrong, too? Relativity, spacetime, the speed of light - maybe all that was wrong.
*Teleportation*.
Just saying it gets me all worked up. Instant transportation across the globe. When that first little rat came out safe and sound on the other end, we were ecstatic. We felt like *gods*. We'd taken the first step in conquering the one enemy science had yet to conquer: time.
Our technology changed the world, of course. We could charge whatever we wanted and companies would still come to us on their knees. Worldwide shipping, international travel - oh, and our teleportation is unaffected by gravity. Yeah. You wouldn't believe what NASA paid for a tour of our labs.
But the money was nothing compared to the glory. Nobel prizes, honorary degrees, access to the innermost of inner circles - and that's only from our peers! By the rest of the world, we were hailed as the fucking saviors of our species!
With our technology replacing fossil fuels, carbon dioxide emissions plummeted to the lowest levels in a century. We also made it effortless to send shipments to areas ravaged by war or natural disasters. It looked like we'd saved the world. It really did.
So imagine our surprise when people started dropping dead on every continent. They'd arrive at their destination, take a few steps, and then just collapse on the spot. Autopsies revealed nothing; there were no signs of poisoning, asphyxiation, brain damage, or any kind of physical injury. It just looked like they'd died of old age.
We were stunned. Some of us couldn't handle it. They drowned themselves in booze or water. Some disappeared, never to be seen again. Probably living out the rest of their days on some paradise beach somewhere. Fucking cowards.
The rest of us, we poured everything we had into finding out what was happening and how to stop it. We slaved away for months with the weight of a civilization on our shoulders. We pushed ourselves to our absolute limits and one day, we had it. We'd figured it out. We knew what was happening, and I have never been so terrified in my life.
Remember the autopsies of all the dead people? That it just looked like they'd died of old age? Well, it turned out that was exactly what had happened.
Einstein was right, after all. You cannot cheat time.
When we transported that rat instantly from one place to another, we thought we'd saved it the time it would take to travel that distance. But as it turns out, time cannot be saved. It can only be moved. The time you save has to come from somewhere.
The people who died had used our teleportation over distances it would take years to cover conventionally. They'd live in NYC, commute to Tokyo, have lunch in Barcelona, and take their wife out for a romantic dinner in Paris. They made a dozen laps around the globe every week and eventually, they ran out of time.
I am the last one of us left. All the others have broken. Once again, I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. If I could take it all back, I would. I'd give all my prizes, all my money, everything I have and have ever had, if I could just turn back time and undo what I've done. But I can't, because if there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's this:
You cannot cheat time. | 372 | In the near future a company holding the only patent to a point-to-point teleportation system in widespread use is exposed as a fraud and the truth is more horrible than anyone expected it to be. | 506 |
I dove for cover as another volley of grape shot tore across the deck, raking fist-sized splinters through the air. Acrid smoke and noise filled the air, as two great behemoths of the line thundered cannon shot at each other.
As I rose a flying spike of oak carved its way across my shoulder, spraying a gout of blood up my neck. In pain I stumbled, crashing into the gunwhale. Beneath me churning waters swelled with debris, bodies and blood. Thunder cracked over head, as if God Himself wished to add to the symphony of carnage that rose around us.
The pirate's hulk had loomed into view not more than two hours ago, appearing through the driving rain like some ghost from a nightmare. She had forced us into battle with frightening speed, her great black flag whipping in the storm-winds.
A peaked hat struck through with a feather. Every sailor knew that symbol. It was one of depravity, desperation and disgust. Lucas Neeke, dread pirate and a villain of a man, had commandeered the great Man 'o' War in a daring raid through the ship's basements. Now he sailed it into battle with the Government's Navy.
"Make ready to repel boarders!"
The shout was barely audible above the din of battle. Steadying myself, having wrapped some cloth around my wound, I peered through the sheets of rain. Scores of grappling hooks and lines arced towards our ship. Even after an hour of battle, it seemed we had barely dented their numbers.
Almost as soon as the hooks bit were men climbing on board. We charged to meet them, sabres and cutlasses ringing amidst the roar of cannon. I cut two men down in succession, hacking and wheeling about the slippery decks, before I saw him.
He fell as if an avenging angel from heaven. As large as two men, an odour most foul surrounded his bulk. His peaked cap seemed to shine, two grand feathers sticking from it's sides. His face was a gnarled mess of pock-marks, while his beard, famed for its size, ran from his nose to the top of his chest. Neckbeard had arrived.
