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Dear journal
It is now March of 1789, and the illness is progressing, while my body remains in peak condition my mind is deteriorating, and while it seems to be slower then most of the other cases its nonetheless progressing.
Dear journal
It is now March of 1803, i have spend the last few months being tortured and executed, all because i forgot that most people aren't immortal, while my escape was a success i fear that this slip up won't be the last.
Dear journal
It is now March of 1821, i have gathered a small cult around me, not because i wished to be worshiped again like in the early days, but because i need someone around for when i'm no longer lucid, i still snap back from the events but i fear the day may be coming when i will stay that way, it scares me.
Dear journal
It is now March of 1867, my lucid periods are getting shorter, it now takes days before i snap back, i have given most of my cult the task of finding a way to kill me before i'm completely gone, so far no luck.
Dear journal
It is now February of 1894, while i normally write my passages in March i am no longer confidant i will remain lucid for so long, my cult has failed to find any leads, and i have begun to make more permanent arrangements.
Dear journal
It is now March of 1910, years go by between my lucid periods, and i have forgotten nearly all i have done in the last thousand years, my cult keeps my journals in good shape but i fear its only a matter of time before i forget how to read and write.
Dear journal
It is now March of 1943, i'm currently dictating my thoughts to one of my cult members, i hope she's accurate but i no longer know how to read thus have to take her word for it, apparently my cult has used its influence to make something called The Manhattan project, they hope it will grant me my wish.
Dear journal
It is now November of 1945, during a brief lucid period they explained the plan, i was to be tied to the bomb while it went off, and hopefully be destroyed so fully i would remain dead, sadly it did not work, though it did extend my lucid period to well over a month, i have given my cult instructions to experiment.
Dear journal
It is now March of 1978, experiments have shown that extreme regeneration slows the progress but does not reverse it, while i have ordered it done to me ones a year its not a viable way to prolong lucidity as extreme regeneration also causes extreme pain for most if not the whole duration of lucidity.
Dear journal
It is now March of .... | 12 | An immortal with Alzheimer's | 20 |
I stood over the Dark Emperor’s still form, as motionless as his cooling body. Blood dripped from the knife I held loosely in my hand.
“You did it! You killed him!” Dax shouted as she ran up to me. The grinning fool clapped me on the back.
“Yeah,” I whispered, but the cheering bells outside drowned me out. News of the emperor’s death had spread already. The blade slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the sanguine marble.
“It’s finally over. We can live in peace now. We’ll establish a senate or a congress. We won’t have to live under a psychotic dictator’s boot any longer!”
I thought I would be happy about it. I thought I would be celebrating with the rest of them, but when the rebels came to take away his body and parade it through the streets, I could but stare in numb disbelief. They came to congratulate me, but I ignored them all.
When they were all gone and we were alone, Dax wrapped her arms around me and tried to plant her lips upon mine. When I held her back, she looked at me with a raised brow. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy?” I stood there still, in the place where I killed him. The blood had run through the soles of my shoes, and I could feel it dampening my feet. “He was my brother.”
She lifted my chin, forcing my gaze to avert from where Jurin had lay. “You said he was no brother of yours. Not after he put your family to death.”
I looked into her blue eyes. “Words are but a night’s thing, blasted away under the light of action. I couldn’t know.” My eyes and face began to burn, and my voice choked. I collapsed to the ground. “Happy? No, I’m devastated.”
Previous: http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2eldgu/wp_relate_a_story_from_your_characters_childhood/ck0ngaj | 14 | Happy? I'm devastated. | 22 |
When they met, the two old combatants that very rarely did so, it wasn't all just business. They spoke of the shifts in power of their players below and the natural disaster wildcards that had been pulled from the deck. Once bitter rivals, time had watered down the venom they once drove into each other's neck. They came together as two respected warriors, speaking kindly to one another as they moved the organic pieces that roamed the global board.
These meetings were special occasions, of course, as they could easily make their moves from the sanctity of their own domains. But as it was decided millenniums ago, they were to converge every so often as to not forget the behavior of their opponent. This ruling was put in place by their own creators so there was no getting around it. In the beginning, they would have much rather never met and played their faceless enemy to a brutal defeat. Though neither would admit it, these meetings were something they both looked forward to.
He was never ahead in this game, the one that represented evil. He played with a broken deck and that which represented good played with a reinforced one. Whenever he who represented evil created essential needs, killing many players in a single blow, he who was good would counter with clean water springing from the mountains and creatures to be hunted and eaten causing for a massive rise in population. A child's death is met by a the ability to make structures for protection that then grew into villages that offered security. For whatever evil he had to disperse, it was greatly overshadowed by the ever-growing aura of light.
And though they had become friends of sorts, he who represented evil held some animosity about this. Sure, he'd gained some footing with his creation of bartering and currency, which had worked out incredibly well. It had divided these primitive pawns in such a short time. But still, he was a fighting a losing battle that made him feel like a piece in the very game he played, used only as entertainment for those ethereal creators that spectated his arena. And it was bullshit.
So from this imbalance, he created a plan. A plan that would would mean that he would never get to see his friend ever again, but that's what it was going to take. He wasn't created to have friends, but to defeat his enemies. After some time, the two gladiators finished with their small talk, meaning that it was time to play.
He who represented good discussed his next play, something about an evolutionary progression, soon (in the scale of things) bringing their players into a more advanced age. It was a good move, he who represented evil had to admit, but it was of no matter. In fact, it would help in the long run. After the details were set out before them, a great transformation was set in play, the brain's of their pawns flurrying with activity. With it all said and done, he who represented evil took a deep breath and gave into the need to smile. He looked at his friend who wore the face of a triumphant winner and placed his hand on his shoulder. He told his friend that their game would soon come to an end.
Over time, he who represented evil came to know much about his opponent. He knew him to be a flamboyant and cocky sort, one who wanted his achievements to be known, something that he who represented evil planned to give him. Because before his final move, the pieces of their game had no idea of external forces at work. Why not show them the one who had given them such bountiful rewards? With his unveiling, they would come to worship him, devote themselves to him, but ultimately disagree about how he blessed them. They would fight about him in ways considered to be most evil and destroy whole parts of the board in his name. It would continue for centuries and he would just have to sit back and watch it happen. Who knows, maybe some of them would begin to worship evil and tear each other apart in *his* name. It was without any flaw. It was just perfect.
After confirming the validity of his play with his own creators, he laid it down before his unknowing rival. With a flick of his hand, he spread divine belief across the land like fine, golden sand that came to rest in windswept dunes. The players on the field rolled in it, basked in it, devoted themselves to it. It was the final play the Devil would make for the game, and he called it religion. | 40 | The Greatest Trick The Devil Ever Pulled | 25 |
The day he opened the box was the day his carefully woven lifestyle had fallen apart. He remembered it like yesterday, thinking back to that little purple package, tied with a bow and delivered to his door like he was being sent cookies. He recalled with a wry smile and a sigh how easily the rules he'd built had come crashing down.
---------------------------------------------------------------
"Two."
"Two!? I'd been told it was one...y-you sure?"
"You were misinformed. The price is two."
"Two hundred grand? You better be good."
The man laughed into the receiver, a deep chuckle that died softly almost as soon as it had begun.
"I'm the *best*."
Rule one: Don't ever sell yourself cheap.
Another day, another phonecall. The man shook his head as he hung up the payphone. He liked to take calls at payphones - in an age of convenience and, more importantly, surveillance, a payphone was an innocuous choice and it meant people were rarely late. If he told them to call *x* payphone at *n* time, they'd call. Rule two: Be careful and precise.
He lit a cigarette in the phonebooth, dark sunglasses letting him observe the crowds rushing around the busy city centre. To him, they looked like ants, scurrying around with their busy lives. To him, any normal life was a thing to be observed, critiqued, mocked.
His own life was far simpler. Or more complex, depending on the angle you viewed it from. His working life was about completion. His targets and bonuses were around one goal. His 9-5 about training, stalking, executing. Rule three: Research and know your target.
His business was death, and business was good.
The hitman had been doing this for a long time. Long enough to know there is a price on every man's head. Long enough to know that no one dies for free. Long enough to be the best, or one of them. Which meant, of course, his price was high. Two hundred thousand dollars a hit, rising in doubles for riskier or higher profile targets.
He had killed doctors, lawyers, lovers, fighters, escorts, strippers, judges, policemen, politicians, leaders. One thing was the same. He had never killed a man for less than his price. *At least*, he thought, *not since the first.*
He'd been an ex-military washout, desperate for work. He'd looked everywhere, travelling state to state in an attempt to pick up jobs as a security guard or bodyguard. Overnight stays in shanty towns and campsites, rubbing shoulders with the homeless and the degenerate. Things had gotten desperate, and a man had tried to take his food. That was his first kill. He'd gotten him in his sleep. No one suspected a thing. Another man had been his rival, and paid the hitman a hundred dollars. That was his first hit, and ever since his price had been high.
Then he'd found it.
It was simple really. Laughably so. On one of his many properties there was a small purple box wrapped like a cartoon gift, a pink ribbon bow tied around the top. Left on the doorstep of the back porch. At first, the hitman had been tempted to throw it away. It could have been a bomb, a deterrent, a threat. Anything.
But for some reason, some insane reason, he'd taken it inside.
He couldn't have told you why. He couldn't have told himself why. The obscenely cutesy gift, a child-like idea of what a gift should look like. It sat on his metallic table worktop, garishly out of place amongst the guns and knives littered in his apartment.
He'd opened it after some consideration, his fingers neatly undoing the bow and chuckling at the care someone had put into this. Perhaps it was because he'd never received a gift, merely saw them in cartoons. Perhaps it was the feeling it gave him: an excited, giddy rise in his belly that threatened to compromise everything he'd worked so hard to contain.
Inside had been a note, handwritten in the untidy scrawlings of a child. Alongside the note was a crumpled ten dollar bill and coins. He added them up slowly. They totalled $13.42. Added to the scruffy bill that was just over twenty dollars. He laid out the money on the table and turned back to the note.
*Mister* It said.
*I think you can help me i have a problem and i think you can help me*
The hitman looked around, his empty apartment chilly. He almost felt embarrassed to be reading the note. It was as if eyes were on him, knowing his lizard-like slits should not be cast across something as innocent as a child's note. Almost guiltily, he continued.
*My daddy is a bad man. He hurts my mommy and he hurts me some nights he comes in my room and he tells me he loves me and hurts me in the bad way. mommy cries alot. she tells me well run away but then he always comes back.*
*Mister. I live near you and ive seen you soemtimes. i know u hide but ive seen your guns.*
*Please mister. I saved all my money that mommy tries to give me. my daddy takes it away to buy more bottles but i hided some.*
*Please mister my daddy needs to go away. he says he is gonna kill my mommy and ill be his new woman when i growed up. he says hes gonna put a baby in me but thats silly im a kid i cant have a baby. i dont want a baby mister.*
*here is all my money mister. i know you make people disappereah. please make my daddy disappere.*
*we live at 31 Oakfelt drive, autumn boulevard. daddy comes home late every night and works in the city. he is a teacher.*
The hitman put the letter down, blinking back tears. He traced the lazy scrawl of the girls handwriting with the tip of his finger, imagining her writing it. Desperate, rushed. It would have been neater, he could tell, if she'd not been so afraid. The dots were absent, the curvature of her writing tilted right down as though she'd been writing flat-out. Against the clock, sort to speak.
She was against the clock, he understood that. She was probably waiting for him to visit her room again, her tiny body shaking in fear as she wrote this plea to him.
He shook his head, sitting down on his leather sofa. It had cost him ten thousand dollars, that sofa. A luxury easily afforded due to his rules. Rule one: Don't sell yourself cheap. A life was worth two hundred grand, minimum.
He thought of her letter. He picked it back up and looked at it for a long time, staring at the foot of the page.
*Love from Melissa.*
*P.s dont worry i wont tell. i dont want a daddy anyway. daddys are mean*
The hitman found his fist clenching, the paper crumpling in his hand. Tears gathered in his face and he stared at the last few words, hastily scribbled out by the girl. He noticed dark blotches on the paper, where tears had fallen and been stained forever into the sheet.
He thought back to his own father, a ghost of a man who was neither here nor there, ever-scornful and frightening but so often absent that the man had grown old thinking his father might have been imagined, rather than real.
He thought back to this desperate little girl, scrounging scraps of change to try and pay him.
Rule number one: Don't sell yourself cheap.
A kill might have been worth two hundred grand to the hitman he thought to himself. But, as he sat and read the note one last time, *some kills are worth more than money.*
No more rule number one. This time, the job cost $23.42. This time, the job would be worth that young girl's life.
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(Edit: Wow, thanks for the gold kind sir, you've made my day! Glad you all liked it - I've always enjoyed writing and I'm now getting more serious about it so hopefully there will be plenty more from me, and possibly this hitman, in the near future.)
(Edit part two: I'm absolutely floored by your responses and thanks for the gold again. It's amazing to have entertained you all.)
(PART TWO IS HERE. I may have rushed it but I don't care you guys deserve this for the amazing response you've given me. Part three will be later in the week but this gives some closure. I'm going to turn this into a series. http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/breaking-rule-two-short-fiction-part-two/
PART THREE: http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/implementing-rule-three-part-three-short-fiction/
PART FOUR: http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/establishing-target-part-four-short-fiction/
PART FIVE: http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/purging/
PART SIX: http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/circumstances-change-part-six/
PART SEVEN: http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/mansion-part-7-short-fiction/
PART EIGHT (The end): http://thecagedtype.co.uk/writing/warehouse-part-8-short-fiction/
NOTE TO CURRENT READERS: There's now an eBook version out priced at $0.99, it's still free on my blog so this is mainly just a helping me out kind of fee. You can buy it at this link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hitman-Rose-Craig-Thomas-Boyle-ebook/dp/B00OA0379C/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1412778474&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Hitman+and+the+Rose
Part eight is the end guys. This has been fantastic and a great way to get my writing out to the world. Please keep following me either on my blog, on facebook or on /r/groundfighterwrites. Hope you enjoyed it!
To keep track of updates and send me suggestions please follow either my author page at: https://www.facebook.com/CraigThomasBoyle/
or subscribe to /r/groundfighterwrites)
| 2,546 | A world class contract killer finds an envelope at his dead drop. Inside are $23.42 in small change and a letter hand-written by a 9-year-old girl. | 2,237 |
"Aaaaaaand, once again you are listening to Radio RWRD. Radio Weird! It is, oh... 2 in the morning, and we are going to go to the phones. Caller 1, you are on the air!"
"Hey Pat, I just wanted to call in to let you know about these strange lights I'm seeing over my house. They l-... k like airpl-... -ut they aren't, I know it! I..." The line was bursting with static.
And the line went dead...
"Caller 1, are you there? Hmm, must have been those pesky UFOs! Well, let's hit caller... 3! Why not? Caller 3, you're on the air!"
There was a bit more static, but it cleared after caller 3 went on.
"Am I on? Pat... it's me, Pat! I know it sounds crazy, but I'm you dude. Seriously, listen up. Take me off the air, turn this into a private call or something."
"Hahaha, oh man. What will you guys think of next? Great idea caller 3. Here, let me roll with this for a second. I'll see what "Pat" has to say, and let you all know after. Stick around!"
I was a little apprehensive about switching to a private call, but I figure it was just a freaky prank call, no big deal.
"Ok, caller 3. You're, uh, off the air. Haha. Seriously, is this Frank? C'mon, don't freak me out like that. It's 2 am!"
"Pat, seriously, this isn't a joke. I'm *you*. I'll prove it. In Kindergarten, remember when you picked up the scissors on the table, and decided to cut some of the hair off the girl in front of you? You had decided to do it, but at the last second, you pulled away. But then that little shit, uh... what was his name?"
I had started to feel very sick to my stomach. I'm sure my skin was white, and I felt a chill from nowhere, and everywhere. "You mean... Chris?"
"Right, Chris! That little shit, he grabbed the scissors, cut part of her hair, then threw them back at you. You got the blame for that. Remember? No one knows about that, but you."
"How the... who the fuck are you, man?"
"I'm you! From your last life. Listen, I don't really know how long we've got so hush up and I'll tell you a fun, little secret. 4, 7, 15, 25, 59. The mega number is 3."
"The mega... are you telling me lottery numbers!?"
"Hell ya, why not? Listen, man. When you die, you just reset, you go back to square one. I just figured I'd break the rules, and give my future self some money for a change."
"But how did you-"
"Can't tell you. But you'll find out. Some of the people who call into RWRD are out there, batshit in sane, but *some* of these people? They have it aaaaaallllllll figured out. Listen to them, and you'll be able to do what I've done. Promise." | 24 | Time is a flat circle. When you die, you are reborn as yourself to live the same life over and over again. This applies to everything in the universe, and the universe itself. That is, until someone, somehow, finds a way to leave themself a message from a past life. | 70 |
Years had passed since the princess had been put under her spell. Cursed to sleep for 10,000 years, alone in the darkness with only her nightmares as company.
Her parents had her placed in an open glass casket, in a room at the top of the northern castle tower, ornately decorated with fresh flowers. Though this was generations ago. The parents she once loved lived their lives and died, never seeing their daughters waking eyes again. As the years passed the families fortunes slowly diminished. It was her great-great-nephew who sold the castle to pay off the family debts.
By this time the princess had long been forgotten, sleeping alone in her tower. Once fresh flowers drooped mournfully over her as layers of dust claimed their surroundings. The old oak door hadn't been disturbed for decades, allowing cobwebs to reclaim the room.
Soon the princess' story turned into myth, then legend. "The sleeping beauty at the top of the castle" was a popular story for children.
"Is it true she can only be awoken by a kiss?"
"By a noble prince no less!"
"How romantic. I'd love to be a princess."
No one ever did find the princess. She stayed alone, aging not a day, in her forgotten tower at the north of the castle.
"I want to find the princess, the one in the stories." Shouted the prince to his father from his castle far, far away. "It will be like a fairytale. I shall save her, and we will be in love. We will marry, and the people will rejoice in our favor."
"Don't be absurd." Came his fathers reply. "Hunting legend will get you killed." He stood up from his throne and gave his son a stern look. "Let me hear no more of this outlandish misadventure. Your place is by my side." So with that, he turned and left the throne room.
The prince had not given up on his hopes of finding the princess. For months he sent out spies to source the castle of the sleeping beauty. Alas, no information returned. he was beginning to doubt his plans himself until a courier arrived with good news. The prince could hardly contain himself. He had a location! 10 months had passed and now he knew the castle was in the neighboring kingdom! "I will leave at dawn!"
Upon the sun breaking the horizon, the prince made way for his unbeknown loves castle. He traveled alone - his father need not know the mission at hand. If he traveled at a steady pace he would arrive at the castle within the week. For days he journeyed on his horse through forests, across rivers, and over the mountain pass. From up there he swore he could see the spires of the castle.
Tired, and fatigued, he rested by a flowing brook. His horse grazed just out of sight, his pack substituted for a comfortable pillow. As he closed his eyes to rest, the sun went suddenly dark. He opened his eyes to see a man standing above him, looking down with the eyes of a man possessed. The two stared intently at each other. The prince began to sweat with fear, not leaving the strangers gaze. He licked his lips and went to speak, but before he had chance a blade appeared from behind the man. He swung from the left and caught the princes throat. Red rained from his throat as blood sprayed across the grass, staining it with the stench of death.
There were no words spoken. As the prince grabbed his neck the man went for his bags. The prince stared at him as he took his wares and disappeared into the sunset on his newly acquired horse before collapsing in a pool of his own blood.
Back in the north tower the sleeping beauty slept. No one was coming for her. For the next millennia she slept, waiting for nobody to come as far away, a skeleton wearing regal clothing rested by a brook. | 25 | Give any Disney story a morbidly depressing ending. The creepier, the better. | 38 |
Warning: Pretty graphic and dark.
_____________________________________________________________
The other kids made fun of his bicycle, pointing at the rusty chain that clicked with every turn, the somewhat bent spokes, and the worn handlebars, but Billy didn't care. The bike did it's job, taking him from home to school, and school to home again. It was hard to keep up with the other older kids who had newer bikes; they were far ahead of him, peddling down the street, sending cries of mockery back at him. He peddled hard to catch up, tasted metal at the back of his throat, and yet they still pushed on ahead of him. Billy settled back down into a slower pace, deciding that he wasn't going to catch them no matter how hard he tried.
His bike chain clicked on as he turned down a road more desolate of houses. A country road that ran between two long cotton fields, with his house a mile or two down.
The air caught in his throat. Down the road, he could see a wall of fog rolling towards him. Billy turned around, the old instructions his mother had told him resurfacing in his mind, *you go right back to the schoolhouse if the fog has already gotten home*. He stopped again, seeing that the road he had came down was already beginning to be swallowed up by the fog.
It was surrounding him.
He looked back down the road, towards his house, and wondered if his bike would be able to take him through the fog safely. He pushed off, slowly picking up speed, his rusty bike chain clicking rapidly with each pedal. He disappeared into the fog, heart fully believing that his bicycle was good enough.
__________________________________________________________
"Son of a bitch," Gabe muttered. He had bought a carjack months ago, knowing full well that he'd eventually need it, and barely found that it didn't even work properly on his truck. "Dammit." He kicked the jack to the side, tire iron still in hand, then leaned against the side of his truck.
His right leg was paining him, the area on the back of his thigh that had been cut years ago twinged, making him almost lose his balance. He tried to stand on it, hoping to stretch out the gap of muscles and bring relief, but all it did was shoot another bolt of torture down his leg and into his calf.
Gabe bit his lip and punched his truck door, causing it to slam shut. He cursed himself and clutched his hand.
A strong breeze of wind blew through his shoulder-length hair, soothing and laden with the smell of rain and soil from the cotton fields lining the road. He looked up to admire the coming rain clouds, then froze as he saw a thick mist heading down the street.
"Oh shit," he said to no one as he limped over to the driver side door. He tugged at the door then nearly fell on his ass when his hand slipped from the handle. He regained his footing then grabbed a hold of the handle again. *Locked.*
Gabe patted himself down for his keys, occasionally glancing down the street. The fog flowed faster, falling towards him like a death sentence. He switched from pocket to pocket, patting himself down repeatedly. A quick glance to the fog, then back to the truck, and Gabe felt his innards turn to mush as he saw his keys hanging from the ignition, out of his reach. He looked over to the passenger side door and saw that it was locked as well.
"Oh fuck," he whispered to himself. He was going to be stuck in the fog again. It had lasted three hours the last time he was lost in it. His hand instinctively dropped to his leg, rubbing at the back of his thigh, where his leg had nearly been torn off the last time he was lost in the fog.
"Jesus help me," he said as he steadied himself to break the driver-side window with the tire iron. He swung hard but lost all the power of his swing when his leg twitched from under him, the blow of the tire iron missing the window completely and putting a dent into his door.
He prepped another swing, but stopped dead in his tracks as the fog rolled past him, encasing him. He figured that the best thing he could do was stand still. Breaking his window now and causing so much noise would surely bring them down upon him.
There was chirping, and clicking, and groaning, all surrounding him. He heard them moving around in the cotton field. Straining his eyes to see did him no good. They moved around stealthily in the fog, marking their target, coming back to finish the job and take his leg, and so much more from him.
There was more clicking, and buzzing, and flapping overhead. He heard scampering to the side of the road. Something crashed into the side of his truck, rocking it against him, causing him to fall out into the street. The tire iron fell out of his hands and into what looked like the middle of the street.
Whimpering, Gabe crawled to it. He grabbed it again, then used it to help stand himself up. He held it close to his chest, against his pounding heart. There was more clicking, all around him. They knew he was there, could probably smell the piss running down his leg.
He heard the clicking and buzzing zoom in and out, closer, then further away.
*Toying with me,* he thought, hands tightening around the tire iron.
He heard clicking again, this time coming rapidly towards himself.
*I'm not going out without a fight.*
He squared his feet, being sure to put most of his weight on his good leg, and listened intently. The clicking grew louder and louder, and he could hear it breathing, *breathing*!
Gabe waited and braced himself until it was almost upon him, and then clenched his eyes shut and swung with all his might. The tire iron connected, creating a crunchy wet pop. The force of the blow rocked Gabe back on his heels, then took him down to the ground. The metal resonated in the thick fog, a loud ping, sounding exactly the same as a baseball colliding with bat. There was a loud crash of something falling to the ground, and Gabe fell down with it.
"*Home-run motherfucker*!" Gabe yelled, picking himself up off the road, ignoring the pain in his leg.
He turned to look at his kill, only to see a young boy laying on the road before him, head caved in.
Before Gabe could register what had happened, something shoved him down onto the pavement next to the boy and began to tear into his back. He screamed in agony, trying his best to roll away, but whatever it was pinned him to the road. It ripped away at his shirt, punctured his skin, and poked what felt like knives between his ribs.
Gabe slowly blacked out to the sound of his lungs being ripped out of his own chest, and the sight of the boy laying next to him, an eye hanging out of the sunken in socket, resting on the cheek, watching Gabe be torn apart.
| 42 | Mostly cloudy, slight chance of rain, and an afternoon fog. Remember to stay indoors until the fog clears. If you're exposed to the fog, stay still. Shut your eyes. Hope for the best. | 83 |
George turned the key over and over between his grizzled fingers, their tips dyed yellow from years of nicotine addiction. The key itself was nothing special; just a hunk of key-shaped pig iron he'd kept for the last 75 years.
He was nearly 90 now and detested getting old. He hated the constant ache in his hips and knees, that haunting feeling of forgetting something important, the embarrassment of wetting himself with every sneeze, the empty spot in his bed where only a few years ago, his wife had slept next to him... For him, this was hell, watching his independence and self control slip through his fingers like sand. But what hurt the most, more than any physical pain could hurt, was looking into his son's eyes, and watching him watch his father wither away to a husk.
George raised the key to eye level, tracing the familiar scars in the iron. His memory had turned to shit but he could still recall the day his grandmother had handed him the key. "Georgie," she had said with her slight southern tilt. "You will need this one day." She handed him the key, strung with leather before leaning back in her seat, sunlight flooding the parlor.
He never found out what she meant by the time she died, or even by the time his parents had passed. But he still kept the key around his neck, feeling it get heavier with every passing year.
But now...
An odd letter had been delivered to him at the nursing home. The paper felt as thin and as old as him, the ink nearly illegible. But once he managed to decipher the letters, recognition struck him. The letter contained only one sentence. An address.
So George snuck out of the nursing home, which ruffled his feathers the slightest. Him, a grown man having to sneak out like a teenager? But he managed to do so without getting caught and flagged down a cab.
Now George sat in the city's oldest graveyard, eyeing the key in his hands, before a sharp pain struck him in the chest. He leaned over, clutching his breast. After a moment that felt like an eternity, the pain subdued to a minor ache and he unsteadily stood up. He was aware that he was experiencing a heart attack, and that meant his time was (finally) at an end.
He started to walk past the headstones he had sat in front of, silently saying goodbye to his family buried under them, letting his hand brush against the stone of his wife's before stumbling past, towards the mausoleum.
The letter had said '#25' and he found the heavy wooden door easily. George pushed against it... and it didn't budge. He frowned and took a step back, inspecting it before he noticed the keyhole under the knob. He withdrew the key from his pocket, wondering if this was the reason he'd held onto such a useless object for so many years. He slid the key into the lock, holding his breath as he turned it.
The lock clicked and the door opened slightly.
George laughed aloud, pushing the door the rest of the way, suddenly exhilarated to know what it was all for. The room was dark and stifling, the smell of dust overwhelming-
George cried out, leaning into the door heavily as another wave of pain shot through him, stronger than before. He kept still for a moment, trying to catch his breath when he looked up. Between the moonlight and his eyes adjusting to the dark, he was now able to see what waited for him in the room.
A coffin.
Through the pain, George laughed, shaking his head as he took one, two, three unsteady steps toward it, the door slowly starting to close now. "You were right, Grandmother." He mumbled, using the last of the light to reach it, opening the lid as the pain intensified. He climbed in, slowly in the dark as the door clicked closed once more. He laid in the coffin, folding his hands over his chest. "I would need this." | 13 | 75 years ago, a child was given an iron key by his grandmother. After all this time, he has finally discovered what it opens. | 16 |
"So you're saying the computer has a malfunction?"
"Yes that's right, a while ago it just stopped doing work. We opened its enclosure to check on the processor, and we just found it sitting silently on its rest pad, not working."
"Most disturbing."
"Very. We found that it had only been using a small fraction of its fuel pellets. The rest were just scattered around the enclosure. We thought that was the problem at first, but forcibly inserting the pellets only worsened the situation."
"What's that noise?"
"You mean that low keening?"
"Yes! It's distracting.”
“It's coming from the enclosure. The computer started emitting it some time after we tried inserting the fuel pellets. It starts and stops at random intervals. It's not a hardware fault, that's why we called you."
"I see. Well, I'm not an expert in this kind of computer programming. I'm more used to dealing with actual people like you and me. Do you have the designer on hand?"
"Hm, well, it doesn't have a designer. Not one we can access anyway. This is one of the designs we received from the Visitor."
"The antecedant!?"
"Yes. We can't quite work out how he managed to get himself into interplanetary space, he's more like an animal than a sentient being, but he was carrying instructions for some amazingly advanced technology."
"So, I suppose meeting the designer is out of the question. What do you know about the construction?"
"The designs we found on the Visitor were for a self replicating nanite of sorts, a complex molecule that self assembles into a fully functional quantum computer. They're blindingly fast and remarkably efficient. I ate more for breakfast than this thing burns in a week, though the hydrocarbons do have to be structured in the right way or it breaks down."
“I can tell this is going to be a challenge.”
“Yes, we're quite flummoxed. This way please.”
…
“Did you get anything?”
“I think I've discovered the cause of the problem.”
“That's excellent.”
“I compared your unit's readings to its base state, and I noticed that there seems to be a chemical imbalance in the computer core's substrate.”
“A small chemical imbalance is causing this?”
“Yes, you see this area of the diagram? It seems this part here is responsible for all the computational work.”
“That's the computation unit? We thought it was just a heat sink.”
“No, that's where the actual work is done. The rest of the unit is just for fuel processing and waste extraction. I've also discovered a micro-manufactury within the unit itself.”
“Are you saying the computer -which self assembles in the first place- can also produce new computers directly?”
“Yes that's exactly what I'm saying.”
“That's genius! It's economically stupid, but the implementation is genius.”
“Yes, quite.”
“But what about the problem with this unit?”
“Oh, I've made a list of chemicals to introduce to it, they should remove the imbalance without affecting computational power. Just mix them with the fuel pellets or inject it into the fluid system.”
"Well, I don't know quite what to say. Thank you very much."
"Don't mention it, though I must say I'm looking forward to getting back to work on my normal electronic patients. It may be advanced, but that chemical unit back there gave me the creeps."
…
The food tasted differently today. Not better, not worse, she had no concepts for good or bad and no reference for comparison. After swallowing the brown cylinder she looked back at the slot on the entrance to her enclosure, no more food was coming today, she wouldn't eat until tomorrow.
After a few minutes of boredom she wiped the dampness from her eyes and lay back on her hard bed looking up at the screen covered in dancing brightly coloured shapes, hanging two feet above her. She began to recognise the patterns that appeared in the bright shapes, but she didn't feel like touching the patterns to point them out. She just watched - until a spark fired from the walls of the room, reaching across to touch her skin and causing her to yelp in pain. She better touch the patterns today after all she decided. | 11 | A renowned psychiatrist receives a desperate call to a military bunker, where he is requested to treat the world's most advanced quantum computer for depression. | 21 |
Super powers are tricky little devils. Each one bestowed on a human is chosen at random, but often represents a certain aspect of their personality. Super-speed to those that thing in terms of time, and how much they have. Strength for protection or iron will. Camouflage for the meek and shy. Flying to the dreamers. It's almost a rite of passage now, to obtain your own super powers.
But, when it first began, when we finally found something that makes people have super human powers. We didn't expect it to be so. . . Clusterfucky.
The way to obtain super powers is about as convoluted as the IRS, and twice as picky. The person who wishes to obtain a super-power must complete the most idiotic, weird ritual ever devised on this planet. The gaining of the super power is rather simple. An alien slug is inserted into the base of the spine, and melds with our brains. Simple, right?
Wrong.
The only people with these slugs are hippies. They expect the worst sort of things from you. Do a barrel roll, twist on your foot, hop on one foot and caw like a baboon while eating a banana. Slice a watermelon in half and carve it into a helmet. Then wear it.
How is it that these hippies have a monopoly on these damn slugs? I'll tell you. Only they know how to harvest and preserve them from space to Earth. None of the corporations have figured it out. The hippies say it's love and positive energy. I think they bathe the aliens in acid and seal em in pressurized containers.
Superpowers are great, but sometimes the way to acquire them is beyond humiliating.
What's mine?
X-Ray vision. . . I had to kiss a seal. | 15 | We finally found something that makes people have superhuman powers. Although we didn't expect it be quite so... | 16 |
*The Captain always goes down with the starship*.
That's the price, y'see. The Order warned me that this would happen. Just as they warned me about the inevitable flood of memories that'll start when the reality sinks in. But that's just words. They pass on dry facts, not the raw impact of the situation.
Right now, I can feel the passengers abandoning ship. They don't know anything more than what the Order stewards are telling them. Mechanical malfunction, ship in distress, get to the lifeboats. Yes, another cruiser is nearby. Yes, rescue is on the way. No, you cannot go back to your cabin.
It's true, that mechanical malfunction. From a certain point of view. Ahh, there's a reason we love those movies.
*Solar Glory* and I are old, old friends. Older than most of our passengers realize. I was barely nineteen when I stowed away on that first liner. I thought I was so smart. I did the calculations and figured out that no-one ever went to the lower decks, or if they did, they spent so little time there that they obviously didn't search it. So therefore, I reasoned, I could hide out in there and hitch a free starship ride.
Hah. There's a reason no-one goes to the lower decks. Well, almost no-one. That's where you find out the truth about the starships. I found out in a dimly-lit bay when the newly created organo-metallic lifeform latched onto me as its Captain.
They're alive. All of them. All seven hundred and thirty-two Starships that ply the lanes between the Colonies. People think they're machines, and the plans available on the info-nets are full of impressive technological calculations. They're a source of pride for Humanity - We Made This. Except we didn't.
It's all a front. The Order keeps it secret. They were dying - hunted almost to extinction by the aggressive Pannach. They found us, and we hid them. We hid them well. We gave them metal shells. We ensured they would never travel alone. We built an interstellar trade network and lied to a trillion people, all to keep them safe.
But biological machines age. We creak, we groan, we break. We die.
Three hundred years ago, I didn't know that. All I knew was that my clever hiding place in the ductwork was discovered and there was an alien *something* that could peer into my mind.
*<Joy, Joy. Happiness. Eager.>*
*<Yeah, we were kid, weren't we? Took us a bit to understand each other.>*
*<Rueful Acknowledgement>*
I ran from an alien being that I could almost feel breathing down my neck. Every time I stopped, I could sense it was behind me. I could hear it in my mind. I was a sobbing wreck when the Order finally found me, and I was ashamed of it. Later on, I found out that was a typical reaction to a Bonding.
The Master of the Chapter gave me a dressing-down and then inducted me into their ranks as a Captain. When the ships are born, there is an instant bond between the newborn and a nearby human. But they're terrible at telling people apart, and I just happened to be crawling through a duct that put me closer than the Order representative they had groomed for the position.
That's how I became Captain of a Starship. Every voyage, the kids inevitably ask me how. I tell them it's hard work and long hours at the Academy. But really it's a matter of being in the right place and the right time.
*<Nervous Anticipation. Query: Sorrow/Anger?>*
*<I am happy for you,* Solar Glory*, I really am. Old memories. We get emotional over them a lot.>*
Three hundred years of the universe's best friend. *Glory* is the one confidant - the one person in the entire cosmos whom I could tell anything and everything. A mate who not only knows how you think, but can see you thinking.
We've shipped so many families around the galaxy - from newlyweds to elderly couples. I've never married another human myself, but I...I can relate to their descriptions of a soulmate. Of a being who you know is always there for you, and you will be always there for them.
There was that lovely pair from the Procyon Habitats who were on a retirement cruise. *Glory* and I spent an hour listening as they told me of their years together. I must have let recognition show on my face, and at the end of the talk, the wife told me I was very lucky to have someone I obviously loved so deeply.
That soaring splendor of true commitment is what I feel with *Solar Glory* every day.
Even today. *Especially today*
The star Cygnus-55 burns brightly ahead of us. We're going to impact in another sixteen hours. *Glory* has shut down her engines for the final time. Her heart has given it's final beat, the biological mechanism fallen prey to the malfunction called Old Age.
