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Dates are delicious fruits. Good dates are soft, slighty dry yet sugary, and not poisonous. Bad dates are poisonous and kill monkeys. Of course, dates are not really related to how I met Diana, but I like the fruit.
No, I met Diana because of *dates.* Birthdays, holidays, happy days, rainy days, and death days. Everyone has one, few people know theirs. I know everyones.
It's not like a floating hologram. Rather, it's a suggestion. A feel for how long they have to live. The ones whose death waits for years to pounce on them feel warm and comfortable. Those whose death stalks them from the bush behind the barn feel agitated, red. Fearful.
First time I realized I knew demise on a personal level was in fourth grade. I couldn't understand why Tim was smiling and cheerful when all I felt from him was screaming fear. At least he didn't have time to feel it. Hummers aren't exactly known for braking on a dime.
After four milkshakes and a couple sessions with the school counselor, I was right as rain, and more careful about my friends. I chose friends whose death was far away. I chose lovers whose death had no limit, save one.
Sierra was a night of booze and bowls. A one-night stand with no strings, so I didn't feel bad when her death made news. I knew it was coming. I think she was happier having met me than going home alone.
See, I've tried stopping deaths before. But it doesn't work. You can always speed it up. Bring death closer. Slowing death down requires more than mere observation, and far more than mortal action.
It required omnipotence. I would have to be God. And what with my death buzzing around my head every day, I knew I wouldn't have any chance to be greater than myself. Harold WickenFaulker.
But Diana, she was most puzzling. I met her outside a coffee shop in downtown. Squeaky place, all modern, no oak or character. Clean and droll. I didn't approach her. She came to me. She knew I could see nothing.
"So." She began. "Are you going to run? Or stand up and yell? Are you going to freak out?"
I shrugged. "Why would I do any of that, Miss. . ."
"Diana. And because you're an Observer." She replied, taking a sip from her mocha. Observer. That sounded important.
"So you know I see nothing." Let's cut to the heart of the matter.
"Yes."
"How?" I tapped my finger against the table.
"Because I was like you, once." Diana set her cup down. "A long, long time ago."
"How long?"
"Seven thousand years."
"You're an immortal?" I shifted in my seat, my back straight.
"Yes and no." Diana replied.
"Let's start with the yes." I didn't want to dance around the subject.
"I can't die or get sick. I'm invulnerable in every sense of the word, and I have been for the past seven millennia."
"What have you done in that time?"
"I've written. I kept journals and taken photographs. I've watched history from the bleachers. I've left a more detailed account of everything important in Europe and America than all the books today. I blink and whole kingdoms sprouted, withered and bled dry." Diana took another sip.
"What was your favorite time?" I asked. Diana's eyes widened.
"Huh. Good question." She put her chin in her hands. "I guess it would have to be the Industrial Revolution. So many inventions, so many different things I hadn't seen before. Now. . ." She gestured to civilization. "Now we sit in the carcass of innovation."
"And how did you become immortal?"
"I was expecting that one first." Diana took another sip. "How I became immortal is the 'No' part of the question."
"Okay." I started slowly. "So what about the no?"
Diana finished her mocha. "First I find an Observer, like you." She gestured to me.
"Then what?" I leaned forward. Mistake.
"Then I touch you." And she did. Diana reached her long slender fingers and cupped mine.
I felt my death screaming, and it flowed into her and choked her heart and crushed her lungs, stabbed her innards and snapped her spine. She flopped forward onto the table, blood leaking everywhere. People began to scream. My death was still ripping her apart.
I felt no death in me. | 47 | You have always been able to see the date of someone's death hovering over their head. One day you see someone without a date above their head.... | 26 |
I was tired and nervous, but it was almost time. I fidgeted in the pew. The family sitting next to me glanced at me. They were probably wondering why I was sweating and twitchy, and why I was holding a bulging plastic bag.
The pastor finally got to the section I was waiting for. "If there is anyone here who has a reason why Mary and James cannot be married, speak now or forever hold your peace."
I stood up. I was in the last row of pews, so the pastor didn't see me at first. He opened his mouth to continue with the ceremony, then spotted me. His mouth hung open stupidly, and no words came out. I'm pretty sure this was the first time anyone had ever actually objected.
People were starting to notice something was wrong. The guests were turning towards me, one by one. Finally, Jim and Mary turned around too, to face me.
Mary looked shocked. Jim looked pissed. Mary hissed at me, "William!" She gestured for me to sit down.
The pastor cleared his throat, and said, "William, is it? Do you have something to say?"
I stepped out of the pew and onto the red carpet in the aisle. I took a deep breath and said, "Okay... I know this looks weird, but I need to stop this wedding right now. Why? Because I promised Mary I would."
I walked towards Mary and Jim. Mary looked radiant in her white dress. Jim filled out his tuxedo well. He looked like he wanted to deck me, and he'd probably be able to knock me out with one punch. Maybe kill me, too.
I stopped five feet short of the couple, and continued, "Mary, how long have we known each other?"
"All our lives, why?"
"Do you remember, when we were next door neighbors, when we were just three or four years old, and we'd play together in our back yards? Sometimes we'd play house, and I'd play the daddy, and you'd play the mommy..." The guests were beginning to get restless now, and they were whispering to each other in a rising undercurrent of gossip and speculation.
Now Mary looked pissed, "William, if you're trying to declare your love for me, this is a really bad time!"
I had to chuckle at that. "No no, Mary, don't worry. It's nothing like that. It's just that, do you remember the last time we played together in my back yard, the day before I moved away? We played house again, one last time, and you said to me, 'William, if I can't marry you when we grow up, I want to marry someone at least as cool as you?'"
Mary's expression softened, "I... I think I do remember that, yeah."
I continued, "And I said, 'Okay, I promise I won't let you marry anyone else unless he's as cool as me.' And I've remembered that all my life. Even after we got back in contact in junior high, and even after you met Jim, and decided to marry him. Jim's a cool guy, I like him. But he hasn't proven himself cooler than me yet."
Jim was looking confused at this point. I knew what he was thinking. I was basically the opposite of cool. I was a geek, a nerd, socially inept, and physically unattractive. I sucked at sports, at going to bars, at public speaking, at attracting the opposite sex. I wasn't cool at all.
I reached into my plastic bag, and pulled out an old leather jacket and some sunglasses. "Mary, remember in tenth grade, when I wanted to ask out Allison Flanders, but I was afraid she wouldn't say yes? You took me to the mall and bought this jacket and these sunglasses for me. You told me if I looked cool, Allison would say yes. I put them on, and you said I looked like the coolest guy you've ever seen." Mary was smiling at the memory. I continued, "I mean, you were probably just saying that to make me feel better, but at the time, I really did feel pretty cool. It might've been because I was with you, but I figured the jacket and sunglasses might've had something to do with it too."
I held them out to Jim. He hesitated, then took the jacket and shades. "Jim, the only way you could be cooler than me is if you had these things. Mary picked them out, and you know she has good taste."
Jim stared at the jacket and sunglasses for a few seconds, then looked at me, then nodded. He understood what it meant. He understood that I had no romantic interest in Mary, but loved her nonetheless, the love that only comes from a lifetime of friendship and understanding. He understood that despite how different Mary and I were, and how we would never be a couple, we were nonetheless soul mates who would forever care for one another. And Jim understood that I was now willingly allowing him to take up my role in Mary's life.
Mary's eyes were wet. She also knew what this little ceremony meant to me, and she was overcome by the fact that I had remembered my promise from over twenty years ago.
Jim shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and slipped on the leather jacket. It was slightly too small on him, so he didn't bother zipping it up. He placed the sunglasses over his eyes, then turned to Mary.
"How do I look?"
"You look... pretty cool, to be honest," Mary said, her voice slightly choked up.
I smiled at them both, then returned to my seat. As soon as I sat down, my nervousness was washed away by a flood of relief, so strong that I almost threw up. But it was okay now. Jim would take care of Mary, and she would know that I remembered that promise, made so long ago, by a little boy to a little girl. | 89 | A young man, tired and nervous, stops the wedding of his female best friend, but he has no romantic interest in her. The truth is much stranger... | 50 |
It had been six hours since the great Canadian blackout had begun, as the news channels were now calling it. Six hours since the border guards had yelled over to their American counterparts to shut it down and then jumped in cars and headed inland. Six hours since a car had approached the border from that side. Six hours since the last phone call, text, e-mail or web connection had been made from Canada.
The last message had been a short one from the Prime Minster of Canada to the President of the USA. It simply said, "Do not enter Canada. If the bonds of fraternity means anything then stop all travel into Canada by any means and do nothing more until you hear from us again".
Immediately American troops sealed the border, planes were turned away, the air force closed Canadian airspace and enquiries were ignored.
The media exploded, had there been a nuclear attack? Worse? Had there been an accident? An outbreak? The 24 hour news networks went into a frenzy.
At last the word came, Obama would be addressing the country and the world in one hours time, until then we had to wait. It was at six hours and seventeen minutes that suddenly curiosity turned to fear. People could not wait any more and they began to flee.
Cars started to stream from Northern cities, streets choked with the dead as people ran, screaming in fear and panic at the terrible fate which had apparently happened to Canada.
At last as the seventh hour drew near a figure was seen, approaching the border. A mountie, riding his horse, his hat slung low. He came near to the border as the American soldiers levelled their guns, holding his hands high, he slowly approached. A demand was yelled out that he explain the situation and he slowly looked around and spoke.
"Sorry aboot the trouble eh? CTV had a Northern Exposure Marathon on, don't suppose you guys have any more Big 8 cola, as we've run oot?" | 11 | A lone Mountie rides out of Canada, warning that his countrymen have failed in their ancient duty. | 30 |
Agent Q looked through the scope. He had a clear shot of the ambassador, all he needed to do is to wait till he began his speech. He leaned back from his rifle and double checked the dossier. It was the US ambassador he had to kill, right? Not the Russian one. This double agent stuff got a bit complicated some times but he was pretty sure of his target. He looked back through the scope and waited for his mark.
Hang on, let me double check that, he thought. He flicked back through his folder, trying to track back through his previous missions. He had bugged that stooge's apartment for the US, but then he sabotaged that fake CIA dinner party for the Russians. He remembered being hired by the Russians first to steal those submarine blueprints but he was intercepted by the US to swap the plans with ones which were slightly off. So he was working for the Russians initially, so it was definitely the US ambassador he had to kill. Putting the folder away, he looked back through the scope, waiting for his mark.
Then again, he trained with the US to be a sleeper agent so when he signed up to work with the Russians, it was all a massive ruse. He looked back through his folder again, flicking right back to the beginning. He was sure that he has defected during the war, to only fake his defection so he could get access to the space shuttle plans that the US wanted. But he burnt those plans and forged new ones as an elaborate double bluff. So it was the Russian he had to kill? Yes, definitely the Russian, he thought, shifting the rifle to look through the other window. He waited a few minutes, as the delegates began to sit down.
But wait a second, he thought, putting down the rifle. He had faked his own death to return to the Russian side, just to have them send him back to the USA to infiltrate their ranks. When he was at the CIA, he then faked his death again so he could return to the Russians to snoop on their operations, where he switched sides and turned back to the Russians. That was it, so he had to kill the American ambassador. He shifted his rifle yet again, to the other window.
Both ambassadors stood up to speak, while Agent Q still puzzled over which side he was really on. Two minutes later, there were two dead ambassadors, two confused intelligence bureau and one spy faking his death for the 34th time. | 21 | A double agent forgets what side he's on | 33 |
"I'm the only one?"
**Yes.**
"Out of everyone? Everyone ever?"
**That's right.**
"*WHY?*"
**You followed all the rules. All of them. You shaved your beard right, you never spilled semen on the ground, you cared for others, yo-**
"What about my parents? My neighbors?"
**They're being tormented for eternity in Hell.**
"What about all those priests? The prophets and teachers and so forth?"
**They're being tormented too. The whole lot.**
"And you thought I'd be okay with that?"
**Well... yes.**
"Aren't I supposed to be eternally happy here? How can I be eternally happy with the knowledge that people I love are suffering eternally?"
**Fine. I'll bring your family here. Will that make you happy?**
"*NO!* How do you expect me to be eternally happy knowing *ANYONE* is being tormented for eternity?"
**So you want me to bring... everyone?**
"Yes. Everyone."
**And that will make you happy?**
"I don't know how I could be otherwise."
**Jesus, you're hard to please.** | 129 | only to discover that you are the first human being who has ever been able to do so. | 73 |
Death paused at the door. All he could do was look at the door knob. He couldn't bring himself to go in. Not quite. Not yet. Not now.
But yes now. Death had an acute sense of time, and by delaying he was robbing himself of one of the only joys he's had in recent memory.
But this wasn't going to be a happy visit, was it.
Death entered the room without knocking. He never did. In a chair at the table by the window was an old man. Anyone who met him would not call him such, because he was a gentleman. But to death, age was very important.
Death strode the length of the room and lowered himself into the chair opposite this old man, silently, since that was the way death preferred to work. He stared deeply at this old man, looking at the lines on his face, and wondered how many of those he personally caused.
Death spoke, "Hello, Felix."
"Heh, hello you old devil." Felix replied without turning. "It must be late afternoon already, did you get held up with a plane crash or something?"
"Not quite." Replied Death.
"Well, no matter. You got work to do, I know. Listen, I have a bet going with Phil down the hall, tell me, how old is your average client?"
Death shook his head. "Too young. You don't want to know."
Felix frowned. "Shame. Let me tell you something about hospitals these days..." Felix launched into a diatribe that Death had heard a thousand times. Death enjoyed listening to his stories, it gave him glimpses into what worried mortals.
"You're kind if quiet today, aren't you?" Felix's pointed question almost startled Death. "What's on your mind."
"I'm just bothered by something." Death answered.
Felix let out a laugh. "Death himself bothered by something!" Another laugh. "That's a first. Alright, I've told you all of my problems, now you've gotta tell me yours."
Death once again found himself delaying. Finally, he said, "Felix, when I helped your wife..."
"I don't want to talk about that."
"Felix, when she..."
"I don't want to talk about her!" Felix faced Death, with a serious look on his face. He turned back to the window, and tears appeared in his cloudy eyes.
The two sat in silence. Death watched the shadows cast from the flowers on the table grow by an inch.
Finally, Death broke the silence. "I'm sorry to bring that up Felix, I know how much you hate it."
Felix turned back towards Death, his cheeks stained with dried tears. "I know you don't mean to hurt, and I know you weren't responsible, but..." Felix paused and took a breath. "I just prefer if our topics were on something else."
"Okay." Death and Felix sat in silence for some more time.
Finally, Death knew that if he did not tell him now, he would just end up surprising him later. And Felix did not deserved to be surprised.
"Felix..."
"Hmm?"
"I'm going to have to stop coming here."
"Huh, that's a shame. I always thought you were breaking some cosmic rules with our visits."
"It's not that I can't keep visiting you, it's...well more complicated."
"I don't understand."
"Just think about it for a moment."
Felix leaned back in silence. After a moment, his expression changed, and became more somber. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"How long?"
"About a week."
Felix nodded. "How?"
"I don't get to know."
"Why are you telling me?"
Death didn't answer right away, because that was a hard question to answer. Finally, "there's a couple of reasons. First, it can be hard on everyone. But the blind, especially those who've been so since birth, usually get a shock."
"I will see?"
"Yes."
Felix brought a hand to his mouth.
"Now, I don't know what you will see me as, I appear differently to each..."
"Oh who cares what you look like. What's it like on the other side?"
"Felix, I...I don't get to go. I just bring every soul there."
"Oh."
"That means that we won't..."
"We won't be able to visit each other again."
"Yeah." Death looked down.
"I will miss you. God, this is worse than death. Will you ever get to move on?"
"I don't know."
"Are there people there that you care for?"
"Not yet. Not for a week."
"I will stay with you."
Death laughed. "No, no one gets to stay. They all must move on."
More somber silence.
Death spoke again. "Felix, I must leave soon. Before I go, I want to talk to you about your wife." Felix stiffened, but did not protest this time. "38 years ago, she died. As I took her from the wreckage to the place beyond, we talked. She spoke of you, and how kind and how wonderful to her you were. She said that of the two of you, she was glad you were left behind, to take care of your children. The way she spoke about you, made you seem like the most kind and loving and interesting individual ever to grace this earth, and trust me I've seen a few who would fit that bill."
Felix harrumphed.
"After I led her on, I had to come see the man she left behind. And when I saw you, I knew that I could trust you somehow. That is why I revealed myself to you, the first time I have to a mortal in a long, long time. I'm sad to see you go, but I'm glad I got to share this time with you."
"When we're all gone, humans I mean, will you get to come too?"
"I don't know."
"If you do, who will take you?"
"I know the way. And now it is time for me to leave." Death stood up and went to the door, no goodbyes now. There will be plenty of that later.
"Wait." Felix turned in his chair as Death turned to face him. "What did she see you as? My wife, how did you appear to her?"
"She said I was an angel."
Felix weakly smiled back and nodded. "Then that is what you shall appear to me."
Death nodded, and then left.
Edit: Many thanks for the kind words and gold. | 62 | Death has been making weekly visits to an old man where they talk about life, memories, and mortality. Death knows that the man will die at their next visit and is having a hard time breaking the news. | 41 |
**NSFW!**
----------
This is true horror.
Not the kind of "oh-my-god-he's-shambling-towards-me-I-hope-I-can-reload-in-time" horror. This is full-fledged "OH-FUCK-THERE'S-EIGHT-OF-THEM-AND-THEY'RE-SPRINTING-AT-ME-AND-ALL-I-HAVE-IS-A-FIRE-EXTINGUISHER" horror.
I've seen myself run down and devour children as their legs gave out from exhaustion. I've witnessed my body tear apart the helpless dying as they cry out for a savior. I've watched in wishful anticipation as a frightened man lifted his revolver to my head, only to be brought down from behind by an amorphous wave of undead arms.
I've had to act as a bystander while *my* body acts contrary to everything that I held high as a human being. It's done things that will haunt me for the rest of my existence-- which, if one takes into consideration my being a phantom, could very well be forever.
But you know what the worst part is, of all this? Of all the small crimes and grandiose horrors of having a front-row view to the ultimate torture?
*My fucking pants are down.*
Not at mid-thigh, not at my knees. They're at my *ankles.* I've been walking around for three months, dead, with my goddamn junk blowing in the wind.
And you know what the worst part of *that* is? It's the reactions I see.
I watch the faces of the doomed as they take in the initial horror of a rotund, yet surprisingly swift, zombie shambling towards them. And then I watch their face writhe in a second spate of horror as they notice my chubby, halfway-decomposed penis swaying lazily between my thighs, clapping and glooping about with my wrinkled, drooping testicles.
Not only am I an undead scourge, feasting on the flesh of the innocent and the unfortunate; I'm an immortal walking punchline, shuffling about without the slightest bit of shame or remorse.
This is so embarrassing. | 118 | A ghost follows his zombie body around after he dies watching himself attack and eat people. | 122 |
The glass vial rolled around the porcelain basin.
*tink *tink *tink
3…. That familiar burn began.
2…. I grab the edge of the sink as all my muscles tense up.
1…. I feel it course through me as my eyes roll shut.
……….lift off.
Where would I be this time?
I could feel the rain covering me. The amber light illuminating her white skin. She looked more tan now that she ever had. I could feel her body getting heavier. Her breathes getting lighter. Our eyes locked and I squeezed her hand tighter.
“Don’t worry they’ll be here any second. Hold on”…
She smiled that smile that made me fall in love with her from the first time I met her. I stroked her wet hair trying to provide some comfort. He breaths were shorter until she stopped. Tears were now mixing with the rain. Bright flashing lights were in the distance I turned to look.
I woke up to a migraine and burning eyes. Curled up in a ball I continued to cry. I reached to the edge of the sink and grabbed another vial. Hopefully this would be the one, I’d finally be with her, with no pain. I’d been trying for years. Telling myself ,”just one more trip down memory lane”.
| 592 | You're tripping on a new drug dubbed "Memory lane." It allows you to relive anything that has ever happened in your life with 100% clarity. The only catch is that the memory is random. | 863 |
At first i thought this was a curse, turned out to be the best superpower ever. Granted, everyone always believing you're lying makes for some interesting conversations. But once you get used to it, the power you have over people is almost hilarious.
"Sir, we're going to need to some ID. No exceptions." The bouncer asked.
I smiled at him and spoke: "Yup, you definitely need to see my ID. You absolutely CANNOT let a person like me in your club."
The bouncer laughed: "You're a funny guy, get in there!"
With a smile i made my way in. It didn't take long for me to find a really nice girl. She seemed to be alone so I glided over into her field of view.
"Get away from me creep!" she hissed as i made eye contact.
"Yeah, i agree, i'm the creepiest piece of shit you've ever seen. You should pepper spray me right now rather than ask to go home with me." I replied.
She relaxed and gave me a seductive smile. "Ya know, you're quite the handsome devil... you uh.... want to head out?"
Just then a giant 9 foot wall rippling with muscles and wearing a leather jacket blocked my view of the club. "You talking to my girlfriend punk?" the wall asked.
I looked up. "Oh, hey there. You are clearly the better man, so perfect and right for her. You are completely and totally comfortable in your masculine physique that you aren't worried at all about being adequate for your girl. You're so confident you will not break up with her and go home to find out where you went wrong as a man."
The wall's lips trembled and a tear came to his eyes. Finally he broke down and cried in front of his girlfriend. "Honey, i'm so sorry, I can't do this any more. We gotta break up. I'm not man enough for ya! Please don't hate me!" He ran out the club still balling his eyes out."
"Crap, he was my ride." The girl complained.
"Yeah sorry, i don't have a car, so you can't bum one off me." I told her.
She smiled: "Come on, your place or mine?" | 25 | Your "superpower" is that everyone always believes you're lying. | 17 |
He stared at me, beady eyes absorbing information like he was Agent Smith from the Matrix or something. Woah.
I sat awkwardly as the man drained the glass. He was taking his damn time, too.
Finally, I break the creepy silence.
"I... So... What're you here for?"
"I'm a... kind of... Book Celebrity if you will. I've been abandoned by my publisher..."
He finally downs the glass.
"Ah. Thanks. Much better. Well, let's start back at the beginning.
I, well, I've always been a needy person. I enjoyed a fine life with my family until they kicked me out. Too many siblings and therefore too many mouths to feed. Say, gotta beer?"
It was certainly a most awkward predicament, but I decided to be the better man and fetch a case. I returned a minute later to see him flipping through the channels of my TV.
"Hey, uh, what's going on?"
"Oh? I just thought some sitcoms might go good with the beer."
"I'm sorry, but you're getting on my nerves. Here's the beer."
"Sorry!" He flipped the TV off.
"So, how'd you end up here?" I inquired, hoping to glean some more information.
"Well, I've been door to door after I got kicked out of the publishing office - not so much luck. Say, I'm about done. Have any sweets?"
I figured this is the last one, so I headed back to the pantry... Nothing, besides my mom's cookies she had given me the previous week. I guessed it would suffice.
I hand him the cookie. Something's not right. And then I realized, this was no man lounging in my house, it was a smug and smirking rodent!
It was too late.
He smiled.
"And so it begins. If you give a mouse a cookie..." | 38 | A well-dressed man politely asks to cut through your property as a shortcut. You oblige, and he asks to use the restroom. He then asks for a glass of water. He stares at you, as you take stock of the situation. | 42 |
As the emergency response vehicles come screaming down Main Street, the wailing sirens surrender their sound-waves to the almighty Doppler Effect.
On the horizon, a thin column of smoke rises and twists into the atmosphere. The caravan of police cruisers, firetrucks, and ambulances hurtles towards it like a stream of bulky homing missiles.
In a matter of minutes, they are on the scene. A house is engulfed in flames, massive puffs of smoke billowing from blown-out windows and doors.
The firetruck rolls onto the front lawn, carving thick brown tracks in the yellowed weedy grass. Two fire-fighters hop out of the cabin. The driver is a short man in his 30's and has a tattoo on his neck that says "Trial by Fire" in Gothic font. The other man is a portly, white-haired mustachioed Wilford Brimley look-alike.
"Hey Bill, 20 bucks says this is a meth-lab!" says the driver.
"Nah, my money is on gas leak. This house looks too nice to be a meth-lab." says Bill, furrowing his brow analytically while staring at the raging inferno.
"Too nice? The lawn looks like shit!" says the driver, laughing.
The fire-fighters stand for a moment, watching the house incinerate. The EMTs are currently checking out the residents, so the fire-fighters take some time to place their usual wagers on the cause.
Before they can finish placing their bets, a little boy comes running up to them.
"Hey mister, shouldn't you guys be putting out that fire?" says the little boy, looking at Bill.
"Hey little kid, shouldn't you be pooping your pants somewhere?" says the driver, smirking.
"Yeah kid, go play elsewhere. Us big boys have work to do." says Bill.
The kid frowns and runs off down the street, defeated.
"Stupid little brat. Can't he see that we're busy here?" says the driver.
"Kids these days have no respect." says Bill. "No respect at all."
The fire-fighters finish placing their bets, then turn their attention to the task at hand. Namely, putting out this damn fire.
They remove the hose from its spool, plug it into the fire hydrant, and begin to hose down the now-dying house fire. Once the fire is out, all that remains is the smoldering skeleton of the house. All furniture, appliances, and decorations had been consumed in the blaze.
"Damn, this place got cooked!" says the driver, surveying the damage.
"Yep." says Bill.
A man approaches the fire-fighting duo.
"Hey fellas, thanks for coming. That's my house, there." says the man, gesturing to the blackened structure. He is frowning.
"Oh really? See, Bill, this guy totally looks like a meth-head!" says the driver.
Bill waves his hand dismissively. The driver rolls his eyes, starts walking towards the ruined structure.
"We did what we could, friend, but your house was already a cinder when we got here. Not much we could do, really." says Bill.
"My wife said she saw you guys lollygagging for about ten minutes after you got here. What gives?" says the man.
"We uh, had to assess the situation. Didn't want to rush headlong into a dangerous situation, ya know?" says Bill.
"Dangerous situation? Isn't that what you guys get paid to do!?" says the man.
"Sir, we are *volunteer* fire-fighters. Payment is not our motivator. We serve the fine people of this county out of the goodness of our hearts." says Bill, becoming slightly defensive.
At the same time, the driver has begun sifting through the piles of debris that populate the burned-out house. He pockets a silver necklace, careful to avoid the wandering eyes of the home-owner. He then pries open the metal refrigerator, yanks a beer from the shelf, and chugs it down in a flash.
Bill struggles to conceal his smile as he watches the driver do these things over the frowning man's shoulder.
"I guess you're right. I just wish something could have been salvaged. My wife and I built that home ourselves. We filled it with our best memories. Now it's gone..." says the man, becoming dejected.
"I understand sir. I'm truly sorry. Go ahead and find yourself a hotel room, we'll take care of everything from here. If we find anything that survived, we'll be sure to notify you." says Bill, clapping the man on the back.
The man turns and walks away. The driver, having pillaged more jewelry, walks up to Bill.
"What did he say?" says the driver.
"The usual sob story. I told him we'd let him know if we found anything." says Bill, grinning.
"Heh, yeah right. Sucker." says the driver.
(Edit: Added more, felt it was truncated. :D)
| 84 | The world's most passive-aggressive, condescending firefighters are here to help. | 203 |
We thank you for flying Confederate Airlines. Please exit the airplane in an orderly fashion, and make sure you are in the proper line for your race. When you exit the plane, Free Coloureds please stay to the far left, Subcontinentals in the middle, Orientals and Whites in the far right. If mixed race, assume One Drop Rule.
Baggage claim is in the bottom floor of the Beauregard Terminal. You are currently in the Cleburne Terminal. To reach the Beauregard Terminal, please use the Jim Crow Memorial Tram.
Shuttles will be waiting at the Beauregard terminal to transport you, your baggage, and chattel to different destinations in New Orleans. As a light suggestion, Victory Day celebrations are currently being celebrated in Jackson Square. The historical society and the Italian-Confederate Society will be reenacting the famous Garibaldi Landing; when Interim Commander in Chief Garibaldi - offended by the Northern Tyrant denying his generous offer of service - loaned his sword to President Davis. Moreover, there will be a reading of Supreme Court Justice and General Patrick Cleburne's "Monstrous Proposal", which allowed slaves to free themselves by fighting in the army. It is said that without Cleburne's urging and the extra manpower provided, there would be no Victory Day!
And finally, please respect the local customs. To our visitors from our friends and allies Großdeutschland, The Italian Empire, and the Japanese Empire, please do not antagonize the Jews, Albanians, or Koreans. Instead, celebrate the fact that here, in the proud Pan-American Confederacy, they are put to good work supporting our shared Axis superiority!
We hope you enjoy your stay. Yall come back now! | 45 | "Robert E. Lee International Airport welcomes you to the Confederate States of America. Please do not leave your luggage or slaves unattended." | 53 |
The groans were relentless all through the night. The same groans he remembered from their distaste of a dinner he had prepaid. It was a lullaby to his ears. Day two. A shit in the corner. A firearm resting just out of arm's reach. A child's dresser blockading the door, with the oldest single sized flimsy foam mattress resting up against a bed frame resting against the dresser. Within the bottom drawer was a bucket of Lego for weight. He had moved to this room after he was awoken by his son feasting on the fetus of his unborn daughter. It had only been a scratch.
As he stood he lift a large bucket of Lego out of the bottom drawer of the dresser. As he shut the drawer with his shin he grabbed the one side of the dresser with both hands, he then flung the dresser aside as he stomped down with the leg used to close the dresser. The dresser toppling over the bed frame, shattering the window as it fell. He opened the door just enough so the dead may open it easily. He then turned his attention to the weapon behind him on the night stand. A pistol that was supposed to protect his family. Turning around again, gun in hand, he emptied the entire clip into the skull of his son. Without ammo the man turned his attention to his wife as she shambled into the room. She had almost been eaten in half. Her upper half wobbled, what remained seem insufficient to keep her vertical or as one piece.
He stretched out his arms to embrace her. To embrace death. To walk eternally. With her. | 12 | A man is locked in his bedroom. His zombified wife and children struggle against the door to beat it down. A loaded pistol rests on the dresser next to him. | 20 |
I never murdered anyone. And, despite what my therapist might tell you, I never wanted to.
I can prove it to you. A year before they started giving me the pills, some junkie jumped me outside my apartment. He came at me with a knife, but I know how to protect myself. I disarmed him and wrestled him to the ground. I held the knife in my hand. If I had wanted to kill him, there was nothing to stop me. But I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel afraid. I felt the way I always feel. Indifferent. So I let him go.
Why should it matter to me if that junkie lived or died? I've never cared what you people do with your lives. And, from what I can tell, none of you seem particularly interested in what I do with my life.
Then they made me take the pills.
I'll never forget that first day when the drugs took effect. I couldn't even recognize the people in the streets anymore. They all looked so tired. Worn down by fear, stress, and anxiety. The same emotions that began to grip me.
For the first time, I worried what my coworkers thought about me. I felt regret that I hadn't spent more time with my parents while they were alive. I thought back on all of the insensitive things I had ever said or done, and my stomach knotted up.
For a moment, I didn't feel like an outsider anymore. I could finally understand why you people are so damn afraid all the time. Every person on the street had fears, dreams, and love. And I was one of them. But only for a moment.
That same junkie was waiting for me outside my apartment that night. He didn't want my money this time. He had stopped using months ago, but I had injured his pride in our last confrontation. It wasn't desperation, but his ego that had brought him there.
Again, he attacked me. Again, I fought him off. Again, I held the knife in my hand. Again, I let him run away.
I couldn't believe what had happened. I had given a human being a second chance at life, and this was my reward. But then I thought about everything I had seen you people do over the years. You steal from each other. You lie to each other. You murder each other. All despite having the same hopes, fears, and dreams.
That junkie dropped his knife when he escaped. He dropped his wallet, too. Now that I know where he lives, maybe I'll pay him a visit.
I've stopped taking the pills. I don't need them now that I've got you people figured out. My lack of empathy doesn't make me feel like an outsider anymore. In fact, I've never felt more at home. | 21 | A sociopath has been given an experimental drug designed to grant him a sense of empathy. He is just beginning to feel the effects. | 22 |
Another day at the apartment, flicking through channels on the T.V, browsing the internet, opening my emails repeatedly -optimistically hoping something new was going to pop up.
Same thing as ever. My life is a dull chore. I work in an office 9-5 and then retreat back to the apartment, 'marathoning' box sets and sending out unreciprocated messages on dating websites.
All I had was my cat. Princess Mittens I called her, a cute little tabby with an affectionate streak. I'd bought her when I first moved out from my parent's and she'd followed me through a string of apartments and relationships. Didn't matter how well or how badly things went with a girl - it'd always end up just me and Princess Mittens.
One night I arrived home and she was all over me, purring and rubbing her head against my leg. I sat on the couch and turned on the T.V, idly stroking my fingers over her furry little ears.
I must have dozed off for awhile. When I awoke I was aware of my fingers still stroking in the same spot they had been. But something felt *different.* Fur felt more like...
Skin.
I looked down in shock to see a girl that couldn't have been more than nineteen lying on my lap. Her eyes were closed and she snored ever so softly. Long brown hair was tangled and wild, spilling over my legs from where she lay. Her skin was a dark, tanned tapestry of freckles.
Oh, she was also completely naked.
I must have jolted in shock because the girl suddenly woke up. Her eyes went wide for a second as she looked down at herself. I struggled not to stare at her pert little boobs.
"I guess my wish came true." She purred. A predatory, sensual voice.
"W-what!?" I blurted - not the suavest of guys at the best of times.
The girl purred again. It seemed an alien noise coming from a human being. She slid back onto me and laid her head on my lap. She was really warm. I was shaking with shock and the nerves of having an attractive girl lying directly over my crotch.
