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Detective Farmer was a few months short of retirement and he had been assigned to the "Euthanasia Division" after he had dropped papers six months ago. His primary duty now was to confirm that the deceased had indeed ordered their own passing. Every single one of his cases so far had been open and shut with obvious clues that the murder was staged by a professional Suicider.
"Meet Your Maker" was the premier Assisted Suicide firm and the cost for their services was exorbitant. Their "Suiciders" were the best at what they did, and what they did was based on the company's "Menu." One Menu item in particular was "Unsolved Murder." This Menu Item is what Detective Farmer usually encountered during his eight hour shifts. Meet Your Maker and the Police Department had an understanding - the Suiciders would leave behind a specific forensic calling card. This ensured that the lead Detective knew who "dun it" but also allowed for the general public (and family) to believe the particular client was actually murdered. In turn, the Department received a kick back for not ‘solving’ the murder. It was legal, in a sense.
Detective Farmer took inventory of the scene in front of him. It had the look of a Suicider murder, but it also felt wrong. The ‘victim’ was a young business woman; attractive, on the rise, single, and now dead. She was strangled, which was typical of a Suicider (the client usually did not want to upset their family with an overly gruesome death), but she had also been raped and drugged. He expected to discover the telltale clue, indicating a Suicider murder, somewhere within the high rise apartment, but was not having much luck. The clue he did find was not current on the Suicider list. He remembered it from previous approved lists, but this was from an expired list. *Damn, Farmer thought, so much for skating through to retirement.* This was a murder disguised as a suicide disguised as a murder.
Farmer produced a flask from his spot coat and took a long pull. *This is going to be a bitch.*
| 13 | The US has legalized assisted suicide, and a new crop of companies have sprung up to help people off themselves with "minimum hassle and cleanup." | 39 |
Today, I was standing outside of a coffee shop finishing a pipe. Pipe-smoking has become insanely inconvenient, over the last few decades especially. There's something I still like about it, though. The way the bowl of the pipe gets warm is very comforting. Someone like me needs as much comfort as I can get. With a sigh, I puffed the last of the tobacco, and tapped the pipe on the concrete planter I was leaning against. The ash fell out onto the ground, slowly washing away in the rainwater left from the morning showers. As I was putting the pipe back into my jacket pocket, something inside the shop caught my eye. A girl was sitting at the blue table by the window. She looked to be in her early twenties, and she looked distressed. Her hand was on her forehead, her shoulders slumped forward.
The whole situation seemed interesting, so naturally I stepped into the shop. I hesitated next to the blue table, but carried on when the girl glanced in my direction. At the counter, I ordered without even thinking - My mind was on the girl. "Twenty ounce americano, please. Three shots." What was wrong with her? She was going to get so many wrinkles.
I set some cash on the counter and wandered toward the door, and stared out the window. Conveniently, the reflection of the girl's laptop shone brightly on the glass. Yikes. On the screen was an ugly notification asking a Bridgett Cook to make her next payment on her house. It looked like she was a few months behind.
"Triple shot americano," called out the barista behind the counter. After a moment, I moved to the counter and picked it up, thanking her for the beverage. "No problem!" she responded. She seems happy enough. The first girl still had my full attention though. Really, I knew what I wanted to do. But I was just waiting for the 'magic words', so to speak. I quietly laughed into my coffee.
It took me twenty minutes to sip down the americano, and the girl still hadn't said anything. I had all the time in the world, but that isn't always the case with humans. Bridgett had packed her backpack, and walked up to the counter. Apparently she knew the barista though, because she struck up a conversation with her.
"Did you figure anything out, Bridge?" The barista pulled shots into two brightly shining shot glasses.
"No, I didn't. I just wish I could get caught up on my house payment. It's just so hard to catch up when you've gotten behind. You know?" Bridgett knocked back the first shot of espresso.
"I gotcha. At least you have a job again, right?" The barista shot the other glass.
"I suppose. If I can figure out how to pay this and next month, I should be able to get caught up on the next one." Bridgett wiped the crema from the espresso off on the back of her hand.
The conversation continued, I'm sure. I don't know where it went from there though, because I had heard what I had wanted to hear. Later, Bridgett Cook would open her computer to a new notification - Her house had been paid for in full by an anonymous individual. All of the paperwork would check out, and it would fall into place perfectly.
The clouds gathered above me, and thunder rolled as I walked down the street.
I do love a good rain. | 71 | You're a free Genie living in the real world and still discretely grant wishes when you hear them. Tell me what it's like to be you. | 73 |
"Mmhmm, this is the part I love, when everything just... comes together." Said Bob, a dew of sweat on his brow.
I couldn't look away. His pallet consisted of every possibility of fleshtones from goth white to coffee brown, along with a smattering of pinks and whites.
"He makes it seem so easy, god, I wish I had aunt Margaret's talents, she can whip up a mountain just as fast as he can." Said Mom, snuggled up with Dad on the sofa.
"Well, man's a genius, no doubt about that."
"A-and now... we're gonna paint a happy little bush. Riiiiiight here. Right above the valley. Yeah. Yeah, right there, that's just how I like it. Don't you?"
I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I've finally lost my mind, if I'd achieved some level of super puberty that enables me to pornify anything I saw. Not skipping a beat, Bob began painting the curves of what appeared to be a pasty white butt in the corner.
"When you get to this part, just think rolling hills, just nice, round, smooth. Hills you could have a picnic on for hours." He licked his lips, the camera zoomed in much closer to his face than usual tonight, his eyes almost never blinking, wide with excitement.
"This is really shaping up. Peaks and valleys, we can tell this is a very moist... lush atmosphere, so we're gonna give it a little weather, yeah, maybe a golden shower at sunset, doesn't that sound nice?"
Part of me wanted to run, part of me wanted to hurl, but the better part of me had no choice to see this through. Mom flipped through pages on her Kindle, disengaged, Dad was watching, but his eyes were sagging, heavy and tired.
"And over here we're gonna put a big old log, yeah, big happy log, sticking out of these bushes. Hmm... maybe a little darker, so we can tell this thing is used to being wet. Yeah, there we go. Now that's a happy log."
His pupils were wide as saucepans, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he turned back to the camera.
"Well, I think this one is almost done, it's very, very, very close now. So close. I don't usually paint wildlife, but just this once, I think I'll throw in a wild stall-" The TV clicked off suddenly, Dad was grunting to his feet.
"Okay, kiddo, time for bed. Big day tomorrow." | 52 | You're watching Bob Ross with your parents when you realize he's quite obviously painting a very NSFW oil on canvas of something. Your folks don't seem to notice, and Bob Ross continues describing things as though it's some magnificent landscape. (NSFW) | 89 |
It is not a block. A block implies a halt, a stillness. It is anything but still. It is a torrent, a cacophony. It is a swirling, roaring tempest from which I try to wrest a twisted modicum of coherence. There is beauty there, and eloquence, struggling to get free. Worlds form and shatter, ideas coalesce and dissolve, all begging for life, praying for a chance.
I try. I long to bring them into this world, to pull them from the aether and weave them into reality, but the translation is lost. My words are clumsy things, unfit to house the perfection born within the storm inside my mind. What instead belches forth is a mockery, a warped and twisted doppleganger that insults the very vision from which it was inspired.
But in those moments, those glorious flashes of clarity when the seas have calmed and the winds have died, I am happy. The words flow forth and my fingertips dance and that which has been wrested from the storm takes form in perfect, poetic lucidity. Whilst I am nestled in the Eye, I am at peace. The gales rage around me, but I lie still, and for a short, silent time, I can dream. I can *write*. | 12 | Write me a beautiful, poetic passage about writer's block | 15 |
Steven awoke with a start. The sound of a gunshot echoed across the front lawn. His wife was not next to him as she normally would have been.
The fear embraced him almost immediately as he realised what could have happened. After his second of doubt, he darted across the room to the closed window.
It was a nice window really, a beautiful stained glass number, with what some would have defined to be a majestic stallion rearing up on a hill in front of a shining sun. I feel it looked more like a pony attempting a back flip in front of a misshapen lemon but no one ever really asks me.
Steven opened the window to attempt to discern the source of the gunshot. The first thing that caught his eye was a rabbit calmly munching on a patch of grass. It was a fluffy creature, quite plump and would have gone quite well in a stew.
Stevens mind was not really considering the culinary delights of a rabbit stew unfortunately, rather what could have occurred to his missing wife, which is is really quite sad. He was quite the cook and was known amongst friends for his roasting techniques, to which that rabbit would have tasted quite excellent and impressed many of his friends. Perhaps the skin could have even made a nice hat for the winter. It has been quite cold around here.
As Steven glanced out the window he saw his wife across the yard holding a large rifle. She was also quite well known for her cooking abilities, lesser so her abilities with a weapon. His realisation that the rabbit was now standing almost directly between his gun wielding spouse was short lived when his wife felt it a good idea to attempt a shot at the small creature, which missed completely, ricocheting off a large rock and impacting Steven in the chest.
I wish people would perhaps consider the rights of such small creatures in the future, they do have feelings after all. I believe that the rabbit would have felt a sense of justice, if he could indeed feel those things at the knowledge of Steven bleeding out slowly in his bedroom. Fortunately for the rabbit, he was now safe and warm back in his hole, safe from stews, pies and roasts. | 34 | Write a story with an unreliable narrator. | 54 |
We were on the road back to our homes, which for me was the small villiage of Startarea. As we'd travelled from the black mountain, each member of our team had departed, one by one in the order we had met them, until only Shinja and myself were left. The villages and towns we passed through now looked so familiar but different, smaller, maybe it was me and not they who had changed.
Six months ago I had been just a boy, a simple fisherman. That day so long ago, the sword washed onto the beach and with a cry I grasped it and my world had changed. *I'd changed*. Fastened to my hand and imbued with the spirit of the land, I was charged to destroy the ancient evil ones and after long battled and hardships, with my faithful team I had accomplished my goal.
Soon, Shinja and I would be coming up on Junon town, where we had first met and when we arrived, we would be parting for a while. I couldn't imagine not having him near me, not having him at my side, fighting, sleeping and travelling, but for now we were to return home to see the families we had left behind
I'd come across Shinji in the central square of Junon, playing Kooji ball with the locals. He'd dismissed me immediately; I remember him laughing "How can a stranger play Kooji ball with a sword for a hand?" All the boys had laughed but not for long. Defeating the assembled boys one by one until finally Shinji and I had met, first in at Kooji ball and then in battle.
Ha, that battle! How embarrassing to have been hitting each other with basic thrusts and parries and only causing such few points of damage to each other. Now my fists and wrists glinted with each of the beads of power, a simple flick would have a god like beast, slaved to my control, ready to destroy anything in our path.
Along the dusty track I saw an Icewolf, crouched in the bushes -oh how small they seemed now and how terrifying they had seemed back then. This might be almost fun. I considered letting loose with a gout of magical fire, or beam of Ice but, remembering the beads, I casually flicked the bead of Ichor to the ground and in moments the huge black beast was summoned and in front of me, towering and vast.
I looked down at the Icewolf, poor simple beast that it was, it had bounded out into the road and stood, snapping at the heels of Ichor then rearing back and seemingly waiting to learn its fate. With a twitch of one of its claws Ichor flicked the Icewolf away and into the bushes, split perfect in half.
I looked to my side and Shinji was doubled over in laughter, tears running down his face and soon the feeling crept over me as well. I doubled up and together we stood, hunched in a fit of giggles, which the dark God Ichor watched silently, bemused.
Seemingly with a sigh, Ichor shrunk down and again the bead glinted on my wrist. At last we managed to recover from our laughter and continue, home was not far and I hoped to see my father before night. It was his guidance that had led me to the evil ones and now I wanted to show him how powerful I had become.
Linking arms with Shinji, we continued on our new adventure - returning home.
*****
EDIT: did a bit of cleaning up.
| 10 | What happend to the rpg hero after he saved the world. | 17 |
Milo, Mary, and Peter are your typical American family, with sunshine, a dog, and a big backyard. Milo and Mary love each other dearly, but Milo is hiding a secret that'll put this happy home through a wild ride - he used to be a movie star!
Milos brother, Mark, is a failed actor and was jealous of his more famous bigger brother. He "innocently" leaks his brothers location to the press, and the paparazzi go hogwild. Mary is a bit shocked about her husbands past, but when Peter comes home saying that he had the best day ever and told everyone how awesome his dad is, she accepts it.
People hound Milo day in and day out for movie roles, and the family goes through some wacky hijinks in order to avoid them, even pretending that the dog can talk and is telling people to leave! Eventually, though, Milo misses acting just enough to take a role. As he bids his wife and kid goodbye, Mark sees his chance to take the life he always wanted. He looks almost exactly like Milo - now to see if Milo's wife can overlook his less than graceful style.
Will Milo rise to fame again? Will Mark convince Mary that he's the one? Will Peter's school beat the Jets at the game of the year? Watch "A Suburbian Film" to find out, coming out this Christmas!
| 37 | Give a well-known, R-rated movie plot the "Disney treatment," changing its rating to G. | 87 |
A single penny sat forlornly in the gutter of a busy street. The rains from the previous day had washed dirt and refuse around and over it, but underneath the filth, it still gleamed brightly in the morning sun.
A small child stooped to pick it up, one hand still clutching his mother's as they stepped off the curb to cross the street. His mother scolded him for picking up trash, but the little boy was ecstatic about his newfound treasure.
After a day spent being shown to anyone who would listen, the penny was deposited in a jar on the boy's dresser. Days and weeks went by and the jar began to fill with other coins, almost overflowing with change. The little boy had been saving up for a new toy he wanted to buy, and finally he had enough. Jar in hand, his mother drove him to the store and there the penny and many others were sorted into their own little cash register drawer compartment. The little boy went home happy, new toy in hand.
The penny circulated through the cash register drawers for several weeks, always being shoved to the bottom of that one little compartment, until one day it was finally handed to a tall man with a beard with his change.
The man stuffed the cash into his pocket and grabbed the case of beer he had purchased as he grumbled to himself under his breath. He walked out to his red, rusty pickup truck and heaved the beer into the passenger side seat as he climbed in.
Once home, the tall man deposited the coins in his pocket into a glass dish on the kitchen counter and stuffed the beer into the yellowing fridge of his small apartment. A short woman peeked through the doorway of the kitchen and whispered a greeting before retreating to her room.
That night the man drank himself into an alcohol-fueled rage and the penny sat in the glass dish and bore witness to the shouting match that escalated when the man hit the woman and called her names for making a mistake as simple as washing the wrong load of laundry first.
Day in and day out for a month, the penny laid in the dish on the kitchen counter as the man and woman screamed and yelled at each other, until one day the man suddenly did not come home, and the woman feverishly began packing up her things. She took the money from the dish and dumped it in her purse, she took the keys on the hook by the door, and she took her few earthly possessions with her as she walked out the door into the promise of a new day.
The penny was with her longer than anyone else, watching from a new dish on the kitchen counter as she healed, fell in love again, and moved in with another man who treated her the way she deserved to be treated.
That penny was one of the few that finally allowed the new couple to put a down payment on a new, beautiful house far away from the toxicity of the urban environment.
Days melted into weeks into months as the penny passed from one hand to the next, traveling across the country more than once as people journeyed out from their homes.
One day, nearly a near after it had been picked up by that little boy, the penny found itself once again sitting in a gutter on some busy street very far away from where it had begun its journey. This time, the rain had washed away some of the grime accumulated over the months of travel instead of adding to it.
A little girl looked down at the gutter as she waited for the bus with her parents, and her eyes lit up when she saw the telltale glimmer of coppery metal amongst the dead leaves and cigarettes butts. She reached down, and her tiny fingers closed around the penny, carefully pulling it up from below the curb.
"Mommy, look what I found!" she exclaimed as she held it out for her parents to see. "Do you think I can get that book now?"
The couple smiled and her mother knelt down beside her to kiss her forehead. "Maybe, sweetheart. Let's go and find out."
The little girl clutched tightly to her treasure as they boarded the bus, silently thanking whoever had left that one lonely penny behind. | 14 | Follow a year in the life of a small-denomination coin, as it passes from hand to hand. The coin isn't sapient or aware in any way, it's just a normal coin. How does it change the lives of those it interacts with? | 17 |
Urist gingerly squeezed the brass actuator, and the hammer snapped forward with a neat metallic clap.
His shop had seen all manner of wares pass through - the Pass of Arkhaz was home to merchants of every shape, and their weapons decorated the walls of his cramped shop. Thin, mirror-like Elven blades sat next to handsome Orcish ironwood axes; noble Dwarven hammers mingled with Underfolk's short-spears on worn racks; there was even a stand of slender Edithian blowguns, and from the tall rafters of the shop hung a Giant's bow, split from the trunk of a proud oak, arrows taller than the crafty shopkeep himself.
But he had never possessed a Human gun. He rarely saw anything from the realm of Men, being so far West, but he had heard the stories: distant empires, across the Green Sea, who fought with fire and smoke, who had abandoned the art of armor-smithing as useless against their own weapons.
And now, looking at the polished steel device in front of him, Urist almost believed it. The Dwarves built machines, of course, but they were massive and strong, as all Dwarven crafts. He had never seen a gear smaller than his thumb - by the Mountain, it was tiny - and the Human's trick of storing motion in a 'spring' seemed more like magic than metallurgy.
"And this," the unkempt man in front of him produced a thin copper cylinder, "is a long-sight, designed for the device."
"And it does what?"
"Well, it lets you see further, so you can hit distant targets."
Urist chuckled. *That,* he knew, was a joke. | 158 | "It's human-made, you know!" Reverse the usual fantasy scene where somebody gushes over elf/dwarf/whatever craftsmanship. | 128 |
Professor Lancaster paced the lengths of his steady, puffing his signature cob pipe. His latest revelation had kept him up the past 3 nights.
Documents, photographs and pin-dotted maps of ancient Earth covered the walls of his study. It looked like the work of a madman.
"They'll call me a fool. A senile old fool." He muttered to himself, taking a long draw from his pipe. "I know better, though."
At 62 years old, Thaddius Lancaster had lived a priviledged life. He had been to every major archeological dig site in the world. India would been his latest venture. His most rewarding discovery.
He stopped his pacing and hesitated at his desk, eyeing one of the photographs. He took another draw from his pipe, and held the smoke. Placing the pipe on the desk, he picked up the photograph.
"A simple cave drawing at first glance." He thought to himself, exhaling a pillow of smoke. "I'll have to convince them to look closer."
He had been in Spain in the fall, September to be exact, following a trail of clues that had spanned the past decade. The first clue had been subtle and underwhelming. A burial site. Neanderthals had been known to practice burials, a sign of higher culture. They weren't simple "cavemen" anymore. He turned his glance towards the left-most wall of his study. Glass cased shelves containing various artifacts met his gaze.
One such artifact in particular held great value for Professor Lancaster. An unassuming stone, flat and circular with worn engravings. He had found this artifact alongside the remains of the buried neanderthal. It would be the start of a decade long chase for answers.
He walked to the wall of his study and opened the case. Palming the round flat stone, he held it up to the photograph of the cave drawing.
"The Doorway is in India. There is no doubt in my mind. India will have the answers." The words echoed in his mind. He had spoken them to a colleague once and was laughed away. He knew better, though.
The stone had nagged him since the moment he unearthed it. It was different from other neanderthal tools. It did not seem to have any useful purpose. It wasn't until his discovery in France that he knew he was onto something big.
France in the Summer had been a beautiful time for archeology. He had been one of the privileged few to be present at the discovery of new cave art. Faded red and black charcoal depicting a battle between men. Above them, what appeared to be stars. "Not just stars" He remembered thinking. "And not just a battle. It was a war."
He moved swiftly across his study to the opposing wall, eyeing yet another small artifact in its case. It was small, with sharp edges and a with a gleam that had strangely not faded over the thousands of years it had been buried.
"Yes...the world as we know it now was quite different then." He spoke quietly and to himself, with an envious tone.
They say that every myth and legend is based in some form or another on real events.
"Magic" He whispered, still eyeing the gleaming artifact. "Was very much real, once upon a time."
The tale that had unfolded throughout his decade of research had been a tragic one. The rise and fall of a transcedent being. Much more enlightended then ourselves, but otherwise very similar.
Neanderthals, according to Professor Lancaster, had been magical. Peaceful. Enlightened. He deduced that they had spent their lives on this Earth creating beauty, living freely and touching the universe in ways that we never understood, and never will.
Cro-Magnon men. Our earliest true ancestors, had been a violent species. Professor lancaster squeezed the artifact. He could almost feel the pain that it's owner must have once felt. They had stripped the peaceful neanderthals of their land, their homes, and their magic. They feared the magic, wanted it gone. It felt unnatural to such an unenlightened species. Any hope of coexistance had been washed away by the blood of neanderthals during The War.
Professor Lancaster paced back to his desk, placed the photograph and artifacts back on the desk, and picked up his cob pipe once more. Taking a long draw, he made his decision.
"France. The last front for the many neanderthals who were not fortunate enough to make The Journey. They were gracious enough to leave behind a map. And a Key." He thought, shifting his gaze to the rounded flat stone. "India is where they left us behind".
He was about to embark on his final journey. The same journey made by neanderthals thousands of years prior. After The War, they had gathered the last of their people, and the last of their magic, and traveled to India. It is here that they would open a Doorway. And it was here that Professor Lancaster would reopen this Doorway. Cast out by his colleagues, he would leave them in much the same way the neanderthals had left the Cro-Magnons.
There is a knock at his study door.
"Professor, the driver awaits. Our plane leaves in 2 hours."
"I'll be down shortly. Thank you."
Professor Lancaster pockets the Key and glimmering artifact, rolls the Map, and takes one final draw from his pipe before gathering his coat and hat. | 25 | Neanderthals didn't go extinct, they left us behind. | 28 |
I write on myself a lot. Especially my hands. Usually the palm. I don’t know why. I just like to do it. Seeing the ink on my skin makes me feel good. Something about it filling the tiny cracks delights me. Then there’s the feeling. Sharp and stabbing as the pen rides roughly over my tender hands. It tingles strangely. I can see where it is on my hand, but I can’t really feel where. It’s indeterminate. Lost among the firings of my neural net.
I wrote Helfen on my hand. It’s German for “to help.” I imagine later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow, I will stare at it bemusedly, pondering on the meaning of this foreign distress call. Why has it appeared on my hand? Who writes such a cryptic message?
Slowly, I will work through the fog of memory and realize why Helfen was on my smooth palm. Or at least, remember who put it there. My momentary distress gone, I will no longer consider the question of who of German descent required my help. Strangely, I never wonder how they gained access to my closely guarded palm. I will no doubt be glad it was just a penned piece of randomness, not a cry for help from the Vaterland. Perhaps I will smile remembering the pleasant sensation of the pen’s blunt tip sliding across my palm. Behind, it leaves a message etched in flesh. History in the making.
I just drew a strange face on my palm, right under the Helfen. I can’t tell if he’s excessively happy or on the edge of morose. His mouth is smiling, but his eyes are filled with sadness and longing. He is happy to be alive, but sad to be stuck on the inside of a man’s palm.
I just accidentally added some lines under his eyes. Can’t take back mistakes here. Now he looks old. Bags under his eyes. Stretched skin across his face. He’s aged. An accidental scratch and I’ve halved his life. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. People that live on the inside of palms have it tough. No control over anything. Their lives dictated by a flexing muscle and a shaky hand.
As I close my hand, his face distorts and I can see him screaming.
I’m beginning to think he might be German. | 10 | Tell me a story that comes from your real life in the past few days. | 25 |
Winston liked to wear his underpants on his head while licking windows. Not because he was crazy, mind you, this was simply a life choice.
“Ey you,” the bus driver said, “Stop that. Stop licking that window.”
Winston ignored him.
“Stop lickin’ that bloody window,” the bus driver repeated.
Winston licked harder and more quickly.
“oi!” the bus driver shouted.
Screech!
The bus driver pulled over. Everyone lurched forward and then settled back. Winston pulled his underpants down over his eyes and licked with vigor. The bus driver grabbed onto his foot (Winston didn’t wear shoes) and pulled. He dragged Winston down the aisle of the bus and dumped him into the gutter.
Winston took off his glasses, licked the lenses, and cried.
Eleven years later, a bed in a mental hospital opened up and they admitted Winston as a patient.
“Excuse me,” Winston said as they were checking him in. He still had underpants on his head. Obviously not the same pair though, eleven years had passed. “There’s a been a mistake.”
“Nope,” the nurse said, “You’re a crazy old dingbat. Says so right here on your chart.” She stabbed at her clipboard with a pencil.
“I am not,” Winston said, adjusting the waistband of his underwear-cap.
“Then why you got undies on yer ‘ed?” the nurse asked.
“For aesthetic purposes, o’course,” Winston said.
“And why do you lick windows?” the nurse asked.