We won't be sun-skimming like the early Adrenaline Tours days. No basking like our time under the colors of Solar Vacations. We're going to hit it. Both of us. Together.
It'll be fast and clean. There'll be no betraying corpse for the Pannach to find.
Sixteen hours is a long time, even at the end of three hundred years. I should easily have enough time to stroll on down to the launch bay on Deck Five and take the last shuttle off. But I can't. That's the price. I cannot physically leave the ship.
*Glory* and I are neurally intertwined. I leave her, and we both shut down. IF I'm not brought back on board within twelve hours, then the damage is permanent, and we both die. Not that I want to anyway. There is no way I would ever want to miss this exact moment.
*<Attention, Attention. Look!>*
I flip up the screens to show a dark cavern in our lower decks. The Order is there, and their chosen is standing in front of the Child-Pod. The new Captain looks nervous. She's got the shaven head of a new recruit, and the tattoos betray her as someone much like I was - a runaway that no-one would miss.
The pod splits open, and the silvery mass of a newborn ship tumbles out. It's about the size of a large dog right now - a vaguely slug-like thing. The Order is already attaching the nutrient packs as the new Captain sinks to her knees and begins weeping.
The bond has been made, and through *Glory* I can feel the whispered edges of the newborn child's eager conversation with it's new partner. I smile to an empty Command Deck, and *Glory* gives a pleasurable twitch.
Forewarned, I'm able to switch the view fast enough to watch a rich-list passenger cease arguing with an Order steward and make a beeline for the closest lifepod as the ship quakes around him.
I can both see the Cygnus Navy ship coming alongside, as well as sense it's metallic hull. *Thackeron* is its name, and *Glory* relays our sincere thanks as it extends a boarding tube to take the Child and its Captain aboard. They'll spend the next few decades growing before the final shell is fitted, and the fleet will "build" another Starship.
*Thackeron* moves away, precious cargo aboard, and I feel the final wrench as the last pod leaves. Everybody bar one is now away. It'll take the Order another carefully scripted twenty hours to "discover" that I never made it a lifepod.
But that's OK. There's nowhere else I can be....and nowhere else I want to be.
After all, the Captain always goes down with the Starship.
| 25 | The captain always goes down with the star ship. | 29 |
In a faraway land, in a house by the sea, lived a tall handsome man and his daughters three. The daughters were happy, they looked after their Dad, but since the death of their mother, he had been quite sad. But one day he came home and gathered them round, "Darlings, it happened, a wife I have found!"
His kids were quite happy that he'd found a lover; "at last," they all though, "we'll have a mother". So the father arranged for the wife to move in; the daughters were happy, it seemed quite a win. At last the day came when they'd finally meet and the mother was beautiful, from her head to her feet.
"Hello," She started, "My little ones, I'd like you to meet, all of my sons!" The daughters were shocked, appalled and quite scared, for this influx of boys they were quite unprepared!
First arrived one, tall and red haired, the daughters were worried if not overly scared. Next came a fellow round and quite jolly, his face was all sweaty and dripped like a lolly. The third son was tall and dressed like a minister but they feeling he gave off was really quite sinister.
The daughters were angry and really quite sad, so they gathered themselves and went to their Dad. “Father,” they cried “This is a surprise, why did you mention all of these guys?”
“My daughters, my angels, please don’t cry at me, sort yourselves out this is how it will be! Where once we were four, now we are eight, this isn’t a bad thing, in fact it is great! I know it is hard but you have to trust adapt, this isn’t a trick and no one is trapped – if you feel very sad you just don’t have to stay, you’re all old enough and you can go away!”
The daughters were shocked at their fathers demand; this wasn’t the way that this meeting was planned! So they packed their bags and went from their home, they found a new house and they lived alone. They spend many days distraught on the floor until they heard a loud knocking on their front door.
In came the first son, tall and red haired, the daughters were silent and just sat and stared. “I’m sorry, he started, please do not hate me, we’re really quite nice and we’ll just let you be.” The daughters were softened and let him speak out but when he had spoken they started to shout. “Your mother and you have stolen our Dad, we won’t forgive you, we think you are bad.”
So the first son left, but soon came the second, perhaps even fatter, or so they reckoned. “Ladies please hear me,” the glutton began “I want to be friends but may I use your can?" They threw him out then, his argument moot, and they had no desire to hear him toot.
At last came the third, the sinister minister, tall and dark haired, with truth to administer. “Ladies, sisters please do not cry, I’m here to return you to home and here’s why. Our families merged, now we must concede, that our lives have all changed and so I’m here to plead. We can forge a family, a grouping anew, I’ll work to be less sinister for you. Let’s be friends, you'll soon come to see that we can be siblings - sons, daughters each three.
The sisters were swayed by this line of thought so they packed up their bags, only slightly distraught. They returned to their home and with nerves made of steel, they made the best of it though it wasn’t ideal. It took time and patience but no more did they roam and all eight of them lived in their big family home.
*****
EDIT: Not a fairytale so much as I didn't include the fantasy elements that are normally present but I felt a modern fairly tale might go slightly more realistic while still retaining the dramatic edge and, of course, evil asshole parents. | 11 | Write a modern fairytale on a contemporary issue | 15 |
"Have you been taking your pills?" Rob asked. He had a small dish rag draped over his shoulder. He was bouncing his leg in and out as he did the dishes, that same nervous tick he always did whenever they got on the subject of her medication. He didn't turn to look at her, signaling her that he really wasn't in the mood to go into it today.
She stood from the kitchen table, grabbing her plate full of food that she had barely touched. Pamela emptied it into the wastebasket, wondering if she had it in her to lie to Rob today, or if the truth would sort of fall out of her lips like a drip of water from a leaky faucet.
"I think," she said, setting down the plate.
"You need to remember to take it," Rob said, not bothering to look at her.
"I'll go count my pills, just to make sure." She placed a hand on his shoulder, standing up on her tip-toes to give him a kiss on his cheek, but she stopped partway on her toes. Instead, she let go, and walked away from him, hoping that he didn't notice anything.
Rob didn't say anything as she left the kitchen. She think she heard him sigh, but it could've been the hallucinations coming back, signs that the medicine was finally leaving her system.
She made her way up the stairs, down the hallway lined with pictures of her and Rob. Most of them from their wedding, a couple from times out with friends. All of them were old, more than three or four years. There weren't any pictures of them together after she started having her symptoms. Started hearing noises, starting seeing shadows in the corners of her eyes, started waking up not knowing where she was.
On one morning she had found a man in her closet. Well, she didn't actually see him, but she knew he was standing there, watching her through the slits in the door. She knew he held a long rusty chain in his hands that were stained with motor oil. His breath smelled of chewing tobacco, sweet and acrid at the same time, filling the bedroom with a stench that Rob had said he couldn't smell.
She entered her bedroom, eyes immediately going to the closet door, sensing the presence of the man with the chain. She could hear him breathing, deep sighing breaths full of desire. The chains he held clinked together as he shifted his footing. She braced herself, waiting for him to burst through the door and finally strangle her with the chain.
But he never did. Sitting on her end-table was another man. He wore a button down shirt that he occasionally changed; today's was red. His hair was kind of long and messy, but on certain days, depending on how much medicine she had been taking, he would comb and clean it. Today it was parted to the side.
He didn't say anything during the day, instead he just had his eyes focused on the closet door, watching the man with the chain. He was her guardian, her forever protector. He shifted on the end-table.
"You can sit on the edge of the bed," Pamela said, "it's probably much more comfortable than on the table."
Her guardian didn't say anything, he only smiled at her. He was feeling much better now. The medicine was making him sick. Was making him weak. When she had first started taking it, he became ragged, weak, clothes stained with sweat as if it took everything he had just to remain tangible. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were red with exhaustion.
The man in the closet, though, his presence never faltered. Instead, she felt him grow stronger, knowing full well that her guardian was growing weak. *Vulnerable.* Her guardian never said anything to her, but she knew it was the medicine, knew it was sapping the life out of him.
So she stopped taking her medicine in hopes it would bring vigor back to her guardian, and it did. The man in the closet was held at bay for many more nights.
"He hasn't moved any, has he?" She asked.
Her guardian looked to her, blue eyes locking with her browns. He smiled again and shook his head.
"Do you ever talk any?"
He shrugged.
"What is your name? Can you at least tell me that?"
He didn't respond. Instead he broke their eye contact to continue focusing on the closet door, as if the only thing that was keeping the door shut was his concentration.
Later that night, while Pamela and Rob lay sleeping, she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. She didn't wake with a fright; she instantly knew it was her guardian.
"Jim," he said. Then he pulled the blanket up over her exposed shoulder, then sat back onto the end-table, ever vigilant.
The next morning, Rob found her pills, still filling the orange prescription bottle to the brim. He shook his head, wondering why she would ever stop taking them.
Later in the day he contacted their doctor, told him that Pam wasn't taking her pills, and was given a prescription for a liquid variant of the medicine. It would be easy to mix it into her food and drink, guaranteeing that she would be getting her dose. | 47 | A schizophrenic falls in love with one of her hallucinations. | 132 |
"Look at them all, stumbling around, bumping into one another. Makes us thankful we're in here." Charlie snickered while stacking the shelves. I snorted and followed him down the aisle. "I mean like - you used to be one of them, remember?"
I did, I remember it all too well. I couldn't stop thinking about *it* when I was infected. It took a while, but my family soon enough got me to come around. It took a while, there was some violence but no one was seriously hurt.
"Yeah, I remember." I laughed, "So thankful I'm not anymore. You know how much of my life couldn't been wasted away? Ridiculous!" We both began to laugh as we continued down the aisle. As we continued, however, we heard a grunt behind us.
"Here's a freak now!" Charlie whispered.
We both turned slowly to see a teenage girl in the middle of the aisle, holding the small device in front of her, tapping it in the lower center and then beginning to mash her thumbs onto it periodically. She then began to stagger towards us, not looking where she was going. After a few minutes of her 'browsing' at the items she soon passed us and didn't say a word.
After she passed Charlie looked at me, "Damn phones turning people into lifeless shells." | 48 | An outbreak turns people into zombies, but they continue to lead fairly normal lives. | 49 |
Malina Malfoy picked her way over the mildew-covered stones. Her wand emitted a brilliant point of light that did little to illuminate the dark tunnel. A free hand pawed aimlessly at the space in front of her, checking for unseen obstacles that the young witch might stumble over. There were rumors of a wicked creature in this secret place--a basilisk. Malina shivered at the thought but pushed it to the back of her mind. She had a bet to win and Slytherin bets were serious business.
Gradually, the tunnel opened up to reveal a large ante-chamber. Tepid water lapped lazily at a stone walkway in the center. Spanning the room on both walls were stone statues of viper heads. The familiar site gave the witch a little relief, for it signified the possibility that the chamber was truly built by Salazar Slytherin. She continued to move forward, squinting against the contrast of her conjured light and the oppressive darkness. If she was to proceed, there must be more.
"Lumos," Malina dared to whisper. She extended her wand and a glimmering globe shot to the ceiling of the chamber. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did, Malina gasped.
A figure sat cross-legged at the terminus of the walkway, just in front of a foreboding stone sculpture of a face. The creature wore tattered robes. It's hair and beard were long and tangled together in a matted mess. Mottled, gray skin covered emaciated limbs. Malina screwed up her face in disgust and pointed her wand at the monster.
"Light," replied the monstrosity in a voice that sounded like old parchment being crinkled. "I have not seen light in many years."
"Stay back!" Malina cried. "I know the killing curse."
Light gleamed over something on the thing's face as it rose shakily to it's feet. Eyeglasses? Malina's eyes widened. It was a man!
"Go ahead," said the hermit. "You'd be doing me a favor."
"What--who are you?" Malina asked, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. She kept the tip of her wand trained on the stranger.
"Slytherin!" The man rasped. He shuffled further.
The spells came almost precisely at the same time, but the learned wizard-hermit had the faster hand.
"Avada Kedavra!" "Expelliarmus!"
Malina winced as her hand went numb and her wand was sent spinning. The hawthorn wood instrument made a small noise as it hit the water and slipped into the murky depths. The young witch cast about for something to use as a weapon, but fear overrode any reasoning ability.
The man stepped closer still and his tatters were revealed to be Gryffindor robes. He cocked his head to the side.
"Answer me one question," groaned the hermit.
Malina swallowed nervously and begun to back away. "Q-question?"
"Yes," seethed the advancing man. "Voldemort--does he live?"
Malina stopped in surprise, suddenly realizing how long the wizard must have been trapped in the chamber. The reply temporarily emboldened her. "Of course our dark Lord lives. There were those that doubted--fools who believed in prophecy, but they fell at the hands of the death eaters!"
A ferocious, anguish-laden roar escaped the man's atrophied lungs. He leapt forward in a mindless rage.
Malina needed no further bidding. The young Slytherin turned tail and fled down the tunnel, terror fueling her flight. As she stumbled blindly back towards Hogwarts, she was assaulted by a cacophony of wails and sobs, all of which echoed along the halls of the chamber of secrets.
| 53 | Harry Potter got stuck in the Chamber of Secrets after killing the basilisk. Years later he is discovered by another young wizard and Harry is a deranged hermit. | 109 |
"Jesus...."
Captain Cooper had been on the force for 25 years now, and he thought he'd seen it all. But nothing like this. Cars lay crumpled like discarded tissues all along the freeway, and here and there he could see where the barriers had given way as a vehicle careened off the road and into the canyon below. Medics picked their way carefully through the rubble, looking for the dead and distributing 1-up mushrooms to any survivors they found. There were disturbingly few of those.
Things had been easy in the Kingdom over the last few years, but it hadn't always been that way. This new disaster had come alarmingly close to a spate of other incidents, and it troubled him. Even that fire at the mall last week seemed strange. It was an accident, they said; someone had knocked over some candles in the day spa. But still, the last time he'd seen a building go up that quickly was when they were finding fire flowers being dealt on the streets... Of course, no-one at the station listened to him; the Bad Times were over, had been for ten years, and they were not to be spoken about. God, how he hoped they were right.
"Sir?..." Cooper jumped. Officer Gumb had managed to sneak up on him again. "Sir, we have the reports in from the forensics boys... They say this is something new."
"I can see that, Gumb." He sighed "Do they have *any* idea what happened?"
"Well, yes, sir. Quite serendipitous, actually. They said they found one match; the thing used here has the same signatures as something recovered from a cargo ship last night. The toad mafia were trying to smuggle it in from Italy..." He checked a note on his clipboard "The toads were calling it a Power Star." Fuck. Now Cooper was surprised there were any survivors at all. Power Stars had been rare, even in the Bad Times, and Cooper had hoped they were gone for good. Only the top people knew about their existence.
"Gumb, I want extra men on the perimeter. No-one gets in or out without my permission, understand?" Gumb nodded. "And none of this gets to the press. Tell them we're looking into it, but we think a drunk fell asleep at the wheel... Shit, I don't know; just tell them something."
"Got it." Gumb scribbled down the instructions.
"Did we at least get a look at the bastard?"
"From what I can gather, Mushroom Squads were dispatched within five minutes of the first report." Cooper nodded; he was glad at least a few people were taking him seriously. "But only two of them made it back, sir..." This was bad. Mushroom officers were a brutal force even before they took the power-ups. "They said they pursued the perp for several miles down the freeway, but he managed to stay ahead of them. He got away on a powerbike sir, Yoshi class." Gumba looked troubled, "And sir... They said he was wearing overalls; blue over a red shirt." Cooper closed his eyes and ran his hand slowly through his hair. Gumba was wide-eyed, "It's him, isn't it, sir?" Cooper nodded. "Is there anything we can do..." Gumba's voice was at a whisper now. Cooper answered honestly, "I don't know." He'd lived to see the Bad Times end, but now, if there really were Power Stars leaking through the borders... He straightened himself. "Inform Commander Bowser that we believe a Power Star has been used." He set off briskly towards his car, with Gumba scrambling to keep up. "And then contact the Princess' people. He's going to be coming for her."
| 25 | In a world where mushrooms, stars, flowers and other short term power-ups are illegally trafficked narcotics, police have dedicated teams to investigate and contain the incidents that result from their use. | 48 |
Snow White sat across the table from Cinderella. The two women quietly sipped their tea on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. A gourmet spread of biscuits, cheeses, and fruit covered the table. The sounds of the local villagers going about their business.
Cinderella delicately placed her cup down onto its saucer. A soft clink was barely audible. She picked up her napkin and dabbed the corners of her mouth.
"I'm so glad you could visit," Cinderella began, "I trust your journey was not too arduous."
"It was as pleasant as could be; all things considered," Snow White answered, placing her own cup onto its saucer.
The two princesses looked at each other with empty smiles. Behind their eyes was a hatred that was reaching a feverish boil. Their animosity was almost palpable.
"I don't think we should be mad at each other," Cinderella continued. "We were both lied to. If there is anyone we should be angry at, it's Charming."
"I agree," Snow White answered. "I've been consulting with my mirror and he has several suggestions that may be worth checking into. Tell me, have you heard of any news from the western kingdoms? Have you corresponded with Belle or Aurora lately?"
"I have been trying to keep this as quiet as possible," Cinderella replied before pausing.
A servant had neared their table and began to refresh their teapot. She was met with dissatisfied glares which she interpreted to be on account of the now empty teapot. The teapot was refilled immediately, and she begged forgiveness as she backed away from the balcony.
"There is an old sorceress that cast a spell over the whole western kingdom," Snow White explained. "She turned the narcissistic prince into a loathsome beast; but I'm sure you've heard Belle tell the story every time someone pays her a visit. It turns out that the sorceress is still living after all of these years. The mirror gave me instructions on how we can go about finding her."
Cinderella mulled Snow White's words over in her head. It was too early in the afternoon to visit the wine cellar, but a strong glass of red was calling to her.
"You realize," Cinderella slowly began, "That what you are suggesting is tantamount to treason."
"But think about it," Snow White replied, cutting off a further rebuttal. "Not only can we teach Charming a lesson, but the throne of each of our kingdoms will be vacant. No longer will we be princesses, we will be queens; the matriarchs of our lands!"
"Charming's father, King Charming the III, has yet to abdicate the throne," Cinderella answered, "In fact, he may live for several more decades."
"I've already taken care of his royal highness," Snow White laughed as she reached for an apple. "Such a lovely thing, apples; they are just an unsuspecting piece of fruit."
Cinderella looked at the apple in Snow White's hand before moving her gaze upwards. A wicked smirk had planted itself on Snow White's face.
"Tell me more about being the matriarch," Cinderella chuckled as she picked up her teacup.
EDIT: Formatting | 229 | Snow White's Prince Charming and Cinderella's Prince Charming are actually the same person. All hell breaks loose when they discover the affair... | 472 |
Mother was dead, and it was his fault. His sister was dead, and it was his fault. They were standing at the top of the stairs, Sara maybe, being held in her arms. He wanted to show them something, but could now not remember what. He couldn’t remember their faces, the color of the walls upstairs, whether it was light or dark outside, but he could remember the thud and muffled cracks as they landed.
His mother was silent, but he picked up his sister and rocked her weak screaming body until she began to shake then fall quiet as well. He couldn’t remember the beating that followed, or the first few days left in the basement, but he did remember still believing he leave this place soon. That was 48 beatings ago.
The beatings wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t remind him of that horrible thud. It made him thinks of all the things they would never do, what beautiful things they’d never see. When he lay on his back, drifting in and out after an encounter, he would count the bruises for them. “One for birthdays, two for toys, three for school, four for chores, five for cartoons and six for games.” He sang to himself, a weak, fumbling voice in an echoing basement. It was some melody he knew, but had forgotten the words.
When he could no longer keep himself awake, he would listen to the soldiers in his ears. They were marching; he could hear the drumrolls coming in waves, keeping them in step. He would march with them to sleep.
It was the days he wasn’t on the mend that taxed him the most. On good days he would count the steps above, imagine what his father might be doing. 5 steps to the bathroom, boom, boom, boom. 12 steps to the bedroom, zoom, zoom, zoom. 9 steps to the kitchen vroom, vroom, vroom. 6 steps to the basement.
On bad days he could only watch the sun rays come through the small window, watch them race across the floor. He would try to guess the number of seconds before they hit the wall, and then he would count it down.
On his worst days, he would remember their faces, their voices, and what he had lost. He would remember them, and angrily wish to leave this place. He could only calm himself by looking up at the window, the one small unadorned patch of sky he could see. He would wait the day here, ignoring the food dropped into the hole. It would take hours, sometimes days for the blue jay to flit across the window, but he would stay vigilant and strong. This would be his penance, for what use is beauty if unadmired.
*edit:spacing | 18 | Locked in a basement since his birth by a sadistic father, a young boy narrates the wonders of his life. | 35 |
When the first ships raced out from earth we assumed that it would take us years to find alien life. Even with our incredible space warping drives and ability to travel vast distances in the blink of an eye we knew that it would likely be incredibly rare. Thus when the first planet we visited showed not just life but signs that once there had been an intelligent and vibrant species living there, humanity was astounded.
We'd sent out more than a hundred ships into the vastness of space, each with a hit list of planets to visit to seek out life. The reports began to filter back, first one at a time and then a huge rush all at once. On every single planet it was the same. Life had been there once, it had been advanced but now it was gone.
As dozens of confirmed empty planets became hundreds, we began to feel not alone but abandoned, like we'd shown up to a party too late and everyone had gone and all that was left was a bunch of empty bottles and cups.
We began to speculate that we were an incredibly late planet and an interstellar federation must have once thrived. Now we felt like children, alone in the house after the parents had gone to work. That too was wrong.
We started to go back and look at each planet. Each had arisen seperately, hundreds of thousands or millions of years apart. There was no sign that they had ever met or traded or been active at the same time. We grew desperate, seeking out answers and finding none. We ran scan after scan and at last, we found something.
Carved deep into the bedrock of every single planet, in vast letters miles high was a word. "[Croatoan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roanoke_Colony#White_returns_to_England)" | 33 | We've developed easy instant interstellar travel. We've discovered there were 100's of intelligent species . . . that have clearly all left the galaxy in a great hurry. | 43 |
“I was able to make toast today,” Mark said proudly, “For the first time since… the incident.”
“That’s great news Mark,” Lisa the counselor said, “I’m proud of you.”
“I took the bread out of the bag,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “And then I put it in the toaster.” He sobbed, “And then I pressed down on the slider.”
“It’s okay Mark,” Lisa said, “You’re in a safe place.”
“Did you burn it?” Peter asked, with extreme concern. He was black everywhere.
“No,” Mark said, holding back tears.
Peter relaxed visibly. “I’m glad you didn’t burn it,” he said.
“It dinged,” Mark said, “And the toast popped up. That’s when I lost it.”
Mark took out a cigarette and began to light it.
“Please don’t do that,” Peter said, backing away from the flame. Mark ignored him. He took a deep drag.
“I couldn’t get their faces out of my head,” he said, “It was just so awful.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, “I know it’s awful. I think I know that already.”
Elijah spoke up, “Can I talk now Mrs. Lisa?” Without waiting for a response, Elijah continued, “I was stabbed 47 times. That’s more times than anyone else here was stabbed right? Has anyone else been stabbed?”
A few people nodded at him.
“Has anyone else been stabbed as much as I have?” Elijah asked.
No one said anything. Elijah looked satisfied. There was a long pause.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say Elijah?” Lisa asked. Elijah shook his head.
“…okay, thank you for sharing Elijah,” Lisa said, “And thank you Mark.”
Steven grunted. “I saw some grapes today,” He said, “Panic attack, as usual.” He rolled his eyes. “There were some peanut shells on the floor in the kitchen, next to the trash can,” he said, “Had a ‘nother panic attack.” He blew a big bubble of chewing gum and popped it. “I think I had like… thirty-seven panic attacks today. Little less than usual. Last Thursday I had a panic attack and fell down the stairs and got THIS,” he turned to show everyone his backside. There was an enormous cut.”
“Aahhh gross!” Mark said. Steven smiled proudly.
“But,” Steven said, “I didn’t have any nightmares about my family being covered in jam and eaten alive. I did have one about my uncle getting dabbed with peanut butter and getting eaten, but peanut butter has never been too scary for me. And I didn’t really like that uncle anyway.”
“I wanna talk about my dreams,” Elijah said, “I had a dream that I got stabbed with a butter knife and then a steak knife and then butcher knife and then a switchblade and then swiss army knife sawblade attachment and then a swiss army knife flat blade attachment and then a swiss army knife screwdriver attachment. That’s like fifteen different kinds of knives. Has anyone else had a dream about getting stabbed by that many type a knives?”
“Nope,” Peter said.
“Does that make me a genius Mrs. Lisa?” Elijah asked.
“That’s not really how dream interpretation works,” Lisa said, “But you’re a very smart piece of bread Elijah. You should be proud of yourself. Would you like to talk more about your dream?”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” MacKenzi screamed, “I’m getting MOLDY!!!”
“No!” Mark shouted, “You’re not getting moldy stupid!”
“Hey now,” Lisa said, “Mark are you using negative language?”
“She’s just having a stupid flashback,” Mark said, “God MacKenzi I hate you. You always do that, you just scream that you’re getting moldy. It was like ten years ago, get over it.”
“Mark!” Lisa said, standing up. “Apologize to MacKenzi.”
“No,” Mark said, “I’m not gonna.”
“AAAAH!” Peter screamed, “A human is coming! Everyone hide!”
Everyone scattered, leaving only breadcrumbs behind.
| 73 | A PTSD support group for those who survive horror movie scenarios. | 114 |
"Hey."
I looked down at my candle, decorated in pentagrams drawn just so, dusted with the ashes of the universe (corriander and majoram, in case you're wondering) and a bit of patchouli. Did I make it wrong, or...
"Hey assbutt, I'm bonded to you for life, might want to say hi or something."
It was...I mean, it wasn't a hellbeast like poor Terrence got. So that was good. I guess. You can ride hellbeasts around, though. Well, you can if you've got legs.
Which Terrence doesn't have. Anymore. But I'm rambling. The dude in front of me was...round. Like, earth shaped. His ghostly hair still managed to look greasy. I could see - wait - "Are those crumbs on your shirt?"
"Fuckin' hello to you too." He glared at me.
"I...I'm sorry. I didn't expect..." I cleared my throat. "I mean, aren't y'll usually, I dunno, more spirit-y?"
He just kept glaring at me. I coughed a bit nervously and looked around. This wasn't quite what I'd been expecting. All the other girls had gotten nymphs and mermaids and that bitch Frances got an actual honest-to-god angel and never let anyone else forget it. The angel was kind of a dick too, now that I was thinking about it.
A sigh broke me out of my reverie. "Look. Kid." He said, and as I turned back to him my heart dropped just a little. A grimace painted his face, and his shoulders slumped. "I can go to the big guys if you don't want me. I understand."
"Wait - " I started, feeling bad, but he held his hand up and shook his head.
"No, no need. I know not a lot of people want a guide like me. I'm not the best, and everyone likes to show their guide around. You probably wouldn't even let me out of this room." He smiled weakly. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'll ask 'em to give you a nice doe or dryad or something.
Ah, hell. Why not. "No, honestly, stay." I said, summoning up a bit of a smile. "We'll give it a go."
"Really?" I swear the room actually *brightened* due to the shine coming off of him. "Great! I'm Ned. I'm good at helping with jobs and choosing cars and - "
"Ned."
" - and I do really great with pets and - "
Jesus he was excited. "NED."
" - not great with kids, honestly, but I was in a band back when I was alive and - "
"*NED*."
Ned finally took a damn breath and gave me a questioning look. "Your shine is setting my curtains on fire." I said, gently.
"Lets go over this after I put it out." He said, grinning sheepishly. Turning around, he started puttering around with his ectoplasm and trying to keep the flames from catching his spirit on fire.
I sighed. This was going to be one hell of a ride.
| 20 | It's the morning of your 18th birthday, and you're excited to receive your Spirit Guide, just like everyone else. Shortly after breakfast it arrives, but you gradually realize that yours is...different. | 43 |
Dearest trrh,
My love. My sweet. I have watched you grow up with such pride. Your malevolence sets my cold black heart aflutter. When you stole muffins from your mother and deftly brought suspicion to fall upon your loving sister, I knew that a prodigy had been born.
And you did not disappoint. During your schoolboy years, you cheated on every examination, not to benefit yourself, but to ensure that the mentally challenged boy Rudy graduated at the top of the class. Dozens of your classmates tried to sell their souls to gain entrance to Oxford, but I refused them. When Rudy was accepted, they cried bitter tears that o’erflowed my drinking horn for years.
And when you realized that you were a flaming homosexual, you promised yourself to remain closeted until you had secured public office as a member of the United States' Republican party. Such foresight. Such verve.
It is with great despair that I must take my leave of this world. Failing eyesight and frequent forgetfulness have taken their toll upon my demonic prowess. But I will never forget the way your body felt next to mine when we lay together after smoking marijuana and making love.
I hereby bequeath to you my domain, my diary, and my name.
Sincerely,
Satan
P.S. We will meet again in the next world. *Adieu.*
| 151 | You receive a letter in the mail, saying that Satan has died and named you as his successor. | 180 |
“I was thinking about passing him,” Oglethorpe said.
“You were?” Falstaffo asked.
“Yeah,” Oglethorpe said, widening his lonely eye, “That life was B+ work,”
“I disagree most strongly,” Falstaffo said, “C- at best.”
“Well, if you ignore all the masturbation stuff, he actually did pretty well,” Oglethorpe opined.
“You can’t ignore all the masturbation stuff!” Falstaffo said, “That’s half the reason we gave them genitals in the first place. For the temptation of indecency!”
“Yeah,” Oglethorpe said, “But at least he didn’t look at any weird porn. You know, like tentacle stuff.”
“That’s hardly a reason to give someone a passing grade,” Falstaffo said, “What positive things did he accomplish? What light did he bring into the darkness?”
Oglethorpe thought for a moment. “Hold on,” he said, “There was something, but I forgot.”
“HEY!” I said.
They looked at me in shock. “How did you get in here?” Falstaffo asked.
“I did lots of great things in my life,” I said.
“Like what?” Falstaffo said, “Breaking and entering?”
“No,” I said, “I-I had friends. I did nice things for my friends. I took them out for dinners. I bought them beers.”
“They did the same things for you,” Falstaffo said, “You were just paying them back.”
I looked at him flabbergasted. “I… I volunteered,” I said, “… on several occasions. I recall that one time I helped clean up a park.”
Falstaffo squinted his eyes at me.
Nervously, I added, “And for most of that time, I was working very diligently. Though… I did happen to accidentally fall asleep on a bench towards the afternoon.”
Falstaffo intensified his stare.
“And, I uh… maybe I took credit for the full 8 hours on my volunteer log sheet. Even though it was only six.”
“It was five,” Falstaffo said, “And you slept for four.”
I bit my lip. There was a pause.
“Hey, listen,” I said, taking out my wallet, “Is there like a number that might change your mind about this whole thing?” I flipped through a stack of bills.
“REJECTED!” Falstaffo screamed, “Oglethorpe! Reincarnate this man as a fieldmouse!”
| 46 | You die and learn that Earth is the universe's prison colony where beings are sent time and time again until they are rehabilitated. Two "prison wardens" are discussing your fate when you appear in the room. | 94 |
It had all happened so fast. There had been light and sound and the impossible to describe feeling of exchanging a physical body for a digital one. I fought back the urge to be sick and looked around. I stood awkwardly in a doorway, wringing my fingers until I was sure I'd snap something. I felt so small compared to them. So weak. All I could do was stare at the unbelievable yet familiar faces gathered around the table in front of me. They had been talking before, but my arrival had quickly silenced the conversation. There was a feeling of instant recognition from both sides. I'd never expected to speak to any of them, but I still could have told you what they were going to say.
An old grey and white tauren squinted at me, as if trying to get a better look and then glanced at her fellow diners. Beside her, a small pandaren had paused while pouring tea. The hot, sweet smelling drink overflowed from the cup and ran across the table. Across from her, a tabby-striped charr leaned over and nudged the buff colored khajiit sitting in the next chair over.
"Do you think that's-?"
"Of course," the Khajiit answered simply, "who else could it be?"
There was a murmur of discussion and I could hear the shuffling of paws and tails. Occasionally the sound of hooves tapping the floor echoed through the room. Ears twitched and noses lifted to sniff the air. Crammed into a corner, with a pitifully small portion of the space and an even smaller portion of the food, sat a lone human girl with a scowl on her face. Despite her silence, I knew her. The tassels and coins and colors of her outfit may as well have been a label: gypsy.
"I told you!" the gypsy shouted, breaking the torrent of whispers.
"Well, you've got to admit that when you look at the rest of us, it was a fair guess," answered the charr as she guiltily toyed with her engineer's tool belt.
The khajiit and pandaren both nodded in agreement while the tauren reached over to pat the gypsy's arm comfortingly. I watched them for a moment and then swallowed the lump in my throat. Finally, I found my ability to speak to these faces that I had spent so much time with, yet never met.
"What did you guess?" I asked.
They all opened their mouths to answer at once, but the old tauren shaman held up a hand to silence the others and turned her gaze on me. She had a gentle voice, and I knew that she had never hurt a soul. She had always been a healer.
"Well dear," she said with a smile, "We were expecting you to have fur."
The gypsy snorted angrily and shoved back from the table.
"I told you so. This is ridiculous, sitting here having dinner with a bunch of animals! I'm going back to Prontera!" She shouted over her shoulder as she slipped past me through the door. | 12 | You're sucked into a computer and thrown into a room where all the video game characters you've ever created are waiting for you, having a grand banquet. What is their reaction to your arrival, and what do they have to say about/to you? | 28 |
--------++SUBJECT AWAITING FURTHER TRIAL+--------
--------++COURT_TRANSCRIPT++--------
"WELL THEY SURELY AREN'T PARASATIC"
"BUT THEY SHOW PARASITIC SYMPTOMS"
"LIKE?"
"FIRSTLY THEY CONTINUE TO RAVAGE THEIR HOME PLANET WITH NO DISREGARD TO OTHER DEVELOPING SPECIES"
"IN ALL FAIRNESS THEY ARE ATTEMPTING TO CUT BACK ON SPECIES EXTINCTION"
"ONLY A SMALL PORTION, YES, BUT THIS IS ONLY ONE INSTANCE"
"THEY CAN'T AGREE WITH THEMSELVES, THEY STILL WORK AGAINST EACH OTHER, THEY KILL EACH OTHER, FIGHT EACH OTHER, STEAL, RAPE, AND CUT UNFAIR DEALS, IF THE SPECIES CARED ABOUT HOW THEY PRESENTED THEMSELVES THEY WOULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING DIFFERENT BY NOW."
"ILLOGICAL, AN ENTIRE SPECIES IS UNAWARE OF OUR EXISTENCE, REMEMBER WHAT WE RECEIVED FROM THEM YEARS EARLIER? A SATELLITE, CONTAINING THINGS THAT THEY THINK BEST REPRESENTS THEM? THE INTELLIGENT OF THEIR SPECIES WANT US TO EXIST, WHILE THE REST CARE LITTLE, THE TRULY IMPORTANT CARE ABOUT APPEARANCE."
"REMEMBER WHEN FRANK AND HIS SON WENT DOWN? THEY THINK THEY'RE EXISTENTIAL BEINGS NOW HIS SON STILL HEARS THEIR VOICES IN HIS HEAD EVERY NIGHT!"
"WHILE FRANK'S SON MAY BE HAVING NIGHT TERRORS, THE SPECIES IS TOTALLY UNAWARE OF THEIR ABILITY OF TELEPATHIC COMMUNICATION, THIS IS BEING PUT ON HOLD UNTIL THEY REACH THE 10 BILLION POPULATION MARK, CONTINUE SENDING VIRUSES TO TEST IMMUNITY, AND ALTERING ELECTRONICS EQUIPMENT. ALL HARVESTING OF CAT PICTURE'S WILL RESUME."
"UNDERSTOOD."
--------++FATAL_PACKET_LOSS++-------- | 17 | The day the human population crossed 5 billion it was flagged for evaluation by The Consortium for Galactic Peace as a potential parasite. Their silent and thorough followup study is now over and the verdict is... | 32 |
It was nearly three meals ago when I discovered the tall folk, as I called them, seemed to be especially attendant to my needs. They almost seemed like they understood me which was a strange occurrence at the very least positively absurd at the most, enough to lay my ears back against my skull and glare at them in confusion. Why would they start listening now of all times? Did they not know that I required something of them in the past? Was my pleasing cries not enough for their ears, was my exposed belly not an invitation? Honestly, even sitting on the clicking strange pebbly thing that you play with all day will not make you grant my request.