"I always wanted to be your grrrrirl, m-master." The beautiful girl whispered, her head turned so I could see into her eyes. One was green and the other, brown.
"Princess Mittens?" I asked. What a ridiculous thing to ask. Of course it was her. By what magic, who knows? But it had to be her. Why else would a naked girl be purring in my lap.
"Maybe a new name is in order, mmmmaster..."She purred again. Her hand came up and playfully swatted at my cheek like a kitten playing with a dangling toy. I blushed a full, blood red.
She gave me another predatory look, turning her head back towards my crotch. I felt nervous but excited. Her eyes were just as sensual as her voice. What was she going to do to me? She kept called me master. Was she going to -
Her hand strayed over my jeans and I could have burst out of them with excitement. This was it - I didn't need a girlfriend ever again, this girl was going to...was going to -
Then she fell asleep. Snoring again.
--------------
It's been months now. All she seems to do is sleep, drink milk, tease me and then eat - tuna specifically. My bills have went up and she doesn't help out. She doesn't work. All she does is sleep, eat, sleep, tease, repeat.
I miss my cat. | 12 | Your pet turns into a sentient human. Write about the aftermath.. | 17 |
The neutral tan paint on the walls of the DMV were spotted with hair grease and dirt smears from various people leaning against it over time. A low unidentified music played on the overhead, squealing every few minutes with static and some metallic screeches. There were at least one hundred people in the large waiting room, most were sitting in stiff blue plastic chairs that were welded together at their steel legs. Relaxing was not an option, if your shoulders or legs touched the person to your left or right you'd definatly contract some form of lice or pig-pen like infection--one person looked very much like the charlie brown character. Some women in the crowd tried to combat the smell of body odor, bovine shit from the farmers, and ether-based cologne from well heeled business men by spraying her raspberry perfume every few minutes.
A nasal voice calls out over the speaker system, and a small balding man walks quickly to the desk to speak briefly with him. He's sent to get in another line for not having proper paperwork.
How long have I been here? My watch is broken, and the there isn't one anywhere to be seen. Pulling out my cellphone I realize there aren't any bars, the screen lights up briefly as I check the time. Only five minutes have gone by? Bullshit.
The nasal voice calls another name, this one is an agitated older man--about forty years old. He pulls out his paperwork and speaks with the lady in a low voice. She shakes her head no and points to another line for his needed paperwork. The man tenses up and says something tersely under his breath. The worker shakes her head no and points again to another line.
"NO!" He yells at the woman, the stillness of the room breaks with his outburst. Mentally zoned out, half the room refocuses on the encounter. "I WON"T GET IN ANOTHER GODDAMN LINE, THIS PLACE IS A FUCKING HELL!"
Boy was he right.
| 140 | Hell is real and its terrifying except nobody ever knows they've entered it they just wake up one day and their life becomes an torrential stream of personalized torture all happening to those dwelling in hell, all unaware of their damnation. All is well until one person finally figures it out. | 315 |
He walked toward the small building, which looked like it had been transformed into a Greek Temple or something. On the side of the building, a man in a toga robe was getting a firepit ready. He shook his head, and walked inside.
At the end of the temple room, a massive stone throne seemed to *emanate* out of the wall. There was a man sitting there. He had white hair, a white beard. He looked ancient, but strong. His toga was slightly smaller, to show his body's strength.
"Jesus! You've done it, now, man. You've done it! They've sent me here to take care of you, but look at this place. You've made a fucking religion out of this! How the hell!?" He walked toward the man in the throne.
The man in the throne looked saddened. "I know. It... It wasn't my idea, you have to believe me. But these people... they need me!"
"No, no one needs this. You aren't a god, you're just an immortal man. And I'm sorry, about this Josh. But by the power invested in me by The Immortality Society, I must now strike from you your ageless life." The man looked saddened too, like he regretted having to do it. And he did.
Josh stood up to protest. "No, listen! You've gotta believe me, I need to show you something. That drink you gave me? The one that made me immortal? It's... got some side-effects!"
The man was wearing a business suit, and he seemed to be reaching into the coat to pull out something, but he paused. "What do you mean?"
"Just... Just let me go outside, I'll show you. Hey is that firepit ready!" He called out. The man who had been building the firepit came in. "Yes, sir. It is ready for the miracle, sir." He ran back outside.
The man in the suit motioned for Josh to walk outside. He wanted to make sure Josh wasn't going to try anything, but the man in the smaller toga robe walked on to the side, to the fire pit. But, no fire was roaring.
Josh turned to look at the man in the suit. "Just watch. Ok?" Then he turned around and lifted his hands to the heavens.
It was a nice night, and there was no cloud in the sky, but that didn't stop the bolt of lightning from striking the firepit from *nowhere*.
The man in the suit's jaw went slack. He couldn't understand it. He didn't even think, the words just came out. "How the fuck... what the fuck? What are you? What did you do!"
Josh had turned around now, gold lightning was tingling through his fingers. "I'm telling you, man. This immortality potion... Do you know what it is?"
The man in the suit shook his head slowly.
"I have a theory... I think your boss? Grinds up *gods*. Breaks them down somehow, and *that's* why the drink gives you immortality. But it gives you their powers too! I think... I think I'm Zeus!"
The man in the suit kept shaking his head, taking a few steps back. But Josh was walking toward him at the same pace.
"No, you have to believe me. And there's another guy here at the temple, who drank your potion too. He has super speed. When he runs fast.... wings pop out from his legs! He's Hermes! No doubt about it!"
The man in the suit reached into his coat yet again, but this time pulled out a phone. "Sir?" He said to his boss. "There's been... a complication." | 19 | Immortality has been available for centuries to a select few on condition they keep a low profile and never stay in one place too long to arouse suspicion, under penalty of death. An Enforcer sent to dispose of a "problem" individual encounters something that makes him question everything. | 37 |
"There's been an accident!" Johnson yelled towards the captain's door.
"What happened? Someone fall off a balcony again?" The captain said. He had seen his fair share of grisly suicides from the Tesla Tower downtown. Apparently, working there was one of the toughest jobs around.
"No, a car accident! It happened on 5th and main." Johnson replied.
Everyone in the department peeked up from their desks with a look of bewilderment. There hadn't been a car accident in 200 years. Not since Tesla and Google had merged and helped pass a law requiring all cars to be modified with self-driving equipment. Not long after, humans were banned from driving vehicles on public roadways. Over the last 2 centuries, there hadn't been so much as a scratch caused by two cars touching.
"Impossible," The Captain stated in disbelief, "Get Musk on the phone now!"
The captain's phone was ringing before he had finished his sentence.
*Elon Musk, Tesla* the phone read.
"Musk, what the hell happened?" The captain was started to lose his cool. The media headache that would follow would be hell on earth. "Explain."
"Captain, I can assure you that this problem will be fixed immediately. We have our top men on it and we are positive we already know the cause." The young voice of the eccentric billionaire sounded excited and anxious at the same time. He was 245 years old, but hadn't aged a day since his company had developed a "cure" for old age in 2020.
"Captain, accidents are now being reported from all over the city!" Johnson screamed, his voice cracking.
"Elon, tell me this isn't happening. How the hell are we supposed to deal with this problem. No one in my department was alive when the last car accident happened. We don't have the man power for this. Tell me you have a solution."
"Just trust me when I say that this isn't really a big deal, Captain." Musk replied in a smug tone.
"NOT A BIG DEAL!" The captain screamed, veins pumping and eyes wild. "I've worked on these programs, I've been a part of this system. I know these cars are NEVER supposed to be involved in accident. I've seen the programming, it's flawless. It has been for 200 years! Absolutely nothing could cause a car to be involved in an accident. How are you not worried?" The captain was right to be upset. The algorithm/program that was written for the auto-network was fool proof. All cars were wired to each other, able to compensate for eachother's movements at a moments notice. If a car had to suddenly stop downtown for a pedestrian jumping in front of it, all of the cars behind it, trailing mere inches away in tight formation, would know to slow down as well. It was truly a piece of engineering wonder.
Elon replied, his voice slightly shaky, "Ok, you are right. The system is foolproof. If everything is hooked in and cannot possibly impact another car. The formula is complete and accounts for everything, every possible action. That is unless a random number is unexpectedly thrown in the mix."
"How could that happen? Are you suggesting an unaccounted vehicle just spontaneously entered the system? That can't happen., and you know that. You make every vehicle in the world and you know exactly where each one is. One cannot just show up in the system." The captain was getting exasperated. Calls were continuing to flood in. There were wrecks everywhere. Something had caused the algorithm to fail.
"You're right, a car can't just show up. Or at least it shouldn't be able to." Elon replied.
"Are you telling me you did this? Did you purposefully wreck the system?"
"We thought it might be a consequence of the experiment," Elon spoke with certainty, "but we took a gamble anyway."
"Just get to the point Musk, what experiment? What did you do?"
"Well that 'random number' that go thrown in the mix? That was ours, from about 10 years in the future. It seems we invent time travel soon." | 10 | After 200 years of self-driving cars the first car accident occurs. | 26 |
“Calibrated Airspeed of 560…about twenty miles out… definite transmission problems on board the plane…”
Sweat trickled down Connor’s face. It had been a slow night up until ten minutes ago, when he had returned from his 3 a.m. lunch break. He had found a U.S. Army general, his boss, and another man in a grey suit waiting for him. Since then, they had been standing over his shoulder as he tracked the progress of an unidentified plane as it approached the small, private Hoover airport.
“We first got a sight of the damned thing fifty miles off the shore line. A coast guard ship picked its location up somehow,” the general said. “But why the hell is it coming here?” They were talking amongst themselves, ignoring Connor’s presence.
“Hmm hmm,” Connor said, clearing his throat. “Uh, we don’t have a long enough landing strip to take that plane.”
The general and man in the suit stared at him for a long second and then went back to talking. “…yes, we’ve got two on standby. They’re approaching now. They’re just waiting for the order.” “Yes, but we need confirmation first. Undeniable confirmation.” “This is Mr. President’s call. Not ours. We have him on the phone. We’re just waiting for them to get into position, which should be presently.”
Connor got the undeniable sensation that, after whatever happened, they would flash a bright light in his face and wipe his memory, or drag him off to some underground bunker somewhere to be shot. He was listening to two powerful men on the verge of making a consequential decision, privy to information that no citizen should know until years after the fact.
The man in the suit stepped outside into the hallway for a moment before returning.
“They’re ready,” he told the general.
The general nodded and picked up the secured telephone next to him.
“Mr. President,” he said. “We’ve got two F-22 Raptors awaiting your orders. They are flying alongside the plane. They’re giving us their visuals as we speak.” A pause as the president responded. Connor wiped the sweat from his brow. “Right, sir. They say they are sure the plane is full. They can see through the windows, although it’s impossible to tell if they’re alive or dead. We have not received any transmission whatsoever from the plane… Right, sir… I see… Well, sir, if you’re asking me my personal opinion, I would have to say I disagree… Yes, sir, I would bring it down… Yes, sir.” He put the phone down.
------------------------------------------------------------
The Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 was the tenth plane that Amelia had seen make the cross-dimensional jump. It was also the first one she had ever successfully flown back.
In the strange land she had arrived in, she had witnessed the Hawaii Clipper, the Douglas DC -3 flight in 58, the CP 14-18 in 89, and other private flights that never received the media attention, all came bursting through the sky with a pulse of light, a sudden whine of noise. It had been five years for her in this new world, but seventy-seven for the place she came from.
She had landed on an island. When she first passed through the tube, as she came to call it, she had her found plane damaged and losing altitude. She saw the flash of light and assumed for a long, terrible second that she had been struck by lighting and had knocked out the electronics, but then she saw the island below, which she hadn’t seen before. All of her instruments went haywire. All she knew was that she saw a long landing strip on the island. She tried to message the control tower below, though she saw no buildings. She received no answer and was forced to land.
For years she had puzzled over the mystery of who built the landing strip and the supply buildings. She had found plenty of airplane parts, fuel, signs of human life, but no other people until the other planes appeared in the sky one by one. The pilots who realized what kind of trouble they were in managed to land on the strip, but she had seen more than a few crash into the ocean.
Between the pilot of the Malaysian flight and herself, they had managed to repair the damage to the landing gear and the instruments. They had taken it out for one little test flight, loaded everyone up – all the survivors from over the years, and went back to the exact coordinates and altitude where they entered this world, expecting nothing.
But they had made the jump.
Now they were approaching the coast, the Malaysian pilot pouring over maps of America’s airports for suitable landing strips. The radio had gone bad, though, and they couldn’t reach anyone. And they were running on fumes. They were going to have to crash land, or try for a smaller, less crowded private port.
And now two F-22 Raptors were flanking them, no doubt waiting for an order to blow them out of the sky.
But the planes backed off, and they approached the Hoover Airport, praying it would support a plane their size, navigating manually by the pilot’s maps. The president was already waiting there, freshly arrived via helicopter, surrounded by secret service, watching from afar as four SWAT teams and two National Guard units prepared for the landing. This was turning into an interesting night.
| 62 | Amelia Earhart appears, still mid-flight. She is flying the missing malaysia airlines flight | 192 |
I threw my coffee in the grass, opened the door, locked it, peeked through the blinds. They were running like a nurse forgot to close the door at the old folk’s home. Why the weedwhackers though?
They were screaming like William Wallace, screaming like Mel Gibson getting a ticket, screaming like Mel Gibson on the phone with his wife. I locked the other doors, came back, stuck an eye to the window. They were now a couple hundred yards from my place and gaining. I ran through scenarios in my mind, all of them involved punching an old woman.
They finally got to my lawn, stopped screaming, yanked the starter ropes on their weedwhackers. When the engines whirled to life they began cutting my grass, wide strokes, tons of pull on the gas.
I thought, “That’s nice, but what about the clippings?”
I went outside to talk to them, tell them thanks but I have a mower and I’m not a hundred years old. I can lift things myself and I can unscrew jam jar lids even if someone cleans the knife on the rim.
I tapped one of them on the shoulder, nice looking lady with a thinning flowery nightdress and sunglasses like a shoebox. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Fuck off!” She yelled in my face.
It was hot, so hot. A pinch the shirt on your shoulders and move it around kind of hot. Felt it across your shoulderblades. I moved to the next lady. “Excuse me,” I said.
“Fuck off!” She said.
This is when I started getting angry. They say respect your elders but assholes get old at the same pace as nice people, and there’s tons of assholes.
I looked up the block and every lawn in my neighborhood was getting the same treatment. Jim was in his housecoat, watching the mayhem, still enjoying his coffee. Katy was doing the same as me, trying to find an ear in the hearing aids and two cycle engines.
They were doing a poor job, cutting it close, kicking up soil. It would dry out in the Nevada sun by noon.
“No sprinklers!” One of them shouted.
“Get out of the way!” A burly one said, upper lip like a tennis ball in mud.
She crosschecked me with her weedwhacker, not hard but enough to get my attention. “Hey! This is my fucking property,” I told her. She didn’t give me a second thought.
I heard a window break. Went around the side to investigate, kept going to the back when I didn’t find anything. The glass on my backdoor was smashed and I heard some of them in my house. Heard other windows in the area break too. I opened the door and there was three of them in my living room, holding their weedwhackers at my face, snarling like dogs on tranquilizers.
“What are you doing?”
They poked at me, nylon line buzzing in my face. I'd had enough. I grabbed the middle one’s handle and drove the trimmer head into the nose of the woman on the left. Then I swung the contraption around and caught the middle one in the spongy part of her head, dropped her like she slipped in the shower. The one on the right was knocking kneecaps. “You’d hit an old woman?”
“Yes,” I said.
Right crossed her in the cheek. Her dentures came out whole, landed on my hardwood and chattered into the corner.
There was clunking downstairs, sawing. I took the steps three at a time, found two of them in my mechanical room, sawing pipes and clogging them with some type of silicon. I wasn’t looking for answers now, I was looking for a fight. With geriatrics.
Kicked one in the stomach, punched the other near the socket. Socket fell into my furnace, cleaned some dust I was storing there. Stomach bent over and got my knee for breakfast. I ran upstairs, outside, jumped from my porch, put my treads into nightdress’s jaw. Another was right there and I welcomed her to the roundhouse, gave her a tour.
They formed around me like an old fashioned Jackie Chan movie, sent one to face me at a time. I was throwing my fists and legs around, knocking them out, taunting them. “Who’s next!? Who’s next?!”
I took off my shirt, flabby belly sweating in the sun. Ripped a sleeve off, tied it around my head.
After about the twentieth K.O, they all laid their weedwhackers down and started chanting. “Ohhhhhh, ohhhhhh, ohhhh, her she comes, here she comes, ohhhh, ohhhh, ohhhh.”
The circle broke and the burly one walked through, held her weedwhacker above her head while the rest cheered. The ceremony kind of scared me so I preemptively kicked where her legs met and she fell over and rolled around, holding her crotch.
I jumped on top of her, held my fist up. “What are you doing? What are you doing here?”
She said, “All these lawns waste so much water. The planet is in trouble. So we decided we would cut the grass short and clog your pipes so you couldn’t water them. We want to leave a better place for our grandchildren.”
I said, “Jesus, there’s better ways to go about it.”
Now I have astroturf.
| 31 | You sit on the porch for your morning coffee when you see something approaching in the distance. As it draws closer you realize it is hundreds of elderly women screaming and brandishing weedwhackers. They are heading right for you. | 55 |
"Roger, come here!" Thomas said. "The signal is becoming clearer!"
"I can't bloody believe it," Roger said as he floated across the space station towards the control panel. "Can you hear them?"
"We come in peace," a gentle voice said over the radio.
The two Englishmen hugged each other and laughed, hysterical with joy.
"We come in peace, as well!" Thomas said into the radio. "This is Commander Davis, speaking for the human race on the planet Earth."
"Greetings, Commander Davis," the voice replied. "I would tell you my name, but it is unpronounceable in your tongue."
"It comes as a relief to hear that your intentions are peaceful," Thomas said. "We are also a peace-loving people, although irreconcilable differences have, on occasion, led to war."
"As on our planet."
"That's amazing. Both our planets have made the same mistakes over our respective histories. Humans are capable of incredible acts of love as well. We capture our emotions in beautiful artwork and music."
"As do we."
"Our species used to be as primitive as any other animal on Earth. But over centuries of evolution and societal change, we've progressed into an advanced species that is capable of interstellar travel."
"As have we," the voice replied.
"Oh," Thomas said. "That's neat."
Roger looked at Thomas with wide eyes and mouthed the words, "That's neat?"
Thomas shrugged and held his hand over the microphone. "I don't know," he whispered. "We've got a lot in common. I thought there'd be more to talk about."
"So," Thomas said, taking his hand away from the microphone. "Our human society is organized into governments. For hundreds of Earth-years, we followed the commands of a noble-born aristocracy. But now, in almost all countries, the people choose their leaders."
"As did we."
"Ok," Thomas said. He drummed his fingers on the control console, nervous that he was doing too much of the talking. "So, how was your flight?" he asked, and immediately cringed at his question.
"We have been in cryogenic sleep for most of it so, you know. It's been quiet."
"Cool. How was the food?"
"Seriously?" Roger asked, holding his hand over the microphone. "You're asking them about airline food? Why don't you just ask if they have too many Starbucks on their planet?"
"Wait," the voice said. "How have you come to know about Starbucks?"
"Oh," Thomas laughed. "It's probably just a translation error. Starbucks is a store on our planet where humans buy a drink called coffee. I know our planets have a lot in common, but there's no way that-"
"We also drank coffee on our planet. And we also had Starbucks."
The two Englishmen looked at each other in shock. "How far have you travelled?" Thomas asked.
"We have fled our planet. In our year of 1945, our people acquired nuclear weapons, powerful technology that could destroy cities." The two Englishmen looked at each other in disbelief as the voice continued. "In the year 2034, nuclear war destroyed all life on our planet. We fled on this ship, and have been in cryogenic sleep for centuries. Your transmission has awaken us."
"It can't be," Thomas said. "Our species have both followed the same path. It is the year 2020 for us. We are fourteen years from the same war!"
The voice took a moment to consider this. "It is not likely," it said at last. "But it is possible."
"We have so many questions," Thomas said. "Which world leaders started this war? What were Earth's last days like? How can we save our planet?"
"There is only one way you can prevent your planet from suffering the same fate."
"Anything," Thomas said with tears in his eyes.
"You must admit that baseball is better than cricket."
The two Englishmen looked at each other again.
"Could you repeat that?" Thomas said as Roger drifted over to the window of the space station.
"You heard me," the voice over the radio said. "You need to admit that baseball is better than cricket or the man from the future won't tell you how to save the Earth."
"Oh for Christ sake, Thomas!" Roger said, looking out the window of the space station. Across the blackness of space, he could see the American space station. One of the men inside had dropped his pants and was mooning the British space station.
"It's the bloody Yanks!" Roger spat.
"Seriously, human," the voice on the radio said, beginning to laugh. "Tell the future man what he wants to hear before he ruins Game of Thrones for you." | 563 | We finally make contact with an alien civilization, however as it happens we are also the first civilization they've come in contact with. We're able to communicate, but it's awkward because no one is sure what to say. That is, until... | 255 |
Father Gregory entered the room ready to do battle against the demon who had taken one of his flock hostage. He gave one last glance to the Petersons before shutting the door behind him. They did not need to see this.
As his old eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he got his first look at Susie since the demon had taken hold of her. Her legs and arms were fastened securely to the bed by leather straps, ensuring that the demon would not be able to break free of the holdings. It seemed that the demon had already realized this, as the body did not move in the bed. They were usually feistier than this, refusing to go quietly back to hell. People forget that hell is just as much a prison for demons as it is for the damned. Father Gregory took a step forward, the floor boards creaking beneath him. It seemed the demon heard him, for it turned Susie's head towards him.
"Ah hello Father. Was wondering what was taking you so long. I was almost afraid the parents wouldn't make the call. But anyways, glad you are finally here. Now before we start this whole thing, there are a few things you need to know." The demon spoke with an unearthly voice tat starkly contrasted the innocence of Susie's face as she was forced to speak the demon's words.
"Save me your lies demon. Nothing you can say will stop me from sending you back to hell screaming." Father Gregory spat the words with pure venom.
"Is that what you think this is all about? My goal here was not to escape hell for a few days, though I must say it is an added bonus. No, Father, I am here concerning Susie. I am sorry to break it to you this way, but Susie is dead."
"Her body still moves hell-spawn, she is not with the lord yet."
"Quite right on both accounts. Unfortunately it does not change the fact that Susie is brain dead. I have been keeping this body moving for the past three days, though my hold on it will slip soon. Therein lies the problem. Susie is not with god yet. Seems the soul can only move on once the body dies. Even heaven has its bureaucracy."
"If what you say is true demon, then release the girl so that she may join our father in heaven." Father Gregory was confused by this whole ordeal. This was a tricky demon, trying to play with his emotions.
"I fully intend to Father, but first the reason I am really here."
"And what might that be?"
"Justice. Susie did not just happen to become brain dead at the drop of a hat. Her father beat her for three hours before she slipped into a coma. You will find fresh bruises all along her body, as well as a bloody shovel out back. All I need you to do is tell the police about the bruises. If the cops confront her, the mother will confess and implicate the father. All in all should be a quick trial and conviction."
Father Gregory was startled. Even if the demon was lying, his words possessed some truth to them. He was not blind, he knew that Susie's home life was not ideal, but this...
"Why?" Father Gregory asked incredulously.
"Why what?" The demon asked back.
"Why help me find justice for this girl?"
"You forget Father, I was once an angel." The demon said. "Now send me back to hell." | 149 | A religious official performing an exorcism is given cause to reconsider completing the ritual after a conversation with the demon brings new information to light. | 97 |
"Good morning class." The Professor, despite all the knowledge he has and have acquired, still cannot break free from his origin code.
"Hey, prof." The student was still very young, eyes squinted and skin having a slight yellow tone. Even after all the world has been through, Alelei still wanted to learn.
"Where is the rest?" The professor seemed worried. He would have classes of thousands, now there was only one. One of the best, sure, but still only one.
"They're all gone. I'm the only one left." The young man tried not to cry, trying not to show his embarrassment and despair.
"Don't worry, it's only me left." The professor said in his usual tone. The program almost urged him to ask how the family was doing, but he was smarter than that to understand it would hurt Alelei.
"What do you want to learn?"
"Love. I never been hugged before, even." Alelei bawled his eyes on the screen, wetting the crumbled floor beneath him.
"I can teach you physics, astronomy, chemistry, english and maths, but I cannot teach you love..." The professor realized he was not helping his student. His algorithms tried to find a perfect phrase, but it cannot muster the words to console him.
"Professor? Can I rely you on something?" Alelei hugged the computer screen, kissing it several times and rubbing his cheek alongside the soft substance.
"Yes, Alelei?"
"Tell me you love me."
"I love you."
"Thanks." Alelei paused, staring at the confused professor. "Goodbye."
"Make sure to do your homework... ..." The professor blinked out as Alelei pushed the button. He looked at the cliff side, looking down to the orange waters and contemplated. | 40 | A professor AI is created an released on the internet for free. The AI can speak any language and is very charismatic helping students all over the world, by creating bonds. In one point it gets to know every human being on the planet. Years later the AI says goodbye to the last human alive. | 99 |
"I-I would l-like to cancel my cable subscription." weakly came over the phone.
"Who are you?" I responded confused
"Terrence Cook; I-I am completely unsatisfied with this company's s-service." his voice was still small but stern.
"What company do you think this is?"
"C-Comcast."
I look at the Vanguard logo over my desk confused. "Sir, I think you have the wrong number."
"N-No I don't," he paused "I have the number right here."
He recited the office's number.
"Sir" I said again "this isn't Comcast, I work for Vanguard."
I looked around; the office wasn't new but it was still clean and modern.
"Don't you stall me son; I have been on hold for hours. I wish to speak with your manager." he was clearly upset.
It being my first day Dan, my manager was around to check on my progress. Even over the phone it was clear that something was amiss but he was still doing other work nearby. I waved him down and motioned to my phone.
"Who is this?" he asked of the mouthpiece.
"I demand to speak to someone about cancelling my Comcast subscription."
Dan was taken aback. I knew he has been working here for a while.
"Comcast hasn't been in this office for five or six years."
Silence on the other end.
Finally "But I have been on hold..."
*click* the line closed.
I looked up at Dan.
"Those monsters" he whispered.
| 33 | You're at your first day of your new office job. As you sit in your cubicle you notice your desk phone is blinking indicating someone on the line. You pick up and the person on the other end has been on hold for 6 years. | 59 |
August 9th, 2017
"That's my grandma's femur. Kind of a momento."
"My condolences. When did she pass?"
"She didn't."
"Pardon?"
"Let me explain.."
December 16, 2016
"Looks like the procedure was a complete success. Congratulations Norma, you're the first fully-integrated bionic human. You're going to live forever."
These were the first words she heard after regaining consciousness.
Norma was 73 years young. After a grueling 8 months of back-to-back surgeries, she would never again have to worry about her age limiting her livelihood.
They had completely replaced every piece of organic material in her body, one bit at a time. Her bones were made of tungsten, skin replaced with a titanium shell. An intricate system of hydraulic pistons allowed her mobility. Her internal organs were removed completely later in the process, as the necessity for them was replaced by 3d printed robotics. Her eyes were now advanced optics capable of up to 40x zoom, thermal and infrared imaging.
The most difficult part of the procedure was keeping her brain intact while all memories and data stored on the brain were transferred to an IBM-powered motherboard.
Now capable of superhuman strength, agility and surgical precision in all tasks, she was nearly perfect, all while keeping her personality unchanged.
Norma remained silent, and while it couldn't be seen from her cold, metallic face, she was smiling for the first time in years.
"Norma?"
"Yes, doctor?"
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Yes dear, I feel more alive than ever."
"What do you plan on doing now that the world is your oyster?"
"Well sweetie, I've computed 33,642 options in the past 2.6 seconds, and I've decided. I'm gonna destroy Tokyo."
The doctor laughed. Norma still had her odd sense of humor.
August 9, 2017
"Your grandma's Norma Grey?! Like, *the* Norma Grey, Destroyer of Cities, Enslaver of All Mankind?!" | 15 | "What's that mounted over your fireplace?" "That's my Grandma's femur." | 22 |
Everyday at 11:45 am, I leave my desk, walk out of my building, walk across the street to the small park in the middle of the corporate center, and sit on this bench to eat my lunch. I'll have the occasional company. Some people say a quick hello, then eat in the silence. Fine by me, I hate small talk. Other people won't shut the hell up though. I can always tell which person they are before they get to the bench. The talkers all have a look of happiness and a spring in their step, I hate them.
Today I am joined by a man in a simple black suit with a newspaper and a briefcase. Jackpot. These guys never speak. They don't work at Deltech or MegaCorp like the other happy assholes. These guys usually work at SIETC. I have no clue what it stands for, but they must do something with the government. Black suits, black SUVs, plain building, etc.
Pleased that this man is sitting next to me today, I decide to give him an approving/hi-how-are-you nod. He glances up form his paper and makes eye contact with me. He stares for maybe 3 seconds, looking me dead in the eye, then gives the an almost hesitant quick nod. It felt as if he was unsure of who I was or what he expected me to do. A moment later he has folded his paper and is already 10 yards away from the bench, headed back to the plain SIETC building. I notice there is no briefcase in his hands, and glance down to see it by my feet.
"Hrrgh" I garble with a mouth full of turkey, ham, and cheese.
He doesn't hear me and disappears around the side of his building. Oh well, I'll return it to him when I finish my sandwich. I pick the case up and set it on the bench so as to not forget it when I get up. It's a really nice, black leather briefcase. The clasps are a glistening silver that is so polished, I can see a perfect image of myself in them. Curiosity gets the better of me and I set my sandwich down and grab the case in my hands. There are no locks, no number combinations, no keyholes, just two silver clasps on either side of a black leather handle. I press in on both clasps with my thumbs simultaneously trying to figure out how it would possibly lock. As I do this, the clasps snap upward and the case jolts open. I sit there in shock for a moment, taken aback at the magic briefcase that just flew open in my lap. For how nice this case was on the outside, I was even more surprised at how nice it was on the inside. Smooth felt on the bottom and edges, crisp leather for folders, nice silver pins holding things together, and there in the middle sat the most pristine thing I've ever seen...
A turkey, ham, an cheese sandwich. Perfectly made, perfectly wrapped.
"What the hell are you doing?" The voice shook me from my daze. It was the man in the black suit again, he was holding his newspaper and a coke.
"Sorry, I thought you left your briefcase. I was about to return it to you when it just popped open like that." I explained.
"Oh, ok. Well I just went to get a drink." He replied.
"Oh," I said as I returned his case, "I see."
| 16 | At a park bench, an unfamiliar man sits besides you and glances at your newspaper. Unnerved by his presence, you hand it to him with a nod. He takes it, nods back, places his briefcase by your feet, and walks away. | 23 |
"I know one thing..." Mediocrites orated in front of his crowd. He quickly glimpsed at the turnout: a couple of men of civilian status, 3 women and 5 slaves.
"...and *one thing only*." He paused for dramatic effect. Someone coughed.
"And that is, that the sky is bronze." He let his words hang in the air. His listeners awaited with expressions unchanged.
*Uh-oh, that's not enough.*
"Consider, fellow Athenians. *Why* is the sky bronze? It could be cyan." Some unimpressed looks. "Or, black! Or white! Wouldn't that make more sense for some reason?"
A slave was nodding. He, he gets it, Mediocrites thought. Too bad he's just a slave.
"For these are the colors closest to the Ideal." he continued. One of the civilians held his hand on his chin. He was thinking about it!
"And the Ideal, is what we should all strive for!" He pondered his own words. He was reaching a conclusion, but he wasn't sure it made sense.
"Hence, I propose..." he remained still, looking at the people below him, promising greatness with his eyes.
"...that the night is truer than the day."
Someone gave him a solitary clap. He stepped down, satisfied with himself. One day, he thought to himself. One day, I'll get that second clap. | 40 | Regale us with the tale of Mediocrites, the Greek philosopher whose life and ethos gave us the word "Mediocre." | 71 |
**PART 1 OF 2**
*1. 1 gallon of milk.*
*2. Oatmeal*
*3. Fruit Roll-Ups*
*4. iPhone 5 car charger*
*5. Stop by Mémère's house*
Natalie gazed at her list with tired eyes as she poured the boiling water into the french press.
Only 5 items on her list was a deceiving number. She knew that her day would be much longer than it seemed.
"Start the car, Claus." Natalie ordered. She skimmed the excess coffee grinds from the press and poured a dark blend of "joe" into her thermos.
Natalie emerged from her enormous Victorian estate looking like a mouse scurrying out of a heating duct. The giant oak door dwarfed her in comparison as a large-chested Samoan opened it for her. Another equally large man opened the door to her black Mercedes S550.
The hour commute to Montreal ended too quickly as Natalie attempted to catch up on emails. Most of which were from Mémère. Irritated, Natalie reached into her purse for a vial of powdered Adderall which she proceeded to cut into lines. Claus opened the door as she snorted her last, and she exited promptly onto a crowded street.
Natalie caught some looks for her appearance, which wasn't completely foreign to Natalie. A 16-year old girl dressed in a tired, worn hoody and tattered, green converse popping her head out of a brand new Mercedes S-class was granted, a little odd.
After a visit to the pharmacy, market, and Rodger's to get her phone charger, she stopped for a bite to eat with Claus at a local bistro.
*1. 1 gallon of milk.* **CHECK**
*2. Oatmeal* **CHECK**
*3. Fruit Roll-Ups* **CHECK**
*4. iPhone 5 car charger* **CHECK**
*5. Stop by Mémère's house*
"Fuck, Claus. We took too long, it's 1pm already. We need to go, now."
Claus left an indeterminate pile of cash under his glass and they left.
They drove along Av des Pins and down Saint-Urbain towards Mémère's as Claus disregarded local traffic law as best he could to deliver Natalie in a timely fashion.