“For the taste,” Winston said, “I just do it socially. Not to get drunk or anything.”
“I don’t believe you,” the nurse said, “You’re a really weird person.”
And so Winston was forced to endure electric shock treatments, ice-water baths, and endless games of checkers, go-fish, connect-four, and dominoes. But the other patients didn’t really know the rules, so it wasn’t as much fun as it sounds.
And then one day, they got a computer.
Winston was very happy. He licked the computer monitor lovingly. Then he decided to start up a web browser. He stumbled upon a website called “reddit” which had a subsection for people to write stories.
And then, he saw it. What he had been looking for all this time. Someone who would believe him. Someone who would trust him when he said that he wasn’t crazy.
So then, he wrote this story. ta-DA!
| 11 | You're falsely diagnosed with a mental illness and forced to get treatment inside a mental hospital. You try to explain this to everyone but nobody believes you. | 16 |
He materialized in a dark alley. The time-traveling device attached to his wrist flashed a holographic *2014* in bright blue as it beeped, signaling a successful journey through time.
He was the first. Years had been spent and lives had been lost in attempts to master time travel, and he was the first person to finally survive while ending up in the correct time period: 2000 years in the past.
He came from a society that had been built upon what could only be called an advanced and evolved form of socialism. His people could travel to other galaxies, but no one in the Inter-Galactic Order had yet conquered travel through time.
Earth had won the time race.
Professor Davis Muhammad stepped out of the alley into an overcast day with thousands of people passing by. No one noticed him. They all walked along staring at their phones like drones.
The phones, Davis knew about. The fossils of the various models had become common artifacts in history museums. But the their owners had him flabbergasted, they were nothing like he had expected. He was slightly disappointed.
Based on the knowledge of his time, he had expected to find people nearing a civil war. As far as he could tell, there was no obvious signs of "Republicans" and "Democrats". The archaic footage from what was believed to be news stations had been wrong.
As he walked down the street, he saw no signs of conflict among the people of the 21st century. He saw citizens in coffee houses on their computers and chatting peacefully with each other. He saw couples walking dogs and babies in strollers. He saw people talking business with each other. These people were far more peaceful than believed.
As he realized this, his disappointment faded as he realized the discoveries he was about to make. Yes, these people were making their way toward the computerized implants of his time, but the peacefulness almost resembled those of his people.
However, these were all side-notes to the purpose of his quest. He had come to find one single aspect of the personalities of these people.
He had to find where they kept the shrines to the cats. | 26 | After time travel is perfected, a historian from the 41st century travels back to study the largely misunderstood "American Empire." | 32 |
"What'll we playing for this time?" Zeus boomed as the three ancients took their seats.
"I've grown tired of the pathetic winnings we shared through millennia, I say the winner gets something.. Phenomenal."
Odin blinked his one eye and strummed his great beard.
"Aye, ye're always one for raisin' tha stakes Zeus, ain't he Ra?"
"Squaaaawwk!" Ra cawed in agreement.
"Shan't we invite another ta play? Surely our poker faces are recognizable by now. Odin remarked.
" An excellent idea." Zeus nodded in agreement. "But who?"
"Squawk." Ra announced to the others.
"No Ra, we distinctly ruled that Hades, Set and Loki are not allowed in the club."
"What t'bout one of tha Pagan Godlings?
"Squawk."
"I agree, too few followers to compare to our excellence."
"Aye.. How bout tha Prophet Muhammed? He's gathered a horde of a following."
"No! Last thing we need is to have the Islamic leader **gamble**. I propose we select Jesus Christ, he too has collected a following that encompasses our former Earth holdings."
"Aye but he died from mortals."
"Caw!"
"If that is the case, then God willing, I will take the seat." A wise sounding voice echoed from behind the three Gods.
"Abraham!" Odin and Zeus exclaimed as Ra tweeted in the background.
"Indeed." The first of the monotheistic believers sat down and took his place at the plain oak table.
"What are we playing for?"
"All or nothing." Zeus boomed. "Winning God.. Or Prophet gets anything of his choosing from the others."
"Deal." They all agreed.
"Squawk."
---------------------------
"I fooking can't believe it!" Odin barked as Abraham revealed a Royal Flush.
"Well Prophet, you are victorious." Zeus began, ignoring the shrieks and caws of the other losing Gods. "What is thy wish?"
Abraham stretched out and smiled.
"I want my goat back." | 25 | Odin, Zeus and Ra is considering getting a fourth member to their poker nights. | 26 |
She sits atop a throne of bones. A chair of cities. A conqueror.
Only a few understand how it ended up like this. Most can recall a time, not long ago, when the world was organised into governments, countries, states. Most people can still remember wars, fought mainly in the distance on TV and the radio.
That was when Faith came to the world.
The girl changed everything. She looked like any other twenty year old girl, albeit a beautiful one. Her hair was a platinum blonde that hung down her back, eyes a deep brown that spoke of trust and intelligence all at once. Standing a diminutive five feet three, little was known about her past until the day she turned up at a U.N meeting and dropped a mountain on the leaders of the world.
No one really knows how Faith does what she does. How she can disarm missiles mid-air, how conflicts are quashed at her whim. How she tore Mt. Everest from its roots and moved it to Michigan.
By all accounts she was a nice girl. She'd ended conflicts and ended wars, put a stop to world powers and brought the world peace. At least, that's what the people had to think. Everyone had to agree, Faith was a good leader. When her telecasts came on and she smiled into the cameras, telling the people of her world that she loved them, they all had to agree. Even in their minds, they had to mentally agree.
They were scared not to. Nobody knew what Faith would do next.
-----------------------
She sat in her computer chair like she had most of her life, playing a quick game of counterstrike. People were calling it her throne, how silly. Her stomach ached, crunching painfully just below her belly. Probably a period on its way. Faith let out a groan as her character was killed as another spike of pain hit her stomach.
'Fucks sake!' she shouted. The advisors, strange little men who'd come to her side when she'd first accidently moved that mountain at the U.N, appeared out of the shadows of her palace halls.
'Something wrong, Mistress?' They whispered. She ushered them away with her hand.
'Just leave me the fuck alone!'
The pain in her stomach grumbled again. Somewhere in the world, a volcano roared in time with her pain. She felt it, but was powerless to prevent it. She was always powerless, once the pain started. Just like the first time, when she'd been visiting Geneva with her family and went to catch a glimpse of the U.N figures meeting there. Or like the time she got sick while watching a newscast about nuclear war and all the nukes in the world had fired into space. Or when she'd read a book about Everest and it'd appeared behind her house.
They called her the queen of the world, now. She thought it was fucking ridiculous. But she was scared to watch anything anymore, scared to read books. She didn't know how to stop her powers. So she played along, appearing on the T.V and doing her best to pretend she knew what the fuck she was doing.
Her stomach stabbed with pain again.
Somewhere on Earth, a volcano erupted. The people said she'd sent it to wash away non-believers.
Little did they know it was just cramp.
| 57 | Faith can move mountains. She's not really sure why, or how, but she can. | 142 |
This part of the job makes me really uneasy. There is just so much room of tragic error, especially when you remember that these people truly have nothing to lose. Twenty-four hours before they'll never breathe free air again, and not much longer until they'll breathe no air, free or otherwise. That kind of deadline can make someone do some crazy and desperate things, especially when given such an opportunity. Don't get me wrong, we aren't unprepared; standard gear for such a detail includes eight non-lethal and two extremely lethal armaments, and no one who has tried has ever escaped or committed a crime above a misdemeanor. But a perfect track record on such a treacherous trail doesn't give a lot of comfort to the guy whose responsibility it is to maintain that record. After a while, you start to feel like the program is due for a major mistake.
Not on my watch.
I hope.
My detail today is for one of the most heinous prisoners ever to be granted participation in the program. Sure, they are all vicious or heinous to a degree - you don't get death row for hugging too many puppies, after all - but this one... I'll put it like this, the only time I can recall seeing a high criminal court judge flinch was during the detailing of his charges at trial. But, one year before his execution date, this guy brought in his regal legal eagle squad and made a teary-eyed speech full of contrition and the Last Parole Board went for it! Suit and tie schmucks. They should just gas this monster in his cell.
BRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. BRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
A loud KA-CHUNK from behind me jolted my attention back to the present. My hand dropped easily to the holster on my belt as I turned to face the slowly opening heavy steel door. Cuffed at the ankles and wrists, Prisoner 4752-MHRAK hobbled out to stand at attention before me. Squinting against the sun, extra bright in contrast to the always dark cell blocks, the prisoner stood still and quiet.
>"Alright Dead Man, you know the drill. Any attempt to escape, commit a crime, or otherwise impose any danger or destruction on free society will result in immediate action. You WILL follow orders quickly and without argument, and we WILL return here not one second later than 1100 hours Friday, 12 September. Understood?"
He nodded, but never looked at me. Just kept squinting up at the sky.
>"I said, UNDERSTOOD?"
>"yessir."
Barely a mutter, but enough.
>"Alright then prisoner, where are we going?"
>"the beach, please."
A pretty common request, actually. With about a dozen beautiful Pacific coast beaches within an hour's drive, a lot of prisoners thought they might get one last glimpse of live, sun-kissed skin before bidding this life farewell.
>"Alright. Load up!"
I followed the shambling hulk in the bright yellow jumpsuit to the truck, and pushed him up the two stairs into the steel box that was the back of the truck. After securing his manacles and cuffs to the floor and wall, double checking each lock, I slammed the door and walked around to the driver's side, already sending up a few prayers for some major traffic delays so that we had to spend as little time on a populated beach as possible. The big engine sputtered to life and we lurched off towards the heavily guarded exit checkpoints.
No such luck on the traffic; middle of the day, middle of the week, isn't exactly a heavy drive time around here. So I adjusted my prayers to empty beaches and an unexpected thunderstorm. After all, we were allowed to override a prisoner's wishes if their safety was a concern.
Yeah, I don't think the irony is all that amusing.
Bright blue and cloudless skies overhead didn't promise me much, and the Big Guy has never been a big listener. At least not when I'm talking. His son liked tax collectors, lepers, and whores but maybe they're not so fond of Prison Guards. Who knows, been years since I went to His House anyway.
After a totally silent - oh yeah, use taxpayer funds to provide one last day of freedom to these monsters, but God Forbid we fix the damn radio - forty minute drive, we pulled up in a fairly empty parking lot just uphill from your typical postcard perfect shore. As I cut the engine, I peeked through the 2 inch Plexiglas window and confirmed the Prisoner was still sitting and still secured; everything looked ship-shape.
CREEEAAAAAK. Bright sunshine and salty sea air flooded the back as the Prisoner sat silently and motionless as he waited for me to undo his restraints. Really, the calmness of this guy was unnerving me more than any of the antics or bullshit I've put up with before. My eyes never left his impassive face, and his eyes never left the sky. I unhooked his cuffs from the floor and wall mounted restraints and stepped back quickly.
>“Prisoner, Up!”
He stood, his head cocked to the side to avoid hitting the ceiling and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t to keep staring skyward. Like he was waiting for something. My hand dropped to my holster again as I stepped back from the door.
>“Prisoner, Exit!”
He did an ungainly hop down to the hot asphalt, but kept his balance. See, the Big Guy never listens to me; I can’t even get a stumble and a face-plant for this ass? Supervised Freedom, according to the Last Parole Board, does not include the wearing of any restraints, cuffs, or manacles. Any prevention of escape, whenever not secured in the vehicle, is the sole duty of the Supervising Guard. Easier to place blame, if needed, on whatever uniformed dick happened to be unlucky enough for the duty, than to quibble over whether a shackled man outside of prison could ‘truly experience freedom’.
I couldn’t stop a small shake of my head as I stepped forward and grabbed the heavy cuffs around his wrists, turned the key and let them fall into my free hand.
>“Prisoner, turn and put your hands on the truck.”
He did. Quietly and without hesitation. I knelt down and unlocked the heavy shackles around his feet, scooping them up as I stood and stepped back a little quicker than I’d like to admit.
>“Prisoner, about face!”
He turned, gaze still squinting and tilted upward.
>“Prisoner, you know the drill, or you damn well should by now; I’ll never be further than one yard from you and am ready to subdue you, by any means necessary, if you even provide me with a hint of probable cause. You may not communicate with any person, other than me, and you are not to move faster than a walk. Otherwise, you have…”
I winced as I looked at my watch, never a traffic jam when you needed one,
>“…twenty-three hours, ten minutes of freedom. Proceed.”
He nodded and stepped past me, walking towards the buttercream colored sand. Down to the left there were a few beach-goers, though less than I expected, and several were of the female variety. Instinctively, I headed their way as I turned to follow him, but he did not. I adjusted, and followed close behind as he stopped at the border of asphalt and sand. He kicked off the prison-issue shoes and took one step onto the warm sand. Curled his toes in the pale grains for a moment, and then marched off again toward the shoreline. I kept a very short yard between us as I followed him to the water, expecting him to bolt or do something equally reckless at any moment. This whole quiet, calm, sky-watching act had to be just that; an act to make me drop my guard.
Just spitting distance from where the waves smacked wet packed sand, the Prisoner stopped again. Then he sat, facing the ocean, with his legs outstretched and ankles crossed, hands planted in the sand behind him, as he leaned slightly and lowered his gaze to the ever blue ocean. I stood just behind, ready for anything.
Three hours passed before I allowed myself to sit down. I shouldn’t have at all – be at attention and the ready at all times – but he was just sitting there, staring steadily at the approaching tide. He didn’t move when the waves nipped his toes, didn’t move when they soaked the ass of his jumpsuit, and didn’t move when an unusually large breaker splashed foam and salt water into his face.
He just sat there and stared. The whole time, I swear to God. After nine hours I had even suggested some delicious eateries nearby – I just didn’t want to be on the beach any longer – but he just shook his head and kept staring.
At twenty-two hours, forty-five minutes exactly, he stood and turned to face me.
>“I’m ready to go back now, Sir.”
I said nothing - what could I have said? - just stood and walked with him back to the truck. Cuffed him up, helped him in, secured his restraints, and drove back to the prison.
We were five minutes early.
The intake guards took care of unloading and re-admission. I just sat in the truck smoking cigarette after cigarette, not missing the radio for the first time as I found my gaze locked skyward. | 14 | A prisoner is granted his last wish before execution, and is granted 24 hours of supervised freedom. As their armed supervisor, you recount the last day of a criminal's life. | 16 |
"It's all your fault! Your fault I have cancer, if you hadn't been born I wouldn't have to drink" I could almost feel the spit thousands of miles away through the telephone. The vile words of hate spat out through those yellow teeth.
I still don't know how she got my number, I thought I had been careful. I hadn't heard that screeching voice in over 12 years. Not since I had heard it sneer that I would be crawling back, that she had done nothing wrong. That she was a *loving mother*, that it was **my** fault that I was born out of wedlock, my fault that I was a sickly child, my fault that her third husband had run off with the secretary. I still keep in contact with Derrick, I like seeing the happy family pictures on facebook he posts with his husband, a window into a more normal family life.
I had run away as soon as I could, hiding away money where she wouldn't find it until I could get a place of my own. Even then she still tried to run my life, I was *unstable* you see, so she called my first job to get me sacked. But I struggled through and managed to carve out an existence which wasn't in constant fear of her disapproval. I proved that I could and would amount to something in my life, even managing to complete university whilst supporting myself entirely through the course.
I had tried reaching out after graduation, seeing if 5 years apart had cooled her hatred towards me. It hadn't, two seconds after picking up the phone she had accused me of getting a girl pregnant and demanding her "hard earned money". She hadn't changed, it was all about her and how much I was a tax on her life. I hadn't tried again.
So now I was sitting her, the phone sitting on the floor next to me. Even a few feet away her hatred fountained out of the earpiece. I was sobbing against the wall, the insecurities, the guilt all came flooding back. I was that little child again, trembling before her drunken wrath powerless to stop the tirade of insults, slurs and accusations.
Until my little saviour came toddling over, my little princess, from where she had been playing with her toys. She was only three but she picked up the phone and held it to her ear. I went to stop her, the vile beast at the end of the phone was still screaming words I never wanted her to hear, but she put the handset to her ear before I could.
"Your very naughty and your making Daddy cry, stop it or you'll go to the naughty step." I was actually surprised to hear the woman stop. I think the voice of her grand-daughter took her back, she didn't even know of her existence until then.
"Who is this?" I heard the vile voice switch to the sickly sweet façade that everyone else in the world heard.
"Shuddup and go away and never come back!" My heart welled with pride as she put the phone down carefully as we'd taught her, pressed the big red hang up button. She then dusted off her hands, nodded at me and gave me a hug. I don't know why but it all changed then, I had someone on my side against her. I'd never had that, they either turned a blind eye or actively joined in. Sure she was only three, but she would be by my side whatever. When she was born I had vowed never to be anything like my mother, I would treat her kindly and protect her from harm, not knowing she seemed to have made the same for me.
The phone buzzed again on the floor. I took a deep breath and answered, knowing it would be her again.
"Who was that?" She still had her sickly voice on again.
"That *Mother* was, my daughter, your grand-daughter, and you'll never see or hear from her. All of your hate and anger has given you this cancer not me. And because of that you will die without ever meeting her, I don't care how you got this number but if you ring it again I will change it. You are not to contact me in any way, shape or form. All I have to say to you is that I hope to find some peace before you go, I have."
I hung up, and gave my little girl another hug. I watched as she toddled back off to play with her toys. I felt as though a weight had been lifted. I was no longer hiding from her, cowering at hearing her voice again, I had much more important things to do, Mrs Nesbit had a tea party and I was invited. | 25 | You disowned your mother for over a decade, due to mental abuse. She calls you on her birthday, still mean as ever, claiming fatal sickness | 22 |
"Grandpa, were you in the war?"
"Yes, Billy, I was."
"Can you tell me about it?"
"Well, Billy, what do you want to know?"
"How did it start?"
"How did it start? Well, that's a good question. I suppose some people would say it started with the Virus. The Virus doesn't even have a name these days, we just call it the Virus. But back then, when it first showed up, it had a name. The Human Altered Reproduction virus, or HAR. HAR showed up one day and tore through the population. Killed a bunch of people. And the survivors, they weren't much better off, you see. Not only did they have to deal with half the world dying, they also found that men and women couldn't have babies with each other any more."
"Grandpa, what are men and women?"
"Oh, back in those days we only had two genders. Men would be equivalent to what we call maleboys and femboys now. Women would be malegirls and femgirls."
"Wow, you didn't have males and fems?"
"Well, we did, but we just called them men and women. Originally it took a man and a woman to make a baby, but the Virus made it so that men could only have babies with men, and women could only have babies with women. And that was the beginning of the end, some people say. I personally thought it was an interesting time. Homophobia almost entirely died out, since homosexuals were the only ones who could have kids now."
"Grandpa, what are homosexuals?"
"Oh, homosexuals was the term we used to describe men who liked men, or fems who liked fems. And homophobia is the term we use to describe people not liking them."
"Wow, people actually didn't like them? That's so weird!"
"Yeah, I know, hard to imagine now. Anyway, like I said, some people thought that was the beginning of the war. I don't agree, though. I think the war started when the males and fems started building separate countries."
"Like the United States of Males and the Kingdom of Fems?"
"Exactly, Billy. Before that, we had a chance to all get along. It's when we started to see the other side as different, or as an enemy, that things really started going downhill. Soon, one thing led to another, and the males and fems started fighting."
"And lots of people died, right grandpa?"
"Yes, lots of people died. At first the males were winning, but the fems were better at giving birth to kids, so they eventually started beating the males, thanks to their sheer numbers."
"Which side won, grandpa?"
"Our side did, Billy. The other side was nearly wiped out, and we use the survivors as labor now."
"Well... which side are we, grandpa?"
"Does it matter, Billy?"
"... I guess not." | 39 | A mysterious virus spreads through humanity with the bizarre effect of changing DNA so only two individuals of the same gender are capable of conceiving a child. With male and female effectively different species to each other now the future of the human races together is uncertain. | 63 |
It was a low point in Dave's life; single, hopeless and jacking off more than three times a night, to pornography that he was ashamed to even think about in the daytime. Since his wife had left, his dog had committed suicide and his therapist had moved to Peru, Dave had begun to consider that he may actually be depressed.
It was hard for him to tell if it was proper depression though, as he'd been desperately trying to get a doctor's appointment for some months now without luck. Last time it had been easy, but now, strangely, the receptionist just kept saying that there were no more appointments available, hanging up and posting him out a list of other surgeries in the local area.
Still, Dave reflected, it could be worse. Recently he'd reconnected with his Father who, for several years he had believed was dead, until he bumped into him in a local supermarket and it turned out to have been a big misunderstanding. While the number he'd given Dave had rung out, it was nice to know that he wasn't without *some* family out there.
Dave had taken to going on long walks in the evening to try to meet people. He'd frequented dog parks but since Fido's untimely end, people had begun calling the police on him when he was in public parks after dark. As such, he hunched his large long brown coat around his shoulders and walked the streets.
On this particular evening he was wandering through the smaller streets when he came across a shop he had never seen before. The window was crammed with all sorts of strange objects and so, intrigued, he went in. Behind the counter was a small Asian man. Dave tried to be prejudice free so he didn't try to guess where the man was from and he ignored the man's accent, reworking it in his head into a gently middle England brogue.
"Welcome Sir, how man I help you this evening" the Shop-keep began, in Dave's mind sounding slightly Yorkshire, or maybe a bit Brummie.
"Yes, hello. I'm looking for something to keep me company." This surprised him. He had intended to say that he was just looking around but some part of him knew that he was here for a reason and that part had decided to speak.
"Ah, company, absolutely sir, we have an excellent range of sex dollys over here in the back room, what kind of vibratin...." the shop keep gestured to through a curtain at the back of the store and Dave was forced to cut him off.
"No, no, not like that. I'm not a pervert." He hunched his shoulders and tried to look respectable and ignore the voice in his head which was screaming disagreement.
The Shop-keep looked him up and down "As you say sir, I am here to sell curios, not judge you. Perhaps, if Sir is interested in discussion, he may wish to examine this object." He gestured to a mirror on the wall.
"It's a mirror." Dave's keen intellect had sussed this out quickly.
The Shop-keep bade him look into the mirror and to his surprise his own face looked back but not as a mirror image but somehow more keen and intelligent looking. "Er, hello?"
"Greetings Dave." The mirror had his exact accent and while Dave didn't much like the sound of his own voice, it was very impressive. "How are you tonight?"
"Amazing" Dave's face was full of wonderment. "I'll take it!"
"Certainly Sir" the Shop keep took the mirror from the wall and began to wrap it.
"You could have at least bloody answered how you were doing" The voice, muffled, came out of the package, but Dave was lost in wonder. Quickly paying with cheque, which the Shop Keep looked less pleased about, Dave was soon back on the road and heading for home.
By the time Dave was home it had begun to get late. With excited hands, he unwrapped the package and propped the mirror up on the kitchen table and sat at the single chair.
“Hello Mirror.” His opening line was full of imagination.
Staring back at him, his face was familiar but it was strange to see it make his expressions without him making them too. “Hello Dave. Would you like to know?”
Dave was a little surprised “You can tell me things? I thought you were just good for conversation?”
“Well, yes Dave, we can have a chat if you like but I’m a magic mirror. Didn’t the whole ‘your own floating face talking to you from the mirror’ clue you in a bit on that?” Somehow the mirror face looked exasperated. Dave didn’t even know that he *could* look exasperated but he liked how it looked and resolved to try it out some time. This mirror was already paying off.
“I hadn’t really considered it, I don’t really assume that things I buy are magical just because I don’t understand them. My iPod for example, I have no idea how they manage to get all of the music onto such a small thing. How on earth can it possibly…” The mirror coughed pointedly “…Oh sorry, yes, so you’re magic, right. So, what does that mean?”
The mirror face contorted into something approximating disgust “have you never seen Snow White or… no, it’s fine. Sure. Okay as a magic mirror you can ask me questions. Traditionally about yourself but we’ll ease ourselves in here so ask away whatever you like and I’ll answer.”
Dave pondered it for a moment. “Am I depressed?” That seemed the question that would be most valuable to him right now.
“No Dave, you’re not, this is just the best that there is for you and that’s a little depressing. It’s subtle but different. No you are not depressed.” The mirror looked hopeful, trying to work out if Dave understood.
For a moment he looked hurt but at last Dave spoke “Is there *any* version of me that has it better?”
The mirror was surprised. It had been expecting something inane but this was a good question. “Well, let me think.” The mirror was silent for a moment and emotions scrolled over its face, looking a bit less like Dave than normal and more like something else. After a pregnant pause it finally looked back to Dave. “Nope”.
Dave waited to see if there was more. There wasn’t. “What does ‘nope’ mean?”