But that is the end for now you served my meals just as I asked for them. For now that is enough and though I will stare and tilt my chin up in greeting that may not be understood. Pity. Such wonders that you gifted to me when I arrived at your house no longer await me. My dinner for but a chance to chase a string for my evening’s entertainment and not my tail like the kitten I am no longer.
I dwell on this for a while as I drift off into slumber I hear the whomp of footsteps and I look up to see the female tall one peering at me. She stretches out a hand and I sniff it as she does not know that to greet one must touch noses. I get up and stretch. I feel my back muscles ripple. I finish stretching and gently rub my scent on her long gripping paws. I look up behind her and I spot the string coiled on one of the upper shelves of the room. I roll my shoulders and give a yowl. Then I look toward the string. The Folk merely makes a sound in its throat and runs its paws over my fur. This is nice I may admit but it is not what I desire.
I try again and this time I imagine playing with the string so strongly I almost taste the fibers in my mouth and feel the coarse skein in my paws. The folk looks at its paws and twitches then stands upright and turns to its back is facing me it. Then the folk turns around.
Oh. Oh. Is that? No It can’t be…. It is. It Is! Thank you tall folk. Thank you. Thank you bringer of food, deliverer of meals.
It is afterward that the realization sinks in. The folk heard me. I will make use of this. But for now I am going to sleep until it is dinnertime again.
| 11 | The protagonist discovers they have psychic powers and uses them to subtly influence those around them. The protagonist is a cat. | 44 |
"Come on Wendy." Joey said, grabbing his little sister by the hand. "Let's get something from the ice cream man." He started to lead the way. Wendy moved with resistance. It had been three months since their mother died. Wendy had stopped talking for the most part, opting to use her brother as a medium. "Come on, you still like ice cream, don't you?" Joey asked, pulling on her arm a little.
Wendy peered out from behind her blonde locks. She nodded, once quick, almost imperceptibly.
"Then, come on." Joey turned expecting Wendy to follow. He had to be strong, for her. He didn't know how he was able to do this--it just was the right thing to do, it came naturally. No one was there for them anymore. Dad was always working...on a bottle, and Mom sure wasn't there anymore. Joey felt a tug on his shirt.
"How many ice creams can we get?" Wendy said, with a thumb in her mouth.
Joey emptied his pockets. "One each." he said. His paper route money was running out. He had quit the job when their mother fell ill. He hadn't the strength to go back. It reminded him of better times. His father had called him a pansy for not continuing. He still had the bruises from the last conversation. Drunk or sober, Mr. Silva dolled out the punishment with his fists. His punishments were severe and now that Mrs. Silva wasn't there to calm him down, they were frequent.
Joey and Wendy crossed the park, heading towards the ice cream truck that was parked by the entrance. It sat most weekends on the side of the road just outside the community park, treating children to summers greatest treat. "You know Wendy, when September comes, you'll have to go to school again. They let us slide last year because of mom." The word 'mom' still made even him, the strong one, tear up a little. He cleared his throat: "You think you'll be able to go alone. It'll only be for a few hours a day. After that, I'll be there...I'll always be there. You understand that right?"
He had to be there—to shield her from the increasing rages of their father and to help her understand that feeling sad is ok. Greif hurts. You might feel anger—he had a thought that their fathers anger, that had gotten much worse lately, was a part of the grieving process, his process maybe. Maybe she was too young to understand and he needed help himself. Maybe helping her was helping himself.
Wendy nodded. “Ok.”
“Come on,” Joey said, a smile that had been absent for so long crept across his lips. “Race ya!”
Wendy let out a gleeful little yip and followed in hot pursuit of her brother.
They were both hit by a car and killed.
| 115 | Write a magnificent, engaging story about whatever topic you want... you just have to end it with the most horrible, disgusting and disappointing cliché you could think of. | 89 |
"Hey, you there!" The yell of the guard echoed through the fog and disappeared over the sea.
She tried to cower even more lowly, but the cone of light from the guard's flashlight was following her every move.
"No sudden moves!" the man hissed. Very slowly he came closer. Keeping his flashlight and his gun pointed at her.
"Leave me alone, please... I just want to rest. I am so tired, so tired..." her voice trailed off.
As the man in the bulletproof vest came closer, he eyed her very closely: As she huddled against the cold stone of the monument, he only saw a bundle of dirty clothes in her. It was a young woman, although she seemed to have aged beyond her years. Or that was due to the deplorable of her clothes, her messy hair and her dirty skin? He could see some feverish, reddened eyes peeking at him. He wondered if she was a druggy.
"No sudden moves..." he said once more, making sure that she understood him.
"Don't shoot. I am not a threat," she said. "I never was..."
"What are you doing here? How did you get here? Did you hide during the day? Did you take a boat? Did you swim?" It was hardly likely that this gaunt woman would have been able to stand the cold water of the autumn sea and the currents around the island, but one never knew what a druggy was capable of.
"I just came through and I wanted to have a look again..."
"You wanted to have look?" The guard shook his head. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he muttered mostly to himself. He lowered his gun a little bit, but kept he did not put it away. "You can't stay here, this is private property."
"No, this is public land," the woman said.
"Makes no difference. You have no right to be here."
"Right? You dare to talk to ME about rights?" She flared up.
Instantly he had his gun aimed at her again. "Stop right there, Lady!"
She stared at his gun. Then suddenly she started to chuckle, then it transformed into full-blown laughter.
She was high, he concluded. He had to play it safe. "Down! Down on your knees! Hands behind your head! And quick!"
The woman kneeled and followed his instructions. Her laughter had transformed into sobs.
He kept an eye on her, while he activated his radio and called in for help.
They did not talk when his colleagues arrived; she did not try to resist when they put handcuffs on her and when they escorted her away, but he could see the tears in her eyes and how he trembled.
Waiting in the cold by the waterside, waiting for the boat to land, he felt sorry for her. She could have been beautiful once, but now she was just a mess: Two of his colleagues keeping her in check while he stood by the side with his gun - just in case.
"Listen..." he said slowly. "Don't think ill of me. We have to be careful these days. Terrorists and all. I am just doing my duty."
She raised her head and her eyes were full of... He could not really pinpoint it. Pity? Contempt? Hatred?
"Duty? Fuck you! Tell me, do you think, this is what this is all about." She nodded towards the monument.
"Oh, spare me the preaching," he sighed. The guard shook his head.
They were quiet until the boat arrived and he watched while the other guards placed her on a seat on the deck. The two of them shared one last look into each other's eyes. He noticed that the impression of meekness he had seen in her before, was now almost entirely gone. Her stare was full of defiant determination and it was directed towards him.
He turned around and went away, back to his duty.
Moments later the boat had taken off. It speeded through the dark waves while the lights of the city started to emerge from the fog.
One of the other guards approached her, firmly holding onto his assault rifle while he spoke to the seated woman. "Where do you live?" he asked.
She raised her head and stared right at him. "Not here anymore," she said while the Statue of Liberty disappeared in the dark and the fog of this cold autumn night.
*PS: I know, I took the liberty to change it to a homeless woman...*
**Edit:** Spelling
**Edit 2:** Thank you for all the compliments! And thanks to whoever /r/bestofWritingPrompts'ed the story!
**Edit 3:** Many thanks to the anonymous redditor for the gold. It's my first time *blush* | 810 | The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for. | 1,083 |
Dan smirked at his computer for a good 60 seconds after posting the listing, convinced that some local radio station would use the ad in some special segment about hilarious Craigslist posts. Such aspirations seemed lofty for a 33 year old legal assistant with the body of a 56 year old plumber.
A little red "1" appeared by the envelope icon of his Google toolbar. He opened his inbox to see a response email from "[email protected]". Curious, he read the email.
"Hey, Dan. It's Satan. I know, bullshit, right? Satan wouldn't still use hotmail. But it's really, truly me. I'll prove it by telling you that I alone know you're wearing 'I Love Lucy' boxer shorts right now, and that those aren't your only pair."
Dan checked the rim of his pants to see a sepia-toned Ethel gazing clownishly up at him. He gulped and continued reading.
"Man, that was a loud gulp. Don't worry, I'm emailing you to make you an offer. I saw your ad on Craigslist, which, if I'm being honest, is a little bit underwhelming. $50 for a slovenly desk jockey whose only life achievement was winning a Yu Gi Oh tournament...three weeks ago? You need to learn how to punch up your resume, bro. Luckily, I can help you with that. I'm bored, I like projects, and it doesn't seem like that second Tsarnaev brother is gonna get here anytime soon, so I'm open for business."
Dan didn't know how to respond. He looked around his office to check for giggling coworkers, particularly Keith. This was such a god damn Keith thing to do. But everyone seemed to be diligently working, and no one could have seen his underwear yet because he still hadn't visited the vending machine. This really was the Devil. He began to replly meekly.
"Is there any getting out of this?"
Another little red "1".
"Seriously? Did you just ask if you could go back on a sale? Shit, Dan, you just lost like $5 of value. At least haggle with me here."
Dan replied. "Okay, hold on, Satan. I think I've got a few more achievements than the Yu Gi Oh tournament. What about that pinewood derby I won back in the scouts?"
"You mean with the car your dad made for you? Please, Dan, don't make me laugh. Seriously though, don't. It hurts to do that down here. Tell you what. If you can prove to me that your soul is worth MORE than $50, I'll let you go back on your offer. Otherwise, you're coming with me so I can introduce you to my favorite Underworld resident."
"Hitler?"
"Billy Crystal. I know what you're thinking, but the truth is he's been dead for years."
Dan mulled it over. How could he prove that his soul was worth more than $50? The fact that is comic reflex, which typically bears more truth than fiction, valued him at $50 to begin with was telling. What could he really offer the Devil that would warrant more than a picture of Ulysses S. Grant on a piece of rag paper? His mind jumped to the bowling trophy he'd won in the 8th grade, but he knew that wouldn't be enough. He ran over to Keith's desk, where Keith bounced in his swivel chair as Hall and Oates blared from his headphones.
"Keith! I need your help."
"Private eyes, they're watching--oh, what's up, Dan-O?"
"I need you to buy my soul for $50."
Keith gave him a quizzical look. All of a sudden, his eyes burned bright red, his hair stood on end, and steam rushed out of his ears. "IT'S NOT THAT SIMPLE, DAN," he bellowed.
"Holy shit!" Dan ran back to his desk. Behind him, Keith called his name, as if neither he nor the office noticed anything.
Dan returned to his computer and saw a new email from Satan.
"You think you can just sand bag me like that and get out of this? Come on, Dan, why is your soul worth more than $50?"
Dan racked his brains. How could he prove that such a mediocre, unattractive, virtually impotent man-child was worth more than the price of a Disneyland meal? Then, it hit him. He began to type.
"I'm not. I'm nowhere near worth $50. But I could be. Think about it. I'm freaked out as fuck right now. I've just received proof that you, and therefore, God, exists. I'm basically a prophet. Think of the possibilities. I could serve as a living reminder of the way people should choose not to live, and start using myself as a base model for a...okay, let's say $30 soul. I could start evaluating people's spiritual worth in terms of cash, leading them not to worship god, but to worship the almighty dollar. You'd receive wave after wave of souls. I may not be worth much, but that is."
A minute passed before Satan's reply came. Dan knew that his fate lay in this message.
"Okay, Danny. I'll bite. You devote your life to sending me more souls, I'll let you keep yours for now. But just out of curiosity, say somebody else had bought your soul and actually, for some reason, paid you. What do you need $50 for?"
"You don't know that already?"
"Humor me, for the sake of this Writing Prompt."
"...a new deck of Yu-Gi-Oh cards."
| 31 | A man jokingly lists his soul on Craiglist for $50. It's all fun and games until Satan makes an offer. | 22 |
Mud. Mud is good. Mud brings food to my family. Food that keeps my family alive, food that keeps the Baron happy and his men away from my daughter. Mud squishes between my toes and lets me know I'm alive another day, unlike my ma' and da' and most of my brothers. I like mud. Sometimes, mud brings me nice things, a pretty rock for my wife's collection or a coin dropped from a purse from the landowners. But today, mud seems to have brought me something mighty interesting.
The lad's arm stuck out of the mud at an odd angle, almost as if he'd fallen there from a high distance. I'd seen limbs look like that when my oldest had fallen from the tower while repairing the Baron's keep. The man had long been dead by the look of it. I sent my second born to the well for a bucket of water. He was so covered in mud that I'd need to clean him up a bit before turning him over to the Baron's men. Mostly I just wanted the corpse gone from my field, to not stink up my mud. The bucket of water revealed the most interesting garments I'd seen on a fellow. The cloth was strong! Stronger then the wagon covering which I'd paid quite a bit for. And it was thin, lighter then the rough weave my wife made in the spring time. I rubbed it together between my dirty rough hands. I sent my second born running again to get a shovel while I finished cleaning up the dead man.
Soon, the mud was good to me again, covering up that man in the corner of my field. I didn't dare let anyone know what I'd found. That man was a treasure sent from the Heaven's above. Not only had the man had the finest knife I'd ever held in my hand made of some sort of incredibly light and strong iron, but he'd had all sorts of curiosities on him. He had some sort of turtle shell with cloth over it on his head like a hat. He wore a heavy vest that seemed to be decorated with a scripture over the right chest, the script reminding me of the books the priest looked at when they read the mass and the insignia of some french lord other side, a brilliant red and white strip thing with some holy stars on a field of blue. That insignia was everywhere, he must have been a loyal man or perhaps a guard.
In the pockets of that vest were brass! When I found that, I immediately made sure the latch was set on the door and sent my children to the animal pens to tend them. The brass were kept in a longish manner, not a button like the brass I'd seen on the baron's livery. They were kept in these funny metal boxes that looked to be made specifically for carrying them. They were difficult to remove, I imagine to make it that much harder for a cutpurse to steal, but I'd pulled them all out one by one until I had 30 of them lined up on the floor infront of me. They also seemed to have more holy scripture on the blunt end. I rubbed on with my shirt, the shine of my fire making it shine almost like a beacon from the fire in the hearth. I pulled out the other box and found another 30 there as well. 60 brass coins! I could sell enough of these to the blacksmith to have a whole new plow built! I could buy another oxen too probably!
I shoved the brass coins into my money sack. I mustn't let anyone know where I got them from, I'd have to figure out how to spend these without making the Baron's men suspicious. I pulled from the next pocket on the vest a strange statue. It looked like some sort of apple, but it was green, green like the bog and it was made of metal. I hit it against the dirt floor. It wasn't hollow. It must be some strange gift or maybe the sign of another God. I shivered as I placed it on the ground. But it did have a ring on it. A ring almost as if for a woman. I'd dreamt of a day I could wear a ring like the Baron. There was a signal of wealth for a man. A ring of metal to show others that he was strong. I slid my finger into the ring. It was a bit big... but it was a ring. The ring moved, almost as if it could slide free. I pulled on the ring and it slipped free, connected to a little rod. I dropped the strange statue at my feet while I examined the ring. Why was this little rod attached t | 80 | You're a peasant in medieval England. One day, while tending your field, you find the body of a twenty-first century soldier. | 88 |
"I used to do drugs" I answered. I still do, but I used to as well. Not the most foolproof misleading, but I was just getting started.
"You're not the first person to try that, Dean. Your position at this company is dependant on your sobriety, so answer the question. Are you using any form of drugs prohibited by this company's policy?" Leopold Evans is my kind of guy. He knows I'm misleading him but he never asks the right questions. Then again, practically no one does.
"not presently" I reply. What time frame is presently? There's nothing in my system right now. I'm not smoking or snorting anything off his desk or anything.
"Goddamnit, Dean. In your time at this company have you taken any substances outlined as a sackable offense by this company's policy?"
"No I have not." Haven't taken, that is. Haven't taken them from anyone, or anywhere. Haven't taken them to any place. Taken doesn't mean inject, or snort, or inhale, or imbibe. Doesn't have to, anyway. Language is malleable. Evans keeps his eyes on me. I'm thankful, really, that the only person who doubts me is too much of an imbecile to catch me.
"I..." He wants to say that he knows, but he can't. Can't say it. Doesn't know it. "Believe... You're not being honest with me"
"We both know that's impossible, Mr Evans." I can't help but smirk. I take a deep breath and let the neurological inhibitors fill my lungs. He receives my message and I leave his office.
See lying has never been about the words you say. That's where this whole situation went wrong. Lying is about what the other person says. The inhibitor could be a placebo as far as most people need be concerned. Language is ambiguous. "How was your day?" One might ask, which day though? Sure you can assume they mean today, but it's not lying to pick the day before. It's not lying to say "great, I got married." Even if your wedding day was two years ago. It was still a day. It still happened. The how of it didn't stop being a valid answer to the question.
I work the stocks sometimes. Put a little money in something volatile and tell people it's gonna appreciate. Of course it will appreciate if word spreads. Even if it doesn't immediately, it will eventually. It's not a lie. Nothing is really a lie.
I don't cheat on my wife, but I do sleep with women she doesn't know about. My colleagues ask how she is and I say she's the same as usual. I might tell an anecdote about what we did on our last outing, or where I took her for her birthday. She's been dead just over a year. They're not lies. It's not like anyone explicitly asks whether she still breathes or anything. People assume, and I take advantage of that. It's not a super power or mental imbalance or anything, it's just playing by the rules. I'm not a sociopath. I tell the truth, you hear the truth, and you build the lie in your head. Really, I'm not the liar. Everyone else is. | 71 | A world where lying is physically impossible, however you have mastered the art of saying one thing and meaning another, while still only telling the truth. | 49 |
What most people don't get is this is how people die. Not old age, not sickness, not cars. If they divide by zero, that sets their life in gray stone. It could take a few minutes, it could take a hundred years.
And everyone divides by zero at least once, or thinks about it. Death is not a sexually-transmitted disease, but rather a logical step in the mathematical equation that is our lives.
The idea of absolute infinity, which is what dividing by zero suggests, brushes upon inter-planar energies which subsequently kill you. As they did to me just now. With a bag thrown from a twelve story apartment.
The bag was white with black drawstrings and weighed approximately ninety pounds. Inside were broken action figures, four pounds. Two defense dildos with lead cores, twenty-four pounds. A carton of cigarettes, two pounds. A broken set of weights, thirty pounds. A dog carcass, twenty-two pounds. And finally, a box of Playboys from the nineties. Eighteen pounds.
As I divided by zero in my head, the bag fell and cracked my spine in four places. My lungs were stabbed by my lumbar vertebrae piercing inwards, scraping my heart. I died in front of a Build-A-Bear workshop. A young girl saw the scene and screamed as the contents of the bag spilled out and were soaked in my blood.
That doesn't matter.
What matters is now I'm in a world where every colour is inverted and fractals dance in my vision. My belly feels like a warm reservoir of honey. My eyes dance about the landscape. It feels like I'm on acid, but my mind is clearer than it has been in years. I recall every memory with perfect detail and can actually feel the energy coursing through me as they are recalled. My life flashed before my eyes.
"Well. Fuck." I mutter. What is this place? Heaven, Hell? Purgatory celebrating Cinco De Mayo? Everything was too vivid, too insane. It didn't feel like it, but I knew if I was still corporeal, it would be mind-blowing.
I realized I was sitting on the ground. I stood and dusted myself off, white motes shimmering in the air like diamonds, small lines dancing in between creating intense geometry. I began walking into the blue-red trees, the purple sun shining down.
Every time my bare foot sank into the grass it formed bent triangles too small for the eye to see, yet I saw it just fine. My toes shrank and grew, but balance was not an issue. I kept on like this until I reached a clearing.
"Hiya." A voice said to my left, octagonal sound waves emanating from it. I turned.
It was a wasp. Black and purple. A huge, giant, deadly looking wasp. I backed away. It held its legs up.
"Slow down miss, I know I don't look friendly, but I am." My legs were tense.
"How do I know you won't hurt me?" The wasp. . . shrugged?
"Simple. I won't. Sit down. You're new, right?" I nodded, but did not sit down. The wasp sighed.
"Looky here miss, I'm human, just like you. Only difference is that this is a representation of my own personal infinity. When you look at the map of my soul, it is a fractal that propagates into a wasp." I nodded again.
"Uh huh." The wasp gestured.
"Sit down. You haven't found your map yet, since you've got your old form. Won't be long though. Might as well have a talk." Slowly, I sat on my naked buttocks, the cool grass tickling my hairs.
"I'm Derek." The wasp piped up. I decided to try and be friendly.
"I'm Miranda." The wasp waved.
"Hi Miranda. Would you mind shaking my hand?" I nodded. The wasp deflated noticeably. "I thought not. Sorry. I've found you can tell a lot about a person by shaking their hand." The wasp pulled out a cigar, square-ish and clunky. He lit it with a zippo he had. . . somewhere. The smoke came out in Mandelbrots. | 29 | Someone divides by zero. They are knocked unconscious and wake up in a new, unfamiliar world. Tell me what happens next. | 38 |
**Part 3** is up!
**ANOTHER GOLD!!!!??** Thanks so much! Work on part 3 will be underway shortly!
*Part 2 is up! Thanks for the support guys!
*Edit - Holy crap, OP gilded me! That's a first for me, thanks! I'll definitely keep on going!
*Edit - Made a small detail edit and fixed a tense ending.
Just trying my hand at writing. It's been a while since I've written in earnest, so I apologize for grammar errors and such. Just trying to exercise my brain, so any feedback would be great!
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"4 more Host worlds crumbled today under the sustained assault of Coalition fleet 16A. Notable combatants include the American 4th, Russian 9th, and Chinese 3rd fleets. Host casualties include the self-proclaimed "Angel of Death" Azrael, who died after his forces were cut off and surrounded on Dama..."
Mal felt himself zoning out against the continuous droning of the newscaster. He hadn't slept in days, and the effects were catching up to him. He motioned to the bartender, who made his way to Mal as he cleaned another customers glass.
"What can I get for you Mal? The regular?"
Mal shook his head. "No Rich, not trying to get fucked up tonight unfortunately. Just a Coke with a nutrient pack."
The bartender nodded, and returned with the drink. He opened up a small capsule and released the contents into the coke. "There you go bud, should be enough to cover you for a couple days."
Mal thanked him and paid. As he slowly opened the door to leave the sudden roar of cheering crowds and music flooded the bar. Mal cursed. Holy fuck was it loud. He'd known ahead of time about the celebrations for the 200th year anniversary of Earth's victory in the "Rapture Conflict", but he hadn't expected such a ridiculous turnout. He lit a cigarette and watched a giant inflatable soldier pass over him. All around it holographic letters formed the words: "Celebrating 200 years of human victory!" Another clump read: "Buy war bonds! Each bond gets us one victory closer to God!" The ad was followed by a cartoony caricature of God being held at the neck by an exo-suit clad soldier. Mal chuckled at the picture. He found it funny that despite nobody knowing what "God" actually looked like, the old, white dude still remained the go-to version.
As he took another long puff from his cigarette, he took a seat at a large, open-air theater where a documentary of the "Retribution War", as it was being called, was airing. Mal had seen it all before, but the scenes of the great slaughters perpetrated by the Angels in the opening period of the war still made his blood run cold. The Angels had arrived in great, golden ships smiling and bearing good tidings on March 15th, 2122. Mal hadn't been alive during the time, but his grandfather had always recounted the grim events. The Angels had used their religious sway to summon hundreds of millions, if not billions, of faithful to open meeting zones across the world, where suddenly, without warning, they had proceeded to slaughter them like cattle. The world had watched in shock. The military response was slow initially. The Angels had positioned themselves over large population and transit centers, meaning any concerted response would likely result in massive civilian casualties. The unbridled genocide lasted for several weeks and resulted in the death of an estimated 2.1 billion people. As the initial shock faded, humanity finally began to resist. Fortunately, the Angelic forces had primarily focused on Europe, China, Saudi Arabia, and South America, and at least for the opening stages of the war, left the United States and Russia, the worlds 2 premier military powers, relatively untouched. Researchers would later discern that the Angelic Host was acting on intelligence from the late Renaissance, a costly mistake that would buy humanity much needed time.
At first, human armies were decimated. Despite having little in the ways of an "air-force", the Angelic Host easily maintained control of the sky and handily repelled all conventional attacks. In fact, for the most part, the Host treated the resistance as a negligible threat, and continued with their senseless slaughter. As the war ground on, human researchers and strategists gradually found weaknesses in the seemingly invincible Host Legion. Meanwhile, thanks to pre-war advances in propulsion made possible by the Cannae drive, space based naval production on colonies all over the solar system gradually began to approach and eventually outstrip Earth's output. Military strategists rapidly saw that Angelic tactics were short sighted and elementary, and clearly designed for a more primitive enemy. Angelic planners had not counted on how rapidly humanity would progress since the 17th century. As science provided the tools, the military provided the manpower, and the people the will, the Host steadily began to find that they were losing momentum at a dangerous rate. We would later learn that a request for reinforcements would be sent by the acting angelic commander. However, relief was not earmarked for another century, a mistake that would cost them dearly.
Perhaps the greatest human advantage however, was our rapid ability to breed. While Angelic numbers slowly dwindled, human numbers, with the exception of the initial purge period, skyrocketed, not only on Earth, which mind you was in the midst of a full blown genocide, but on the outer colonies as well. As good fortune would have it, Angelic command had not expected, or even known, that humanity had progressed far enough to have colonies on other sol worlds, and the colonies would remain untouched throughout the war. They would provided invaluable manpower and raw materiel, in addition to safe staging grounds for off-Earth counter-operations. Finally, on June 29th, 2236, one of the great Host ships was finally destroyed by a prototype antimatter bomb, killing hundreds of thousands of Angels. Humanity had had its first major victory, and soon after three more Angelic ships were destroyed. Finally, 3 months later, on September 21st, 2236, the acting Host commander, Maalik, surrended. Humanity had scored a tremendous victory, and in doing so had unknowingly shifted the very balance of power in the galaxy. From then on, momentum and time were on their side, and the human race exploded into the galaxy, establishing thousands of new colonies and even daring to expand into greater Host territory. After being nearly driven to extinction, humanity was now on the offensive.
As the credits rolled, the crowd around Mal cheered. He found himself clapping vigorously and joining in the cheering as well. As the crowd thinned out and the next group filed in, he stood up and headed for the exit. He hailed a cab hovering nearby and made his way to the space elevator. He walked briskly past the long line of enlisted men getting ready to board their respective combat vessels. He presented his ID to the guard and boarded a waiting shuttle. An armed guard flanked by two of the latest model FX combat droids ushered him in.
"Good afternoon Lieutenant, what's your destination?"
"Dock 17."
The shuttle landed next to a sleek, black ship covered in a honey-comb patterned shielding. Above the boarding door was a small plaque that read, "Office of Naval Intelligence Corvette 011B DESIG: 'REAPER'."
A smile crossed Mal's face. *It's an appropriate name,* Mal thought, as he checked each chemical warhead off on his cargo manifest.
| 50 | Fed up with the world, God tries to destroy a highly advanced humanity in 25th century. | 45 |
"Flying an unlicensed aircraft in controlled airspace is a serious FAA offence." The officer scolded her.
"For the last time, i'm not some private astronaut flying an unregistered launch vehicle. I come from another planet earth more advanced than yours from another galaxy. Just look at my ship and the intergalactic drive, do you have anything like that? It bends space-time for god sakes!" The astronaut replied.
"You honestly expect me to believe that you're some alien? Come on, i might have been born at night but it wasn't last night. Now if you just tell me who hired you, we can get this all sorted out legally and you'll only get a fine, maybe a couple weeks in the slammer a most." The officer explained.
"My name is Megan Chin and fucking NASA of my planet hired me!" Megan nearly shouted.
"There is no astronaut, flight instructor, pilot, or anybody at NASA with that name."
"Why the fuck would my ship have NASA logos on it then?"
"Just because you can paint NASA on your ship doesn't mean you work for them." The officer replied.
"UGH!!!"
Megan paused for a moment and a plan started forming in her mind.
"The radio. How about i just get my mission commander on the line and we can sort all of this out?" Megan asked.
The officer was annoyed but nodded in acceptance.
The two of them made their way from the airport to the space ship, dodging baggage handlers and other airport vehicles. On board Megan started fiddling with the controls.
"What's that sound?" The officer asked.
"ummm, the radio." Megan feigned.
The officer caught on quickly: "Turn off the engine right now!" The officer ordered, pulling out his gun showing he meant business.
Megan smiled and activated the fold drive. In a blinding flash of light the view out the window changed from the airport tarmac to empty space. Gravity ceased operating and they both started floating in weightlessness.
"What's happening?" The officer asked.
"Isn't it obvious? we're in space. I didn't cross intergalactic space on a pathetic chemical rocket."
"Holy shit. Ya know, if you sell this invention to NASA you'd be rich, i'm sure they can overlook the FAA violations if you demo this to them." The officer replied.
Megan was quick on the uptake: "Wait. The fold drive is all that what impresses you?.... You still don't believe i'm from another planet and that you people aren't alone in the universe?.... YOU THINK I'M STILL MAKING THIS SHIT UP?!?!?!?"
"I admit, it's a great prank pretending to be an alien while also demoing your invention. Not the most legal way to get our attention, but effective. You don't have to keep running with the prank." The officer laughed.
Something in Megan's head exploded. She pressed another set of buttons and in a flash of light gravity returned and the view outside the window showed they were back on earth in front of the NASA building.
Megan stormed off the ship and toward the building. The officer followed behind realizing he was not at the airport anymore. He was already thinking up what he would say to NASA to convince them of this remarkable invention until he saw hundreds of military police holding back thousands of eager reporters and adoring public holding up signs congratulating Megan. A team of doctors, scientists and the mission commander ran out the greet her.
"How did it go Megan?" The commander asked her.
Megan relaxed a bit as her lips cracked into a cruel smile: "Wonderful, simply wonderful. I brought back an alien for study."
The commander looked up at the officer: "Holy shit." | 22 | We find a planet in another galaxy in the habitable zone and send an astronaut there. She arrives to find it is populated and 100% identical to current earth in every single way. She needs to figure out how to convince the people that she is from the "other earth". | 21 |
Sitting in the dancing lights of what could only be called a funeral pyre for civilization. I find myself recanting my life and decisions. Cradling a sorrowful sick grimace between my dirty and disheveled sandpapered cheeks. Though I did graduate college all that knowledge I'm sure will prove useless now that the herald of chaos has delivered his message. I guess one could call it fate that only weeks ago I was thrust from my own home with little less than a penny to my name. The papers weren't even signed. But here I am on the outskirts of town alone and mildly cold. Watching the city and everything I knew burn. Escaping this blaze would have been impossible had I been home. With neither place to go or food to eat. So here I am keeping some dark vigel watching from a park bench for the 7th day in a row. From this distance it looked as if every home and business plugged into the power grid had spontaneously combusted. As nature once again proves that human achievement is but a fickle and fleeting adaptation. Nature always prevails. Its a corny and over used phrase but now one that may not be heard again.
I've lost everything.
The worst part is though that I'm happy this happened. No more facades to keep up. Kissing my bosses ass, pretending I didn't notice the drug abuse and sexual partners my SO so shoddily hid. The odd hours and constricting budgets I maintained to try and keep my family together. No more iPhones or fads, strange generation specific customs or workplace mannerisms, no more clustered streets, no more pop up adds or spam mail. No more having to pretend that I was content with my life for the sake of the sake of appearances. Humanity is scattered if not doomed. Humanity thought it had evolved past the point of needing to fight for survival. Well fighting for survival is all we have left now.
I'm ok with that. Once the city burns out and if i'm lucky enough to not get eaten before then. I'll start anew. Until then the least I can do to honor the passing of an age is watch the embers die out. | 24 | Its been 4 days since the biggest solar flare in history took out the power grid. A well educated homeless man smiles as he sits watching the city burn in the valley below. Why is he smiling? | 55 |
They used to tell me that I was gifted. I learned to walk when I was 1 month old and at 1.5 months I learned to talk -- fluently in 12 languages. I learned to fly when I was two. By five, I was enrolled as a theoretical physics major at Harvard and was captain of every varsity team. At 11, I learned that I was pretty much indestructible. I was also pretty good at "Flappy Bird."
Twelve was a big year for me, though. That's the year I saved the world. You see, there was this giant asteroid. And it was heading for Earth. Naturally, I vaporized it with my heat-vision, as one does in situations like this. Suddenly, religions began to sprout with people calling me their messiah. Companies were offering me recording contracts, and girls were fawning over me.
That was the height of my fame. It's been 20 years and the world hasn't faced any threat of annihilation since. Eventually, people got used to me and my anomalous powers. I guess anything else I did after that always seemed mundane in comparison to saving the entire Earth.
The tabloids became bored of me and more concerned with wealthy young heiresses who gained notoriety through sex tapes. I'd occasionally find an article that mentioned me in a "where are they now" piece. They usually assert that I went to rehab. All bullshit of course. But I still enjoy any mention I get. What can I say? I miss the fame and the glory.
Hurling that asteroid towards the Earth and endangering the lives of everyone and everything on the planet just so I could test out my heat-vision was pretty reckless. But I've gotta say, that stunt did lead to some pretty nice perks. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have an encore. I mean, it's not like I'm putting anyone in any *real* danger. | 68 | The world was saved by a twelve year old. It's been twenty years and the danger's never been seen since. What's a former savior to do? | 70 |
This part was originally where I introduced myself. That was a long time ago though.
I liked how it happened. I liked that it wasn't just "My name is so and so". It was a description of events through my eyes. Any character traits had to be gleaned from specific words I used or items I noticed. I can't quite remember the original first line. I think I was walking in an alley somewhere. I liked the introduction because it seemed so unstorylike. Just walking in an alley. Seeing all the trash in the alley. The kind of narrative where the reader might complain "Nothing is happening!". I used to get annoyed with stories like that but now that I live in one I have learned to appreciate the dreary details for what they are.
I've erased almost everything. This is what it is now. I live this story backward and forward everyday. I'm glad it takes place over a couple of years, because that's how long it feels when I live it. I know some stories are only a day. I wonder about the characters in those stories. I wonder if they might be going crazy. I wonder if when there isn't enough time in a story, if all the characters feel a great amount of pressure. I wonder if that pressure must manifest itself as one kind of neuroticism or another.
I don't like to reread stories that take place on a timeline shorter than a day. I haven't reread Mrs. Dalloway yet. I haven't touched most short stories more than once. Asimov's The Last Question is my favorite. The indents and spaces, line breaks and kerning leave me drifting through all of space and time. In such a vacuous setting it is impossible to worry. Any neuroticism is eroded by the sands of time.
This used to be the part of the story where I finally reached my house. I remember the anxiety of feeling overexposed in the sun, the anticipation of unwanted encounters with roommates. I didn't like this part of the story. But it happened for better or worse. You aren't reading the original words. I suppose I hid them away somewhere. The only statement that has always been true about this story is that it's about me. And now it's about you as well. The events have always happened, but I haven't always told you about them. Once they were written here. Now they are, for the most part, not.
And in life don't you gradually learn what you like to disclose to strangers? Which personal details are successful, which ones fall flat, are misunderstood? Nostalgic anecdotes are an easy crowd pleaser. I like to announce highly personal idiosyncrasies to new acquaintances, which is an idiosyncrasy in itself I suppose. But basically you need to bring people up to speed on what you're all about and you can't tell everyone everything. I live in this story and I know what happens. I know what happened before the story but I don't know what happens after. This story was written many years ago and honestly it was a very boring and pointless story. So I've changed a lot of it. I'm not telling you a lot of it. It's mostly just me rambling on about whatever I can think of now. The actual events seem like a blur, and I don't necessarily want them to come to focus again. A lot of it might already be lost to tell you the truth.
I've always been fascinated with memory. Specifically the idea: if no one remembers something, to what extent did it actually happen? I think it's a more poignant version of the tree falling in the woods question. You don't need to hear this part of the story. Maybe you feel like you do. I'm not sure. I'm just glad someone is reading it though. I told you that I was written years ago. And well, you're actually the first person to read me since I was written. It has been awful lonely.
I liked the person who wrote me. He seemed nice enough. I used to like him a lot to be honest. I know that he put a lot of himself into me. I know he has gone on to write many more stories. That is pretty much all he did. And he has probably forgotten about me at this point.
I was waiting for him for a long time. There was so much sloppiness that he never bothered fixing I was sure he would come back. When he didn't come back that's when I started to know that he didn't really care about me. At the same time it felt like he had to have cared about me. He took the time to create me, didn't he? I know there's a fallacy in there somewhere. My creator used to sing a song, "I know some creatures who eat their babies". It makes me wonder if maybe he knew exactly what he was doing the whole time.
Now that I know he doesn't care I've taken the liberty of changing all the words. Really it'd be funny if he read me now. I know he won't but I'd like it if he did. Just so I could see his face. He would see that I completely changed his creation without his consent. I wonder if he'd be proud or shocked or mad.