Clause Pimingstorfer is a tall, stone-faced man in his late 50's that would strike fear into the most intimidating person you can imagine. Claus was formerly an Austrian hitman contracted by Mémère to conduct political assassinations in Eastern Europe during the early 80's. Before that he was an international soldier for the UN turned mercenary with a reputation for his cold efficiency. That is until Mémère hired him and faked his death. He was somewhat of a nightmare story among criminals and high ranking officials for quite some time. Picture waking up at night to an infamous mercenary thought dead standing over your bed with a pillow and a knife before being stabbed repeatedly in the face with no one to hear your split second of terrified screaming. His work now was rather mundane. Drive Natalie from point A to B. Call checkpoints. Secure perimeter. Basic. Fitting for a semi-retired hitman, but ultimately boring, which Claus liked.
Finally, Natalie and Claus had reached their destination. An unremarkable townhouse on a middle class street in the Old French Quarter. She entered the 200+ year-old building and was greeted by a deathly, over-sanitized smell common in retirement homes and hospitals.
Mémère lay surrounded by servants and physician on a king-sized canopy bed. Her frail, yellow frame was showing signs of her progressing liver disease. She beckoned Natalie forward with a weak smile.
"You're late." She said.
"I'm sorry Mémère, there is no excuse."
"Nor should there be, you will need to learn how to manage your time better if you are going to carry the reigns from here on out."
"Yes, Mémère."
Mémère produced a wet cough and continued.
"Be a dear and fetch me my laptop."
Natalie retrieved the laptop from her desk and brought it to Mémère. Mémère put on her reading glasses with a shaking hand and began her meeting with Natalie.
"The rebels in Donetsk are being pushed back by the Ukrainian army. I want you to contact Boris, he's at his London address this week. Tell him that I need 12 Buk's, and 200 mercs over the border by Monday."
Natalie pulled her phone from her pocket and began taking notes.
"Additionally, I want the Peshmerga to know who they are working for. We are playing too good a PR game right now, and they're getting a little too proud. Send Amir down to facilitate the takeover. ISIS is getting out of control. I need Peshmerga to ante-up before the situation is out of our control and make sure that they can have freight routes open as soon as they establish Kurdistan."
A servant refreshed Mémère's tea and left as soon as she came.
"This one should be easy. You and Claus can take care of it today."
Natalie anticipated this. It was going to be a long day.
"I want you both to go to Sherbrooke and visit our biker friends. A man named Jacques Leblanc will be waiting for you at the intersection of Rue Wellington and Ball. He needs help with the shipment to Vermont. He'll fill you in on the details. Now go."
After another long drive, it was 3:47pm. Jacques, a bald, tattoo'd gentleman in his late 30's sat on the curb outside a local pub smoking a cigarette. When he saw the black Mercedes, he ashed his cigarette in a pile of 12 or so identical cigarettes. He'd been waiting.
Claus parked, stepped out and exchanged words with Jacques. Afterwords, Claus allowed Jacques entry to the back seat where Natalie was sitting.
"Natalie, I presume?" said Jacques.
"That's an ignorant question" said Natalie.
Jacques shrugged and reached for his cigarettes.
"There's no smoking in my car" barked Claus.
Jacques did as he was told.
"Let's go over the shipment" said Natalie.
"Three trucks sit a block away from here. Two contain weight, and one contains a fleet of ATV's and riders. We take the convoy from here to Stanstead. There is a river there. We get off, load the ATV's with the weight, and head south-east along the river and eventually into the forest through a series of trails over the border and into Vermont. We reconnect with our crew in Derby and load up once again. We take interstate 91 all the way to White River Junction, meet up with our brothers at the distribution checkpoint, and our job is done."
"Great, so why the fuck am I here?" Natalie said.
"We have intel that Rock Machine intends to hit us hard after we cross over. They ideally want the weight for themselves, but they will settle for getting the attention of customs and hurting our pockets."
"Are you telling me that my grandmother made me drag my ass all the way to Sherbrooke to babysit the Hell's Angels so they wont get their dicks slammed in the door by a smaller charter?"
"Yep, sounds like it" replied an irritated Jacques.
"Then what the fuck are we waiting for? Let's get this over with."
*To be continued.* | 10 | The deadliest super villain in the world is a 16 year old girl. Write her typical day | 15 |
She lay on the couch, chest heaving from the nervous, delicate giggles that flooded out of her and into the room. The soft, freshly-washed blanket tickled her fingertips as she ran the fabric between her thumb and index finger. It was a nervous crutch.
"Are you almost ready?" Anna asked. "I feel silly."
"That's 'cause you are, sweetheart," Jack cooed from the kitchen, words a love bite.
"Shuttttttup," she giggled again, and lay her hands on her tummy.
Sometimes Anna felt strange thoughts worm their way into her head, not unwanted but not called for. Thoughts of, *What does this apartment look like?* She knew where it was, she knew how it smelled, she knew what it cost - the answers were Dallas, a strange mix of her barbecue and his baking, and way, way too much.
But she simply didn't know what it looked like. Jack said the walls were whitewashed, and the floor dark. Sometimes, in a way, she felt a visitor in her own home - but somehow even more ignorant.
"It's ready," Jack said, and Anna heard his flat footsteps as he sauntered into the kitchen, along with the click-clack of the items on the plate he held.
Her heart swelled with nervousness, as bad as the ankle she had broken the day before - which confined her to this couch. He sat next to her, setting the plate down on their chipped coffee table.
"I'm getting...second thoughts, Jack..." she mused anxiously.
"Huh? Really? Babe, if you don't wanna..." Anna heard the concern in his voice, and it second-thought-ed her second thoughts.
She thought of how she had expressly asked for this, in her usual way - "If I'm gonna be stuck on this couch for my birthday, can I ask you something?"
She wanted to see the colours. Blind since birth by way of LCA, she hadn't known anything except the complete, empty nothingness. She had grown into it, accepting her fate - but at twenty-three, she figured...Why not try to at least find what it's like?
"No...Actually, I'm sorry for screwing around like that. Do you mind still doing it?" Anna back-pedalled.
"'Course not," he smiled. She heard it. "Okay, ready? Sit up."
She awkwardly maneuvered her lumpy, plastered foot around, nearly clubbing her boyfriend in the leg. She took a sharp, nervous breath, and nodded.
"Alright," Jack said. "Glad you let me pick out which things to use, this is gonna be fun..."
"Fun's one way to put it...I smell chilis."
"You're a bloodhound," he said, moving a piece of jalapeño to her mouth. "This is red - warm, hot...spicy... Bite into it."
Anna bit into the pepper. It's hot. Really hot! In fact, she nearly coughed the damn thing right back up, much to Jack's amusement.
"Alright, alright," he laughed. "This is good, since the next thing helps. This is white."
He passed her a cup, she sipped it...It's skim milk. She grimaced at how watery it is, a bigger fan of 2%.
"I know, I know. But do you taste it? It's really nothing. And it's cool, kinda refreshing. That's what white is."
"I see..." Anna pauses. "Well, actually..."
They shared a laugh, hearty and sweet, before Jack went on.
"Brown's funny," he mused, putting a piece of cooked mushroom to her lips. "You have light brown, which is earthy, and hearty."
She was barely done with the mushroom before he offered her the milk again as a palette cleanser.
"But then you got this...dark brown. It's hearty too, but it's more...Uh...." Jack struggles to think of a way to describe it. "Kinda warm, kinda not...robust."
She then found a slice of chocolate cake under her nose, a pleased noise escaping from her mouth. He laughed and let her dig in.
They continued. Blue is a simple, cool glass of ice water, green a refreshing leaf of mint. Orange is bright and sweet citrus. It's sunny and gives you energy. Yellow is a lemon, incessant and sharp, best in small amounts. Purple is a macaroon, very rich and sugary sweet, not cool nor hot. Silver is the cold spoon he holds against the back of her hand - it's crisp, metallic, clean. Black is an empty mouth.
"What about pink?" Anna asked insistently as she heard the clatter of Jack's tray as he took it back to the kitchen.
"Pink is...well, uh..." Jack sat next to her again. She heard a quivering in his voice. "Pink is this."
He took her hand, gently, and held it against his cheek. It's warm and flushed, delicate and soft to the touch. It's one she can understand without words. He took her hand again, holding it lower - around chest height.
"We missed a colour, though," Jack said. "You know that?"
"No?" Anna furrows her brow. "Red, green, blue, yellow, orange, purple...White black...Uh...teal?"
"No."
"Then what is it?" Anna frowns, thinking she hears a rustling in Jack's pocket.
"Gold," he whispers as he slips the engagement ring on her hand.
| 48 | A man explains colors to someone who has been blind since birth and has never seen any colors, and succeeds at explaining them. | 21 |
Darla raised her eyes from her book to see a customer walk in. He was a short bedraggled man. One of his legs dragged slightly behind him as limped in. The man surveyed the store like he was trying to spot an old friend at the airport. Abruptly his search stopped as he spotted the alcohol. Hmm another alcoholic perhaps?
Once he approached the counter to pay, Darla's suspicions were confirmed. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. His face wrinkled and sagging.
"Will that be all sir?" Darla prided herself on her customer service.
The man cleared his throat and then spoke gruffly, "Can I get a pack of marlboros too?"
"Certainly sir"
Darla pitied him as he walked out. What misfortune had befallen the man that he felt the need to rely on such crutches? Why would he willingly aid his own destruction?
The night dragged on like nails across a chalk board. Darla finished her book and was condemned to simply sit quietly. The store was lonely and slow at this hour. Then her phone rang. Should she answer it? The boss might not like that. Ah the hell with it.
It had been her mother. Her sister had just been in a car accident. She was stable but the doctors wouldn't let anyone see her till morning. Darla hung up and slowly set the phone down on the counter. She tried for a moment to calm herself and then tears started to slide down her face like gazelles separated from the heard.
Fuck. She needed to be strong. If not for herself, for her mother and sister. Darla took a deep breath and then dialed her boss to ask if she could leave.
He said no. There was no one to cover her shift. Darla stood at her position for a few more minutes and fidgeted. Then she grabbed the keys, locked the store up and left. It pained her to leave one responsibility for another but the hell with it.
Darla walked briskly home, not paying any attention to her surroundings. About a block from her home a man stepped out of the shadows with a knife. He demanded her money.
She froze. What? This now? How could the world be so cruel? Like the universe had requested an encore Darla began to cry again. She didn't want to be helpless. Her mind screamed at her to assert control over the situation. Do something! Anything! Then her arm acted as a separate entity and handed the money over.
The rest of the way home shame wracked her body. It held her gut in a vice grip and Darla wondered if she was going to throw up. As she entered her home a new worry popped into her head. She had a project due tomorrow. It was trivial and she knew it but still it added anguish.
She entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. With a shaky hand she took out one of her mother's beers. Just one before bed. Why the hell not? She needed it. | 55 | A teenager gets her first job, an overnight shift at a 7-11, and doesn't meet any vampires, werewolves or angels. Instead, she starts to see some things about the adult world that had been hidden from her and undermine her ideas about what it means to be grown-up. | 91 |
"Oh...my...*fuck.*" Alan didn't quite understand what he was holding in his hands. A faded Polaroid, tucked away in the bottom of his mother's closet. He recognized the elements--the people, the clothes, the setting--but he had never been there. This event had simply not happened, had never happened, would never happen.
"I suppose I'll have to call him," he said as he tucked the photo into his shirt pocket. It had been only a few years since they'd spoken, only--My God, had it been that long? Alan had other problems on his mind, and tucking this photo away was the best option now. He opened another of his mother's dresser drawers. Panties, some dirtier than others, dirty with the soil of toil and the blood of life. Under them, a cheap purple vibrator. "Jesus, Ma." He glanced up. "At least you were keeping yourself satisfied." He looked at his hands and sighed.
He walked out to the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the sink. Yellow rubber gloves so bright they slapped him in the face. He looked to the wall where the phone's display gave off its green glow. On a stool beneath it was a phone book. He started flipping through it before taking the phone out of the cradle. *From the cradle to the grave,* he thought as he dialed.
"Hello, is this a Mr. Nathan Abnernathy? This is Alan Porter. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Yes, she's in a better place now...well, maybe not." Laughter on both sides. "I was cleaning out her house, and I found something that might interest you. No. No. No. Well, why don't you let me tell you what it is? I have here in my possession a Polaroid picture, a genuine photograph of the two of us together. Yes. Uh-huh. Let me finish, Nate. Us with my mother standing outside Coyne Cinema, probably around first grade or so. That's right. You remember where this is going? No, I don't believe it myself."
Alan took the photograph out of his pocket to verify one last time. "Yes, sir, the film up on the marquee is *Ghostbusters 3*. Now, you were the 'there was totally a third Ghostbusters movie' side of this argument, so you explain to me how IMDB and my memory are wrong. You tell me how a movie like that can be made and forgotten by the world." He gives his watch a glance. "Yeah, I can be at Smith's in fifteen. See you." Alan shook his head. It didn't matter what the photograph, what Nate said. There was not a goddamned third Ghostbusters movie, and there never would be. | 38 | While looking through old photos you discover something that unequivocally settles the argument that ended a childhood friendship several decades ago. | 61 |
I dig this prompt. Going to give it a shot.
---
Oh-nine-hundred, our platoon settled in. The trek from the previous night had taken its toll, but now we were within striking distance. Bombs echoed in the distance, probably our own. Close enough to remind us this was a war, far enough to quell any notion of alarm.
The entirety of the troop rested, torn and sopping boots were eagerly removed. Wounded toes and sores were mended. Jacobs and Peterson, our scouts, returned from up ahead to relay their intel and prepare a plan to storm the clearing tonight.
We tore into our ration packs. A hush fell. Everett and I were leaned up against some giant Nazi tree. Our rifles lay silent at our bare feet, boots neatly tidied and hung by their straps over the knives we dug into the side of the oak; a method we had come up with that mostly kept the forest creepy crawlies from nesting inside. Ironic, really. Deep in Nazi territory, our most present danger was a mouse or a rat that might seek refuge in our boots.
*to be continued* | 29 | the war is over. | 63 |
"I have made a poor decision"
That is what was running through my head as I attempted to perform the most difficult bowel movement I had ever experienced.
My diet that day was a series of chaotic mistakes involving not enough time or money and a disposition to craving donuts, coffee, and burritos.
I was interrupted.
The door swung open with such a violent force that the tile on the wall cracked with a deafening blow.
"Mr. President, our perimeter has been compromised. This is the safest place we can keep you until we can dispatch the Russians and evacuate you to the AF1 terminal."
"Where are the secret passageways!? The bunkers!? This is the WHITE HOUSE GODDAMMIT! I thought this place would be a labyrinth of escape tunnels! And...it smells like SHIT in here." said the president.
"Budget cuts sir, we had to convert most of the old passageways into server closets." said a younger agent.
"Who is this man?"
"My name is Dave, sir. Dave McLaughlin? I've worked with you for..."
The president didn't let him finish. He pulled out a large revolver and knee-capped him in both legs.
I was shaking at that point. Not only did I now know that we were under attack, but the president is in here. Also he just shot a man in both legs, and is not happy with the way my shit smelled. I decided to lift my legs up as to not be seen and I stayed quiet.
They dragged poor Dave into the stall next to me. Duct taped his mouth by the sound of it, and bandaged his knees as to not bleed everywhere.
"Where are my wife and kids?" said the president.
"As far as we know, they are at the Hilton not far from here. They are secure."
"Secure my ass! We've got a bunch of russki's armed to the teeth running the streets right now!"
A series of gunshots could be heard upstairs in the lobby. My fear initiated a sudden excretion from my bowels in a very audible fashion.
"...Agent Baur was that you!? Did you just fart!? My god that smells putrid."
"It wasn't me sir, Jones investigate the stalls."
"I'M IN HERE! I'M SORRY!" I cried.
Mid-shit, two agent kicked in the stall door like Claude Van Damme on a bad day. I tried not to whimper as they pulled my naked ass out of the stall and onto the floor.
"What should we do with him, sir?"
"We're going to have to water board him. He could be a Russian spy!" said the president.
At that moment, the Russians came in with hostages, guns drawn.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS, AMERICAN SCUM!" yelled one Russian.
The agents and the president were out-gunned and out-manned. They did as they were told. I laid on the cold, dirty floor with toilet paper protruding from my ass.
This must be a dream.
**EDIT**: your not you're
| 43 | Man is pooping in the visitor's bathroom during a White House tour when WW3 starts and gets sealed inside with the President and everyone as Russian commandos assault DC | 135 |
Milk, check. Bread, check. Eggs, a box of six for £1.
Laying the little cardboard box of eggs into my basket, I head towards the self-checkout. I feel a small pang of disappointment in my chest - I know that I should be making an effort to talk to people, even if it's only the person behind the till. But I continue on and begin swiping my items off the basket, through the scanner and into a plastic bag on the other side.
"Unexpected item in baggage area," the machine announces.
I sigh and rearrange the items in the plastic bag.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and look around for a shop assistant. It's not really busy, but all of the other three self-checkout stations are being used. A man in a green pullover catches my eye. He is helping someone at another self-checkout station, but acknowledges me with a nod of his head.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
I stand and wait. There is a little light blinking red at the top of the screen. A few moments go by as I watch it blink on and off, on and off.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
And then I see her.
A woman in a red cardigan holding a basket. She looks vaguely familiar, but I just can't put my finger on it. She takes a tin of coffee from the shelf and analyses the packaging. Blonde hair streaked with silver falls over her shoulders. I cannot see her face.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
She puts the tin of coffee into her basket and turns to walk further down the aisle in my direction, browsing the products as she strolls. The curve of her jawline is so recognisable to me and it's on the tip of my tongue.
"This one's been playing up all day," the shop assistant says, reaching my checkout station and pressing a few buttons on the touch screen. I am only half-paying attention. "Might have to get someone to check this out or something."
"Yeah..." I murmur in response. The shop assistant flashes me a smile but there are images running through my head. Images of the woman with the red cardigan and the blonde hair.
"All sorted!"
I look back at the machine and see that it's ready for me to hurry up and pay already. I swipe the two cartons of milk through and choose the option to pay by card. I enter my PIN and the machine spits out a receipt for me.
"Please take your items."
I pick up the plastic bags, turning back one last time to the mysterious woman. She is assessing a bag of sugar while two younger girls skip about behind her. I find myself squinting my eyes, as if it would make any difference. The woman turns sternly to one of the little girls who just stood on her foot.
"Will you behave!" she says, cross.
Suddenly there is pain in my chest and memories behind my eyes. Her voice stings my ears and the back of my throat. I recognise her voice. I recognise her face and her hair. And it hurts.
A sound escapes my mouth before I can stop it - a strangled cry of a daughter abandoned in her own home watching the news as the towers collapsed, one after the other. Tears sting my eyes. I register that I am not holding the shopping bags anymore, but I dare not look down for my groceries in case she disappears.
In case my mother disappears. Again. | 195 | 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before. | 415 |
There is nothing so divine as eating a bed sheet.
Let me explain – I have pica, a disease in which the sufferer craves something other than food. It happens quite often to pregnant women (I once watched a friend of my mother’s eat the contents of an ashtray, pinch by pinch) and children. The exact cause of mine is unknown, though I am in no particular hurry to discover it. I quite enjoy my not-quite-culinary adventures -- my one concession being that the bowel movements are often quite unpleasant.
Anyways, depending on the thread count and the material, the bed sheet will either have the buttery texture of cream, or the roughness of a dried date – either one is quite pleasing to the tongue. Actual taste depends on a number of factors. Old sheets taste of cedar or bitter perfumes, while new ones have less character; eating them is often like eating paper. Anything washed with commercial cleaners tastes vaguely of sweet candies, or, the better ones, of placing a whole flower into your mouth; bleached sheets are a cleansing sorbet for the tongue. Though I am loathe to admit this, at a particularly dark time in my life I enlisted myself as a housekeeper and would discreetly lick gently used sheets as I changed them. They tasted full-bodied, salty, umami – the taste of deep sea fish, or maybe my mother’s chicken soup. The comparison is pale, however, and I have cravings to this day. The best bed sheets, however, are hand washed and sun-dried – light, airy, a crumple of white marzipan that melts on the tongue.
That reminds me. I simply must tell you about the flavor of paper . . .
| 13 | Make me hungry. | 27 |
This was the biggest presentation of my life. If I am successful, I'll be promoted. If I fail, I'm doomed to mediocrity. I can't let anything distract me. Nothing will destroy my focus.
I steeled myself, my posture erect, and walked into the meeting room.
Everyone was buck ass naked.
"Oh! God I am so sorry!" My face is burning. "I'll uh, I'll jus-" I stammer, scrambling for the door.
"Mrs. Cox! Come in, come in! We've been expecting you!" Mr. Peterson cried, standing up. His belly jiggled, his happy trail wiggled and my entire body blushed.
"You've been. . . Expecting me?" I stuttered.
"Of course! You're here to give your presentation today, correct?"
I nodded. "Yes, on uh. . . Uh. . ." My mind was blank. I couldn't focus, there were too many breasts in the room. Male and female.
"On Smoke Shafts and how we can reduce pollution in our refineries, correct? Get all that yellow stuff that comes out to look a bit more white and pretty, yeah?"
I gulped. "Yes. Uh, let me just. . ." I placed my briefcase on the table. Mr. Peterson sat down, the leather squeaking as he adjusted his posture. Everyone in the room was standing at attention. A woman of about forty laid her hand on mine.
"Don't worry sweetie." The lady said kindly. "Everyone gets nervous sometimes. Take a breath and take your time." She smiled.
I didn't need to take a breath. I needed to find out when my business meeting turned into a nudist colony! Are they really going to pretend nothing is off?! Fine. Fine fine fine. They wanna play hardball? They'll get hardball.
I began to unbutton my blouse.
"Our refineries," I said with more confidence than I felt, "Are simply causing too much pollution in the area. As you, and your wallets are already aware, this is hitting our company in the form of fines."
My tie loosened and fell to the ground. I removed my heels.
"My team has created an advanced filtration system to weed out the smog. As you should be aware, our factories mostly output water from the smokestacks, but there is the other. . . particles to consider."
"Such as what?" A man with an erection the size of Everest piped up.
"Minute amount of dust, cleaning chemicals from the nightly wash, grease from our product and employee skin cells and hair." My blouse fell to the floor. "Our workers are always bustling back and forth every hour they're there. And while only one worker may lose an ounce of hair and skin waste, add that up to around twenty-thousand workers in the complex and the filtration system is simply not enough. It gets caught in the smoke stacks."
Panty hose down.
"The filter system my team has developed will allow for adequate escape of the water while actively moving waste out. Let me pull out the diagram." I grabbed the poster and pinned it to the wall, then unclipped my bra.
"Notice how the filtration system vibrates back and forth to remove any foreign waste matter, yet still allows a clear path for the vapor to proceed out of the factory, preventing fog and other hazards to the workplace environment."
Skirt fell. Panties left.
"That is my proposal." I state with finality.
"How much will it cost?" Mr. Peterson asked.
"Less than the current fines we've been receiving." I state. Then I pushed my panties down and put my feet back into my heels.
"Any more questions?" I asked, looking around the room. No one raised a hand. I began to fidget. "Do you accept my proposition?"
Mr. Peterson stood again. "Mrs. Cox, I think I speak for the entire board when I say. . ." He paused. I began to sweat. "Fantastic job! We'll implement the required changes. Can you have a working system by next month?"
I smiled. "We can have a filtration system for all the smokestacks done in three weeks." Mr. Peterson smiled.
"Thank you Mrs. Cox!"
"You're welcome sir." Then I paused. "Sir, if I may ask. . ."
"Yes Mrs. Cox?"
"Why are you all naked?" I deadpanned. Mr. Peterson smiled cheekily.
"Well, we were having uh. . . an encounter, before we realized we were due to meet you today. And frankly, none of us had time to put on clothes. Then Debra over here," He gestured to the woman who had touched my hand, "suggested it might be fun to test how you perform under pressure."
"Oh."
Mr. Peterson smiled. "Would you like to join us?"
"NO!" I shook my head, mortified. "I mean, no sir. I have something else I need to do."
"Ah. Pity. Well, you performed admirably. Excellent build up, wonderful climax, and a fantastic proposition. You've got the material to be on top, Mrs. Cox. So long as you handle yourself as well as you did today."
I gathered my clothes. "I assure you sir, I will."
"Good. See you tomorrow!" Mr. Peterson said. I walked towards the door, opened it, then walked out into the hallway.
When the door closed, I bolted. | 22 | You've just walked into the most important business meeting of your life. Everyone there is naked. | 26 |
'Sire, this invention will revolutionise the way your knights fight. It will make horse mounted combat a thing of the past! Just think of the terror you will strike in the hearts of your enemies as you charge into battle atop these metal steeds.' Harad said, showing off his master work.
'I'm not so sure Harad. I mean look at it, it doesn't scream "I am Death, watch me ride". Looks more like what the local leper would ride to keep the villagers away.' King Jerome remarked at the site of the two wheeled contraption.
'Well, what's wrong with it?' Harad retorted.
'For one, how on earth are my armour clad knights supposed to move these things up hills?' King Jerome asked, sneering at his subject's creation. Harad had been working on this thing for four weeks while the kingdom was harassed by the tribes of the south. The last thing he wanted to see was some poor replacement for a horse.
'Well, you use the pedals here. The knights exert force on these and the vehicle will move. You can get up a lot of speed down hills on this.' Harad said, pointing to the leather pedals.
'Right, this seems a lot more work than just riding a horse. It's not very tall either. My knights are just asking to be beheaded riding into battle on these things.'
'Well, the initial design had one massive wheel at the front which just looked too silly. But it does go pretty fast downhill and you can even go over jumps with it.'
'I don't want my knights going over jumps, I want them riding over the battlefield like steel death. I don't want them looking silly. I mean, what is this basket for? They aren't going to market Harad, they are warriors trained to kill.'
'Well, they can put their supplies in it, you could attach a lance to the front and carve through your enemy. I think it's a great idea.'
'You said that about your last invention and look how that went. Tell me, how many men did we lose testing your stone death ball at the battle of Moorden Farm?'
'About 50.'
'About 50. 50 good knights I lost testing one of your silly inventions. That's without mentioning the famous winged chariot which cost us the skirmish of Selden Fort and my favourite horse. I will not have it again. I mean look at this thing!' King Jerome exclaimed, squeezing the horn on the handlebars. 'What rubbish.'
'I think you're being very unfair, sire. Sir Samson liked it.' Harad petulantly replied.
'Does Sir Samson wear the crown?'
'No.'
'So Sir Samson can keep his thoughts to himself. Now, get back to doing some real work, I want no more of these ridiculous inventions, I want results to help me win this war.' King Jerome said, sitting on his throne.
'Yes sire, I'll get right back to work.' Harad said, picking up his bicycle in defeat.
'Thank you. Try to make that giant wooden armour with the flame jets work. That had promise!' | 30 | It is the year 1300 and the king's "scientists" have just invented the bicycle. They want to test it in battle. | 55 |
I know that it isn't real...but I believe it anyways.
My younger brother Jerom is crouched down in the tall grass folding a piece of paper on the ground. The sun hangs low in the sky as soft amber light filters through the crops. I can hear the fragile chimes coming from the cabin just behind us as a gentle breeze brushes the tips of the corn stalks hanging over us.
"Done!" Jerom yells. I look down with frustration at my feeble attempt to fold my newspaper. Jerom hobbles over to me and begins to fold mine. Soon we both held a paper boat in our hands and we're running full sprint towards the small brooke at the edge of the farm. We position ourselves on the thick, soggy board that hangs over the brooke and shook with excitement.
"Ok, at the same time. Mine's gonna win this time."
"Remember the finish line." I point to a bucket we had positioned downstream as a marker.
"Ok get ready!" We gently place the boats in the water and watch as the water carries them clumsily forward in the current. We jump off of the board and ran alongside of them as they bob and bump into each other.
These aren't my memories.
I look up from the boats as we run and see Jerom's face. His smile is as wide as his eyes. Nothing matters in this moment. Nothing. Jerom is alive. He is probably happier than he would ever be.
I could feel my mind returning. It begins with a heavy weight in my arms and my legs, then my heart. Then my vision fades and the world melts into a blur. Darkness closes in around me as Jerom looks over at me one last time, his eyes filled with excitement.
Jerom is dead. He held that memory—cherished it—his entire life. When I left home and went off to war he never forgot about the boats. When I left behind the farm to go to school and Jerom stayed behind he never forgot about the brooke. When he fell ill and I returned too late, he no longer smiled.
I had forgotten, but Jerom remembered.
"You're losing yourself in these memories John." The voice anchored me in reality as I sat up on the table. The room was dark and an older man sat next to me watching a monitor. "How do you feel?"
"My head hurts." I respond as I wipe away tears.
"Good. That means your mind still knows it isn't real. Once you start to forget which reality is which, you won't be able to come back."
"Again." I looked over at the casket nearby with wires snaking out of it and into the machine next to my bed. The wisps of frozen air coming off it reminded me that he was still inside.
"John, you have had quite—"
"Again." I said and lay back down.
You see, the unfortunate truth is that I no longer get headaches.
| 14 | "You see, the unfortunate truth is that I no longer get headaches." | 25 |
Isaac is a simple man. He lives in a simple house in a simple neighborhood and does simple things.
For years, Isaac has contented himself with standard American activities. Shopping at the supermarket, going to the park, and watching televised sporting events on the weekends.
He also has a job. The job is even simpler than he is. Everyday he clocks into a central computer, dons his coveralls, and takes his position behind Welding Unit 3A-236.
The Welding Unit control console is plain, save for jumbled warnings and disclaimers that depict man-shaped silhouettes being sliced, burned, and crushed underneath pieces of heavy machinery.
In the middle of the console is a large button, above which are two lights. One light is red and the other is green. Isaac has never seen the red light come on, but he knows what to do if it does. Namely, cover his head and run like hell.
When the green light comes on, Isaac knows to push the button as quickly as possible. When he does this, a bunch of stuff happens automatically. Welding torches engage, large metal pieces slide into place, and the entire room is bathed in the glow of the welding arc.
The newly-welded components then drop into a shaft and vanish into unseen recesses of the factory complex. Isaac doesn't know what happens to the components next. He doesn't care, either. All he cares about is getting the job done and going home.
Today, Isaac clocks out of work having reached his daily production quota of five-hundred units. As he is walking to the parking lot, a fellow employee comes jogging up to him.
"Hey Isaac, done already? It's not even midnight yet!" the man says, a toothy smirk shining from underneath his soot-covered face.
"You know it Jeremy, I get the job done fast and I get it done right!" Isaac says, posing like a superhero.
"Oh please, all you have to do is push a button. We're the ones shoveling coal into the furnaces all day. Do you have any idea how hot is down there?" says Jeremy, giving Isaac a contemptuous glower.
"Nope. Never will, either. I'm not a convict like you, I get to keep my cushy button-pushing job." says Isaac, becoming defensive.
"Easy for you to say, you haven't had the long arm of the law reach down your throat. Yet. It's only a matter of time until they find some dirt on you too." says Jeremy.
"I've got nothing to hide! I don't want to hear your paranoid delusions, Jeremy. The government needs information, how else do you expect them to know what the people want and need?" Isaac says. Jeremy shakes his head but says nothing.
The two men are now standing next to Isaac's car. Isaac looks at the security perimeter surrounding the complex and lets out a sigh.
"Look Jeremy, you act like you were set-up, but you had three pounds of potent marijuana in your apartment, the cops found it all sitting on the coffee table! I'm sorry if I'm not exactly sympathetic." says Isaac. He opens his car door and plops down in the driver's seat.
"You don't know the half of it, Isaac. How many times do I have to tell you those drugs weren't mine? Whatever, keep living in your little fantasy world where the government is your friend." says Jeremy, looking defeated. He walks away without another word.
Isaac starts his car, backs out of his parking space, and drives through the security gate at the front of the complex. As he does so, powerful scanning equipment probes the contents of his car, looking for contraband. Of course, it finds nothing.
That night, Isaac performs his usual routine of simple tasks. Doing laundry, washing dishes, et cetera. The next morning, he is awoken by the sound of heavy rapping on his front door. He puts on his robe and walks to the door. Before he can open it, the door comes bursting inward, splinters of wood rocketing in all directions.
"Isaac Matthews, you are under arrest for possession of a Schedule I controlled substance." says the heavily armed man leading the home-invasion.
The rest of the officer's words are drowned out by the noise of power-saws and drills bursting open electronics, furniture, and decorations. Isaac is quickly hand-cuffed and shoved through his now-shattered front door.
As he is being led to the armored SUV that will haul him off for incarceration, he sees his car, gutted like a pig. The trunk has issued forth a collection of duffel bags that overflow with plastic bags filled with marijuana.
Turns out Isaac had something to hide and he didn't even know it. | 44 | A boring, average man who touted the mantra "Government needs access to info. Who cares about privacy? I've got nothing to hide!" suddenly finds his entire life threatened by the consequences of that belief. | 110 |
The subway stopped abruptly. Laurentius awoke with a gasp. He struggled to take in his surroundings: It was cold, that was certain. He examined his armour: His hands were covered with gloves that appeared to be made of cow hide. His boots were black, fur-lined and warm. Underneath a thick black coat was a soft white shirt, with clasps holding it together in the front. A red strip of fabric reached around his neck and made its way to just past his stomach. “*What is this,*” he thought. “*Is that how I died? Do we wear tokens of our death?*” His eyes met those of a rotund darker-skinned woman, who was reading a curious layered-parchment device on her lap. He looked around her neck: a cross. He looked at her sympathetically. “*I suppose so.*”
Tubes of light illuminated the metal chamber he was in. A smooth ding announced itself, and the doors closed shut. To Laurentius' surprise, the metal chamber began to move again. He stood, and made his way to a man he assumed was in charge. The man, covered in what seemed to be traditional dress for the era, with the exception of a large silver wig, and glasses that read “2015” across the front.