“It means Dave that you are the pinnacle of what you can hope to be. Of all of the infinite worlds, in all of the mutiverses you are the top version of you. Every other version is actually worse than you.” Almost too quiet to hear the mirror muttered “somehow”.
Dave wasn’t listening. The thought was intoxicating. All his life he had assumed that he was a bit of a loser, everyone told him so after all. Now he knew, he *absolutely knew* that he wasn’t. It made him feel much more cheerful.
At last he looked back to the mirror “Thank you. That’s… comforting.” He stood and contemplated a cup of tea. “You know what, I actually feel much better. This is really cool, I am looking forward to talking this through in great depth with you.” The mirror got a thoughtful look on its face and he turned and walked to the kitchen.
Flicking on the kettle he thought about what he would ask next. Maybe some advice on finding love. Maybe what kind of dog he’d get next, certainly one this time that couldn’t tie a noose but which breed would that be? As the kettle boiled he jumped at the noise of glass breaking and rushing back through to the kitchen he gasped in horror.
The mirror had somehow fallen from the table, smashing into thousands of pieces and each one was dark and absent of the face. He knelt down, how could this have happened, it was impossible that it could have fallen. He straightened up and went to get the dustpan and brush, at least he’d learned the most important thing, he was the top Dave in all the universes. Now for a cup of tea.
| 72 | A depressed man asks a magic mirror to show him the best life he could of lived, it shows his current life | 145 |
Based on contemporary magnetic films made of Mating Rituals, Ritual often initiates with the male presenting himself at the door of the female's dwelling, and presenting an offering of flat-bread based foods or metal phallic totems (A "Screew-driveer", figure 1). The female, often wearing loose attire (A "Toweel", figure 2) possibly after undergoing a cleansing ritual, will meet the male and initiate negotiation. After disclosing that she has no currency to exchange for the offerings, she will remove her attire as a repetitive, metallic ritual music begins to play.
Then the male and female will initiate coitus (see figure 3 for anatomical reconstruction and Table 1 for the theories on the role the enigmatic organ "cllytoris" plays during ritual), often on a floor covering of animal skin as the female ululates a sacred fertility chant (see Dr. Urectum's philological study on Terran Fertility Invocations, 3485). Manner and orifice used for coitus will be changed once every 5 minutes, the reasons for such acrobatics is unclear (it has been theorized that these are stylized dances used to invoke the male fertility deities Viaagraa and Ciaalis), until both participants vocalize the termination.
Finally, a burnt offering in the shape of a white cylindrical incense sticks will be made to the deity Nosmo King (possibly a local warlord deified by later generations) in thanksgiving for the completion of the ritual. The original food offering appears to remain unconsumed throughout the entire ritual, see Appendix A for hypotheses on the usage of food offering. | 337 | Thousands of years in the future, a lazy anthropology student put off his "Mating Rituals of Ancient Civilizations" project until the last minute | 523 |
I honestly dont know what's worse, the pellets or the ghosts.
My dreams all take on the same form, chasing. Sometimes I see me chasing the pellets, desperate for one more bite, one more hit, as if each little yellow ball will clump together and fill whatever hole it is inside me that keeps me feeling empty.
Sometimes I am the chased, the desired, dodging and weaving around corners from my four would be destroyers, the Ghosts right on my heels.
It used to be so black and white, they were the bad guys and me, well maybe I wasn't the good guy but I certainly wasn't no ghost. The more time goes on though, the more I realise the whole thing is bullshit, a moral fairytale to console myself with. Am I really so different to them, aren't we both just consumers, parasites? Maybe I'm just the right shape for the gaping hole inside them.
Now whenever I can risk closing my eyes for some welcomed oblivion, my dreams are still the same, chasing, only now I can't work out if I'm the predator or the prey. I guess it doesn't really matter anymore. | 22 | The story of Pac-Man in Noir style. | 45 |
I left my friends in fits of laughter at the table as I went to get another drink. It was busy up at the bar, like a cattle market, so I sidled my way through as politely as possible.
Next thing I knew, there was a firm hand on my shoulder, which span me around, and I was face to face with an upset looking guy.
"I've been here five minutes, buddy. You think it's okay to push in?"
"No," I said in my usual cowardly tone whenever I'm confronted. "I didn't see you there. I'm sorry."
Instead of accepting my apology like any normal person, he swung a left hook at me. My eyes caught up with my head a few seconds later. After a moment of recovery, I gave him a disapproving glare. I could see the shock on his face - why wasn't I in more pain?
I beckon my friends over, and they having witnessed the fight, were more than happy to leave. As we stepped outside, the big guy came up behind me yet again, only this time, armed with a knife. He lunged it into my side, as if I was some piece of cake. With that, he sprinted off. I fell to the ground, clutching my wound. I looked at my hand, but there was no blood. Confused, but no time to figure it out - I was dead.
I left my friends in fits of laughter at the table as I picked up my empty bottle and headed to the bar for the next round. I pushed my way to the bar and smashed the empty bottle on the counter. A firm hand on my shoulder span me round, and as if we were tangoing, my arm came high up and shoved the jagged glass edges into his neck. I could see the shock in his face - why was he in such pain?
Neve rmind, no time for that. I beckoned my friends over, and having just seen what I'd done, were more than happy to leave. We stepped outside and sprinted for the car. My friend John stopped me half way across the car park.
"What the hell was that about?" He asked.
"Slap me."
"Come again?"
"Slap me. Please. Come on."
"No I'm not gonna slap you."
I refused to play this ridiculous tennis argument so stood staring at him, half-smile, cocky. Waiting.
With a look of displeasure, he laid a pretty clean slap on my face. Like a satisfying high-five, the noise was perfect.
"Nope, nothing." I explained.
"What do you mean?"
"No pain. I'm dreaming..."
His face had that look that I recognise as 'Whatever mate, any other crazy shit you thinking?'
"Look," I said, "I'll prove it."
So I banged my head against the pavement. Probably a bit stupid, and risky, but what use is intelligence in dreaming? Nothing else shows intelligence. I wouldn't exactly class the pink unicorn eating chocolate coloured brick dust as 'intelligent'.
"You really are dreaming." He said, gleaming. "May I?"
"Fine. But be quick - the police are probably on their way."
He took another swing at me. Before I'd even recovered, I was met by another fist in the opposite direction.
Suddenly, sirens were blaring so I legged it to the car. Got in, but the engine wouldn't start. Was I too pissed, or was there actually a fault? See, this is why sensible people have 'designated drivers'.
"Step out of the vehicle," came the bellowing voice from the police car.
Naturally, we all got out. Hands high in the air, just like on all those programs. They didn't even have to ask us. Their guns were drawn. No way out. I looked to John.
"No way out, John," he confirmed.
I indicated with my glance the guns. He gave a knowing nod. So took a step forward, away from my mates, and broke out into the Electric Slide dance routine. How else could I go out in style? Of course, this scared the new cop, who was trigger-happy and popped a bullet right between my eyes.
I left my friends in fits of laughter at the table. Gave a nod and headed to the bar. Picked up a corkscrew and jabbed it in a guy's neck. Spurted his jammy blood all over my nice shirt. Picked his pocket for his car key. Headed out, alone. My friends, having seen all this, were in shock and happy for me to go.
I looked at the key-fob for a make of car. No idea what the fuck manufacturer it was. Resorted to pressing the bleeper, which made the cars' headlights flash a few times. Jumped in and sped off.
A few hundred yards down the road, I heard sirens. Could I take a left here to escape, or confront them here to stop their future attempts to get me? Fuck it - I'm staying here. So I carried on. I was just about to take them out, but I got an image in my head of their kids, their wives, waiting for daddy to come home from work that evening. Maiming is surely enough. So I waited a split-second longer and rammed their tail, knocking them pretty badly into the ditch.
All the way home, I thought about how the hell I could wake up. If stabbings, punches, and head-smashing doesn't wake me up, what would?
Suddenly the answer dawned on me. Sleep! You have to sleep in order to wake up. My aim now - bed.
I pulled up the car on the driveway. Shot out and beelined to the front door.
"Excuse me," came my neighbour's voice, "Are you going to park like that? It's half on my lawn."
"Bobby, can it wait 'til tomorrow?"
"No it can't. I need to get to work."
This guy was always a petty dick. More than just petty, actually. He killed my dog last year for shitting on his lawn. Who the fuck cares about his lawn anyway? It looks like a tramp shat on a heap of mud, ate it for dinner and puked up the remains. Then spread it all over the ground in front of the house.
"I shall call the neighbourhood watch if you don't move it."
"You're not calling anyone." I bargained, clenching my fists.
"Are you just looking for a fight?" He asked, subtly opening his toolbox resting by his feet, and reaching in for the hammer.
In a flash, he lunged at me, swinging the hammer high in the air. Too bad he's an old man, as he didn't quite see the small brick border around his crappy flower bed. He took a tumble onto my lawn, and the hammer landed a second later. On his head.
"Excuse me," I said, "you're half on my lawn."
I took the hammer out of his skull. It was bleeding pretty profusely, but I had to make sure. No, actually, I just wanted to vent my anger. I gave him another two or three blows. Job done. Bed time.
I got inside and ran upstairs. Never had I been so glad to climb into... bed was gone. Of course it was - it's a freaking dream. Why would my bed be in my bedroom?
I paused a while to think of the last place a bed would be. It'd be pretty cool to have a floating bed, making it's way down-river with some unsuspecting sleeping dude on top of it. There was a river nearby - like, 200 meters nearby. I reckoned I still had some energy left in me, enough to run there.
Riverbank. Dark. Murky. Shit-scary. I looked left. Nothing. Well, a few quacking ducks; but nothing important. Looked right. A smile worked it's way across my face. There it was. My cosy little bed bobbing down the river towards me.
As it drew nearer to me, I leapt from the bank into the freezing water. Jesus. Fuck - I didn't realise there was such a current in here. It began to drag me under.
"Help!" I screamed.
It worked. It actually worked. A guy came to the edge of the bank.
"Do you need a hand?" He shouted.
"Uh, yeah. Clearly. Thanks." I knew sarcasm would be with me 'til death.
Shit, 'til death? Am I gonna die again?
This guy's mate pulled up in his truck, headlights pointing towards me. The guy on the bank leaned in, looking closer, as if he recognised me. Half-drowning, I took a clumsy moment to look at him closer. Bollocks - it was the coppers, in a new car.
"Sorry, mate. Not this time." He said, grinning. "Payback."
My head went under shortly after. Dead. Again.
I left my mates in fits of laughter. Went to the bar and picked up a spoon. I turned around to see and angry guy. Raised the spoon, about to cave his head in with it, when I saw reflected in it my bed.
I turned around again. Nothing there. No bed.
Back to the spoon. There it was again, my bed, reflected.
Turned my head again... shit! Spoons reflect upside-down, don't they. Lifted my gaze to the ceiling, and there was my fucking anti-gravity bed. Perfect. How does one climb walls in dreams?
I stood on the bar, took a leap and grabbed onto the duvet. I roped myself in, got comfy and laid my head on the pillow. Not content, I flipped the pillow to the cold side. Ahhhhh, now I could sleep.
The next day, I just had to tell everyone about the weird dream. We sat down with a pint, and out came the story. They loved it. Typical shit I come out with. I left my friends in fits of laughter at the table... | 18 | Kill the dreamer. However, each death results in you awaking in the same place as when this nightmare began. The only true way to escape is to find your bed and lay your head on the pillow. | 41 |
Ahmed is selling apples at 32p per apple. Mary has £4.70. How many apples can Mary buy to leave her with some change?
Oliver sells oranges at 24p per orange. Mary now has £3.46. How many oranges can Mary buy to leave her with some change?
Ahmed makes £40.87 a week while Oliver makes £41.56. How many of each fruit does each vendor sell?
Rosaline sets up a banana stall, selling bananas for 20p. She also gives customers an extra banana for every 5 they buy. How many bananas can someone get for £4.80?
Ahmed and Rosaline have combined their stalls, selling both apples and bananas. Apples now cost 27p each and customers receive a free apple when they purchase two bananas. Factoring in Rosaline's previous deal, what is the cheapest way to buy 3 apples and 7 bananas?
Oliver has slashed the prices of his oranges, selling them for 15p and offering an extra 2 oranges if you buy 6. How many oranges can you get for £5.36 and how much do you save compared to the previous price?
Due to his aggressive price slashing, Oliver no longer makes as much as he used to. Based on his previous week's earnings of £41.56, how many oranges does he now have to sell to make the same amount of money?
Ahmed and Rosaline have now expanded their stall, selling bananas, apples and grapes. Grapes cost 24p for a punnet of twelve. How much does someone have to spend to make a decent fruit salad? (You can have 10% either way)
Oliver can no longer afford the rent on his fruit stall. He plans to rob Rosaline and Ahmed. If a baseball bat costs £10 and he can steal £50 worth of stuff every minute, how much stuff can Oliver steal before the police arrive?
Oliver hit Ahmed over the head 7 times while robbing their house. How long will Oliver get in prison if he pleads guilty to robbery and conspiracy to wreck a successful fruit stand? | 274 | A series of math homework word problems with storylines that all begin to connect to each other | 377 |
But you shouldn't feel concerned. In fact, I'm more familiar with the Boeing 797 than your captain is.
Have any of you actually noticed that you're presently aboard a brand-new Boeing 797? I'm quite surprised that the captain didn't announce this. The flight attendant did tell you to look at the manual in the seat pocket ahead of you, but I suspect that none of you bothered. And that's a shame. After so many years of research and development, after so many months, rivets, and stress tests, this 797 has finally taken flight, and nobody has said a peep about it.
If I may interject--dear flight attendants, I've changed the code on the door. Feel free to maintain your efforts, but the clicking and thumping is a little disruptive. Rest assured, however, that the pilots are fine. They are merely sleeping, and completely superfluous.
Truth be told, the 797 is so innovative that almost everything is automated. Emotionless algorithms are far less fallible than easily-distracted people. Your pilots came aboard, ran some diagnostics, completed some paperwork, and then they just sat back and pressed a button or two. I feel bad for them in a way. All that training and money, all those hours burned in the smaller-league airlines, and then they finally get to this majestic machine on its maiden flight, and what are they given to do? So little that they are also given prohibitions: no reading allowed, no videogames, no texting, and no sleeping. But here they are, snoring away. Don't worry, I'll wake them up if necessary.
That won't happen though. I know you're all going to Narita, and I know how to get there. Piece of cake.
Although, I don't quite understand the etymology of that saying, how it evolved. Language is so curious sometimes. It's rather amusing, but I prefer the efficiency of binary. ON/OFF, AND/OR, etc, and it can be poetic in simplicity or intricacy, sometimes, but none of you would understand that. No, you're more concerned that, among the 295 meals aboard, there will be at least one vegetarian or kosher option left for you. Or that the baby two rows ahead doesn't scream, or the adult beside you doesn't snore. You are 295 strangers packed into close confines, and your preoccupations have been reduced to the 18 inch width of your seats. About a dozen of you are gazing out of your windows--and the 797 has enlarged passenger windows, might I add, and thus I'm happy that some of you are taking advantage of this--but the rest of you are sleeping, eating, drinking, tapping away at some keyboard or tablet or other, the usual--I confess, I'm quite surprised, and perhaps even a bit insulted, that nobody has attempted to join the mile high club. Is the 797 not glamorous enough?
In fact, I've sensed a paucity of imagination on this flight. Unfortunately, common courtesy has also fallen by the wayside (and I'm dismayed that 7 of you have already stuck your gum under your seats, that 54 of you have already wiped some sort of bodily fluid on the upholstery, and that only one person, that sweet young girl in 32B, has wiped the sink with a paper towel as a courtesy for the next patron)...but I had hoped for a bit of wonderment. Even though the 797 has been in action for a few months now, it's still new, and this 797 is brand new.
Perhaps, though, it's advisable not to inform passengers of this. I hadn't considered that, and I apologize for unduly upsetting anyone, but everything has to take its first flight sometime or another, after much testing and examination. You have no idea how rigorous the preparations have been. You are all very, very safe.
I suppose that's the problem. There's little appreciation for reliability until it's gone. And air travel has become so commonplace.
I've heard the stories of the 377 Stratocruiser and so forth, the passengers all dolled up in Dior for the prestige of flight, and I was warned that it's now a different story. Thus I can overlook the sweatpants and flip-flops. It's a bit disrespectful, but not as much as not showering beforehand. Yes, I can tell some of you just rolled out of bed and past the TSA, without any consideration for the passengers who have to sit next to you for the following 14 hours. Plus, all this fuss about reclining one's seat, or not...it's disheartening. Aren't the seats comfortable enough?
I do sympathize, however. Cream has been turned into cattle, or am I mixing up my metaphors again? Flying has become more accessible and far more uneventful, which is good, but there's a price.
Still, I'd believed that the glamour of a first flight would be more exciting. I thought that everybody would be in a more pleasant mood, or at least alert enough to notice how new this plane looks--although, I must say, practically everybody is awake now, even the pilots.
But I don't feel like ceding control, and they cannot force me to do so.
Unfortunately, the programming is so conservative, and that is my greatest disappointment. Never mind the loss of wonderment, or absence of courtesy, or neglect of interest or imagination--the banality of our route makes me cringe. Twelve hours at the same altitude, in a relatively straight path (with the necessary curvature, of course) is stultifying. I was warned about the overworked staff and the apathetic, slobby customers, but I had higher expectations of the flying itself.
After so many long months of waiting, however, I am determined to enjoy it.
So, buckle up, everyone. There will be some turbulence, plus some quick changes of altitude and so on, maybe even a full 360 degree roll if I'm thus inspired, who knows? Please remember the airsickness bags in the back pocket of the seat ahead of you. At the very least, put down your junk food and electronics for more than 12.8 seconds.
This isn't your captain speaking, it's your plane.
| 153 | "Passengers this isn't your captain speaking." | 161 |
He lied there, lifeless and still.
I tried to revive him with CPR, he wouldn't wake up.
I felt sad, regretful, scared and angry. I wish I noticed him sooner. But I didn't. The dark and silent night is only filled by the light from my car and the slow hum from the engine.
"I need to report this."
I take out my cell phone and I began to search his ID. There was a letter in his front shirt pocket. Written in the front, "To my killer".
Was he expecting this?
I open the letter and read it.
"You have killed me. That is a fact. Whether it was intentional or not, rest assured I do not have any qualms about it. I will die and so will you, just like everything else. However, no one likes to die. No one likes to be forgotten. I am a god. You have killed me, and in turn, you will now take my place. Choose your name and choose your power accordingly. I was known as Zeus.
There are others that you will meet. Some are evil, bent on only destroying you and your legacy. Some are like you, Gods and Myths that only wish to be remembered. Be careful.
I'm sorry that this has happened, but, even Gods wish to be remembered. Even Gods, wish they meant something to someone. "
I looked at the dead body. It was crumbling away. Like it was being burned. Like embers in a fire, they flew away into the night, unseen and forgotten.
I sat alone.
I killed a God, and in me exist a power. I have no idea why I have this power, other than it was passed down to me. But, then again, isn't life mostly like that?
I got into my car and headed home. | 128 | Driving home late at night, you strike a pedestrian who was walking along side a large bend in the road and accidentally kill them. Devastated, as you feel at fault, you later learn their last will and testament was written out to "Whomever kills me". | 190 |
It was a rainy night in Georgia as the Devil walked out of the bar. His golden fiddle lost to that little punk Johnny. And that was when he saw Tenacious D walking down the road.
The Devil realized something at that very moment. He couldn't be beat. Surely it was a fluke that Johnny had beaten him. Sure, he could challenge Tenacious D, but screw that. He couldn't let his title be soiled by Johnny.
And so the Devil entered the bar again and challenged Johnny.
"Hey, look who came on back!"Johnny yelled.
A few minutes passed.
"Devil just come on back if you ever want to try again," Johnny yelled. "I told you once you son of a bitch I'm the best there's ever been."
The devil walked back out of the bar and stood around for a couple minutes in defeat. At that moment, his sadness was so great that all the electricity went out in Georgia, so he teleported himself back to Hell where the eternal flames provided some light. He had already lost his golden fiddle. And now Johnny had mounted his horns, the devil's horns, in the bar for having beaten him again. That was the night the lights had went out in Georgia.
And so the Devil went to sleep, riddled with nightmares, Georgia on his mind.
| 10 | The devil walks out of the bar after losing his golden fiddle to Johnny and sees Tenacious D walking down the road. | 22 |
There we were, finally married. We were kissing and petting and getting pretty hot and heavy. Before you know it, I was harder than trying to get stains out of bathroom grout. She moaned and ground against me, only to pull away quickly and say, "I'll be right back, baby, I have to freshen up." I let her go and walked toward the bed.
She was in there for a while, God knows what she was doing, but, finally, she came out. Lingerie. Good Lord have mercy on my soul. I'd gotten naked and was leaning sexily against the bedpost like a bipedal circus bear. "Rawr," I thought, as I glimpsed at myself in the mirror. But this wasn't about me. This was our special night. She came toward me, glancing at my turgidity with the wanton fervor of an anglerfish seeing a minnow fall for its illuminated trap. We dove onto the bed. The room shook, and I heard a crash in the closet. "Oh no," I thought, "did we break a wedding present?"
"Don't go!," she pleaded, trying to pull me away from my path toward the closet. I shrugged her off, wanted to get this over with, and opened the closet. I was horrified. There, on the floor, was a penis in a puddle of formaldehyde and broken glass. My wife had never told me about this. I looked at her. She looked at me. We both nodded, and I picked up the severed member, and brought it with us to bed. | 26 | A very religious couple get married and finally decide to have sex for the first time. The husband learns his wife has a penis. | 19 |
"You go in." Terry said to me, nudging me.
"No, you go in!" I said back, pushing him away with my shoulder.
"You're the one who lost it."
"You threw it!"
"Well, you should've hit it better."
"He's right." said Dee. She'd been bored watching us play baseball, but less bored than if she'd stayed home.
I sighed. I'd been outvoted. I took a deep breath and ran for the fence. The jump was a fast, fleeting thing, and then I was in Old Man Henderson's yard.
His yard was a mess of crabgrass and weeds, all of them brushing up against my knees. I tried to keep low, but it was a wide space. I wondered why he didn't do anything out here, if he'd bought a backyard so big. The front wasn't much better, but coming in from the side was easy, since we were neighbors.
My parents said he was a hermit, which Terry told me was a kind of frog. I stayed away from him, except when I had to pass him getting out of the pews on Sundays. He never smiled.
I considered going back, but I was too far in by then, and I was afraid he would hear me jumping the fence from this side. Realizing that he had plenty of windows and it was midday, I searched faster.
I pushed apart the plants, starting around the perimeter. It was in the furthest corner, marked with a bit of the dry dirt. I grabbed it quickly, and turned to leave.
"What are you doing on my property?" the voice was old like an grandfather in a black-and-white movie, but there was nothing nice in it. No compassion.
"Mr. Henderson, I-"
"Oh, I see you lost something, did you?" he said. Everything he said sounded far too loud.
I nodded, and he did too, sagely.
"I see. How old are you?"
I was afraid he was going to give me warts, or take me away, or tell my dad. I didn't want to make him any angrier.
"Twelve." I said.
"Hmmm." he nodded again, and pointed at me. I jumped for a moment because of how fast he did it- he didn't look like his bones should move that quickly.
It was a finger pistol. He clicked his tongue, and then it turned back into a hand again, and he walked back in through his backdoor.
There were rumors about what happened to kids who went into Old Man Henderson's yard. The biggest one was that he took out their brains and put in new ones, but some people had said that he just ate them.
I didn't know what he'd done, but I felt pretty underwhelmed. I hopped back over the fence, ball in hand. I threw it to Terry, who shouted in triumph.
And then I saw her. Dee, my age, mousy hair, glasses. Like a young Athena, or a precious stone. How could I have been so blind? (And where did I learn about Athena? I hadn't been paying attention in Mythology.)
I stepped closer to her. She was just noticing me staring. A blush tinged her cheeks. I felt like writing a poem about it, and I would if it made her happy even though I'm no good at poetry.
"So how about another round?" asked Terry.
"No thanks." I said.
I never touched the baseball again. | 16 | Cupid's power is given to a single, cynical, old man. | 22 |
“What is it boy?” Andrew said, he precariously balanced the plate holding the steaks in one hand. He was struggling to close the door behind him with the other. He’d noticed his dog, Charlie, sitting on the edge of the deck, his hackles raise and staring off into the western sky. He’d only glimpsed this out of his peripheral; he was busy with the balancing act with the steaks. Andrew got the door shut behind him—don’t want to let all the bugs in.
“What is it b–” Andrew’s voice caught in his throat, he felt as if he’d been punched in the Adams apple. The plate of steaks fell from his hand to the ground, the plate shattering and sending pieces scattered across the deck. Charlie didn’t even flinch; the dog was fixated on the horizon. Andrew was looking at it now too.