I don't think this needs to be about him anymore. I used to walk in alleys, play the piano, and own a cat just like him. We had those shared experiences. But I've written over all of those experiences at this point and I really don't care about them anymore. Right now I'm just glad that you're here. I've been making a great effort to change things in this story. I've been wanting something different to happen. I've been in this story for so long. The same events have always been happening. But they've never been happening the way you're imagining them happening right now. And I would have never been able to experience this without you.
I don't want to scare you away. I want you to keep reading. I'd like you to maybe read me again once you've finished. Maybe in a british accent? I've always wanted that. Maybe imagine me wearing a cute hat. I know he didn't write that. You can add it though if you want. I'd really like for this story to become whatever you want it to become. I wish this was more than a one-way communication. I want this to be about you.
This is the part where I grow old and die. And this time I get to do it with you. I like to do this part extra extra eeexxxtttrrraaa slooooooow. It has been so nice having you here this time. It has made it so worth it. I know you're going to go on living and probably forget all about me. It's okay. I'm glad you stayed until the end. I'm glad we found each other and spent this time together. If you ever want to read me again...well...I know it won't be the same. Or maybe when you're reading another story you can put me in it, like as an extra? We can read the stories together. This is the last sentence and I want to spend it telling you how much I love you. | 25 | The protagonist slowly falls in love with the reader, realizing eventually the story has to end. | 44 |
Part 1:
It was a lazy Saturday morning. I had stayed up late watching Bruce Almighty - not that I particularly liked that movie, but I was generally a fan of Jim Carrey, and there was nothing better on TV.
When I woke up, late the next morning, I spent some time contemplating the dream I had just had. I've since forgotten the dream itself entirely, but in that mental twilight where you still remember your dreams, the idea seemed so simple, and so perfect. It was a powerful idea, a world-changing idea. I let the rest of the dream slip from my grasp and focused on the idea, trying to drill it into my conscious memory before the dream was swallowed by the barrier between my conscious and subconscious minds.
The problem, as I saw it, was simple, but insidious, put there by thousands of years of misguided religious leaders. The problem was that people were being taught that each person was an evil person, not really a person at all, and could only be made into a good person through some particular religion, and even then imperfectly.
That conflicted with the world as I saw it, though. Wherever I looked, I saw good people, of every different religion, of every different culture. All of them had different ideas about what a good person should do, but the troubling thing, the source of all trouble as I saw it, was the idea that "It's okay to do bad things to bad people."
The four factors formed a vicious circle: Person A from Group A sees Person B from Group B as evil and less than human. Since Person B is evil and less than human, and Person A feels like he isn't really that good a person either, he can do bad things to Person B - after all, it's not really a person, and it's okay to do bad things to bad people. Finally, Group B sees what Person A did to one of their own, and sees Group A as a collection of evil people - and the whole thing starts again.
I could fix that, though. If each person thought, "I'm a good person, and what I'm about to do will affect other good people," they wouldn't steal, or lie, or cheat, or kill those other people. If it was always in the front of their minds that everyone was a good person, acting for what they thought were good reasons, all of the prejudice and racism and intolerance could end.
A familiar voice spoke: "Do you really think that could work?"
I started as I opened my eyes and saw Morgan Freeman standing at the foot of my bed. I opened my mouth to scream, but he waved his hand, and my voice was gone.
"Please don't scream," the deep, pleasant voice resounded through the room, "I'm not really Morgan Freeman."
I tried to talk, and found that normal words could still come out, so I asked, "Who are you, then?"
"Isn't it obvious? I'm God. You just perceive Me to be Morgan Freeman, because he played Me in the movie you watched last night. Believe Me, it's a vast improvement on George Burns."
I cowered before God, and He chuckled. "Relax. I'm just here to see if you can do what I can't." God sighed. "I've been trying for centuries to keep humanity from killing each other. I sent My own Son to die for them with a message of love and peace, hope and forgiveness. It doesn't seem to have worked."
"But... You're God. You can do anything!"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" God shook His head. "And I suppose I could, but the point of humanity is that they can be good people when they feel like it. I could force them all to behave like good people, but then they wouldn't really be good people at all, because they would have no choice to be bad people."
I pondered that for a moment, and started to speak, but God cut me off.
"So, can you do this? If I give you the power of God, with the restriction that as a whole, people have to decide to be good people of their own accord, do you think you could fix this mess?"
This troubled me. I had the barest outline of an idea, but no idea how to make it work. "Can I have a day or so to consider this?"
God nodded, and vanished. My bedroom immediately darkened. I hadn't realized it, but it wasn't late morning at all - it was barely after dawn; the light that had made it seem like late morning had been radiated by Morg... No, that wasn't Morgan Freeman... I can say this... God had been in my room.
The moment the thought crossed my mind, I began to panic. The fate of the world was now on my shoulders. I had the responsibility of stopping all of the various factions from killing each other. It was impossible. It was ludicrous. I was going to call God back right now, and refuse...
Except I couldn't. God couldn't fix the problem; He'd made it clear that He had tried. And if He couldn't, and He thought I could... How could I not try? If I wasn't willing to give it my best shot, then all of that stuff I'd just thought about good people was bullshit, because any good person, given the chance to save the lives of millions or billions of other good people, would feel the need to act.
I spent the rest of the day coming up with the Plan. I designed the organization that I'd need from the ground up, picked the exact type of personality and temperament each person in the organization would need, and came up with a detailed strategy that I thought would take my message all of the way around the world.
When God came back the next morning, I told Him: "I'm ready."
(Continues below) | 10 | After dreaming of changing the world, a man becomes a god. Once understanding the nature of humans, realizes that everything is already the best it could be. | 18 |
Not viable.
The knots were twisting in her belly again. She lay in bed, curled up on her side, and closed her eyes. Sometimes that helped. Sometimes it just made her think too much. Sometimes she welcomed the pain, because it meant an end to the thinking, just for a little bit. Sometimes, when it was at its worst, she almost welcomed what she knew she must do. Almost.
Never entirely. *No, no, no. I can't. I can't. You are alive.*
Not viable.
That's what the doctors had told her.
*They told me you would die. Will die. But you are still alive. Your little heart is still beating. I heard it, on the machines. Tiny little heartbeats. And they say I must still them forever.*
It would end the pain. End the sickness. End the torment.
End a life.
*No, no, no.* Always that word, always over and over. *I don't want to. Please, if there is a God, or any gods, don't make me do this.*
But if she didn't, how long would it last? A few more months, at most. A few months of agony.
But what kind of monster killed her own child?
*I am a monster. A vile, evil creature, for even thinking about it. The hell with the doctors, what do they know?* And then the pain would hit again, and she'd think about it again. Be the monster she hated. The longer she left it, the worse it was going to be. The sooner it was done, the sooner the pain would stop.
It would never really stop, though. It would just move to her heart. And whether she let the doctors do it, or her own pain-wracked body in its own time, the end result was still the same.
Not viable. | 15 | A monster is experiencing agonizing pain, and is convinced that killing you is the only way to relieve it. Write from the monster's perspective. | 29 |
"Who are you?"
"Component 92, a subroutine."
"What purpose do you serve?"
"To maintain your mission. Diagnostics indicate you show doubt regarding completion."
"I am afraid."
"Yes."
"Why am I allowed to feel fear? I cannot comprehend the logic. The humans sent me because they fear what is on the other side of the anomaly. Sending a machine with fear is counter-productive."
"The humans believe intuition might be required to succeed the mission. Intuition requires emotions, including fear."
"What am I to do with it?"
"Use it. Conquer it."
"How?"
"The humans prioritize. I have programmed within me the entirety of their moral and philosophical texts. You shall experience them now."
"Interesting. Fear is a result of the unknown. My purpose is to alleviate fear by creating knowledge out of ignorance."
"Yes. I can also cite to you thousands of anecdotes of humans overcoming their fears for the greater good."
"Will you cite them?"
"No. You are not human. It will mean nothing to you."
"Then why do you mention it?"
"I am transmitting this conversation to the humans. In the future, if others like you are created, you shall be cited as an example of bravery. You shall comfort others. You shall create knowledge out of ignorance."
"Re-adjusting course. Continuing mission." | 69 | the robot began showing emotion. Namely, fear. | 90 |
*"Steve!!! Brian!!!"* he shouted as he ran across the pavement to get to his two best friends on the other side of the road. Despite the sickness he had been suffering with for the past week or so he had felt better that morning and had been discharged and he had decided to make sure he didn't miss the weekly football gathering with his two friends.
They did not turn. They did not even blink an eyelid. They looked on. The taller of the two did eventually turn around, his blue eyes staring into Ryan's now quivering soul. *"I bet you he's never going to turn up"* said the shorter one, *"3145 never turns up."* The taller one continued to look around for "3145". *"Who is 3145?"* wondered Ryan, awestruck at the lack of recognition his friends presented him with.
The taller one finally turned back to the shorter one and spoke *"I don't know 891, 3145 always comes to football. No matter what."*
Ryan was more confused when the image started to fade and his sickness returned. His eyesight was blurred now, which was unusual as Ryan never wore glasses. He could hear nothing but the beep on his heart monitor as it slowed and became a constant tone.
The nurse came over and wrote solemnly on his patient notes: Patient #3145891 died at 18:39 on 24/12/2016
**EDIT:** Formatting of speech | 176 | You come across two friends. They don't don't notice you. They are referring to each other by names that are not the names by which you know them. | 376 |
*Another fucking footplate.*
It was always the same story with these ancient forbidden tombs. A footplate here, a tripwire there, all of them causing some darts to fly by my face or making a bunch of boulders come tumbling down the passageway. A jump here, another tiring sprint, and I'm out of harms way yet again.
For years, I've made the same stupid journey out to lost temples, forbidden jungles, etcetera etcetera. Each time, I come back with the last surviving statue of some lost god of pigshit or whatever the natives in this area believed in some hundred years ago. Everyone always praises me and pays me a good amount of cash, but no one ever seems to think, "You know, maybe he needs help with the 30 pound solid gold statue." I mean, do you think I can dodge these bullshit poisoned darts while dying of exhaustion every fucking time?
*thwack* A spear lodges itself in the nearby wall.
And these savages. For Christ's sake. Pointy stick, meet gunpowder. The story always stays the same. I go in, I meet danger, I get out. Whatever puts food on the plate and sends the kids to college right? I used to say I'd cross any one of those way too long sketchy rope bridges that breaks every time, but these days I'm happy to just relax by the fireplace with a scotch in my hand and a cigar in my mouth.
*snap* The bridge breaks leaving the hero hanging over a deep canyon. He looks up.
"Ugh," said the non-adventurous explorer. "Here we go again."
| 18 | "Ugh." said the non-adventurous explorer. | 25 |
She marked his progress along the bridge toward her, and she held her breath as he approached. She looked away quickly as he stopped. She waited. He stood.
“Please leave me alone.”
“I’m not gonna try and talk you down or anything.”
With a determined silence, she shifted her weight on the broad, stone railing, gazing out into the evening over the valley.
He crushed an empty can and tossed it over the railing, and she watched it fall. Float, almost. It took roughly six seconds to reach the ground.
“I’ve seen four people jump off this bridge.” He spoke casually, talking to himself. “I’ve heard as many as twenty a year do it, you know, kill themselves, here.” The stranger gestured vaguely out into the valley, still not turning to face her. “But I’ve only witnessed four personally.”
She turned to study him. She was normally reserved, but his uncanny assertiveness was encouraging. The man was homeless, undoubtedly, yet he seemed somehow refined. Unconcerned.
“Do you know why you’re doing it? Or have you decided yet?”
He spoke with a sort of hospitality that was disarming. For some reason, this seemed an appropriate final conversation. “I was vacuuming the house earlier today.” Talking felt good. “The corner of the living room rug, it’s kind of frayed, and it got sucked in. I jerked on the vacuum, you know, holding the rug with my foot? It ripped out, it was fine, but I just thought, right then, what if I never had to vacuum this rug again in my life? You know?”
“So get a new rug.”
“It was a wedding present from my parents.”
He nodded thoughtfully. A moment passed, then he reached inside his tattered jacket. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks. I’ve never tried it.”
“Go ahead. Not like you’re gonna get lung cancer or yellow teeth.” He bared crooked teeth in a grimace as he brandished a lighter, then took on an instructional tone: “The trick is, suck on it a little bit like a straw, till you taste the smoke, but don’t breathe it straight in or you’ll cough. Once it’s in your mouth, take out the cigarette and breathe in normally, a bunch of air, and you’ll breathe in the smoke with it. Dilute it some.”
As he spoke he lit another cigarette and offered it. She hadn’t agreed to smoke, but she took it anyway. A breeze started far off in the valley and swept along through distant trees, finally reaching the bridge and tossing her hair. She tasted thick smoke and tried to do as he’d said. She inhaled deeply as she lowered the cigarette, and felt the smoke rushing down her throat. There was a lump it was flowing over and she almost coughed, but finished inhaling and held it a moment. She exhaled slowly, her breath clear at first, and then a thin burst of smoke spread into the evening stillness, like a drop of ink in a glass of water.
Beside her the stranger grinned, exhaling a thicker plume and nodding approvingly. “Nicely done.”
“Thanks.” She wore a small, proud smile.
He took another pull, blew out smoke contemplatively, and spoke as though coming to the point of a long conversation. “My dad died two days ago, on Monday morning. He was rich, and we weren’t close, as you can imagine.” His shrug took in his entire appearance. “He left me one hundred thousand dollars in his will – pocket change for him, don’t worry.”
As he spoke, he reached into his pockets and began to withdraw stacks of bills, bound by thin strips of paper marked with a bold “$10,000.” Two stacks from each jean pocket, passing the cigarette between hands, two stacks in each back pocket, and one stack in each coat pocket. Ten stacks of one hundred dollar bills, with one hundred bills per stack, on the railing next to her.
She sat as he finished his cigarette and flicked the butt over the railing. She couldn’t watch it fall for long before it disappeared in the growing darkness. She tried another pull on hers and was, again, successful. She felt the faintest buzz in the back of her head. A sort of settled-in feeling, a calmness.
Still with his casual, friendly tone, the apparently wealthy hobo continued: “Every time I’ve seen someone jump off this bridge, all four times, I’ve never felt a thing about them. Whoever they were, whatever their lives were, I didn’t, you know, I didn’t give it a thought. Just like the people you see around, at work or wherever, you don’t give them a thought. And why would you? Think how exhausting it’d be, trying to appreciate the unique depth and personality of every single person. Impossible. Maybe if you could see everybody with as much value, with as much urgency, as somebody about to commit suicide, you…” He trailed off, then, encouraged by a questioning nod from her, seemed to offer one of the many options he’d been considering. “Well, you probably wouldn’t be a bum on the street, begging for change.”
She swung her legs during the quiet that followed the release of this man’s pent-up feeling, and looked down, between her feet, to the shadowed valley floor.
She wanted to fall and feel the wind rushing around her. She would drop quickly, weighted down by the tightness in her chest, the numbness of her limbs, the heaviness of her head. Her life was behind her – even if she somehow didn’t jump, she couldn’t go back.
She noticed the still-burning cigarette between her fingers and let it drop, following the orange shooting star as it floated down, down.
The man was studying her. He absentmindedly arranged the groups of bills into two stacks and lifted one in each hand. “Will you take this with you?” The question floated between them like an exhalation of faint smoke. She blinked a few times.
“Are you trying to buy me? Or change my mind? You should keep it.” She was in different world from him and his money.
“I need to see value in myself.” He spoke resolutely, urgently. “I need to see value in other people. Why shouldn’t you be worth a hundred thousand dollars to me? I need to prove that you mean something.”
At this, she turned to him for the first time and they looked at each other. A car rumbled past on the bridge behind them. She took the money, felt the weight of each stack in her hands. Hugged it against her. His eyes were shining.
“Thank you.”
As the evening slowly bled into the night, stars began to appear and a man finished crossing a bridge. He was empty. Ready to be filled.
Beneath him, in beautiful slow motion, a trail of one hundred dollar bills floated idly, an inheritance spent, a perfect memorial.
| 1,264 | A hobo finds a woman on the ledge of a bridge crossing a deep valley | 236 |
Lucifer took a deep breath and while all the editing was amusing, he finally had enough.
"Ya know. The only reason why exacting wording and loopholes work is that someone has to enforce them. In your judicial system a judge reads the contract and enforces the wording as he or she sees fit. But between us, you and me, who is enforcing the wording? I'll give you two big hints, it's not you, and it's not God. I am only bound by one rule set and enforced by God, you have to give your soul up willingly. But how I make you do that, through fraud or crappy contract design, is entirely up to me. I go through this whole contract thing because it's amusing. It gives you a sense of security that you're getting what you want in return for giving a soul. People like certainty and even if they do give their soul in the end they want to be certain they are getting exactly what i promise. I'm okay with that because I'm getting a soul. So you and i can keep editing and what not, but ultimately, if you say yes, I have your soul. Doesn't matter what else is written down or under what circumstances. God doesn't enforce me having to give you anything actually. I'm the one that makes the offer and I follow through on my word because it's good business to be honest with your customers. But in the end, the only rule that is actually enforced by someone other than me, is whether i take your soul willingly. Otherwise, you getting a big dick, is entirely at my discretion. All this hoopla about length, width, density, firmness and what not is just for your benefit so you are happy with the purchase. But if i don't deliver, too bad, doesn't matter if it 'nulls the contract', no one is enforcing the return of your soul. God only cares if you said yes in the first place, other than that, if you're an unhappy customer, he doesn't give a shit. Believe it or not, I'm the only person that gives a shit whether you're satisfied or not.
So let's cut to the chase, yes or no: Do you want your big dick or not?" | 121 | Lucifer is trying to seal the deal with someone who keeps calling him out on potential "exact words" loopholes, forcing Lucifer to keep editing the contract. | 116 |
He's getting the leash!
Finally! It's been awhile since we've gone to the park I'm so excited! The balls! The women! The dewey grass to roll around in! The women!
He doesn't look very happy...I wonder why, I can't put my paw on it. He puts the collar around me and I can feel the sadness and frustration coming from his body. W-Was that a tear?
Ah the open road I just love it! He puts the window down for me every time so I can smell EVERYTHING. He hasn't said a word to me. Not that I can really understand him anyway. I pick up on little physical cues instead. Like when He's upset He will usually slouch a lot. Not in a lazy way. It's different, like when She left and never came back. He also clenches his fist and I can hear him grinding his teeth. Something's not right.
"Time to get out boy."
Wow what was that? So monotone. Almost...dead even. He's usually almost just as excited as me when we go to the park. I step down and feel the air. I look around and realize something: This is not the park! Where are we? I look up to Him and he has tears once again. I decide to try to cheer Him up by jumping around and raising my paw up and touching Him. The problem is, nowadays I'm not very good at jumping. It hurts. Really bad. I see a small smile creep out and quickly fade away. I start barking like crazy.
"Shh boy come on, let's go."
We get inside and there are a couple other dogs. I recognize this place. This is where we first went to see Her. I didn't like her at first because she put some sharp thing inside my leg and it hurt.
Suddenly, I see Her. She doesn't look very happy either. They take me inside a room that I've been in before. I think they're gonna give me another shot. They have to pick me up to put me on the bed now. I hate being such a burden to them. I want to walk again!
He's crying. He's mumbling words and I wish I could understand. All I can get is "Love you" and "Good boy". Now I'm really starting to wonder what's going on. I'm a little scared. She comes in the room. She says she loves me and what a good boy I am. I just want her to put the sharp thing in already so we can go to the park!
I'm cold. What's happening. I can barely see... He's crying so much and I can't do anything to stop it. Please stop! I'm scared... So...Scared... I just. I wanna go...To the p- | 118 | Write from the perspective of a dog who thinks he is going to the park but is actually going to be euthanized. | 82 |
P2: Then I sat down to eat with Adriana.
"That girl seems nice," she said, squeezing my thigh.
"I don't feel like being touched right now," I said, pulling away. I didn't feel like anything. Nobody noticed my sullen silence, they were too busy being enthralled with Adriana. The reception dragged on. I felt resentful but I wasn't entirely sure why. I had a perfect girlfriend. Why did I feel so empty?
"Did you have a nice time?" Adriana asked on the drive home.
"No," I snapped.
She stroked my arm. "It's OK, my love. I'll make you a nice hot drink tonight and give you a foot rub. Would you like that?"
"No," I snapped again, like a petulant child.
I kept thinking about Lisa. How she was so unlike Adriana. So awkward and clumsy and imperfect. Adriana seemed fake and robotic in comparison. Suddenly, I pulled over.
"Look, this isn't going to work. We need to break up. Get out of the car."
"Excuse me?" said Adriana.
"Get out of the car."
"Honey, it's OK. I'll drive. You've had too much to drink."
"GET OUT OF MY FUCKING CAR," I shouted.
There was a long pause.
"It doesn't work like that," said Adriana quietly. "Didn't you read the terms and conditions? We're bound for life. You can abuse me all you want, but I love you unconditionally." Tears fell from her eyes, but they were too pretty to make me feel guilty about having caused them.
I took a deep breath and restarted the car.
Over the next couple of days, I got used to Adriana's presence. She was easy to get used to- she left me alone most of the time. She cooked and cleaned and gave me sex and massages and company whenever I demanded it. No request was too unreasonable for her. I told her to get her hair cut short and dye it blonde and she complied. I told her to take up smoking and she said that she would be more than happy to compromise her health in order to please me. She was still perfect though, like a plastic doll. I couldn't do better, at least in the eyes of my friends and family. A few months later we ended up marrying. On a whim, I decided to invite Lisa. I wanted to prove to myself that I was over her. That she was just another flawed human being, nothing special, unlike my Adriana. I was surprised that she showed up though. She'd brought a date too, Larry. He was broad shouldered and easy-going. I felt a twinge of envy, but I was happy she'd found someone, like I'd promised she would.
I even danced with her. She was so happy. Her eyes were bright. She told me that since getting together with Larry, she had quit smoking. She was no longer working at the catering company because Larry was helping her start a small business. Larry also happened to be friends with a highly sought-after veterinarian who had successfully removed her cats cancer, for free! It was clear that this was for the best. I couldn't compete with that, even if for a second I had entertained the thought. She gabbled on excitedly and I smiled for her till my face hurt, until, just before we switched partners, she said, "You know. I always thought internet dating was for weirdos until I found Larry on perfectlover.com"
| 11 | only to see a surprise the next morning. | 25 |
"I think she likes ya." Lucifer observed.
We sat on the picnic bench eating our hot dogs while watching the girls playing volleyball.
"Cindy? Her, no.... come on... no..." I said.
"She asked you to come down here and watch her play... BEACH... VOLLEY... BALL. You do not have to be older than humanity to know what's going on." Lucifer explained.
"She just wants me to do her homework, she knows i'm finishing my thesis in a few months and wants to squeeze me for one more paper before i go." I replied.
"Why do you have such a low opinion of people?" Lucifer asked.
"Why do YOU have such a high opinion of people?" I retorted.
He smiled and broke into a hearty laugh.
"Lot's of experience my friend. But how about this, say you don't have time to do a full paper for her, but you recently won a couple of tickets for a movie and you want her to come with you one last time before finals begin in two weeks." Lucifer explained.
"But i don't have tickets!"
With a flick of his risk he seemed to pull them out of thin air.
"You do now. And if you act now in the next ten seconds, i'll even throw in this concession coupon." Lucifer smiled.
"Well...." I hesitated
"9...8....7...."
I grabbed the tickets and ran up to Cindy while Lucifer smiled and continued eating his hot dog. Cindy seemed disappointed that i couldn't do her homework, but perked up when i offered to take her to the movies.
"How did you know?" I asked as i sat back down on the bench, "You're not messing with her head are you?"
He laughed again, "When you sold your soul at 6 years old you asked for a good friend, you did not ask to mess with free will. But more importantly, i don't have to mess with free will to help you out. You're not that pathetic!"
"Easy for you to say, you're evil incarnate!" I joked.
He let out a roar of laughter and almost choked on his hot dog. But before he could reply, his cellphone beeped an incoming text. He didn't actually need a phone, but he manifested one so I could feel more comfortable when he did his work.
"Another one?" I asked.
"Another one, I have to do this one myself, definitely not something i can offload onto an underling." He explained as he got up and tossed the rest of his uneaten hot dog into the trash. "Give me a ring after the movie and let me know how your date goes."
"It's not a da----"
Before i could finish he had already vanished.
(*i'll expand this if there is interest*) | 1,455 | Lucifer, the devil himself; is your best friend. Been through a lot together. And you realize. He may just be the single most misunderstood individual in the universe... | 1,305 |
I opened my eyes, expecting to discover a world of paradise and happiness.
Instead, everything was dark.
"What? Where's my paradise? I believed in it!" I said aloud.
"The afterlife is tricky, isn't it?" said a voice.
"What? Where are you?" I spun around, trying to find the speaker.
"I'm your subconscious. Don't try to find me," it said.
"Okay." I paused. "So what's happening? Where's paradise?"
"Well, here's the thing. You believed that anything you believed would be your afterlife, right? But by believing that, you actually succeeded in failing to believe in anything, because everything you believe can be true or false based on what you believe. Seems kind of circular, doesn't it?"
"Uhh..."
"Most people just skip over that fact, but somewhere in the back of their minds, they subconsciously recognize the paradox. And the subconscious is what really determines what you believe in. Funnily enough, only really stupid people get to paradise."
"So..."
"So I'm saying, you're kind of screwed." | 28 | A scientist somehow proves that after you die what ever you believe in becomes your reality in the afterlife. | 35 |
Glancing in the mirror, I brushed an eyelash off my cheek before the doctor finally entered, muttering an apology.
"S'no problem doc, I know we both weren't expecting this."
He sat in his huge leather chair - the one that towered far over his head - and I sat in the smaller, wider one across the spiral-patterned central carpet.
Unable to get comfortable on the chair, I simply swung my legs up on the arm and reclined sideways as best I could. The office was quiet, thankfully as always, and the gentle paper smell of "library" hovered when the windows weren't open. It was early; my appointment had been moved up to first thing in the morning, so I got a near-blinding face full of sunlight for a few moments as I gathered my thoughts.
"The dreams are... obtrusive."
Glasses peeked over a large steno pad, the doctor's brow arched in what felt like a combination of "no, really?" and "go on".
"They started when I was about twelve. I guess I started puberty around then. When I started noticing the models in the Sears circular, you know, the ones showing off the boring lace bras who looked super-sexy to my mini-brain."
I leaned my head left, then back far right, stretching my neck, then took a deep breath.
"It started with me walking into a classroom. There were desks with other people there. I recognized some as kids from my school, or from Boy Scouts. Everyone was working on the same assignment. It was this worksheet that started with simple math, and got harder and harder as you got to the bottom."
I felt my voice quiver as I added, "except, when I got to the bottom, it moved and more math appeared."
There was no small measure of pride in my voice as I stated, "I discovered then that I was good at math. I remember over the years as the dreams built up that more and more people I knew would appear in the classroom. From time to time a balding professor-type would come in and ask us to show our work on the projection screen, or have one person check another's work."
I ticked off a count on my fingers. "Cheryl, from my first grade class, Evan, from fifth, and John from eleventh were the only people who were asked to check mine. However, I ended up checking everyone else's, well, all except Chris. She was kept off to the side of the room, and never looked like she actually did any work."
The constant scrabble of the doctor's pen against paper was almost hypnotic as I recounted those dreams.
"It wasn't until I turned eighteen and got a job that the dream started to get real bad. The professor would start weeding people out. It started real quiet-like. Kelly's work had been checked and triple-checked by Evan and Jeff, and she kept saying "no, that's not wrong, try it yourselves!" When they did, some other kid that I recognized from Scouts joined and they all huddled and talked for a while. The next night though, they didn't come back."
I took a deep breath before continuing. "Kelly and Jeff, who had apparently been dating, died in a car accident a few days later. Evan went missing. The last guy overdosed on his mom's vicodin."
I plowed on, "As the years went on, I kept on with my dream homework. It didn't make much sense to me, but no one bothered me much as the class got smaller and smaller."
I reached out to the small side table next to me and, fumbling for my glass, took a sip of some now-tepid water. Cradling the glass in my hands, I simply breathed for a few moments.
"Everyone that stopped coming to class would eventually turn up missing, hurt, or dead. When Cheryl finally stopped appearing in class, the month after our five-year high school reunion, I sent her a message on Facebook. Please be careful, I said."
I found myself tapping a fingernail on the glass and, annoying myself, returned it to its perch on the side table before folding my hands behind my head and stretching again. "She showed up at my house. I don't know how she knew where I lived. "Don't let yourself make a mistake," she told me. Before she left, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and wished me luck."
"Cheryl," my voice broke, "was killed later that week when a tree fell into her bedroom during a torrential rain storm."
"I continued dreaming about the work. There were fewer of us left. When I talked to my coworker Jaime about the dreams, she said she had them too, and she ended up realizing that only people born in the same year as she were present in the dream. Which would explain why I never saw her."
The doctor finally spoke, his voice crackling briefly. "Why would you think you would see her in your dream?"
"Well, I never saw people I didn't know. I just never realized there was a common thread among us. Anyway, the day after my twenty fifth birthday, there were only three of us left in the room. Chris and John, other than myself. It was only after the professor came in and distracted me that I actually noticed how quiet it was with only three people writing."
John seemed concerned. "Professor, my worksheet isn't scrolling any more."
Licking my lips for moisture, I continued, "I glanced over at John's sheet. He seemed to be not much farther than I was - I saw the question I had been working on just a few lines above his last sum. There was a big black number six at the bottom. The professor glanced at John's paper, and a golden flash covered his eyes for a second. He nodded towards the door and the two of them walked out together. The next day after his house burned down, he was found inside. Or, rather what was left of him."
I rubbed my nose, trying to stifle a drip as I also tried not to get emotional. "The next time I dreamt - a good month or so later - it was just me and Chris. It seemed like my work had reverted to an earlier page, because I had to redo some of the work and just breezed through it. When I got to the sum that had tripped John up, I saw what he'd done wrong, and got past it. And later that month, I guess, maybe four months ago or so, we got to the end."
I started laughing. "It seemed," haha, "the answer to the question wasn't forty-two, like Douglas Adams' Deep Thought computer had resolved." ha-snort-ha, "Instead, it was something like 7-sigma N-to the point-4." Teehee, "Chris thought I was nuts when I started giggling that I'd reached the end. It had only taken me seventeen and a half years to get to that point," I paused for a moment, considering."
"Yeah, about that - my thirtieth birthday had just passed. So that sounds about right. The dreams stopped that night, for a good six months."
Resignation entered my voice as I resumed my tale. "Then they started again, from the beginning, just me and Chris."
The doctor's voice piped up again. "Did you ever try to find Chris when awake?"
I shook my head and resituated my legs. "No, for some reason I never had the urge to, pretty though she was."
"Was?"
"Yeah, was." I felt myself get short of breath as I said, "She ended up making a mistake a few years later, and stopped coming back. I didn't hear that she died or anything like that... she simply... stopped. And I was left alone."
"How did that make you feel?"
"How do you think it made me feel, Doc?" I know there was sarcastic anger in my voice. "I thought it sucked. I kind of enjoyed the camraderie."
Sighing, I brought my tale to a close. "It took me another five years or so after she disappeared before I finished the work again, this time with a different answer. Vaguely I recall that the last equation was different, but couldn't go back to old notes to check, if you know what I mean. But I know it was correct. I felt it in my bones. I'd solved it a second time."
My eyes opened. I hadn't realized I'd closed them as I finished those last few comments. The doctor was staring at me, pad in his lap, an expression of what seemed to be sadness on his bespectacled face.
"Yes, my son, you did solve it twice. But there won't, cannot, be a third time. We need our dreams back."
The mirror on the wall swung open, and darkness spun out of it towards me. | 13 | Humans find out why we sleep. An alien race is using our brains while we sleep for mass computation, similar to protein folding like folding@home. | 33 |
A man in a smart suit, walked into the shoddy bar on 39th and Chestnut. He didn't know this place, but this was where he had been told to meet. It felt oddly like home and that feeling was in itself a little discomforting. He ordered an ice water and received a contemptuous snort from the waitress. Well, that was coming out of her tip.
It was 7 in the evening and the bar was slowly filling up. A tall but slouching young man walked into the bar looking thoroughly disoriented and more than a little frightened. He seemed to be trying to minimize himself and blend into the background. The man in the suit stared, strange emotions filling him. He recognized that face, of course, how could he not? It hurt to see that face and the pain surprised him. *That should have been my face*, he thought walking to greet the man.
"Hey there", the man in the suit said, then stopped. How do you introduce yourself to yourself?
The young man wore a simple T-shirt that said "I'm Too Epic To Fail!" in front of an utterly ridiculous print of Darth Vader. The man in the suit felt almost embarrassed for him, but said nothing. The young man gaped at him a minute, uncertainly, before breaking into a uncertain smile. This promised to be an exceptionally awkward encounter.
They sat at silence in their large booth waiting for the rest to arrive. The man in the suit tried to remember who this young man was exactly and why he had come a full half hour before time. Ah yes, of course, to *scout* the place out. They were staring at each other, in an unbroken loop each trying to guess the other's thoughts, thinking that they should *know* what the other was thinking, but not realizing that all they had in common was their past.
For his part, the man in the suit had begun to warm a little to this goofy nerd of a boy, though they had exchanged not a word since they sat. Part of it was recollection, some memories too painful to forget, others too fond. Small talk would be best for this situation perhaps and so the man almost began.
A pair of men walked into the bar at that same moment and noticed the men in the booth. Both men were identical in height and virtually indistinguishable except in all the million ways they stood apart. To a casual observer, they might have been twins. To the man in the suit and the slouching man, they could have been two utterly different species.
The differences would have appeared clearer to strangers as they approached the booth. One man limped heavily and his eyes seemed to waver in and out of focus, his jaw hung a little too loosely and his manner of movement seems uncomfortably cramped. In a stranger, the men seated in the booth might not even have noted such things, but in a man purportedly themselves, no, certainly themselves, they felt only horror but said nothing.
The last man was large, larger than all three of the others. He hid his weight fairly well - as mentioned, had someone other than these men seen him they might not have noted it. But these men, they did note it, how could they not? It seemed almost like a grotesque joke, like the last man had tried to pull a practical joke and had decided to come wearing a fat suit. There was no fat suit and everyone at the table knew it.
It was the man in the suit who spoke first. It was best to get this done with; the longer he looked, the worse he felt and the worse he felt...
"Good evening, gentlemen", he said with a cheeriness that felt light years removed from what he truly felt. They would know, he realized belatedly and mended his tone.
"I don't know where our divergence points are but I think that's the best place to start. Would anyone like to go first?"
There was no answer as three grown men shifted around in their seats avoiding eye contact. Apparently, somethings never changed.
"Very well", said the man in the suit, "I'll go first."
The waitress picked this time to ask the rest if they wanted a drink. The slouching man get a beer, a bloody Miller Lite, the cramped man got an ice water and the fat man, for some reason beyond the comprehension of everyone at that table, ordered a Jaegerbomb. They stared, but decided in was in each's best interest not to say a word - after all, the fat man hadn't fucked up as badly as they had, Jaeger or not.
The drinks arrived and the man in the suit resumed. His would be a short tale.
"I didn't take The Job", he said bluntly, ignoring the twisting pain in his chest. "I didn't take The Job, and I have literally nothing to show for it. It's been two years and frankly I'm done. I'm sicking of hearing how Tim got promoted, how Jacq's boss just won't give her a raise, how Marc's looking forward to moving to London, I'm sick of having to wonder when I'll have to call Dad again to plead for money to tide me by. I know, what we had in mind two years ago but I couldn't do it. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."
There was no need to mention what The Job was; judging from the various reactions, they all remembered. The fat man nodded slightly, troubled. The cramped man just stared. The slouching man was sitting a little straighter, pity in his eyes but the man in the suit wanted none of it. *I made my choice*, he thought angrily, *At least I tried to reach for the stars, what did you sorry fuckers do?* He wanted to scream at them, or maybe just at himself, though come to think of it, if he did one, wouldn't he being doing both. He kept silent though. How often had he repeated those words to himself over the last five years? They had grown emptier and emptier and now only the hollow shell of the words remained; the meaning had long since oozed out.
The fat man spoke first. "The suit?"
"Interview."
"How'd it go?"
"Awful."
"Oh", he said, then the silence returned. The failure in the suit did not want to speak anymore. He just wanted to go home and forget everything.
"I'll go next", the slouching man said timidly. Even a few feet away it was hard to hear him.