The battle did not last long after his appearance. He slew our captain and dragged those who surrendered to midships. As we knelt, he walked among us, heavy boots clinking. Suddenly he stopped, twisting to look upon the captain's wife.
There was an audible groan of effort as he bowed, reaching up to touch the tip of his hat. From beneath the greasy hairs that clung to his face came the famous words of Lucas Neeke, that many hear but never live to tell:
"M'Lady."
She fainted, though whether from the man's manner or the smell of his breath we could not tell.
"You'll not get away with this!" A man shouted from within our ranks.
The pirate stood straight once more. "Really?"
"The Navy has a hundred ships looking for you, they've already captured your disgusting friend, Bach'elour Foul!"
"The Frog", as Bach'elour had been known, had indeed been killed by the Navy some weeks ago. Still, Neeke stroked at his neck as if the words had not fazed him.
His men dragged the heckler from our midst, who could not help but cower now he faced the pirate in person. In one smooth motion Neckbeard drew his pistol and fired, killing the man stone dead.
As we watched, stunned, he pulled free his hat. Beneath lay a head prematurely bald, strands of slick hair draped across a bare scalp. Drawing back his head, the pirate gave a great cry of defiance:
"A picture, sirs! A picture, or it did not happen!"
I try not to remember the rest of my journey as his prisoner. I was whipped many times with his fearsome cat-o-nine-gags and to this day I walk with a limp.
He should be stopped, of course. By any means necessary. But if you plan on going after him, you must be ready.
You're not a filthy casual, are you son?
Good luck, have fun.
EDIT: Didn't think such a silly story deserved gold, thank you! | 51 | Neckbeard the Dread Pirate is about to board your ship | 34 |
Chuck wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. They didn’t even realize how close they were, how little time they had left. The executives would be calling any minute, or any hour, or maybe any day, to let them know it was over, to tell them they “had a good run,” but that it “just wasn’t working out.” They had no idea, not a god damn clue. Oblivious didn’t even come close to it. Naïve, unaware, ignorant, stupid, retarded—he could go on and still never express it. They just sat there, crowded around their barbecue, cooking some mundane, boring steak. Or maybe they were burgers. It didn’t matter, it was bland, unoriginal, contrived, clichéd. They were on their way out, and it seemed only Chuck knew it. He did what he could to save them.
He’d been a secondary character in their sitcom for so long now, ever since he first moved into the neighborhood. There was disembodied clapping on the day he arrived, an invisible audience responding to the “Applause” sign lighting up overhead. Laugh tracks played when he slipped and fell, a synchronized “aww” following him when he first saw their daughter, Caroline. He’d been a part of it for so long now—a year, maybe two, he wasn’t exactly sure—the hilarious jester of their sitcom. As soon as they woke up in the morning, there was Chuck, ready to do what he could to make sure something went awry. Borrowing items and never returning them, screaming vulgarities at the children, “accidentally” breaking their windows in the middle of the night. He was the comedic relief, the escape from the “typical American life.” He was the reason anybody watched anymore.
They had no idea how close they were to being cancelled. They hadn’t the slightest clue. They threatened him with violence, called the police on him, even got a restraining order. They did everything in their power to keep Chuck away, to keep him from saving them from an assured demise. They had no fucking idea that in just a few minutes, or hours, or weeks, a man in a suit would be calling them to tell them their run was over. He was the only thing keeping them from their sure demise.
Chuck walked over to the fence and crouched down, closing one eye and peering through the small hole in the wood. They were talking and laughing, blissfully unaware of the cameras and audience watching and discussing their every move. Bruce was flipping whatever-the-fuck he was cooking, with Martha talking to whatever one-sided, flat character they’d introduced this week. Probably some cousin or family member once removed. Bland, boring, unoriginal. It wasn’t good T.V.
Chuck scanned their backyard, searching the perfectly green grass for Caroline. She was the only redeeming factor they had going for them, the only other reason they hadn’t been cancelled. The audience loved her, craved her, needed her around. If Chuck hadn’t been there to keep the show fresh, to spill gasoline in their pool and toss nails onto their lawn, only her beauty would keep the show running. Of course she wasn’t there.
It was hard being the only logical, sensible person on the show. It was as if they couldn’t see the cameras, couldn’t see the lights of the stage that rose with the sun and again with the moon. Either that or they wanted to be cancelled, wanted to finally see the end of their show, to meet their own demise. But what about Chuck? They didn’t care about him. If the show ended, he was gone too. He was over, done for. He and Caroline would never get the life they deserved, never get to kiss under the stage lights and bow before the audience. They’d just go down with the curtain, fade to black. Chuck would have none of it, not a second of it.