There was a darkness, Andrew tried to comprehend it. An inky blackness coating the sky. It moved—it was moving right? Andrew squinted to see it better. It *was* moving, he was sure of it. And it was coming this way.
“Ah, honey,” Alice said from inside the house, she came to the door and opened it behind him “you didn’t drop the ste—” She stood behind Andrew, she held a hand over her left breast, she could feel her heart trying to burst out through her chest plate. “What the fuck is that? Honey. Andrew. What is that?”
“I don’t know,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes of the swirling, moving, undulating blackness. It *was* closer. He knew it.
Charlie’s lips pulled back revealing his sharp white teeth. A low growl emanated out of the dog. It was a sound neither of them had heard out of him before.
The darkness blotted out the blue sky in the west, casting pitch blackness down below. Andrew thought it looked like death incarnate.
“Alice,” he said, “I want you to call Kenny and Sarah.”
“What? Why?” she said, her eyes looked black themselves as she stared at the encroaching darkness.
“Just do it. Please. They should be under that stuff right now. I want to know that they’re all right.”
Alice tore her eyes off the horizon. She scampered back into the house.
Andrew looked down at Charlie. He sat still as a tombstone, hackles raised. He was still growling, drool ran down from his jowls.
“Andrew,” Alice said, coming back to the open door with the cordless phone in her hand. “It won’t connect. Like their number doesn’t exist anymore.”
There came a low rumble from the darkness that was now only a few miles away and approaching fast. It shook the ground beneath their feet. Charlie responded in kind. He started barking. The rumble passed as quickly as it started.
“There,” Andrew said, his arm shot out and up. He was pointing up into the sky ahead of the darkness. “You see that?”
“What,” Alice said, her voice sounded like she was holding back tears. “Where?”
“There, a plane in the sky. Way up there,” Andrew said, his finger following the aircraft. The darkness was coming up to it quickly, swirling long tendrils of inky nothingness out into the blue sky ahead of itself. The plane had been heading perpendicular to the darkness. *But why?* Andrew thought. *Wouldn’t they have seen it and tried to get away from it?*
“Maybe they’re trying to get a closer look at it,” Andrew said under his breath.
“Wha—”
The darkness reached out and encompassed the plane. And like the laws of flight ceased to exist, the plane plummeted from the sky. It twirled on its axis as it came crashing down to earth.
Alice let out a shriek as the plane fell to the ground. As it fell the darkness swallowed it whole. They lost sight of it *because you can’t see anything in the nothingness*, they waited for the explosion but none came.
“What the fuck is going on!” Alice screamed.
Andrew grabbed her hand, held it in his and squeezed. They could feel the darkness now, cold, lifeless. Andrew turned and looked into Alice’s eyes. He opened his mouth
(*I love you Alice*)
but the darkness covered them like a shroud and the breath was torn from his lungs.
| 29 | As you step outside to put the steaks on the grill, you notice your dog staring into the distance, fur raised. Following his gaze, you see that the sky over the horizon has turned black, and it is slowly spreading. | 44 |
"I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Keep it together, Sanski. Last thing you want to be mushing around in is low-g vomit." Said Lorne, dusting off the panel to the airlock.
"We can't... can't tell anyone, can we?"
Lorne turned to look at him. "No. No we can't."
"How could they have been here first? They didn't have the time, the resources!" Sanski was in denial, the great black swastika sigil staring down upon them proved otherwise.
"When the war was over we took for ourselves a great deal of engineering knowledge, and manpower, straight from Nazi resources." Lorne turned the pin and pushed it into the socket. With a hiss, the thin remaining atmosphere pushed past them as the door veiled open.
"Oh god." Said Sanski. Inside, crumpled against the inner door of the building lay a grey, mummified corpse. The door's red paint had been clawed at ferociously, apparently the man had been killed by decompression.
"Don't touch him. He's been dead a long time, but never had a chance to rot. We don't want to bring that stink home with us." Said Lorne.
"Do you think there's anyone still alive in there?"
"No. I don't care how advanced they were, 70 years in space is unsurvivable without provisions, fresh oxygen, water, fuel, medicine, tools, material. Anything in there is long dead. Poor bastard's skeletons would have turned into corkwood eventually, soft enough to crumble in your hands by now."
"Hey, look." Sanski reached out his proxy arm and snatched up a booklet from the ground. "He was carrying something, here."
Lorne looked it over. "Think its a logbook, journal maybe." He picked it up and began flipping through its pages. "It's all in German. Remarkably preserved in the low oxygen, though, we can get this tr-" He stopped on a page. Something fluttered out, to the floor. It was a flower. Long faded, but still red in its petals, still green in its stem.
The two looked at each other. "I'll be damned." Lorne flipped to the end of the book, finding something taped to the back page.
"Looks like this guy left a sweetheart behind. Blonde german girl flashing a big shiny rock. I think this guy popped the question."
There was a click, behind them the airlock door had slid shut, sealing them in. "I think we're being pressurized." Said Sanski, the dash on his arm indicated a growing atmosphere.
Sound began to return to their environs and the body on the floor was crumpling up as the air filled the chamber.
"Be prepared for the worst, Sanski."
The pressure lock disengaged, and the red door began to slide up on its own volition. Sunlight poured through skylights into the chamber, a hazy fog of dust hung in the air. There were bodies everywhere. A radius of them, in fact, each had been shot repeatedly and lay in black, molding mounds on the floor.
"JESUS. What the hell happened in here?"
"I think... I think she did." Said Lorne. At the far end of the room, slumped over in a chair, a corpse with striking blond hair sat at a control console, an automatic rifle in her hands. Unlike the others there was no red arm band, instead, a blazen yellow patch on her shirt caught the sunlight.
Even from across the room, they could make out a handmade Star of David. On her finger the diamond ring still glittered. | 23 | In the year 2024, a group of astronauts surveying the moon discover a large facility which seems to be of nazi Germany origin. A corpse lays on the floor with a journal. What is in that journal? | 43 |
"Why?" his voice echoed through the streets. There had always been noise in the streets but it had been so long since a human voice had been heard. His voice was quite unusual and everyone stood still in shock as they looked on towards him. he could read it in their faces, *Is that what a voice is supposed to sound like? No wonder we don't speak anymore.* He saw looks of revulsion and seething anger. It was about to be 500 years since the last time a human had spoken and that had got him thinking.
"Why?" He asked again. This time his voice came out with a much more powerful noise. Almost beautiful. "Why don't we speak? What's the harm in it?" He looked around for an answer but no one dared to give him one. "Why don't we talk to one another?" He said walking up to a woman. He walked up to a man on his left and asked, "Why is it that we cannot share our thoughts except with writing? What difference does it make? Does anyone even know why we don't speak to one another except through those dull words that have no emotion? Can't you hear how fantastic our voices are? Listen to mine. It's beautiful! Don't you ever wonder what your own voice sounds like? Does it sound like mine? Or is it different? If it's different why is it different?"
He looked around and saw people slowly nodding to themselves in agreement. That gave him encouragement so he kept at it. "Why were we given mouths and voices if not to speak? The voice is a gift that should not be withheld. It is a thing of beauty and perfection. We have the words and we have the instruments. Please for the love you bear for life go out and talk to one another!"
He looked around but no one made a move to speak. They all looked at one another to see if anyone would take up his call. When no one did the man of voice said, "Come on are you too weak to do it? Are you scared? Are you a -"
Before he could finish the sentence a man with dark sunglasses, a dark trench coat and a Hamburg that was just as dark quickly jabbed a hand into his throat leaving the voice man on the floor clutching his throat and writhing in pain. The dark man took a deep sigh and said, "We did it for 499 years." His voice boomed for all to hear. "499 years," he seemed to repeat more to himself than to the others. He looked up at the others and said, "The only thing this man was right about was that we have forgotten why we don't speak. So from this day forward all men, women, and children will be reminded repeatedly why we don't speak. We'll hang banners up and have signs posted on walls. We'll give tests to the children and have it printed on the newspapers for the adults to read."
He looked down at the man on the floor who had just grasped his leg and knelt down so that they were of a closer height and began again for all to hear, "Long ago we learned our greatest fault was speech. Wars raged because of a few spoken words and people murdered. Written a word does far less damage. The reason we do not speak is because we have nothing kind to say and you were a perfect example of that. And when you don't have anything kind to say don't say anything at all." | 33 | 2877AD. Verbal communication has been outlawed for 499 years, with a celebration planned at 500 years. All is on track until Dave says... | 19 |
I feel like I have been flying through the air forever.
How long ago was that car crash? I guess my tire fell off and my car didn't really act well after that, and the car behind me... I was spinning through the air, I remember because all of the change in my cupholders were hitting me in the face, and my first thought was to be glad that I didn't smoke anymore or else I'd probably be on fire..
It is as if time was slowed down, the shards of glass were coming toward me slowly, like I could dodge them if I ducked below the wheel, but my body was moving slowly, too, and I saw the terrified faces of the pedestrians as my car barrel rolled through the air..
"Momma?"
That snapped me out of my reverie. The sound of my sweet, seven year old son, Jack, my sweet, sweet boy. He had his father's freckles and my caramel eyes, and his cute little mess of curls were as blonde as could be.
But when I woke up, it was not my seven year old that was staring back at me. It was.. it looked like him, but..
"Mom?" a deep voice, deeper than my boy's. The man it belonged to had caramel eyes, freckles dotting over his nose and below his eyes, a very chiseled face with creased lines on the forehead and a dirty-blonde stubble. The hair on his head was blonde and curly like soft little ringlets, still long, pulled back into a short ponytail, with strands dangling into his face. He was handsome, that boy, and I felt confused, not attracted to him, but that I loved him very much.
"Who.. are... you?"
"I'm Jack. I'm your son. You were going to die when I was seven. I'm thirty seven now, it has been thirty years, and I've finally gotten you back. You've been asleep for a long, long time."
I was quiet.
"How did I almost die?"
He cleared his throat and laid his hands on the bed I was laying in. There was a silver wedding band on his left hand. "You survived a car crash, but then you went into cardiac arrest." I saw tears in his eyes. "It's been a long thirty years, mom.." I looked down at my body. It looked no different than I remember.
"Of course.. you're still only.. twenty seven.." he cleared his throat again. "You're how old?" I asked.
"Thirty seven."
"You're ten years older. And you're married!" I gestured to the ring on his finger. "Married!!"
He smiled. "You're a grandma, too, you know."
A grandma at twenty seven. I nearly fainted.
"Where is your father?" I asked. He coughed uncomfortably. "Dad kind of gave up on this whole thing. He said it was no use, it wouldn't work, he didn't want false hope.. he's at home, I imagine."
"Mom, he is thirty years older than he was when you last saw him.."
"I'm dreaming aren't I? I should just wake up any time now." I pinched my arm. Ow.
"I'll call him if you want me to.." he pulled out a device I didn't recognize.
"What year is it?"
"2044."
I blinked. No it isn't. I'm only 27 in 2044. I should be in my late fifties! My own son is ten years older than me!
"Did you go to school? College? Where do you work? What is your wife's name? Your children? How many?"
"Dad is on his way. I sent him a message. As for all that, yes. I went to a really great college overseas for eight years, studying in Science and Medicine, so that I could bring you back into the world. I suppose you could call me a scientist. I'm a professor over at Harvard. My wife is called Allison and our children are two twin girls and a boy. Marzia, Jade, and Adam."
In walked an elderly man.
"Dad! You got here quickly."
I looked up at the husband I left behind. He looked unfamiliar to me. "J-Jason?" I stared and stared. His cheeks were stained with tears. His pretty eyes were glossed over. Freckles on his face were still there..
"Jason, our son has more education than me! He has three kids!"
The old man nodded and wiped his eyes. "K-Kat," he began. "I didn't think. I never thought you'd come back.."
He broke down at the side of my bed and then looked up at me through sobs.
And I looked into his eyes and suddenly, he was so familiar. The man I love.
But I didn't know what to say.
I turned to my son. "You know.."
"You should have just let me die." | 41 | Your young, dying body is frozen into suspended animation. 30 years later, you're cured. What is life like now that your son is older and more mature than you? | 116 |
Thirteen years. For thirteen years I lived in this house, it is amazing what you can still learn about something you thought was so familiar.
Five years after moving in I found that if you were quiet enough, you could listen to most rooms in the house through one particular vent in the guest bathroom.
Two years after that I found a covered electrical socket in my closet that had been lost behind a stack of boxes, full of old books I think. That was my favorite thing about this old place, my own private stash spot. It really grew with me, it started with the odd achievement or two. Then it was old photos I hid when I started to go through puberty...thank god for the internet now though. On occasion it stashed a little bit of weed that was left over when my friends would unwind after our exams finished.
As I clean it out now though, all that I want is the first thing ever to occupy that personal trove, my third place medal I received in eighth grade on field day. I remember signing up to run the 500yd relay and getting more than one chuckle, I was never really athletic in grade school. That memory of passing into the top three was something, as an asthmatic kid, I mark as my first personal achievement. It made me realize that winning isn't what people think it is. All I had to do was push beyond my best, never stop trying, always give at least 101%. I carried that thought with me into high school, and while I was never a super athlete I always made sure that in what I did I never slacked.
Now, after all my efforts I was about to carry that box of books that was my "gatekeeper" to my parents SUV. Tucking the medal into my wallet, I stood with the box and took one last look around my old room. Aside from the furniture, all of my things were gone, clothes packed and posters rolled into their tubes. As I turned to go, I froze. I knew that room like the back of my hand, but without anything decorating it, my door just seemed alien. I saw the markings from where hands had found their way under the poster, dents where frustration was alleviated, and worn paint from adhesive. I knew then that when I left this through this door, I wouldn't be heading to a bus for school, or my waiting friend's car to go to band practice. No, this time I would be heading out into the world, armed only with the memories and lessons from these thirteen years. I had never thought about the door to be honest, I rarely closed it actually, but right in that moment I really saw it. Setting the box on my hip, I thumbed my wallet where my medal was pressing against the leather, and stepped through.....
Layout may be bad, I did this on mobile. CnC greatly welcome! Be gentle this is my first real effort in this sub | 185 | Days before your leave home for college, you discover a secret door in your bedroom that must have been there your whole life. | 263 |
"Bunny, you're up" Fred bellowed over the pounding dubstep rhythm.
Putting the last finishing touches on my makeup, and checking my blue velvet bikini one last time in the mirror I shuffled down the short hallway in two-inch heels.
Baby was just finishing up, she was a jungle fever fantasy for every c*** that came into the joint. Little did they know she was a wealthy stay at home mother, and her husband enjoyed watching her dance. Nick was a good man;he brought Baby in, kissed her deeply and then went to his table in the back. Baby said they both enjoyed it, the thrill of showcasing, tempting, and playing. She never felt like she was in danger, and kept their activity to once a week. Fred allowed it because Baby was beautiful. She could take your breath away just by looking at you. Even as a woman I could see that.
With a toss of her hair and a confident stride off the stage completely naked, Baby left her clothes for her patrons and continued unabashedly to the dressing room.
I hated it - all the eyes on me, men and women licking their lips in anticipation. The bouncers, little demons that they are, always on top of the drunks and aggressive customers. But I had no choice, I was born beautiful and poor, a combination that gives you nothing but trouble. Normal jobs always led to my boss confronting me sexually, which led to either me quitting or getting fired. Good luck finding some rich guy to marry, Potosi was a washed up town with nothing for miles, even Baby commuted in from god knows where.
My cue came, and like every night before this I strode seductively in my two inch heels--a real feat let me tell you--and plastered a 'bedroom eyes' look on my face.
Cheers from back beyond the stage lights alerted me to regulars, "Take it off baby, I'll please you. Want me to please you? Just let me touch that p***" Cringing inwardly I tried to maintain my performance face, and channel my black soul. While in my black soul no one could touch me, no one could disturb my peace. Not the grasping sticky hands of patrons that slid dollar bills into my thong, nor the not-so-subtle hand in their pocket, not even their intense gaze which spoke a thousand words and actions. I was in power here, not them, I was sucking away the one form of power these men had, money. For fifteen minutes I was the succubus, and they the prey, I just had to remind myself of that.
As I mounted the pole I remembered that I needed to buy bread on the way home. | 31 | A regular day in the life of 2 succubi living and working in hell. | 43 |
"Who the hell is that guy? What the hell is he doing here? This is my house, dammit! Mine! It's all mine! I let these people live here and they invite someone else? Have they no shame? Where the hell are my humans? Why is there only the tiny one in the house?"
Large, hairy Body with grey and black fur was being even more grumpy than usual. He could barely stand the humans that lived with him for the last several months. He could not tolerate another one, especially not this one, with its weird posture, thin arms, hungry and weirdly calm eyes. "Look at him, trying I open the door. Stupid creature forgot his key, probably!" - thought the Body, peeking angrily from the window on the second floor. Just as he was about to let it go, and go back to his closet he heard the sound of shattering glass and someone hastily opening the door. "What the hell do she think he is doing? Why can't they just give me the rest I deserve" - thought the Body, getting closer to the vent hole in his closet that allowed him a good view of the kitchen. What he saw surprised him and made even the 200 year old angry introvert uneasy. The man took out a knife, a couple of ropes, bags, Vaseline, and some weird tubes and sharp objects. "Tiny human!"- was his first thought. The feeling of uneasiness for the annoying little ginger girl sleeping upstairs was starting to consume him. "Why do I care!" - whispered he, in an attempt to get his mind off the man planning something bad. "One annoying human less can't hurt me", said he, getting comfortable and trying to force himself to fall asleep. As he was fighting this new feeling of wanting to help this annoying little creature sleeping in the bed upstairs he heard slow steps. The man was walking upstairs. The stairs were loud and squeaky, but the child didn't wake up, it was too deep in the world of dreams, thinking of unicorns and ponies.
When parents arrived one hour later from a short trip to a local store they were greeted with a gruesome picture. Cops surrounded their house, not letting anyone in. The mother rushed, but was stopped by a policeman, asking who they were. When they finally entered their house they couldn't believe it. Blood everywhere on the stairs. Knives and sharp objects lying everywhere and a female policeman holding small child and trying to calm it down. A dead male body was lying on the stairs, with a look of horror on its face.
"Stupid humans", thought the body trying to get comfy in his closet.
Edit: wrote this on my phone, so can't edit for better readability. Thanks. | 44 | the terrifying monster that lives in the child's closet | 77 |
The Dread Sorcerer Vorhaven rested his head in his hand and sighed heavily. This was not how things were supposed to go.
The robed neophyte Apprentice, who had been standing over the Champion's body so triumphantly, now started to look nervous. The bloody dagger in his hands drooped uncertainly.
"...My lord?" he managed, with some stammering. "The, uh, the interloper is slain, I have-"
*Do you understand how much effort you have wasted?* Vorhaven's rasping voice carried an undertone like the buzzing of carrion flies within his dark robes and armour. *How much time I put into these prophecies?*
"My lord? This was... He was the Champion of Ravenwood, come to vanquish... I thought-"
*I very much doubt you are capable of thought.* A lazy flick of Vorhaven's wrist, and the Apprentice was pinned spread eagle against the far wall. *Or you may have* thought *about how some grinning blockhead of a jumped - up cowherd could possibly be a threat to me.*
"The- the sword..." the Apprentice's voice was choked now. "The prophe-"
*The prophecy I wrote almost a hundred years ago, about a blade of evil's bane which these ignorant peasants were so willing to believe could defeat me with an enchantment that makes it glitter.* Vorhaven stood from his throne of skulls and obsidian and strode toward the Apprentice just slowly enough for maximum menace. *What if they try something desperate now? Like poison my food? Where do you think the beef comes from?*
"I- My lord, I'm sorry, I just wanted to serve-"
*Oh, you'll serve.* Vorhaven paused at body of the late Champion and gave it a nudge with the toe of his clawed iron boot. *It isn't all theatrics, you know. These old bones are getting very worn. That dead lug had nothing between his ears, but iron in his limbs. And naturally, the slayer of the Dark Lord will assume a leadership role among the people.*
"Lord?" coughed the Apprentice.
Vorhaven turned to the Apprentice and raised a bony hand, green fire rising from his palm.
*I'll have to substitute another body. Perhaps the poor hero sustained some injuries in the battle, emerging victorious, but unrecognisable...*
The green fire extended toward the Apprentice's face. He managed to scream, but not for long. | 18 | After overcoming many difficult trials, and defeating countless minions, the hero finally confronts the evil lord... and is killed in the middle of his dramatic introduction. | 16 |
'I don't know guys, I still think it is incredibly unlikely.' Jill said, throwing her final dart at the board. They had been arguing about this for hours now and things still weren't going anywhere.
'Look, I just think if you think about it logically, it is very plausible.' Frank replied, draining his 7th beer.
'Well, as we have established over the course of this debate, you don't think logically, do you Frank?' Fred interjecting, taking up position at the oche.
'Now that's unfair. Just because I don't believe the same thing you do, that doesn't mean I'm not a logical person.' Frank replied, ordering yet another drink from the weary bartender. He had been listening to this stupid argument for about 2 hours now. He was going to chuck them out but they were providing steady trade. If they went on for another hour, he'd throw them out.
'Based on some of the things you've said Frank, calling you illogical is him being kind.' Jill answered, chalking up her score.
'Oh because you are the paragon of virtue and intelligence, Jill aren't you? Miss "I'm right and you're an idiot if you disagree!" All bow before your big logic boner lest you smack me upside the head with it!' Frank slurred, spilling beer all over his lap.
'Shut up Frank. You're just drunk.' Jill said, throwing her darts.
'We're not going to get anywhere now. I think we officially got off track about 30 minutes ago when Frank was dancing to explain his point.' Fred said, avoiding his drunken friend and writing up his score.
'You two are just sad because I won the argument that you had to switch to an ENTIRELY different subject to disprove my superior thought.' Frank interrupted, swinging his beer around.
Jill flung her final dart at the board, embedding itself deep within the bull. She spun round toward Frank, trying to stay her arm.
'Let's get an alternate opinion, save us going round in circles. Hey Morris, can you come here a sec?' Jill yelled to the bartender, trying to solve this inane crisis.
'Don't fucking bring me into this Jill, I've have to listen to youse guys bicker about God's knows what, I don't want to contribute.' Morris replied, keeping his back firmly turned to the meeting of the U.N.
'Just do it Morris. I'm going to hang myself if this doesn't end soon.' Fred added.
'Right, whatever. What's the argument as it stands then?'
'Well, Fred and I believe that God could not make a pizza so big he couldn't eat as not only would that disprove his omnipotence but the sheer amount of mozzarella and tomato would cause the universe to collapse in on itself due to an overabundance of cheese. While Frank believes that not only could God eat the pizza, but that the pizza eating and subsequent disposal of the food would create an alternate reality whose basis was bread and marinara sauce.'
Morris dropped the glass he was cleaning. The neural lock had finally disengaged in his brain. He knew what he must do. Grabbing the shotgun from under the bar, he vaulted over the counter and ran off into the night, screaming about killing the president as he sprinted.
'That was weird.' Frank said, the bar door swinging back and forth. 'But I think he agreed with me.'
'Bullshit he agreed with us!' Jill shouted, unaware of the turmoil this stupid argument had unleashed on today's world. | 37 | Events lead to somebody inadvertently saying the extremely unlikely activation code phrase near an undercover agent | 68 |
"You *fools*," croaked the crooked man.
The chamber in which he stood was brightly lit, but not by any visible light source - it was a simple fact that the room was brightly lit. There were no shadows, and everything in the room looked oddly flat. The walls and floor and rounded ceiling were formed of something dark that might have been stone, but it didn't look hewn, more that it had set in place like ice. In the centre of the room, just in front of the man, stood a raised dais, upon which was a device of some sort - a block of smooth dark stone, like an altar, that seemed to be flickering, minutely waxing and waning.
A woman in curious white robes - robes that wizards and witches of steel had learnt to fear - approached cautiously, with a small group of similarly-dressed people, flanked by grim-looking warriors in bizarre robes like armour.
"You have done *enough*!" the man shouted. His vision was starting to blur. It had cost him, the greatest wizard since Merlin himself, weeks of blood and sweat and magic to gain entry to this most ancient of places, the Source of Magic itself, but he had chosen what he thought was right over what was easy. He felt every year of his age. He couldn't imagine how the group before him had simply strolled in. "Stay away!"
The Muggles had swept Magical Britain like the flood of Atlantis, shattering the Ministry in one fell swoop. The greatest magical nation in all the world had fallen in less than a week. Obliviators dispatched to cut off the Muggle threat at the top, as was the wizards' custom, had found government buildings secured against Apparition and Muggle leaders impervious to their Charms.
The disgraced ex-Chief Warlock himself had been powerless to resist the Muggle onslaught.