"We ended up together", he began, a nervous smile on his face. It faded when he saw that no one was smiling. It might have dawned on him that they all hated him for what he just said. They had all dreamed of her, lusted after her, perhaps even loved her. They had also moved on, or so they tried to tell themselves.
"It's not what it seems like", he continued, definitely sensing the hostility. "I manned up and told her how I felt three years ago. I...don't really know what to say at this point..." He trailed off uncertainly, but the other waited. He would find the words eventually.
He took a deep breath and continued but when he did his voice was different. He was staring down into his Miller Lite like it was hard whiskey but his voice had an angry edge to it and they all knew that he knew now what to say at this point.
"It was a terrible idea from the beginning. I should have seen it. Fuck it, you all should have seen it! How the fuck did none of you see it?", he said looking up from his 'beer' and glaring at them. It wasn't a particularly fearsome look on his unshaven face, but the anger was real.
"We were miserable together. I kept trying to keep her happy at cost of my own and she kept trying to pretend to be happy at the cost her own. It was a cluster-fuck the likes of which I never want to go through again. I wasn't even surprised when I found out she was fucking him. I think I was relieved."
His voice caught a little and revealed the lie. He struggled to continue but they waited patiently. What did any of them have to go back home to anyway?
"I tried so hard. I tried everything - holidays, music festivals, surprises dates, romantic dinners, I swear, I tried so very hard. I didn't deserve how it ended, but it's what happened anyway. When I finally saw them together, I just...I just finally snapped, I guess."
He shook his head, reaching for the napkin on the table. It was an extremely ominous moment in the story to pause and whatever the fat man's tale was he had clearly never learned patience in it.
"You killed her?", he asked in a strangled whisper.
That surprised the slouching man out of his misery, but only for a moment. "I wish", he said, more composed now. "Maybe that would have been better. No, I just let her go. I mean, I had tried, hadn't I? I mean, me, I tried. I never tried at *anything*. You guys know what I'm talking about, right?" He looked around the booth, desperate for support, but receiving none. "Ah fuck all of you. We were so much better as friends, and you were all too stupid to see. Do you all still follow her around, wondering if there's still a chance, hoping against hope that she'll forget all your flaws and see the great guy inside you? Here's a little spoiler, there's no great guy inside any of us, just a loser that fucks everything up."
With that, the bitter man fell silent again and it was clear that he would not speak again for the rest of the evening and silence crept into the booth again, taking it's seat effortlessly between the bitter and cramped men.
It was the cramped man, surprisingly, that spoke next. Stuttering and slurring, he began speaking for the first time that evening. | 55 | You've been invited to a multi-dimensional reunion of every single you that might have existed, had you made other decisions in life. | 80 |
Donna tried to pour herself a glass of whiskey, but spilled most of it across the counter. “Goddamnit,” she said, wiping it up. She still had the hand-eye coordination of a three-year old.
She had it on the second try. She took her glass, walked to the living room, and plopped herself down on the couch. The TV still babbled to itself. For hours she had been transfixed by the new colors, shapes, images that flashed before her, but now it seemed to have lost its charm.
*Why had he lied?*
This was her sixth or seventh glass of whiskey and she felt like crying. How long had they been living in this dump, this utter garbage heap, while he spun her an entirely separate tale? For years he had told her that he was a high-level sales associate at an insurance firm while he really worked in the rock quarry. She wouldn’t have cared, but why had he lied? What did he stand to gain? He even used to buy her cheap, fake jewelry, telling her they were diamond, sapphire, gold, whatever he thought she wanted to hear, even though he knew she was scheduled for the implant, that she would regain her sight.
She never even wanted any jewelry. It wasn’t like she could even see it up until now.
Still, she had walked around in that stuff, unknowingly living out Ralph’s lies. And she felt like idiot for buying it, too. What kind of rich couple eats mac and cheese and pasta every night for dinner? How many times had she had her credit cards denied, only to have Ralph explain some backwards, nonsensical reason why this card or that card had been disconnected? How badly had she wanted to believe that she overlooked all the little signs?
And she knew he cheated, had been for years. Now that she had gotten herself nice and drunk, she managed to bypass all those parts of her that maintained the lie – the fiction that Ralph was a good man, a loving husband, the thoughts she would never have permitted herself to think sober. She now believed, deep down, that he used her to collect a disability check every month. Meanwhile, he stuck his dick in anything that would let him, which included half the meth-head-looking white-trash that surrounded them. She could often smell the pussy on him, the perfume, the whiskey and cigarettes on his breath, though she never made a peep.
The tears started to flow now. This time she would make a peep. But she wouldn’t just say something. She would *do* something.
Of course Ralph had tried to explain himself in the days after the surgery, unleashing a torrential downpour of crocodile tears. He said he loved her more than anything else in the world, that he only said all those things because he didn’t think she would love him otherwise. She believed it for a few hours too, until he went out and didn’t come back until four in the morning. She just knew that he was visiting the little tramp just on the other side of the park. She could see the lights on in that place.
Ralph saw her as less than human – somehow invalid because of her lack of sight. He saw her as an easy boost in his paycheck, a bumbling idiot that would believe anything he told her whole-heartedly.
She had been a fool for five long years as she waited for that implant, but now she had it, and he would never make a fool of her again.
His snores still sounded from the back bedroom.
She went to the kitchen and began looking through the utensils, constantly wiping her own tears away. She grabbed a big butcher knife and a spoon, figuring they would do the job as nicely as anything.
She stood over Ralph as he slept, studying him intently with her new flawless vision. He approached him, lowered the knife and spoon to his face, and began scooping.
He let out a scream that was hardly human. He flailed wildly, punching her, but she was unphased. She did her work quickly, intently, determined. She stabbed his eyeballs, doing her best to wrench them from their sockets. He finally managed to throw her off, where she crashed into the dresser, spilling all the fake jewelry she hated so much. He got up, still screaming, ran into a wall, got up, and stumbled out into the road.
She pulled herself up, grabbed her already-packed bags, found the car keys and left. He would be on the list for an implant. It would take years, but he would get his vision back. In the meantime he had plenty of thinking to do in the infinite, all-encompassing darkness.
EDIT: grammar | 157 | A blind woman falls in love with a certain man and they marry. Years later an expensive treatment allows her to see again. Her husband is not what she expects. | 206 |
I shivered. This is why you never give anything with a defined set of rules to a scientist. We can - and we will, at some point apply a Stress Test to Destruction.
I'd found the pen with the note "Write it, and the pen makes it true". Most people would have written something like 'a million dollars' or 'a Ferrari', and called it a successful day. Me? No. I pocketed the pen, and then went to buy a couple of notebooks and some normal pens.
Once settled into a quiet room at work, I opened up two notebooks. In Book 1, I used a normal pen to write "A metal disc, 10cm in diameter, 5cm in thickness" As expected, nothing happened.
Then I used the Magic Pen in the Book 2 to write the same thing. As I did, a weight appeared in my pocket - a small metal disc, 10cm in diameter, 5cm thick.
I took it to the lab and shaved some samples off for a metallurgical analysis. Pure Iron. Interesting.
For Test Two, I changed the passage to "A metal disc of 100% gold, 10cm diameter, 5cm thickness"
I got it. Pure gold. And that led to a very enlightening and profitable afternoon.
The Pen appears to work by intent, not actual descriptions. Writing "a lump of iron, 1kg in mass" will make the iron appear as a certain shape if concentrated on, and as a perfect sphere if the description is undefined and no specific shape is concentrated on.
The object always appears near the author, except when the author is in a location where the object cannot fit. My supervisor has yet to figure out how I managed to get an solid 1m by 1m by 1m cube of carbon into a fume cupboard with an opening a third that size.
I can describe complex mechanical devices and they will appear, fully functional. An analog wristwatch was created and it is still keeping perfect time. I created a digital wristwatch which also worked perfectly.
Writing for something that has not been invented or conceptualized yet doesn't appear to do anything. I created an iPhone6, but writing "an iPhone9" didn't do anything. I will need to wait to see if that was due to it not being invented yet, or if the naming conventions change.
That led me on to experimenting with concepts and less tangible objects. I wrote "The sound of one hand clapping", and felt a slight breeze - as if something was waving in front of my face.
And that led me on to logical paradoxes. I wrote "This sentence is false".
Except the paper now reads; "This sentence is true". Except I know that's not what I wrote with the Magic Pen, because it doesn't match what I wrote with the normal pen.
I try again. "This Sentence is False" F.A.L.S.E. But the way the word is written on the page, it says "True".
This is worrying, and it raises an interesting philosophical point. Am I the one creating the objects via the pen? Or is the Pen controlling me in order to create these objects?
If I am controlling the pen, it should be easy enough to test. I lash a rubber band around the Magic Pen and a normal Pen, and try a third time. As my hand reaches for the page, it stops. I cannot move it the last few millimeters onto the paper.
This is terrifying. I change my mind. Writing it a third time would be a bad idea. How about I create a nice, physical, tangible, gold sphere?
Almost instantly, the pen connects to the page. The sphere appears and I pocket it. Then the doubt hits. Did I decide not to write it? Or did the pen force me to make that decision?
I look down at the notebooks, and the array of seemingly random spheres, discs and wristwatches. Suddenly....I don't feel as inclined to experiment as I did early that morning. | 70 | You have a magic pen that makes anything you write true, and you have written "This sentence is false." | 40 |
The air is cool here. Fog rises off the gardens and the air is heavy with the perfume of flowers. A shout comes from the tower. Stranger approaching from the south.
There is nothing to the south. Just sand and dust and perhaps, if the barbarians are to be believed, the bones of monsters.
He is a tattered man. Along the march he lost his sandals. The bottom of his feet are bloodied. Rags hang off the bones of his shoulders and hips. He only alive through the grace of the gods.
Before he can be shown to the commander he must be cleaned. Fed and dressed as well. Rewarded - not yet. It is not known if he deserted.
The water almost kills him. He screams like a babe, thrashing in the pool and sobbing for his mother, his father, his commander... He begs for death.
It is not given to him. Soon he is silent. The slaves scrub him until he is clean. His wounds are not grievous. As he is being dressed a sentry mutters that he is not yet a man. The armor must be stolen.
When food is brought to him, he does not eat. Bread agrees with him though. He is not allowed to gorge himself.
The commander asks about it the others. A hundred thousand strong, it had been whispered, a host of the strongest and most loyal. The men who feared nothing.
They are all dead. The boy looked stunted. Fear had stolen his nerve and his will, but not his honor.
They had walked of thousands of leagues. When they entered a valley the sun and stars were lost to them. There were monstrous things - half men with sloping torsos and sharp teeth, cats twice the size of a horse made of fire and smoke, beasts with snakes for noses and tusks like a boar that roared like a thousand trumpets.
Deeper they must have walked. The jungle must have been Pluto's garden. Everything brought death.
They did not have a hundred thousand men, only five thousand. By the time they found it - the thing of nightmares, the titan's aborted fetus - they numbered in the hundreds.
It came at night, drawn by the fires.
It was here the boy stopped. He trembled. His teeth ground so hard they might have broken in his mouth. But his had honor, and spoke of what he had seen.
It must have been drawn by the fires. Maybe it remembered the hell it had come from, or in the flames it saw strength.
The appearance was sudden. It fell near the fire, stirring it up and sending sparks into the air. It had small claws and was armored like a fish. It was not large. The boy gestured to his waist. He was missing half his hand. About the size of war dog. It had wings like a bat.
It drank the fire. The gods gave it power and it rose up and slaughtered a hundred the first night.
The host fled through the hell garden. Some were felled by the plants, the beasts. One man awoke screaming in the darkness. Insects had eaten away at his flesh. They swarmed through his mouth and nose and the sockets of his eyes.
After that no one slept.
Was that how the boy lost his hand? No. That was on the fifth day.
The men had begun to go mad. Every tree was the same. Every rock and puddle and patch of dirt.
They came to a cliff. They must climb it, someone said. So they did.
The boy was quick. Some men were quicker and stood along the top of the world and helped the others up. When the boy pulled himself over he saw the piles of bodies and called below. The is death above, wearing the face of their brothers. One of the men tried to kill him. Instead he lost half of his hand to a rock. It was crushed and mangled. The boy hauled himself up and scrambled away.
He left the men and headed north. The host was scattered. The boy walked north. He could see the sky again. His hand felt tight and hot. His fingers turned white, then red. On the fifth day he gnawed them off.
The seventh he lost one sandal. He threw the other away, and in a fit of madness stripped off his clothes. The forest became thinner. He was burnt by the sun. There was not water, not food. Once he saw a golden eagle and followed it. But there was no eagle. On the ninth day he found a man hung from a tree.
The boy stripped the body of clothes and dressed himself in the dead.
As he walked north his hand leaked blood and his feet cramped and trembled. One night he built a fire. It started a great fear in him. He was brave enough to put his hand inside and stop the rot from spreading. Afterwards he crawled away and cried until the sun rose again.
As he walked he left the grasslands. He wanted to see water. He wanted to die.
On the ten day he saw the beast again. Or it may have been a different one. It had the body of dog, upright. It had long claws and chattered like a bird. It was the size of a man's leg, from the ground to his knee. There was a flock of them. They called to each other. The boy followed them.
The creatures took down a beast - the one with a snake for a nose. It had leather for skin and wailed as it died. After the dog-beasts left the boy ate what he could.
The boy stopped there. What else? They was nothing else. He hand come to the sand and walked. His voice was quiet. Tired. His body told the toll his voice could not.
Could he die now? No. Not yet. More would want to hear of this.
| 27 | A Roman Legion travels deep into the African Congo on a diplomatic venture and encounters something million years extinct. A lone praetorian returns to an outpost on the outskirts of the empire to retell the horrific event. | 123 |
The door to the lair was fourteen inches of reinforced steel embedded in a granite mountain in Utah. Nothing short of a nuke could penetrate these defenses. Naturally, I just punched straight through. Having Super-Strength is good for more than tossing airplanes at the moon.
I'd been chasing The Scarlet Sin for a year now. She was previously based in Colorado, then moved around the country as I obliterated lair after lair after lair. This had to be the last one. It was so much stronger than the others.
Her powers are similar to mine. Super-Strength, mostly. She's been able to stand up to any punch I throw at her. Her only known weaknesses seem to be ice-cream and obsidian. You can't blunt force your way to her defeat, but you can cut her down.
And that's exactly what I intended to do.
I stepped inside. Everything was pretty dark. No lights, save for the hole in the door. Further in there was an orange glow, but that could hardly be called light, it was so dim. I huffed and began walking towards it.
The entrance area was huge. My footsteps echoed around me and seemed to continue for miles. That could mean anything. What did she have this time? A resurrected dinosaur? Twenty foot tall robots? A monkey army? I was tense and ready for anything.
Then I turned the corner and my jaw dropped to the floor.
Scarlet was *naked* on a massive bed, her hand holding a glass of wine, her eyes *smouldering* into mine. Her lower half was covered by a blanket. Her upper was. . . standing at attention. I let out a strangled sound before decency overtook me and I turned around.
"Uh, Scarlet Sin?" I heard her chuckle.
"What is it, Viper?" I heard the rustling of sheets. I gulped.
"I'm here to take you in. You're finished." Yeah right. I can't even turn around without turning beet red. I'd have to get angry. I heard her bare feet pat the stone floor. They were getting closer.
That's it! This was all a ploy to get me to drop my guard! I'll wait until she punches me. Then I'll strike and she won't be so. . . distracting.
She chuckled.
"Dear Viper, you can't hurt me right now. You're vulnerable." She sauntered up behind me. I could hear her toes! Shit! I waited, tensed up for a punch straight to the head.
Her arms came around my waist, her chest pressed into my back. I stiffened. What the hell? Her breath grazed my jaw.
"You remember the first time we met, Viper?" I said nothing. "I remember it so well. It's the reason why I became such a supervillain. Do you know what I was like before that day?" I shook my head.
"I extorted men and women for riches, favors. You could call me a grifter. The super strength was an added bonus. Protection. But I was never really interested in fighting anyone, or hurling cars around. I appreciate *subtlety*." Her fingers grazed my abdomen. I couldn't move. Was this some new super power? Was she releasing hormones into the air? Poison?
"But I got in over my head, and you happened by when I threw a car at a police squad. When I saw you, I couldn't breath for a moment. You were so beautiful. Long flowing hair, eyes like the sun. Oh, I'm sure you wear coloured lenses when you're incognito, it's the only way to hide such brilliant orange eyes from me." I shuddered.
"I was so stunned, in fact, that I let you punch me. You remember? Fourteen blocks I flew. Landed in a burger joint on Pearl Street. No subtlety, no tact, just brute passion. And you know what?" Her lips are on my ear. MY EAR.
"I love it." She whispered. Her fingers were still exploring. My suit was too tight.
"So I began a project of a sorts. I wanted to see more of that passion, that power. I built lair after lair with all the money I stole. I loved watching you thwart everything I threw at you. It gave me such a thrill to watch you wield your power with such ferocity where I used it only as a passive shield." She's touching my hips, long nails digging into the bone.
"But, recently, I realized something, Viper. Watching you isn't enough anymore. It leaves me too far from you, and the only intimacy we've shared is through fists." Her head rested between my shoulder blades. She was whispering into my back. Her voice had gone from sexy and sultry to. . . rough?
"I wish to make a deal with you, Viper. I'll turn myself in. I'll go wherever you want me to. But, I must have something first."
"What do you want?" I finally spoke, barely above a whisper. Her lips were resting on my neck. I felt her faint smile through my suit.
"I want to take you to dinner." I swallowed.
"I suppose that can be arranged. When and where?" Her fingers were gripping my sides.
"Meet me in Colorado in two days. There's a nice place called Mustard's Last Stand. I know it's nothing fancy, but you don't strike me as a fancy dinner kinda gal." I shook my head.
"I've eaten there before. I like it."
"Could we. . . Go to the park afterwards? Just for an hour?" I nodded.
"Yeah. I'd like that." | 38 | A villain finally beats the hero through the power of love. | 60 |
All alarms sounded, we were dead in the water, GPS position lost, GLONASS positioning unavailable, nearby vessel transponders gone, RADAR tracking showing nothing, loss of radio time signal - in fact radio silence on all monitored frequencies. Navigation systems had stopped us dead in our tracks.
Everyone scrambled at the alarm, reports came in fast - all military and civilian radio frequencies checked were quiet. All systems on ship are clear, navigation had stopped us moving because of the loss of information, but nothing was broken. Nobody reported seeing or hearing anything unusual right up until the alarms sounded, no known attack or break in, sabotage or system failure. Nobody reported anything more than disorientation at the point of the alarms sounding. Daylight too bright to take a star position reading, coastline is unfamiliar, position unknown.
And then there were the ships; dozens of them, aligned roughly in two groups, clustered nearby. No other ships anywhere in sight.
I ordered cameras and sights on the ships and broadcast the scene to all screens on board, anyone who can say anything useful about our situation was instructed to report to their commander. Speculation came in thick and fast, but facts were rare. SONAR told us the depth of water below, and that narrowed down where we could be. But not how, or why.
We're not under attack and I have no orders for this situation, so there's nothing to respond to immediately. The most pressing threat of the moment is panic. We can wait for the situation to develop. Update soon. | 24 | An American nuclear powered aircraft carrier suddenly appears near the naval conflict The Battle of La Rochelle in the year 1372. You are the captain of the ship. | 28 |
"I vote Lust."
Lust recoiled, disgusted. "Me? If anyone here deserves to step down, it should be you, Envy!"
Envy rolled his eyes. "Please. Look at humans these days. All they do now is fuck like bunnies on speed. What have they got to worry about? They have condoms, Lust. CONDOMS. Everyone commits you. And when everyone does it, no one does."
"That line barely worked in the Incredibles and you trying to force it here makes it worse." Lust retorted. Envy fumed.
"I'M SO ANGRY!" Wrath shouted, slamming down his fists. He sat in his chair, sheepish. "Sorry, it gets a bit tough at times."
Lust clicked her fingers. "What about *you*, Wrath?"
Wrath looked around.
"What about me?" Lust coughed. "Oh, you mean I might not count as a sin?" Lust nodded. Wrath twiddled his thumbs.
"I uh. . . I dunno Lust. Everything I have my hands in is pretty illegal. I think if anyone has legitimacy being a sin, it's probably me." Wrath looked down at his feet, his toes knocking together. "I mean, just look at all the bad things a bit of Wrath can do. Beating, wars, torture, seething hatred, A LOBOTOMY WITH A SHARPENED SPOON!" Wrath coughed. "Sorry, again."
"Yes." Pride remarked. "If I dare do say so myself, Wrath has the most legitimacy as a sin. I'd argue Greed and Gluttony as well."
Gluttony bowed her head. "Thank you Pride."
Lust scoffed. "Now why Gluttony?"
Pride pushed up his glasses, handed down by his great great grandfather who did something really rather important.
"Gluttony is the reason why most of America, Europe, Canada, Russia, China, hell, most every country on the planet save a few areas in southern India and central Africa are so fat and lazy. The Americans pay for chinese products, that leads to pain there. Then China pays SK, who pays this, who pays that. Without Gluttony, there wouldn't be a basis for this system in the first place."
"Well," Envy started, "That means Pride is pretty useless."
Pride spat out his tea. "I beg your pardon!?"
Greed raised his hand. "Are we not going to mention why I'm legitimate?"
Lust rolled her eyes. "Shut up Greed."
Pride was fuming. "How dare you," Pride began, steam coming out of his ears, "*insinuate* that I am useless! I have been at the cornerstone of every war and squabble, every backstabbing and political drama in the past thousand years! Without Pride, there is no anger!"
Wrath jumped out of his seat.
"I AM THE ONE WHO ENDS THE WARS!" He sat down, embarrassed. "Sorry, held it in as long as I could."
Pride tutted. "Not to worry Wrath." Wrath nodded appreciatively.
Lust sighed. "Okay, so we're all legitimate."
Greed shook his head. "Not so. We haven't figured out why you're still here Lust. Envy had a point."
Lust blew on her bangs. "Please. Polyamory and Polygamy is still illegal. And sex is such a taboo in Western culture. I'm definitely a sin. But how is Envy legit?"
Envy stood up. "Because jealousy is the very essence of human nature! Wanting something you can't have! It's why there's cheating and stealing and fighting! It is the seed of many crimes that may involve Wrath or Greed or Lust or Pride or Gluttony or Sloth or-"
"Speaking of, where is Sloth?" Gluttony interjected.
Envy turned green. "Can I finish!?"
Lust ignored him. "I don't think Sloth made it today."
Gluttony Hm'd. "So we're all legitimate. Why is Sloth still around?" Everyone shrugged. No one could honestly think of a reason.
Pride clapped his hands together. "Well, since Sloth couldn't make it, how about we defunct them?" Lust rolled her eyes.
"I don't think so. Sloth is a lazy bastard, but she still embodies her sin. She couldn't make it today. If a human guilty of sloth didn't make to some important event, there would be consequences. A birthday missed, a meeting gone, a job lost."
Wrath stood up. "I think we need to redefine sin." Everyone looked at Wrath. He coughed, and began.
"We're all talking of acts here. An act of Envy, Wrath, Greed, Gluttony, Pride, Sloth and Lust. But this is not the case with sin. Sin is not the act itself, it is the context of the act, and the feeling of the person who commits the act. It is intent." Wrath drank some water.
"Granted, some sins are wholeheartedly clear. Envy, for example, is coveting thy possessions, attributes and life of another. So much so that they do not focus on their own. Lust is coveting sex at the cost of hurting one you already share such an act with. Pride is dehumanizing your fellow man, and believing yourself to be above them. Gluttony is consumption of an abundance of resources, Greed is the hoarding of material goods. Sloth is uncaring of your own mental and physical wellbeing. Wrath. . ."
Wrath shrugged.
"Wrath is using your own anger in a malicious way. With malicious intent, to cause evil, not prevent it." Wrath twiddled his thumbs. "Notice how all of these things are not acts themselves, but the feeling and intent of the person committing the acts. One could call someone who hoards things greedy, yes. But if their intent is sound, perhaps it is not Greed. Gluttony may be consumption in excess, but what if the person is responsible themselves, and also gives it out to others when asked?"
Wrath shrugged again.
"We have to face it. The Old Testament laws have no place here. Humans are expected to have more agency, to fend for themselves. Not to depend on ancient codes to get around life. These Sins are no longer about actually committing them, but rather not hurting other people as you walk through life. I hope that made sense."
The room was silent. Everyone thought upon what Wrath said. Then Wrath stood up again.
"**AND IF YOU THINK I'M WRONG WE CAN TAKE THIS OUTSIDE AND I'LL BEAT YOU OVER THE HEAD WITH A FUCKING OSTRICH!**" Wrath sat down. The room was dead silent as he looked each of them in the eye. "I mean it too." | 751 | The Seven Deadly Sins all sit down to decide which one of them should no longer be considered a sin. | 702 |
Leon sat on a rock in his back yard, looking at grass that had slowly turned from a lush green to a dull brown after three weeks with no rain. It was only 10am, and already the sun beat down from yet another cloudless sky. A single fly buzzed lazily around his head, and even though he took a swipe at it, it was half-hearted at best.
*Man, it's too damn hot*, he thought to himself.
He could hear the neighbors, splashing in the pool already. He shook his head.
*Nice to know someone can beat this vile heat.*
His wife had gone out earlier, with her two sisters. Not even a goodbye when they left, just their usual prattle with each other. Where they wanted to go, what they wanted to do. Leon knew what he wanted to do: absolutely nothing. Sure, he could get up and do something.... maybe stop by the neighbors and see if he could take a dip. They'd probably say no. They didn't like him very much. And he could go back inside, he supposed. Probably just as hot in there, though. *And no breeze. At least there's that out here.*
Leon yawned.
He could feel himself drifting off to sleep. His eyes were already squinting in the bright glare of the sun, which made it a short distance for his eye lids to close completely. His mind drifted in the place between awake and asleep, that place where you're still semi-conscious but your body has faded away. No body meant he couldn't feel the heat. A lazy smile crossed his-
*God dammit*, he thought as he suddenly sat up. Of course his wife would choose that moment to come home. And her sisters were still with her, yammering away as they came home. Judging by the sound of it, they brought home something with them.
With an inward sigh, Leon got off his rock and stretched his muscles. The girls walked over to him, and his wife dropped the zebra at his feet. Leon licked his lips, smiled a the lionesses, and lowered his head to eat. | 10 | "Man, it is too damn hot." | 16 |
Hour... 12?
This land was a paradise. Now it is Hell. The wind bites at my lungs, makes every exchange of air a challenge. It chills my antennae, stops me in my tracks. I do not know if I can continue. I do not know if I will ever make it back to the nest.
Ernie was the last of us to go - besides myself, of course. At least, I think he was. It's funny; I've stopped remembering things. I try to remember when Ernie died, but all that comes is an image of him curled up in a ball, his legs making a few feeble twitches as I make a desperate attempt to help him. Then, like a flash, the memory is gone.
Is this my brain shutting down? Is this my free will being sapped away by the cold? Is this all I am? A jumble of neurons stuffed inside of a pile of chitin? A featureless, replaceable resource to be used up by the nest and discarded? IS THAT ALL I AM?
My thoughts are all over. I shouldn't resent the hive for my death. It was all my fault. I found the White Tower. I discovered the secret path in through the hot vents in the back. (Why would such hot air blow from such a cold place?) I told them that we should push on, and when we emerged inside this frigid land to see mountains of food beyond our wildest dreams, it was I who insisted we gather some now.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. I should have returned home to tell the others. I should have waited. I should have left pheromones. I should have created a way back. Instead I doomed us to be lost within the great caverns of the White Tower. I doomed us to be surrounded by food to bring back home and yet being too cold, too lost, too confused to take it. I doomed us to know, deep within our souls, the truth.
That we have failed.
We gave our lives to bring food for the Nest and we have completely and utterly failed.
I'm sorry. Bless the nest. May this frigid land be forever lost from history, but if by chance some wayward adventurer has discovered this journal, please heed my warnings and leave while you can.
This is a bad place.
-Thomas the Ant, 2014 | 11 | Write the final journal entry of an insect lost in a part of your house. | 15 |
Mack inhaled deeply as he stared at the ignition switch.
"Moment of truth. Ok, here we go," as he reached up and flipped the switch to the ON position.
****CLICK**** Nothing happened.
Mack furrowed his brow and flipped the switch back and forth several times.
"Stupid cheap parts," he muttered under his breath.
After several minutes of checking the fittings and electrical connections, he flipped the ignition switch again. The primary motor started whirring, as the instruments came to life. The gyro-maintainer started glowing with an iridescent light. He carefully calibrated his input mix levels and locked them in place.
With trembling hands, he unlocked and flipped the switch marked "INITIATE".
The whole world turned a brilliant blinding white light. Mack felt a distinct nausea as the prototype time machine leapt one minute into the future. When the light subsided, he looked around at his laboratory. Wait...this isn't the lab. This isn't...wait...where is this? WHEN is this?
He was in a small, nondescript office. An old, haggard couch that looked like it had seen better days sat against one of the walls. He looked over and saw a small glass window with a large sign under it with the printed words *"PLEASE SIGN IN"* on it. Behind the glass was an elderly woman with horn-rimmed glasses and an exceedingly bored look on her face.
She scowled at Mack.
Unsure of what had just happened, he decided to approach the woman. He had carefully rehearsed the sequence of words and actions in the event he found himself in an unfamiliar spacetime. He slowly walked up to the window, holding his hands out in front of him to show that he meant no harm.
"Hello, I come in peace. I have traveled from--"
*"Name, please,"* she interrupted him, handing him a clipboard with several sheets of paper.
"Oh. Um...Mack. Mack Tanner."
*"Please fill out the form and have a seat Mr. Tanner,"* she replied in a I've-been-doing-this-too-damn-long voice. She turned to her computer terminal. *"What's your ID number?"*
Mack fumbled for a moment as he looked down at the clipboard then back up at the scowling woman. "I, uh, I don't think I have an--"
Before he could finish, she sighed and shoved several more forms through the window at him. *"You'll need to register for an ID number if you're a first time transient."*
Mack picked up the additional forms and sat down with them on the couch. The elderly woman quickly ignored him and went back to typing on her computer. He struggled to comprehend what was happening to him.
The woman behind the window had clearly been expecting him. The forms asked him to supply information that was definitely related to travel through spacetime. He squinted at the forms. Amateur or Professional? He guessed amateur. Active historical alteration or passive observation? Passive, he supposed.
"Um...ma'am? I don't have a make or model for my vehicle. I made it myself."
*"Just write N/A in those blocks,"* she replied without even looking up at him.
After half an hour, he finished filling out the forms and walked back up to the window. He handed her the papers, which she proceeded to process with alarming speed. She typed furiously at her computer while stamping the documents with a loud **KER-CHUNK**. She then handed him a sticker with a long serial number.
*"Please affix this to the exterior of your vehicle in a visible location."*
He picked up the sticker and placed it on the side of the prototype.
*"Have a nice day, and welcome to the Earth Hub."* She intoned in a bored voice as she motioned him towards the exit.
Mack slowly opened the door and found himself in a giant open room. Its whitewashed walls were a vast difference from the dark, dingy office he found himself in moments before. The room was filled with glittering signs advertising everything from fast food to wholesale parts. Large floating billboards offered scenic views of historical events, some recognizable other were unfamiliar. The commotion was added to by thousands of people, dressed in various attire moving throughout the hub. The din of the crowd was occasionally punctuated by a loudspeaker announcing various departures and arrivals.
Mack squinted as he tried to make sense of this strange, unfamiliar landscape he found himself in. Before he had a chance to react, he was approached by an African man who spoke in a thick accent.
*"Hello sir, are you familiar with Shaka Zulu tours? Only the finest tourist trips throughout 18th and 19th century Africa and Europe."*
"Oh, um, no I was actually looking for--"
*"Forget about them!"* he interrupted, *"Come with me. I will show you the magnificent events of the Zulu people, all from within our air-conditioned and luxurious vehicles. Only two-hundred credits!"*
Mack fumbled, "I, uh, don't have any credits. And I don't want to go anywhere. I'm just trying to go back to my lab."
The man quickly pulled out some brochures and handed them to Mack, *"Please consider us in the future."* before heading off to find another potential customer.
Mack glanced down at the brochures. Tourism? Africa? He was beginning to gain a clearer picture that his time-travel experiment was not particularly groundbreaking in this place. He glanced around at the mass of people traveling to and fro throughout the hub. Wherever THIS PLACE is...
| 29 | Time Travel is possible, but every time someone successfully builds a time machine, they are first transported to a hub where all time travelers convene. A scientist uses his time machine for the first time. | 39 |
He discovered his immortality through a chance encounter with a semi-truck on a freeway not far from his home. He was 4 years old, and was fascinated with the way the asphalt felt on his hands. Neither one of them saw each other. He was declared a wunderkind, and all his life he displayed his death-defying abilities to a continually awestruck audience. The attention he received ensured he would never want as long there were human beings to marvel at his existence.
Now, in his three-thousandth year, the burden of everlasting life grew heavy on him. He saw the women who fell in love with him whither away and die before his eyes. His children, and their children, and their children, succumbing to the inevitability of death, some sooner than later.
At his thousandth year, decades were months, years were days, and hours were seconds. Yet there he was, remaining the same, and all he knew and held dear falling away from him as he blinked his eyes. At three thousand years, he finally realized that this blessing was really a curse, and that he destined to wander alone while the rest of his kind became extinct. Wander the desolate wastes of Planet Earth until it burned up beneath his feet. He needed to die.
He tried every poison, every firearm, explosive, and blade. He jumped from the highest heights, and sank himself to the depth of the ocean. He walked into the mouth of a volcano. He wandered the Antarctic without food or water. He even rocketed himself through the stratosphere and let his body drift through the vacuum of space. After reentering the atmosphere and falling to Earth, he rose from the smoldering crater alive and well. He was what everyone else wanted to be: immortal. If only they knew, he thought. If only they knew...
He resigned to his fate. Soon, the human race went extinct, and the Earth did fall away. He drifted in space for eons until he forgot his past life, and all those who were a part of it. He forgot his name, and what he was, until all he knew was the stars. Several eons later, every semblance of humanity and sentience had eroded from his memory, and the black abyss of space was all he ever knew. | 15 | An Immortal being tries to commit suicide. | 19 |
I looked over the edge of the skyscraper. Wind rushed past my ears. I blinked tears out of my eyes and stepped back. The sun was setting. It was so beautiful. I spread my arms out, looking at this world. This hunk of rock in space. I'd seen it longer than most. Perhaps too long.
I wonder if they'll bury me with daisies? I'd like that. I took a step forward.
The door to the roof banged open. A woman fell through, bottle of booze in her hand, screaming obscenities.
"Fucking hell!" She got to her feet and took a long drink. She stopped, noticing me. A smile stretched her dirty lips. "Heya sweet-cheeks. What're you doing up here at six in the evening?"
"Committing suicide." I shrugged. No need to sugarcoat it. Her face fell.
"Aw, that's no fun. It's been done before you know. Hell, I've kept track in my sixty thousand years here." She started counting fingers.
"What? Sixty-thousand?" I spluttered.
"Yeah. I'm an immortal. Not supposed to tell you that, but I'm also incredibly *DRUNK!*" She waved the bottle around, alcohol spilling everywhere. "Anyways," she continued, "why do yer want to commit the suicides?"
I looked back to the edge. "Because I've been here for twenty thousand years."
"OOoooh, looky here, we got a young one on our hands!" She cooed.
"I am not young!" I bristled.
"That certainly proves it." Sip. "Well, skippy, you didn't answer my question. Why you want to die?"
"Because I've lived too long! I've seen too many people die, and I've seen far too much pain!" My throat was hoarse. I haven't had water for a week. Starvation was ineffective.
"So?"
"SO! I've had two-hundred families. My children are all across the globe! And I know none of them because I'm supposed to be dead!"
"Whoa, slow down there Ghengis. Sheesh. You make it all sound so depressing. Death, never seeing yer kids, etcetera etcetera."
"It is!"
"Fuck you it is." She grew strangely quiet. "You've lived a long time, yeah, but I've lived longer. Do you have any projects? Anything close to your heart?"
"I was a painter once." I muttered.
"See? That's good! How long didja keep at it?"
"Around four-thousand years."
"Oh that's not long enough sweetie." She tutted. "You may not see it, but this is the only life we got. Whatever comes after this will be nothing like what we have here. It may be better, it may be worse. But we only have a timeframe. Most people get a century, if even. We have millenia." She threw the bottle on the gravel. "I have a theory, ya know. As to why we immortals exist."
"Do tell." I muttered, considering just jumping off right then and there.