“Caroline?” Bruce yelled. “Come down already, your aunts are waiting to see you.”
Yes, bring on the act the audience demands, restore a little bit of entertainment to this bland sitcom.
“You didn’t see Caroline today, did you?” Martha said, turning to Bruce.
“She was in her room, I think,” Bruce said.
Such ignorance, naivety. Even if they were, in fact, committing suicide by cancellation, they were god damn self-centered. They didn’t care about Chuck and his life, about the efforts he went through to keep the show fresh and entertaining. They didn’t care that he bled, cut, and cried for the program. They didn’t laugh with the audience when he threw a rock at Martha’s head and instead shattered her car window. They didn’t care when he poured paint all over their brand new tennis court. It was all rude and pointless to them.
“I’ll go get her. Be right back,” Martha said, turning to the bland, shallow character they’d just introduced this season. Clichéd blonde hair, stupid heels, an uninteresting skirt. She’d be gone by tomorrow’s episode, cut from the cast.
Chuck was saving their lives. He was keeping them in the spotlight, keeping their ratings up—and god damn were they up. He had to go to extremes, to do what he could to keep them and everyone else alive. Even if they wanted to meet their own end, to see what the closed curtains hid, he wanted none of it. He wanted fame, to live and be recognized, to know that people loved him and what he did, even if he was just a secondary character.
Chuck had waited until the studio lights had dimmed and the moon lights had risen, waited until the audience numbers were at their lowest—he wanted it to be a surprise, even to regular viewers. He’d walked into their home while they slept, climbed in through an open window by the now-crowded barbecue. The audience had perked up when he did, soft gasps and giggles filling the air around him. He’d quietly crawled through their home, stopping momentarily to stare at their sleeping, corpse-like bodies. There was nothing interesting about them, nothing even remotely unique. White skinned, brunette hair, typical 40-something, middle class Americans. He hated them, despised them for how little they knew. He spat on the floor beside them, then quietly slithered through their house until he reached Caroline’s door.
He knew it was hers, he’d seen it through their window before. Sometimes he’d tap on the glass in the middle of the night, causing her to jump up from sleep and stare out at where he no longer was. It was a huge ratings booster, an incredibly popular stunt, the air filling with prolonged, natural laughter. He’d pushed open the door and stared at her body. They had been so close to being cancelled, just a few seconds from their own demise. Chuck could only keep the show going alone for so long, at some point even his own antics would have become stale. He knew he had to get more radical in his humor, to do something truly unique.
Martha returned to the lawn with a confused look on her face. “She wasn’t in her room,” she said, almost as if speaking to no one.
The audience gasped, a smile spreading across Chuck’s face.
| 11 | You are the crazy next door neighbor in a real-life sitcom. You sabotage your neighbors' lives in order to keep them from being canceled. | 19 |
Charlie walked along the streets. It had recently rained, turning the dirt roads into mud, making it all the more difficult to walk to the council hall. His feet made suction noises in the thick mud as he stepped. He would've giggled at the noises if it were ten years ago, would've enjoyed all of the little things that came around, as few and far between as they were, but not today. Today was serious.
He finally made it to the council office, a large building with tall white pillars and a large wooden door. It was one of the few old buildings that had survived the Turnover. There were workers outside, sweeping the porch, washing the windows, other miscellaneous tasks. Charlie took note of how tight their restrictors were, grimacing as he saw that one of them was already but skin and bones. He gave an unconscious tug at the restrictor around his neck, relief filling his chest when he felt that he could still fit a finger between his neck and the collar.
"Your business here?" A scrawny man at the front of the door spoke, voice small and barely audible.
"A meeting with the council, it's scheduled."
"Name?"
"Charlie Bruto," he said, clearing his throat with a quick *hmph*.
The scrawny doorman opened the door and allowed Charlie to pass by. He noticed that the doorman's neck restrictor was tight to the point that it was beginning to dig into his skin, leaving a nasty red irritated mark.
He walked through the hallways until he finally came to the door where the council was residing. He wasn't sure if should knock, or just enter. Before he could make up his mind, the door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, had long hair, and was heavily muscled. The restrictors on his neck and wrists were hanging rather loose. Charlie wondered who the man was, but put the thought aside when he heard one of the councilmen beckon for him.
"Come in!"
Charlie stepped through, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, threatening to make him vomit the meager meal he head earlier in the day. The council room was large, had red carpet, and a long table shaped like a crescent moon, arching around the room. Seated at it were three men and one woman.