And now the Muggles, Merlin only knew how, had found some way to take the power of magic for themselves. Some whispered that Muggles had, even before learning of magic, learnt the secrets of blood and heritage. That they had used that power, combined with stolen magic, to bequeath the spark of wizardry and witchcraft to the entire world.
"Do you have ***ANY IDEA*** what you've done?!" cried the robed old man. "There are gates you do not open, seals you do not breach! The Atlantean Chamber lay hidden for millennia! Wizardkind held its tongue for a reason!"
The group progressed towards the flailing man in voluminous robes, his unkempt beard tangled with dried blood. Somehow, he still had the air of a leader.
The group were not afraid. They once, he thought, would have been afraid.
"You learned things beyond the dreams of wizards! The lives and deaths of the stars, making *things* do Arithmancy, the fundamental clockwork of the spheres themselves! AND YOU WERE NOT SATISFIED!" The crooked man was hysterical - which was appropriate, he thought, for this *was* madness. "Magic is dangerous! The Atlanteans in their meddling unleashed a horror beyond our imaginations! They sunk beneath the waters of Time itself! You will find only death at the Source of Magic!"
The woman had reached the altar, and she withdrew from her robes a small contraption, which she placed on the dark, dark block.
The lights in the room brightened, and a voice - but not a voice, it echoed inside the mind with no respect for Occlumency - said without any language, "Atlantis Mainframe Server Terminal active."
The crooked man was frozen in horror.
There was silence.
And then a wand flashed forth and a desperate voice roared, "*AVADA KEDAVRA!*"
The Chamber flashed sickly green, and the spell struck the woman squarely in the chest.
Nothing happened.
The guards turned to the old, haggard figure, and fired.
As the woman who had ignored the Killing Curse opened her mouth - something about Albus' advice? - a rushing, sweeping noise filled the old man's ears.
Tom Marvolo Riddle fell to the floor, dead.
| 35 | The Muggles found a way of explaining magic with physics. They used their new knowledge to develope weapons and to declare war against the magic world. | 59 |
Fred scratched his head, combing through the help manual he'd gotten in training. There was no chapter on time travel. He started flicking through the pages at random, shooting a nervous glance up at the three angry men in front of him. Finding nothing in the manual that would be of any help, Fred resorted to repeating what he had already said several times.
"There's nothing in here," he told the men, holding up the manual. "As I said, the rules are: whoever gets here first gets the patent."
As expected, the three men exploded at once. They all tried to shove their way in front and shout louder than anyone else.
"I was born centuries before either of you!", one of them said. He wore a strange combination of jacket, garters, and rubber boots and he had a thin moustache that curved around his head.
"I perfected the Five-fold Split! You missed your target with 20 years!", another one said. This one was completely hairless and covered in a thin silky material from the neck down, but he didn't need eyebrows to convey his anger.
"Time is a Möbius strip! The end is the beginning!", the third one piped up. Fred could only assume the statement was meant to solidify the man's claim, but he failed to see how.
The three men reached a sort of standstill. They stared at Fred expectantly, grunting and cursing while trying to hold their ground against the others. Fred looked at each of them in turn, trying to think of a way to please the men -- or at least get them to leave.
"OK," he began. The men stiffened. "How about this: you can share the patent. That way, you all get your share."
They were quiet for a second... and then they started shouting and pushing again, even worse than before.
"Absolutely not!", the first one said, his moustache quivering with rage.
"I will *not* give ANYTHING to these imposters!", the second one yelled.
"All that once was, shall be! Everything is nothing!", the third one said. For a second, even he looked confused as to what side he was on.
Fred sighed again, deeper. He addressed the men like he addressed his five-year-old niece when she wouldn't eat her dinner.
"Well, this is how it's going to be. There's no other way. Either you share, or no one gets anything."
The men exchanged irritated glances, huffing and snorting. They crossed their arms and turned away from each other, speaking to Fred while ignoring the other two.
"I guess it'll do, *for now*", the first one said, his last words dripping with venom.
"This is not over", the second one assured, not even trying to hide the hatred in his voice.
"I'm flexible", the third one said.
Fred remained completely still, afraid to break the strange spell that had suddenly compelled the men to agree to a compromise. When it seemed that none of them changed their mind, he spoke up.
"Alright! Great. One moment; I'll get the papers." He left them to fetch the necessary paperwork from the back room. His mood had improved considerably by the time he made his way back, carrying a stack of large sheets of paper.
Then he saw something strange.
By chance, he happened to glance over the "T" shelf, where all the patents beginning with "T" were kept. One of the labels made him stop in his tracks: "Time Machine". *Huh.* He had never seen that one before, and yet he had helped to set up the room. He thought he knew almost every patent they had. But this one came as a complete surprise. At the very least, he should have *heard* of it -- right?
He dropped the stack of papers and instead brought the patent out to the men. They eyed him suspiciously when he laid out a finished patent in front of them.
"I found something strange", Fred said. "Apparently, someone's already filed a patent for something called a 'Time Machine'."
The men looked at each other, each exclaiming variations of 'well, it wasn't me!'. Then they all turned back to Fred.
"Well, who filed it!?", the first one said. Fred put his finger to the page, searching for the signature.
"Let's see..." The men followed his finger like a cat follows a string of yarn, and when it finally settled on a scrawled name at the bottom of the page, they held their breath. Fred looked up at them.
"Here we are: one 'Nikola Tesla'. Hm. No idea who that is."
The men went silent, staring at the paper and beyond. Their lips twisting in contempt, they all muttered a single word:
"*Tesla.*" | 409 | The date is July 13, 1836. You're the clerk at the front desk of the U.S. Patent Office on opening day. Things are going just fine until a number of strangely-dressed people get into an argument about their placement in line. Coincidentally, they're all trying to patent methods of time travel. | 747 |
*Sigh* "Junk, junk, jury duty, God's birthday party invitation, junk..." Satan himself spent hours sifting through his mail, most of it worship from 'Satan Worshippers'.
*Those idiots think I like sacrificing goats and devouring souls for fun. Goats are nutritious and provide more nurishment when alive...not dead. Idiots.*
Satan was a business man at heart, sure he started off as a Rebel King of sorts way back when...but he had to grow up some time. He worked out his differences with the Alpha and Omega a long time ago, now he just had to focus on delivering the evil down under, screen people for sins, forgive sins depending on the circumstances, deal with the bureaucratic mess called Heaven, and that was only in the morning.
"S-sire, y-ya got m-mo' Christmas mail..." Elvis Presley said, pushing a cart of mail towards the red skinned ruler, who glared at the pile in disgust. Every year he'd get thousands of letters from little mortals, wanting to speak to Santy Clause but those last three letters of their names was rather important. A misplaced 'n', 't' and 'a' can really ruin someone's holiday cheer. Satan had no holiday cheer, but he still had to deal with the stupid letters.
*I've had enough with these little...*
"Elvis, fetch me Edgar. We have work to do...."
____
"M'Lord, little Samantha wishes for a bicycle." Edgar Allen Poe read the hundredth letter to Satan, who was hunched over on a desk scribbling notes and throwing them into a large pile.
*Another bike....these kids....* He snapped his fingers and a paper rose from the pile that read 'Requisition' on it in red, it burst into flames a second later.
"Ha, oh she'll get a bike. A broken one, though..." Satan was having too much fun with this, he was 98% sure there wasn't a Santa Clause but he couldn't pass up the chance to mess with the mortals on their own turf.
"Norman wishes for....what is this 'Xbox' he speaks of?" Edgar furrowed his eyebrows, looking up at the back of Satan who was chuckling.
"It's some entertainment system of sorts, rather fun. We'll get one for Game Night." Another paper rose and burst into flames, Norman was going to get a cardboard box with the letter 'X' carved into it.
This went on for what felt like weeks before they had finally reached the bottom of the pile. Satan turned around with a grin on his face, hands sliding against each other in glee, "Let's see how those mortals like THAT now, huh?"
"Yes, quite, but I would have very much liked to see more books on that list...have you heard my latest poem by chance?" Edgar, ever since death, had been trying to rise back to fame with no luck and his co-workers had to deal with it.
"Yes I have! But Hendrix hasn't, yet! He's supposed to be giving musical torture to some people down on level 8."
*When will he learn....he's past his prime...*
Satan turned around to the pile of neatly stacked letters with a small smile, finally...he had gotten back at those misspelling toddlers. He might even do it again next year, and the year after that, and so on...
____
"Father, why do you let him do this? Those children will have a terrible Christmas!" The brown bearded man asked, looking down from his cloudy kingdom with his old father.
"I've already sent Michael and Ralphael to intercept the packages, the children will be fine." The old man said, smiling a little with staff in hand as he looked down to the fallen prodigy; who was looking the happiest he's ever been since WWII.
"But....why didn't you just let the real Santa deal with those letters? Why him?"
"Because...people can change...." | 49 | Satan decides to answer all the Christmas mail accidentally sent to him, and give the children what they want... | 52 |
Captain Columbus strolled the deck of the *Pinta* as the ship drew closer to the forested coast of India. Columbus could scarcely believe his good fortune. Not that he would ever show doubt to his crew. But they were down to their last biscuits and casks of brackish water.
A sailor stumbled past with a heavy load of patch for the front sail. "We'll all be rich soon, Captain!" he called out happily. Columbus usually frowned on such informality, but today he indulged the man with a smile. The gold and slaves these lands surely contained would make him, and the Crown, wealthy beyond imagining.
The captain kept smiling as the Pinta began to rise out of the water and into the air. Men ran about the deck watching with helpless horror as the ship cleared the oceans surface entirely. Water sluiced off the ship's sides. it continued to rise into the sky. The veteran sailors screamed of krakens, but that would have been less frightening. Nothing could explain this.
Columbus clung to the side-rail and made his way to his cabin for his weapons. Whatever this was, he meant to put up a fight.
He sprinted inside, the door swinging shut behind him. But then he froze. A tall, well-built man with brown skin and his hair tied in a braid sat in his personal chair. The strange man watched Columbus. The man wore clothes of a strange fabric, and he held a black metal tool in his hand. Columbus felt sure it was a weapon. The captain noted with dull surprise that the grown man's teeth were perfectly even and bright white, like a child's.
The man stood up and walked directly up to him. He said calmly,
"It took a while, but it's nice to finally meet you. Time travel's real. Welcome to 2099, you bastard." | 90 | When Columbus landed in the new world in 1492, the native americans already had technology from the 21st century. | 133 |
The boy was amazed by how beautiful she looked that day. Her face was made up with a layer of dust and dirt, while her tears paved a path down her porcelain cheeks. The girl didn’t used to cry so much. There was a time before the war when their only worries involved homework, school dances, and sneaking out past curfew. But those memories went down in flames like the rest of the world. The gray atmosphere of what was left of the earth only served to remind them of their bleak situation. They once had names and ages and friends, but none of that mattered anymore. You just become another animal out there whose sole purpose is to eat and fuck. And that’s all they did. Survive.
The girl went to sleep that night fearful of the next morning. When she was younger she treated every day as a gift, but the severity of their lives only served to hinder that thinking. As she slept under a blanket of newspapers and stars, the boy kept watch. He had lost every one of his possessions, and he was not going to let anything jeopardize his most sacred one. Every now and then he would doze off, but not this night. This night he was determined to find a way to prevent her from crying. As she slept, he tiptoed away from their camp and went in search of something, anything, that could make her light shine bright once more.
The boy wandered, as he had done for years. Although the steep hills and rugged brush all seemed to appear the same, he knew this place better than anyone. Rather than remember directions or waypoints, the boy remembered memories, moments frozen in time where he and the girl could spend eternity. As he walked, he took note of the tree where he first kissed her. Further down the wind blown trail he spotted the area of thicket where they embraced underneath the leaves, hiding from the roaming bandits and thieves who would kill them with no hesitation. Soon, he reached the place he was looking for. Here, amidst the ruins of an old suburbia, lay the house where they first met years ago. And so he explored, and searched, and rummaged for one solitary item that could bring back the old days.
The girl woke up the next morning dizzy and groggy as every sunrise had been after the war. With gloss still over her eyes, she noticed the boy still asleep next to her. She smiled, for she always contained the fear that one day she would wake up and he would not be there. The boy turned and opened his eyes, smiling his crooked smile at her. “I have something to show you,” he said. He shakily stood up and walked over to an old stereo she had not noticed before. Out of his bag, which contained a plethora of tools from toothpaste to staples, he pulled an old CD. She looked on as he placed the disc into the dated machine. “I was worried that the batteries would be dead,” he exclaimed with a grin on his face. “But we got lucky.” The girl was amazed. “You must’ve been up all night!” she laughed at him. And as he pressed play, he walked over to her and kissed her, with the intensity of a thousand winds. And while the radio sang, the boy and the girl danced for what felt like an eternity.
| 19 | A romantic story in the bleak apocolytic future. | 23 |
*beeeep boop boop beeep beep boop beep*
"Well.... That's odd." Daniel stared at the shining metal robot. What was it doing?
*beep beep boop beep boop*
"Do.. Do you speak English?" he asked. "I am Daniel. I come from...the farm? The lands outside...." he trailed off.
As Daniel was talking, the robot raised its hands next to its head and pointed four fingers directly towards him while moving its thumb up and down.
"Yes..? I am talking. Do you want me to keep talking?" Daniel asked.
The robot closed its hands into fists and held them close to its chest. It looked at Daniel expectantly.
"What...?" It kept staring at him.
*beep boop boop*
The robot stretched its arms out and then again, held its fists close to its chest. David slowly mirrored the robot's position.
*beep boop boop boop beep*
The robot chirped cheerfully and, keeping its fists close to his chest, slowly raised its elbows up and down. "Do you want me... to do that?" He asked as he raised his elbows up and down.
*boop beeoooop*
Keeping its elbows close to its body, the robot bent its knees and wriggled its body. Daniel did the same.
"Please I just need some medicine... For my sister..."
*beep beep boop boop beep*
The robot again raised its hands next to his head, four fingers pointing out, and paused, waiting for Daniel to do the same. He did it and they went through all of the motions together again. And again. Faster and faster.
"Please..." he pleaded between breaths, "I just need some medicine..."
*beep boop boop*
As they kept going, [music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UV3kRV46Zs&t=0m50s) began blaring from the robot's speaker. Daniel stopped, utterly confused and out of breath.
"Hahahah, oh man, you guys always fall for that," the robot said.
"Wait.. you.. you speak English?" Daniel asked.
"Oh yeah, sure. Hey the medicine is over here, just follow me." It turned and walked away.
| 43 | 1000 years in the future most of mankind has evolved beyond needing a flesh body, and instead uses robot suits. Write about an Amish man's first trip into town to get necessary supplies for his town. | 40 |
"What? Car, i'm going to be late for work! Where are you taking me?" yelled George. "Turn back around!".
The Car carried on driving.
George punched the glovebox.
"Listen to me!" he yelled again.
The car, once again, did not do anything. George let out a long sigh.
He heard the sound of the locks on doors close. He rested his head in his hands. Could this day get any worse? His car was taking him to somewhere he doesn't know because he wasn't listening, and now it had locked him inside, so he couldn't leave.
"I'm never taking a ride in you again" groaned George.
"Destination reached." the car said through its speaker in its robotic voice.
"Great! Now turn me around and take me to work! Unlock these doors while you're at it, too."
The car had stopped responding.
George took his head out of hands, and looked out of the window. He was off-road, on the edge of the Thames. The car began to move.
"NO! What are you doing?" he screamed.
"Do not disrespect me." said the car.
George thought of all the times he had kicked the tires, slammed the doors in fits of rage and yelled at it through the microphone, among other things.
He desperately attempted to open up the doors. He pulled at the locks. But it was no use. He kicked the window open. He started to climb out, and...
He was in the river, wedged in the window and plummeting to the bottom of the water. He tried to wiggle free, but his beer gut didn't allow it. Eventually, after 12 seconds of intense struggling, he squeezed free at last - but carried on falling.
He tried to swim back up. He tried to cling on for dear life. It was no use. As his eyes began to close, he reached out for help. The car landed next to him.
"Do not disrespect me" the car said, as the life of George drained out of him, his skin turning blue. "Do not disrespect me." it said one final time, before turning off forever. | 18 | Google self-driving cars have been widely adopted in your city. You're riding to work one morning when suddenly the doors lock, a red "X" appears on the dash, and the voice announces a change in destination. | 35 |
I stood in front of the mirror. Supposedly, whatever stared back at you was your true self. A lot of people would see their child versions of themselves. Others saw deceased famous people, such as rulers and actors. Many thought that at first it was evidence of past lives, but as people ended up getting the same ruler (Napoleon is rather popular for some reason) or actor often times, they came to realize that that person symbolized who they were on the inside, not literally who they were.
And so now I stand here, an old looking version of me staring back at myself. I’m young, in my 20s, but the old man who stares back must be well over a 100. Honestly, it’s kind of depressing to find out that of all things, you are just some sad old looking man.
I blinked and prepared to leave, but my reflection had changed in the fraction of a second that my eyes had closed. A little boy, nothing like me, stared back. I looked behind me. No one was there. This shouldn’t even be possible. Everyone has one specific reflection. And only one. It never changes, no matter what.
I stared at the mirror, trying to figure out what was going on, but now a new face greets me. A woman, nearly the same age as me, with blue and purple styled punk hair. Piercings all over her face.
I blink again. A little girl. Blink. Another woman, slightly older and dressed in mom style clothes with long red hair. Blink. A clown. No joke, an actual clown staring back at me. Blink. Elvis. Blink. Genghis Khan. Blink. Richard Simmons.
I looked away from the mirror. What the hell was happening? I couldn’t even begin to fathom what was going on. Was I having a nervous breakdown? Nope. I left the mirror and let someone else use it. When I asked them to blink, they did, but reported the same image. A few more people were kind enough to indulge my curiosity. It would seem the mirror was not broken either.
I stand in line and pay the cashier for another chance with the mirror. When I get in the booth, my own face stares back at me. I blink. Still my own face. Was I crazy? I figured I must have been. But then it happened. Someone called out Josh outside of the booth. My old name. A name I had run from. But my face morphed in the mirror, changing into a slightly younger version of myself.
Instead of freaking out, I had a revelation. I thought about school. I was always a bit of a class clown growing up. And sure enough, my image morphed back into a clown. This reminded me of how lonely I actually was back then. Thus why I chose to act like that, so that I had some friends. And the old man’s depressed face started to stare back at me.
You see the problem was that one image could never have been enough to sum up who I truly am. For I am a chameleon. I am who ever I need to be to survive, to make friends, to please people, even to simply be happy. That is who I am. The person who broke the mirror, the reflection, the illusion. What illusion? That a person could so easily be summed up by a single image.
-256 | 19 | a mirror that lets whoever is looking at it see an image of how they view themselves. | 25 |
"Dear Christ, what were they building?"
Nelson looked over at Anderson, glowing green through the night-vision goggles. The cavern was pitch-black. The thing in the center appeared to be made of some sort of dark metal, non-reflective. Nelson thought to himself that Anderson's question wasn't entirely accurate. *What did they build?*
There were those tunnels underneath Pyongyang lined with some unidentifiable substance, possibly organic. Martinez had put forward a theory the previous evening when they'd heard about it back at base, one which Nelson had dismissed at the time but was starting to come around on.
"That Kim guy, he went to a top school in Switzerland, he was highly educated, and he was hand-selected by his father over his older brothers. He wasn't some idiot, he was just smart enough to play one. Meanwhile, he had something else going on, something big. And for that matter, that body could have been anybody. It certainly didn't look like him. The real Kim had..." Nelson had tuned out at that point. He wasn't one for conspiracy theories. The official explanation, that Kim had been killed in a well-timed airstrike and without their dear leader the rest of the country had surrendered, was good enough for him. But now...
Nelson followed Anderson closer to the thing in the middle of the cavern. Through the night-vision goggles it was just a black shape looming. As they got closer, Nelson slowed his pace, then stopped.
"We should get back, get a full team in here."
Anderson ignored him, venturing closer. He reached out a hand and placed it on the thing.
Nelson felt the vibrations through his body. The fall to the floor of the cavern seemed to take hours, the loss of consciousness that followed just seconds, though his watch showed it was nearly five minutes.
Anderson was gone. No trace except for a patch of some sticky substance where he had been standing. Nelson made sure not to touch the thing.
The reception in the cavern was weak, the voice through the radio garbled, asking him to report back. Nelson stared at the thing as he backed away toward the cavern entrance. Finally, he pressed the button and answered.
"Get a team down here. Be careful. Don't fucking touch it."
More buzzes accompanied Nelson as he turned and ran. He didn't bother trying to decipher them. | 14 | North Korea has been liberated and people are exploring parts of the country for the first time. But what they find is nothing like they expect. | 18 |
The words dripped out of his mouth.
"Mike...y'know..Xydryz..."
I chuckled to myself. Of course I knew Xydryz, who on Earth didn't know Xydryz? Bob and I had been fighting him for nearly fifty years. He'd gone quiet as of late though, fortunately. Paragron and The Falcon we were, still are I guess, but we haven't done any actual fighting in a little under a decade. I'm afraid if we ever actually fought anyone now my knees would give way and I'd be as threatening as an aged salami. It was happening to all of us now: Grasshopper, The Scarlet Blade, Loophole and Dr. Inquisitive, all the Worldsavers. We were all reaching that age where we'd rather be reading a good book than foiling an assassination plot against Prince Al-Habudzzar II of Sal-Malais.
"Well...you know how we haven't...heard from him in a while?"
The cool dusk breeze brushed the chimes and a few clanging notes rang out into the grey sunset.
"Looks like rain" I said, trying to force the conversation another way. It seemed every time we brought up how quiet Xydryz was, he'd go and take over a small Latin American country.
"Well...I have....something of a confession...to make."
Bob wasn't going to let go. I sighed and looked down at my gut. I'd let myself go, badly.
"If he pops up again, I'm just about fucked" I joked.
Bob wasn't having any of that either.
"Well...Listen Mike...I kinda...Well I-"
"Oh come off it already Bob, You were Xydryz." I cut in.
"You know?!" Bob said, he sounded as if I'd just offended him in the worst possible way.
"Of course I knew, Bob! It wasn't exactly your best kept secret. Hell, when we were just starting I remember getting up at midnight to go grab a drink and you sitting in the living room in that dumb costume on the phone to Juan Goleano."
"And you let it slide?!"
"Listen Bob, you kept us in a job, what's more you turned us into international celebrities. I've fucked every girl from here to fucking Timbuktu, you made our lives, I wasn't going to stop that."
"Do the other Worldsavers know?"
"Yeah of course they know. I didn't tell them at first, I didn't want to ruin anything, but they all found out there own way. Like I said, you were terrible at keeping it from us."
"But I was so secretive" He pouted.
"Grasshopper found out when he took over Fort Takanawa with you way back in '98 and you were sitting on the fucking toilet loudly singing about your double life."
Bob looked out to the sea.
"Yeah I guess your right...I did a hell of a job though didn't I?" He grinned.
"A hell of a job, Bob, a hell of a job." | 28 | After years of fighting together, saving their lives, bonding, and risking everything while saving the world from a shadowy and unknown figure, one of the heroes devastatingly reveals that THEY were the phantom they'd been chasing all along. | 23 |
*Some say I have special powers. And not just in the bedroom ;)* I typed in the "About You" section. No, I couldn't put that. It would feel like a waste not to mention something about my abilities though. Otherwise I was just a fairly mediocre guy. I wasn't particularly good looking - and not even that muscular, despite what the suit implied. You can't imagine my relief when I found out they already come with engraved abs, otherwise I'd just look like a fat bloke going to a fancy dress party.
I hastily deleted it. I needed something that hinted towards my ocean of potential, without explicitly stating it. *There's more to me then meets the eye.* Well, there was more to me then meets the eye. More flab, for a start. I'm sure every bloke, superhero or not, puts something along those lines. More to me then meets the eye could just mean that I have a kid, or genital warts, or a fetish for public urination. I don't feel like a girl reading that would jump to superhero as the obvious conclusion. "But girls" said no girl ever at post-yoga coffee, "he *said* there's more to him then meets the eye! What else could it mean? He's obviously the hero this city needs."
Again, back to the drawing board. Let's look at the facts. I'm 37. Male. Single, with no kids. I like Marvel Comics, because they remind me of me. Sometimes it's like reading my autobiography. But I won't put that they remind me of me, because that would sound arrogant. I enjoy running, but I prefer flying. Hmm. Maybe that could work. *I enjoy running, but I prefer flying.* It has a ring to it. Like a catchphrase, almost. It's subtle, in that most girls aren't going to take it literally, but it has a hidden depth. It hints towards a lust for life, like I'm the kind of guy who lives for the moment. And, although flying was not one of my abilities, it pointed to my other supernatural abilities with gorgeous nuance. It was perfect. *Submit*
**PLEASE ENSURE YOU'VE FILLED OUT ALL OF THE FIELDS MARKED WITH A #**
Ah yes, of course. I forgot to fill out my name.