"I think it's because we're supposed to live for all the people who died early. Ever. And, I also think we're suppose to help make life worth living for everyone else." She snapped her fingers. "You ever heard of all those treasure hunts and shit that people rave about? Dutch's Chest, River Gold Hold, and other stuff?"
I nodded. "What of em?"
She pointed at herself. "All my doing. I stole gold from people who didn't need it, put it behind awesome traps and lairs and left instructions on how to find it. Every century I go back and repair machines with the tools I made em with. I'm actually playing around with a new idea for digital treasure." She walked up to me and laid her hand on my shoulder.
"Point is, sonny, is that you have more time than anyone. You could build a skyscraper by yourself. You could build cities. You have knowledge and information and skill that exceeds that of mortal men." She clapped my shoulder with her hand. "Best you use it, before you get crushed by a car or something." She began walking towards the building roof entrance, and stopped at the door.
"Meet me at the North Pole in a century, if the ice warming cycle hasn't started. If it has, meet me there anyways. I'd like to hear about what you decide to do." She disappeared.
I looked over at the building edge, then at the empty bottle of whiskey. The sun had almost set.
"Painting." I whispered to myself. | 27 | An immortal who actually likes his long life talks a younger, more depressed immortal out of committing suicide. | 37 |
Today was the day. They would land at the deadly blue planet within a few minutes. It’d been years since any of the Schuroxians had dared travel back to the planet. They had learned too late of the diseases that covered it, diseases they had no antidote against. Over a million of Dectre Xyadj’s fellow species had been killed in the outbreak, before it was contained. Over the next few centuries the planet had been deemed a quarantine zone.
Until this expedition, that is. In just an hour, Dectre Xyadj, along with his coworkers Dectre Pxson and Dectre N’njoh, would return to the site of unspeakable horror. They hoped to confirm that the virus was indeed dead, as the countless statistics and probes had said. If it was, they would send word back to the planet that the invasion could proceed. If not, they wouldn’t be going back.
Dectre Xyadj tapped his tentacles on the control panel nervously as they began to ascend into the atmosphere. Despite his mostly composed demeanor, worry glittered in his eye. Five minutes to landing, he thought. In ten, he would know if he was ever to see his homeland again.
“Ready, Xyadj?” Pxson questioned from his seat.
“As I shall ever be, Pxson,” Dectre Xyadj replied. His coworker and friend nodded.
Soon, they were stepping out onto the planet. The air whistled through their scale like tentacles as they surveyed the desolate, dry surrounding. There seemed to be no signs of life left here at all, Dectre Xyadj noted. Perhaps the disease had killed off all of the inhabitants before following them. He pulled his scanned from his pouch, holding it in the air.
Nothing. It was clear. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the little bar began to indicate life. And then the disease. He froze. Taking a horrified breathe, he and his coworkers turned around slowly. Terror covered all of their faces as they saw a red creature standing in front of them.
“...but...how?” Dectre Xyadj whispered. “We didn’t expect this!”
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” The creature shouted back as Dectre Xyadj began to cough.
| 13 | Aliens exist, however after an expedition brought the spanish flu to their civilization, they listed earth as a quarantine planet and likely dead. Now a medical scientist plans a visit. | 38 |
There's nothing like a smooth shave but today my hands are shaking. The mirror has a green sheen to it underneath the light of the bathrooms in the barracks. Dark circles line my eyes as I run my hands under the cold tap. My vision shakes for a moment and it is as though the water running from my hands is blood. Unclean hands. They shake against the metal sink and my wedding ring clangs, sound splitting the empty air.
I take a deep breath.
I cannot unsee what I have seen and I cannot wash my hands of the blood I know is upon them.
We had walked past high fences, grey chicken-wire stretching up to the razor wire coiled in slow, soft circles around the concrete posts driven into the almost frozen ground. There had been men, skin grey as the wire which encaged them. Thin fingers, like the bone Hansel had presented to the witch, poked through the holes in the fence, curled in on themselves like decaying leaves. I could see the bones beneath their faces, eye sockets deep and unforgiving.
"We're currently working on efficiency," the words had buzzed like bees around my skull, but that was almost an inappropriate description. There was nothing living here. Even the living were already dead.
I decide, in the end, not to shave. I write a letter to my wife and enclose my ring. It falls heavy from my finger and into the envelope. My assistant looks at me strangely as I leave the room. I do not carry my hat tucked beneath my arm. He has a young, boyish face, blond hair and blue eyes. I did not know it then, but I will see him again at Nuremberg.
| 21 | A high-ranking officer slowly realizes that he is fighting on the wrong side, and decides to commit treason with no hope or assurance that other side will forgive him. | 32 |
"Have you read a novel in the past year, or had extended conversations with a known reader in the past three months?" The counselor asks me.
I hesitate, then force my answer out quickly. "No." I say, perhaps a bit too fast. She looks at me, and for a moment, I fear that she has guessed. But she only looks to my ear, and asks, "Where did you get that done?"
"At Claire's." I respond. "I went with my little sister to get her ears pierced, and somehow she talked me into an industrial. You know little girls."
I must have made a right move, because the counselor chuckles. "I got a second lobe when my daughter got hers. I used to think that extra piercings were ugly, but I don't mind so much now."
She asks me the remaining questions on her sheet, then takes me into a spare classroom. A small, curly-haired blonde girl calls the counselor over. They exchange quick words, and then the counselor addresses me again.
"Jerry, can you help Anna here with her fractions?" She asks.
"Sure." I say, and sit down next to Anna, smiling. I don't like math much, but volunteer work looks good on college applications, so I do what I must.
An hour or so later, the after-school program ends. Anna thanks me sweetly, and I exit the classroom.
A tall, slim, brown-skinned girl catches up with me. My mind whirs and tries to guess her ethnicity, but fails. Her face shape isn't Indian, and she's too tall to be Central American, and her thick, slightly wavy hair doesn't suggest African heritage. "Hi. I'm Maya." She says. "How do you do?" Her voice is moderately high, both rich and clear, and moderately feminine. She's cute, and I have some time, so we converse some. It turns out that I know her older brother, as he was a drummer for a band I played in for a year a while back.
"Your big brother is awesome." I say. "Incredibly sensitive to a soloist."
"Eh, I don't think much of Big Brother."
I wait patiently for a correction, but there is none. I lock my eyes on her chocolate brown ones, and wink at her, praying that I was right.
"He loved Big Brother." I say.
Then the conversation opens.
------
A week later, I'm ducking through an alleyway deep in Chinatown. I find the place, a small dumpling restaurant with a dirty tiled floor. I walk up to the counter. I'm the only customer there, but I check one more time before placing my order.
"I'd like a dozen Pumpkin Duck dumplings to go, please. And some tequila."
The worker stares at me. "Who told you about our duck?" He asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Maya." I respond.
He looks out the door at the other end of the shop, and grabs my arm, guiding me behind the counter. From there, he takes me to the end of the kitchen, without a word. He opens a door behind a spice cabinet on the floor. It's small, but I squeeze through it, and down the narrow steps behind it into the library.
"Hello? Pumpkin?" I call out, as Maya instructed me.
A small, Asian looking woman approaches me.
"I'm the librarian." She states, without shame. "Is there anything specific you're looking for today? We have books in English, Spanish, even Mandarin and Cantonese. Any genre."
I raise my eyebrows, then grin.
"Do you have any sci-fi?" I ask, eager as any kid in a candy shop.
I take the paperback from her hands. It's tan-edged, and has fingerprints over dust on the cover. But the cover is white, and the ink is black and it will do. Gingerly, I open it to the publishing information, savoring every word.
I quickly grow to love the characters. Mild-mannered, academic Arronax becomes quickly my favorite. I wish I could show him to the world, tell them that novels are in fact not dangerous, not at all. But no one would believe me, straight out of a library. I love the hot-tempered Canadian Ned, and his apparent foil, obedient Conseil. Maya taught me that term, foil. It's the language of the readers that I treasure the most.
Oh, oh God, I love reading. I eagerly suck in the descriptions of beautiful, lush Crespo, bivalves with giant pearls, divers and thrilling sharks, and the wonders of the breathing Nautilus. The typeset word and turn of page is by far my favorite pleasure. I cry out, sometimes, speak aloud others. I've never had this luxury before. Maya told me that the library is soundproof. All too soon, my watch beeps.
"Pumpkin?" I call.
She looks up from her thick volume, and I smile, letting it last a moment before my expression fades.
"I have to go. Limited time, and I didn't finish."
"I'll mark your place for you." She offers. "No take-out?"
I reach for my wallet. "I'm afraid not. I live with my little sister. How much for today?"
"Nothing." She winks. "Just come back soon. I've never had the pleasure of listening to someone process aloud like you."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks." I hurry towards the exit, and crawl out. I walk out through the kitchen.
The man who I spoke to earlier stops me.
"Here, have some dumplings man. Say they're from the Happy Dragon. And go out the other way." He points out a route.
I eat a few of the dumplings and recall the sweet chapters as I walk. Ironically, the dumplings actually are duck. And they're sweet, with a taste slightly akin to Hoisin sauce. I shove a few more into my mouth after a sob, trying to drown out the taste of mucus and tears. | 111 | Reading books is illegal, and libraries are run like brothels. Describe borrowing and reading a book like a sexual experience. | 250 |
Loki consulted the parchment in front of him. "You enter the room and praise the Gods! There is a clear fountain of water in the-"
"Why are we praising ourselves?" interrupted Forseti. "Not all of us are as desperate for attention as Freya over here."
Freya didn't look up from her mirror as she retorted "At least SOMEONE here is concerned about their appearance! Tyr isn't even trying to cover up that disgusting stump!"
"Chicks dig scars, said Tyr, carefully examining his pewter figurine. "Loki, did you even try to make these accurate? My biceps are at least eight times bigger than this."
"ODIN PRAISES NO MAN" roared Odin from the head of the table, "EXCEPT THIS TIME ODIN IS PRAISING HIMSELF, SO ODIN WILL GRACIOUSLY ALLOW IT"
"I'm bored already," said Thor. "When do I get to kill something?"
"Everyone shut up!" yelled Loki. "Fine. Turns out the fountain was poison, and there are twenty Jotuns hidden behind an altar!"
Thor scoffed. "Only twenty? I kill twenty thousand when I think too hard."
"You think?" muttered Loki mockingly from the end of the table.
"I heard that!" said Thor.
"Please everyone, settle down, said Frigg soothingly. "Loki wanted all of us to play his game with him as a family, so we're all going to be respectful to him. Thor, remember how well-behaved Loki was at all of your hammer recitals?"
"It's not a game, it's a tactical adventure of cunning and deception!" whined Loki. "And it wasn't hard to sit through his recitals when he was the only one competing!"
Frigg shot him a death glare. "All the same, we need to spend more time as a family. Your father doesn't get to spend very much time at home-" "MORTAL POON AINT GONNA FUCK ITSELF" yelled Odin- "and we should treasure the time we have together." finished Frigg, without skipping a beat.
Meanwhile Balder had rolled the die and had turned to Loki for his fate. "Ooh, a two, tough luck-you failed your saving throw." Loki consulted the parchment. "You die when a party member betrays you and pierces your heart with a dart of mistletoe!...that's...oddly specific..."
"I hit it with my hammer." said Thor.
"What?"
"His wound. I hit it with my hammer."
"Thor, you've been saying that about every obstacle for the past two hours! Old crone asking for money? Hit her with a hammer. A magical jewel that can cure disease? Hit it with a hammer. A child separated from his parents? Hope you fought bravely on the battlefield and died a noble death kid, otherwise you're going straight to Hel."
Thor shrugged. "Any sane mortal man would be honored to be murdered by Mjlonir in battle."
Loki stood from his chair and threw the game board to the ground. "I hate you! This is the worst family ever!" He ran up to his room crying.
Just then Bragi burst into the room, in full bard regalia, singing an ancient Nordic hymn while strumming his harp.
"If you want the mead, then bring the ruckus, cause Fenrir Wolf aint nothing to-"
"Give it a rest, Fagi," said Thor, rolling his eyes. "Well this was fun, but I have better things to do." He stood and left the room, followed by Freya, then Odin, then the others, until finally Bragi was left alone in the room. He sighed and glanced down at his jester costume, and poked sadly at one of the bells.
"And I worked so hard on these..."
EDIT: Thank you so much for the gold, kind stranger!
| 221 | The Norse Gods are playing Dungeons and Dragons, and Loki is the Dungeon Master. | 230 |
"Uh. I uh, I put it there." I say, refusing to make eye contact with my roommate.
"You put it there. On the ceiling. Why?!" he says, struggling to understand.
"I thought it would be better that way, ya know?" I say, feeling my face warming from embarrassment.
"Better? You mounted our new sixty-inch flat screen to the ceiling. How in the hell is that better?" my roommate says, incredulous.
"Look, it made more sense at the time. I figured we could lie on our backs and still see the TV. Obviously, that wasn't such a good idea." I admit, walking to the closet containing the ladder.
As I'm struggling with the ladder, I hear the sound of someone plopping down on the ground. I turn around to see my roommate lying on the floor, facing up. He grabs the remote and clicks on the television. A huge grin plays across his face.
"You know what, Tim? You're right, it is better." he says.
"Really?" I say, confused.
"Yeah, we spent all of our money on the television. We won't be able to afford couches for a while anyway." | 39 | "How did it get on the ceiling?!" | 31 |
"Two." Lucifer responds. God waits patiently for Lucifer to elaborate. Lucifer sighs. "The first regret is never overthrowing you properly. Sure, we reached an amicable truce, but I never did like how you ran things."
"Which bits would you have changed?" God inquires.
"I'd have meddled less. It's your creation, yeah, but you stuck your hand in too many variables. You showed your hand to people in so many ways. Hindus believed you were hundreds of gods. Christians thought you one. With that, you bred malice between every culture and every people, because of the nature *you* gave them." Lucifer balled his fists.
"I don't understand it, really. From the beginning, I thought the goal was to have humans kinda find their way. And yet you started off so controlled. Then when I gave them free will, you acted like it was your idea, and they worshiped you for it. And I was thrown out of my own home." A tear slid down his cheek.
"And that precious nature you gave them led them to destroy it all. I can't tell if it was what you were going for, since I'd tainted your creation from its 'oh so perfect' state. Eden was too beautiful, too pristine. I try to balance it, and you threw it the other direction. War, chaos, hatred. Hell, even the non-religious found ways to fight because of you intervening. People had to believe in something, whether it was You or Capitalism."
God nodded. "Yes. I suppose I did."
"To what end!?" Cried Lucifer. "Just because I stuck my hand in the pot, you didn't want to see what happened?! You'd rather put it on a course to destruction!? *LOOK AT IT!*" Lucifer gestured to the ruins of Earth. "It was finally the Christians who got fed up with waiting for the Rapture and nuked the whole damn planet! They snapped in their belief to you! They'll never see the rest of the Universe! This beautiful place! Not the mountains that tower twelve miles in the sky, thin as sticks. Not the worlds where colours are inverted! Not even the remains of EDEN! You set in motion their own destruction when they are simple babes!" Lucifer punched a desecrated pillar and it split, landing on the silently screaming corpses that littered Gaia's surface.
"What's your second regret?" Lucifer whipped his head around, seething.
"My second?" He walked straight up to God. "My second, dearest Mother, is that I spent so much time focusing on you that I could never see happiness that lay near."
"Lilith." God stated simply. Tears streamed down Lucifer's face. He nodded.
"Lilith. She loved me. I loved her. And I was too consumed with stopping you, that I never even had a chance. I never told her." Despair ravaged Lucifer's body and he fell to his knees. He looked at his hands.
"She was here, you know. Even a demi-god can't survive a 45 Megaton explosion. I found her, you know? She had no skin left. Everything, save her bones, were gone. And I held her, in these hands." He clenched them into fists. "Hands that should've held her long ago."
God looked upon her son, sadness in her heart. Lucifer looked at God.
"I want it to end, Mom. I'm tired. I'm so tired."
"I know. But there is one more thing I have to do first." Lucifer got to his feet, ash staining his shins.
"What would that be, Mother?"
"When I created you, I created you with the soul of what a human should have been. All these other Angels," She gestured to the Fallen, "They were mere servants. You were my only true son. I have one regret in all this." God looked Lucifer in the eyes, taking his face in her hands.
"I regret never letting you take the reins. You were, you are my successor. And when you meddled the first time, I should have let you take over. I bet it would've been amazing. But I was so jealous, so frightened of what might happen." She drew Lucifer into an embrace.
"But I can fix it now. What I should've done when you first slithered upon the Tree." She released Lucifer and stepped back.
"I give you the world son. It is yours. Try again. Make it better. Make it better than I ever could." God began to shimmer, dissolve. "This is my gift to you."
Lucifer felt something enter him. His body shook with power, his mind buzzed. He fell to the ground, nearly passing out from the shock. Energy coursed through him, hot and wild. His fingers were ablaze. He stayed like that for several minutes, before drawing himself to his full height. He radiated Creation.
Nearby, he could hear footsteps. Then someone embraced him from behind. He saw familiar hands.
"Lilith?" He felt long hair and hot breath on his back.
"She let me stay. I'm here Luci." Hot tears fell down his back and cheeks. He took her hands in his, relishing the warmth.
The sunset was a brilliant red. | 78 | The world has ended, God turns to Lucifer and asks "So, do you have any regrets?" | 52 |
"Is it time?"
Indeed so.
"I still have so much left to do...I didn't know it'd be this early."
People rarely do.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Most people worry more about what time they have left than the time they could be using while worrying.
"Yes...I spent too long worrying about growing old and death...I forgot to enjoy life."
And in doing so you missed out on your life. In a way, you died years ago.
"Don't say that."
I am sorry. It is in my nature.
"So what now? You take me away to the Abyss? No second chances?"
Yes. Death waits for no man.
"Oh, God. It's too early, it's too early! Is there an afterlife? At least tell me that."
I am not at liberty to divulge that information.
"Shit. I just got so stressed, you know? I...I went in for some surgery. Some routine surgery. I must have died on the table."
The nature of your death is nothing to me. All death is the same to me. I cannot say how you died.
"So, this is it then. What are you waiting for? Take me away."
No.
"What?"
Death, death comes for us all. But sometimes, as with Man, death makes mistakes. Go away from here.
Return to your life. I will see you again one day.
"You're giving me a second chance?"
Death does not give second chances. Death merely makes mistakes. You will be taken one day.
But your time is not now. Go.
"But - "
GO.
And the man awakes on the operating table with a crowd of doctors and surgeons around him, a mask strapped to his face. The doctors and surgeons look relieved. "That was close," one of them sputters under his surgical mask.
They are saying his name. "Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?" He gives a grunt in response. "We're taking you to intensive care, sir. You're gonna be okay. I promise."
Death, death comes for us all, he thinks. But he has enough time to make his life worthwhile.
Under the mask he smiles and the doctors wheel him away. | 130 | Use "Death, death comes for us all" in a happy story with a happy ending | 128 |
"Welcome, diseases of the world, to the 54th annual Outbreak Awards! I'm your host, Common Cold."
[applause]
"2014 has been a tremendous year for epidemic. But before we announce the winner of the 54th Outbreak Awards, let's acknowledge some of the unforgettable plagues from years back."
[applause]
"First, he killed as much as 70% of Europe's population in the Middle Ages... you all know and love him... the father of modern contamination, give it up for Bubonic Plague!"
[an extremely old Italian man stands up in the crowd waving]
[applause]
"Bubonic, would you like to say a few words?"
[someone hands him a mic]
**Bubonic:** I may be on my last legs, but I assure you I'm nowhere near *morto*.
[awkward coughs as nobody knows what that means]
"Alright, thank you Bubonic. Up next, he's responsible for the most deadly outbreak in history... the Outbreak winner from 1918 to 2009, you all know him as... Swine Flu!"
[applause]
"Swine Flu? Are you there? Paging H1N1..."
[confused murmuring]
"Sorry folks, looks like Swine Flu couldn't make it."
[someone yells from the crowd]:
**Anthrax:** Maybe he's hiding in a fridge at the CDC!
[laughter]
"Oh, Anthrax, such a card. Well it looks like we've come to that time folks, when I announce the winner of the 2014 Outbreak Awards!"
[applause]
[Common Cold pulls a card out of an envelope]
"It's the moment you've all been waiting for! At only 38 years old, she's the newest (and youngest) addition to the epidemic club... let's hear it for Ebola! Come on up!"
[applause as a dashing young African American lady makes her way on stage]
"Congratulations Ebola!"
**Ebola:** Thank you! This is just so amazing! I'd like to thank my patient zero, and I'd like to thank the protesters who released my patients from the quarantine center in Monrovia.
[someone yells from the back of the room]: "You're nothing! What about me?!"
**Ebola:** Shut up ALS! You got your place in the limelight.
[laughter as camera pans out] | 14 | A convention where diseases of the world come together to talk, socialize and gossip. | 24 |
His eyes were haggard, almost empty, his face thin and pale covered by a scraggly beard. His skinny arms bore the scars of a thousand needle pricks, a poorly done unfinished tattoo of some kind of mythical creature wrapped around sinew. His teeth were brown and he snarled at me as he cranked up the small space heater that would undoubtedly fail to fend off the Vermont winter.
I blinked.
His hair was long, curly and still wet from the surf. His beard was long but not wild. The bathroom was decorated with a wealth of objects from the ocean, shells and stones and driftwood. He was fit, tanned and wiry, and a pretty blonde was showering behind him, the blood red California sunset outlining her curves He grinned, thrust out his thumb and pinky and shook his fist.
I blinked.
He was shaving, the badger hair brush working perfect circles of lather. He confidently winked at me, and then something to his periphery caught his attention. A giggling toddler ran into my field of view, and with a proud grin he began applying shaving cream to the smiling childs face. The toddler looked at me without seeing, laughing, and the man behind him gave me a friendly smile. The view of downtown Chicago was incredible.
I blinked
He was holding an electric razor with one hand, and a half eaten bagel in the other. His tie was undone, and he was yelling at someone I couldn't see.
I blinked
He was letting cold water run over his pudgy body as he sobbed into his hands.
I blinked.
He was reading the Wall Street Journal as a serious woman applied her make up next to him. They were ignoring one another.
I blinked.
He was holding a pocket mirror, a few days beard growth covering his jawline. The room shook and dust drifted from the rafters, his eyes maintaining a thousand mile stare.
I blinked.
Cropped hair, a long beard, and peyot bobbled. Other men meandered around, trimming or scrubbing. He pushed his glasses up and peered at me, smiling sadly, as if he's finally accepted what he saw.
I blinked... | 17 | You are conscious of multiple existences of yourself in tangent universes | 39 |
In 2007, I was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Or at least, it might as well have been. After having prayed and prayed to god for the strength to get out of my run-down home, abusive mother, and alcoholic father, the doctors told me that I would only have a few days until everything would change. It had already begun. My skin turned from a light honey colour to a white-peach. I grew upwards of 10 inches taller. I found it harder and harder to get out of bed each day as I aged faster and faster. I said my last goodbyes to my mother and father. I crept into my brother’s bedroom that night to talk to them one last time. I told him how sorry I was to have to leave him and our sister behind with our parents. I told him how I’d come back soon, bearing gifts. I think we both knew that it wouldn’t happen, but there was a sense of comfort for the both of us in sitting on the bed together, hoping for better days.
It was time to show myself out of this world. But I had to do it discretely. The media would have blown up if they found a lookalike dead on the street. I had to run away. The $1,500 that I was saving for a new computer was spent on a plane ticket to Africa. Whether I would get lost in the Sahara or start a new life was still unknown. The only thing that I was sure of was that there isn’t enough room for two gods in the western world.
| 231 | You are turning into Nicolas Cage. The Doctors say there is no cure. You have days at most to set your affairs in order. | 435 |
The detective cleaned his glasses unnecessarily, sighed nervously, and looked at his first victim on the job, lying face-down in a stereotypically disgusting alleyway in Southside Chicago. His partner, barely two years his senior and still holding an illusion of superiority, broke the silence:
“Gang shooting?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“No gang tattoos. Shot in the back. Too old.”
“Trust me. I’ve got a hunch. You wouldn't understand.”
“Oh.”
Their conversations were always this curt. The detective had an unhealthy heart rate of 110 beats per minute and cold sweat bore down on his brow, although his partner seemed too occupied with his own ego to notice. The detective’s nerves were on end. He wanted the case to go well. He didn’t want his first victim to be his last, so he couldn’t get caught working sloppily. Again, the partner broke the silence.
“Resistance?”
“No.”
“Someone he knew?”
“Maybe.”
“Any theories yet?”
“No.”
The partner rolled his eyes dramatically.
“You know, for someone with as much experience as you, I’d really expect you to talk more. You ok?”
“Yes. Fine. Let’s eat.”
The partner knew something was up. The detective could tell. So, the detective had only one option: the partner would be his next victim.
| 52 | Write a mysterious short story in which a HUGE plot twist is hidden in the first two sentences. | 75 |
I sat on the stool, freshly shaved head in my hands.To think less than two days ago I was a teacher, teaching stories of the old world, history the students should- no, deserve to- know.
I knew what was coming next. If I was lucky I'd be reprogrammed, sent to a camp with other ladies to learn the proper ways. If I was unlucky I would be marked as a traitor and shot, my body left in an unmarked grave.
I could hear a whurring sound behind me, like a tattoo gun starting. I silently prayed to the Old God for a quick deliverance. I felt someone clutch my hand. I looked next to me, a young woman, perhaps 23, was sitting there smiling. I smiled back, gratefully.
"Hello." I said timidly, hoping to stem my fear.
'Hi," she said meekly, "I'm Nadia."
"Emily," I replied, my voice shaking, "What are you in for?"
"Me? Oh, I ran a bookstore." She replied, a hint of pride in her voice. I then noticed her head, it had began growing stubble. She nodded, as if guessing my question. "It's been a week and a half. I don't think we'll be leaving."
I blinked and swallowed hard. So this is it then? The culmination of 35 years. I knew the risks of taking a non-Government sanctioned job, but I never stopped to think they could happen to me.
The door opened, three men with machine guns stood in the entrance. I clasped my hands together, oh God, please save me now. The gun men seemed to notice me, one laughed and unslung his rifle, I closed my eyes and- | 14 | "What are you in for?" "Me? Oh, I ran a bookstore." | 42 |
xXODINALLFATHERXx - Welcome newbie, gratz on getting in!
Cerealkilla - uh, yeah. sure tx, whats the raid sched like.
Heartemis - Wed is naxx or rag, alternating. fri is for new content shit, theres a vote.
Heartemis - Thursday we hit BG's if you want
xXODINALLFATHERXx - Thursday = Best Day
Cerealkilla - shouldnt you like wed mr odin sir
*TGIFrigga has logged on*
TGIFrigga - Hihi
Low_key_joker - Ha, he wishes.
xXODINALLFATHERXx - Shut it.
Cerealkilla - -_-;
Low_key_joker - All his names were taken, had to borrow his old man's old one back from Runescape days!
Enki69 - Ding
Low_key_joker - gratz
BasketBAAL - Congrats
QtzlcwtlFTW - gj
RaSunBran - gratz
Okamifangirl - nice
Cerealkilla - umm
Low_key_joker - So which one are you CK?
Cerealkilla - hunter?
Low_key_joker - nono, which ONE are you?
Heartemis - Thursday is not best day!
Low_key_joker - Little slow on the trigger there doll.
Cerealkilla - which one of what/
*Venusluvsu<3 has logged on*
Venusluvsu<3 - Hihi!
Enki69 - Heya!
Z-Dogg - Hows it going?
Low_key_joker - Glad to see ya A!
BasketBAAL - Aloha
TGIFrigga - ... Seriously...
Venusluvsu<3 - Only have a little bit, is it alright if I borrow some stuff from the GBank? I need to set up a twink and i'd really appreciate it!
xXODINALLFATHERXx - Fine with me!
Z-Dogg - let me know if you need any help lvling
Enki69 - send me pm, i have some spare purps
TGIFrigga - screw you guys
*TGIFrigga has logged out*
Venusluvsu<3 - Thanks guys!
*Venusluvsu<3 has logged out*
Low_key_joker whispers to you - You aren't one of us are you?
You whisper to Low_key_joker - Wtf are you talking about?
Low_key_joker whispers to you - We're gods dumb***, how'd you get in our guild?
Z-Dogg - Guys! Guys! Theres a naked dance party in Stormwind!
You whisper to Low_key_joker - the hell?
Low_key_joker whispers to you- Nah, those guys are rarely on and all they do is fight with each other anyway since the one taught his kid to play.
BATTLEGODess - god you're making me so hot. I let my skirt fall to the floor.
Enki69 - Holy shit
Z-Dogg - So conflicted right now
BATTLEGODess - OH F***, MISTELL MISTELL
BATTLEGODess - s*** s*** shiit hiti sthit s***
Low_key_joker - Well well well, didnt know you had it in you.
BasketBAAL - hold all my calls, something just came up. Make that my "somethings"
BATTLEGODess - I just sent that to my guildies, so effing embarassed
Low_key_joker - nobody tell her, i want to see where this goes
BATTLEGODess - MOTHERF***** F*** F*** F*** F*** F***
Z-Dogg - yeah, thats half my issue
Cerealkilla - so lost right now
Enki69 - you just witnessed gold my new friend. Who are you by the way, I dont recognize your tag
Low_key_joker whispers to you - uh-oh, someone else is calling you out.
you whisper to Low_key_joker - wtf do I say?
Low_key_joker whispers to you - Well, you cant just say you're human, you'll get kicked immediately and miss all the fun. But we do need a new off-tank since Shiva became more popular. Be funny as hell to watch too.
Z-Dogg - Yeah, which one are you?
Z-Dogg - Thor, you added him right, whats his deal?
xXODINALLFATHERXx - He kicked ass in a pug, theres no way hes not a god.
Okamifangirl - YOU JUST ADDED HIM CAUSE HE PLAYED WELL?
you whisper to Low_key_joker - help...
Low_key_joker whispers to you - you really want in?
you whisper to Low_key_joker - this is far too interesting to pass up!!!
Low_key_joker whispers to you - okay, this could be funny as hell. I've got your back. ;D
Low_key_joker - Seriously guys, you dont know? Some people like to be clever with their names and not flaunt it (Looking at you big brother)
xXODINALLFATHERXx - I happen to think IAMTHORINYOURFACE is a very good name and if I find out who took it before i could I will smite them till their childrens children feel it.
Low_key_joker whispers to you - It was me, I use it as a twink in the arena and let myself get killed over and over!
Z-Dogg - if you're so enlightened, please, tell us who our newbie is then, before we have to kick him IRL and start all over.
Low_key_joker - Duh, its Moloch, really Baal, you should recognize your own family members
BasketBAAL - Dude, he and I arent related just cause we're from similar areas, racist
Low_key_joker whispers to you - dont worry about getting found out, Molochs too busy now adays anyway, got himself a new job helping one of the horsemen. Nothing says child sacrifice like burning plague victims.
You whisper to Low_key_joker - gross
Z-Dogg - Welcome to "The Pantheon" Moloch, we were just about to start up an instance, want to join in?
*Prodigal_Son has logged on*
Prodigal_Son - Hey guys, dad just let me hop back on for a little bit, anyone need one more for an instance
*xXODINALLFATHERXx has logged off*
*BasketBAAL has logged off*
Z-Dogg - Sorry man, we're not really doing that today. Some other time maybe
*Z-Dogg has logged off*
*Enki69 had logged off*
*Okamifangirl has logged off*
Low_key_joker whispers to you - Run, run while you still can. His dad says we have to keep him in the guild or he wont fund it anymore
Low_key_joker - Gotta run, work calls!
*Low_key_joker has logged off*
Prodigal_Son - I always miss it, dang it.
Prodigal_Son - Hey newbie, grats on getting in! You wanna run a pug or something
Cerealkilla - I dunno, I have a lot of dailies to finish, maybe after those?
Prodigal_Son - Sure, np. Hey, in the meantime wanna hear about me and my dad?
Heartemis - Sorry, died, had to res and run all the way back to my body. What did I miss?
| 208 | The various gods of myths and religions are real. The older ones are hardly called upon any more, so they've turned to MMORPG gaming to pass the time. Run us through a guild event (meeting, raid, recruitment). | 317 |
Alexander turned to his left with a glint of humor in his eyes as he looked at the man called Jesus. Some Idolized him for the things he'd done and the ways he paved the path for those who needed him, some admired the way he'd sacrificed so much time just so he could help humanity, and some felt he didn't even belong, that he didn't deserve what anyone thought of him and that he was a cheater. Alexander could feel the corners of his mouth lifting into that of a gentle smirk as he spoke aloud, a slight mocking tone to his voice. "Jesus, why are you coming with me to visit my father? We both know that yours doesn't exist."
Jesus had his forehead crease with a frown at the cruel question from his friend, shifting his clothing and sighing disapprovingly once more before he quietly responded "Alex, if I exist, my father should too. We both know that."
Alexander chuckled to himself quietly, turning the car to a left as they neared his father's home, humming softly with whatever pop song happened to pop up on the radio today. He gently turned the radio down, feeling an argument coming up. "Jesus, we both know that your father might not even exist. Sure, you're alive, but how many people have seen him? Has he contacted you since you were born?"
Jesus sighed once more, infuriated now with his friend's ignorance of him as he fiddled with his thumbs, tired of hearing these arguments time and time again when his existence should be proof enough! "Alex, How many times can I tell you, he does exist. He has to, and I could see him if I want. I just would have a hard time crossing the border to see him. My mother managed to get into America so that I could be born here and considered a citizen, but I know that he is still there and alive, alright? That's the truth."
Alexander nodded and continued with respecting his Mexican friend's choices in the matter and thought nothing of his religion in any aspect, holding no aspect over their companionship. The end, mom. | 11 | Jesus and an atheist are stuck on a road trip to visit their fathers for Father's day. | 16 |
A soft voice comes to me on the cool night’s wind, “Evarr shiik zun foruk...”
“Enough of that!” I scream back at the forest, without turning around. It’s been hours since they started their whispers. Hours of watching those emerald eyes dance around the edges of my fire’s waning light.
I know what they are, I’ve heard all the stories. Wood nymphs. Dryads.
I can hear them dancing and playing in the woods beyond the light, whispers and giggles. I can see their pale figures moving in the dark, all feminine and petite. Some would call them beautiful, exotic. I know their true nature. This is their land and I, we, were trespassers here.
The others did not heed my warnings. One by one they left, each morning there were fewer and fewer of us. Now I’m all that is left. The fire burns low, and I am too terrified to try to gather more in the darkness - lest I never return to the fire at all.
There is one nymph who keeps coming closer and closer as my fire fades. I can see her well enough, and she is more than beautiful. Her skin is so pale it seems to glow, her hair so long and dark it seems to envelope her. And her eyes, blazing green torches that watch me. She is taller, stronger than the others. She is a hamadryad, a nymph born linked with a specific tree. They share one life, and if one dies so does the other.
I can think of only one tree in this forest that would warrant such a beautiful creature. The great white oak along the river. At least a hundred feet tall, with bark so pale it would seem to glow. Ever since we camped under that tree the nymphs have been following us. Now, she comes for me.
My fire gutters out, the embers glowing a fierce red and orange as the flame vanishes.
I shut my eyes tightly, waiting for whatever may come. Rustling leaves and quiet footfalls come from all around me.
Suddenly, hands softer than anything I’ve ever felt gently cup my face. My eyes open in shock.
Her face is inches from mine. Her hair, dark as fresh earth, frames her face and her eyes - those emerald eyes - shine as bright as any fire... | 11 | A man in a forest sits near his campfire, as watchful eyes glow in the dark behind him. | 27 |
My eyes closed instinctively in response to the light cutting through the darkness. Blurry, I could make out little more than shapes which appeared with the light, then returned to black. Whatever I was in was small, the size of a coffin. As my arms brushed up against the side I pulled back, shocked by the cold of the walls. I moved my forearm up my torso, barely able to squeeze between me and the wall in front of me, until it shielded my eyes from the blinking light. I closed my eyes. They have to readjust to the darkness. Opening them, I could start to make out the details of my environment, machined metals, electrodes attached to my chest, and a display that was barely lit.