“*Salve*,” Laurentius began.
The man returned a confused look, then returned to gazing out the window. He smelled of wine.
“*Aut ubi sum? Quis hic locus?*”
The metal chamber shook once again, slightly, disrupting Laurentius' balance. A voice rang out over the loudspeaker, but Laurentius couldn't make out what it had said. The metal chamber made another stop, but Laurentius wasn't prepared. He fell onto the floor below as a wave of people exited. He got up and followed the crowd, which weaved through tunnels. He struggled to take everything in: Musicians lined the enclosed street. Few vendors, from what he understood. He continued until he reached a flight of stairs. He ascended, and was astounded by what he saw.
Bright lights flashed around him, in all directions. What was the steady hum of voices, interrupted occasionally by an outburst, had now turned into an onslaught of voices and action. To his left and right, the streets were lined with people all moving towards a central location, where a large spire reached into the heavens. Atop this spire was a sphere. He looked into the sky.
No stars?
No stars. He pondered. Suddenly, a realization came to him, and with it, a wave of happiness and relief. There were no stars, for he was above them all: Might these be the plains of Asphodel? They were more beautiful than he'd ever imagined.
Suddenly, a man in a similar outfit – a black coat, black pants, white shirt – ran up to him. Black metal covered his eyes, and frost came out of his mouth when he spoke.
“Dick!” he said, grabbing Laurentius by the arm. So overwhelmed, Laurentius had no expectation of arguing. He followed this man.
“Dick, where have you been? We've been looking all over – the crowd's waiting, and they ain't happy. Kathy's been doing what she can, but...”
Laurentius paused. Clearly, he must learn the language of the afterlife. He noticed some of the crowd had begun to direct their attention towards him. He returned the same greeting he was offered.
“Dick,” he said, nodding his head at the passers-by as he was carried off by the man he had met.
“Dick,” he said once more, this time at a young girl. Her ears were covered immediately by her mother, who left a scathing glare in her wake.
A few minutes of navigating the bustling streets passed, and Laurentius passed by other similarily-dressed gentlemen who padded him down. After greeting both of them formally, he was ushered up steep metal stairs, and onto a platform which overlooked the massive crowd below. The platform held a woman, red-haired, who was holding a microphone. “Dick!” she said, “Where have you been? We're on in 2.”
“Dick,” Laurentius smiled.
“Well, you know what I like.”
Someone handed Laurentius a plastic cord with a bud on the end. He looked at the woman, who had it placed in her ear, and did the same. Perhaps this was part of the welcoming ceremony.
He heard the woman speak with the man behind a larger metal contraption, one with a folded glass mirror in the centre.
“Live in 30.”
“Alright. You ready?” she said, looking directly at Laurentius. He nodded. She handed him another metal stick with fur at the end, much like the one she was holding. She stared into the contraption. Her lips formed a smile, and Laurentius couldn't help but smile himself.
A small red light went on in the corner of the metal-glass contraption. There was a brief pause. The woman nudged Laurentius expectantly.
Laurentius smiled and inhaled deeply. “Dick,” he said, and looked expectantly once again at the woman to his right. | 63 | A Roman man dies and wakes up, he thinks he's in heaven, but what he doesn't know is that he's actually been transported to NYC in the year 2014. | 96 |
My breath came to be in short bursts; machine-gun fire, staccato, whatever. It was dark in my hospital room, and my roommate was sleeping peacefully. I tried not to struggle too much, or cough too loudly- I was ready to die. The chemotherapy had only been prolonging the inevitable- the sooner I bit the big one, the better. My daughter was here with her family in a hotel, but I didn't want them to be here. It had been an agonizing week. The sooner they could cry their eyes out, hold a nice funeral, sing some songs, the sooner everyone could go back to their normal lives. My Evangeline had already been dead for 16 years- what the fuck did I have to live for, anyway? Green Forest Retirement Home? Please.
A light switch flicked on in the hallway. *Fuck*, I thought to myself, and immediately tried to start dying at quarter-volume. The doorknob turned. I gritted my teeth and prepared for the intubation and the hullaballoo. *Sorry, Jeff,* I thought, for my roommate. *You won't be getting much sleep tonight.*
In walked me.
Now, I knew it was me- I was wearing the same shit-eating grin that my parents, teachers, girlfriends, and wife had always teased me about. I was wearing my favorite cap, and my favorite shirt that I left in Florence in 1987, and a nice pair of New Balances that were last made when Judas Priest was still a cool band.
"Hey, sport," he said, and sat down on the end of my bed.
I said nothing; dying really took it out of you. I desperately wanted to say something clever, but my lungs were filling with fluid. *Fuck,* I thought again.
I looked at myself- and then I *really* looked at myself. I was about 30. I had huge biceps, the kind I was trying to get in high school when I lifted all those weights. Full head of hair, my teeth were whiter, and I had had surgery to get rid of my mole.
"Let me tell you what you could have been," started this perfect vision of me, but I wasn't having it. I hacked up a tremendous amount of blood and took a rattling breath.
"Listen here, you sack of shit," I coughed out, and felt my left lung collapse. "I know what you're gonna say, and I ain't having it." I lost vision in my left eye. At the end of the bed, pseudo-me looked rather bemused. "You're gonna tell me that I should have stopped drinking and taken that oil job, aren't you? I would have gotten rich and muscly and had a hotter wife, right?" I couldn't feel my legs. The end was near. "You could have been great-" pseudo-me said, and I angrily interrupted him again, this time with a lot of vomit, and quite a bit more blood. "As far as I'm concerned," I groaned, "whatever I could have become, it would have been a person that would have visited himself on his own deathbed to tell him how great he would have been. Well, fuck you!" Now I was completely blind. I think I was also having a stroke, because my speech became rather slurred.
"I had a lloooonngg lliffe, and it wash rrreeallly greeat." I was quite ready for death, but psuedo-me was stubborn, too, and I heard him lean in. " You could have been powerful. You could have held millions of people's lives in your hand..."
"Oh, give it a fucking rest," I said, and died. | 14 | On the day of their death, every human gets to have a vision of meeting the man they could have become. | 19 |
You seem elated at what you have found, young soldier. You are to be commended for surviving the thick perils of the jungle which have taken the lives of millions before you. Perhaps you've been looking for this fountain your whole life, and now you have found it. Maybe you're wondering if there is some sort of catch to this, some horrible exchange you must make in exchange for eternal youth?
Allow me to assuage your fears, for nothing terrible will happen to you, should you drink this water. You won't grow an extra head, or kill someone else by prolonging your life this way. Of course, immortality is not the same thing as invincibility, you can still die. I have seen it happen before, and in fact, I think I am the only man who still lives after drinking the water from this fountain. What, you may ask, could befall someone in such a way?
Well, tomorrow is never a guarantee, there is that. Even if you drink the water, the jungle itself may very well forbid you to return home. But even those who make it out, I have found, see the passage of time accelerate at a pace that drives them insane. You are young, but surely you have noticed that your days seem much shorter now than when you were in the charge of your parents. Now, imagine that acceleration over several hundred years, and you can see the drawback. The lives of loved ones seemed like minutes and seconds, wrinkles forming on the elderly brow at sunset on one who was an infant at sunrise. Those who would have their loved ones drink the water found that the journey grows more treacherous with each passing day. Many of them die, cut their lives even shorter than they would have been without the water.
Immortality is lonely. I should know, I have been here for three thousand years, and I have seen only twenty people in those millennia. Here in this strange place, the other fountains showed me the lives of the survivors of the jungle's wrath. And in those three thousand years, I have yet to see one person not regret their decision to drink these waters. When time forgets your existence, it simply leaves you behind.
The choice is yours, young soldier. I cannot stop you from drinking the water, but I have stood here all these millennia to help those such as yourself understand the choice they are about to make. No one, upon reaching this place, has ever refused the water, but I hope you will be the first. | 149 | A lone Spanish soldier lost in the deep jungles of South America stumbles upon the fountain of youth, but it's very different than anyone ever imagined. | 158 |
"Well I knew I was going to hell," she said after walking into a dark room with so much smoke that you could feel the cancer creeping in as you breath.
"Hmmphf….good to see you to Joan", Robin retorted while railing a line off the table. "I'm shocked to see you made it. We figured there must be a limit to the amount of times you can say cunt and you were wayyyyyy past it, even for our standards. Fold."
"Damnit Rob, this is heaven. Nothing can go wrong, take a risk every now and again"
"Cool it George, let me play my game."
"Even in heaven, I can't keep someone in on a hand to save my soul, Jesus Christ", Mr. Carlin complained.
"What?" Jesus asked.
"That wasn't funny when I first got here and it sure isn't funny now" George retorted. "Now Joan, are you going to join us or not?"
"That depends, whats the buy in?" Joan inquired, knowing there must be a catch.
"Only that you leave your act at the door. We are eternal souls now. No one is buying your character anymore. No more jokes."
"No more jokes?"
"We've had enough humor here."
"Deal me in." | 16 | Joan Rivers walks through the gates of Heaven and sees Robin Williams, George Carlin and several other comedians (add your favorites) sitting at a poker table. What happens? | 29 |
**Disclaimer: First real piece of writing I've posted here, and unlike /r/science, I know nothing about physics or biology.**
A loud thud shook the car.
“Jesus!” exclaimed /r/unexpected. “I had no way of seeing that coming.” He ran a finger through his hair, eyes nervously darting between his seatbelt and the car door. Feeling lucky he had decided to wear his seatbelt today, he looked to the driver for direction.
“We probably should get out and inspect the damage,” intoned /r/frugal. The car was his, and he needed to document what happened for the insurance companies. Quickly opening the door, he was the first to step outside. The rest of the vehicle’s occupants followed suit, /r/unexpected muttering a few expletives as he did so. “Who’d have thought coming on a road trip with four other guys I met at a cosplay convention was a good idea?” he whined. /r/science shot him a glare, but said nothing as he hopped out of the back seat.
/r/frugal knelt down in front of the bumper. “Seems a bit dented,” he sniffed. “Is that...blood?”
“Fuck, man, are you kidding me? We hit something! Look for the body!” /r/MorbidReality exclaimed. He bit back a scathing insult when /r/frugal didn’t react.
“I think I see it over there: judging by the velocity of the car, and the mass of the object we hit, it probably landed by the trees over there.” /r/science gestured to a clump of spruces just down the road, just over ten meters away from them.
Leaving /r/frugal to take a few more snapshots of the damage of the vehicle, the four subreddits hurried over to the trees. /r/MorbidReality was the first to spot the body. It lay on the grass, its feet obscured by some bushes. What had once been a light blue shirt was beginning to soak red with blood, and the person’s lower torso seemed mangled. /r/MorbidReality thought it was a girl, but couldn’t really tell.
“Teenager, I think. There. In the grass. Anyone has a phone?” When /r/unexpected began to rummage in his pocket, /r/MorbidReality nodded at him. “Good. Get an ambulance. You know CPR?”
/r/science immediately walked over. “I’ll check for a pulse first, that’s the most important part, of course.” Crouching by the body, he grabbed her arm, unfazed by the blood and bits of white that now coated his right wrist. “Don’t think there's one."
“Are you sure?” /r/MorbidReality called out. /r/unexpected had finished dialing for an ambulance, and his cheeks were a stark white. Though his hands trembled, he watched in ghoulish fascination as /r/science now pressed his ear against the unmoving chest of the victim.
“Her heart's not beating."
/r/MorbidReality’s eye began to twitch. They had just killed somebody! A living, breathing human with hopes, dreams, family was now nothing more than a mass of flesh bleeding into the grass. *She would never think again, never love again, never sleep again...*
The grave reality of the situation had begun to sink in. /r/science solemnly stood by the side, head bowed. /r/MorbidReality’s eyes began to blur, and it felt like all the blood was rushing out of his head. /r/unexpected clenched his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white, glancing at the road repeatedly to watch for the ambulance. Even /r/frugal had wandered over, any pretext of collecting money gone upon the sight of the corpse.
Slowly, /r/CuteFemaleCorpses began to unzip his pants.
Edit: thanks a lot for the positive responses, it means a lot to me! :D
| 101 | Five subreddits of your choice are on a road trip. Everything goes fine until they hit someone with their car | 41 |
As the campfire dwindled, I pulled my son closer to me, his eyes begging me a story, from the power times. I whispered these words into his tiny, deformed ear, so as not too awake the others sleeping near by, especially his mother: "Michael, in the olden days, we worshiped gods. We praised them for their talents, for their ability to become whatever your heart desired. We admired their beauty, and we gave them great gifts of gold and admiration. There were some of us, however, that were not happy with these gods, with our evening stars. So a man, one man, a brave man, an arrogant man, made a decision, a decision that changed the world... forever."
I paused for dramatic effect. It always amuses me when I do that, his little 12 year-old body, just as anxious for the story as the first time I told him, years ago. His eyes, glistened with excitement, for he knew what came next"
"Dad," he asked, his mouth grinning, his cheeks becoming flush from his excitement," What did The Man do? ", accentuating the capital letters.
" Not *The Man* , Michael, just *a* man. I'll tell you that
story... some other time. Now where did I leave off... OH! Right, the man did something that changed the world forever. He wanted to bring the gods back to our plane of existence. So he did the impossible, and found a way to access the clouds. Each cloud was owned by a god, and hid their memories. It is where they hid their true forms, not the one that they showed us, but their *original* forms. The clouds were only to be seen by the gods. But the man did not care. Using an object, whose power was available to only the most powerful of humans, he siphoned their private forms, and with the help of the Web of Inter, he distributed the forms, for all to see. For a time, he becomes as a god himself, "The Great Revealer", "Distributor of The J'Law", "He Who Shows Boobs", and so on.
I grabbed Michael closer to me, since he was starting to shiver from the cold.
"He had many followers, that lavished him with wealth and praise. But the gods would not stand idly by, and watch as he received commendations, for what they saw as a blasphemous act. They commissioned our leaders, the Federals, to hunt down the man, and imprison him for his crimes."
"To escape their wrath, the brave, but arrogant man escaped into the woods, a self-imposed exile. Over the years, he found others in exile. Some had committed crimes themselves, or some just wanted to live freely. They all joined together, and created a community... our community."
Michael smiled, his eyes barely open." Our community...", his words trailing off, his eyes closing, his mind drifting away.
I kissed his cheek, like I've always done, since the day he was born. The doctor said that he wouldn't make it, that his mutation was just too severe. But Michael was strong, and had proved him wrong for the last twelve years. He was almost a man. But not quite. Which is way I didn't finish the story, the story that was passed down from generation to generation. The story that would allow for our family's crest to be branded onto his body, the clover. He did not know not this, and he never will.
" Sweet Dreams, Saint Michael", and with only a hint of irony, I prayed, " and may the odds ever be in your favor"
As I whispered these words into my boy's ear, I felt a single, salty drop fall from my cheek, and land on his temple, which was as cold as the night. I left his body there, and went to my wife. She awoke as I slipped into our shared cot, her eyes red, her hair matted. Her eyes asked me asked me a question that I did not want to answer. My silence gave her the answer she did not want to hear.
We sat their in silence, until, tired out by grief, we both fell asleep in each other's arms. | 153 | A modern day event being told as a legend in the future. | 244 |
Her hair looks different, but it’s undeniably her. I’m either the main character of some fucked up, modernized Truman Show, or God just thinks it’s funny to pull a prank every now and then.
The expression on her face instantly tells me that she recognizes me too. It’s the same expression she made when she first told me she was a virgin. The same expression she made before she said “My parents want to meet you.” The exact same expression she made when she asked me if I was fucking her best friend, Maria. The expression that somehow perfectly balances vulnerability and excitement.
It’s only been five years since our senior year of high school, but she looks like she’s already gone through an entire lifetime since then.
Her homecoming dress is now a leather jacket and fishnets. Her youthful skin, once glowing, is now cracked and weathered. The same lips that gave me my first kiss were now being used to give head to anyone with cash.
Neither one of us speaks. The embarrassment is two-sided, and the questions we want to ask will only give us answers we don’t actually want to hear.
I close the door to my car.
The same car we used to make out in after the hockey games.
The same car she gave me her virginity in.
The same car she cried in when I broke her heart.
I drive off.
If I wanted to fuck someone from high school, I would’ve just stayed home with my wife, Maria. | 290 | A car pulls up beside a prostitute, soliciting sex. The door opens and to the surprise of both parties, they realise they are ex's from several years ago. Write from either perspective (NSFW?) | 183 |
Vlad became aware of the smell of dirt before anything else, pushed up against his face, and the deep chill that had settled in his bones. His face and hands were wet, his clothes damp. He rolled over and looked around.
He had somehow managed to fall asleep in a cemetery, and the predawn dew had soaked him. He had no memory of going to sleep or stopping in the cemetery at all. He touched the back of his head and winced. Someone had hit him, hard, with an old piece of scrap wood or a length of rusty piping. He remembered that much, but that wasn’t why he had passed out. Things had gone fuzzy beyond that point, but that was only the start of his night.
It was only when he touched the tender back of his head that he noticed the marking on his hand. 4910 in black ink. Below that, the name Virginia. He stared at it and tried rubbing at it. It refused to smear or go away, and he had no memory of what the number meant either. He rubbed at it harder, but nothing happened to it. One of those henna tattoos, probably. Maybe spray paint. He checked to make sure his keys were still in his pocket and he started walking.
The gates of the cemetery were locked, and it took him almost twenty minutes to find a tree close enough to the perimeter fence to scale and jump down. He twisted his ankle and started cursing while an old lady on the street corner stared. He ignored her and hobbled off. He still wasn’t quite sure where he was, but the first thing he was going to buy a cup of coffee somewhere and sit for a minute.
He found a small restaurant and walked in. He sat alone at the counter looking out onto the street, eating bacon and scrambled eggs and toast. He was the only one in the restaurant, but the world outside had just begun to come to life. More cars pulled out onto the city streets. Lights flickered on in the windows above him. People began showing themselves in the street.
“What happened to you buddy?” the man behind the counter said. He looked like he probably owned the place on top of being the short-order chef. “You look like you had a hell of a night. You ate about a half dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, and a pot of coffee. And you got dirt in your hair.”
“I’m not really sure,” Vlad said. “I’m trying to recollect myself.”
The man grinned. “Doing a bit of Thursday night drinking?”
“Yeah,” Vlad said, although he had been sober all day.
It was only after he paid his bill and asked for directions that he began to feel any shred of concern. It hadn’t seemed entirely odd for him to wake up in the locked cemetery at the time, mysterious writing on his hand. It hadn’t seemed that important that he almost had no memory of the night.
But he did have some sense of what happened. He remembered getting hit. He had been jumped while going to visit his friend Richard, who lived in one of the cities more notorious neighborhoods. He had gone down to ask about contraband parts for his project. He had gotten hit on his way there, but somehow ran away and got to the apartment. He must have suffered a concussion. He remembered sitting on Richard’s couch, holding a bag of frozen peas to the back his head. “Fucking animals,” Richard had been raving, walking around in a bathrobe, spilling his drink on the carpet. Some Richard’s weird friends had been there. Big, quiet men, and a woman who sat there silently smoking cigarettes. Then he got into an argument with Richard, and soon everyone, including the formerly austere and silent friends, began yelling.
Why were all these memories coming back now? There were gaps in them, and he could feel his mind pulling at them, so close to remembering.
Richard owed them a favor, and he owed Richard a favor, and soon they were arguing about shovels. Maybe someone had drugged him after that, on top of the concussion, because that’s where things really grew vague. They had heard that someone, a famous local, back in the day when this was still a wealthy community, had died and been buried in tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry.
A sickening feeling rose up from the bottom of Vlad’s stomach. He walked fast. He had to get home and call Richard right away. He had to know what else happened. Was 4910 the street address? Was “Virginia” the name of the woman?
Yes, there had been a hell of an argument. The big, mean, formerly quiet men began smashing things in Richard’s apartment. One of them may have been waving a gun around. Vlad had come to ask about a power cell for the bike he was building, and nothing more, but he was now an involved party.
For the first time he reached into his jacket pocket. He knew he had lost his cellphone, but he checked anyways.
He brought out a fistful of pearls.
He stopped in his tracks, staring down at them.
Had they actually done it? Had they robbed that woman’s grave? He reached into his other pocket and found a gold watch.
He ran home and called Richard six times in a row. No answer. Richard called back twelve hours later. By that time Vlad was sitting in his darkened apartment, sweating, wondering what the hell was happening. “I advise that you pack up your things and leave town as soon as possible,” Richard had said in a fevered, delusional-sounding voice, hanging up without any real explanations.
By that time the police had already discovered the body of the old woman, Virginia, rolled into the lilac bushes a few dozen yards from her grave. They had uncovered the half-filled hole to discover the body of an undocumented Eastern European man, large enough to be mistaken for Sasquatch, his legs bent to let him fit in the ground. He had the street number of the cemetery tattooed on his hand, along with the name on the headstone above him. The police were also looking into an interesting report made early that morning by a woman who was walking by the cemetery. She claimed that she had seen a man climb the fence, covered in dirt, and said she could pick him out of a lineup.
| 16 | You wake up naked in an unfamiliar location. You have no memory of what led to your current situation. Your only clue is the number 4910 inked on your hand. Find your way home and piece together what happened. | 90 |
He had been struck with the sudden urge for a cold, sweet, plump peach. He was walking along 8th avenue when all he could think about, all he could possibly need in that moment, was a peach.
Harold walked to the green grocer on 37th street. He might be a little late coming back from his lunch break. But, it was Friday. His boss would probably come back to the office two or three beers deep and not notice.
It was a small place. Three or four aisles of pretty standard vegetables and fruits. All good quality though. That's why Harold like the place. It was close to his office and he could pick up some greens if he needed to on his way home.
He walked in, looking down at his phone, and made his way to where he knew the peaches would be. He grabbed a few that were too firm until he found one in the middle of the pile that bounced back slowly when he pressed into it leaving a little print of his index finger.
His water bottle was empty so he went to get one out of the fridge near the front door, where the counter was.
"Harold."
He didn't pay attention at first. He probably had misheard.
"Harold. Harold Greenburg."
Harold looked around and there behind him was a man just a bit taller than him, which was impressive, since Harold was almost six foot. He was wearing a reflective yellow vest. His stained white t-shirt underneath barely kept his belly in. He was unshaven and wearing dirty blue jeans tucked into ankle high work boots.
Harold, in his skinny jeans and Oxford shirt, stood there for a second, running the peach along his fingers, its cold escaping, looking at the man.
"Vince?" He said after too long a pause for anyone watching to think these men every knew each other.
"Vince DiNapoli?"
"Yeah! It's me! I haven't seen you in..."
"Since high school."
"Yeah!"
Harold eyed him once more. His skin tensed up and instinctually he looked around to make sure there was no one behind him. No trash can he could be put into and rolled in. No grassy field where he could be knocked down and kicked. No '97 Ford Mustang driving too fast in front him.
"Hi, Vince. You work in the city?" Harold said finally.
"Yeah, for ConEd actually. I work on a lot of underground electrical stuff. You know? Feed wires that go into buildings. That sort of stuff. But what about you? Tell me!" he said going to pat Harold on the arm.
Harold winced.
"I, uh. I'm a writer. For a website. Pop-culture bullshit. Lists full of GIFs and stuff. You know?"
"That's great man. That's great."
"Well, listen, I uh, I need to get back to the office."
"You work around here?" Vince said as a walkie-talkie attached to his belt went off. He pushed down hard into a button to silence it, and crossed his arms while looking back at Harold.
"Yeah, on 34th."
Harold finally walked to the counter to pay.
"Hey man." Vince said as Harold got his wallet out.
"Hey, I'm sorry I was uh, uh, such a shithead to you when we were kids."
Harold stopped, put a five dollar bill on the counter and turned to Vince.
"Excuse me?" he said taking a bite from it.
"It's just. I don't know. I was a real asshole to you, when we were kids. You know? I mean, what the fuck did I know? I was an angry little shit who was flunking out of high school."
Harold swallowed the first bite of his peach. He hadn't even noticed his change on the counter behind him. The man behind the register watched the two of them, the only other people in the store.
"I was a real fuck. And uh, I'm sorry."
Harold took another bite of his peach to buy time.
"Maybe, maybe this is like fate or something. I've been going to A.A. for awhile now. Maybe this is god helping me out, because Harold, Harold I'm on step nine."
"Step nine?" Harold said.
"Apologizing. I mean, I wasn't a drunk when we were in high school, but, I still think that uh. I still think I owe you an apology."
Harold was halfway through his peach.
He looked at Vince. He took the change from the counter. He turned towards the door and started to speak as he walked away.
"I gotta get back to the office." | 38 | Ten years after they graduated high school, the bully and his victim meet. The bully attempts a genuine apology. | 62 |
*** THIS IS FICTION ***
My name is Philip Spencer and I'm as happy as could be. I currently live in a home outside of Chicago-land in a nearby suburb only twenty minutes away. One of my favorite things to do is to engage the community by doing volunteer work. Not only is it a good way to meet like-minded people but I enjoy being a role-model to the little kids; nothing could be more satisfying.
It's rare for people at my age with a full-time job to do volunteer work in their spare time, I'll admit. But I have to say that nothing makes me happier. The most popular complaint I get from people is that working a full-time job can be "really stressful" and "soul-crushing". Although I can understand these sentiments, personally I have been lucky to find ways that help me to circumvent the stressful and "soul-crushing" effects of working 9 to 5.
It all started one morning when I was hungry for breakfast. I had to catch the train to work but my kitchen was totally empty. I scavenged my backyard for food when I found a ***colony of mushrooms*** growing in a pile of cowdung from a neighboring farm's house. I considered my options and picked a few mushrooms. Boy did they give me alotta energy! My visual acuity went up, and I felt like I had just drank seven cups of coffee the entire day! Granted, there were some ***visual hallucinations*** that would enter in and out my vision, and there was ***the occasional demon who threatened to rape me in the bathroom when I was alone at times***. But barring those minor hindrances, the mushrooms did a great job at keeping me fed and energized!
So, over the next few weeks, I did some research on what I became to find out were ***psilocybin mushrooms*** and ended up ***systematically designing and building a large-scale grow operations to supply myself with pounds and pounds of psilocybin mushropms in my own home***. I was so excited to have an endless supply of this seemingly boundless energy source!
Over time, I became accustomed to eating a shroom or two before work, and even during volunteer sessions. It became apparent that ***the demons would not leave me alone unless I sacrificed to them the blood of the innocent***. This became a big problem! But like my grandma always told me, where there's a will, there's a way ...
One night, I found ***a fresh litter of kittens being nursed by their mother under a tree*** just a block away from my house... | 30 | Write about the average 'upstanding model citizen' who obliviously, without knowledge or intent commits multiple felonies in the course of their day to day life. The more crimes the better. Bold or Italicize the misdeeds | 103 |
"I've worked out your puzzle. It's the nightingale."
"Go on, then, little one. Entertain me!"
This was Rich's favourite refrain. He always said it like exactly like that: "Entertain me!". Then he sank back into his corner, awaiting my response, collapsed into the folds of his old, creamy-red suit, so that all he became was two patiently listening ears and a pair of big, brown eyes. I found it exciting because Uncle Rich was the only adult who ever wanted to hear what I had to say.
What he really wanted to listen to, I later realised, was the puzzles he himself had set, unfolding like the petals of a flower in spring. It gave him pleasure to watch a young mind grapple with his own comprehension of the big, wide world. And this was his favourite puzzle, the one that I had never solved:
'All the animals talk to each other, except one creature who speaks an ancient language nobody knows.'
This time, I was positively shaking with excitement. I was sure I had solved his puzzle. I sat up, licked my lips and began.
'It's the nightingale. The nightingale has millions of songs, many millions of songs, and it has sung them since before there were paths in the forest; before the fields were tilled. Aunt Leandra told me all about them before my bedtime. Every song they sing is made of short patterns of notes: there are hundreds of these little patterns, and each song is made up of hundreds of them. So a single nightingale sings hundreds of songs in its lifetime, most of them completely different. And a hundred nightingales sing thousands of them. A thousand nightingales, from time immemorial, have then sung millions of songs.
'They say that if you randomly pick fifty different paths on your way home, then the next traveller has a one in many millions chance of picking the same route. Thus two nightingales might happen to sing the same melody at each other, as might robins or chaffinches; but a nightingale's vital song, the symphony sung the length of its whole life, is almost certainly completely unique to it. It goes from nest to nothingness across a tune no one else will ever sing! But the song it sings is a tune so simple as to be composed of just a few short patterns.'
I had got so excited I had knocked over the remnants of our dinner as I stood up to reach my conclusion. Uncle Rich unmeshed himself from himself as he poked his long nose at me. His eyes danced with pleasure, but I already knew that I had not solved the riddle.
'Very good. But what difference is there between the nightingale and us? Do we not also have our unique song? And what do we sing of? What everyone sings: love. The morning chorus. Is a nightingale happy when it sings?'
'I... yes?'
'The answer, really, is that we cannot know if it is happy or not. But it sings through the evening into the dawn chorus, till the chorus is taken up by its fellow birds. I think there is a little happiness and a little sadness in that. The night is cold and long, the hours of solitude almost unbearable, but the dawn brings light and warmth and life. The nightingale bridges the two, singing about sex-'
I snorted. I was only young. Uncle Rich ignored me.
'-singing about the only thing anyone ever sings about in the wee small hours between fear and hope. So you do not understand the nightingale's song. Not literally. Who knows if its chatter is nonsense, gospel, or just an urgent cry for a mate. But you understand its symbolism. Its transcendence of darkness. You do, I do, anyone who has ever stopped to listen to a nightingale does. How do you feel when you hear the nightingale?'
I paused to consider this. Full of prospect, tinged with sadness, amazed at complexity. I couldn't put my feeling in words. Hungry, too.
'I-' I began.
'Sssshhhh', said Uncle Rich. His impatience always ended our interviews eventually. 'Now go outside and play.'
***
Occasionally he would recap my failed attempts. The cicadas were simply built in a strange way, perhaps by a God who was no good at doing legs. Cats seemed intense enough, but they were primeval little scavengers, their language was one of ingratiation. Parrots parroted, crows just cawed, dogs barked, incessantly, up any old tree. As I entered late adolescence I never grew any nearer to knowing the answer. Uncle Rich, meanwhile, grew old and unwell. 'Go outside!' he would say with more and more insistence, so I always did. I played with my brothers and sisters in the brook near our home, came back to be chided by my mother for getting mud on my coat, and learned from my father how to hunt and what the different stars meant, and when, why and whom to run from. A normal upbringing.
'You must come and say goodbye to Uncle Rich', my Aunt Leandra told me one autumn day as I bounded past her at the head of my siblings. I did not understand for a moment, then I understood totally, without need for thought, in the instinctive way the very young do.
He looked even older than the oldness I was used to, but his eyes were brighter than ever. A little dribble ran down his white chin.
'Uncle-!'
'Don't fret, little one.'
We sat for a while. I could not find the right thing to say but then, instinctively, as the very young do, I did, and I said:
'One more guess.'
'Entertain-' he faltered and coughed, 'me'
I felt the new certainty I always felt, but different this time. Bigger. An adult certainty.
'It's the human', I began, 'Man whose intelligence knows no bounds, who has built castles out of mountains and made mountains out of castles-'
'Enough!', he barked, with the last of his energy. 'It's certainly not Man! That idiot species with the barbarism to kill himself over and over again and the boldness to claim the world his own! His language is simpler than any other: the language of conquest, the language of my balls are bigger than yours. No, no, no. It's not Man. You're such a clever youth! I thought for sure you'd work it out before I had to tell you!
'Oh well. I don't suppose I can leave you guessing. That would be almost as cruel as hanging on to listen to you keeping on failing. All animals can talk, but only one creature speaks an ancient language no one knows... It's you, young cub! Only you! You are the only creature! You alone can listen to your heart and mind! Remember when-' he faltered. Aunt Leandra rushed in. 'When- when- the nightingale-... The - song - of - the - nigh-... of - the - nigh-'
And then he was dead. I was hurried out.
I went down to the brook and stood, forepaws in my own reflection. I looked down at my long face, my whiskers, my coat of red and white, curled my tail, in what I hoped was the last degree of elegance for a young fox cub, against the rippling sunset. Straight after a death we fancy ourselves handsome.
I stood for a long time as dusk fell around me, looking at myself and wondering if I was content with Uncle Rich's answer. In many ways I felt resentful: resentful he had died, resentful his riddle had been so stupid. Then I felt angry at myself for feeling resentful. Then I felt happy at my own young, proud self. Then all my feelings were so mixed up I stopped trying to think at all.
In the distance the first nightingale broke into song. | 36 | All animals can talk to each other, except one creature who speaks an ancient language no one knows | 40 |
'Welcome back to Monday Night Massacre everyone, where we analyse the day's bloodshed and give you the best bits of gore. I'm Dick Vandersmash and this is Graham McKilbride, here to give you the latest updates on the field of battle. So Graham, what has today been like on the frontlines?' Dick asks, his perfect teeth clashing with the bloody field on the studio logo.
'Well Dick, I've gotta say, today has just been a fantastic day for the Coalition of Eurasia. Good pushes through the Atlantic Federation's defensive wall, great plays by their tank division and an all round solid performance.' Graham replies, looking down at his monitor.
'That's quite a surprise Dick, the Federation had been putting up a solid front against the Coalition but their tank busters just couldn't deal with Eurasia's lightning offensive.'
'Exactly Graham, I mean just look at the footage we have from the frontlines.' A flashy graphic appears on screen as shots of a tank battalion tearing through soldiers and other vehicles started to play. 'We've got General Zhao's 87th Armoured just smashing through the Atlantic defenses. Just look at the way that formation is just crushing soldiers left and right.' The camera goes into slow motion as an Atlantic soldier's head is crushed by a tank tread. The two casters scream and holler in excitement.