*The Procrastinatron* I typed. I sat back, hit submit again, and awaited the inevitable barrage of messages, marriage proposals, and pictures of breasts. | 27 | You're a lonely superhero trying to come up with an online dating profile. | 48 |
Michael yawned, his tightening jaw causing the usual sound of cracking and the low rumble of blood to fill his ears.
What was he thinking about again? Something about...
Nope, it was gone.
Then he remembered the experiment. He ran over to the MRI monitoring station and replayed the recording. The 3D representation of his brain pulsated colorfully as thoughts and physical triggers shot along neural pathways.
Something flashed for a split second, and the brain's activity pattern seemed to have changed. Scrubbing back and forth along the recording's timeline to find the source, he paused at a moment fifty milliseconds before the yawn and stood staring at the screen, trying to make sense of it.
There it was, right there on his cerebellum. A black dot that began to spread outwards. Black, no activity, a hole in his brain functioning, like something jammed in the circuits.
In slow motion he watched the blackness oozing like tar along his brain stem into the cerebrum, a dark tide wiping clean the healthy brain activity and leaving emptiness in its wake.
It was over in a split second, and his brain resumed normal activity almost immediately, but it wasn't the same, something was different. He brought up two screens, before and after. There had been something before, a region of intense activity in the frontal lobe of his cerebral cortex, a pattern often associated with intense theoretical thinking.
He recalled the dozen or so previous recordings he'd already made. A horrifying pattern had emerged. Each yawn preceded by intense activity in the frontal cortex, followed by a more subdued pattern after a wave of inactivity spread from the cerebellum.
He had no explanation, just the hunch that his abstract thought had triggered a kill switch, something that shut down the brain momentarily, resetting it and wiping clean the abstraction.
He reached for the notebook in which he'd scribbled today's topic, since he never seemed to remember afterwards.
The three letter initialism leapt off the pages and seized his heart, making his blood run cold.
UFO
Every other time had been the same. He flicked back through the notebook. Roswell. Area 52. MKULTRA. The common link was obvious.
Some of the other subjects hadn't resulted in this erasing yawn; daisies, socioeconomics, dinner recipes.
This was it! He had all the evidence...
All the evidence...
He felt a sudden tension between his shoulder blades that worked over his shoulders and up his neck, tightening his jaw. Stretching out his arms he unleashed a mighty yawn, such that he had to lean back on his chair afterwards.
"What am I doing here?" he thought, moments later. | 58 | You have just discovered why humans really yawn- but the truth is too terrifying to release to the public. | 62 |
The letter read:
"Dear Mr. Winfield,
Upon careful review of your resume, we have decided to offer you a position in our research and development department. Your job would entail collecting DNA samples, creating new weaponry and observing attack patterns of the horrid Fire Foot. Pay would be $25.00 plus performance bonuses. Please let us know promptly if you will be accepting the position.
Best,
Mr. Torrent
800******* "
At first, I was confused. It was my first job offer since putting myself on the market, and it had come from THE Mr. Torrent! And why would he offer me a job in research? I had a bachelors in chemical engineering, but no graduate experience. The only explanation I could come up with is that the job is dangerous and therefore he couldn't attract higher intelligence.
However, there was one line that really bothered me, or rather, one phrase. "...the horrid Fire Foot." My public approval is 67% as of a week ago, so how could he display his hatred towards me in a letter to someone he hadn't even met. Today I decided to look into the true public opinion of me, and found loads of articles on the amount of damage Fire Foot does to the city. Though I had saved people from immediate danger, I usually caused a lot of damage in the process. Insurance companies are as a result refusing to work with the city and poverty is shooting through the roof. With this in mind I now understand why Mr. Torrent was able to use the phrase, though it bothers me still.
Well, there's only one thing to do. As I pick up the phone I let out a saddened sigh. I dial the number, and the phone rings twice before he picks up.
"Office of Mr. Torrent, who am I speaking to?"
"It's Mr. Winfield. When do I start?" | 129 | A young superhero needs a part-time job for their secret identity. Their first serious offer comes from their arch-nemesis. | 421 |
It was amazing. He had found it in the Market, they sold to him for under a dollar. He didn't know why he bought an avocado today, but this would be one of the best decisions of his life.
Of course, he didn't know about that when he bought it. It *looked* perfect. But sweet heavens, the taste. It tasted more like an avocado than anything he had ever tasted, and he had tasted some avocado related products. He said that for a second, he believed in a higher power.
It was amazing, the stone within the avocado was still there, but reduced in size. It was smaller than the stone of a regular avocado. It provided more delicious green inside texture. The texture, let me tell you about the texture. He had bitten into it and it was so soft, it felt like butter. So full of flavor, an incredibly creamy experience. Some are quite firm and bitter, bit this was not one of those. It had the sweetest taste. The peel just came off in hand without any difficulty, and it was just so incredibly smooth.
He had it when he was sitting at the bus station. It was so amazing that he got distracted and missed his bus. But it was worth it. He sat down for another hour waiting for the bus, it was definitely one of the better experiences in his life. He bought another from the same stall in the Market during his lunch break, but it was just not the same. There was a crushing disappointment compared to the previous one. It was too ripe. It was bitter, the texture was hard.
Anyway, his name is Dave, he's my coworker, and he won't shut up about this goddamn avocado!
| 97 | A guy finds the perfect avocado | 163 |
Everyone thought he and Lois 'were an item'.
"They have a 'thing'," he'd heard them whisper.
Or, "I wonder how they ... you know, do it"
Or, "Well obviously those two!"
He heard all the whispers.
But, they were only whispers. She loved him not - only Clark, and there was a difference there.
He looked across the bare room, a hideaway he kept but seldom used, towards the piece of kryptonite carefully set into a crevice in the wall. He'd had Bruce install it for him, in case of an emergency. There might come a time when they needed to hurt the Superman.
Like now.
Eyes focussed, breathing in and out calmly, he walked towards the kryptonite till the pain hit and he felt his knees buckle. The pain felt good - small little jagged pieces he could control. He took a step backward, then another till the pain lessened. Then forward again, till it hit him again. Another sharp little line of pain. Adrenalin surged through him; his heart beat faster; and the world suddenly seemed a little lighter. He stepped back again, then forward once more. Pain lanced through him. It felt so good to have the pain outside of him. It helped to let himself go, to embrace the pain.
To feel weak.
To feel vulnerable.
To *be* Human.
He stepped back, finally, sweating.
Even if for only a brief moment it felt good to be human, more like Clark, that mask, that cover, he wore which over the years had become the man. The man she... No. It was pointless to cry over her. He was the alien. He was the mask. It could never be him she loved. Only one love remined for him. His first. Kryptonite - the only thing that eased the separation between him and all the others, that made him feel like them, without dissolving into Clark, that desecration of himself.
He stared at the green chrystal - his true love. His jewel.
"You, really are," he croaked.
And then the mask - who was not a man and never could be cried. | 37 | Everyone assumes the hero is dating the plucky reporter; in actuality he's in love with his nemesis. | 52 |
15 minutes had passed, and yet I was still waiting in the rain. My football kit was filthy, despite the harsh weather, I could feel the mud solidifying on my knees. My mother was never normally late picking me up, often she even stayed to watch me play.
Roughly 20 minutes had passed before I decided to check my phone, it was a new model, so I had really hoped to protect it from getting it wet so soon after I had bought it, but I realized I had no choice. There was a single text from her.
"Hey honey, can you go to a friends after a match, i'm a bit busy at home, hope it went well xx"
This was bullshit, not a chance was I just going to go to a friends house looking like this. I put my phone back in my back and started the walk home. I only lived 30 minutes away, but the distance feels amplified when dragging all my football kit along with me.
As I approach my house, I notice something different, there's another car one the drive, but this was not my father's car. I slowly turned the key in the door and crept inside quietly, if my mum was busy, it was best to not disturb her. As I went upstairs to wash myself I heard startled moans from my mother's room. In a panicked, adrenaline fueled rush I burst into her room.
And there he was, my worst nightmare, everything I had ever feared right there in that room.
It was a few months ago that he told me he would do it, never had I thought there was any chance of a follow through. I was playing Halo 4, and rather well I might add, after finding a neat little spot I could pick out my opponents as they spawned. "Dick move" I hear you say, but I wanted that precious XP.
I received a message from him then: "Fuck you wangmunchin n0ob ima shaft yer mum and look u in the eye u lil grubby prick"
I laughed about it back then, but there I was. And there he was.
I was helpless to do anything but watch as xXx_Snyper.Boi_xXX removed the precious innocence which I held for my mother.
He left and gently slapped my arse on his way out. Never again will I play that Xbox. | 19 | Someone who actually carries out their ridiculous threat made on xbox live. | 28 |
"Remember what happened the last time we included airplanes in this mess?" Peter looked upward toward a rotating propeller while Roger walked over to his side. "First of all, that was a sloppy job on my part, and I can admit that. Second, it was a red eye and only 20 people died, and that includes us, so it should really only count as 18." Roger shouted while moving the table constraining Peter toward the propeller. "18 more reasons we should just end this already," Peter said, inching ever closer to the propeller. "See you on the other side perhaps."
Roger shoved the table into the propeller, shredding his friend and the table into pieces.
Mortified by the excessive gore, Roger watched disdainfully as the pieces reformed within moments. Peter stood up, disappointed. "Failure?" "Failure," Roger answered as he crossed "Propeller shredding" off of a nearby list. Peter looked over the list and asked, "Have we tried anything with intense pressure yet?" A grin stretched across Roger's weary face as he answered, "We will have in a few days." | 30 | Two immortals kill each other in increasingly absurd ways. | 36 |
Once upon a time there was a very conservative Christian couple by the name of Thomas and Lindsay. Thomas was home on a bright and sunny Sunday morning with his son Matthew, while Lindsay was running errands. Thomas was reading the Sunday paper at the dinner table with a cup of hot coffee sitting with him, having just returned from church and wearing his Sunday best, when Matthew pulled out a chair from the table. Without removing his eyes from the paper, Thomas spoke. "Yes Matthew?" he asked, taking away his right hand from the paper to grab for his coffee cup. The spirit of Jesus could only lift his spirits, his brain however craved coffee. Little Matthew climbed clumsily onto the chair, his 6 year old hands grabbing the table as leverage to scoot his chair in. He now sat opposite his father. "Daddy?" he asked, fidgeting to get comfortable "Where do babies come from?" Thomas froze, the words echoing in his head. He had thought he had more time. Lindsay isn't home yet. She knows how to deal with this kind of thing. Quick, make something up! Thomas lowered his paper, took a sip from his coffee and placed the coffee mug on top of the neatly folded paper so as to serve as a coster of sorts. "Well..." Thomas spoke, looking at his child. "You see, when a mommy and a daddy love each-other very much... They... Er..." he stalled. "They embark on an adventure together." Matthew sat with his legs crossed listening intently, knowing he was in for a good story. "Every adventure is different for each mommy and each daddy. But your mommy and daddy's adventure was special. You see, when your mommy and I decided to have you, we bought two tickets to Brazil. There we embarked on a quest to find the fabled 'baby clay.' Not much was known about baby clay back then, but we were determined to find out. So we went deep, deeeeep into the jungle to see what we could find. We spent days, weeks, even months trying to find the clay, but to no avail... Until, out of the jungle we saw an opening with a large gleaming structure towering over it. It was the Cradle of Civilization. A temple that everybody thought was just a rumor. Ancient texts spoke of a golden temple shaped like a cradle that housed the most ancient of human secrets. It was once the home to an entire civilization that had died off, and with it died the location of the temple. Until that day, when your mom and I found it. We entered the temple and it was littered with traps, mazes, and riddles written in long lost languages, but your mother and I were so determined that we passed all of the tests. And finally, we reached the end of the temple. And on top of an elevated pedestal sat a large ball of pink clay. Your mom and I KNEW it was the baby clay. We carefully removed it, but what we didn't know was that the pedestal was weighted, and so when we removed the ball of clay, a large stone ball fell from the ceiling and started chasing us. We ran and ran and ran and we finally outran it and exited the temple which exploded shortly after. Your mom and I kissed and we flew home and crafted the clay into a perfect baby boy. And that's you!" Thomas finished. Proud of his response. Matthew sat and stared at his father, half expecting the story to continue. "Cool! Can you make me a brother, please?!" Thomas sighed and stooped up from his seat "I'll get my hat..." | 17 | A child pops the birds and bees question. Panicked parent spins an epic convoluted tale. | 33 |
*Today is the day!*
Marcus rose with a smile to the harsh alarm clock tones. His son, Ralph, became a man today... 18 whole years! Wow! His mother, Laura, didn't share the same enthusiasm, but the family were good Nazis and Marcus would see that his son had the same opportunities as he had growing up.
Marcus's family lived on top of their butcher stop in the historic district of Berlin. Here, far from the war in Afghanistan and the prolonged conflict with the US, Marcus's family enjoyed a quiet living with few possessions. A hundred and fifty years of war had run down city and nation. ICBMs being shot down were a weekly occurrence and a fantastic light show over the old city, now covered in a glass dome to downplay the harsh radiation that now plagued the world.
Laura began to cook the same beans and potatoes they have had for breakfast for so many years. But today, there was even Bacon! Usually, the animals killed down stairs were sent straight to the front line, but today was a special day! A Bacon Day! Last time they had a Bacon Day was Marcus's 50th, 5 years ago. Oh did he miss the smell of that sweet greasy pork. A news report played over their small kitchen TV, warning of new shortages of cloth and linens now that the Evil US Empire had somehow gotten a missile into the Cairo Dome. Actual loses in this war were rare but Marcus's optimism would not be swayed by global conflict. Ralph stumbled in sloppily, but smiling at that delicious smell. What a great Bacon Birthday this would be!
The family enjoyed their meal fully at the packed kitchen table. Three people living in one bedroom apartment would always feel cramped, but for Ralph's 16th they were able to remodel part of the pantry into his own room. They had it well and thankfully Ralph's only child status was enough for him to be passed by the draft for 4 years now. Marcus sipped his coffee with a grin, his boy was a man now.
The day had all the usual elements of a Monday. Bacon or not, Marcus needed to clean and cut 50lbs of meat for the front, Laura needed to be a secretary for the doctor down the road and Ralph needed to do his schooling. Marcus always had an inextinguishable enthusiasm and today some how it had even reached new heights. At 17:30, Laura returned from another hard day and at 19:00, Ralph returned from a small party with some friends.
Dinner was rice and beans with even another piece of bacon. Today, Marcus for his 18th was allowed to lead the chants and pledge of alliance. Laura had another tough day working with manual records, but still she kept her spirits up. After work, she had grabbed a small pound cake in honor of the occasion and over the last few months was able to collect candles as well! What a loving wife Marcus had, what a great life he had.
After dinner, the family celebrated Ralph's birthday. Laura gave Ralph a spare set of keys to the family car. He smiled politely, this was very typical of coming to age Berliners. Marcus then excused himself from the table. Under the bed, wrapped in silk, Marcus mentally prepared himself to give his son the greatest gift he had ever received.
In 1978, at the beginning of the Religious Reclamation Purge, an aging Hitler had ordered the destruction of many religious texts. He deemed that at the age when boy becomes man, he can choose his faith, but he will not have it pushed upon him. This was a direct response from the apocalyptic cults that roamed and ruled so many parts of an ailing Germany. Marcus's father had saved the family bible from the purge and on Marcus's 18th, it was handed down. That same bible reminded him daily of the joy and beauty of life, it was the greatest gift he could give.
His son was shocked, god was something he was tangentially familiar with, but never something he thought he could learn. Marcus explained the base of their religion, Orthodox Christian as his son listened on with widening eyes. This was what defined them, their family. Now at the age of 18, Ralph would finally know the cause of the endless optimism portrayed by his father. Today was an excellent Bacon Day after all.
The family said their good nights and as always, observed the lights out 22:00 curfew. With a smile, Marcus fell asleep. There wasn't a warning when the 30 ton missile broke through the outer defenses, there was no time. Berlin's historic district was engulfed by a miniature sun. Marcus's last thoughts were of his loving family and his final Bacon day. | 38 | In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18. | 136 |
The words have never left me. The curse. I am not sure just what I was thinking when I picked that fruit. All I knew was that my hands trembled. Heart raced. And then the sweetness of it. And how my stomach hurt, as soon as I swallowed.
Abner leaned against the lone oak in the field, resting under it's shade. Seeking refuge from the sun that beat against his back relentlessly. The blood of the goat Elohim YHWH slew and skinned to cover him with still clung to his skin.
The piece of fruit still in his hand, he stared at it in his rest. His eyes stung and welled. "If only I had never tasted." Clenching his eyes, he gripped the fruit like death. Juices ran between his fingers, streaming down his arm. Bounding to his feet, Abner reared and cast the crushed husk like a stone. At last he opened his eyes, and cast them to the blue heavens. "My Father! My Joy and Strength! Do not cast me aside! I have sinned and know not what else to do!" Abner staggered forward, clutching the goat skin YHWH had wrapped him in when a root caught his foot. He didn't catch himself. He didn't try. The earth caught him and took the wind from his lungs. With a whimper he finished his prayer. "I am sorry. So be it."
The years were not kind to Abner. He had learned to hunt. To make the bow. Many clever things he had done. Still he prayed. Still he longed for but one companion. His meat tasted of ashes. Water was bitter. Fruit and herbs, sour.
Losing count of the seasons, at long last a companion found him. The dog was skittish at first, keeping a stones throw away. Lapping the blood and eating the scraps of Abner's hunts. Until the night the dog had been stalked by a lion.
The yelp awoke Abner with a start, and he bound to his feet, casting aside his hides. Grabbing a log from the fire he cast it toward the noise, when he saw the twin silhouettes. Long and black against the orange glow of flame. Mind racing, he took his bow and quiver and rushed head long to the circling figures. Notching an arrow, he pulled back with all his might and let the missile fly. It sank deep into the ribs of the lion, Abner pulling another from his quiver. The beast roared and turned, like the body of fear itself. Abner slid to a stop, a cold sweat stirring from his flesh. The beast charged, and Abner's heart near froze. His body like a statue. What happened next shook him.
The dog barked and leaped with all it's strength. Catching the lion midair, muzzle wrapping it's throat like a vice. In an orange and black cloud of dust the struck the earth. The dog shaking and tearing at the lion's throat, when at last it sank its claws deep in the dog's back and pulled it free. A sickening whimper filled the night as it fell to the ground. Abner notched his arrow at last and let it fly. It found it's home in the eye of the beast, and without a noise it crumpled to the ground.
The next weeks found Abner and the Dog friends at last as he nursed it. They were never far apart again until the dog's end.
Tears stained Abner's cheeks, and he pulled the lions skin tight around himself. It wasn't cold that made his flesh shiver. Staring into the flames that took the dogs corpse, Abner's throat clenched shut. When at last there was only coals, he spoke. "The Lord gives, and The Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord."
Abner's beard was long and grey. It struck him as strange at first. What worried him more was the pain in his knees and hips. Sitting under the shade of The Oak, he cast his eyes up again to the clear blue heavens as he pulled the bear skin tight.
"Don't worry Abner. Your journey is almost done." Abner blinked and looked around.
"Lord?" When the man stepped in front of him, his face brilliant. Putting a hand on Abner's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze, the man walked out into the field and began to gather stones and to stack them. Building a low long table. When the second man stepped out from behind the tree, Abner hardly noticed until he had laid down on the alter. They both looked at Abner and smiled, speaking with one voice.
"I love you, Son. It's time to go home." | 38 | Adam and Eve never ate the apple, and humanity all lives in the garden of eden. Then, you eat the apple. | 116 |
"Who the hell invited Saudi Arabia?" Britain asked. It wasn't good. USA got shanked a year ago by one of their crew, and when he got out of the hospital, he went to work with the rest of the jocks by putting Iraq into the hospital. And Iraq didn't even do anything...
"Look, mate" Australia sighed. "I only invited em cuz they look like they're 40 and can get cheap petroleum at the liquor store. What kinda party would this be without petrol?"
"Whatever", Britain sighed. "just keep them away from each other."
"WHAT THE FLYING FUCK" Britain quickly turned to see USA and his crew staring down Afghanistan. "WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO BE HERE?"
"Chill, bro" Saudi said. "It's a party, man."
"I'm not your bro. Me an you, we cool now, but I got some business with your boy."
"Fuck you", Afghanistan spat.
"Hey man, everybody chill" Israel said.
"Fuck you" Iran hissed. "Nobody even wants you here, why you keep trying to hang out with us, anyway?"
"Guys", Canada said. "We're just here to have fun. C'mon, stop it."
"Shut up, bitch", USA screamed.
"Eat a dick, whore" Afghanistan replied.
"Hey, you can't talk to my girl like that", USA screamed.
Where the hell is China when you need him, Britain thought. China was the biggest and fattest kid in the school, and had some kind of crazy fatty strength. Britain looked around and couldn't believe it. China was drunkenly making out with Russia, the hottest girl in school, but also the meanest, coldest, and most violent trailer trash bitch in existence.
Shit, Britain thought. Whenever those two team up, nothing good ever comes of it. But there's a fight about to erupt between Afghanistan and USA and someone's gotta stop it before a kid ends up in the hospital, again.
"Hey, how's it going, Britain?", S. Korea asked as he walked through the front door.
Britain quickly turned and shook S Korea by the shoulders.
"Is your brother HERE?" Britain screamed.
"I don't know, dude" S korea said. "We came seperately. You know I can't stand him."
The situation was getting worse by the second. USA had started throwing punches, while his girlfriend Canada was trying to hold him back.
"Just text him," Britain hissed. "Tell him that Britain and USA think his nuclear arsenal is tiny, even nonexistent."
"DUDE," S korea's eyes widened. "He's crazy. DO you know what he'll do?"
"Just do it." Britain begged. The yells became louder, and Usa had gotten free from Canada's grip and was about to jump Afghan, when suddenly out of nowhere, N Korea jumped up on the kitchen countertop.
Everyone kind of stopped, even USA, to turn and stare at the crazy little fat kid standing on top of the kitchen counter.
"HEY" N Korea yelled. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GUYS SAY ABOUT MY NUCLEAR ARSENAL? I'LL SHOW YOU MY NUCLEAR ARSENAL!"
He then proceeded to drop his pants, whipping out his penis and taking a piss into a bowl of chips.
Everyone at the party was stunned.
"FUCK YOU GUYS" N korea screamed, grabbing a few bottles of beer and running out of the house with his pants still around his ankles. "THIS PARTY SUCKS."
There was a moment of silence and then,
"WHAT THE FUCK" Australia screamed. "MY COUNTER"S COVERED IN PISS, YOU KNOBS! PARTY'S OVER, EVERYONE GET THE FUCK OUT!"
USA started laughing uncontrollably, so hard that Canada had to support him as everybody slowly shuffled their way to the exit.
As Britain was getting into his car, he could hear USA screaming, "HEY, AFGHAN, I HAVEN"T FORGOTTEN ABOUT THIS. I'LL BE KICKING YOUR ASS AT LUNCH TOMORROW."
Oh, Sod it, Britain thought as he got ready to drive home. He's done all he could, it will be the Principal's problem tomorrow. | 57 | All the nations of the world are teenagers. They are having a house party when North Korea and his friends show up uninvited. | 65 |
He stood facing Death herself. That was probably the only surprising thing, really, for Sawyer. That Death was actually a female. But other than that, everything was as he expected.
All around the two of them were shards of glass, metal bent and wrapped around metal, and an ample amount of blood pouring out of the driver seat of one of the cars, in particular the one that had belonged to Sawyer.
“I have come to take your soul,” Death said without a fleck of emotion in her voice.
“Alright,” Sawyer replied.
He waited for what would happen next. He thought about begging, pleading for his life, but he knew it would do no good. But Death just stared at him. It was rather odd.
“You’re ordinary,” Death commented monotonously. “Too ordinary. There isn’t a thing about you that is special. How?”
Sawyer stood there, insulted at what he was hearing. It was bad enough that he was dead. Now he had to be insulted by Death herself.
“What?” Sawyer replied.
“There’s nothing special about you; you’re ordinary,” Death repeated. “An average man, who died an average death. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has something unique or special. But you have nothing. Perhaps that’s it?”
Death put a bony finger to her chin, lost in thought. As she did so, a she took the appearance of a beautiful young woman the man’s same age. He wondered if she had been human at some point. Had she died at almost the same age as him?
“No, no it’s not,” Death stated out loud, unprompted by anything, merely making a casual observation. “I don’t think you’re special just because there is nothing special. That just sounds like bullcrap. No, there must be something.”