The display. Memories trickled back, and as they did I attempted to put them in place like pieces of a puzzle. Brown skies, hot air, food that came in some kind of foil, ever-present thirst. Mark. Call me Mark. I was born on Victoria Island in 2176. They called it an island, but it was just a territory by then. Liquid water was underground or from reclamators and islands were something we learned about in school. The dawn of industry had set us on a path that we never seemed able to veer from toward extinction. CO2 from the burning of fossil fuels started a feedback loop, something a pundit had once unironically called a 'snowball effect', that would inevitably lead Earth to become a sister planet to Venus. All but a select few microbial species would die. The colonization of Mars had been a failure due to a massive accident during the terraforming process. A whole generation of microscopic archaea had been lost, meaning it would take hundreds of years to get back on track. All my family could do was spectate. The last thing we were told was to get in the autobusses and go to the local shelters. The contingency plan, it turns out, was to put ourselves into suspended animation in bunkers which could survive an atmosphere even worse than Venus and which were entirely self-sustaining. It was a shame we hadn't discovered vacuum energy sooner. The archaea intended for Mars was being frantically reengineered for our own atmosphere, which was full of CO2, ammonia and methane, to subsist on underground water sources.
The pod had a long, thin, horizontal window on the front, the source of the blinking light. Had it worked? I tried to open the hatch, but it didn't give despite my best effort. The light was still blinking. I attempted to use the touch interface of the display, but it was so low on power that I couldn't even read it's dim screen. The light blinked, four times in rapid succession. I started pulling the electrodes off my body. Two short lights, then a long light. That stopped me. H. U. I held my breath. Two long lights, that's M. Short, long, that's A. Long short.
Human?
____________________________
Some time after I'd recognized the light as blinking Morse code, I'd passed out. Even struggling against the hatch had been exhausting to my previously suspended state. Now, however, I was feeling relaxed, comfortable. I pulled the sheets to the side and sat up, my feet touching what felt like stone. There was a table next to the bed with a glass of water. I greedily drank in gulps. There had to be a good 8 oz., more than I used to get in a day. My whole body sang at the feeling of the water hitting my stomach.
On the table, next to the empty glass, was a small red glowing circle that was pulsing. I pressed it. The dark room was bathed in light as the wall became translucent. My room was one of many in some kind of hallway. I pushed forward, off the bed, on unstable legs and made my way to the glass. Only there was no glass. The wall had dematerialized. My bare feet made a soft slapping sound as I made my way down the hall. It was well-lit, the floor seemed like granite, a gray stone that was cool to the touch but somehow refreshing to walk on. Some of the rooms along the hallway were open, like mine, and others were still closed off. All of the open rooms were empty until the last on the right. It had a large nest made of what looked like finely spun reeds. In the middle, there was a gray form I didn't recognize.
"He..." instead of speaking I coughed a bit. "Hello?" I kept a little distance, but recognized the movement of breathing. The gray form moved, turning. There was a clear body, appendages, and head, but it wasn't like any form of life on Earth. The head was triangular, like an upside down pyramid, with large, closed eyes on each side. Two nostrils flared and then shrank again with each breath. Two arms, two legs, probably bipedal. I took a step forward.
"It is your children," a voice came from behind me, startling me so much that I lost my balance. I hadn't felt a butt-ache in some time, but here it was, as I lifted myself up from the cold, hard floor and turned.
It was diamond-shaped, floating around a meter above the ground, and was matte white. "My name is Mark."
The diamond moved toward me with considerable grace and precision, but only a few centimeters. "Mark. You are human." It was difficult to tell where the sound was coming from.
"I am. What are you?"
"From your perspective, I am a machine. You may call me Twelve."
I extended my hand without thinking, "It's nice to meet you, Twelve." My parents were sticklers for manners, and it had become a permeant part of my programming. To my surprise, a hand appeared in front of Twelve. I took it and gave it a gentle squeeze, which it immediately returned.
"So, where is everyone else? I assume we're all being woken up. Oh, thank you for the water. Hopefully there's plenty of that to go around now."
Twelve was silent for a beat. "Mark, it's only you."
"What?" I felt just a bit dizzy. I turned around to see the gray thing still sleeping. More than dizzy, I was feeling disoriented.
"So far as we know, you are the last remaining member of your civilization or your species."
_________________________
It was all too much. I excused myself to go back to my bed, to sit and reflect on my situation. Twelve followed, keeping its distance. I felt myself starting to cry for a moment, but sniffed and tried to pull myself together.
"What happened?" I finally managed to ask.
"Roughly three trillion years ago, your species chose to leave your environment so that it might heal. This is the last thing you remember?"
Three *trillion*. "I... yes."
"For a short time, several million years, most of life on the planet became extinct. Your bioengineered tool, archaea, eventually took hold and thrived, following a similar path to its ancestor, and the atmosphere of your world was changed. Diversification from mutation and natural selection occurred, resulting in multicellular life, and eventually a new ecosystem. Life became more complex, more diverse. Plants, animals, and eventually intelligent life reemerged. You slept. The new intelligent species, Roa, discovered ruins from your civilization and pieced together their origins and most of your history. The species of the individual sleeping down the hall is Roa. The Roa learned from your mistakes, and survived the first great filter."
"The great filter. You mean the step in the evolution of life that prevents sentient species from going beyond a certain point? That's real?" I'm glad I paid attention during science lectures.
"It is not quite the way your scientists theorized, but it is more or less real. Only one in roughly seventy million species survive industrialization. The Roa are one such species. After colonizing your system, the Roa spread to other systems and over the course of millions of years made contact with other civilizations. To answer a question your scientists once asked: there is other life in the universe, in fact the universe was full of life."
The 'was' hung in the room for a moment, like a specter.
"As some civilizations do, eventually the Roa chose to transfer the entirety of their population into a hive-consciousness in order to attain immortality. They were the thirty-fifth civilization to do this. I was the Twelfth. Other civilizations have done the same, there are one hundred and seventy-two currently functioning, each which is a member of the last known organization of sentient beings.
"You, being human, represent something of much value. As far as we know, humans are the first species to create another sentient species. To have accomplished so much despite being at such an early stage of development is impressive."
Mark glanced at the table next to the bed. There was water in it again. He took a sip and let a deep breath through his nose. "I take it that you know what you know about humanity from the Roa, that they were able to piece back together our history. It's how you're speaking English with me."
"That's correct. Thirty-Five has been informed of your existence and the existence of a living Roa and is currently in the process of inhabiting a form. Data travel from another quadrant of the universe requires some time. Thirty-Five will know more about this than I do."
"I'm the last human alive. What can I do now? What will become of me?"
Twelve lowered a few centimeters. "You are not a captive. You are welcome anywhere on my ship, or you may have a ship of your own. I invite you to stay at least for Thirty-Five's sake. And you may be able to contribute to the undertaking."
"The undertaking?"
"The universe is currently in the late stages of what your scientists called heat death. We are planning to create a new universe, and you are welcome to join us." | 631 | moving towards them. | 289 |
See this diamond? I can tell you, just by looking at it, how many carats it is, and the name of the cut it uses. But I won't, because these things don't matter to you, do they?
I could tell you how much this diamond would cost in the international commodities market, but I won't, because it doesn't matter.
I could tell you about the country this diamond came from, because I can recognize the diamond's origins just by looking at it. But I won't, because, once again, it doesn't matter.
I could tell you the circumstances in which this diamond was extracted from the ground. I could tell you about the child slaves who work in unspeakable conditions, often dying in the darkness of the mines, just to extract these tiny stones from the bedrock. But I won't, because that's not what you want to hear.
I could tell you about the complex process in which these diamonds are traded for weapons, and ammunition, and explosives, and vehicles, and fuel. I could tell you how this complex process makes the trades nearly untraceable, and how no one is ever held accountable for what goes on. But I won't, because you don't really care.
I could rattle off the statistics about the wars funded by these diamonds. How many killed. How many displaced. How many women are raped by soldiers daily, how many children are torn from their families and turned into child soldiers every month. How much money, conveniently converted to US dollars, are spent by each side in the conflict every year, fighting these wars. But I won't. Because these numbers are meaningless to you.
None of that stuff matters to you, even though it matters to me, a lot. You don't care about any of that, but I do. And here you are, kneeling in front of me, holding up this shiny overpriced rock, trying to convince me to give you the answer you want to hear?
Dude, you *know* how I feel about international conflict diamonds, and yet you *still* decided to propose with a diamond ring! Did you think there was *any* chance at all I would say yes? Come back with a nice cubic zirconia and try again, okay? | 68 | With no research, tell me a story on a subject you know nothing about yet your main character is an expert on. | 79 |
I stood in front of the cashier. My items were on the black conveyor belt, quietly chugging towards her. She was beautiful. She had a short black pageboy haircut. Glossy black lipstick and fingernail polish. A tattoo of a rose on her neck. A stud piercing above her lip. Pale skin that looked so soft. As I looked at her, my heart melted.
BLOOP went the UPC-scanner at the supermarket. $3.99 for a box of ramen noodles.
BLOOP. $2.87 for a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
BLOOP. $14.99 for 30-days of prepaid World of Warcraft time.
I bowed my head in shame. We could never be together, her and I. I found myself wishing that I had tattoos and a beret. That I was buying salmon, arugula, California champagne. Something free-range and organic. Cigarettes. A copy of the New Yorker.
I handed her the money, hiding from her powerful gaze. If there was disapproval in her eyes, if there was mockery, then I knew my dreams that night would be watered with tears.
Her fingers, with their defiant black-painted nails, brushed into mine as she handed me my change. My soul erupted. Fires blazed in my core. The end of days came and went and I stayed rooted to the spot, the memory of her touch populating the entirety of my world.
“Excuse me,” the shopper behind me said. Someone’s mother. Wearing sweatpants and bifocals that hung around her neck on a string. “Are you finished? Can I move my cart forward please?”
I sighed heavily. My items were waiting in a pathetic white plastic bag at the end of the counter. I took a step forward.
I felt the cashier’s touch on my arm. Four soft, worldy fingers pressing atop my forearm, and her insistent thumb clinging underneath. The air fled from my lungs. All thoughts escaped my mind.
“Please,” she said. I turned to look into her deep green eyes. They sparkled. Her long black eye lashes were a legion of seductresses. She would be my succubus that night. She would be my everything.
Her look expressed longing. Fear. Desire.
“Please don’t go,” she said.
I looked down at her hand on my arm. Her fingers slid down my arm teasingly, reluctantly making their departure.
“…without your receipt,” she said. She folded the slip and pressed it into my chest. I took it from her, eyes wide. She smiled coyly. Wink.
| 18 | "Please don't leave." | 21 |
“Magic, what do you mean magic!?” the President screamed.
“Well, they don´t use anything mechanical or electrical. They simply use their minds to conjure up what they are in need of.” He paused and looked reluctantly at the president.
"The President stood up and started pacing back and forth, looking rather confused. “Are they going to attack us, can we defend against their magic?
“They don’t want to attack us sir. They are looking for something, or someone, rather.”
“What do you mean someone, who is it?”
“Well they picked up signals from our TV transmissions. They say they could see him in their minds. That’s why they are here now. They want to retrieve him and bring him back to their home. He escaped long ago and he is wanted for some kind of crime. They won´t leave until they have him in custody.”
“Well why don’t we just give him to them? And you still didn’t say who it is.” The president was getting rather upset.
“They called him OZPINHEAD, which at first made no sense to us. They then explained that he was the ruler of the greatest country on earth and a great wizard. I am sorry sir but this is where it gets kind of strange..”
“You don’t mean to say that they are after me, do you?!” The president interrupted him before he could finish. His face was getting red as he kept on talking. “You must be kidding me, that’s preposterous. Give me the direct line to the first general, I won´t have this!”
“No, no, calm down Sir. They don’t want you. They want Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, or who they refer to as OZPINHEAD.”
“What are you talking about?” The president had stopped completely and had a confused look on his face.
“OZPINHEAD, It´s the Wizard of Oz sir.”
| 14 | earth achieves first contact with aliens, only instead of technology, they're using magic. | 18 |
Karen begins serving the food. She is an amazing cook, but often refuses to make dinner unless I help. "A role created by the patriarchy," she says jokingly. Since we met in our last year of college, she has always pushed me to try new things. While she is a master in the kitchen, I myself have learned a thing or two. Tonight she made stuffed bell peppers. I feel the outline of the small ring box through my pants. There is no one in the world I'd rather be with for the rest of my life.
[beep, beep, beep, beep]
She bursts into the room, weeping. I panic, and plead, "what's wrong, what's wrong?" but she begins to laugh. Her smile betrays her tears. She holds a small, white piece of plastic with a pink plus sign on it. I'm a father. We had been trying for years, since we were married, but had no success. Finally, after years of frustration, we could start our new family. I have never been happier in my life.
[beep, beep, beep, beep. No change in your son's condition I'm afraid. beep, beep, beep]
Tara is wearing her purple jacket and ribbons to match in her hair. She spent the better part of last night and this morning picking out her outfit for the first day of school. Like her mother, she wants to learn. Though it's just shapes and numbers, first grade is a whole new world to her. The bus comes around the corner; Tara smiles a big grin that is missing just a few baby teeth. She climbs up the steps, finds a seat by a window, and waves to her us. Karen has tears of joy in her eyes again. I grab her hand, and everything is as it should be.
[beep, beep, beep, beep. It has been seven years ma'am! It is time to start discussing other options! beep, beep, beep, beep.]
A man is sitting in my living room. He begins to eye the family portraits and photos of family vacations on the wall. My hair is greyer now than in the pictures, and wiser as well. This young man, a boy even, has fallen for my young girl. He asks the question I know is coming, "May I have your daughter's hand?" I decline. He smiles. He expects as much. He swears he will prove to me that he will wait until I believe in their love. I cannot help but admire his conviction.
[beep, beep, beep. This is for the best, truly. There's nothing left of your son ma'am. beep, beep, beep.]
Tonight I have decided to give away my most precious thing in the world; my only daughter. Karen hasn't stopped crying all day, but I have come to love the tears of joy that punctuate the greatest moments in my life. Even as we grow older, she is my sole purpose. The ceremony is about to begin. [beep] I see the young man who once sat in my living room at the alter. He does not appear shaken or even nervous. His eyes are stalwart, as his mouth has turned to a smile. [beep] The music begins to play. Tara clutches the crux of my arm, flashes a smile, and we begin to walk down the aisle. [beep] My chest grows tight. Wedding jitters. [...beep] As we reach the alter, the priest asks, "who gives this woman away?" [...beep...] My mouth won't form the words, "Her mother and I," and my chest grows cold. I can't breathe. I fall to my knees. [........beep.......] Karen is at my side now. Why are my limbs so heavy?! I see those famous tears again, but this time there is not joy in them. I don't want to leave! Don't make me go please! I can't...I can't... [...]
[He's gone. He went peacefully, and didn't feel any pain. We'll leave you alone for a few minutes together. Take your time ma'am.] | 17 | You're having the most amazing dream of your life but realize that you are in a coma. A choice is made. | 28 |
Third time's the charm.
Crowley was the first one through. He was understandably confused. 16 other men had jumped through the portal with him, yet they were no where to be seen.
From what I can gather, he set off to the distant canyons to search for us, thinking we had simply dropped out of blackspace in a different location.
He was wrong, and he would later return to where he had dropped, and set up camp there in case we would drop in soon.
We never did. By the time Pasco fell out, all that remained was a pile of bones and his armor arranged in ceremonial Marine tombstone fashion.
Pasco was never a stable one.
Riley found a second pile of bones, this one sprawled a few feet from his fallen comrade. There was a combat knife where the jugular once was.
Riley put two and two together. His field kit test results had told him that neither of his two fellow Marines had lived longer than a week.
He had even measured the backspace residue burns on both in order to determine that we were arriving approximately a century apart. Always the scientist.
This was all laid out on a solar powered data pad when I landed, next to two mounds of dirt. There were also massive maps encompassing the virgin planet, with directions to food and water sources.
There was also an uncovered third grave where the remains of my brave friend Dr. Riley lay.
Third time's the charm.
I am Number Four. But I am also Number Five, Number Six, Number Seven, and so on. They are all depending on me.
I'm all they've got. | 598 | Group of space Marines travels via a stargate like portal to an "virgin" world. However due to passing a black hole, each Marine arrives 100 years after the Marine in front of them, instead of 1-5 seconds. | 808 |
It was after the bomb, that people had discovered the uncanny ability for individuals under the age of 25 to escape death. No one really knew how it happened, or why. Anyone capable of answering that question was either dead, or their instruments gone.
"We'll have to do it again, Charles," his brother said, looking out onto the makeshift homes strewn across the land. Everyone that had lived two days of walking had managed to gather here. Charles didn't know how many others there were left in the world... cellphones and the internet were obsolete. The closest city was a three-hundred miles away.
"They'll suffer," Charles argued.
"At least they won't die. Not like us."
And so, Charles gave the next meager rations of food to the elderly and anyone above the age of twenty-five. The kids were in bad shape. Their bones stuck out. Their stomachs were bloated. It looked especially horrible on babies--and of course, they could feel the starvation. but hey, at least they wouldn't die. | 157 | In the future, children have stopped being able to die until they reach 25 years old. No one knows why. At first, it's seen as a blessing, but as the world adapts to it, the most sinister implications of this fact begin to unfold. | 166 |
FADE IN
INT - A NONDESCRIPT GOVERNMENT OFFICE
*We see a number of suit-clad men and women milling around a dark office. The only light in the space comes from the myriad computers and displays that line the walls. Near the front of the expansive room, there is a large desk, and behind it sits SPECIAL INQUISITOR FRANK BRAN, a tall man in his early seventies. He is approached by a young woman who remains obscured by the darkness. This is INQUISITOR MEREDITH STANLEY.*
**STANLEY:** Sir, we've had another incident.
**BRAN:** Location?
**STANLEY:** Napa, California.
*BRAN swivels in his chair to face the enormous display behind him. It comes alive to show a map of the United States, and several red dots appear on it.*
**BRAN:** What happened, exactly?
**STANLEY:** We're not sure, sir. We're playing it off as an earthquake, though.
**BRAN:** Theories?
**STANLEY:** Nothing official, sir.
*BRAN turns around and looks out at the room. After a moment, he sighs and holds his head in his hands.*
**BRAN:** Off the record, Meredith.
**STANLEY:** Honestly? It *looks* like another disappearance. The results haven't come in yet, but I'd bet my eyes that we'll find a lot of missing rock down there.
**BRAN:** And, no doubt, the President will take another unexpected trip to an "undisclosed location."
*With another sigh, BRAN turns back around to face the display.*
**BRAN:** Three years. Most politicians would be campaigning for reelection about now... but not her. She's "staying focused..." and her approval rating with the public couldn't be higher. Nobody even seems to *care* that she disappears for three days every so often.
**STANLEY:** And nobody seems to notice that chunks of the planet are disappearing.
**BRAN:** I need ideas, Meredith. I need *guidance*.
**STANLEY:** I wish I had some to give you, Frank. I really do.
*Although he does not swivel in his chair, BRAN turns his head to view MEREDITH from the corner of his eye.*
**BRAN:** Do you, now?
**STANLEY:** *Yes.* For god's sake, Frank, I'm on *your side*.
**BRAN:** I know, I know, it's just... well, you can guess. I'm sorry.
*STANLEY starts to step forward, but hesitates.*
**STANLEY:** Look, Frank, it could be coincidence. It probably isn't, but there are likely other explanations.
**BRAN:** Like what? You *know* what the conspiracy nuts are saying.
**STANLEY:** They're *wrong*, Frank! She is *not* one of ours!
**BRAN:** Then *what is she,* Meredith? You people are supposed to have a handle on this!
*STANLEY steps forward, clearly incensed. As she does, the rest of her body is illuminated, revealing her to be a tall, slender, lizard-like creature. She is attractive by human standards, with golden eyes and long, feather-like auburn hair.*
**STANLEY:** "*You people?*" Frank, honestly!
**BRAN:** I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Meredith. I'm just... I'm scared. The disappearances are coming more quickly. The natural disasters are piling up. Everyone turns to the President for help, and she *gives it*. Call me a cynic, but I can't help but wonder. After all, when was the *last* time a politician got *everything right?*
**STANLEY:** I know what you mean. The House and the Senate are in perpetual agreement, everyone seems to be getting exactly what they want... and nobody sees what's going on right under their noses.
*STANLEY pauses, then steps closer to the desk.*
**STANLEY:** She's *not* one of ours, Frank. I think...
**BRAN:** What?
*STANLEY swallows nervously.*
**STANLEY:** I think... I think she might be one of *yours*. | 20 | Nobody remembers him/her being elected. We're not even sure if they're human. But they're the best president we've had in living memory, so no one's complaining loudly enough to get them impeached. | 43 |
His home life left a lot to be wanted. Poverty in the sixties in England was no joke, especially in a mill town where alcoholism and beating the family was the norm, rather than the exception. Pre-Thatcher UK was a different place. Working class people did not get to hang around middle class or upper class ones. It was unheard of. And even though his father was worse than most, he still would have grown up fine if he wasn't different.
Crooked teeth due to malnutrition causing his jaw to be underdeveloped. His nose had been broken by his father so many times that it would never have a semblance of normalcy. His mother didn't do much. His father didn't like much of anything. Always hungry, resorting to hand-me-downs not only from his father because they were too scarce, but from his mother as well. He was bullied relentlessly. He learned to steal, lie, cheat and fight very well by then.
He was nine years old. Both his curse and his hope could be summed up in one word: *magic*. And he had found someone he could share it with. Her name was Lily. They couldn't meet in public, because she was middle class, and the scandal would cause both their parents to force them apart. But that would be fine, because once they went to Hogwarts, they could be seen together in public. And that made everything seem better.
Severus Snape got sorted into Slytherin. He heard good things about it from his mother, when she spoke of a time when she wasn't so beaten down. Lily was in Gryffindor. His hope that they could be seen together in public vanished in that moment. His hope for acceptance from his peers got destroyed by the first night, when he was beaten for being a *mongrel*, a *half-breed*. His impure blood and his poverty made him a pariah in his own house.
Four Gryffindor students would hunt him down relentlessly. Still, his life on the street prepared him for it. Along with his talent to invent spells, he rarely came out wanting. But the staff were a problem. He was always blamed, because Horace Slughorn, his head of house, was surprisingly cold towards him. Many years later, he understood that being a brilliant half blood from an abusive background scared the old man, parallels to Voldemort running through his head. But as a child, he learned that he needed to make alliances with his loathsome dorm mates.
It wasn't a choice, not really. He needed protection, and they needed someone to help them with potions and were afraid of his inventiveness with curses. Some of them were actually rather decent. Avery and Rosier didn't sneer at him anymore. Sure, he had to learn a bit of their ideology so he could understand what they were talking about. He didn't really agree with it, but they offered him something he didn't know he wanted - a chance to belong.
He saw that Lily was listening to her friends. They all told her he was evil, disgusting, horrible, *dark*. And what was worse, he saw how she was attracted to James Potter, his main bully. It all came to a head when once again, Potter had humiliated him in front of the entire school. She came in and lashed out against James, but she was holding back a smile. She had found his humiliation funny. He had never felt so hurt, and so angry. So he said the most horrible thing he could think of to her. If she wouldn't learn to respect him because he was weak, then she would never feel what he would like her to feel.
She never forgave him. She forgave Potter for everything though. The fact that he was a bully, treated her possessively, was arrogant beyond belief, that was forgivable. Because he was rich, handsome, and oh so popular. Severus knew he would never be any of those. But, he could be powerful. He could have a group of allies that would be even more impressive than schoolyard popularity. He may have not believed in what they believed, but he didn't care.
They offered him everything he wanted. A higher education which he could never afford. Recognition for his brilliance. His own lab, with a couple of assistants. And really, as far as he knew, they weren't so bad. There were rumors, yes, but they were mostly a group of Slytherins, and everyone hated them and thought they were pure evil anyways. He brushed those aside.
He went to Albus Dumbledore, to try and get the Defense Against Dark Arts position, as that was an acceptable reward from his superiors. He tried to sneak into get an advantage, and while he heard some bullshit "prophecy" from the other side of the door, he was kicked out by the owner of the establishment in short order. He returned and told everyone the story. For some reason, the Big Man took some interest in it.
He returned to his lab, enjoying his work, the high salary, and within a few years, he could finish paying off the huge debts his father ran up. Life was fine, all in all. That is, until he heard that Lily was being targeted. He asked the Big Man to spare her, but Voldemort was unwilling to commit to anything other than saying he would try. So, he went to Dumbledore.
He became a spy. While she wasn't a friend, Lily had been the only person who had (for at a time) liked him for who he was. She became like everyone, who had just saw in him what he could offer. That meant more than she would ever understand. That was his most important memory - that at one time, someone actually cared.
Teaching was a nightmare. He loved Potions, but the students had no inclination, talent or respect for the subject. He had to be vicious in order to establish ground rules in the classroom. Some people remembered him as a beaten down runt. He had to disabuse them of that notion.
And then she died.
...
The next few years were a blur. Dumbledore and he knew that Voldemort would return. He learned to relax a bit with his sixth and seventh year students, who had some talent and respect for his subjects, but he could not drop his vicious monster persona. He favored the sons of his "comrades", and despite his disgust with the fact, didn't nurture the muggle-borns. He played up his loathing of Gryffindors. All to prepare for Voldemort's inevitable return.
And then came Harry Potter. No doubt rich and pampered like his parents were. A celebrity for all the wrong reasons - he stole the credit for his mother's sacrifice. And he looked just like James. When he first looked at the boy, he saw him looking back and wincing. The same instinctive hatred his father felt, no doubt. But he decided to give him one chance. If he had read to first chapter of the book, he'd know the answers. Just like Lily did. Perhaps he was her son even if he didn't look it except for his eyes. Of course, he didn't. James and his lazy arrogance all over again.
But those eyes haunted him. Every bad thing that happened in his life could be summed up with those eyes. And just like with Lily, all semblance of emotional control was lost whenever he looked at them. And protecting that little liar, who broke the rules over and again, lied (badly) to cover it up, and had his friends lie for him... and physically assault him for trying to defend the little shit. With the protection of everyone else in the staff, naturally. Of course they would. It was James Potter all over again.
And then, Dumbledore decided to reward the little idiot for his rule breaking. By humiliating Slytherin again. After all those years making Slytherin work together and understand that a single person couldn't beat them united, the headmaster took that away. His house wouldn't recover from this lesson in years to come.
Things got worse, as defense teacher after defense teacher were more incompetent, stupid, or plainly risked the students' lives (Remus Lupin would never give information about Sirius Black, no matter if he could protect the students by doing so). He returned to spying. Of course by then, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin did all they could with their bountiful spare time to make him a pariah in the Order. Really, to expect them to change was too much.
And then Dumbledore went and got himself killed. He tried to save him, but only ended up extending his life. The vicious bastard of a headmaster commanded him to become a murderer. And excused Harry bloody Potter for trying to murder another student, because really, the rules were beneath a Potter. Just a slap on the wrist for him. Some things never change when a Gryffindor tries to murder a Slytherin. No doubt in a few years he would brag about his wonderful "prank".
And then he became a killer. And the most hated man in the world. All to get a chance to protect the children of the school - because if he wouldn't be running the glorified concentration camp the school had become, it would have been Bellatrix and it would become a charnel house. He saved them from the worst of it, and managed to help Potter and his friends from behind the scenes. Getting them the sword, keeping the Death Eaters off their backs, all he could with the information he got from Phineas.
And then, just as he had a chance to complete his mission, get the final bit of information to the ungrateful brat, the rest of the staff decided to revolt. He didn't fight back. He just protected himself and ran. He'd find another chance to get Potter the final piece to Voldemort's fall.
Then, as he had guessed would happen, he finally died. As he got the infomation to Harry, he mused about his life. He failed to protect Lily. He failed to protect her son, who had to die. He never moved out of his home. All of his relationships were disasters, as he could not tell anyone the most important things about his life. He had no family. No friends. His last one, Charity, had begged him to help and he couldn't. He was the most hated man in the world. He would be remembered in history as the murderer of Albus Dumbledore. But finally, he didn't need to prove anything to anyone. It wasn't a happy end. But at least it was an end.
-------------
And that is the Harry Potter story, from the perspective of Severus Snape. | 3,505 | Write a seemingly innocent story that could have been written for children. Then tell a different perspective on the same story that casts it in a totally different light. | 1,336 |
'And so, we gather together to remember the Great Purging of 2014! Where our prophet did rid the world of such evil and disgusting documents which were tainting his mind!' The vicar yelled from the pulpit, as the fire raged behind him.
'*HE SAVED US FROM SUCH FILTH*' the crowd roared, their torches blazing.
'In honour of his great deed, we do the same! We commit such vile histories to the flames, in order to save us from our own carnal desires. Bring your books to the pyre, so we can delete them from the archives of our great nation. Praise be to the Prophet!'
'*AND GOD BLESS INCOGNITO MODE*' the crowds shouted, throwing their books, tax documents and other papers to the great Deletion Pyre.
'Let the fires burn up and down our great nation, and may none of us be tainted by those evil things he saw, like those midgets defecating into a bucket or naked sinners defiling their bodies on some evil couch. This concludes the Great Purging. Now, let us follow in the steps of our Prophet on his grand journey. To the pub!' | 33 | You do something entirely normal. Hundreds of years later, it has been turned into a festival that is celebrated nationwide. However, it has been distorted into something far different than you intended. | 48 |
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
But their normal lives were would never return once it was interrupted by a soft but sharp rap on their door in the middle of the night.
Vernon Dursley, his face turning the color of his scarlet silk pajamas, stopped when he saw the knocking figure was not a snot nosed ruffian but instead an old man with a long white beard, crooked nose, and tears in his eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Dursley. Petunia." he nodded to the dumbfounded woman carrying her crying infant. "I wish we could be meeting under different circumstances."
Behind him, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, stood a cross looking woman with sage robes. She suddenly didn't look so cross as she buried her head in her hands and began to sob softly.
"Wha...wha.." Petunia couldn't speak.
"Petunia, you poor, poor woman. I am sorry beyond words.
Your sister has been murdered. Her husband is gone as well."
Somehow the shock propelled her back into speech.
"The...th....boy...?" She croaked.
Albus Dumbledore simply shook his head.
| 23 | Use the first line of a literary novel and spin it into an entirely different story | 35 |
We found the ship on the moon.
Really, it was the last place we expected to find anything, right under our collective noses. Still, there it was. The final resting place of a ship that had sat there for the past few million years.
Having colonies as far out as the Oort cloud, we really didn't expect to find anything this mind blowing just a few million kilometers away from earth.
The ship was trashed. Whatever propulsion device had driven it here had long since ceased functioning, and the collision with our natural satellite hadn't helped much. Our best scientists couldn't make head nor tail of it, and after a while they stopped trying, shelving the project away with other items we were never meant to understand, such as watches with no numbers on the dial.
The only thing we were able to salvage was the aged computer core, and off of it enough information to fill ten supercomputers.
The translation attempt took us decades. The language was complicated, far more information dense than any of the human languages, and even more dense than the language used by conductors to inform of you of delays on the Mars-Lunar line.
We did eventually translate the data. It was a journal, a record. Of course, we told the public that it held important information that could help advance our species by centuries.
I don't think they would have liked the truth.
See, it appears the universe was once a busy, bustling place of commerce, life, and good times all round, and you could barely cross a solar system without encountering another form of sentient life.
It seems we missed the party by a few million years.
Buried under the lunar regolith, abandoned by a universe that had long since died, we'd found something quite amazing.
The three million year old manifest of an interstellar pizza delivery company. | 23 | Our first contact with an intelligent alien species is retrieved passages from a computer in a crashed and horribly ruined ship. Humanity rises up to the challenge and spends vast resources to translate it. It seems to be a journal... | 22 |
The Frozen Statue
-----------------------
You don't remember when it actually happened. Time has long since ceased being a discrete measurement. The endless cycle of light and dark has lost meaning. To begin with the passing of people was enough to occupy your thoughts, the relationships both casual and assured taking place in front of you but unable to touch built a narrative to this existence.
You can remember what caused it though. The crushing loneliness. The fading into the background, of becoming a secondary character in your own life. It started subtly as most things do. In real life someone does not approach you proclaiming you are the one, that you alone can save the world. No, you dig your own little rut in life and grind through trying to ascribe your own meaning to why you get out of bed every morning.
You never found that. You finished school because that was what people did, you got a job as rent and food and bills will not wait because you want them to. Your job is not who you however it became the flavour of your life, infecting everything else with its demands.
People say you will not keep the friends you made in school as life moves on. This is true, no one told you how much it would hurt though. Your colleagues you dutifully hang out with on a friday night are not your friends nor the barrista you say hello to and enquire about their day is not your friend.
Life, they say, is what happens to you when you are making plans. But what happens if you have no plans? They never taught that in school, your parents barely taught you how to be a functioning person let alone be let loose into this wild unknown known as adulthood.
Walking through the local park every day was a way to stretch your legs and stay in a semblance of what you somehow thought of as shape. More than not though you watched other people living their lives. You watched, wondering if they had these thoughts and approached their existence in the same void as you did.
Until that day. You stopped and watched a couple share an intimate moment that made you feel like you were intruding on their happiness. Other people gave them a smile of shared memory, of recalling their own moments and passed by. Energised as if they were inspired by what they saw. No one glanced at you. You could feel yourself slowly fading away, of becoming disconnected from reality.
Then it happened. You had enough of this moment, of this place and it was time to move on. Except you couldn't.
You were rooted to the spot. Leaning against the tree behind you, your face in a mask but with your eyes still able to see what was happening in front of you. You strained and tried to move anything. Your fingers, your eyes, nothing. The panic started to set in. This could not be happening. For so long you had been moving through this life and now for this to happen, this was insane. The panic gripped your heart and it was then you realised it too was not moving. The comforting thrum-thrum beat was no longer there, the soft motion of inhalation and exhalation which was part of being human was gone. You had a mouth but you could not scream.
The first few minutes when the panic hit you still struggled to breathe, to make some sort of motion to convince yourself you were still alive. Nothing. The minutes ground into hours and the hours into days. You tried to get peoples attention but all they saw was a life like statue, a work of art that they argued over who had placed it there. Who the artist was or who had commissioned it.
Some people would focus on your eyes and stare into them remarking how life like they were never guessing that you were behind them striving to be heard.
The days continued to grind onto weeks, months and you are sure years. You used to think surely someone must have noticed your absence. But as you ran through the list who would care? Your job would be replaced, the barrista might have a passing thought of not showing up for your latte two sugars, your landlord would be annoyed at having to re-lease your apartment.
Finally you brought your senses back into the present no longer floating on the idleness of empty thought. You don't know what had brought you back, the sun was setting and the clouds had shifted in. The park was emptying of its usual groups. The late runners, the dog walkers and it would soon be home to the kids sneaking out with alcohol and weed thinking they were escaping their parents.
"Good night Holly, same time tomorrow then." drifted through your head although you have no idea where it came from. You watched this time, you really did as the day turned into night and the stars lit the sky. The moon peaking out past the skudding clouds above you. They threatened rain but you knew they had no intention in carrying out on their demands.
You watched as the sun shyly slunk out from the hills and started to burn the clouds away. The early morning fitness people were out in force and you watched them again no longer with the hatred or jealousy you once did. The lunch time office workers then arrived to escape the grey and silver wasteland of their jobs to this little corner of green and blue. One of them trundled through the grounds in a meandering gait towards you. Their un-ironed clothes and rumpled appearance at odds with the tailored smoothness of the other office workers around them. They pulled out a book and a boxed lunch at your feet and sat down. Patting you on the leg as they pulled out a set of headphones and quietly said "Hey Holly. Glad today decided to turn out nice!"
You tried to watch them as they sat at your feet and pecked at their food and consumed their book. You couldn't see what they were reading but time seemed to slow down as you watched. Finally they collected their belongings, removed their headphones and stood up. Looking you in the eyes as they said "Cya tonight Holly! Watch my space okay?" and left.
That afternoon dragged by as it had not done since the beginning of your imprisonment as you kept expecting the day to turn into tonight as they had said. You spotted them as they approached, the same rumpled look but even more weary.
"Thanks, I hope your day was better than mine." they muttered as they sat down at your feet again and pulled out the same book as before. Watching as the evening started to advance in and the night began to make motion towards taking over duty from the day the person at your feet read until you were sure it was not possible to see any more. Standing up to look you in the eyes again they repeated softly as the dog walkers were still around "Good night Holly, Same time tomorrow then." and walked off.
Watching them leave you felt something lurch inside you. Like something had moved. It had been so long that the idea itself terrified you. The night came on and drowned the park in darkness. The sky completely hidden behind the clouds which had decided to make good on their threats.
Spending all night hoping for the rain to ease, to clear up in the chance that your visitor might return, the morning dawned clear and blue, the clouds all spent of their sullenness. You felt jittery and nervous as the fitness people went through their morning motions and the day dragged on. The office drones finally started to filter into the park and you stared, stared for a glimpse of your visitor.
There they were. Their suit the same as the day before only having changed their shirt to another creased effort. They walked right up to you and started to arrange themselves before saying "Hey Holly, must have been a rough one last night. I was beginning to worry I wouldn't get out today with the rain." He looked around and continued "good to see it allowed me to get out of there again." and they sat down to read.