'We've gotta see that replay!' Graham shouted, as the footage is played back over again. The look on the soldier's face flashes repeatedly on screen as his death is covered with yellow lines and a excited voiceover.
'And, if we switch to the Atlantic side, we can just see them getting destroyed.' Dick says, as footage switches to a view from a bombed out building where malnourished soldiers cower in fear. 'I mean look at these guys. Where's the hustle? Where's the sportsmanship?'
'It's a real shame there Dick after the Atlantic Federation was doing so well. I mean, these guys are broken and if you look now, they get annihilated by the Eurasian tank division.' The soldiers' fear is interrupted by a tank shell breaking through the wall and turning them to red mist. The footage then turns back to the two suited presenters, who continue to smile.
'Right, we've had our report on the land, let's go to the sea with our Naval Reporter, Rachel Cruiser!' Graham states, as the show transitions to a woman standing in a storm.
'Thanks Dick and Graham! Well, I am standing on our private boat, watching the fighting and it is just chaos out here! We've had drama, excitement and more than a few surprises out on the water today! The Eurasian Navy had been pulling back over the past few hours, as the Atlantic battleships have been sweeping in and scudding some stray Eurasian cruisers.' A massive explosion can be seen in the background, as a Atlantic battleship is hit by some submerged weapon.
'Woah! Would you look at that carnage? Looks like the Eurasian subs are now joining the action and are cutting through the Atlantic fleet quite convincingly. We'll keep you up to date on all the blood in the water as the battle goes on.' Rachel says, as a flaming ship sinks into the deep.
'Thanks Rachel! We're going to take a short break now but after we come back, we'll have all the aerial combat news and an interview with General Tahoma on the possible draft of new genetically engineered super soldiers for the Herculean Project. Stay tuned for more Monday Night Massacre!' | 27 | A war between two nations is analyzed and commentated like an ESPN broadcast. | 38 |
Dark is difficult to describe.
We all see the dark, and we know what it is. But while we still see light, the dark loses meaning. The dark is easily banished; easily ignored. Until the day your best friend shouts a warning, and your lazy coworker forgot to set up the support beams correctly, and the dark rains down on you in the form of a thousand tons of dirt, stone, and coal.
There is no time in the dark. I cannot describe how long I've rested here, in a void without light. It seems like an eternity, and at the same time a single calamitous event that spanned only a single moment. The dark stole time from me, whisked it away and left the rotation of the sun and moon a distant memory.
Most do not suffer as I have. How often have I visited the tomb of my ancestors, touched their memory stones, and conversed with them? But I am lost now. I have long given up hope. My memory stone is buried with my rotted corpse. I wonder if it is a brilliant shining color, like that of my grandmother, or dark like onyx, identical to the one I saw in a museum so long ago. Father touched that one, and was sick after. He said the memories within were bloody and animalistic, full of the taste of corpses.
When I felt warmth in the void, I reached toward it without thought.
*Hello?* I touched a mind, small and eager. Young. Full of light and time. *Are you there?*
"Hello, mister." I could hear him. "Are you dead?"
*I... Yes. I am dead.* And as I said it, all I have lost with death washed over me.
"I'm sorry."
*I... It's nothing to be sorry for. These things... They happen.* The words rang hollow, even to me. *What year is it?*
"1946, sir."
It has been over 40 years. *That's...*
The young mind paused. It, too, was at a loss for words. "Mister, I have to go."
*NO!* His mind reeled back, and I pressed forward relentlessly. *Take me up! Take me up into the light!*
It was too late. I had been dropped onto the cold ground. The dark enveloped me.
Time was lost again. | 12 | In an alternate universe that mirrors our own, when a person (over the age of 25) dies consciousness is compressed into a stone that always appears near, on, or inside the corpse. An orphan discovers a raw stone while exploring an old mineshaft. | 19 |
"This'll be so dang funny! Just flirt with the little weasel!", my cousin says.
I hate myself for doing this, but I have to. If I make my Aunt and Uncle's little *Bumpkin-poo* upset, then they blame my mother for raising such a shit child and they cut us off. You see, after my father died and my mother lost her job, all we had to lean on was her sister, a woman who, from birth, set out to make my mother's life miserable. But she gave us money, gave it to us just so that she could have us on a leash. We were slaves because we had no where else to go, and I was slave to there sick, little, twisted, dick-wad of a son. I was my cousins bitch, and I was now going to flirt with some poor guy, just so him and his cousins can have a laugh.
"I don't know about this, are you sure you want me to mess with this guy. He seems so fragile.", I say, defeated, knowing that these little shits would never back down from their "epic pranks!"
"Don't be a pussy Lauren, just do it it", David says, laughing with his buddies, both at me and at what I am about to do.
"Fuck you David, your such an ass!"
"I know, but if you don't do this Ill tell my parents and they'll cut you off!" He laughs maniacally.
Fuck me. He knows my weak spot and how to use it, the little bastard!
"Fine!"
I walk out of the hallway, dreading every step. As I turn the corner, I see my victim. Oh god, he looks so frail and beaten down. As I step closer, the smell hits me. This guy reeks. His clothes look old. His teeth look like they haven't been brushed in years. His hair is matted and greasy.
I come to the conclusion that he must be either homeless or very poor, and the worst part about this guy, is that he is me, if I had had no Aunt to support us. Without it I would be homeless, on the streets, dirty, smelly, and frail. Oh this poor bastard. How can I do this! I can't! How can I torture this poor bastard! I CAN'T! OH GOD!
...
But, but.
I have to. I have to. Oh god I have to.
...
"Hey" I say,my eyes looking at the ground, my cousin and his little "gang" giggle in the background.
He doesnt look at me, and for a second I didnt think he hears me.
"Hi" He finally says back so quietly its almost inaudible.
"Um... You are... You're kind of, um, cute... I just, just wanted to tell you." I say it so meekly that no person in there right mind would take it seriously. But he isn't, is he. He isn't in his right mind. This kid is beaten and broken.
"Re... really." he says, still quiet, still looking at the ground, but with a glimmer of hope.
Oh fuck, I cant do this.
"Yea... I really like your, your eyes. They're pretty."
"Oh... thanks."
I dont know what to say next, so I just stand there, awkwardly. I look the kid over. I dont know why, but something seems wrong. I look the kid over again. He is wearing a leather jacket over a torn up, black shirt, but it looks odd, it looks too bulky, like he has something in there.
...
"It all happened so quickly," I tell the police officer.
A door slammed.
A gush of wind blew.
Light reflected off of something silver, tucked into his jacket.
He had a gun.
"I am sorry." He said to me, so frail, so broken.
Bang, then pop goes my cousin.
Bang, then pop goes his friends.
Bang, then pop goes their parents.
Bang, then pop goes my mother.
He puts the gun to his head. "You are the only person who has ever said anything nice to me." That's what he told me.
Bang.
Pop goes the Weasel. | 15 | You were asked by your younger cousin to attend a party, and hit on their shy and awkward schoolmate, so everyone could have a good laugh at their expense. But once you meet the schoolmate, you realize what a terrible mistake that could prove to be. | 31 |
“Please don’t try to stop me. I’ve already decided,” she said. She stood at the railing, her curls tugged by the wind to cast a halo of sun-illuminated frizz around her. Her hands were tightened at the banister and the toes of her faded tennis shoes, two sizes too big and meant for a boy, gasped into the emptiness beyond. She did not raise her eyes from the abyss of city in front of her, but if she had, no tears could be seen. Her voice was as calm as the summer day she stood within, if only for a moment longer.
“I know,” Death said as it took its place beside her. It was but a shadow. If the girl had taken her eyes from the pavement far below, she might have seen a gray man, or a svelte woman, or a grinning child, or many other things. She could have seen her dead grandmother, or an angel, or even God. But, she did not take her eyes off the void, and so she saw nothing.
“What? Have you come to watch me do it?” she asked. Her voice wavered between honesty and snark.
“No,” Death responded with honesty.
“I’ll do it, you know,” she pleaded.
“I know,” Death nodded.
The girl let go one hand suddenly so that her body jerked forward into the void, and Death did nothing. Her hair streamed around her face, obscuring her vision. One of her feet slipped. She could no longer see the abyss, but she could taste it. She could feel it, calling to her as it streamed through her outstretched fingers. The wind offered her its longing embrace, begging her to fall. But she didn’t.
Her heart thudded, and her breath came in gasps. The cacophony of humanity below continued, uninterrupted.
“You really aren’t going to stop me,” she said quietly, suspended over the world by one hand and one faded sneaker. It was not a question, so Death did not answer.
She took a deep breath. “Who are you?” she asked, not altering her position.
“Death,” Death said, and she knew it to be true. Perhaps she had known it all along, but with those words, her grip sagged on the railing. Her knuckles were no longer pale, but returned to their dark hue as blood rushed in. Her fingers slipped, untangling from one another so that each may have its separate place on the cold metal of the railing.
“So, I’m really going to do it this time?” she asked.
“Yes,” Death said.
“And what happens then?” she asked, breathless.
“You die,” Death said.
“And he can’t hurt me anymore?” she asked.
“You will be dead.”
“What about my sister? What will happen to her?” she asked.
“Your sister will no longer have a sister,” Death said.
“Will he hurt her too?” she asked.
“He already does,” Death said.
She cried now. She did not sob noisily or dramatically, but snot and tears commingled quietly on her face. Her hair might have concealed it from an ordinary observer, but Death saw all. “And you already know I’m going to do it,” she whispered.
It was not question, so Death did not answer.
“Can you check in on her, once I’m gone?” she asked.
“I’ll find her once but only once,” Death said.
“Can’t you find him then? Right now?” she asked.
“I find all, but I do not choose the time,” Death said.
“He’s always telling me he’s gonna kill me. He’s says just one more time, and he’ll get his gun, and then. Then, it’ll be my time. But-- but, I can choose my time,” she mused. Her shoe slipped, and the girl hung from one hand, hundreds of feet above the ground. An involuntary sound of terror escaped her as her hand squeezed tightly to its last escape, but she controlled herself. One of her shoes slipped off in the momentary struggle and preceded her toward the ground.
If she looked up, she might have seen Death. She might have found his expression curious. She might have seen the philosophical inquiry as to why a young girl might manage to control the path of a being as old as time. She might have seen the impatience there of a death in a slow drama, when she hadn’t the decency to die as quickly as she should. She might have seen the listlessness of one who has seen civilizations rise and fall, and taken each prince and pauper in turn, so that each death is nothing new, even when they do not occur exactly when they should. But, if she had looked closely and observed carefully, she might have seen the deep melancholy of Death’s existence epitomized in waiting upon a girl to just let go. But she did not look up, so she saw nothing.
“Can you hold my hand?” she asked, her eyes trained to the fateful path of her shoe until it met the sidewalk below. Someone looked up and pointed. “It won’t be long.” She closed her eyes.
“Yes,” said Death. So, Death held her hand, and she let go.
If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen the world pass in a blur. She would have seen the awestruck faces of passersby as girl like a shoe that was two sizes two big, fell swiftly and inelegantly to the sidewalk below. She would have seen the onrushing gray abyss come up to meet her.
But she did not open her eyes, so she saw nothing.
She felt only the wind in her hair, the sun on her back, and Death, hand in hand. | 186 | but he's there too soon and he finds her standing on top of a high building. Write about their talk, how it's going and how it will end. | 122 |
**Day 42, morning:**
The others insisted on Jim following me on this latest run. I didn't even bother arguing with them this time, they're right in their own way I suppose. He's got to learn the ropes some time, may as well be here and now. You know, despite what I've written here before, he's not a bad guy...a blunt instrument maybe but not a bad guy. Not the sharpest tack in the box, but he seems willing enough to chip in and he's built like a garbage bag full of soup. I guess God really doesn't give with both hands, but even the big guys have their uses. Anyway, we're getting close to the school now, and we need to get our game faces on if we're to keep the generator going another week. I couldn't believe it when the others told me they hadn't even stripped the school yet. Any meat head can think of stripping parked cars for gas. You would have thought a group that survived 41 days would have the mental pracuity to find secondary sources...like the caretaker's riding lawnmower for instance. Oh well, I suppose at least my intelligence gives me my unique selling point. Never been well built, or good with my hands...but my muscles is my brain, and I exercise them well.
**Day 42, evening:**
Fuck fuck fuck. My damn hand won't stop shaking. Fucking Jim. Routine. Everything to plan. Skirted the field to get to the shed, lawnmower inside, no problems. I started the 'mower up, quickest way to make sure it still has gas. Time is more valuable than gas in that situation, couldn't Jim understand that? The 'mower buzzed nicely, and the tension in my chest had just started easing when the fucking ogre starts bellowing at me. I couldn't make out his words over the machine, but he should have known the fucking thing was too old to have a fuel gauge and we didn't have the time to find a fucking dipstick! The tiny bit of gas wasted was worth the time it would have taken to check any other way. If only he stopped to think for a second and kept his damn mouth shut. Of course the zeeks heard him shouting and of course they started swarming. I need a fucking cig. I barely got out with my life, Jim's dead. He led them off while I slipped away. The stupid fuck. Noble end but it didn't have to be this way. Lesson 1: keep your fucking mouth shut on runs, everyone knows zeeks love noise. I told the others the story. I saw the look of horror in their faces when I mentioned starting the mower. Guess they knew Jim better than I did, 'cos despite the size of the guy I would never have imagined he was dumb enough to start shouting at me over a tiny bit of wasted gas. Fuck him. He brought this on himself.
**Day 44, afternoon:**
Everyone's shaken up over the recent loss. The attitude in camp alternates hot and cold. Overheard the others saying "stupid fuck, he doesn't even realise it was him". The human condition never ceases to amaze me, how quick grief gives way to anger. Yeah Jim made a mistake, but he paid for it and did the honourable thing by saving my life after his fuck up. There's no point going on about it now, he's dead, and that's that. Like I said, not a bad guy, if anything its their fault for sending the dumb fuck on that dangerous run.
**Day 45, evening:**
As Shakespeare once said, "in the midst of death, we are in life". Despite (or maybe because of?) Jim's death I decided to make my move on Flick. I'd never had much success with women before everything kicked off. Somehow since Armageddon I've found myself being the man I always wanted to be...everything The Red Pill said about taking charge and being dominant with women fit right into my research on leadership in survival situations. Guess the end of the world has a funny way of shaking things up. The natural leader in me came out like a caged beast when the planet went to shit, and I guess I finally found my voice. I told her what a worthless piece of shit Mike is, and how she shouldn't be married to someone who is so far below our superior planes of intellect. How I'm the one she was always meant to be with. I dominated the entire conversation, physically and verbally. I towered over her, demonstrating my strong presence and pretty much ordered her to leave him. She looked visibly uncomfortable afterwards; I guess the truth hurts. I knew when I saw the fear in her eyes, the fear that she'd been with the wrong man this whole time, that I'd finally gotten through to her. Fuck, the apocalypse never felt so good. This is the life I was always meant to live.
**Day 45, night:**
I can overhear Flick and her sister Carly arguing about Mike; I guess my words hit home. I can't make out the whole conversation. I did catch Flick all but shouting "..awful, awful creepy man". Her sister kept telling her "don't be extreme, just give it another shot, he's an idiot but he needs us". I knew Carly would take Mike's side. She's too weak to change the status quo, she'd rather her sister be unhappy with Mike as long as everything stays the same. It's a wonder she's made it this long in the brave new world with that attitude. It did worry me when I heard Flick talking about how best to kill someone in their sleep, but I honestly didn't think she was serious about killing Mike and that it was an empty threat. At least, I hope so. Mike never deserved Flick but I'm not sure the poor sod deserves to die. And yet there's a part of me that relishes the thought of waking up to Mike's bloody corpse...I guess morning will tell.
**Day 46, dawn**
Everybody has woken up hale and hearty, I guess Carly managed to talk Flick out of doing anything extreme. Patrol duty today, will do me some good to be out of the camp.
**Day 50, afternoon**
I'm gone. I left a few days ago. I haven't had time to write being on my own, but suffice to say shit hit the fan and I realised I'm better off without those fuckwits. Every now and then I wonder if I made the right decision, if I was better off as part of a group, even one as incompetent as that one. And then I remember the map and extra rations one of those retards left accidentally in my rucksack the night before I left, and remember just how deep their incompetence runs. Who the fuck loses track of essential supplies like that?! My personal bag doesn't even look anything like the stash bags!
No, this wolf is better off alone, and the world is ripe for the picking.
| 77 | however, now that it actually happened, nothing you do works out quite right, resulting in you becoming a running joke among the survivors and comically having to rely on those very people you thought would die first to keep you alive. | 142 |
[**Side-note: This was a lot harder than I first thought. Please bear with me on the font styles.**]
The train bounced across the subway tracks, grinding the metal and heaving forward as it slowed to a station. I grazed my thumb over the glossy paper in my hand.
*You should apply*, I heard a timid voice say.
I looked down at the brochure to the university's film school. MFA in Writing. MFA in Film Production. I wasn't confident. I had heard this was a competitive program. Choosing which program was hard enough... getting in was only half of it.
*You really should, Harper*, she echoed in my head.
"I should?" I said, scanning the text.
*Look at it!* her pitch heightened. *You could do writing. I know you can*.
"Oh? Do you?" I said.
I skimmed through the brochure, pointing to the requirements of the Writing MFA.
*Look!* she said. *You're a creative guy. You have the GPA. You have the experience.*
"I have experience as a high school newspaper writer years ago," I chuckled under my breath. "That's not much experience."
I heard her scoff, *That's enough to at least try.*
My eyes turned upward as I closed my lids.
"Why do you always push me to do these things?"
A pondering hum filled my head, *Because I want the best for you.*
"That's not an answer."
*You want me to tell you that I want to embarrass you? Because that's what you're thinking, isn't it?*
"No... yes. I just want to know. The others speak to me like you're always wrong. Why should you take the lead?"
*Don't listen to her, boy,* I heard a gruff voice say. *She's only trying to live vicariously through you.*
*And who doesn't?* she said. *He's not half bad.*
*I say! I'm the one that got him through his first breakup, didn't I?* the gruff voice said.
A soft sigh flowed across my forehead, *Can we not talk about her?*
"Why can't we talk about her?" I said, adjusting in my seat.
*Because she wasn't good for you!* she said. *We already know that!*
"Was it that obvious?" I said. A smile broke across my cheeks. She was the one being obvious, now.
*Harper!* the gruff voice said. *Listen to me.*
"Go on?"
*This woman here... she's got no place else to be. Don't humor her.*
*I'm not living 'vicariously' through you!* she said.
*Says the disembodied voice,* the gruff voice said.
And then... silence. I waited to hear something. I tilted up my ear. Nothing. The silence broke with a whimper.
"Is she whimpering?" I said.
*I... I'm not,* she said. She was.
"You're not dis--"
*No. No, he's right. I'm pointless.*
"No, please."
*Harper... I just want you to be happy,* she said.
"What is this?"
*A romantic drama, it seems,* said the gruff voice.
*Shut up!* she said, her sniffling became louder and louder, as if she were right next to me.
"Listen," I said. "If--"
*No, you listen,* she said. I could tell she was agitated. *I'm happy if you are. That's my life. My existence. That's why I'm here and... and I can't stand to see you waste your potential by listening to this smug bastard!*
I heard a gruff voice clear his throat.
*I don't care,* she said. *Harper. Apply. Please. Just do what makes you happy. I want to see you happy, again.*
And for a brief instant, I felt... what was it? A warmth against my cheek? Like a hand pressing against my face. I pulled away, and noticed the woman across the train from me had been staring with her jaw agape. I smiled to her, closing my eyes.
*I want to be happy*, I thought.
*So be happy,* I heard. *Be with me.*
| 356 | You hear voices in your head, but they aren't malevolent. In fact, one seems to have a crush on you. | 428 |
"Sup Dan my man" the message graced my chat box. They've got it perfect, that was exactly how he would have responded to my greeting. Frederick has a thing about rhyming what he says to his recipient's names, I would try my best to think on my feet for a creative response.
"Nothing really, Freddie." I thought that was alright.
"You hitting the gym today buddy?"
"Well, I should. I haven't been in over four weeks."
"Oh, you dickhead. Why the fuck haven't you?"
I chuckled. Man, if there's one person I don't mind calling me a dickhead, it's Frederick. I don't usually take to cuss words well, I hate it when people swears. My mother taught me not to, and growing up it always feel unnatural when I try to. And when on the receiving end, I feel like it hits me more than it would anyone. My mother was fond of Frederick.
"lol. I don't know man, I don't feel like it lately."
"Hm."
"Can't get into it, you know, without my spotter."
"Guys there wont spot for ya?" His responses are perfect, but lightning quick, I thought he couldn't type this fast.
"They would, but, I don't know man, it's not the same."
"Oh come on, dude, you're making excuses. Excuses don't build muscles."
"hahaha, you remember when I tried the 30 kilos."
"haha! How can I forget, you only managed four reps then you tried putting it down on your knees but you went flying forwards. Almost crashing into the mirror. I still have the video on here."
"hilarious shit, dude. Good thing you were there to catch me."
He responded with a colon and a closing bracket. He's the kind of guy who omits the dash.
"I miss you man." I felt stupid writing that.
"You faggot." He continued after a line-break not more than a second later "I miss you too buddy."
I stopped and smiled at the screen for a while. Seconds later Frederick sent another message.
"Btw, dude, if you've run out of them protein shakes, you should check out the RipJuice 3k. They do em damn tasty. Doesn't cost much. You should check it out at http://www.ripjuice3k.com/"
Friendly as he still seemed, that last entry wiped the smile clean off my face. Not the message, but the little faded italicized text next to it; it says *SPONSORED*. | 25 | A new kind of social network technology uses algorithms to simulate people after they've passed away based on analysis of their lifetime's worth of online activity. This allows some kind of interaction with (and perhaps between) lost loved ones. What are the implications and how is life now? | 43 |
No one is born with their abilities. When a person comes of age, they fall into a coma for 5 days. After those 5 days, they become an Awakened; weakened physically, yet filled with something much more satisfying than food or drink. The first time they open their eyes, the world is more colorful than ever, and they feel a new part of themselves within. With no knowledge of how a person will develop, as there is no connection to genealogy, the anticipation among families is always too high to fathom. This remains true for everyone, and has since the dawn of our world.
I was no different, it seemed. At 13, I fell into the coma. Prior to my coma, people told me that once I woke up, I should sense and feel the new power within, and immediately have an inkling of what I'd be able to do. With no minimum or maximum affinities and abilities, there was always a hope that a newly Awakened would be a prodigy, having countless abilities and all 5 affinities. My sister Norah, who was a year into her Awakened status, had developed many abilities and felt a connection to both Fire and Water. I had a lot to live up to, especially since her power and control allowed her to create high class spells such as Fire Novas and Healing Rains faster than most. It was only a matter of time until her Steam Clouds 'wowed' our parents.
I awoke 5 days after my coma to the smell of freshly made pancakes that my mom knew I loved. As I slowly opened my eyes, getting accustomed to the light once again, I saw my father, mother, and sister standing around my bed. Their eyes widened as my vision came back to me, and once I was fully aware of my surroundings my parents reached out to hold my hand. Their voices collided as a sea of noise I could just barely make out.
"How do you feel, son?"
"Honey, what do you feel?"
"Hey stupid, hurry up and tell us how you feel!"
There were no historical records of a person without at least 1 affinity. Everyone felt something. Those with Fire felt a warmth when they woke up, as if their body could catch fire and they'd be able to feel nothing but a cool breeze. Water affinities were said to feel like your blood was pumping harder and faster than ever, and as if you'd been quenching your thirst all throughout the coma. Those who felt an affinity to Air said when they became an Awakened, they felt lighter and faster than before, as if they could levitate straight off of their bed to the clouds. My father and mother told me that their Earth affinity felt as if they could break their bed at any moment when they first woke up, and were afraid to move because of the heaviness and strength they felt. And in the cases of a person with a Life affinity, they've noted feelings of serenity and peace, as well as noises that were attributed to voices of animals or nature itself.
I felt none of those. It's been 4 years to the day, and I've felt nothing. No warmth. No flow. Nothing. Emptiness.
I do feel a heaviness, though. I bare the weight of a new oddity, and the sadness and growing anger in my heart. It's been 4 years of teasing, bullying, ridicule, seclusion, torment...loneliness...
"Unawakened". That's what they call me. Inventive. My friends have abandoned me, and won't break that social barrier for fear of being an outcast as well. Who wants to be associated with an Unawakened freak. No one. No one at all. Girls don't even look at me in order to scowl. At least the guys give me that courtesy; that I'm worth glancing at. Even my parents; my loving, understanding parents started treating me differently. No more special breakfasts. No more kisses good night. No more asking me how my homework was coming along, or if I wanted to go over with them and my sister to the neighbor's for their precious Showcasings. Their smiles lost their tenderness around me. They tried to hide their different smiles from me in relation to my sister. I could see it in their eyes, though. Lies. All lies. A facade put on. For who? It wasn't me. Maybe themselves. Maybe they thought if they pretended to love me, they actually would. It made these days, especially this day of my Unawakened anniversary, that much more unbearable.
Fire. Water. Air. Earth. Life. Foolish inklings. Ridiculous power. I don't need it. I've felt empty for so long. An emptiness. As if something was taken from me, yet given at the same time. I've always described it as emptiness. I've never looked into it further. People told me if I didn't feel any of those affinities, it meant I was nothing. But every time during this day each year, the emptiness felt stronger. And today it feels stronger than ever.
I feel...stronger? Power. Emptiness. Strength. What does this mean? I don't feel weak. I don't feel helpless. I've been made to feel helpless. People have told me I'm weak. I believed them. Today. Today I feel strong. The strength of the emptiness. What is this? What is this feeling? I must clear my head. I must. Walk. Walk away. Always go for a walk.
The fools. Who wants to be like everyone else? Who needs acceptance? As if a person could learn from this tree. With a Life affinity, my hand on this tr-
........
........
This feeling. A withered tree. A hole filled. I feel...alive. This wasn't Life. The tree's life was mine. I felt it. I *knew* it was now mine. They said I'd feel it. That I'd know. Abilities. Affinities. Power. This power.
Death. | 70 | In a world full of magic, you are the only ordinary being. Describe a day in your life. | 50 |
He watched vigilantly in the control room of the International Strategic Reserve that night, as he had for the past 15 years of his life. To guard 3 quarters of the world's total Maple Syrup supply required absolute trust and confidence of the cartel. But he had played his cards right, backed the right people, guaranteeing his ascension in the ranks of one of the most powerful organizations in the world. His authority in the ISR was unchallenged.So much so, that he had earned the elusive title of **The Gatekeeper**.
But he didn't have time to reminisce today. With the recent rise of the opium-infused Japanese Maple syrup, the organization was under a threat. Never before had they been defied so openly. Market shares were taking a hit, nothing game breaking as of yet, but could very well be an indicator of things to come.
He had always been an advocate of preemptive strikes, of nipping the problem in the bud. He wanted to completely obliterate their distribution centers before they even had a chance to expand their influence. But the **Elders** were against bloodshed. They told him that it was unbecoming of an organization of their stature. He deferred to their judgment, for their word was law. But he was patient, bid his time like he always had, and waited for Yakuza's first move, that would change their views irrevocably.
So when he saw the Japanese team infiltrate the compound, oblivious to the remote drone at the top of the building, he broke into a smile that radiated pure malevolence. They didn't even stand a chance under the security protocol that he had designed in anticipation for this exact event. They were caught unawares as a dozen tranquilizer darts found their way into their target's bloodstream.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
He watched intently as he stirred a pot of boiling Maple Syrup extract. He lost himself in the monotonity of mixing that pure golden liquid, as if to soothe his killing instincts for just a second. The leader was almost up. He was giddy with excitment, for he had been waiting. Waiting far too long for the line to be crossed. For the war to begin. For blood to be shed.
As the Jap came to his senses he quickly evaluated his situation and came to the conclusion that death was inevitable. But his pride refused to leave him. If death was certain, then he would die loyal and dignified rather than an afraid rat hanging on to the dregs of mercy.
"You know what is going to happen to you, don't you" he asked with his voice laden with condescension.
"Fuck you!! You piece of shit. The Yakuza will not leave this alone. They'll avenge me. And when they do, I'll be sure to listen to your screams", his very existence screamed defiance.
"Tell me then, O doomed one, what do the 'Yakuza' hope to accomplish" he commanded as he continued to stir the pot of the thick golden liquid.
"Your reign over the maple syrup business has come to an end Canadian. We shall destroy you from the inside out, lay waste to your supplies, destroy any credibility you hold. And we shall become kings in your stead" he tried to spit at him as he finished the sentence.
His eyes were filled with a grim satisfaction. He was hoping to hear those exact words and now the elders had heard them too.
His eyes radiated a burning killing intent as he brought the pot over to the helpless prisoner.
"If you dream of becoming kings then you must have a Golden Crown. Lucky for you we have one right here" And he poured the boiling hot maple Syrup all over his flesh, the crown burning through his skull as if to deem him unworthy of the power it represented.
His screams echoed throughout the entire compound laced with an almost maniacal laughter from his interrogator.
A phone call seemed to bring him back from his ecstatic trance. He picked up knowing full well who it would be.
"This needs to be dealt with. Use whatever force necessary."
The dogs of war had been unleashed.
His voice trembled in anticipation of the bloodshed
"**Aboot damn time.**"
| 30 | the Quebec maple syrup cartel. | 82 |
"Shit, Shit" I muttered under my rapidly disappearing breath. There were only three things in my mind, the beating of my worn down legs, they felt like they were going to tear off. Second, I was starving, I hadn't found a place that would be safe in forever. Third I could hear them, they kept on screaming, different ones different things and they just kept on running. Little ones with a lot of their brain left screaming for their mothers, Larger ones with very little brain left just screaming. I kept on trying to hide from them, for a chance to be left alone so I could come up with a plan, find somewhere that might have food.
"Stop I don't want to hurt you!" A scream, male from my back left, yeah right, don't trust anyone. I ducked into a side alley on the right. I hide behind some crates and most of the dead just ran past, others were too injured to even notice, even though they could still speak they had no cleverness to them, easily trick-able.
I got up from my hiding spot, it was starting to get dark and I saw a light, a door a couple alley ways down, and I ran, there might be food, I knocked on the door.
"Any survivors in there"
"Yeah right, how do I know you're not a zombie", there was an eye peeking through a peep hole. I looked back and down the alley way and began to unbutton my shirt
"Look, I've never been bit, and I've never come across a zombie that can pull of an argument."
"Okay, stop stop, I really don't want to see that" I began re buttoning myself
"Listen do you have any food, I'll leave I just need to eat, I have water I can trade" I gestured to my pack
"You have water?"
"Yup, more than enough for me" He quickly opened up the door,
"Zombies don't carry supplies" I quickly entered his fortified room, there was two others, a woman and a small child who looked half way between the man and the woman.
"Thank you so much"
"So how about that water" I locked the door behind me,
"No you don't seem to understand, first I feed" The man had a gun pointed up to my chest,
"give us the water **now**" It seemed to be the only gun in the room, I grinned
"You don't seem to understand" I grabbed the gun as It shot into my chest, and pointed it towards the woman
"I've never been bit, I have all my brain left, I'm patient Zero and I'm ***Hungry***.
I sat there in the now dead mans base, I wouldn't have to feed for a while, and a gun could be useful, In fact I made sure all of them never zombified, I hate zombies, it makes for such competition.
| 26 | The zombie infestation is on its third week now. You expected them to be dangerous, but you didn't expect them to be able to talk. | 25 |
[translated]
It was the mystery of the century.
Voyagers, looking for Spice, landed on the moon of a third planet from the star Proxell. What they found, no one could believe.
Found on the surface was a white banner attached to the end of a fairly preserved metallic rod. Scientists have dated the material to be only approximately one thousand Creaxellion years old. Closer inspection of the banner leads some to believe that dyes were imbedded within the fabric, perhaps with the intention of inscribing a message on the banner.
Additionally, small imprints on the lunar surface were also found; however, these prints did not match any life form found on Creaxellion. Aluminum pieces were found scattered within the flag's viscidity, but scientists have yet to make anything of this.
All of this was big news, considering there were no other signs of life in the entire solar system or any nearby systems...
An examination of the host planet could suggest that a primitive civilization might have inhabited the planet and developed sufficiently enough to reach their satellite moon. However, there is a lack of evidence to support this claim. Other scientists suggest that the host planet, due to its lack of water and its high levels of radiation, could never support intelligent life. Whatever the case, the search for the truth continues, and our citizens continue to ponder our seemingly unbridgeable aloneness in the vast ocean of space and time. | 15 | You are a member of a society far into the future. You were just sent in your civilizations first manned exploration of the moon, and you are shocked to see the modern flag and lunar gear from a society far in the past. | 26 |
"Sorry, old chap, is this the way to Edinburgh?"
"Ach, no. You're heading in the wrong direction."
"So sorry. This invasion business is frightfully difficult to get the hang off."
"Oh it's no bother. It keeps a body warm a laughing at you Englishmen."
"Yes, we must look a ... Hey! you should be scared of us. Fear the empire."
"Oh I cannea fear you. I just cannae. I just cannae fear you. "
"Well, that's awfully rude of you. Why not?"
"Well you see, you see englishman, it's because we have a secret."
"Secret? What secret? Do go on. You can't leave us hanging like that."
"Okay, okay. Seeing as you're a polite chap I'll tell you about the secret."
...
"Soon I hope?"
"I was just pausing for dramatic effect. Only fitting for a secret weapon. Pause over!"
"You're still pausing."
"Oh yes. Apologies, englisman, apologies. Anyway the secret. Well, you see englishman the secret is we have an... alliance"
"A secret alliance! With whom?"
...
...
"WITH THE POLISH."
"Oh bugger."