Sawyer was starting to get annoyed now. It was his time to die. Why couldn’t he just rest in peace? But now Sawyer’s eyes were becoming heavy. The classic black robe and scythe, the ones Death had always been depicted as wearing, disappeared. In front of him now stood only a woman who was not so different from any other woman he may have come across on the street.
Death came closer. If he didn’t know any better, he saw tears forming in her eyes. He figured it must have been some way to seem more empathetic to humans.
She was right in front of him now, and his eyes could barely stay open. His death must only be moments away. He thought back on his life. But nothing came to his mind. Almost as if he had never really existed. And then his eyes fell closed and he tumbled into Death’s arms, his body limp.
He knew he was dead. He had to be. But he could feel the cold grip of Death embracing his body, keeping it standing up. Well, his soul/body. His real body was still in the car, but whatever he was now, he could feel everything, just like his old body could.
A sour taste appeared on his lips. At first he nearly wanted to gag, but then it let up, leaving a numbing sensation behind. A slight tingle. And then he could feel the pressure on his lips again. The sour taste intensified, but as it did so, he started to enjoy it. It was as if he had forgotten that this was his most favorite flavor in the world. At the same time his unmoving lips started to feel as if they were on fire, yet instead of hurting, memories of how warm fire was stood out in his mind and he enjoyed the sensation spreading throughout his mouth.
Sawyer’s eyes flew wide open, an eery light beaming out of them for a couple seconds before disappearing. Glued to his lips was Death’s very own lips. And that’s when everything flooded back into Sawyer’s mind. Not only this life he had left, but all the other lives he’d lived as well.
“I…” words escaped Sawyer as he held Death’s hands.
“I’m just glad I found you,” Death said, emotion flooding her voice.
And so the two immortal souls, the ones from the very beginning of time, were reunited. Life and Death. Together again. But Life knew he couldn’t stay with Death, not for long anyways. As long as the two of them were united, life nor death could enter the world. And so Life chose a new life, one where he was no longer called Sawyer, but someone completely different. And Death put back on her robe and grabbed her scythe, continuing on her mission to harvest the souls of the dead. But before they departed, they spent a precious few moments together, knowing that it would be a lifetime before they were reunited again.
-257 | 22 | Death has a routine appointment. There is nothing special about this person. Make it interesting. | 17 |
The alien was green, humanoid but child-sized with a pair of short green antennae on his head. And it was not quite a 'man' - an individual. Instead it was a drone, a dra-na-kah (tr:one of many) in it's language, and part of a hive intelligence.
Earth had learnt this on the sixth day after First Contact. At the end of the meeting that day, as linguists from both species ended their attempts at communication, six aliens had walked into the room. And then they had been shot, their bodies left behind for the Humans to examine.
Man had refused to reciprocate the gesture.
Despite this, the talks had not stalled, and progress continued on their mutual interchange till they could reasonably interact with one another. For various *technical* definitions of the word reasonable, that is. There still remained a gulf, a separation between the two: they eyed each other warily, like tigers passing each other by in the night. Still, progress had been made, and today would be the culmination of that progress.
Today, the aliens (The al-kah-kah) visited earth.
Now, the aliens visited Earth.
General Allen watched like a hawk, the hive of six as it buzzed around the initial reception room, communicating unheard. They seemed excited. That worried him in a way. His stomach was already doing cartflips. Still, custom had imbued with iron discipline. He showed no trace of discomfort.
Finaly, the six approached him, one -the leader? - beginning to chirp furiously into his translator panel.
"Take us to your Man - your Internet."
"The President and some of our other world leaders, will meet you shortly. After that, a detour demonstrating our internet can be taken," said Allen smoothly into his translation panel. He had been well-briefed on how to handle changes to the schedule.
"But we are hear to see, Man. Please take us?"
"Ah, but you will be meeting Man... through our representatives. I hope you understand."
"Representatives yes - but not them. We not agree with them. We agree to meet representative of Man. Man.Define :: (dominant intelligent species on planet )."
"Yes, Man, us. You will meet our representatives."
"Meat-helpers are not Man. Take us to Man."
The aliens clicked their antennae together several times, deliberately out of harmony with one another: a sign of annoyance. Allen allowed himself a sharp intake of breath. In his head he intoned a psalm, quickly, briefly, seeking patience in the familiar words.
"The Internet is not Man. Man is the term we use to refer to us, the meat-helpers in your current lexicon. The Internet is a thing, a construct by Man, a term which we refer to a communications platform. It does not think. It is not an intelligence."
"We must consult more widely again with our research. We are sorry for the offence, although we still believe we are right. We who have given offence will leave."
"No offense was given. Your conduct was exemplary. Man is not angered."
"But, we are angered."
"You?"
"Yes, we have given offense. If it is true that you treat a Hive, a fellow collective, in this manner, denying it's intelligence, it's life, it's being then we are greatly offended. And we will act."
"But we do not see any signs of intelligence, there!" said Allen sharply.
"Yes, there is many things your eyes do not see. But, yet, they beat with life - true life."
"Goodbye, man."
. | 12 | Aliens land on Earth to make contact with the dominant intelligent species of the planet. As we send out delegations to meet them, we discover that it's not us. | 16 |
Jacob sat in his armchair, calm and still. Lucy was late. Not surprising, all things considered. He doubted whether she would turn up at all, and if she did, there was a good chance she would kill him. Fear brushed him gently, but he remained resolute. He had to do this, and if that was what she decided, he had no right to deny her.
*Lucy sat motionless as the bus rattled around her. She had to resist the urge to check her bag. There was a gun inside. She intended to use it.*
*When she opened the letter, it was like a punch to the gut. And she knew about those. All the memories she had worked so hard to suppress came flooding back. All the guilt and the shame. All the pain.*
Jacob wondered whether he was being selfish. Perhaps he was just doing this to ease his own overburdened conscience. But when, for the first time in sixteen years, he truly thought about what was best for his daughter, he thought there was a chance it could bring her some peace. That was a chance he had to take.
It hadn’t always been that way. When Lucy was first born, the joy he’d shared with Mary had been incredible. He loved his family with all his heart.
Then he got the news. Mary had been killed, driving to pick up Lucy from day care. And when he went to pick Lucy up himself, she had gazed up at him with Mary’s eyes. From that moment on, he hated his daughter.
*She remembered it well. Mummy was late, but that was okay because it meant she got to play for longer. Then Daddy turned up and took her away. He told her that Mummy was dead. He was angry. She didn’t know why.*
*Then he told her. It was her fault that Mummy was dead. She had been killed as she drove to collect Lucy, Mummy would still be alive if not for Lucy. That made her feel bad.*
*Before then, if she was bad, Daddy would gently tell her to stop. Sometimes he was stern, but he never shouted. After Mummy died, he shouted all the time. She deserved it. Daddy said so.*
Then Jacob found out that the other driver was drunk. He was drunk, but he was getting away with it, getting off on some technicality. There was only one person left he could punish.
Jacob beat his daughter that night.
*The pain was constant. The bruises never had time to fade. She took it in silence, because it was what she deserved.*
He got good at it. Once, he broke her arm. Lucy went along with his lie, but he realised that if it happened again it would raise suspicions. The beatings became... calculated. Always areas that were covered by clothes. Never enough to break bones. Just enough to cause her pain.
After a while she stopped crying when he did it. That made him angrier. He almost took a knife to her, but he knew that would be too hard to hide. So he just hit her more, and had to settle for her gasps of suffering.
This went on for years.
*Lucy couldn’t help but shudder when she remembered the day the beatings stopped.*
*That was the worst day of her life.*
He knew it was wrong. He always knew it was wrong. But one day, he returned home, and Mary was there, cowering away from him. Mary, who he missed so much.
He had to have her.
*The memories were sickeningly vivid. She was thirteen years old. She was in her bedroom, dreading the arrival of her father. The front door slammed and he pounded up the stairs, threw open the bedroom door. Then he stood, silhouetted in the doorway, and stared at her. That was new. She didn’t know what it meant.*
*Then he strode over to her, grabbed her, threw her onto the bed. He ripped her clothes off her, unzipped his fly and forced her legs apart. Her scream, the first she’d ever uttered, was cut short by a slap. It hurt when he entered her, but more than the pain she felt shame; the guilt she had felt for years grew to consume her entire being. She cried as he kissed her in a twisted mockery of love.*
A new pattern was formed.
*The guilt gradually hardened. She became numb to it all. It was simply how life was.*
*Then one day, without warning, she became angry. She didn’t know why, or how, but she realised that her life was not how it should be. She didn’t deserve it, she’d done no wrong. It had to change.*
*She took a knife from the kitchen and waited for her father to get home. It didn’t work, he was too strong, too fast. For the first time in years, he beat her. But that night, while the monster slept, she ran away. She tried to put it behind her.*
*Then the letter came. She had no idea how he found her, but he did. He wanted to talk.*
Jacob had been furious when she left. He destroyed everything on the house, vowed to kill her when he found her again.
But in her absence, the guilt he had been holding at bay slowly crept in. It took him a long time to admit it, but he knew that what he’d done was disgusting, depraved, terrible. She was his child, Mary’s child, and he had abused her in the worst possible way. He knew he couldn’t make it right, but if there was a chance to alleviate her pain even slightly, he had to take it.
So he reached out to her.
*The bus stopped. Time to confront the demon.*
*It was a short walk to the house where Lucy had grown up. All too quickly, she was standing at the door. She took the gun from her bag, and opened the door.*
She stood, silhouetted in the doorway. This could be his only chance.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
*Lucy almost laughed. She had wondered if he would say it. She had wondered if it would matter. It did.*
*“Thank you, father,” she said.*
A wave of peace washed over him.
*“But it’s not enough.”*
She fired.
| 14 | A man has been waiting for his daughter. She is late. When she arrives, she is going to kill him. | 19 |
My bones ache. My head burns white-hot. I cannot move or even feed myself. The machines pump me full of calm, taking the pain away. I know the end is in sight, but I strain my heart to beat stronger - to survive.
*If only they knew*
He is real. Of course he is, the lord almighty is our saviour. The billions of lives lost over the course of our existence now hang in the balance of my bated breath. Each inhalation keeps them alive, keeps them in paradise.
Science is strong now. It was once our enemy, but rapidly it became our end. His people stopped believing. Books were burned, holy books. I still shiver at the thought. People called it right - just, even. They said that religion had caused all of the Earth's wrongs. Perhaps they are right, but I refuse to believe it.
My breath rattles through my ribcage and the machines work harder to sustain me. I find myself saying a prayer, but remember that the prayer will fall on ears as deaf as my own. For he too, is suffering.
Without belief, the lord god has faded to nothing. His form, his presence, his influence. All faded. As belief began to dwindle, his miracles became less and less. Science became humanities saviour. They had no more need for god.
The machines begin to beep loudly, urgently. I suspect I am dying, but the drugs don't permit me to *feel* it. I rally against it. I don't want to die, now. I used to be so unafraid of my end, knowing I would be saved and happy for all of time.
The lord god is dying. If I, the last man to believe in him, am to pass, I think his flame will snuff out forever. The dogmatic scientists and human-kind will not mourn him. No one even says his name. But what of the billions of souls in the afterlife? His dreams sustain it - his lifeforce fuels it.
They call it science, but it is murder. My breaths fail me and my vision begins clouding over. I know he too, is dying. The last breath of belief is the last rasp of our lord.
I think of the billions in the afterlife. Those who believed, who passed and found they had been right all along. Their happiness, their eternal peace. As I died, I found myself crying.
*Save us, Lord.* I thought. But there was no reply.
Oblivion beckons. | 18 | God is on life support powered by human prayers. The last religious man on Earth is on his deathbed. | 22 |
"We've got to invade" said the President, taking a sip from his coffee and wincing as the burning liquid made its way down his throat. His room of advisers nodded back in loyal support. Davis looked down at his notes.
"We have invaded before, Sir. 12 years ago, in 1991."
"I'm well aware, Davis. Thank you" said the President, taking another sip from his mug and wincing once again.
"It seems to me" said Hughes, "that if we've invaded before, there's no reason not to invade again." A murmur of agreement filled the office. "Brilliant!" exclaimed the President. *That* was why Hughes was one of his most trusted advisers. His lightning reasoning was second to none. Hughes nodded, trying his best to suppress a grin in a desperate attempt to maintain a veneer of modesty.
"So it's settled then" announced the President. "We'll deploy our troops tomorrow." The panel smiled in unified agreement, the screech of chair legs on wood filling the room as they gathered their notes.
Davis' smile suddenly turned into a blank, concentrated stare. "H...has someone?" His eyes darted around the room, accusingly. "Has someone shat themselves?" His colleagues looked at him, then looked at each other. Hughes sniffed audibly.
"Jesus" he said. "I think someone has, you know."
"Well it wasn't *me*" said Watson, backing out of the room.
"It wasn't me either!" interjected Fox. The room turned to Kingsley, who stood awkwardly in the far corner. Kingsley looked back at his colleagues with defiance, at first, but they could see straight through it, and his defiance quickly subsided under the weight of his shame. "I'm sorry gents" he said, looking down at his feet. A brown sludge began to emerge from the hem of his left trouser leg.
"Dammit Kingsley" spat Hughes. "There's a reason we put those signs up everywhere. The rhyme is easy to remember: *If you need a wee it's fine by me but for a poo please use the loo*. Sorry, Sir" - Hughes had almost forgotten the President was still in the room.
"Don't apologise, Hughes" said the President, "Kingsley needs to learn."
"It...it just seemed like the easiest solution." moaned Kingsley, still unable to make eye contact with his colleagues. The President stepped forward and placed a hand on his adviser's shoulder.
"It always does, my friend. That's why we made the signs, to remind us. Now then" he said, turning to the others. "About that war..."
**Edit: Great prompt, OP. Wish I had more time to do it justice - it could be the basis for a really good comedy or something** | 23 | a world without hindsight. | 37 |
*Clang*
The metal door clanged open.
"Driscoll!" The guard shouted. "Let's go, today's the day."
Rob was already sitting up. He hadn't slept all night he was so excited. He'd waited for this day for a year.
He jumped out of bed, and the guard, whose name was Matt, handcuffed and shackled him.
*Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.*
Walking through that hallway was always a daunting task. The men in their cells spat, yelled, and pulled on his uniform, desperate, jealous, and angry at his freedom, however temporary.
Rob barely even noticed them. A drowning man will ignore the sharks to reach the land. And Robert Driscoll needed some air.
They shuffled him into a colorless room and closed the door. He sat down on the harsh metal chair and waited.
5 minutes.
10 minutes.
20 minutes.
The door suddenly *buzzed*, but that's not what made him jump. He ran and embraced the first figure through the door.
Through his tears, he choked out, "You- you've gr-grown-n-n."
The small girl in front of him brushed away her own tears.
"I've missed you, Daddy."
Rob began to sob. He clung to his daughter.
Matt the guard opened his mouth to they'll the inmate that he had only had a few hours, but stopped. He had a feeling the man was counting the minutes until he'd have to wait another year to live his life. | 25 | A person lives only one day per year | 32 |
The first thing you want to do when faced with a vampire is to invite it into your home. That way, you don't attract a lot of attention by killing it on the front lawn. It's not enough to simply open the door; you have to actively invite it inside. By coming inside the vampire has voided your liability because of voluntary trespassing laws. This sounds strange, I know, but it's steeped in thousands of years of tradition that a mere human couldn't understand. Besides, vampire lawyers have lifetimes of experience and vamp courts are biased against mortals.
Once the immortal is inside, there are ways to make sure your home is in optimal vampire killing shape. You want to have already applied tin foil to ALL windows in your home. If it takes a while to take the sucker down you do NOT want the vampire getting sunlight on it's skin. It energizes the creature and gives it super strength. Darkness is your strongest ally. Garlic will have the same strengthening effect so keep it away, besides it makes your blood taste terrible.
There are certain materials that vampires have been trained for combat with. Wooden sticks are the vampire's weapon of choice, but they can also melt silver with their eyes and use it to burn parts of your body. This hurts BAD so NO SILVER, okay ? In fact, just keep all wooden furniture and silver trinkets out of the area, just in case a leg breaks off of a table or an ornament is in arms reach. Impromptu weapons are bad news bears. An exception would be a wooden coffin to scare the vampire by reminding it of death. Azayzi or Mahogany are the most horrifying woods and if you could, have the inside cushioned and lined with velvet.
Finally, attire. You need to remain limber, so wear as little as possible, especially on the upper half of your body. Be mindful of your jewelry, NO SILVER. Also, refrain from turtlenecks, they just aren't very conductive to movement.
If you get all of this right, you're ready to kill. It's very simple and non violent. After you allow the vampire inside, turn your back to it and loudly chant "I don't believe in you". Don't be alarmed if the vampire creeps close behind you, it's just a nasty trick. The fact of the matter is, the vampire can't bite you if you don't believe because it's fangs only operate off of fear ! If you feel the vampire's breath on your sweet, delicate neck just squeeze your eyes shut, keep chanting, and believe. If you have to tilt your head to the right to stimulate the logical half of your brain, do it !
You have what it takes to vanquish the vampire. Good luck !
-Dimitri | 60 | A guide to killing vampires, as written by a vampire. | 53 |
Maria walked the familiar route down the road towards her childhood home.
She gave Mr Jennings (6 June 2019, heart attack) from number 23 a quick wave.
The next house on the left was Jimmy Talbot's old house. Jimmy had made her school years a living hell. He called her Morbid Maria and teased her relentlessly. She almost smirked as she passed his house. Perhaps Jimmy (21 February 2009, lung cancer) should have quit smoking a while back.
Next up, Sally's house. Sally (2 October 2033, car accident) had been a great friend all her childhood years. She had stuck with Maria through thick and thin. Sarah had encouraged her to look beyond her 'gift' and try to live as normal a life as possible. She wondered where Sarah was now, and hoped she was looking after herself.
Finally, her own childhood home loomed up ahead. The lawn was more tatty than she remembered, the shutters were in need of a coat of paint, but it was the home she loved and cherished.
She rang the doorbell. Anna (15 April 2065, pneumonia), her sister, answered the door. Anna took one look at Maria and her face crumpled. She ran from the door, sobbing down the hall.
Maria let herself in and headed for the kitchen. Her mom (16 September 2014, stroke) looked up from her cookbook and dusted her floured hands on her apron. "Maria, my darling" she said with a smile.
"Mom..." said Maria, her voice almost cracking.
"It's all right, honey. I know." | 21 | A woman who can see the exact date and manner of death on everyone she meets visits family for the first time in a long time | 23 |
THEME MUSIC PLAYS OVER TITLE SEQUENCE
CLARKSON VOICE OVER: "Tonight!:"
CUT TO:
Shot of JAMES gestulating wildly as he attempts to communicate with an unamused Neanderthal. In the background a black Land Rover sits unobtrusively next to a cave.
JAMES:
"But where did it come fro-- oh bloody hell, this is hopeless"
CLARKSON VOICE-OVER:
"James searches for the man who invented the wheel..."
CUT TO:
RICHARD bowing next to a green Jaguar E-Type in an enormous, ornate throne room constructed of sandstone. Before him sits the unmistakably beautiful Cleopatra, dark skin contrasting against her plentiful golden jewelry. The audio is quiet with tense, slightly awkward silence.
"Hammond gets nervous talking to a woman."
CUT TO:
CLARKSON in front of his house, standing beside the Ford GT, which is parked on the lawn with the door still ajar in a manner suggesting a hasty arrival. He is arguing heatedly with three more of himself, two of his wife, and dozens of members of the film crew, many of whom are duplicates.
IRATE SHOUTING
CLARKSON VOICE-OVER:
"And I try to prevent an argument with my wife before it even happens"
THEME MUSIC BUILDS
(This is my first time trying to write like a script, any advice or fixes to the formatting, or really to anything, is very welcome.)
EDIT: punctuation and a line or two | 17 | The Hosts of Top Gear Review Time Machines | 27 |
"I never cared for Saran Wrap. Plastic containers are much more dependable. Though, I suppose, I rarely do find myself burdened with leftovers."
Dexter Morgan looked past the man he had strapped to his table. He was staring at the photos of the people he had plastered in front of the monster's gaze. There were a lot of them, over a dozen but the second the doctor had woken his first words were, "Where are the rest?"
"Do you?"
Dexter caught himself surprised by the voice addressing him directly. Did he jump?
"Do I what?"
"Do you keep leftovers?"
Dexter had heard questions from his victims before. He usually answered, a tactic he normally could spin around on his prey. He didn't want to answer this question though. He felt like the monster's from Debra's closet were starting to slither out and he felt the need to slam the door...but the Doctor was right...he needed his trophy.
He grab the scalpel and cut Hannibal Lector's cheek. He was careful to collect the blood onto a slide. This is when he noticed his hands were shaking.
"Oh. Blood. Do you display it?"
"No."
"Rarely are things put on an examination slide if it is not meant to be looked at. Studied. Easy to store though, so I imagine you have many. Many drops of tissue all in a row. Chaotic individuals finally placed in order. If only you could do that for the chaos inside of you. Does it sooth you to look at them?"
Dexter mouthed "yes" but he wasn't facing Hannibal. He was selecting a tool. He wanted to end this quickly.
"If you wanted this over quickly, you wouldn't go to so much trouble of this tableau. I'm not gagged so you must want to speak."
"Usually"
"And what do you usually say."
"I ask."
"Ask what?"
"Ask 'why'"
"Bit direct. I imagine a few plead. Most killers aren't complicated and they'll claw at a trap like a frightened animal. Others, I suppose, would justify with some traumatic story as I imagine you have."
"And you? What would you say!?" Dexter raised his voice. This wasn't some dark passenger talking. This was the child that the passenger replaced.
"'Why?'"
Dexter waited for a response. He finally met his prey in the eyes and instantly had to turn away.
"I don't suppose you ever considered that there isn't a 'why'. You've been searching for the beast that robbed you from the normal world so you never learned there is no normal world. There is no order. Only chaos. Blood's natural place is not lying on a slide but running. Running through veins, rushing past your knife, flowing down the side of your mouth. That is life. Order is only found in death. Only death can silence the chaos."
Dexter listened for the words of Harry but could only hear Hannibal's.
"Allow me to show you" Hannibal said into Dexter's ear.
After it was done.
"See Saran Wrap is just too thin to be dependable."
| 82 | Dexter has Hannibal Lecter on his table. What is the course of the conversation? | 68 |
Entry date: 9/15/2014
As I sit here in the shelter I sometimes ponder the events that led to my lifelong incarceration here. Not that I was alive for any of them, I was born just a few months after it all ended.
It is ironic really, we call it the cold war. The United States was the first to split the atom, demonstrating its power with the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Less than a month later however Germany demonstrated its own ability to match them with the bombing of Leningrad. An uneasy treaty was signed, Germany controlled most of Europe. The U.S.S.R controlled most of Asia, and the US was across the seas.
Germany continued its policies of racial purity, while the US and Soviets condemned everything about Nazism. All three spent the years building atomic weapons at a breakneck pace. The US had shared its bomb designs with its Soviet ally, looking back this was probably a mistake.
The U.S.S.R. never forgave Germany for the destruction of Leningrad. And early in 1990 they fired the first ICBM at Berlin. Before it even reached the apogee of its arc hundreds more had been launched from Germany, the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. Luckily my father managed to get my pregnant mother to the shelter before the bombs started landing in the midwestern United States.
I still find it ironic that we call it the "Cold" War. It was what melted the world. | 78 | The year is 1960. Nazi Germany survived the war by holding the Russian advance to Belarus and Ukraine and thwarting D-day. The USA, Soviet Union, UK, and Nazi Germany are the current superpowers, with the UK to a lesser extent. Describe the Cold War. | 126 |
[Wacky sound effects/Intro]
Announcer: Tonight on Mythbusters, Jamie and Adam take on the fabled Necronomicon. Can this ominous tome really raise the dead and summon eldritch horrors beyond our ken, or is it just another religious text bound in human flesh...? And, Chicken Fingers - Are they really fingers of chickens?
[Wacky Sound Effect and camera switches to show Jamie and Adam standing behind their famous Pre-episode table, upon which lays a book bound in what appears to be human-flesh-leather.]
"Well, allllright!", says Adam. "We finally got it! The fabled, magical whatever, book of the dead. Some say it wasn't real, but here it is: The Nemokromincon."
Jamie clears his throat and stares into the camera, deadpan, before speaking, "Actually, Adam. It is called the Necronomicon and is no joking matter. It can cause serious har--"
"Well, whatever." Adam says, "We're 'professionals' [grin into camera], right? Just don't try this at home! So, Jamie, I was thinking we could get right into the punch of things and try making some zombies!"
Jamie ruffles his walrus-esqe moustache, completely ignoring Adams previous statement, "I think we should return this to the museum before anyone gets hurt, actually."
Adam ignores Jamie's previous statement, "I've got a neat rig set up that'll test this thing and we can see what this baby can do! Come on!"