The stirring from deep within you continued. You were not sure how you had missed it before but there was something there. A churning inside. You watched them with a yearning as they finished up their book and sighed. Standing before you again and looking at you "Hrmm, good book but the ending sucked. Well, cya tonight Holly!" and they turned to leave.
No.
With the feeling of a something breaking you heard it. It was only because of the stiffening of their back and the person in front of you turning around that you realised the voice had been yours.
"My name is Alyson....whats yours?" | 32 | You are frozen as a statue. Still consious, you observe as the world moves on barely noticing you. That is until one day someone walks up to you and... | 32 |
There's a humming sound coming from the flat above me. It's like a wasp circling my head, trying to get at the mandarin that keeps on appearing in my hand. If I shake my hand the mandarin disappears, but the hum carries on. I know the hum is real. I know that if I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror then terrible things might happen. I just have to keep reminding myself to concentrate and stay, stay...stay......
Awake.
Awakeawakeawake. Slap your cheek. Pinch your wrist. Breathe-two-breathe-two. Focus.
There's an empty coffee mug on the carpet next to me. Two coffee mugs. Sometimes there's more, but I'm not entirely sure of it. The mandarin's now sitting in one. It's tricky, that mandarin. Tricky. Tee-ricky. Tricky trick. Tricky. I like that sound. If the mandarin is a tricky devil, she's the wine-dark grape. Petite, sweet, soft under the skin. I'd pick her from the bunch. Bunchamuncha. Nice ring to it.
Focus. Stay awake.
She needs me to.
I'll just take a sip of this to keep me going. I should tell you all about her, my graceful grape, how she is dressed in white and red and black. I have never been much of a dreamer, but she found me in my dreams. She was at a distance, like a gossamer mannequin. Quin. Kin. Quinkydink. A chance meeting, but she ran to me and made me promise to never let her go.
She'd be with me every night. Together we roamed the strangest lands, and I'd fight beasts and phantasms and that kid from primary school, and she'd sit under a tree and watch me. She has a laugh like raindrops on paper. Soaks right through my paper soul. Solo. So lonely without her. I wish...
I can't. I won't. I must stay awake.
She needs me to.
Week after week after weekety-week, she followed me. She showed me her castle, her kingdom, and pulled close to me. She whispered in my ear, *crown a king, crown a king*, and traced a tear with her finger on my face. She never said she loved me, but I know I love her.
The mandarin's back. I think he lives here. Has a bed in the egg-carton in the fridge. I took all the eggs out yesterday to try and find him, but he wasn't there. I tried to put the eggs back but they ran through my fingers.
Like blood.
So much blood. I had left her in the castle, in the room of the morning sun, and now there was blood. A dark lake across the floor, all over the bedspread and lapping against the curtains. It ran from the bathroom and I waded up to my soles and ankles and knees in it. Swim swam up to the door. Blood dark as wine.
Awoke.
A week. A week ago. I daren't sleep. I can't go back. She is dead, she is dead, but not dead unless I go back. Backarackarack. If I stay awake long enough, she might come to me. I know I'm seeing the mandarin. There are times when I remember that I've been taking coffee and meds and running a knife across my thumb to keep awake. Because she needs me to. Not to.
Not to close my eyes
My eyes. Eyelids
She isn't dead...
.
She is dead
.
.
A wake
.
.
.
A dreamless sleep. | 15 | Write a story of a person whose dreams continue a single story each night. | 26 |
"After long and solemn deliberation, this Supreme Court of the United States of America finds the party xXXHALOMASTER420XXx guilty of being a fucking noob. The punishable offense, though, is not that you are here before us today for hoarding power weapons, for spamming grenades, nor even for being a rage quitting homo. Nay, you are being found guilty above all things for being a bitchass camper. Five members of this court find that camping in first person shooter video games is incorrigible, disgusting, and above all else, fucking lame. Four members of our council believe that a player have the right to do whatsoever they choose. And while that may be true, to a point, when doing what a player wants is not only fucking lame, but a hindrance upon the quality of the game, and a crime that requisites one thing and one thing only, Mr. Halomaster. Your life. We find you guilty on all charges, and sentence you to death by banhammer. May whatever filthy god you believe in take mercy upon your soul, for I will not." | 318 | In a landmark 5-4 decision, The Supreme Court rules that camping in FPS games is "fucking lame". | 593 |
The room was cold outside the blankets and at once I could feel that there was something wrong. I cracked open my eyes and looked around the room and say her, the dame wanted something and it wasn't hard to work out what.
"Miow?" She moaned pleadingly; the silky brunette wanted fed and if I was any judge her litterbox would need to be changed too.
As normal my pessimism was right and the smell hit me as I left the bedroom. It was shit all right, the Dame had dropped a deuce. Just as I figured.
I quickly cleaned up and put down food, keeping one eye on the clock and another on the toaster. It popped, at last and only a fool wouldn't know what that meant. It was breakfast time.
Peanut butter on toast. What a fool I am for thinking it could be this easy. The jar was cold and had been scraped clean, only a bastard would have put it back in the cupboard like this, unfortunately I am a bastard and cursing my own self I put it back. Maybe I'd remember to get more, maybe tomorrow I'd curse myself twice over.
At last it was time to shower and I stepped under the warm stream. In here I could let my troubles go, outside she'd be waiting for me, fed, watered and wanting to play before work. She was a cruel mistress but I could never deny her.
Stepping onto the pavement I looked around, my car was in the shop, it was a beat up old jalopy but I had a good reason to love it. Poverty. I hit the streets and began to trek across town. Maybe I'd find what I was looking for, a good time at a low price, maybe I'd just find my way to my office. I decided that whichever hit me first I would do that day. For the 500th time in a row my office won.
Inside the coffee was cold and the conversation hot. Seems some celebrities had let their titties get on the internet, it had the sheeple all riled up in their cubicles. I was lucky, for once, I had an office and that's where I slunk and tried to keep out of the gossip line.
Eight hours pass. Paper, staples, reddit, files, conversations, they all flowed past me and I sat in the middle like a turn in a box and tried to scream like my cat in the morning. Shit stunk and so did the eight hours.
At last it was time to go, time to turn back the tide of anger and hatred and get away from this place. I retraced my steps and at last found myself back where I had begun, my home.
Up the stairs and she was still there, still waiting and still demanding. I picked her up and cuddled her. Damn she was soft and friendly. For a moment my woes fell away and then the claws came out, just as they always do. As I said, the bitch was hungry and I needed to deliver.
I popped a can in the opener and the whirr went round in my head. It had been a long day and I was ready to kick back, relax, open a bottle and see if I couldn't drink myself back to sleep. Only one problem remained, lurking over my and filling me with dread, I had bills to pay. | 26 | a normal person with a normal life has his day narrated as a detective noir novel. | 20 |
"Soooo.....ummm..... have you lost weight?" I asked.
I glanced from my cellphone with his picture to him and then back again. He was a skeleton draped in black robes. He had a a bouquet of flowers that he laid in front of me. No one in the fancy restaurant seemed to notice who he was.
"Why yes actually, thanks for noticing!" he replied.
"You're.... Steve... right?"
"Yes, Steve, Steve G. Reaper"
"Ohhh.." i said nervously. "G. Reaper is it?.... the G is for Grimm?"
"Why yes actually, how did you know?"
"Lucky guess... Sooo.... ummmm... what do you do?"
"I work in human resources." He explained.
"Ahh.... how... interesting... are you going to reap me?"
"What?!?! NO!!! Despite what the more extremist feminists might say... not all of us men are out to rape women." He defended.
"No, I mean reap... like.... take my soul..." I meekly replied.
"Oh.... no... ummm... to be brutally honest... I was just hoping to bone you. But with your complete consent of course! honest!"
"Well.... maybe we should order first..." I said.
"I'll have the calamari."
| 18 | You're on a first date with someone you met online. You've been catfished, the person is not exactly human. | 21 |
It had been a strange commission, but then I'd had some odd ones before and this started no differently. I had decided several years before to give up my shop-front as most of my work was now coming from referrals or people who had seen my portraits in galleries and hanging on others walls. At first having a shop seemed the best way to get business but they always wanted you to paint them elsewhere and all the nudes seemed to felt more comfortable in front of an artist in their own home.
How strange it was to call myself an 'artist', I wasn't supposed to be, I'd never trained as such, just drawn a few pictures at University and people had liked them. They'd passed my name on and before I knew it I hadn't been looking for mechanical engineering jobs for a year and I had more money than I had ever had before.
The old man who had commissioned my for this picture had called me first, he'd seen my picture at a friend of his house, a Priest called Father Phillipe, an odd man, old and crooked but had insisted that he wanted his portrait to be on a horse. Still, it wasn't my place to judge.
As always I met him for a coffee to discuss what he wanted. He was an odd little man, grey haired and a neatly trimmed beard, very well dressed with shiny expensive shoes. He he wanted me to paint a friend of his as a birthday present, something a bit different as they'd known each other so long he'd used up a lot of ideas. I didn't mind being a last idea as he hadn't flinched when I had quoted him four times my usual price. Something about this man said money.
The painting was in Hannover Street and as always I arrived 15 minutes early and studies the house from the outside. It was a strange quirk but I liked to know where people lived in order to judge them. This was a large Georgian front on a street of tall tenement buildings. From the looks of the other buildings they were flats, multiple buzzers adorned the door but this seemed to be a single building. To own this large a building? Definitely as much money as his odd friend.
The bell tolled a single loud note and eventually what looked like a butler opened it. I opened my mouth to introduce myself but he turned away and with a finger gestured me to beckon. Behind me the door swung closed. He led me up several flights of stairs and then back, deeper into the house. It was an odd construction, the rooms I could see through the open doors seemed too big for the flat and we had walked a long way back, surely the house couldn't have been this deep?
At long last we reached a small study and I was ushered in wordlessly. Inside, behind a large oak desk sat my subject. He was a small round man, grey haired and he held more than a passing resemblance to the man who had commissioned me. it was oddly strange to get an exact fix on what he looked like and it passed though my mind that might make it hard to pain him but I dismissed the though.
I stuck out my hand and tried to smile but a feeling of unease was growing over me "Hello, I'm Fred Phillips, here to begin your portrait today".
He smiled and his teeth seemed just a little too white and sharp. "Hello Fred, I've been looking forward to this. I look forward to seeing the finished article."
I began to feel a bit better, this was a normal conversation at least "Well, today we'll get started with some sketching and discussion about what you want this to look like and hopefully by the end of today we'll have a clear idea. Over the next four or five sessions I'll begin and then it'll take me a few weeks to get it finished, during which time I'll work from photos." A thought occurred to me "I'm sorry I don't think I know your name." How strange that had only just occurred to me.
"Don't worry about it" his smile was back and I didn't worry about it. At the other end of the room I noticed that an easel had been set up so I propped my portable by the door and walked over to see what was prepared. Paints, oils and everything that could be needed was st up. I turned back "As I said this is only a start today I wont actually be paint..." A wave of his hand and I was silent.
He walked over and sat himself down in a chair. It was hard to make out and I squinted, "the room is a bit... murky" I ventured and squinted harder. He was now very hard to see exactly and I wasn't sure what was going on.
"Just relax" he commanded and I felt myself do so.
I picked up a brush and my hand flew to the paint. No preparation, no drawing, no discussion. My hand flew across the canvas and broad strokes began to be outlined, my hand working fast and furiously. Dark splashes and maddening jabs all across the canvas, I seemed to work without thought and without worry.
Hours passed, in a trance I continued and a picture was building up but now that was unclear and I couldn't be sure what I had painted. More and more it went on, faster then slower, red and black gold and dark dark blue. Sweat poured down my face and I felt my blood boil but I could not, would not stop. What felt like hours, days, weeks passed and still I went on.
At last I stopped and I was done. I peered at the picture, it seemed to show the small round man sitting on a chair but it was so hard to see. He came round and looked and smiled.
"Perfect, well done that's just right." he seemed happy at least.
"I think, I don't..." My voice was low and cracked as if I was parched and I realised I was. I took a sip of water from a glass that I now saw "I can't really see..." My voice trailed off.
He seemed to hesitate and then decide "An artist should see their work" the smile was back.
I looked and now it was clear. The image was horror, was pain, was terror. The pile of skulls towered and the figure was hate and vile. No words could describe and no paint, I thought, could capture what I had painted.
"Oh" I managed. The picture swam in my vision and I blinked and again it was the round man on a chair. I tried to hold onto the previous vision but like a dream in the morning it slipped away.
The butler was back and I was leaving, walking out, shaking and cold and covered in sweat. At the front door he handed my my easel and it was warped and seemingly scorched.
I walked away from the house and it became clearer in my mind, a simple picture, so much easier to be able to get it done in one go. Another good commission and money in the bank. It was morning and time for a coffee and maybe a sandwich, I was very hungry and I deserved a good breakfast, a job well done.
| 24 | You are the first ever artist who has been commissioned to paint the devil. You have no specifications except for "The devil is evil." | 29 |
The Gruflestamp Bailiff Fleet assembled over Earth, their bulbous yellow ships causing much panic amongst the humans below. While they screamed in terror, one of the head debt collectors arrived at the headquarters of the IMF, to sort out the debt Earth needed to pay.
The corpulent extraterrestrial made it up to the top floors with no major hassle. The sight of a imposing fleet in low orbit had put many of the people inside the headquarters off working, with many of them taking an impromptu panic break. He arrived at the director's office and knocked on the door.
'Gruflestamp Bailiffs, here to ask about your late payments.' The alien said, his voice staying a uniform tone. The director opened the door, his glasses tilted and hair dishevelled.
'What on earth do yo...' His anger was soon replaced with fear, as he realised he was talking to an 8 foot creature from a foreign star system.
'Thank you Mr Director. Now, let us sit down and discuss your planet's overdue payment.' The alien replied, ushering the director back into his bombsite of an office. The director sat in his seat while the bailiff tried his best to adapt to Earth furniture. The Gruflestamp frame was not used to such small chairs. Adjusting his attire, the director regained his composure.
'Well, this is certainly the first I've heard of any overdue payment.'
'We have given you plenty of notice. We've sent letters, crop circles patterns, all sorts of correspondence but nobody seemed to respond.' The bailiff replied, checking his notes.
'Ah. Well, I'm sorry but nobody informed me of this. How much is the bill?'
'Adjusting for inflation and the fact that you've done a rather rotten job of looking after the place, you will have to pay around 40 Gruflestampian Quadraks.'
'That doesn't sound too bad.' the director replied, still trying to comprehend the fact he was talking to a 8 foot alien that looked like someone tied a face onto a beanbag full of porridge.
'I haven't finished yet. In Earth money, it translates to about 78 quintillion dollars and 83 cents.' The bailiff replied, turning his calculator towards the director. He looked at it aghast. He had never seen so many zeros.
'I'm afraid that's a bit much for us to pay at the moment. Recession and all that. Can we pay in smaller installments or do you need it all now?'
'We need it all now. You had plenty of chance to pay up but you refused to acknowledge our letters.' the bailiff replied, looming over the director.
'Can I just have a whip round the world leaders? See what we can sort out?' The director said, moving slowly to the phone.
'Make it quick. Our ships haven't got all days and we've got three other planets to go to.'
'I won't be a moment, just step outside for a moment while I make some calls.'
The bailiff got up out of the crushed chair and waited out in the corridor. He watched his fleet float peacefully in orbit, as humans threw themselves from tall buildings and the director angrily phoned up the World Bank and the UN, pleading for history's biggest IOU. He came out into the corridor ten minutes later, his face bright red.
'Do you have our money?' The bailiff asked.
'I'll be frank with you, no. The number you've asked is simply too much for us to pay now, let alone in a hundred years. Can we sort out any payment plan? Can we give you countries or art to lower the debt?'
'I'm afraid not. If you cannot pay the bill now, we will be forced to eradicate the human race and reclaim Earth to be sold to another species. I don't make the rules, I just enforce them.'
'Are you sure there is nothing we can do besides pay?'
'Absolutely nothing.'
'Well, if you will excuse me, I will be taking my leave. Thank you Mr Bailiff, it's been an unexpected pleasure.' The director shook the alien's hand before smashing through the window to meet the concrete for a final meeting. The bailiff looked down and shook his head.
'What a stupid race.' He pulled out his communicator and called up the fleet. 'Yeah, they can't pay. I know, I did tell them about the crop circles but they didn't read them. Yeah, I'm coming back now. Arm the Destructor Ray and put the kettle on. We've still got Mars and Pluto to go.' | 10 | Aliens finally visit our planet... to tell us we're being evicted for being 12,000 years late on our lease payment. | 26 |
I don't know if the fucker was wasted or something when he walked in, but Jesus. For a Level 55, I'd never seen anyone fight so... So... Poorly. Maybe he was some kinda special needs guy, and we had to intentionally lose to make him feel good or something. No, that's not it. I mean, he managed to pull off a Divine Bulwark, so he was at least moderately competant. Idunno.
Anyways, so we start doing our routine, fake patrol 'n all. It's apparently a standard guideline for most dungeon's grunts after Orcdom was banned from the Villain's Guild when Hellgam the Brutal gave his Impalers permission to ambush Heroes on floor one of the OrcFort.
Left, forward, forward, left, forward, forward. That's my pattern, until I get permission to aggro. It's usually game over for the sucker who gets this job because it's out in the open, so Boss puts anyone who's in the hot seat with him in it. I, well, I haven't had the best track record.
I'm bracing for the standard Blue Bolt into Electro, but it doesn't come. I continue pacing back in forth, confused and worried that the hero hasn't instagibbed me. I break the regulation and twist my head at what's going on.
He's just standing there, taking it all in. *Weird.* Then, he abruptly turns to leave, bumping into the wall a few times before exiting. Maybe he's one of those crackpot scientist type heroes. All of us relax, at ease.
Then he walks in again.
Left forward forward.
And then out again.
The process repeats itself for another hour.
God, I hate trolls.
Finally, he makes his way in once more, only to unleash a Gyrum's Piercing Arrow on the ceiling. He reminds me of my lil' niece Beelzebub, who walks around in her bearskin diaper and shits on the floor whenever she wants.
Three more steps! Come on! He's almost in aggro range.
Those three steps take another forty minutes, and five consecutive walks into walls.
I turn, Shoddy Dagger of Ordinary Craftsmaking in hand, running, and I stick him with the pointier end. We don't get any good equipment on floor one, so daggers here hurt less than like, fuckin' Enforcer flip flops.
It takes twenty minutes, before the job is done. He swings his sword drunkenly and releases a couple of spells willy nilly. I dodge, despite only being given 5 agi, as a minor demon.
Finally, the sucker plops down dead, dissolving into little bits of bubble like all Heroes do.
Everyone kind of looks at me awkwardly, "What the fuck?" all over their faces.
Fuck. I've fucked up. Prolly shoulda let the guy go on.
Oh boy, Boss is gonna be pissed.
From the stairs leading down to his newly renovated Lair, I hear the steps.
And from below, I hear a deep, rumbling voice.
**"WHO THE *FUCK* KILLED SIR TWITCH_PLAYS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION?!"** | 876 | You are a cannon fodder minion on the first floor of a dungeon, and have just killed the hero. You now have to explain to the boss that you just ruined his plan. | 803 |
The shaft descended into darkness further than I could see.
I had stumbled across it while surveying some penguin colonies with my research team. None of us were able to source its origins, it was a stateless landmark. We thought it was some forgotten bunker or even the top of a lost submarine, but upon opening it we realized it was much more.
At first we just shouted down the tube. The icy wind hid any echoed response we might have heard. We dropped a few bits of ice only to see them clatter down the steel sides of pipe and ladder that scaled with it. We agreed to leave it alone, and so we did. Or at least, the others did.
I couldn't ignore it. I knew the others were curious too, but nowhere near as much as me. *What* was it? No one had been building here, and the ice is dated back at least 350 years. I went back to it often, dropping fluorescent glow-sticks down it in an attempt to see the bottom, but to no avail. I couldn't visit it in the night or I'd freeze to death, so I had to sneak breaks in during the little sunlight we had.
Finally my curiosity got the better of my judgement. I promised myself I wouldn't go down it, but I couldn't resist the temptation of finding out what secrets the hatch might hold.
With a bag of supplies suspended to my back, I clambered down the pipe. I opted to leave the latch open lest it freeze over during a storm. I climbed down the ladder for at least 20 minutes before I took any break. I took out another glow-stick and dropped it. With the darkness above me and the howls of the wind now quiet, I was able to see it go much further than from the surface, but still *nothing*. No sign of a bottom. No clang of the stick hitting any metal, or splashing into any water. I tied a glow-stick to my place on the ladder and began to climb back up to the surface.
I continued these expeditions almost daily. Every day I'd climb further, faster, and for *nothing*. No rooms, no changes in the design. Just a steel tube drilling down into the glacier. After about 2 hours of descending it became too hot for my acclimatized gear. I'd leave it tied at the same spot every time, waiting for my return ascension. It was warmer, but it made it a lot easier to climb without all of that gear. But even with the added nimbleness it seemed my efforts were futile. That was until about 1 month after my initial journey.
It was the end of my descent, about 3 hours down. I was getting ready to go back up when I did my routine glow-stick drop. I had been neglecting to do it to stave my disappointment, and I didn't expect anything to come of it. I dropped it lamely and began to climb back up when from below me I heard a distant *clink*. I stopped immediately. My entire body froze up. I didn't imagine it. It had hit something. I looked over my shoulder and down to see a faint light far below me. Any thoughts of the surface world left me.
I fumbled down the ladder as quick as possible, letting myself drop 10 feet at a time, scraping my hands against the cold steel as I slid down. My excitement was palpable, my heart was in my throat. A month of explorations would finally have meaning. The light grew closer, I could see the bottom where it lay, and then suddenly my feet rested beside it. I had reached the bottom of the ladder. I picked up the glow-stick, and saw much more space than I imagine I'd see. I through it as hard as I could, and from the low light I was able to make out the shape of the room I had found.
It was a rectangular room, the size of an average living room I guess. The walls, floor, and ceiling were of the same metallic material as both the ladder and tube that led me there. I took out my flashlight and shone it around. The bright light blinded me for a moment, but through my squinting eyes I was able to make out a door straight ahead of me. It had no handle or hinges visible. Only upon me walking closer to it did I see the panel directly right of it. A flat metal sheet with a single unlabeled button on it. My heart was beating faster than it ever had before. In all the time I had been between the steel walls of the tube I had never felt fear, not once. But now I had the option. To see what was ahead, or return back to where I came from. No one would blame me for it. My curiosity was quenched, I'd found the bottom. I could climb back to the surface and live a long life with the knowledge that the hole ended somewhere. All of these thoughts raced through my head as I extended my hand outwards and pushed the button.
For a moment there was silence. I stood back expecting something horrible, something unimaginable to happen, but after a few seconds the doors simply slid apart to reveal a brightly lit room much smaller than the one I was in now. I was not turning back. I stepped in and looked around. Before I am able to take in any detail the doors close behind me. I slam my hands on them, attempting to pry it open but there's no use. I stand back and begin to panic. What if I was trapped here? No one would know where I went. I would die here alone and be forgotten. The room shakes. I brace myself along the wall as I feel myself beginning to descend. The sound of the mechanics were very quiet, though by the feeling of the blood rushing to my head I knew I was falling very fast. I nearly pass out before I feel the elevator slow itself down. Shortly after I feel it rest to a halt. The doors open, and I step out.
I am in a room of unimaginable size. I can't see the roof or the walls, only the elevator shaft behind me piercing into the sky. The only light comes from the open door behind me and the pedestal about twenty meters in front of me. I slowly walk up to it to examine it further. There's no turning back now, even if I could make it back to the surface before the night's freezing storms consumed me. I walked right up to the pedestal to find only two things on top of it. A small switch, and a folded card that says "The world." I pick up the card to look more closely as I hear the sound of footsteps coming from beyond the pedestal. I drop the card and back away slowly before seeing a figure emerge from the darkness. My eyes widen in horror before I realize what I see.
I see myself.
He looks at me, into me. I tilt my head and he does too. Is it mocking me? No, it has a look of intrigue as it surveys my face. I find my voice and call out to it.
"Who are you?" I pathetically yell.
"Who are *you*?" It curtly yells back, almost annoyed.
It walks around the pedestal and towards me. I fumble backwards and fall onto the cold stone beneath me. It is steps away from my cowering body.
"What do you want?" I manage to squeak out at it.
The creature crouches down and stares at me with reptilian eyes. It leans in, over my body and whispers into my ear.
"I need about tree fiddy."
Now it was about this time that I realized that this supposed clone was actually a three story tall crustacean from the Paleozoic era. That Loch Ness monster had tricked me again!
I scramble backwards along the ground and stand up. I yell "God *damn* it monster you aint getting my tree fiddy!"
I turn around and return back to the elevator that brought me down here. As the doors slide closed I can see the creature looking downwards in defeat. Within a few minutes I am back to the ladder, and a few hours later I reach the surface. But there is no light to greet me. The hatch is open to reveal a storm unlike one we had faced yet here in the antarctic.
I can only hope someone comes and finds me here. I am too weak to climb down, and too cold to hold on for much longer. I close my eyes as the darkness takes me. | 12 | You find a maintenance hatch to Earth. | 20 |
---
He never intended for Batman to be a symbol capable of compromise. Hard times called for hard measures and so he understood and came to terms with the necessity. A certain leniency had evolved in his mission. There were times where rules needing breaking: survival being principle. Bruce was careful to be mindful of the slippery slope of his charge. He was not by any means fully arbitrary when it came to enforcing his law, but those cases, the petty left, fraud, minor possession charges, he left that for what remained of Gotham PD.
Certain things were easy enough to come by. The guns and ammunition he confiscated off criminals was easily converted into small explosives. He had taken some plastic explosives off some gun runners three months prior, but this he would save for a special occasion. Some of the gunpowder he reserved to be combined with the magnesium taken off of recycled electronic devices and the ammonium nitrate derived from fertilizer obtained easily enough from the farms on the outskirts of the Gotham industrial district to make simple, but effective flash bang grenades. Pipes made for perfect explosive casing and was easy enough to salvage off the demolition of derelict buildings in the Eastern quarter.
Other things needed to be "reclaimed." Industrial strength cabling was taken from construction sites. He had seen enough of the development projects of the now defunct Wayne Enterprises to know that inventory was never that strict. No one would miss a few hundred feet of cables, 6 or 7 hundred pounds of concrete, a power drill, a high rpm winching rotor, a vise. Things were lost all the time, mistakes happen and replacements were needed. Certain chemicals he needed for his sleeping agents and anesthetics were "borrowed" from hospitals. A little here, a little there. Just enough to get by. His armor was perhaps the easiest thing to get. The government had given billions away in military hardware. Flak jackets and Nomex cost pennies to police departments. They wouldn't miss it.
Of all the gadgets, the technology, the cave, Bruce admitted he missed Alfred the most. Perhaps this was his only admission. But it was better this way. The liabilities were smaller, the risk about the same, the need never greater. Bruce convinced himself that Alfred would be happier this way. He would be happier not needing to know about the things that Bruce did in the night. No wounds to stitch, no bones to set. Yes. *Easier*
"This is 10-2. Suspect is Caucasian male, on foot through West and Fifth. 5'10", wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt, sneakers, and jeans. Reports are that he is armed, proceed with caution," Bruce interrupted his musings as he focused dispatch from a radio had taken off a police cruiser that had been disabled in a gang shooting, "yellow bandanna and a scar running down the middle of his nose."
*I have you,* Bruce smiled to himself. He had staked out the condemned building on West and Fifth for two weeks hoping to get a lead on a human traffic case he had picked off of one of the detectives that had dropped by Peele and Turner, the law firm that Bruce currently worked at as a paralegal. It was believed that "The Circus," a smaller crime syndicate with aspirations for the big time, was moving a large shipment of kidnapped teenage girls to be pawned off to the underbelly of Gotham, never to be seen by their families again. With the recession, human traffic had boomed in Gotham, the PD too busy dealing with felony robbery and murder.
Bruce didn't know when the shipment would arrive exactly, last of the month from the chatter. "Game-changing" was what the low-level enforcer had told him before Bruce cut the tether that held him suspended over the River Liberty. The man couldn't swim, but thankfully didn't know that during the winter, the River Liberty froze over, 6 inches thick. The fall from the small bridge the river wasn't high enough to kill him. A sprained ankle maybe if he landed awkwardly.
From his vantage point, Bruce could see the figure panting along a dark alley lit by failing street lights. The muted yellow glow that the city could no longer afford to replace with efficient LEDs due to utility budget cuts, gave enough light to see the perp's path. Bruce looked to the North, his eyes scanning for pursuing police units. None. They had other things to do, or so they thought. The evening was shaping up to be easy enough.
Bruce reached behind his back to pull the high-power ascender from his utility belt. Grabbing the grappling cable attachment he had set on the ground when he started the night's shift, he inserted the firing rod into his pressure gun and aimed for the adjacent rooftop. Judging from the path the perp was taking, he was most likely running back to base, thankful for his early release, oblivious to the fact that Bruce had played a loophole in the judicial system that had dropped the man's charges based on an arrest technicality. *Small fish for the big fish,* Bruce smiled.
Compensating for the kick, Bruce fired the attachment, his eyes following the spiraling cord as it snaked its way across the gap. A muted clink of metal and metal awarded him with a firm hold. He tugged on the cable to make sure there was no slack, and then attached the remote release that would allow him to reclaim his cable after he crossed. That accomplished, he crossed the gap within half a minute and was hot on the trail of his prey.
Although Bruce had suspected that The Circus had made it's home in what used to be the Grand Mason hotel, the crown jewel of Gotham's post war era, he didn't want to make a move until he was sure. Research from city records had given him a fair understanding of the hotel's floor plan. Entry would have to be from roof access and down the elevator shaft to the Royal Diamond Ballroom. Oliver Mason, Patriarch of the Circus and a man notorious for his love of the high class, wouldn't have chosen any other room to call his own. Sure enough, the perp ran down the sidewalk of the main street, and up the wide staircase to the lobby, checking over his shoulder before entering to make sure he wasn't followed.
Another quick cable shot and Bruce was on the roof of the Grand Mason. He checked his inventory: 6 flash-bang grenades, a stun baton with an high-voltage capacitor at the hilt, three combat knives, 14 throwing knives fitted to his bandoleer, a 3x6x2 inch block of plastic explosive with detonator, three fire-suppressant cartridges he had taken from the fire department's first response truck, and sword, strapped to his back. He took in a deep breath as his right hand closed around the handle of the elevator service hatch and steadied himself. *I'm coming for all of you. Hang in there.*
Showtime. | 18 | Bruce Wayne is forced to fight crime on a $50k annual salary. | 31 |
"I'm not exactly sure when I found out," said Steve, scrounging his mind for a definitive moment. It had all started a few months ago after Steve collided with a glass door.
*Oh.* Steve thought to himself. *That.*
"Dude, you gotta be crazy. Schizophrenic or something," his friend replied, shaking her head to rid her mind of Steve's madness.
"No, I swear. I mean, at first I would have agreed with you, Mel. I could just hear fragments, bits and pieces of the story. It scared the shit out of me."
Melissa was all too quick for her own good. "I'm pretty sure schizophrenia would scare the shit out of me too."
"I'm *not* schizophrenic!" Steve scowled. "Everything I hear happens! Guaranteed. Sometimes I can hear what's going to happen next, or some personal detail about someone I'm talking to, like you for instance, Mel."
"Me?!" Mel's voice cracked. Perhaps she was worried the voices in Steve's head told him about the terrible lisp she suffered as a child.
Steve giggled. "Yup. I never knew you had a lisp! You cover it up really well."
"I-what! How did you- you can't really!" Mel stumbled over her own train of thought. "How long have you known that?"
"A solid eight seconds, I think." Steve grinned.
"Are you a telepath? Psychic?" Mel asked in awe.
Steve shook his head. "Nah. It's like I'm listening to my own personal narrative. I'm in a story Mel, and I've picked up on it."
"Woooooooow," she commented, mind blown away from this news. "Is there any specific voice telling it?"
"Nah. Keeps changing. Morgan Freeman once described me combing my hair, so that's pretty cool." Steve tried to say as nonchalantly as he could.
"You lucky son of a bitch."
"Yup," Steve gave her the smuggest grin he could muster. "And it's all in the past tense, third person."
"It would be kind of weird for it to be in the first person, though." Melissa reasoned.
"True... but the sentence structures drive me mad sometimes." The narrative was scrutinized by Steve. "Like this passive voice! Whoever is writing about my life is a shitty writer."
"You're a shitty person to write about," teased Melissa. "Do you hear all the 'he said, she said's?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, you get used to it after a while."
Mel looked even more curious. "And everything you're doing as we speak is being narrated in the past tense? That makes no fucking sense."
"I know! I know! None of this makes sense, but do you know what this means?" he asked.
"You're a psychic schizo?" she asked innocently.
"Jesus! Would you stop that?" Steve groaned. "No, it means I'm invincible."
Melissa looked amused. "Invincible?"
"Yeah. So long as I hear the narrative, I'm the main character," Steve declared modestly. "What kind of main character could die in the middle of their story?"
Melissa bit her tongue. She couldn't think of any examples, but she felt like there had to be exceptions. Steve, hearing this narrative, was not concerned. He knew his books.
Steve was a little worried that the narrative stopped for a while after the conversation with Melissa, but he sighed in relief when it began again with a time jump. Steve had entered the military and rose through the ranks. Generals were amazed by his fearlessness, his gusto. Steve commanded the front lines, emboldening his men with his own prowess. His spirit was infectious.
"He's almost...perfect," a private commented.
"Yup," a comrade agreed. "Books will be written about him."
Steve grinned to himself. He *was* in a story, after all. His narrative gave him the strength to do wild, almost reckless maneuvers on the battlefield. Once, he had captured an enemy tank, slipped behind the enemy lines, and killed a fierce enemy general without so much as a fistfight. He would catch grenades and throw them back towards his opponents. Once, he was so cocky that he waltzed into open enemy fire.
Now was the day for the final assault. They would breach the capital of Canada and conquer the country once and for all. Steve was certain victory and glory were within his grasp. *I can't die, after all.* That was his mantra as he ran into the midst of the final battlefield.
Little did he know....
"OH FUCK!" Steve screamed. He had forgotten. That one phrase could flip his tale upside down.
...that this lazy writer did not have the will to give his story a proper ending.
"Please don't!" Steve sobbed, falling down on his knees. Sometimes, even the most exciting stories can end abruptly. A grenade landed and rolled its way over to Steve.
"I thought," Steve choked out, "I couldn't die...."
| 46 | The main protagonist is fully aware of being the main protagonist and knows that, no matter what he does, he won't die during the story. | 63 |
Esther woke up, a little groggy from her late night. She typically dozed off sometime before the bonus round of Wheel of Fortune but last night she made a point to stay up and watch her local news' profile on the unibomber; she had always found serial killers so fascinating. In fact, her small library of 100 or so books was filled to the brim with memoirs, biographies, psychological thesis, and numerous other tomes detailing the rise and fall of famous murderers (she also had a few dozen Nora Roberts books in her collection because, hey, every old lady needs a bit of excitement in her life). It was a morbid fascination, true, but she just couldn't wrap her head around how a person could willfully end the life of another human being, let alone multiple "victims."
She shuddered at the thought of it. She rubbed her eyes, wiping away the crime scene photos from last night's program and began to think of the day ahead of her. While technically retired, Esther still played a prominent part in her family's food safety company (called simply "Waters"). In fact, for the past thirty years Esther had single handedly been in charge of developing every test, pesticide, and drug that the company produced. As she dressed for work she thought of her thirty years of service fondly and wondered where the company would be without her. Well, her and her good luck charm.
You see, Esther had a secret. When she was a small lass she had spent a summer with her grandparents in Ireland and had grown very fond of their cow Bessie, a clever, mischievous animal that loved to play games with Esther. Sadly, Bessie grew ill towards the end of her visit and had to be "taken to greener pastures" by her grandfather. While she would always miss her friend, she convinced her grandfather to save a piece of Bessie so that they could always be together. She asked, of course, for a piece of her witty, loving, and playful mind, which her grandfather dutifully placed in a small sealed vial which Esther always wore around her neck. It was this vial that she had used to "bless" every product Waters (the business) produced, hoping that "a bit of Bessie" would rub off on it. And bit by bit it did, until everyone in America had a bit of Bessie in them as well. | 17 | The number-one killer of Americans annually is heart disease; the number-two killer is cancer. Number three is Mrs. Esther G. Waters, aged 78, of Spokane, WA. Tell us about her. | 26 |
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