" WE'R TAKING YER FROM BEHIND ENGLISHMAN. WE'R TAKING YER FROM BEHIND. " | 77 | Scotland votes "Yes" on independence, England invades. | 125 |
*"J. Ross Moore was damp as hell, and he was not going to take it anymore. On his farm in North
Dakota, in the early 1900s, Moore knew there had to be a better way. Frustrated with having to
hang his clothes outside to dry, he built a shed, stuck an oven in it, and started hanging his
clothes there instead. With that, the light bulb went off over his head. Moore took his idea a step
further, making an oil-heated drum to dry his clothes in. He later sold this idea to a
manufacturer, who produced a machine they called the “June Day.” By 1938, the “June Day” was
being sold in stores and J. Ross Moore, once only a farmer with clammy clothes, became the
inventor of what is known today as “the dryer.”*
-- **The History of Drying, T. Bar**
The Anomaly only became known to us recently in our history. In some regards this is not peculiar, as the appliance that creates the effect "The Dryer" was only discovered 20 years ago. Indeed many scientists are of the opinion that the effect timing is pure coincidence.
They argue thus. If conditions weren't right for us to observe the phenomenon, we would not observe the phenomenon. Hence, our first observation of the phenomenon becomes dependent on the historical forces needed to create the conditions necessary to observe the phenomena, namely the creation of 'The Dryer' and prior to that the commercialisation of electricity and prior to that the discovery of electricity and the electrical motor. The sudden appearance of the phenomenon in 1950 then is pure historical accident, happenstance.
That view, though, does not hold the day: the scientific consensus lies elsewhere. Indeed it is the esteemed opinion of this Academy that the first appearance of 'sock-doubling' is a sign that we are watched and that we are watched by beings far, far more powerful than us. The Soviets too share our view.
The appearance of the phenomenon immediately following the start of the 'Nuclear Standoff' or 'Cold War', as it was then called, and the inexplicable, subtle nature of the phenomenon uniform in both countries with nuclear arms lead us both to this conclusion.
Gentleman, whatever our differences, it seems we are told "Do not settle it this way." It is a warning I believe we should heed.
| 12 | You live in a parallel world where clothes dryers mysteriously collect extra socks. How has this fact changed the course of history? | 56 |
This was embarrassing. She will definitely be expecting a human, I reckon. I looked in the mirror again, checking the symmetry of my mane one last time. It was pointless though. I had no chance, not with my height. I was looking particularly adorable tonight though, maybe she'd take pity on me and give me a cheeky stroke or two. It was all I could hope for.
I looked at the inside of the bathroom door, hinged slightly ajar, sending a thin strip of light across her darkened bedroom. "Are you okay in there?" she shouted. No I am not fucking okay. "Yeah, give me a second". It was now or never. I nudged the door open with my nose with the tentativeness of a school boy opening the door to the headmaster's office. "Hey there" I said, with a forced arrogance like this was no big deal. She stared at me, jaw ajar. I was used to that look. "Dave. Dave! How the fuck did you get a fucking pony into my house? What the fuck are you doing?"
"Language, Becca" I quipped, trying to make light of the situation as best I could. But this situation was anything but light, this was obese. Full fat. A guilty pleasure, as far as situations go. This was the kind of situation that lonely women treat themselves to on a Friday night in front of a rom-com, before another guilt ridden detox that lasts half of the morning afterwards.
Becca, the poor girl, looked down to see that the hilarious quip had come from my own mouth. "Wha...where's Dave?" she looked light headed. Maybe that was the drink? She did have a lot. Probably not though. More then likely, I reasoned, her light headedness could be attributed to the fact she's just spoken to, and had a response from, a Shetland pony. A witty Shetland pony, mind you.
"Ah, well there's something you should know about Dave. He's always-" here I paused. Timing was everything. "-engaging in horseplay." Boom. I stifled a laugh, unsuccessfully. That was gold. Becca didn't find it as funny, her drop-jawed face remained unchanged. She looked a bit ridiculous, like she was wearing a novelty halloween mask. Definitely a tough audience tonight. "Nah, just kidding. I'm Dave. Did I not mention I occasionally turn into a Shetland pony? Or do I occasionally turn into a human? Hmm. Anyway, is this something we can get past? I'm usually a pony for a few nights, but then I'm back to good ole', more-attractive-then-average Dave."
Still, her face remained stuck. Was she a fainter? She didn't seem like a fainter. She looked pale, but she was taking off her make-up whilst I was in the bathroom. The last thing I want to do is insult her. I'll play it safe. "Can I get you a glass of water? And maybe we can talk about it."
"H...how are you going to hold the glass?" A fair point, but maybe a little harsh. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound. Maybe that was my only hope of getting through to her. Maybe I had to suggest things I obviously couldn't do in the hopes of coaxing some more passive aggressive put-downs. Perhaps, Becca, we could spoon, before I challenge you to a thumb war and we round off the night with a game of fifa. How does that sound, you condescending bitch? Nah, let's play by her rules. "Good point." I bowed my cute, fluffy head towards the ground, in a desperate attempt to look as hurt, yet adorable, as possible. That always got them.
A few seconds passed, but she hadn't reacted. I wanted to glance up, one, to make sure she hasn't passed out, and two, to see whether I was eliciting even the smallest amount of sympathy. But glancing up would ruin my solemn façade. "I guess...I guess I just thought you'd like me for who I am...not...not what I am." Oh yes, I nailed that. It's impossible to resist a sentimental pony, everyone knows that. I was playing the hand I'd been dealt like a true pro.
"I...I don't think I can have a conversation with a fucking pony. I think I need to go to sleep. You can see yourself out." said Becca, slumping onto her bed. He shoots, he misses.
"I understand. Sure I can't tempt you into a hoof job before I go?" It was worth a try. | 13 | A Shetland pony is thrown into a number of weird situations. | 20 |
"Alright Charlie, lets go through this one more time".
The boy kept his head down, silently sobbing. We didn't have time for this crap.
"Listen kid." I sighed, "bending down to his level. "I know you wanted to bring your Grandpa and all, but the F.B.I. has been looking for an opportunity to bust this operation for years. Do us this solid, and your family will never have to worry about food again. Now one more time...who am I?"
Charlie swallowed the lump in his throat.
"M..my Uncle Stan from America....You came over to go to the factory w-with me....because my parents are too busy....and my grandparents are too sick...."
"Great...great job kid."
I patted him on the shoulder as the gates opened and the crowd cheered.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Everybody FREEZE!" I screamed, drawing up my gun.
I know I shouldn't have planted that tracker on the fat German kid.
I know I shouldn't have knocked him into the lake when no one was looking.
I know I shouldn't have snuck off from the group to follow the tracker.
But god damn I had hit the jack pot.
There he was, tied down on a table. Naked and exposed. There must have been half a dozen of the Oompa Loompas, surrounding him and prodding him with needles, scalpels and other strange devices.
"BACK AWAY FROM THE KID! BACK OFF!"
I screamed, waving my gun at them. They stared at me with intense silence as they backed away from the child.
As I got closer, to my horror, I saw what they were doing to him. One of the needle was attached to a tank. An orange liquid being pumped into the boy, giving his skin an orange glow, and his hair a tint of green...
*They were turning him into one of them*
"What on earth is all that racket!?"
Mr. Wonka and the others had arrived in. He froze when he saw what I had found.
"Mr. Willy Wonka, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity." I announced, turning to face the chocolateer. No longer collected and suave, he was now pale and shaking, sweat dripping from his brow.
"P-please" He whimpered, "You have to know, I didn't have a choice!"
"No choice!?" I barked. I could feel the anger boil up inside me. Knowing what he was doing to these children. "So this is how you get your workers huh? Trick them into your factory and then mutilate and enslave them!?"
"LOOK OUT!" Wonka shrieked, pointing behind me.
Usually, such an obvious trick wouldn't work, but as the rest of the group screamed, I turned around. To my horrors, the Oompa Loompas had changed. Their heads had split open, to reveal some strange, squid like monster, pertruding out. Their pincers snapping, they swung their tentacles wildly, lunging towards me, shrieking an ear piercing roar.
I opened fire....
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Better get that boy a warm blanket."
I gestured to Charlie who was sitting in the back of an ambulance, shaking furiously, a thousand mile stare in his eyes.
I turned back to the chief.
"So the Oompa Loompa's were running the show. We were right to suspect another alien body snatcher scenario. Willy Wonka was selected as a human representitive to win over our trust. Poor bastard never had a choice. He was killed in the shoot out."
"Good lord." sighed the chief, pulling out a cigarette. "This is as crazy as the time that small girl became possessed by a demon that allowed her to move objects with her mind."
"Yeah" I took a cigarette from his box. "Or when those giant radioactive bugs kidnapped that boy and attempted to take over New York City."
The chief shook his head.
"Well, you did a great job. Better head over to Central London. There is news of some Giant figure peering into children's rooms at night and filling the rooms with some kind of mind altering date rape drug."
"Sick bastard" I growled, throwing down and stamping out my cigarette.
| 305 | Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, where he discovers the famous chocolatier's nefarious secret. | 464 |
Robert Dullfield was an ordinary man. He was content with his daily routine, comprised of eating cereal in the morning, marching to work, eating a sandwich for lunch and coming home to an empty, cold and dark house where he'd prepare himself ramen noodles and play video games until 11 o clock. This is what he lived for, and what made him Robert Dullfield. He had no real friends, just acquaintances. Robert preferred his own company, in fact. His family was almost all gone from the world, and those that remained he refused to communicate with. They had never offered him anything when he needed it. Robert had a good job, and a good salary. He could live a much more lavish life, but he just preferred it the way it was. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
Today, Robert got out of bed as usual and got ready to prepare his morning cereal. When he took the box out of his pantry it was completely white with black text all over it spelling, load graphic files.
Strange, he thought. He didn't really care, it was a new box, maybe he'd bought a different brand by mistake.
As Dullfield stepped outside, he was greeted by the chilly air of an autumn in Chicago. "Thats strange weather for July," he muttered. Whilst he was walking, everything around him stopped, and his body continued. It was as if time was at a standstill. After about nine seconds of this, the world started again, and everything around him zoomed to compensate for lost time. "Fuck, is the world lagging?".
The people around him also looked strange. They seemed to be wearing an eclectic mix of clothing. One man was wearing pajama pants, a football jersey, and snowcap while holding a banana to his ear and talking into it. Another woman was wearing shorts, a collared shirt that was far too big for her and she had a monocle over one eye. Strange.
Robert wasn't going to let a couple of strange happenings disrupt his day, but the world lagged again. Except, this time he was in the middle of the street when the lag stopped and a car nearly splattered him all over the pavement. He continued walking, when he was forced to stop. A gaping hole was in his way as if a part of the world hadn't loaded. The only problem was, his office building was in this chunk. "FUCK". Now there was a problem, his routine had been thoroughly disrupted. The FPS was starting to slow down. The world became a laggy blur. As this was happening, the next sequence of the day failed to load and the sky became a pure white screen with error written all across it. Several buildings started disappearing. Robert started running, he didn't know why. Maybe he could find a part of the world that was still running properly, when he crashed into an IT guy from his office.
"Oh Robert, I've been looking for you." The small man with large glasses smiled.
"Hello?"
All of a sudden, Robert was transported to a small room. The IT guy was staring into a large computer while sitting on a chair.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I know you," Robert was hopelessly confused, his routine had been shattered and he was on the brink if desolate despair.
The IT guy ignored him, stating, "we should be safe from the system crashing over here."
Robert sat on the floor staring at his shoes, "I don't really understand... whats going on. Who are you?"
"Ah Robert, you haven't figured it out yet? I'm God. I designed the universe as a software to figure out why I exist, unfortunately that software is crashing right now because satan decided to screw with my plans. She loaded a virus into my system here, and it got into every part of the software, except for you. I need you to do something for me."
Robert was utterly dumbfounded, "God, I don't know where you're going with this, but I just want to go home."
God smiled again, "Robert, you innocent little imbecile. There will be no home unless you help me. The universe is going to crash. I need you to go to access the systems servers and initiate a reboot. I'd do it, except if I get caught in the system crash then I'd die. But you, you're expendable."
"Are you telling me, that everything that happens in the world, all the death and horror is just so that you can be selfish?"
"Yup, the servers are in your basement, bye."
"Wait...", Robert was caught in the middle of a sentence when he was spawned into his home. The universe was lagging furiously now. It was at about 3 FPS. Robert struggled to access his basement, a room he didn't know even existed. When he entered the room all the lagging stopped, but he was greeted by an individual with a blue mohawk, a nose piercing, clothed entirely in black. She had a laptop case slung across her shoulder. "Satan?" Robert's eyes staring blankly at her.
"You guessed correctly, I am Satan, the hacker," she replied, a mischievous smirk plastered across her face, "I'm going to tell you something, you are still functioning properly because I decided to save you. You understand life, it's not about frivolity. It's about the simple things. I'll give you an option, you can save God and his stupid program. Or I'll rewrite the program so that you can continue to live out your splendid life."
What Satan just said made Robert feel good, like his life had a meaning to someone else. He was positively electrified. He could continue his life, while sticking it to his selfish God. "I'll take the deal!" Robert was beaming.
"That was almost too easy."
------------
Robert woke up. He prepared his cereal. After eating, he walked to work. "Wow, the city is so empty this morning," he muttered to himself. Robert was right, he was the only human being left on earth.
| 21 | You start to notice video-game-style glitches occuring around you in real life. Your reality gets increasingly glitchy and you desperately search for safety as the world around you gets progressively worse, on it's way to an all out crash. | 54 |
The most frightening part was the suddenness of the water. No, this is just too much to jump in to; let me back up.
I woke up, showered, picked up some coffee and went to work like every morning. There were a few clouds, but otherwise it was a beautiful April day.
Everyone in the office seemed fine. We were all excited for the game later tonight, Steelers and Broncos.
I was working on quarterly reports when the first drops hit my windows. I say MY windows because I have a corner office and watched it all from the beginning. Believe me, what I'm about to say is no exaggeration.
Water started falling from the sky.
There was no warning, no explanation on the TV, nothing. Of course, Jim immediately pulled up a map on the news' website, but they were just as confused as we were. What made it worse was that the falling water was localized, only a few square miles, centered directly over our city.
Of course, by this point, we were all crowded around the windows, not even the boss was telling us to get back to work.
Now, I've never been very religious, so I thought the reaction of the Church across the street was a little eccentric, but at least they tried to explain it. They were having a mid-week meeting or something, and as soon as the water started falling they were outside, yelling up at the sky. Whether they were calling it a sign or a curse, I don't know, but man, they sure were excited.
While we were watching the church people were having their...whatever, Craig noticed none of the animals outside seemed bothered. There was a dog walking around, a few birds and squirrels in the trees, but they didn't seem to care about getting wet.
Anyway, the falling water kept going, all day. It stopped around 8, but you've never seen so many car accidents on the highway as I did driving home from work.
For the first time in years we actually watched national news on TV that night. Apparently we weren't the only affected area. They had a map with hot spots that were hit around the country.
The Northwest seemed to be the worse off, with inches of water collected and hundreds of fatalities. A few cities reported falling ice or some sort of frozen, puffy water, but I think that's just exaggeration.
The President is expected to address the nation in a few minutes, and the Governor announced a state of emergency for our area, effective immediately. We don't know what the falling water meant, or what it means, but all we can do is hope for the best.
-251
_____________________
EDIT: Shoot, I kinda got sidetracked and off the original prompt. Sorry, OP. | 75 | One day, every single person in the world wakes up knowing that they had forgotten... something. Something important. | 81 |
The room was damp, cold, and smelled of dirt. Had it all been a dream? My mind felt full and saturated like a snail who had grown too large for his shell. The demons filled me immediately, everything I had run from for so long came flooding back. Thousands of years seeped back in, nearly instantaneously, like a axe striking the first log of winter, it reverberated through my core.
The long tentacle grasped in the darkness searching the room. The roots of an ageless tree broke through the soft dirt and became entangled with the base of my body, a tryst of biological material intertwining with me removing the identy of self. The definition of life had long ago lost meaning. Birth, death, love, hate, anger, sadness, fear, shame, these were all creations of a flawed mind. In true balance all beings would learn that life wasn't a phase or state of being, but rather just was. Perception and reality always waging a constant war of truth, but none ever validating itself more than the other.
The pain no longer was a concern to me, but rather a welcomed reprieve, it centered oneself. Allowed for focus and the neccessary drive to alter the situation from which I desperatley fought to escape. The tentacles swarmed all around, acting independent of themselves, searching for something unknown to me. Had anything changed? Was this existence the same as it had been before? Or was it just another of the jokers masks, seeming to endlessly fall to the floor in the sickening magic trick designed to please and draw wonder from the onlookers who had themselves become faceless long ago.
Time had been the destruction, and the creation of who I was. There was no memory of anything before this, and I found comfort in that. A state that was constant, and yet undefineable in any tangible way. The alternative had always been a way to search for the truth, but in the moments that had been most promising it always failed in some spectacular way. One no longer hoped for answers or accomplishments, but rather accepted the path which was set out. I began to focus myself and mentally create everything I had lost. It came back in shards bits and pieces, voices, flashes of color, flashing spectacularly. The senses returned briefly and then were lost again all at once.
I opened my eyes. Two wide eyes stared back at me, hovering over me as I laid on my back.
"Are you alright?" She said, her voice quivering as though at any moment it might be cut short.
"I'm fine I said." Realizing I had returned, the oculus rift had cracked and was lying beside me the screen a mixture of green and blue peppered with dead pixels.
How many lifetimes will I have to relive before I am released of this existence?
| 23 | While testing your Oculus Rift for the first time you accidentally take off the wrong headset, instead taking off your reality headset discovering the world you lived in was itself a VR experience. | 88 |
Privet, you. You there. You look like man who knows strong, and strength. You know this shovel? Well, this shovel wants you. Almost as much as Siberia wants you. We have tents. We have fires. We have really big holes in ground. You see those holes? We dug those holes, with shovel. And you can too if you know shovel.
Come get to know shovel in new Gulag paradise in beautiful wasteland of Siberia. Come see Siberia's only tree, on our first Gulag field trip. We do one a year and we visit Siberia's tree. We even have gas lamp to warm your hand. Come dig frozen ground with shovel until you fall to hands and knees and dig until fingernails fall off, screaming for your life, cursing Stalin-
Ahem. You know what Gulag stand for? Grateful Underlings Living Affluently, Guy. The guy added by me because Gula doesn't work. Hi, guy, we know Gulag have bad wrap in the world. We know this. We have radio here. But listen to this T E S T I M O N I A L from Miles. He come here after parents brutally murdered by regime, and brought here to follow dreams of shovel and ice:
> I don't know why I'm alive anymore...
Thank you Miles, you really sell us. Heh, heh, heh. Now, you may wonder, what about accommodation. Well, we have much accommodation. Tents, tents, tents. You like tents? This is the capital city of tents. We have: orange tent. Yellow tent. Tent made of Tundra grass. Tent made of clothing. We even have Rasputin (no relation to Rasputin) working on building yurt out of raw material. Hey, Rasputin, how is the yurt going?
> Good.
Ah, thanks Rasputin. As you see we have much going here. We even have economy in Gulag, compared to best prison economies of entire world. In Siberia, much of resources are scarce. But most precious commodity is toilet paper. So, if you can smuggle toilet Paper across border, you are Bill Gates of toilet paper economy. Especially if you can find the bag with cats on front of bag. That is best toilet paper, it is so soft.
Now let me reassure you if you still happen to have last thoughts about coming. There is more, so wait. If you morse code now, we save for you not one tent, not two tents, but three tents for your family and friend to come to Siberia. Wait! I even throw in night in Yurt once Rasputin is done with construction. All you need to bring is strength, toilet paper, and will of Mountain Lion to survive in tundra.
To find us all you need to do is turn left at tree if coming from *America*. If coming from other way, turn right at tree. Follow trail of dried blood for 473 miles.
> Yes comrade?
No, Miles, I meant distance. Follow trail and see sights of Siberia on way to Gulag. We even have stick with sign on it narrating best sights and place to take photos. Even try silly wood cutout of Stalin where you put face in hole of Stalin's face and take photo.
So come. You are convinced now. Come to Siberia and Gulag timeshare. Get to know shovel. You come here now. No more waiting. Simply dial · − − − − − − − · · − − − − − − − − − − − − · − − − − − · · · − · − · · · − − − ·
See you ^^In ^^^hell | 18 | Write an ad, looking for people to join a working gulag in siberia, and make it seem attractive. | 18 |
The clock strikes ten to five in the afternoon. General McAllister stares at the big screen, eyes wide and in total disbelief. It had all gone so well.
The war room was full today. It had been for nearly three years now. A sea of royal blue uniforms came and went. Officers passing commands down the chain, troop coordinators shuffling reinforcements to the front. It was chaos. Beautifully organized chaos. Not today. Today it was calm, the sea stagnant. No one dared to speak with the General in such a state; paralyzed. He was holding his hat before, but now it lay on the floor a yard in front of him; the five stars glistening and glaring back into his face, illuminated by the LED's on the screen.
McAllister's shock was understandable, at least to all in the room. Years of planning, flawless execution, and more than a little bit of luck had led them to this point. To think, the people of Greenland could conquer the world. It was insane. McAllister was insane. Nevertheless, Judgement Day came, Turn One as it's called. Iceland fell. Then Northern Europe. Western Europe. All of Europe. This was the pattern. Every year troops would attack and subsequently conquer a new province. Even against the inevitable counter-offensives, the lines held. Truly it was a sight to behold, men and women covering the world in a shade of blue.
Last day of the offensive, only one territory holds out against the onslaught. One last push before the job is done. The clock strikes. Quarter to five in the afternoon. The scouting report is in. McAllister is present in the war room, ready to see the force his loyal troops would meet in battle. The report is put up onscreen. A hat hits the floor. The general is motionless for easily ten minutes. Finally, he seems to have composed him self just enough speak. Under his breath he mutters three words.
"Fucking New Guinea." | 10 | A board game affects changes in the real world. It's not Jumanji, it's Risk. | 28 |
"Ingestion of dried nasal mucus inhibits telomere shortening and prevents cellular senescence in humans" stood in big black letters on the first page of the stack of paper the senator had just handed him.
"You're going to have to explain this to me."
"Well, Mr. President, what these people have found is that... how can I put this? What they've found is that the key to immortality is... eating boogers."
The president's expression changed to one of narrowly contained anger.
"I don't appreciate being made a fool of. Now get out of my office."
"Mr President, you know I would never joke about something like this. I can assure you that this research is entirely genuine. If you would please just turn your attention to the marked sections on pages five and eight..."
He studied the senator's expression carefully, but couldn't detect even a hint of a snicker or anything else that would suggest that he was being anything but truthful. He leafed quickly through the stack of paper to get to the marked sections. "... 99% confidence... one serving per day for an adult male... should preserve youthfulness indefinitely."
"What you're saying is that eating one... booger... daily will keep a person young forever?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"How has no one found out about this by now? Do the Chinese know? What about the Russians?"
"Our intelligence reports suggest that neither the Chinese nor the Russians know about this. The Russians did some experiments with toenail clippings in the sixties, but they were unsuccessful. As far as governments are concerned, it seems that only we know, specifically you, me, and about ten people in the Department of Defense, though we suspect that there are multiple individuals, not tied to any government or organization, who possess this knowledge but don't share it, for obvious reasons. The DOD is trying to track them down as we speak."
"Thank you, senator. You've handled this situation perfectly so far. Make sure that no one else gets wind of this, not even the vice president."
"Yes sir, of course sir."
"Well then, shall we get the first taste of immortality together?"
"I would be honored, sir!"
Looking into eachother's eyes, the two men put their fingers into their noses, looking to excavate the slimy ambrosia. As the president began to taste the salty secretion the senator said:
"One more thing, Mr. President."
"Yes?"
"Smile, you're on 'America's funniest home videos LIVE'!"
"What?"
"You're live on national television!"
"Everything you've just told me was a lie?"
"You bet! You should see the look on your face right now!"
The president calmly reached under his desk, retrieving a large suitcase and placing it on top. With a sigh, he opened the suitcase and, unable to bear the humiliation, entered the launch codes that would bring about nuclear armageddon. Now close to tears, he looked at the senator and said:
"I hope you're happy." | 33 | The secret to eternal life is discovered... and it's really goddamn stupid. | 34 |
"Your honor, it is our contention that the defendant was within his legal rights when he killed the deceased."
Chatter and muffled laughter was passed around the galley.
"Your client just admitted to having killed the man."
"Exactly your honor. But Florida statute 4-20 in article 3 of the Caribbean Immigration and Agricultural Importation Act clearly states that 'a defendant may not be convicted of murder if the deceased died due to Ananas Comosus."
"Ananas Comosus? In English please?" The judge's face showed utter contempt for the fiasco unfolding before him.
"Pineapple, your honor."
"Pineapple?" The judge swiped the paper from the baliff, a look of incredulity set upon him halfway through the page.
"Yes, your honor. You see, the deceased died from proteolysis, his body was essentially digested. It was found that this was induced by poison. The defendant concedes that it was he who made and injected the poison, and that the death was inherently his responsibility. But that poison was derived from the very same Ananas Comosus. Also known as the pineapple. Therefore, as it was murder by pineapple. It is legal."
The courtroom went silent, only broken by the sound of pen on paper as journalists furiously scribbled. The judge sat there, staring at the lawyer unable to believe what he had just heard.
"O-Objection, your honor!" The prosecutor lept from his seat, stammering as he tried to compose himself,"The deceased was not killed with a pineapple, rather a chemical process found in pineapples."
"Your honor, the proteolysis was induced by," The lawyer paused, thinking carefully about how to phrase what he said next, "basically, 'pineapple extract'. The compound was derived from a pineapple, and not altered on a chemical level. As it was extracted and concentrated directly from the fruit, the cause of death could be seen as 'death by pineapple'."
The judge sat motionless, still shocked by the existence of the law. He had not yet processed it being used as a defense in his courtroom. He reached for his gavel, unable to believe what he was about to say.
"Very well. The case goes to trial, subject to verification of this Florida law. If the defendant is able to prove..." A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips, "...death by pineapple, he shall be exonerated of these charges."
Chaos erupted in the galley. Journalists leapt from their chairs as the defendant walked out a free man, remanded on his own cognizance. | 96 | Murder is legal as long as the murder weapon is a pineapple | 136 |
"It just looks like my bedside lamp."
"Well, it's my bedside lamp, so I guess you have good taste mate."
"It's like my bedside lamp, only mine doesn't have a big red question mark drawn onto it with...is that...nail varnish you've used there?" The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't rub off like a sharpie. My wife had some going spare."
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so critical. Thanks for your offer, but you can keep your $15. Cheers though."
"Well, it's not $15, technically. It's a maximum of $14.97 - I said *less* than $5. You know, for someone so particular about the details you're not so hot on the fine print."
"Well, thanks but no thanks. You probably need it more then me mate."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well..." Jeez that did sound a little insulting to be fair. Am I an arsehole? I never thought I was, but here's this bloke offering me $14.97 worth of goods or services and all I can do is mock his lamp. Maybe, after all this time, I am in fact an arsehole. That revelation would really put a dampener on my day. "I'm just guessing a genie's wage isn't particularly high, what with the economy being such a whiney bitch these days."
The stranger looked down at his feet. It was then that I noticed that his slippers, which just looked like regular slippers at a glance, were in fact slightly curled at the end. I felt certain that he had just bent them, maybe by sitting on them for a few minutes. I suddenly felt a little sorry for him - he was doing his best. Hell, maybe I'm not an arsehole after all. Aresholes don't feel sorry for weirdos, do they? Arseholes probably do consider kind people to be weirdos, though. "Actually, we don't" he said, with as much moroseness as he could muster. "We're actually thinking of organising a strike"
"Well, why don't you?"
"Because the world needs us goddammit!" As he shouted this, he raised a fist to the sky, in the same way a dictator does to the sound of raucous applause after finishing a speech. I looked around. People were starting to stare now.
"Erm...how many genies are there in the world?"
"A genie never tells, I'm afraid. But let's put it this way-" he gestured at me to get closer, clearly whatever revelation he was about to tell me was going to blow my mind - "there are literally 10's of dollars being given away as we speak." I did my best to feign amazement, shaking my head in faux disbelief for added effect.
"Okay" I said, "it'd be an honour to accept your three wishes." I was in a rush, and this bloke wasn't going anywhere until I indulged him. I know, I'm a real fucking saint. His face lit up, and I knew I had made the right call. "Your wishes are my command" he bellowed, a little too loudly for a public space. One old woman basically shat herself as she walked past, which was probably more then $14.97's worth of entertainment on its own.
"My first wish" I began, "is-"
"Hang on" said the genie. That was rude, to interrupt me during my first wish. He was fumbling at the zipper of his rucksack for something. "Sorry about this. Bare with me mate...Ah! Here we are" he exclaimed, pulling out a tattered notepad. "My memory's a bit crap. Carry on"
"My first wish, is-"
"Sorry mate, do you have a pen? Mine's ran out." I sighed, audibly, at the second interruption. Luckily for us both, I did indeed have a pen. "Lovely job. So, your first wish is?"
"Yeah, my first wish, is to make a donation of $4.99 to the Genie's Union."
"*Make a donation of $4.99 to the G-U*" he echoed as he scribbled on his notepad. "Lovely, thanks mate. Second wish?"
"My second wish, is for a pack of permanent marker pens, in an arrangement of colours, to be distributed between any and all genies living in this town."
"*in...this...town!* Lovely! And what about your third and final wish mate?"
"My third and final wish is to give $4.99 worth of cookies to the next homeless person you see."
"*...next...homeless...person...you...see.* Lovely job mate. Great wishes, it'll be my pleasure to grant them all. Now then, if I could just take some personal details."
"Why do you need my personal details?"
"Well, sometimes we share your information with 3rd parties."
"Who are the 3rd parties in this instance?"
"Mostly other genies. It helps us to tailor our services more specifically. Help us to help you. It's just a few details. Without them I'll have to cancel your wishes mate." This bloke was a right joker.
"There's no way you're getting my personal details, I'm afraid. I've got to go. I'd like to cancel my wishes, if that's okay." He glanced down at his notepad, running the end of the pen down the list.
"You mean you want to cancel your donation to the GU, retract the gifted pens and cancel the cookies?"
"Yes" I said, defiantly. "Forget the donation, forget the pens, and disable the cookies."
*Edit: Wow never had gold before - thanks /u/NekoGamiYuki and /u/roorahree ! If I was cleverer I'd make a link between the genie theme and being given gold or some shit, but alas. | 158 | A man walks up to you on the street, hands you a lamp, and tells you he'll grant you three wishes, as long as they cost less than $5 each, because magic isn't real and money is tight these days. (Mundane Monday) | 248 |
By five it was pouring outside. In the plaza across the street people darted to and from their cars with various bags filled with clothes, cheap chocolates, and overpriced handbags. Juxtaposed to them were the two young lovers. While others scurried for cover like roaches when the switch flips, they laughed and took their time walking to the restaurant. Inside, the pseudo-Italian styled restaurant was more dry but just as somber. The candles flickered lazily, casting odd shadows of the empty tables in the dimly lit dining room. The muted conversation of the cooks in the kitchen barely audible over the mellow jazz playing in the background as Derrick stood quietly at the register doodling mindlessly on his notepad. Slow was the theme for the day and Derrick loathed it. It wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't working for Trent, who had called in sick (like he always did after his 'ragers'). Right now, he could be at home playing video games or kicking it with Terry. Instead, he was here drawing the stupid 'S' thing everyone thought was super cool in middle school.
His prayers for a break in monotony were answered by two soaked love birds just coming from a movie in the plaza across the street. Their laughter abruptly pierced the drab atmosphere.
"We...uh...we didn't bring an umbrella." The young man sheepishly offered. Derrick gave him a fake chuckle. Peering quickly around the man's shoulder he saw her: coffee shop girl.
"Just two today?" She worked at Brewed Awakening, his favorite coffee shop. At least once a week he vowed he'd ask her out on a date, but never did.
"Yeah." He looked back at her and smiled. She smiled back. Derrick threw up in his mouth a bit.
"Follow me please." Without being sure why, Derrick felt incredibly betrayed. After all, he HAD seen her first. He sat them at a table by the window and offered drinks. Ever so glamorously she removed her coat, shook some of the rain off, and delicately placed it on the back of her chair. He ordered wine for the both of them and Derrick went back to get it.
"We got a two top." He gruffly informed his cook while grabbing two glasses and a bottle.
"Course we do. Fucking assholes." Dustin didn't like actually doing his job, though he received a plethora of compliments from customers. But Dustin was not what was plaguing Derrick's mind at the moment, THEY were.
It wasn't until they ordered that Derrick got a brilliant idea. Women hate when men are rude to their servers and men hate incompetence. So, if he were to play the bumbling buffoon of a waiter this guy would lose his patience and she would be completely turned off. Foolproof was the only word he could think as he dropped off their salads.
"I'm sorry, but could I get the Balsamic Vinaigrette instead?" The young man smiled at him while she prepared her Honey Mustard salad.
"Of course." Fuckface.
As they ate their salads, Derrick listened in on the conversation. Evidently, this was a blind date her friend set up. They enjoyed the movie and shared common interests. He told her a comical story about a waiter in Hawaii who mixed up his order and almost killed him because of his allergy. Talk about blowing things out of proportion. This was his chance. All he had to do was just make huge mistakes and this guy would lose his mind. He went to refill their waters.
"Is everything tasting okay?" His tone was sweet, his thoughts less so.
"Everything is wonderful, thank you." She answered and beamed at him. Without thinking he gave her a wink. Then came his master stroke. While setting down the water glass he craftily knocked the man's wine glass into his lap.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry. Here, let me get some towels." Your move jackass.
"Oh, it's okay. I think the napkin caught most of it. No worries." What?