"State your business," said Wilson Morleaux, the only person on the council that Charlie knew. Wilson was a portly man, probably the fattest that Charlie had ever seen ever since the Turnover. The restrictor around Wilson's neck should've been taut, but it hanged loose, probably double the circumference of Charlie's own neck restrictor.
"I'm here to ask for an extension," Charlie said, voice solid.
"For yourself?" The woman said. She too was also larger than most people Charlie had seen, and yet her restrictors were loose.
"No, for my wife, she-
"Oh," Wilson interrupted, "well we really needed for her to come in and ask for the grant herself."
"She's not well," Charlie continued, "she-
"Leave us then," one of the other men said, also overweight, "we'll schedule a meeting with your wife, in a month."
"No, it has to be sooner than a month, it must be-
The large man that Charlie had seen exit the room had reappeared, grabbing a hold of Charlie's arm from behind. "No," Charlie muttered, "this has to be done today." The man tugged at Charlie, ignoring his pleas. He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out a small device. He pointed it at Charlie's neck and pushed a button, causing his neck restrictor to tighten to the point that Charlie had difficulty breathing.
"That'll teach you to speak out against the council," the large man said. The large man dragged the gasping Charlie out of the hall, and tossed him outside into the mud, where he laid, trying to pull the restrictor away from his neck. He could feel the blood rising to his face, could hear his heart pounding in his ears. They had tightened it too much. Before long, before he could even stand to his feet in the quicksand-like mud, Charlie blacked out, falling face down in the muck. He would be long dead before anyone found him.
Back at home, his wife waited for him, rubbing lard on her pregnant belly, wincing whenever she accidentally touched an open sore where the waist restrictor had cut into her. | 43 | In a post-apocalyptic society, where there are massive food shortages, the government installs size limiters on your neck, waist, and wrists. They’re designed to kill you if you get large enough. | 49 |
17 years, and 364 days had passed since David's birth. I grew extremely anxious and stressed more than I ever could. What could be more stressful than never receiving your child's 18th year letter?
David sat across the room. He was reading a Calvin and Hobbes comic. His father had left the day he was born, and I never knew why. But that never bothered David. The boy still adored going through his father's wares. Books, comics, video games, tools, DVDs, computers, clothes...David studied his father more than anything in the world.
I softly cleared my voice.
"Davy, sweetheart, do you want some tea?"
David didn't look up from the comic. "Sure thing momma. Can I have some green tea, with some milk and honey in it?"
I always loved making tea for David. "Sure thing Davy".
I reached for the cabinet with the tea when suddenly there was a knock at the door.
"Davy can you get that?"
"Yes momma." David ran to the door.
Odd. David never ran to the door. He opened the door.
"Davy sweetheart, how much sugar did you want?"
The wind scratched the door on it's way in.
"Davy?"
I walked toward the door. I heard the door swing gently as the breeze pushed it open. I looked outside.
Nothing. No car. No shoes. Just footprints from the grass. But they only pointed one way though, towards the porch.
I saw a letter on the porch. And on it was David's handwriting. I opened it up and there was a small note inside, a key, and a flare.
The letter read the following:
"Dearest Momma.
Daddy came by and needed my help. I knew this day would come so I wrote this letter ahead of time. I'm sorry I won't be having tea with you right now momma. But you can come see us.
Head to Old Glimmer Road and get to that old shed with the lock. Open the lock with the key and head inside. Light the torch, with the door closed, and hold it in your right hand. Papa and I will be on the other side. Best of luck Momma. We'll be waiting for you there." | 39 | Within a year of birth every parent receives a small gift or note from their 18yo child via time travel. You don't. | 90 |
“Hey,” Chuck said, nudging the guy next to him. “This is the C train, right?”
“Yeah,” said the man, nodding slowly. He wore large, circular glasses, his hair long and drooping past his forehead and almost to his eyes.
“Great,” Chuck said. “Great.” He turned back toward the window and stared out at the green pastures ahead of him. They made him feel uneasy. It wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful, the endless hills softly rising and falling into the horizon, it was just that he wasn’t accustomed to seeing green on the C train between West 4th and 23rd street. Usually it was just the darkness of the underground. “Hey,” Chuck said. “One more question?”
“What?” said the man, shifting his body toward Chuck slightly. He was wearing some sort of long, brown robe, which wasn’t exactly abnormal for the New York City subway system. He had once sat next to, and incidentally gotten into an uncomfortable conversation with, a man wearing a large, black garbage bag. He claimed to be wearing it to keep the N.S.A. from harnessing his body. Chuck agreed that he didn’t want his body to be harnessed, but felt that wearing a garbage bag wasn’t exactly the best way to prevent such a thing. He decided not to heed the man's advice.