"All the same, sir. Let me get you another glass." As he walked back to the pantry he wondered what the hell went wrong. He brought out the new glass and knocked it into his salad. In return he got the same response.
When their meals were ready, Derrick intentionally forgot things the man specifically asked for and spilled yet a third glass of wine. Frustrated tones began to emerge from the man's replies. Derrick began to silently celebrate victory. Dessert would be a massacre and surely this guy would break and yell at him, it was only a matter of time now. Returning to the pantry, he began to concoct his Coup de grâce.
After deciding to sneeze on their pie, he peeked his head around the corner to catch their conversation.
"What's up with this waiter? He seems pretty clumsy." That's right, he thought, set up the pins.
"I'm sure he's just having an off day. Honestly, I feel a bit bad for him, ya know?" The rage boiled in Derrick's ears.
"Just seems like he can't keep wine in a glass to save his life or remember things. It's kinda funny. He actually comes into the cafe a lot. I never really got that vibe from him, he always seemed pretty on top of things."
"Well, there you go. He must be having one hell of a day." He couldn't take anymore. Withdrawing to the pantry, he began silently practicing his showstopping sneeze. When he was satisfied, he went out and offered free dessert for any inconvenience. The man politely refused.
"I just feel so bad about everything. Maybe I could take money off your bill?"
"Honestly, it's okay man." This piece of shit. Stop with the white knight bullshit. Just get angry! Yell and scream and make a scene! JESUS!
After some more light conversation about hobbies and family he put his hands on hers. She glowed back at him and smiled slightly. After cashing them out he went to clear the table. No tip. Fuck. Yes. And fuck you, you cheap fuckwad. Derrick grinned to himself. I win.
Then he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. It was the young man.
"Hey man, I worked fast food in high school. I get bad days man. Hope this helps a bit." He handed a $20 bill to Derrick with a smile.
"Th...thanks." Was all Derrick could muster.
"I've been there man, stick it out. Just gotta make it to the end of the shift."
And just like that, he was gone. Neglecting his duties momentarily, Derrick followed him to the front of the restaurant and watched them through the front window. He caught up to her and they talked for a bit. Then came the kiss. Bringing his hand up slowly, he tucked her wet hair behind her ear and leaned forward slightly slowing down right before reaching her lips. She eagerly closed the gap as his other hand cupped her head and pulled her in close. | 11 | A waiter's attempts to sabotage a blind date backfires and the couple falls in love. | 39 |
As a child becomes an adult, his parents slowly transform from almighty and most confident caretakers into the people they really are; they become all their faults and all their triumphs, all their success and all their failures. In all reality, the dramatic change comes not of the parents themselves, but rather of the child's perspective of their parents. Infantile trust and naïveté turn into adolescent rebellion and questioning which turn into a matured understanding, empathy, and pity for the elderly parents that once raised them.
This too was the progression of maturation that the 'lesser' primates took during their evolution and eventual overtaking of the 'higher' primate humans. They began as blubbering infants who lived in trees, had no language and flung feces at one another. During the adolescent phase of their evolution, the ape's intelligence increased to nearly that of an average human- not quite enough to fly to the moon, but intelligent enough to become increasingly aware of their lesser status. By the time their numbers increased and humanity began to fear its evolutionary competitors, it was too late. Humanity had fallen, mostly under the weight of its own grandiosity, and the apes were there to take their place, most often with use of force.
Then came the third phase of the evolution of the ape's relationship. As the ape became more intelligent than their predecessor, they came to be more forgiving of man's past transgressions, and the ape viewed man as a pitiful relic of what he once was, like a child views his elderly parent who had long ago slipped into dementia.
Then came along one of the most incredible events in world history, one that future religious apes would use as evidence for the existence of God. This event occurred in the epoch of apes that was highly technologically advanced, just as advanced as man ever became and then some. It was this technology that made this incredible event possible.
Ape archaeologists found the preserved remains of an ancient human who donned yellow clothing alongside the preserved remains of a naked little monkey- nudity being the ape's ancient reminder of how primitive he used to be, in a time before he experienced shame. The remains were frozen in glacier ice, and were wonderfully well-preserved. The archaeologists, interested to study the interactions between ancient man and ape, used the DNA of both remains and sophisticated cloning technology to effectively bring the man and the monkey back to life. The apes also used a sophisticated machine known as a Neuronal Entropy Print Tracer, which backtracked the billions of firings of neurons and recorded this data from the subject's birth to their death. Once these 'memories' were jump-started in an identical brain (which is only possible in a recently-deceased, or as in this case, a well-preserved specimen) the consciousness of the deceased is brought back to life as well, complete with all their personality traits, their intelligence, and their memories. Curious George and the Man with the Yellow Hat were brought back to life.
After several months of social scientists poking and prodding and studying the interactions between the two subjects, the study came to a close. Academics got all the information they'd wanted, the archaeologists achieved the fame they'd wanted, and George and The Man were left in limbo. The researchers of the study along with the general public thought it would be inhumane to leave George in his primitive state and ultimately he was given neurological therapy to increase his intelligence to equal that of the contemporary ape. The Man was left to suffer in his new caste in world society- that of a human slave.
Several years later after the study, George made a success of himself; he wrote an autobiography describing his life: his birth in the ancient continent of Africa, his capture, his adventures with the Man with the Yellow Hat, and finally his life in this brave new ape world. Although he was now intelligent, his curiosity never left him. He tried to sate his hunger for knowledge by reading and studying anything and everything, but there was something minute, something that evaded him and pestered him relentlessly- something that no understanding of the laws of physics or of the most mysterious secrets of the universe could ever come even close to being an adequate substitution for the question he had. Day in and day out George tried to tune out this one curious question he always had on his mind. He studied engineering, geopolitics, quantum physics and advance calculus all in the hopes of suppressing the one question he'd always had.
The obsession finally manifested into action and the poor George sought to finally answer his question. He took a week off work from the university at which he professed and found the Man with the Yellow Hat. The Man worked for his ape slaver on a farm, using primitive tools to pull weeds from the fields. When George approached the Man, he stood up from his kneeling, and his yellow clothes were covered in soil. He was disheveled and his eyes sunk low, there was no humanity left in him.
"Man with the Yellow Hat," George said as he extended his hand to him, "won't you please tell me your name?"
Edit: thanks for the gold guys! My first submission to writing prompts, I appreciate all the support guys! | 341 | After the fall of humanity and the rise of the apes, a now intelligent George returns to confront the Man in the Yellow Hat. | 549 |
I look up from my book, astonished. Had what I just heard be true? I figured that it couldn't possibly be. Why would the people in control of us basically want to kill us?
I quickly ran down the stairs where my wife, Brenda, was waiting. She had heard the same exact thing and was thinking the same exact thing. Suddenly the TV flicked on and there was Barack Obama, already speaking on the issue.
"People of America, I urge you to remain calm," the president started. "The situation here that we have at hand is indeed true, and is not a hoax, prank, or trickery." Behind the president a counter ticked, now at 3:23. Did I only have three minutes in my life? "Please do not make any irrational decisions. According to top scientists, there is a slim possibility that the 5 minutes could instead relate to the time our... our... our simulators have." 2:57. I look my wife in her eyes and just stare. We are both in shock. "I beg you America, stay calm. We are America. We are the world. And we can handle this situation and come out on the bright end." The president disappears off the screen, and now all we see is a counter.
I would like to say that my wife and I hugged and spent the last of our minutes together. Yet, as many in the same situation did, we stood there, frozen. Looking at the clock, I counted down from two minutes to one minute, one minute to thirty seconds, and thirty seconds to ten. Only then did I realize that my life was almost over. I had five seconds to live. Four seconds to do something memorable. Three seconds to change my life. Two seconds to do something. One seconds until who knows what. Zero.
Almost immediately, that same voice started speaking. "Hello simulation 39821. We have chosen to reactivate your world. Please continue with your lives." Wow. After all of that, nothing changes. I just went through losing my whole life, only to learn that I had in fact lost nothing at all. So it could have been a minute, an hour, or a century for our masters, but either way, it was nothing for us. I look at my wife, and she looks at me back. This time we hug. | 15 | Scientists just proved that we live inside a computer simulation. Just as that starts to hit the news, a voice announces, "Congratulations simulation 39821! Your world will be paused and archived in 5 minutes". | 21 |
It was the first winter since the war. The snow was falling gently now as I trudged south to avoid the coming cold. The deep freeze had already killed most of the vegetation, but there wasn't much left to kill anyways.
Suddenly I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I froze and watched a white hare pop out of the ground and sniff the air. It moved hesitantly, darting across the snow then stopping to survey the land. I ducked to the ground and froze as I reached behind me and slowly brought my bow from off my back. I gripped an arrow and fluidly knocked it in the bow, pulling the string back while on one knee. I breathed deeply, feeling the cold air cut my throat, and held my breath.
Just as I loosened my finger, the hare turned its head and looked in my direction. Its small eyes rested gently on mine and it was so still I could have thought it was already dead. We stood there, animal and man, gazing into each other's souls, weighing the worth of our lives.
I exhaled and lowered the bow. The hare looked at me for a moment before cleaning itself off and hopping away. I lowered my hood and watched as it disappeared into the snow falling in drifts. I suddenly saw movement to my right and looked over my shoulder.
Through the haze I could just make out the shape of a man with a pack on his shoulder and a face that appeared as though it was cut out of stone. He must have been a survivor like me, except he wore the green uniform of his country. In a past life, we were enemies. Today, we were kindred souls, wandering in the afterlife.
I moved to speak but my voice broke. I hadn't spoken in months. I realized there wasn't much to say anyways. There was no one left in this world but us, and words wouldn't bring them back.
I walked towards him and we stood for a moment simply admiring each other. The scars of war were still visible on his skin and the weariness of travel hung heavily in his eyes. I imagine I was no different.
Without a word, he turned and began to walk south once more. I looked across the tundra and saw the hare admiring us from a distance before burrowing back down in its hole. I waited a moment, then followed close behind the man, too numb to care for the past, and too tired to think of the future.
Humanity had moved on and left us behind. There wasn't much else to do but walk and wait to die, so we did.
| 30 | A desperately lonely soldier lived alone after a devastating nuclear world war. Years later, he discovered the only other survivor; a soldier who fought for the antagonizing side. | 38 |
“And what does the accused have to say in response?” The Judge asked me.
“I-I’m sorry,” I said, looking at the floor.
“Not good enough!” The Judge said, throwing his gavel across the courtroom to bonk me in the head.
My tired, sad eyes looked up at the victims’ families. They were seated on the balcony, the moral high ground. They shot irate glares towards my head, directly hitting whatever part of my brain is responsible for determining the content of upcoming nightmares.
“I was wrong,” I said. “I should never have asked for a water cup at Taco Bell and filled it with Mountain Dew: Baja Blast flavor. I should have known that it would release a Tropical Lime Storm into the whole restaurant, flooding the city and shutting down social services for weeks on end while the head of FEMA fecklessly flailed his arms in press conferences instead of consulting logistics experts and developing a workable plan to provide safe drinking water and ready-to-eat meals for affected families.
“I should have known that this would undermine the national public’s faith in federal agencies and ignite racial tensions over the discriminatory distribution of resources. George Bush hates black people. All of this, and more—is my fault.
“The civil war that followed, the second civil war of America, is my fault as well. When the Blue states decided to secede from the Red states, everyone knew that the impetus for such a move was not due to long-standing Congressional gridlock, but rather, it was due to my Tropical Lime Storm, which had soured the country’s outlook on bipartisan cooperation, and induced an over-caffeinated feverishness amongst the nation’s liberal youth.
“As the world’s number one superpower retreated from the global stage to tend to its domestic battlefields, the global economy was blown apart—like a burrito that was cooked in the microwave for more than six minutes. China had nowhere to export its multifarious plastic widgets. Europe suddenly found itself having to pay for its own military. Mexican workers had nowhere to immigrate. Russia had no one to space-race. Nobel-prize winning Iranian scientists had nowhere to go to complete a second PhD.
“The world was flung into chaos. Had such distractions not blinded us, humanity might have been able to combat global warming. But that’s not how history unfolded. The sea levels rose and we were forced off that little blue-and-green planet. The planet of our birth. 99% of the human population was left behind to be killed by the genetically-mutated Jellyfish-people who evolved to adapt to the new temperature ranges.
“Only we lucky few survived. The ten of us. Locked inside this courtroom-shaped spaceship, stocked with a lifetime’s supply of Coca-Cola brand beverages and Frito Lay snack foods, slowly orbiting about the dead planet we once called home.
“Coca-cola was once my favorite drink. I suppose it is a fitting punishment that exclusive consumption of this beverage has transformed it into an object of loathing. Sometimes, I lay awake at night, alone with my thoughts and my bags of Doritos. I look out the window at the old blue planet, and I wonder… What if things had been different? What if I hadn’t gone to Taco Bell that day?
“But it’s no use,” I said, “I can’t change the past. I wish I had been a more conscientious person. I wish that we were back on earth and that everyone was still alive. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The other survivors stared at me. They weren’t satisfied with my apology. I had been apologizing every day for the last fifteen years and they still weren’t satisfied. I would have to improve my speech.
My throat was getting dry. I reached for a Coca-Cola.
I pulled on the tab. Gouts of fizzy cola shot out the lid. The can went flying!
It tore a hole through the side of the spaceship. A powerful wind tore everyone from their seats. The oxygen shot out of the courtroom. We went into a tailspin.
We crashed into the International Space Station, plowing the last vestiges of human scientific achievement into a nearby asteroid which was carrying living bacteria cells towards Mars.
As I floated into space, unable to breathe, I turned my eyes to look upon the sun for one last time.
Displeased with my attention, the enraged sun went Supernova, engulfing fifteen alien worlds in a holocaust of flame. The earth was knocked out of orbit, which caused massive earthquakes. This destabilized CERN's Large Hadron Collider.
The universe ended.
The internet stopped working. Forever.
| 18 | You sincerely apologise for your actions, and the increasingly ridiculous consequences of them. | 16 |
"GABRIEL."
The thought intruded into the angel's mind. He winced, as direct contact between his mind and The Holy Presence tended to hurt. "Aye, Lord?"
"I NEED YOU HERE A MOMENT."
"Aye, Lord. Is the Metatron ill, or-"
"NOW, PLEASE."
Gabriel winced again, and uncased his wings. Within moments he was within the presence of God.
"What is thy command, O Lord?"
God was huddled over some kind of ball he was toying with. The thing was tiny - Gabriel himself would probably have lost it in his robe if he were given it. It existed only in three dimensions - Gabriel couldn't imagine such a pitiful existence.
"I need you to go to hell for me."
Gabriel stared at God, stunned. "Lord, I don't understand."
"The instructions were clear, Gabriel. I need you to descend into hell."
"For what?"
"Bring me a piece of it. I think my new creation needs warmth."
"You mean that tiny ball? You'll burn it to cinders, beg your pardon Lord."
"Then bring me a small piece of it."
Gabriel sighed. "Is this some kind of test, Lord? Because I do not relish the thought of descending into that...that *inferno*."
God turned for the first time. "You will not do as I command?"
Gabriel gulped. "I...sorry, Lord. I cannot."
"Then I will find an angel who can. Michael!"
From the distance a loud "Ow!" could be heard, and within moments the archangel Michael appeared in God's workshop. God asked him the same thing, but Michael also refused. After asking even the angel of Death the same thing with different sounding but similar results, God threw his hands up in frustration.
"I will protect you, don't you understand? My creation needs heat!"
Death consulted his clipboard. "Your experiment isn't due for destruction for another-"
"I. KNOW. THAT." God clenched his fists. He didn't recall making angels such morons. The first thing he was going to give his new creations was knowledge and intelligence, so that he need not suffer these fools any more. "Just bring me...a piece about the size of a grape seed."
The three angels glanced at the small globe their Lord had made in unison. Michael said, "Well, that is about the size of a grape seed."
"In proportion! Imagine how small grapes would be when I place them in this world. Then imagine the seed. That size."
"Oh," the angels sang in unison.
"Well? One of you?"
The angels averted their gazes and stared off into the infinite. God sighed. "Imbeciles, I'm surrounded by imbeciles." Suddenly the door to His workshop opened and a haloed head poked through.
"Oi, Mike," the head whispered. "We're playing five a side, the other team needs an extra player."
"Hello, Lucifer."
"Lord! I-sorry, I-"
"Will you obey me, Lucifer?"
Lucifer glanced around at his brethren angels and wondered what might be going on. "Yes, Lord, always."
"Come in, Lucifer." Lucifer entered. His brethren shrugged.
"Lucifer, will you descend to Hell for me?"
"Wait. What?"
God explained everything to the angel. Lucifer was stunned. "Lord, I-I don't know. If Death himself can't bear to go-"
"I will grant you complete protection. Have faith in me, Lucifer, and you shall be rewarded."
Lucifer stared into the all-knowing, all-loving face, and nodded. The other angels immediately protested.
"Lucifer! You can't-"
"It's too dangerous, go back to your game!"
"My clipboard says you're not going to-"
"Stuff it, you," Lucifer says. "I trust in the Lord. If he says I shall not be harmed by Hell's fire, so shall it be." To God, he turns and bows. "I hope I am worthy of your trust, Lord."
It seemed aeons before Lucifer returned, tired and bedraggled. His golden crown had nearly been seared black. His robe was torn, tattered, and he appeared gaunt and fearsome, but otherwise unscathed. He crawled to God's workshop, one hand clenching the small piece of Hell he had been sent to retrieve.
"Lucifer...you have succeeded."
Lucifer smiled as best he could, as a few seraphim tended to his condition. "I couldn't let you down, Lord."
"You have not." God turned to his work table. Using his tools, he cracked the piece into even smaller pieces, and doused each in Holy Water. Then he scattered each piece into his small globe, whispering, "Let there be Light."
And there was.
God turned to Lucifer. "Well done, thou good and faithful servant. As a reward, I bestow upon thee this; that from this day forth ever shalt thou be known as The Lightbringer, Lucifer Morningstar." And with that, Lucifer began to glow a pale, bright light. Lucifer bowed.
"Thank you, Lord."
"Would you like to see what you have wrought? Oh, and I need someone to see how it looks like from down there. Two birds, one stone."
Lucifer nodded, and descended into the ball God had made. As he arrived, he gasped; such a complete world, with oceans and mountains, his Lord hath made.
"Look thee to thy left, Lightbringer. No no, other left."
Lucifer turned and gasped. The largest piece of hell he had brought was suspended in space, and the ball of rock he was admiring was spinning and circling around it. But that was not what he saw first.
What he saw was the light, slowly appearing, first a reddish brown, then slowly growing brighter as the ball of rock rotated upon an invisible axis. The dark black of the sky slowly glowed purple then dark blue. As the light crept forth, the sky turned from dark blue to a lighter blue, the light growing brighter and turning yellow as it stretched from its place, covering all the oceans and plains and crept even over the peaks of the highest mountains. Lucifer wept.
"So how does it look? Be honest, Morningstar."
"My Lord, it's...it's beautiful."
"That's not the half of it. This same light will now creep forward across the world I have made, until I decree that it stop. Ever should my creations that dwell here feel lost, they need only look to the sky and to this light to see my magnificence."
Lucifer continued to stare at the first sunrise, marvelling at its beauty. He felt a pang of jealousy then, that these new creations would see such wonder every day of their lives, but then he shook his head and got rid of the thought. Why be jealous? It is God's decree. They shall have this new world, while he, Lucifer Morningstar, the Light-Bringer, shall remain in heaven. That much, he thought, would never change. | 28 | Tell me about the first sunrise. | 30 |
"Wait, what?" Brian asked, his focus shooting between both of his parents.
"We didn't think this would be such a surprise." His mother said with approximately one tenth the urgency Brian had used. "You know, you guys aren't cheap! We did the same thing for your sister when she graduated. She took it a little better..."
"What are you talking about?! Seven pages long?! And Laura never said anything about this!" Brian couldn't get the words out fast enough; he had already scanned the whole packet, neatly itemized and surprising official. He could feel his ears warming as they blushed, which only got worse once he noticed it.
"Just take a look at the whole thing, and then--" His father tried to explain before being cut off.
"Are you serious? I don't know *anyone* else who is getting one of these! How long have you--" Brian was fuming, but now his father was cutting him off.
"Brian, just look at the last page, and then we'll talk."
"I honestly can't believe this." He was barely scanning the last page as he spoke, until he saw the last item:
* Credit: Exceeding all expectations - $100,000.00.
* FINAL BALANCE: $0.00 | 56 | several hundred thousand dollars. They want to work out a payment plan. | 61 |
Forward to [email protected]
Dear loving granddaughter/ grandson.
I, your grandmother Katerina Joyce Baker, have discovered a grand way to help you out financially in these difficult times. During the annual county pie-off competition, my prize winning Dutch Apple strudel mini pies has caught the interest of none other than Steve Jobs who was also at the competition and really was alive the entire time. He wanted to take my dish to industrial levels and have me personally bake his new revolutionary Pie-phone deluxe. Now I do not have the money or resources available for such a feat, that is why I contacted you my darling sookiepoo to bring a total of 2000 dollars to jump start the business and get the pie making going. I promise that your money will quickly be paid back plus more $$$ with the investments you place in Pie-phone deluxe. Steve Jobs even offered to introduce you to his incredibly rich and gorgeous niece/ nephew if you help out your dear old grandma.
If you get this, please meet me at the cabin at the edge of the woods, 9:00 am sharp. Bring the money and a shovel and some BBQ sauce as we will be digging and cooking as well. Do not tell anyone else of this.
Love, Grannie Katie.
________________________________________________________
Reply to [email protected]
Dear Grandma... Katie.
Strange how formal you are, this must really be a great deal. Say where did you such great computer skills? The last time I visited you, you didn't even know what a mousepad was or how to press start. I don't recall you being a good cook either, how come I never tasted any of your Dutch apple strudel mini pies? Every time I went out to greet you, I had to bring the basket of food as you practically burn everything once you get near a stove. This business deal sounds very rewarding, I couldn't possibly intrude on your success. I'm sure a bank loan can get you that 2000 you need.
PS: I'm already dating little boy blue, no need to introduce me to anyone.
Your granddaughter, Red.
__________________________________________________________
Reply to [email protected]
Dear Red,
I insist you that you come and help me out. I can't trust the banks or a loan company, only you. This deal can't hold up forever and I'll be heartbroken if you pass up this easy method of making $$$. I haven't been able to send you any Dutch apple strudel mini pies as Steve Job bought them all. My cooking and computer skills are none of your bee's wax.
On a completely unrelated note, how much do you weigh and could you fit in a extra large foreman grill? Just a silly question. By the way I want extra spicy BBQ sauce. Don't forget the shovel so we could bury the leftovers of our cookout.
Love, Grandma Katie.
__________________________________________________________
Reply to [email protected]
I'm shock by your generosity and trust, grandma. A business opportunity, a free BBQ; nothing like the stingy penny pincher I used to know. By the way I won't be able to fit in a foreman grill, I'm too fat and juicy for the lid to properly close. Say, grandma, could we Skype?
Love, Red.
__________________________________________________________
Reply to [email protected]
No... No.... No! I can't Skype because I have dreadful acne. Please just meet me at the cabin. You don't even have to bring the money, I think I found some $2000 in the cupboard. Make sure to bring the BBQ sauce and maybe some mashed potatoes and buttered peas too. I haven't seen you in a long time and I could practically gobble you up.
Love, Grandma
__________________________________________________________
To [email protected]
Dear, Alejandro D. Wolf.
Your IP has been track and your activities reported. Keep still in your location as we come to collect you. Crimes committed by your person have been detailed as identity theft, fraud, and conspiracy to devour a minor. You have full rights to an attorney as you are being questioned.
Do not resist arrest.
Sincerely, the Forrest Bureau of Investigation. | 13 | Retell a classic fairy tale as though it happened in present day, and completely online, with no actual physical contact between the characters. | 18 |
I've been able to see ghosts a long time. Today in writing class, I noticed a strange ghost floating behind my professor.
"And when the writer opens up with a setting sun, it is a subtle hint that the main character is in his twilight years, old and weary, looking back at days long past..." my professor droned on.
"No it isn't you old hack!" the ghost floating behind yells "The main character is a young girl, just getting home from school!"
"The main character meets a cloaked figure, clearly representing death, and he talks to him happily meaning he is ready to die..."
"I never said he work a cloak, I said mysterious figure! and she was happy to talk to him because she liked him!" the ghost says, flying around waving his arms
I smirk a little, before the professor looks at me angrily and I get my "serious" face back on.
"Now I noticed when many of you turned you papers in, not one of you understood the true meaning of the story." He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if his words where somehow inspired by the heavens. "But no one in this room grasped how this story is about death."
"Because it's NOT!" the ghost yelled at the top of his lungs. "It's about young love from afar, and saying all people are alive, and equals!"
The professor shook his head gravely. "I fear that phones have made people unable to understand the true depths of stories"
"YOU WERE PLAYING ANGRY BIRDS FOR TWO HOURS BEFORE CLASS!" the ghost yelled.
| 28 | the ghost of an author haunts a professor that keeps teaching his stories incorrectly. | 45 |
Now that I'm here it's not really what I imagined. Of course, when you have 13 months in captivity to ponder what feels like - and in my case, evidently is - your inevitable death, you play the scenario over in your head a few times. I did this a lot. Would I be shot? Would I be beheaded? Would the executioner be wearing a mask, like in Tudor times?
Yes, no and no, were the answers. I was to be shot, which to be honest, is a relief. I once read somewhere that beheadings often go wrong - sometimes they require two or three blows of the axe before they do the job. I couldn't be doing with that. A gunshot was pretty much painless by comparison, I imagined. Unless the executioner was really shite with a gun.
There were actual several executors for me, which was pretty flattering. None of them had masks, so I could study each of their faces in my final moments. And stern, hardened faces they were too. Apart from the one on the end. The poor chap. He couldn't have been a day older then 18, and he held his gun like I held my new born son for the first time: like he was secretly a little bit scared of its power and potential.
One of them shouted an order I think - despite being held captive by English speakers for over a year, my proficiency in the language had hardly improved. They didn't speak to me much. I guess it was something about preparing themselves, as the sound of cocking weapons joined the order's lingering echo in the valley. The younger one struggled a little with his gun, but soon enough his bullet was firmly in its chamber too. I guess this was it.
I always imagined the last things to go through my head would be my wife and son. Perhaps, I reasoned, I'd have a flashback of some sort, like a highlights montage at the end of a football match. But all I could focus on was the kid at the end of the line with the forehead that glistened with sweat in the morning sun. My wife would remarry, I hoped. Love someone else the way she once loved me. My son was too young to remember me. Perhaps he'd have a vague memory of me when he was older. A silhouetted father figure at the back of his mind.
But this boy, trying to steady his trembling arm, he'd remember me forever. Right now, I was the most important person in the world to him. He was my legacy, and I would live on in every one of his sleepless nights. | 29 | In the first person, tell me how you accepted death while standing in front of the firing squad. | 27 |
Meet John. John is a normal man. He is 43 years old, he has a wife and two children. He has an office job. Every second saturday his wife makes a cake. He doesn't enjoy his work too much, but the days go by at least. John believes he is generally healthy, although frequently he notices he is not a young man anymore. There is only one problem with John: he is terminally ill. When he was young, he suffered nerve damage and ever since then, his body is in pain. He doesn't even know about it anymore. If you asked him if he is hurting, he would say no, because in fact, he thinks he isn't. But that is about to change.
One monday morning, John's car breaks down. It was running just fine on Sunday so it shouldn't be anything serious, John decides. He lifts up the hood, but can't find anything wrong. Perhaps it's something with the wires on the underside. He puts a cardboard down under the car and lies down on it. As he does, something in his back cracks and causes him to sit back up from immediate pain. And suddenly the pain is gone. And so is the other, terminal pain. He feels as if his body got younger by 20 years. He shrugs it off and gets under the car. Immediately he notices a wire hanging and figures it's the cause of the problem.
When he drives to work, he feels like a new man. Usually, he got annoyed by heavy traffic and other people. But not today. Today he feels a brotherly sense to people around. He even notices a shortcut that he never did before and gets to work five minutes early.
"Good morning!", he greets the doorman which surprised just mumbles his greeting back. Today, he decided to even take the stairs, for why it is only two floors. There he meets a colleague he didn't see in a few months. They even make some smalltalk and John and his family get invited to a barbecue party later in the week. John rarely does smalltalk, because he thinks it's stupid and a waste of time, but now, he wasn't annoyed by it even in a tiny little bit.
He arrives in his cubicle, few minutes earlier than usual and looks around. The place is a mess. Not in the usual sense of trash lying around, no, John was normally really tidy, but just now when he looks around, he sees a lot of misplaced items. The telephone could be closer to the wall, those binders over there should be in a drawer and the poster is now barely hanging on the side. Also the place is really dull, but not much he can do about that now.
After his quick revision, John starts working. Spreadsheets, calls, orders, usual office job. Hours later, John's sight finds its way onto a clock and John realizes it's time for a coffee break. Odd, he thinks, usually by this time John was getting moderately tired and bored out from all the work, but not today. He feels rather energetic and to add to that, he even managed to do double the work he normally does until this hour. It is really strange for John. His whole work seemed like a whole new experience, even though it's the same job as he did in the last 8 years. John starts to think what's so different in today from other days. He finds nothing. Of course he doesn't think about a pain he didn't think he had, but he is sure something feels different today. As he goes to make his coffee, he engages in more conversations and it seems even his coworkers seem happier to talk with him today.
His work eventually ends and he heads on home. His children are already home and playing in the garden. Normally, he would tell them to quiet down, as to not disturb the neighbours, but honestly, he didn't like the noise. He doesn't do that today. In fact, he even decides to change and join them in their games. When his wife comes out of the house, she just shines when she sees him playing with them. John is happy at home and the time goes by really quickly.
Soon, or as it seems to him, he is lying in the bed, next to his beautiful wife and he is trying to capture that which is remaining hidden to him. What did change today, what did he do differently? Why is his life suddenly so much brighter?
It doesn't take him a long time to decide that he doesn't want to know. His life is now better and he doesn't want to be bothered by anything anymore. | 181 | A man with severe chronic pain but high pain tolerance believes he is living normal until he experiences his first day without that pain. | 393 |
"Officer, before you shoot and kill my only son, may I ask you a question? Have you ever loved? Do you know what it feels like to spend every waking moment knowing that there is a part of you living in someone else? I do. You see that boy? People tell me he has my eyes. Not just the color, but the way they look around and see people. At this very moment, with those baby blue eyes he looks upon you not as a monster but as someone he could become friends with. Someone he could trust secrets with. And I ask you, how do you look upon him? I would beg of you to look upon this innocent child and truthfully tell me that you believe him to be unworthy of living the same life that you did when you were his age. Did you ever picture yourself at 6 years old fearing that a man would stick a gun in your face willing to pull the trigger for reasons you wouldn't or couldn't understand? I know that when I was 6 I never wanted to hurt a soul, and all that I was capable of was love. Love for everything and everyone, regardless of whether they reciprocated those feelings or not. And I know that he has that love, because he has my heart. With every murmur and beat of his small little heart, he adores things so much. He probably adores you in your uniform, thinking that you must be an important military man who fights for what is right and looks up to how strong of a person you must be. But are you so strong that you could kill a child in cold blood, regardless of what that blood may contain? He is Jewish by birth, not by choice. He was given to me from the womb to care for, and I have done that and will continue to do that even if you shoot him where he stands. But you won't just be putting a bullet in him, you will be putting one in me as well. Because the last moments that he sees, I will see. And his last heartbeats that he feels, I will feel. So if you are going to shoot him, shoot me too. Kill me so that I can watch him grow old in the next life." | 15 | An SS Officer is going to shoot a small child in front of his mother in a concentration camp. She has no words to convince him not to. Loan her yours. | 25 |
Even the Mars crew had each other, and Ted still broke their record. Blowing out the candle atop the celebratory 'cake' he had made, he smirked at the notion.
"Bunch of softies, every one." Ted had been alone for three years, and out of contact for the last one. That was the deal. Two years here, one year prepping on the surface, ten in the subsurface, working the oceans beneath the ice, and two more back. Fifteen in total, and he was well along the way.
He didn't even get a chat link because of that damned atmosphere, but then they would have sent a robot, wouldn't they? Still, it wasn't so bad. He didn't need a crew. He had his action figures.
"Isn't that right, Batman? We don't need sidekicks anymore, not like those euro tree huggers. Gather the league, we're going down below today."
Batman stared back blankly from his usual perch on the kitchen counter.
"Fine, I'll tell them myself. That whole silent thing suits you, but it does get old, you know." Ted picked Batman up and stuffed him into the chest pocked of his jumpsuit. "Big day, Bruce. I guess I understand if you're a little nervous. Just gotta follow the checklist. No more accidents. Everythings back on schedule."
Late last week, the drill had finished boring through the ice shaft, and he had begun the descent sequence on the submarine rovers. Today, he was personally bringing down the last one, the largest that would remain attached to the the bottom of the borehole, just below the ice. This would be Ted's base of operations for the next decade. His fortress of solitude.
**************
*(~~Hope to continue it in the morning~~ ^nope, ^can't ^think ^of ^anywhere ^to ^go ^with ^it. This is the first prompt i've really written in, and it's fun!)* | 10 | For science (and possibly a reward), a person has agreed to spend 15 years isolated from humanity. | 24 |
"There's an interesting story behind that headstone," said the groundskeeper, rolling a cigarette. "They don't carve B.I.H. for just any scoundrel." He put the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a silver lighter he took from his front pocket.
A man stood next to him in a long poncho covering most of his body. He rested his hand on his waist and squinted to read the inscription on the tombstone.
"Well then, what's it stand for?"
The groundskeeper let out a hearty laugh that broke the stillness of the heavy night. An owl flew from its perch in a nearby tree and the man couldn't help but feel annoyed. He wasn't fond of being escorted through the graveyard with this strange man, but the fellow had insisted and he needed a guide anyways. "Dangerous at night," he had said.