“You’re positive this is the C train?” Chuck said.
“Yeah,” said the man, leaning forward and staring at the subway map above him. “Definitely the C train.”
“Great, great,” Chuck said. They seemed to be riding into some sort of rainbow, the ground and train rail no longer visible. The last time he’d seen a rainbow on the subway was when a homeless man urinated directly into a flashlight. “Is there some sort of re-route going on today?”
“Nothing unusual,” said the man. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, his forehead slightly disfigured, then shifted his glasses. “Actually, I think the N trains are running on the F track today.”
“But the C train is normal?”
“For today, yes, definitely.”
“Great,” Chuck said, returning his attention to the window ahead of him. They were now riding through some sort of forest, the trees bare and long dead. Their branches reached out at the train, as if grabbing for them, slowly waving in the wind as it passed. “Great,” Chuck whispered. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t too strange for the C train to be running abnormally. Last week, the C train wasn’t running at all. He instead had to take the A train up to Penn Station, then walk down to the gym on 23rd Street. He could’ve taken a different train down, but it was a nice day. Plus, he didn’t really have anywhere to be aside from the gym.Today, though, he had a job interview with J. P. Morgan, coincidentally back on 23rd street. He figured he’d hop on the train, take a quick 5 minute ride up, and then be out before lunch.
“Hey,” Chuck said, opening his eyes and again nudging the robed man next to him. He turned his head. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but you’re absolutely sure that this is the normal track?”
The man leaned forward and stared out the window ahead of them, the train now completely submerged in water. A large whale swam by the window, its body easily larger than the entire subway car. Chuck wasn’t exactly cetologist—a word he’d recently learned on the Discovery Channel—but he guessed it was a blue whale. It let out a high-pitched cry.
“Yeah, looks normal for today.”
“Great,” Chuck said, tilting his head to try to catch another glimpse of the whale. It was a beautiful creature, the first one he’d seen in the wild, let alone while on the Subway. “It’s just, you know. It’s a little weird that there’s a whale right there.”
The man leaned forward and glanced out the window, then shrugged. A stick of some sort was poking out from his robe pocket--or at least Chuck hoped it was a stick. The last man he'd seen wearing a robe on the Subway also had something poking out, but it certainly wasn't a stick.
“Where are you headed, anyway?" said the man.
“Interview,” Chuck said, glancing at his watch. He was supposed to be there in just five minutes.
“Really?” said the man.
“Yeah,” Chuck said.
“I didn’t know they made you commute for interviews anymore.”
“Can’t beat face-to-face,” Chuck said, shrugging. He wasn’t really a fan of phone interviews. They always felt impersonal, and he tended to suddenly adorn a deep, southern accent as soon as he began one. He’d never even stepped foot in the south.
“I guess,” said the man, brushing the hair out of his eyes, then glancing down at the book in his hand. It was written in some sort of foreign language that Chuck hadn’t the faintest recognition of, which he didn't feel was too abnormal. Chuck had only ever learned English and didn't think he could discern French from Ancient Egyptian. .
Chuck glanced back out the window. Snow was now falling, the silhouette of faintly visible mountains in the distance. He felt an uncomfortable sense of familiarity form in his chest, but ignored it. The man seemed pretty confident the C was running normally.
Chuck sighed. The weatherman had promised comfortable temperatures today, high 70s to low 80s. Chuck had dressed accordingly, wearing a nice polo shirt and slacks. He did not expect heavy snows in the middle August, but he should have known better than to leave the house without at least a sweater.
“Hey,” Chuck said, nudging the man once more. “One more question, I promise.”
“Fine, one more,” said the man in a slightly irritated tone.
“You’re positive that this is the C train, right?” Chuck said, staring back out the window. A man on some sort of broom-like object flew past, a large castle forming in the distance. “And that we’re definitely on the right track to 23rd street?”
“23rd street?” said the man, adjusting the glasses on his face, his scarred forehead momentarily showing. “No, this train is going to Hogwarts. You're a wizard, right?"
“Hogwarts?” Chuck said, furrowing his eyebrows. “God dammit,” he sighed. He had long given up wizardry, instead opting to begin a life in investment banking. “Not again.”
| 11 | You get on the subway to go to work in the morning, same as you always do. But this time, the train magically takes you and the other passengers somewhere completely unexpected. | 23 |
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