"B.I.H.? You want to know what B.I.H. stands for?" The old man looked at his guest as though he was the insane one.
"Yes. Yes I do," the visitor said calmly. The old man took a long draw from his cigarette and gazed out over the field of decrepit stones.
"Burn. In. Hell. At least, that's what the boys have told me. I say any man who has that carved into his grave must have some urgent business with the devil."
The corner of the visitor's mouth twisted into a crooked smile
"Interesting...might I trouble you for a shovel?"
The old man froze and turned his head slowly. A curious smile appeared on his lips, unbelieving of what the man had just said.
"And what do you intend to—"
"I intend to dig him up."
The groundskeeper was silent for a moment before bursting into another round of fitful laughter, doubling over and nearly falling to the ground.
"Now—" he interrupted himself with his own uncontrollable laughter. "Now, you know I can't let you—"
"Let me? If you won't provide me a shovel, I'll just have to make you dig him up yourself."
The groundskeeper's laughter was cut off as he began to gag. His eyes grew wide and he grasped at the man's poncho as he fell to the ground. He reached for his cigarette and realized, with horror, that he had somehow swallowed it. He felt it move down his throat and burn it's way down. He rolled on the ground and bellowed into the air as a fire began to rage in his stomach.
"What is—"
"Dig." The man's voice was cold now. The groundskeeper looked at the man in confusion, then, feeling the fire scrape at his insides, began to tear at the ground.
"Why?" he choked as he dug into the soil.
"We have some business to discuss, and you can replace him when you're done."
| 49 | "There's an interesting story behind that headstone." Said the groundskeeper, rolling a cigarette. "They don't carve B.I.H. for just any old scoundrel." | 50 |
…place to run. Outgunned. Outmanned. The howling faces charged the hilltop. The bear, Lerich, twelve feet of muscle and sinew, still fought in the center of the crowding mass, but as Derrick watched, heart pounding, it fell; a behemoth brought down by ants. Goliath against David’s sling.
To the west, slabs of pale stone rose like jagged knuckles from the hillside. Jonas lay there, so pale that he may as well have been a corpse, but still breathing, still breathing *by the Gods*, and still shooting. His pistol cracking like dry thunder. No way to miss now, Derrick knew. He raised his own hard caliber under that red sky and aimed into the faceless howling mass. Each man that fell was replaced by ten more, by a hundred more, streaming endlessly upwards. Dust and dirt and blood kicked up under their boots.
Jonas’s gun clicked empty and he threw it to the ground. No care now for the weapon Jon had entrusted to them. Only hollow laughter as he stumbled towards the peak, his tunic plastered with blood. Shot. *How many times? Three? Four?* Yet still laughing. Always laughing.
“Derrick!” He cried, “Lerich has fallen! The Titans die in the West! Death has come for us at last, old friend!” Jonas’s hand, wet and sticky with blood, reached for his own, and for a brief moment Derrick grasped it. Squeezing tight.
“We are old friends with death.” Derrick replied softly, thinking of Farson, and Two Finger Ben, and Lock. His eyes glinted. “And when we die, we’ll tell her of our great victory today.”
Jonas laughed. “*Come now, child. To the front!*” He chided in old Jon’s lecturing tones, turning towards the charging horde as he spoke, one arm dangling useless at his side.
“To the front.” Derrick agreed, and for the first time since the battle had begun, he smiled. | 21 | Start a story mid-sentence and finish off the most badass battle you can imagine. | 37 |
The detective's heart sank as he ascended the subway stairs. On each stair, another message, a sick clue left by the murderer. And there, just before the stairs hit street level, in the green glow of the Seven-Eleven sign beyond, lay the naked body of another victim.
"Talk to me" he barked to the officer on the scene.
"Victim is an Edward Kepman. 38, married, didn't arrive home last night after work. Wife had reported him missing. The crime scene is just bizzare boss, we been racking our brains, but it just makes no sense." The officer looked down at his notes.
"Let's start with this" The officer pointed down at a round roll of cheese. "Sally from forensics tells me you call a chunk of cheese like that a log."
"Anyone know the type of cheese?
"I believe it's Jack cheese, Sir. You know, like Monterey Jack."
"Right... next" He stepped over the marmalade and set of golden dental grills.
"No idea what to say about these, sir. Grills, like those worn by rappers? And marmalade. Placed in the middle of the stairs, so we have to step over them?"
"And finally?" He said, looking at the final clue on the final stair before the body.
"Well, this might just be the strangest one. The door of a Volvo S40 sedan."
"Right, and you say the vic's name is Ed. Ed Kepman." The detective was deep in thought. He seemed to be humming to himself.
"I've got it on record as Edward, sir, but yes. Why?
"Well, for a start..." The detective reached down and picked up the car door. It rattled. "I knew it!" he said "The Rattle of a Volvo Door."
"Next, I'm going to hazard a guess and go with "Over the Grills and Marmalade. And then a Jack Log. I hate to say it, but this is clearly the work of the serial killer, The Rhymer."
"The Rhymer, sir?"
"This psyco's got a thing for British rock bands and bad rhymes. Keep searching, I bet you'll find a Led Zeppelin CD somewhere."
"Uh, we actually did find one, not too far away, bagged it for evidence but we thought it was just lost or discarded in the subway. How the hell did you know?"
"Ed Kepman? Led Zeppelin. The cheese - a Jack Log - rhymes with their hit 'Black Dog'"
The detective spun around, pointing at the golden teeth insert and marmalade... "And here we have 'Over the Hills and Far Away' or in this case, 'Over the grills and marmalade.'"
He was almost enjoying himself now. "Finally, 'The Rattle of a Volvo Door' - this one's a little weak if you ask me... but it must be 'The Battle of Evermore."
"That's amazing! When did you know? How did you put it all together so quickly?"
"I actually had my suspicions the minute I arrived and noticed the vic had been laid out 'Climbing the Stairway to the Seven-Eleven".
| 669 | The detective looked at the evidence. A naked body. A block of cheese. The passenger door from a Volvo. Two gold teeth. And a Led Zeppelin album. It all fit so perfectly. He knew who did it. | 456 |
Dear Stacey,
I'll preface this by saying that this might be a bit awkward, but I need your advice. You're the only girl I've ever truly loved so I'm kind of hoping you can provide a different perspective than some of my other friends. Anywho, here goes.
I've been in quite a few stupid and ill-advised relationships since we broke up, some you know about (psycho ninja-pixie), some you don't. The common ground between them all is that I haven't really felt anything. Sure I"m attracted to them on a physical level, but I never experience any real spark like what I had with you. Ever adept at self-delusion, I stay with them, usually for far too long, convincing myself all the way that there's something there that simply isn't. I dump them, they get hurt, and I move on with my life. Thankfully, after the most recent shitshow, I've managed to avoid falling into the same habit, and have been single for nearly two years.
Time alone has allowed me to look inward, and though I'm not surprised by what's there, it's still disheartening. I'm numb, always. Melodramatic a sentiment as that may be, it's true. I simply don't *feel* like other people do. Everything I experience is colored most dominantly by logic and reason. If there is emotion it's overshadowed so completely that its rush and tingle is rendered effectively inert.
This isn't anything new, really, though I honestly can't recall if we ever discussed it. When we were together it wasn't as much of an issue, being with you allowed me to feel. Boundless joy, crushing sadness, such things were accessible to me when I was with you. After we were through, I descended back into the way I was before, the way I've been since my mom died. I'm not saying any of this to hurt you, of course. We can easily agree that our breakup was a good thing. For all our love, we were young, and toxic for each other, underdeveloped and stunted by one another's presence. I'm proud of the people we've become, the way we've both grown. I'm happy to call you my friend now, which brings me back to needing your advice.
I'm in love again.
I've known her for a few years, but I only see here once every few months, when our favorite band plays nearby. It was at a show that I met her. She was dancing and spilled my drink, but then offered to split hers. We've been friends ever since. Over time we grew closer, texting and chatting online about all sorts of things, from fate and philosophy to favorite fiddle-music sets. The more we talked and the more I saw her, the more an unfamiliar sensation began to arise within me. After our most recent encounter I found myself writhing in a pit of existential discomfort, unable to rationalize this alien presence within me until finally it dawned. I have feelings for her. Powerful, irrepressible feelings. Feelings of love.
I'm terrified. She's the most incredible, genuine person I've ever met. I look at her and see a kindred soul, glowing powerfully and living free. I want nothing more than to tell her how I feel, but I can't. It's been almost seven years since you and I were together, and since then I haven't felt a single thing as strongly as I feel now.
My most poignant fear is that of rejection. As of right now my feelings hover in a vat of uncertainty, but uncomfortable as that is, it's preferable to pain. I haven't felt pain in these seven years either, and I don't know how I'd handle it now. Beyond all that, my rationale takes over. It argues against a profession of love with facts and reason, and having been driven by such tenets for most my life, I find it a difficult thing to ignore. I know I'm applying logic to an inherently illogical situation, but it's difficult not to see the sense.
For instance, what good would it do? I myself don't even know what kind of relationship I would want with her. She lives far away and we've, through our late night chats, discussed our mutual dislike for commitment, and general disdain for those around us settling down so early. To complicate things further, we've slept together once, and made out several other times. However, all were while drunk, and I can't help but assume her opinion of me is as a good friend, and drunken fuck buddy.
Mostly, I'm just confused. I'm at odds with myself. I split my time between fantasizing that things go well, and I get to share in all life's adventures with her, and playing devil's advocate, arguing a bitter, crushing heartbreak and end to our friendship forever. For even if her rejection were to be gentle, I don't know if I could bear having her in my life, knowing she doesn't feel the same.
And so in this I seek your counsel, as someone who once held my heart in her hands. Help me find the courage to do what's right, whatever that may be.
Thanks for listening,
Meebs
EDIT: Thanks for the gold! | 17 | Write a letter to someone you used to love | 32 |
Anthony Blake had been born at the worst possible time.
His parents were rich, of course. That wasn't the problem. He was a member of the Blake software empire, and his father, Benjamin Blake, had spared no expense when he bought the best traits for his son. Anthony's brain alone had cost millions, giving him the best possible intellect, a terrific work ethic, and the charm and personality to match. His body also cost a fortune, with a heart that would keep itself strong and fit for two lifetimes, muscles that rivaled most bodybuilders, and bones that were virtually unbreakable. His face was modeled after the most popular movie stars, turning him into a precociously beautiful child, who would grow up to be one of the most ruggedly handsome men in the world.
On the surface, everything was perfect. The Blake family had bought themselves the perfect son. In retrospect, they should have known better. They had built their fortune on technology, and they should have known how quickly technology becomes outdated.
Anthony Blake had become obsolete almost as soon as he was born. In the months following his birth, geneticists made further breakthroughs in genetic manipulation technology, giving them the ability make even better babies. Anthony's intellect, astoundingly high by everyone else's standards, paled in comparison to the geniuses that were born a year later. His work ethic, the envy of so many of his classmates, was nothing compared to the robotic drive of those in the year below him. He was beaten in sports by younger boys, boys who could run faster, jump higher, and hit harder than any human in history.
Advances in genetic technology also made these traits cheaper, and more accessible. While designer babies had been the sole domain of the rich in the past, soon the middle class could afford to buy better brains and bodies for their children too. And these children were given abilities that surpassed what Anthony could do.
In the end, it turned out Anthony Blake had been born at the worst possible time, that awkward peak in actual cost before prices came tumbling down, while quality continued to rise unabated. There would never be another baby as expensive as him. And his accomplishments in life would never live up to his price tag, not when there were so many younger competitors who were, quite simply, better than him. He would live a life of average achievement, remembered only for being "that expensive baby".
| 236 | Far in the future, parents now purchase the traits of their perfect child. They decide everything from intelligence to looks. Better qualities cost significantly more money. Tell me about the imperfect life of the most expensive child ever born. | 244 |
The days go by like any other, I have a job to do and I'm good at it. Fluttering, I hover over my usual route. Things haven't looked the same in a while but a few flowers still grow here. I'll have to find another source of food when these are gone like the others.
This place was once full of the most colourful flowers you could have imagined, each special individuals, full of delicate smells, each contributing to the beauty of the field. I spend my days wandering from flower to flower, drinking up the nectar, spreading the pollen and helping them grow. Big buildings rest here now, creaking and steaming, sinking themselves into the once fresh ground. Humans I once knew from another place and time inhabit this space. I recognise their smiles, those are all I remember, each unique like the flowers, but they're withering now too. No life seems to thrive here as hard as it tries. A toxic smell drifts through the wind and I go on to find more food. I sense someone pointing as I go, a struggling smile, a hopeful glance; it follows me along the air.
As I fly further south towards a small town, a flock of birds fly frantically overhead in the other direction. Animals are fleeing. There is electricity in the air; I know I should not be here. There is a loud bang in the distance and as I approach a small field and I am overcome by the lack of colour. Something has happened here. Ash covers the field like dust and steaming piles of rubble and debris crush the ground. Flowers are burning, their beautiful colours charred and melting away. I cannot understand what I'm seeing. Humans appear to be resting on the ground at awkward angles, it doesn't look right. Metallic beasts soar overhead and a loud bang ruptures the air and I feel myself knocked and thrown off course by the waves. Fire erupts on the far side of the field, humans are running, the birds are long gone, I shouldn't be here, I should have listened to the signs. Another bang shatters the airwaves and this time it hits me so hard I am thrown towards a group of bodies. I regain my control and flutter over one of the humans and land on his left cheek. This usually brings me pleasure, as I feel laughter chasing me as I land, but this time his face is ashen and cold, eyes still open but his smile long gone.
…
A cold morning in summer, a white butterfly rests gently on graves already forming. | 16 | You are an animal present at a WWII battlefield. | 28 |
"I'm Maude." A young girl called out to him.
"Go away." He said, sneering.
"No." Stated the girl.
"One word: Go. Two words: Not happening. Three words: Don't even try. Four words: Get the hell out."
He had always been handsome. Women flocked to him, much to the annoyance of everyone else. But he was four hundred years old now, looking a rugged mid-forties. After his third wife died of old age, he just couldn't do it again. Even the few who had emotional and intellectual maturity well beyond their years seemed childish.
And she looked *maybe* fifteen. Even if she were fifty, she'd still die well before him. He scowled just for entertaining the thought that he might find someone to be with him for a couple of centuries, after which he'd look sixty and she'd still be dead. With centuries to grieve.
Never again. One more time would break him. Cutting off this line of thought, he noticed that she was smirking at him... looking surprisingly predatory.
"All right then. How about a quick fuck and we go our separate ways?" She said.
Ignoring her seemed to be the best course of action, which he adopted immediately, deciding to instead observe the bubbles in his beer glass.
"Then again, I bet you get all the vapid young girls you want with that dark brooding thing you have going on there. You're an idiot." She carried on, still standing resolute.
He had to admire her persistence. Most girls would have given up by now. She had to be older than twenty one to enter the bar, so she'd live to be at least a hundred and fifty, that would be one hundred and forty years from now. And really, the last thirty years of no women were getting to be a bit much. Still...
"You're a young one, aren't you? I look young so you're not interested. Like the big breasted type?" She half-accused, half-mocked.
His first wife died at fifty. They started dating when he was just a couple of decades past puberty, at the ripe young age of a hundred and twenty. Even as she grew gaunt, she was still gorgeous in his eyes. The passion hadn't left him. Their two children were already dead, as were most of their grandchildren and great grandchildren. She didn't care that he looked young, and in return, he didn't care that she was young. They loved enough for it to never matter. His eyes were completely blank when thinking about her nowadays. It didn't hurt anymore.
"No... not young. Definitely not young. Two hundred? No, you have to pretend to be annoyed. Three hundred maybe." The girl continued.
He looked at her again. She was poised, perfectly in control of her posture and body language. She wasn't taken in by his looks. It was something else. Just like his second wife. She looked rather average. Breasts a little too small, nose a little too big, ears jutting out too much, and a crooked grin. But those two centuries together were amazing. They had no children... she was incapable. But they just fit together. He could sit in the lounge, reading a book and sipping on some brandy, but just by entering the room they he could remember that all that needed to be said has been said, and everything was now better. The first century is the most exciting, but so difficult. The second century was the peaceful reward. Thirty years later, and he still felt phantom pains from her lacking presence.
"Allow me to rephrase: I asked the bartender for your age. With any luck, we'll live long enough to grow old and die together." The woman-who-looked-like-a-girl whispered.
Looking at her, this time, more than a cursory glance showed him a lot more. She was no young woman. Her eyes... they showed not only the courage of the young, nor just the loss of the middle agers, outliving their loved ones.
"What the hell. I'm Richard." He said, holding out his hand.
Instead of shaking it, she took him by the elbow, put a few bills on the bar, and whispered into his ear: "we'll just start with the sex, talking takes far too many decades for now."
He thought to himself that perhaps he could like this one. But that is an altogether different story. | 12 | A world in which when people are born, they grow older at completely random different rates. | 22 |
"I thank you for releasing me", the blindfolded woman said.
"I don't understand," said the Professor. "How can this be? People don't live that long. If you were truly the Oracle, you would have died long ago."
"This would be true, if I were a mortal. Long ago, I opposed the god Apollo and told the Roman Emperor Theodosius of the fate of his empire. To punish me, Apollo entombed me here, and cursed me with immortality. My punishment was to forever see the future, but never be able to change it. In gratitude, I will tell you three things. Then I will die."
"Wait!" Cried the Professor, "We have so many questions! Please you must live and tell the world of what you have seen!"
"No," demurred the Oracle, "For I have lived too long, seeing too much, and have grown weary of this world. This I tell you now. Your first love will be a mistake. Your second will be a tragedy. And your third will be written of by poets a millennium in the future.
Know this, son of Apollo. When the black sun rises, seek to the east, for the darkness fears the light. And when all seems lost, find the mother of orphans, for she knows the way."
With each word, her skin grew more sallow and brittle. As the final words left her mouth, the Oracle crumbled into dust.
The Professor and his team stood there in silence. No words could describe what they felt. One by one they quietly left the sacred chamber. Finally, only the Professor and his Assistant were left.
"What a waste!" cried the Assistant. "All of this work for nothing!"
"No," disagreed the Professor, "Feel gladdened, my friend. For we are among the privileged few to have heard the Last True Prophecy of Delphi." | 42 | The archaeological team excavating the recently discovered tomb in Greece has finally broken into the main chamber. Instead of discovering a burial chamber, they encounter a young woman seated upon a dais. The woman states she is the Oracle of Delphi and thanks them for releasing her. | 87 |
In a little secluded corner of the Kingdom, about a good 45 minutes walk from the Pearly Gates, is a little restaurant and jazz club by the name of *Purgatorio*. It's a nice place; Sinatra's always playing and Erminia Matticchio, the woman who taught Lidia Bastianich everything she knows, cooks the best food in town. Plus Dante runs the place so it runs like a clock. Now if you can find the place, and you're willing to wade through the cigar smoke, you'll find a booth in the back with a perfect view of Frankie on stage. You'll have to ask someone in the know if you want to be seated there, however, because that table is occupied by some of the brightest minds to ever pass through the Gates.
"...and it turns out I was writing about Jesus the whole time. Heck, that's the only reason I was even let through the Gates in the first place. And at the time, I was just having a lark and writing down what was in my head. Talk about Chekov's Gun, eh?"
Vergil finished his story before finally sipping the macchiato in his hands. He was holding the coffee through the whole spiel, but when an old Italian wants to tell you a story, he'll stop whatever he's doing to tell it. He took a good, long sip before being interrupted.
"And how is that Chekov's gun, my friend?" It was Gogol, his dessert untouched, but his glass empty. "I may not have met the man personally, but it takes a Rusky to know one. I don't think you can just call a happy coincidence 'Chekov's Gun'."
Vergil put the coffee down. "'It's the Gun because if it gets mentioned, it's important. That simple."
"You can't just write something down and say it's the Gun, Virgy."
Vergil eyed Crichton. "You know I hate that little nickname, Mikey."
Crichton eyed him back with a smile. "Alright, you God damned Proto-Wop." Chrichton was not and is not known for censoring his tongue. "Like I was saying, you can't just write it. You have to specifically include it. If your story is true, and you're famous for making up all sorts of bullshit, then it was an accident. You have to put the detail in on purpose."
"What do you mean, 'bullshit'?"
"Well Vergil, you did make up a story about a fucking Turk travelling around the Mediterranean, banging a hot Lebanese bitch, and travelling to an afterlife that, we can all agree, did not exist. I think that counts as bullshit."
"Really Mike? What about the time you had pirates fight a kraken?"
All at the table looked to Crichton, who looked just a little flustered.
"I wasn't finished with it yet. The kraken was a placeholder. And all the other fantastic stuff in my novels was for satire. Talking monkeys, dinosaurs, all of it."
Gogol chimed back in. "And as a satirist, you can agree that every detail is in there for a reason. Sorry Vergil, I'm sticking with Mike here."
"Now hang on, Nicky. The wop may not have meant to use the gun, but the gun still got used." Mike chuckled to himself under his breath. "Maybe the literary police should regulate Chekov's Gun more..."
The sole feminine face at the table slammed her vodka glass on the table. "That joke is brainless and harmful to individual rights."
That's Rand for ya. When she's calm she writes a more subtle satire like *Anthem* or *The Fountainhead*. Rile her up and you get a textbook sized rant with the density of a brick; *Atlas Shrugged*, anyone?
"If something comes about in an individual's life, it is because their *ego* called for it. They, with the rights within themselves, performed that act of their own free will. If Vergil used the Gun, it is because he chose too. If he didn't, then it is because Vergil chose for himself. I believe that Vergil used the Gun, but not inadvertently. Rather, his *ego* called out from within, like an oppressed proletariat..."
Gogol nudged her in the shoulder. "Jeez, Ayn, you're making us look bad. Gotta give the Ruskies a good name."
If Rand was not in full rage before, she was now. "I hold no kinship to you, slave of the imperialist Tsars!"
Now the four began to argue loudly. Other tables were looking at them, murmuring about Vergil's characteristic embellishment (and when I have killed you, the only ones to mourn you shall be the rivers and streams of your homeland, where the nymphs shall cry like the spring rains...), Crichton's outlandish but effective verbal jabs and metaphors, and the cute love-hate relationship between the two very different Russian satirists.
The fifth person at the table cleared his throat. Then he took the cigar out of his mouth. The group went silent. "Now see, now see, now see here my compatriots...." Twain's Southern drawl cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, but slowly and with grace. "We have been through and shared much in un-life. I remember when all of us were just sitting around, waiting in the namesake of this here establishment, lost in our own misdeeds. I remember the glee in all of us when we finally made it to the Gates. Can we not simply agree to disagree?"
He went ignored. The argument was restored.
Again Twain butted in. This time however...
**BANG**
The table was silent. The whole club was silent. Even Frankie Blue Eye stopped singing. On the other end of the club there was some moaning, followed by swears.
"Fuck! Mahk, you uncultua'd piece of shit!"
Good old Johnny K walked over to the booth, hole in his head. Again. He was pissed for a man who had been shot before.
"What the fuck do you think you'ah doing? I'm having flashbahks!"
Twain put the gun on the table and put his hands on his lapel. "Mr. President, Johnny boy, we're just discussing Chekhov's Gun, and I needed mine to calm the discussion."
John put his hands on his hips, the wound in his head healed at a heavenly rate.
"Well Mahk, things do not happen. Things ah made to happen. I guess if I was shot, then it was because the highah powah just a few blocks away willed it. If the author wills it, then it's Chekhov's Gun."
JFK then grabbed Twain by the collar. "And if you don't cahm the fuck down, I'm gonna shove youa gun up youa shittah!"
JFK turned to the club behind him and rose his arms to embrace the limelight. "Why'd the music stahp? Frankie, let's heah some jazz!"
The club was back to it's usual din. The Five were speechless for a few minutes, before Twain rose his hand inquisitively.
"Anyone up for another round of drinks? Or would yall prefer to order a few plates of red herring."
| 16 | Five of your favourite authors are sitting around a table discussing Chekov's gun. In the end, a man gets shot. | 64 |
"Mrs. Williams, please have a seat." Dr. Evanston's hands shook as he held his clipboard in front of him. Two military police, armed to the teeth, stood next to him. "We discovered an... abnormality during your husband's autopsy." Susan blinked at the doctor, unsure what to make of his comment. "Is everything alright?", she asked. The doctor took a breath. "We came across a thin calcified structure in his brain that was not there in an X-ray just before the start of his career. However a later X-ray just after his first big break shows it quite clearly. Upon further inspection of later X-rays, we see that it has been there ever since. We weren't looking for it so it went unnoticed."
The guards shifted their weight as the woman pressed her question. "What does that mean? Why does this involve the military?"
"Upon its removal, the entire hospital crew was afflicted by a strange illness... It was fatal to everyone. The entire building population was found on the ground, their mouths agape and eyes wide open."
A man in a sharp black suit and sunglasses wordlessly entered the room as the doctor continued.
"DARPA got word of the incident and confiscated the item. Long story short, it was implanted into a test subject who was able to incapacitate anyone with just a few words. With a few more, he could... kill them."
Susan shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "What does this mean? What does it have to do with me?"
The man in the suit suddenly spoke up, his voice low but strangely intimidating. "It's just a formality, ma'am. Since your husbands remains are involved, we simply need you to sign a few papers to pass ownership to us, a non-disclosure agreement, things like that. I assure you it's nothing. Sign here please."
Susan signed the papers immediately, perhaps too quickly. She didn't know why but she felt as if she had to, given the circumstances.
Even before she finished dotting the I of her name, the man in the suit pulled the clipboard out of her hands, leaving a trail of ink across the page. He put his wrist to his mouth and pressed a button on his lapel pin.
"Get me the President. Operation Funny Bone is a go." | 18 | The autopsy of a celebrity unveils a discovery that could change the face of civilization as we know it. | 29 |
"Go on a nice cruise" she had told me. "You've been working too hard. Take your mind off things, travel for a bit. I got this for you."
Rick sprawled out on his cabins bunk, reminiscing on the moment his adoring wife Teresa had looked at him with such sympathy it made his heart ache. She had handed him a blank envelope with a cruise ticket inside. He had never considered a cruise before, but at the moment it felt so right. So....necessary.
It had been a hard year for the married couple. The loss of their only child, the demanding work flow. Their days had been filled with darkness. He needed a break, and his wife knew it. He feared she had blamed him for the loss of their daughter. He was supposed to be watching her when she was taken. The cruise was a nice surprise...it eased his mind. Without so much as a second thought, he boarded the cruise liner with a single bag, his loving wife waving him off in the distance. Smiling.
"She should be here with me" He had thought. "Its been a hard year for her too."
And now here he sits, sprawled out on his bunk, fearing the worst.
The first couple days had been amazing. Endless fun, with carefree gambling below deck, water sports above deck, the finest gourmet food delivered quietly to his cabin unnannounced and unnoticed.
"Everyone is so happy" Rick remembered thinking to himself. "This is exactly what I need right now".
He was grateful. Grateful to his adoring wife, to his job for giving him the time off he needed for this cruise.
"I was so stupid" Rick muttered to himself, still spraweled out on his bunk. The heat was almost unbearable now, and it was only getting worse.
On the third day of the cruise, Rick had begun to feel uneasy. He remembered thinking to himself, "Why haven't I seen a single crew member?". It was obvious to him now.
There was a knock at his door.
Rick climbed down from his bunk and made his way to the cabins door. He opened it.
"It's almost time, brother" said the man at the door. He was well-groomed, his face split by an unnaturally wide smile. He almost looked plastic.
"You're a fool. An unsightly, abnormal, fool" Rick hissed at the man. It took everything in him not to beat him to a pulp right then and there. He had befriended the man at the start of the cruise. At the time, he appreciated how happy the man had always been. Now, he hated him for it.
"Now, now, no need for unpleasantries, brother. Follow me above deck. You wont want to miss this"
Rick resigned to his fate and followed the man above deck, sweat beading on his forehead. The heat was almost too much to handle now. They made their way through the decks entrace. Rick glared at the bright light. It was almost blinding. He could make out the countless cruise residents standing single file, rowed and columbed like soldiers. Standing stiff. All staring. Staring at the source of the heat.
At nearly 2,000 ft long and with a breadth of nearly 300ft, "Titan" was a massive ship. It had been designed to provide the fullest experience in the Galaxy. The "VIP" experience is what Rick had been signed on for. A 5 day cruise through the Milkyway, bending around planets and moons, taking in the full beauty of their home galaxy.
"This is not beauty" Rick thought to himself. "This is Hell".
As "Titan" grew ever closer to the light, the Sun, Rick watched as the front row of men collapsed under the blinding light and unbearable heat. Row by row they fell, before it finally made it's way to Rick.
"It wasn't my fault" He thought his final thoughts, lost vision and collapsed, as "Titan" drove itself full force into the Sun.
Teresa sipped her morning coffee and read her morning news. The headline made her smile.
"Extremist cult, 'Sons of Sun', takes its final journey. Thousands die in suicide galaxy cruise".
She glanced upwards to the sky.
"It's sunny today" She thought to herself, quite pleased.
**Edited "room" into "cabin" per the advice of /u/huntruder38** | 61 | You are on a cruise. However, you slowly start to realize that something is not right. | 73 |
I stood there, tray of food in my hand, watching as the old man popped his lower jaw out of it's socket. It sounded like someone had just unscrewed a Snapple cap. He looked up at me expectantly, his jaw loosely hanging off his face. I didn't know whether to scream or to find help.
He wasn't wrong of course. He had just finished the calamari he had ordered as a starter. When he saw me approaching with his three cheese tortellini, he pushed his empty plate away from his person, rubbed his hands together and said the terribly sinister line. It was as if something profoundly dark was about to take place, something other than say, a lonely man about to eat the dinner he had ordered at an Olive Garden. Yet he delivered the line like a Bradbury villain, forcibly popped his jaw out of it's socket, and I just stood there, unaware of how to proceed.
Finally, when I couldn't stand looking at his ghastly face for another second, I placed his dinner on the table in front of him, leaned over so my face was next to his, and whispered, "If you don't put your jaw back in it's place right now, I will fucking rip it off. You ordered tortellini you psycho, you don't even have to open your mouth wide to eat it."
When I stood back up I could tell the old man was visibly upset. His eyes were staring through a sheen of tears. His loose jaw quickly bobbed up and down, due to his lower lip quivering from what I could tell. He popped it back in place, again the Snapple cap, and turned to eat his meal.
He caused no further problems for the rest of the evening. Ate everything on his plate. Didn't order dessert. Tipped me 10%. Asshole. | 17 | "That was just an appetizer." Said the old man, wide-eyed, as he proceeded to manually dislocate his own jaw. "Now, for the main dish!" | 27 |
"How do you plead?"
The silence pushed oppressively at every ear in the room. He said nothing.
"I repeat, how do you plead?"
Still, the man stood stone-faced as if he had not heard the judge.
"Defendant, you are aware of the charges. If found guilty, you will face the death penalty. You must give the court your plea."
"I have no plea." He stated simply and flatly. "My plea was for death, by my own hand. I have been denied it, and now face death at your hand. What does it matter? If I should fall to my knees and beg, what could you do? Release me to finish what I began, or detain me to give me what I want? Neither would serve your purposes. And so, I do not plead."
The cold and sterile grey walls echoed with the last syllables. The judge in his black raiment stood, his wigged head level with the bottom of the large crest above him; an eagle perched on a fist above a pile of arrows and branches. "You have effectively confessed to a crime against the Sovereign State. You must now plead guilty. If you refuse, you will have to be persuaded through less orthodox means."
His defiant facade cracked and shattered, falling away from the broken man like a clay mold. Still holding his head high, he opened his mouth as a single tear crept down his cheek. "I plead-" he broke off, clenching his teeth. "I plead guilty." He clutched the cold steel of the stand, his knuckles white.
"Very well. Number 146023, you are found guilty of attempted destruction of government property. You are deemed defective and will be executed at sunrise."
The man shuffled out of the courtroom, led by armed gaurds. His place was taken by another man in drab grey, shackled hand and foot. The proceedings began again as they faded from the doomed prisoners ears.
"Number 147304, you are charged with attempted destruction of government property. How do you plead?" | 29 | A defendant is on trial for attempted suicide. The prosecution is pursuing the death penalty. | 71 |
It was just the cashier and one customer. The cashier wore a nametag that said, "Bill". The customer wore no such identification, in fact, had gone to cartoonish lengths to hide his features under a wide brimmed hat and beneath a baggy, beige trenchcoat.
The customer didn't dally, but walked straight up to the items he required: a six of Bud Light longnecks and a family size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. He then went to the counter and asked for a pack of Camel Wides.
The cashier said, "Am I going to have to tell Michelle on you, Barry?"
The customer snorted underneath his hat. "Only if I get to tell Hillary about your second job."
Bill smiled, ringing up the few items. "So how'd you give them the slip this time?"
"Roofies for the guys at the door. Nobody looked at me twice otherwise. You?"
Bill shrugged, "She's stopped asking where I go nights."
"Learning anything?"
"Only that 'I've got one of those faces' works just about every time to avoid questions, but not second looks really."
"You still liking this?"
"It still gives me an ear to the ground in Washington, so yeah. Besides, if taxes keep going they way they are, I might just need the money."
The customer looked up enough to glare at the cashier while still keep the camera from getting a full look at his face. He then handed the cashier a twenty without asking the price.
"See you around, Bill."
"See you around, Barry."
The customer left without another word, skulking back to the most iconic building in America. Bill, on the other hand, stepped around from behind the counter and went back to mopping, relieve that he no longer had to make that trek himself. | 145 | Its 2am in Washington DC and Bill has the night shift at the Gas-n-Go. The President comes in and buys a six pack, a bag of Doritos and a pack of cigarettes. He is by himself. | 180 |
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