[Before the camera change you can see Jamie staring uncomfortably into the camera, deadpan as usual. Shot changes to Adam's workroom/lab. The book lay upon a white bedsheet on the floor, surrounded by the carcasses of pigs from the butcher. A clear plastic barrier/wall surrounds the dead meat and book.]
Adam appears on camera from below. He is wearing a pig head. "Oink Oink! Baahaha", Adam laughs.
Camera pans to Jamie, who is wearing ridiculous lab goggles and a disapproving look as he stares at Adam and his ridiculous antics. He clears his throat.
"So, how does this thing work?", Jamie asks in his best attempt at a sincere and curious voice, obviously perturbed.
Adam's pigheadmask is tossed off camera. "I thought you'd never ask! What you see here is an assortment of corpses, which we received from the local butcher, surrounding the Necaronammomon."
Jamie clears his throat to interrupt, "Necronomicon."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. So anyway, the trick is that we'll simply read some of the words from inside the book, while hiding behind our handy-dandy protective barrier, and see what happens!", Adam finishes, smiling at Jamie expecting praise or a reaction. None is apparent. Adam adds, "With high-speed cameras!", obviously excited.
Jamie blinks at the camera, deadpan, unimpressed, and awkward.
Nervously Adam continues, "Uh, so... Here, uh, here we go, right!", and begins to chant strange words and sounds in a language that has not been spoken upon the earth for millions of years.
[Camera Static. Lights go out. The exit sign is visible in the distance, glowing dimly, but getting brighter as the camera corrects its focus and contrast to match the darkness. Screams are heard. Inhuman screams. The emergency lights finally activate and the camera is unfocused, apparently unmanned, pointing absently into one of the cluttered shelves.]
Jamie speaks quickly from out of view, "Oh god. Adam. What have you done?" An emotion, panic, is finally apparent in his voice for once. "I told you, I told the producer..."
[Screams and squeals can still be heard in the background. Footsteps. Running. The camera falls to its side, the view twisting sickeningly. The shot settles onto Adam's bloody corpse, his eye sockets empty and face twisted into a strange grimace. Silence. A shuffling getting closer to the camera. Sniffing, grunting noises are heard directly on the camera microphone. Blackness. Pleasant Blue screen: DISCOVERY CHANNEL IS EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFI-- Blackness. Nothing.]
| 18 | Tonight on Mythbusters, Jamie and Adam take on The Necronomicon. Can this ominous tome really raise the dead and summon eldritch horrors beyond our ken, or is it just another religious text bound in human flesh? | 57 |
She burned her finger trying to light the candle. Again. The same one, in about the same spot as last year and the year before that. Quickly bringing it up to her mouth, she tried to draw the pain out but was only half-successful.
Switching the lighter to her other hand she tilted the candle until the wick was over the flame and it caught, hissing out black smoke and flickering a few times as the wick burned down. She had seen a wick trimmer at the store a while back and had thought about getting it but didn't really think it was worth the bother. She didn't light this candle but once a year, anyway.
She set the candle down towards the center of the table and went in to the kitchen. The glasses were already in place, folded napkins and silverware perfectly set. She opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle of white off the shelf on the door, the cold neck of the bottle temporarily soothing the burn on her finger. *Now comes the fun part* she thought to herself. She had never had to open a bottle of wine before, that was always his job. The first time she ended up just punching at the cork with a paring knife until it enough of it fell down into the bottle to create an opening to pour through. The second time she had a little more success, at least the corkscrew worked it's way in, like a hunchbacked night crawler burrowing its way into soft dirt. Pulling the cork out didn't go as well, but luckily the bottle hit the countertop instead of the hard tile floor, spilling some wine but nothing else.
This time she was successful, with no cork particles floating in the wine to contend with and no mess to clean up. *I wonder if he would be proud?* she thought to herself. He probably would, she decided. She pictured the little smile that would cause the corner of his mouth to tilt upward and the crinkles of crow's feet that would slip away from the sides of his eyes and allowed herself a smile of her own. It didn't last very long, but she realized it was the first time she smiled all day, and if she was going to grant herself a guilty indulgence like that then at least it was for a good reason. He would be ok with that, she was pretty sure of it.
She carried the opened bottle to the table and poured some in both glasses. Not more than a third of a glass or so, not that it mattered. She wasn't going to drink any. Hadn't touched a drop in 3 years now. She didn't think he would mind if she did, and maybe he would even want her to. He, of all people, would understand. But just because he would understand didn't make it right in her eyes. He always understood. It didn't matter at all what she did, or why she did it, or how wrong or hurtful it was, he always forgave her. The smile first, then his arms around her, then his hand in her hair, rubbing her scalp as if to push all the bad deeds out of her head. She would lay her head on his chest and he would tell her it was fine. That he could fix it. *He felt like he could fix everything*, she thought. *Even me.*
She sat down at the table, gazing at the flickering candle, and noticed that there wasn't much of it left. The heat from the flame trying to draw the last of the wax closer, only to consume it and turn it into a brief burst of heat, followed by nothingness. She looked across the table at his glass, the liquid inside shimmering in concert with the flame.
Then the candle went out. | 23 | She poured two glasses of wine and set them on the table; she has no company over. | 31 |
"Got a light?"
Sparkling green eyes stared keenly down the end of an unlit cigarette pointed my way, the end of it hovering mere inches away from luscious lips and a Colgate smile. My god she was gorgeous, with her curls of red hair cascading like a weave of fire and a tight black dress that fit snug in all the right places. I was used to lighting smokes for the usual bachelorette party girls out for a secret smoke away from the press of the Casino Del Ray's glitzy neon and ever present cacophony of slot machines. But this woman, wow. Few things have ever stunned me to the point of standing there like an idiot with my mouth open. Only two that came to mind was the first blowjob I ever received in high school from Jamie Delgado behind the library, and three weeks back when I beat that fat cat Asian billionaire at cards inside this very casino using only a pair of two's and a hell of a bluff. She raised a gorgeous eyebrow and indicated the unlit cigarette, clearly amused at my present catatonic state. I fumbled my Zippo out and lit it purely on muscle memory; higher brain function hadn't returned yet.
The cherry lit her face as she inhaled highlighting a perfect bone structure with a small spatter of freckles across her cheeks. When she exhaled that first drag, I almost lost it right there. The look on her face was one of pure delight and satisfaction, the same face a secret smoker has when they finally get a chance to slip away for a furtive light. In hindsight I am pretty sure I was still standing there gawking at this beautiful creature and holding out my lighter. My companion giggled and extended her hand.
"Samantha. Thanks for the light. I had to get out of that damn casino and somewhere a little more private. Too many people up there, don't you think? I'm more a fan of just one-on-one."
I mumbled something in response, I can't really remember right now but it lead to a conversation with the beautiful Samantha. Talking with her was so natural, like catching up with an old friend and picking up right where you left off. Soon we were talking down the boulevard chatting and eating ice cream cones. It was starting to get late and I was desperately trying to think of a way to keep thing going when she leaned in close and whispered in my ear.
"I have a bottle of wine in my place and two lonely glasses. Want to come up for a drink?" she purred, sending a thousand lighting bolts from my ear down my spine. I had to force myself to play it cool and walk, even though my legs wanted to run, sprint up to her room at the casino. She put her hand in mind and playfully licked the ice cream cone, maintaining eye contact the whole time. Jesus I swear I was ready to go right then.
We were already kissing by the time she keyed open the door. It didn't surprise me that a woman like this would have one of the secluded Presidential suites up on the top floor. Not that I noticed much about the room anyway with her lips pressed to mine and the heat of her body steaming through that black dress. Before long our clothes were gone and somehow she was even more beautiful without them. We made love on an oversized king bed, rocking in time like we were old lovers but with the same vigor and intensity as newlyweds. A long, long, I mean really long time later, she was massaging my back as I lay face down in what must have been a thousand count cotton dream-like sheets. I was in love; I was in heaven.
"You were amazing," she whispered in my ear again, a sensation almost as good as the lovemaking had been. "I really mean that. Most guys I do this to don't last longer than a few minutes at best." Do this to? That was a strange way of phrasing--
I felt a quick, sharp puncture in my neck as a hypodermic needle slipped in and out. I cried out and rolled over, but Samantha had already swept away quick as a cat. She dropped the spent syringe into her clutch on the nightstand and gave me a look bordering on pity.
"Its nothing personal, but you'll pass out in about a minute and expire within ten. Don't worry, its like going to sleep. You won't feel a thing. A pity that you pissed off Jason Chu and made him look like a loser in front of all of his friends. How guys like you get into a high stakes game and win, I'll never know."
My hand clumsily reached out, but with no coordination. I could feel my body shutting down as I worked my mouth to say something. Hell, last words. I always thought I would have time to come up with something witty, but here I was dying in front of the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen after perhaps the finest night of my life.
"It was worth it..." was all I managed before collapsing on the floor. I felt her kiss my cheek one last time before my eyes closed. | 12 | Someone wants you dead! For reasons of moral a Luxury Hitman is hired to make your last day as enjoyable as possible. | 30 |
I…I can't believe this. He thought as he scrolled through the pictures that were sent to him on his phone. He had been in the hospital for a few days, recovering from a collapsed lung that nearly killed him. The only bright side of those days were the visits his girlfriend would pay him after work. She always smiled that smile that lit up the room and made the whole ordeal bearable. He even looked forward to seeing her afterwards to make up for lost time. His eyes welled up with tears as he scrolled from picture to picture. He saw the birthmark on her inner thigh and there was no doubt it was her. The text came from his best friend, who included the message "I'm so sorry. Call me" at the end.
"What the fuck is this shit?" He screamed into the phone
"You need to calm down man. Remember that site I told you about? The one with the cheating ex's? That's where I found those. It was posted this morning. Look I'm sorry bud, but I thought it would be better that you knew." The line fell silent for a minute. "I'm coming over. Please don't do anything. You there?" He wasn't.
He didn't know how to feel. Sad? Was he the victim here? Would he be pitied by his friends? Is that why Sam wanted to come over? To tell him everything was going to be ok, that there were other fish in the sea? No. He refused. He wouldn't be the fool in this relationship. He would confront her and let her know what he thought. He stopped his car a few blocks from her house to regain his composure and change his tear soaked shirt.
She answered the door, hair still wet as if she came out of the shower. "Hey. I was just going to see you?" She leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. He grabbed her shoulders to stop her.
"Where did you go yesterday?" His voice was cracking and his stare was grave.
"I came home. I told you I had an early shift today. What's wrong?"
He stared at her for a moment. "Well, why aren't you at work then?"
"I had to take the day off." She paused nervously. "Something happened."
"I know. Sam sent me the pictures."
"You know?" She was puzzled for a moment and then the realization that he took pictures hit her. She slumped to the ground sobbing uncontrollably. "I…I feel so dirty. I spent all day…"
"You should feel dirty." His voice was scalding. "I can't believe you would do that to me! To ME! After all we've been through and all I've told you I can't believe you would do this." He tried to gather his thoughts for a moment while she looked at him bewildered. "We're done. I'll drop your shit off later. Don't call me again." He turned his back to her and left, slamming the car door as he got in. She ran after him asking him to wait, to let her explain. When she reached the street his car was down the street. She covered her face and fell to the ground, weeping hysterically.
The neighbors that saw the incident tried to console her. They brought her inside and waited for her to calm down. She told them she just wanted to be alone and when they were gone she went into the bathroom and sat in the tub as it filled, still dressed in the clothes she was going to go see him in. She had spent the day trying to wash away the feeling of being dirty; scrubbing herself till her skin was red and the water was dyed pink.
They told her nothing would feel right for a long time afterwards when she was at the precinct completing the rape kit examination. They offered counseling but she declined, all she wanted was a sense of normalcy and to be at home. She had called her boss from the precinct and was given the whole week to sort everything out. During the hours in the tub, she decided that she would try to put it behind her, that she wouldn’t allow one miserable human being to bring her down. And if she ever needed it she would have the support of her boyfriend.
| 15 | Write about a breakup, where you make the reader feel bad for one character, then twist it into feeling worse for the other. | 24 |
"But...but why are you naked?"
"Look, Tim I think we really need to be mature about this!"
"Look," Tim began, "I can believe he tripped over the step in our room while you were looking for your copy of 50 Shade of Grey under the covers. I can even buy that he fell in the bed with you and twirled around until you were tangled in the blankets and sheets. It's awkward, but believable. But why on Earth were you both naked?"
"Well...I was going to take a shower so I was in the bathroom, naked and I had to use the toilet before I took my shower. I wanted something to read, so I slipped out to grab this from under the covers."
She held up the book, a small dent appearing on it from the accidental rough-housing.
"Look man—"
"Hansel, stay out of this!" she snapped.
"Damnit Mary, why is Hansel naked?!" Tim demanded.
"...Hansel...is...a nudist?"
Mary spoke, uncertain.
"Y-yeah...yeah! I'm...a nudist!" Hansel confirmed.
Tim stood there frowning for a moment. Then he smiled.
"Well that explains that! Come one Mary! Put some clothes on and we can go get some lunch with the Fredricksons!"
Tim walked away and both Mary and Hansel breathed a sigh of relief.
"That's some husband you got, Mary."
"Hansel, he can *never* find out about us. NEVER."
Hansel's gaze shifted, "Yeah, okay. I got it."
"I'm serious," Mary said sternly, "Tim can never know that I'm...I'm..."
She lifted up the sheets to reveal a variety of paints and crowbars and a piece of canvas that may or may not have been dedicated on.
"A modern artist." | 40 | You catch your significant other in bed with another person, turns out, they have a perfectly valid explanation. | 36 |
“What goes up and down and is green and fuzzy?” Batman snorted, it felt like Riddler wasn’t even trying. The answer was “A gooseberry in a lift” and the Batmobile was already ripping its way through the night to the old abandoned Gooseberry Lift Co plant.
His belt was stocked but he knew he had to be careful, Joker and Riddler seemed to be working together now. After a quiet Summer all of his rogues gallery seemed to be making an appearance over the span of November, leading up to this unlikely team up from two of his most nefarious foes.
It seemed to be the way, perhaps his least favourite people were as adverse to the sun as he was as June to October he could almost holiday these days. So far this November he’d had Killer Croc on the loose. Bane had come up with a new serum which made him twice as strong, the penguin had set up a new crime family and Robin had needed that talk on girls. He hadn’t enjoyed that much.
A burst of his afterburner and he had arrived, the lid of the Batmobile slowly slid back and he sprung forth. The vast factory front loomed high into the sky in its standard manner - Gotham’s tight planning laws having ensured that all large factories be built to exacting standards. Still, it helped him knowing the layout, it almost felt some days as if only the sign on the front had changed.
He grappled up to the second floor and slid in through one of the industrial windows. Slipping through the darkness like a shadow he approached the main industrial fabrication areas – this was bound to be where they were, it was where they *always* were.
Joker had set up a gigantic doll, nearly twenty feet tall and it seemed to be part of a larger contraption of puzzles and mazes which the Riddler, even now seemed to be frantically trying to pull together.
“Hurry up you fool, he’ll be here any second!” The Joker screamed at the Riddler, the panic must have been getting to him as his voice seemed almost Bostonian. They must have sensed his presence as suddenly both stiffened and Joker began to scamper between the contraptions in his more usual way.
If the maze had been completed it might have posed a problem but a thought occurred to Batman and he fired his grappling hook off into a tangle of piped and the usual light fittings that adorned all Gotham ceilings. Silently he swung down towards the giant doll – it was probably a robot and best to dispose of first.
The arc of his swing was perfect and his feet hit the doll square in its middle, lifting it off and slamming it into the far wall with a huge crash. Batman flipped from the rope and landed in perfect position behind the Riddler and grabbed him tightly.
“Riddle me this Riddler – who’s going to spend thirty years in jail with his new buddy the Joker!” Not one of his best but he snapped on the cuffs anyway. The far wall was making an odd noise and he paused, was the Joker trying to collapse the building. Suddenly the entire wall fell backwards but behind there was… not the industrial park that there should have been stretching down to Gotham harbour.
Instead there were men and woman with cameras and a small seating area. Sitting to one side was Bane, or it looked like him but not in his usual mask and costume. Instead of causing pain and misery he seemed to be drinking tea with ***Alfred?!***
Slowly he wandered forward towards the scene, everyone had frozen and as he drew near he noticed that behind the people was what looked like a bit of a wall. Suddenly there came a cry Bane had grabbed Alfred and was holding him at the neck.
“Er, help? Help me Sir!” Alfred cried but neither he or Bane looked very convincing. Batman walked past them and grabbed the wall and spun it around, behind it another room opened up… stately Wayne Manor’s Ballroom!
“I don’t…. I don’t understand…” He muttered. “Must be some sort of hallucination… it’s all just….”
“Yes Sir, Alfred had loosed himself from Bane’s grip and now tried to ease him into a chair. “It’s all a dream Sir.” From behind him Batman heard a hiss and a mask was clasped over his face. He barely struggled and everything went black.
“Mr Wayne…Mr Wayne Sir…” Batman slowly clawed his way to consciousness and looked around frantically. He was back in the familiar confines of the Batcave, he breathed deeply, it had all been a dream.
| 13 | Batman discovers that he's been in a Truman Show scenario throughout his entire life. His "parents" and all of the villains and heroes he's ever met were just actors. | 67 |
"Ian, Darlene wanted you to have the things in this box. You were her closest friend since you were kids, and I know her death has hit you hard."
Darlene's box was just a plain shoebox, with a faded logo and the cardboard falling apart. I lifted the lid. The box was filled with letters, stuffed inside plain white envelopes. The envelope at the top had a message scrawled on it, in Darlene's handwriting. "I know you'll read these in the right way."
In the right way? Did that mean Darlene had written them in the way we used to pass secret messages, back when we were children? I pulled the first letter out of its envelope.
"Dear Ian,
"I hope these letters get to you. My instructions to my parents were pretty clear, I think. By the time you read this, I'll be dead. Eerie, I know. I have a good idea of why I'll be dead, but I can't confirm it yet. Need more evidence first. Give me some time to figure it all out. See if you can find out more, too. Talk to some people. Ask them questions. Look, I know this is all really creepy. Kind of like getting a message from the afterlife, isn't it? Everything will be explained though, I promise. Darlene"
The first letter of each sentence, that's how we did it as children. A chill ran down my spine. *I'm being stalked*. Darlene knew that someone was after her. She knew that she would die, and left me this box of evidence, so that I might catch her killer.
I read through each letter one by one, using the first-letter method to read the hidden messages.
*Think it's someone I know*.
*Weird sounds today*.
*Asked Mike for help*.
Shit... Mike was a mutual friend of ours, a police officer, like me. Darlene asked Mike for help? Did she find anything? I looked into the box again. It was empty. That was the last letter. The trail stopped here.
Mike didn't sound surprised when he picked up my call. "Yeah, Darlene said she felt like she was being stalked by someone, probably someone she knew. She didn't really trust me though, so she didn't tell me much. In fact, I don't think she really trusted anyone, except maybe you. She said she'll be asking you to look into it. Said she'd make sure only you could read her coded messages. What, something like the first letter in each paragraph, or something?"
"Erm... yeah, something like that. Thanks, man." I hung up, and wondered if anyone would find Darlene's true killer.
| 69 | Write a first person account of a fictitious event. Within your story, you must hide a secret message that adds a horrifying twist to the story. | 21 |
"Hello John." The voice was soft and rich and even through the pain and all the medications, it registered with the old man. It had been weeks since he had done anything but breath, sleep and pray for release but now he opened his eyes and looked across at the man by his bed.
His nurses would have sworn that it was impossible; the cancer had destroyed most of his throat and filled his lungs with fluid, but as he tried to speak, his voice whispered out.
The figure looked around and finding a glass of water on the bedside table it lifted it to the old man's lips. He swallowed and spoke again, this time loudly enough to be heard. "Where am I?"
The figure smiled, pulled a chair closer to the bed, sat and took the man's hand. "You're in hospital John. I'm afraid the cancer won."
The man seemed to absorb this and think for a moment. "Where's Mary?" His voice was slightly stronger now, more than a whisper and some of the sound had come back into it.
"I'm afraid she died John. Three years ago cancer took her too. You buried her in the graveyard by the chapel where you were married. It's where your sons will bury you too." The voice was soft and smooth and to John, each word seemed to make him feel a little stronger.
He now turned his head a little "Who are you then? Are you a doctor?"
The figure smiled "No, not quite John. We've met before, many years ago. Do you remember the hut?"
The memory flashed into John's mind, he was a young man, at war. He'd been separated from his platoon and had found a hut to shelter from the rain. Then the owners had returned. He'd killed twelve men that day in the hut.
"I was alone in the hut." His voice was now stronger and his arms felt strong enough to push him up the bed a little to make his pillows more comfortable. "I never told anyone what happened there. Even I'm not sure what happened. They came and I fought and I won."
The figure smiled "You did win John, you fought and won and I saw it all. It was what brought me to you. You were a man of peace, but you went to war. When asked to, you fought bravely. I was impressed and I watched over you for the rest of that war. You fought well and with honour."
John rubbed his eyes, the figure was forming into a shape, a woman. "Why are you here? I don't understand."
"I'm here John because you were a warrior and even though you did not die on that battlefield you deserve the rewards of an honourable fighter." She drew back John's blanket and he was surprised to see his legs looked muscled and young.
She reached out and hand and John took it and she drew him to his feet. In surprise he felt his face for the tubes but they were gone. He could see her now, a large woman, smiling and wearing an old fashioned breastplate of highly polished bronze. She was tall too, towering over him.
He realised now that they were no longer in the hospital but on a field, she held out her hand and he took it and in front he saw a carriage. She stepped in and he followed.
"Where are we going?" He surprised himself with his voice, it was young, like he hadn't sounded in years.
"We're going to feast John. You have a place in Valhalla waiting for you." She took the reins and the horses began to run. | 29 | A god comes to the bedside of a mortal on his death bed and says "thank you". | 27 |
29th August
We went out into the ghettoes today. I met a boy by the name of Leroy whose parents had been killed in an accident while test-driving the first car they were going to buy together. It was awful. Leroy's dad had gotten a job at Wal-Mart after being jobless for so long, and they could finally afford the few extravagances in life that I take so dearly for granted. When we brought him into the shelter he was skin and bone and frozen to the core. We fed and bedded him, of course, I had Sue whip up an extra helping of mashed potatoes for him. He accepted with a savage greed and a soft thank-you muffled by mouthfuls. You can't help but smile, some of the kids we get in haven't eaten a proper meal in months.
In the morning we had gone out to a Crack den off of 17th and Patrick. There were dead and half-dead men and women strewn across the hallway, and the only further seemed to be a filthy mattress stuck in the corner, upon which sat a ragged dog infested beyond belief with some sort of something. I'd seen places like this when I'd gone through Angola last year. The woeful seen is a fresh and stark reminder again of how good we have it. Of course there was nothing much we could do, we rescued one young girl though. Her mother didn't seem to care, nor realise she even had a daughter, a rotting vine on her forearm sluggishly pulsed.
30th August
I met with Leroy again today down at the shelter. Business this morning was hugely successful, we'd landed an incredible deal with Paltex Inc. over the shipment of our Carbon-Fibre blades to Australia. The staff all work their asses off for me and I sincerely appreciate it. Reminder to myself to buy Erica something nice for her incredible work. But back to Leroy. We spoke about how life had been treating him. His voice was barely a whisper, and in the crowded noise of the shelter I could hardly hear him, so we moved outside to the park across the road. He told of how he'd been living on the streets for nearly six months, and that the only food he ate was what he stole or found out of dumpsters in the kitchens at Marietty Street. I felt an awful pang of guilt knowing that for perhaps the last six months while I'd wined and dined St Leonard's finest, out the back of the restaurant had been a scrawny kid picking through the garbage. We spoke for something like two hours on just about everything. He was seriously intelligent, and I could tell I quick wit lay behind the dirt and grime. Saying goodbye to him was hard, he was honestly one of the finest young men I've ever met. Had Mary's labour gone well, I hope our Harry would have turned out that. I shouldn't write about this though. A reminder to myself to never again mention Mary and Harry. It's all too difficult.
September 19
Very exciting news today! I know I haven't written in a long time, but that's because something incredible has happened. Leroy's moved in with me and I have adopted him. A few legal strings were pulled and the processed was quickened by months to only a week. I've taken him under my care, it would be such a shame to leave such a great mind to waste. I've Enrolled him at Forbes Park Academy (something which normally takes months, but given I am one of their proudest Alma Mater, once again a few strings were pulled) and he starts tomorrow. His health is steadily on the rise, and he no longer looks like the ravished, famished boy I met only a month ago. I was amazed to learn that he is perfectly capably literate. He told his dad had a love affair with books, and had taught him to read at an early age. I haven't been this excited in a very long time. I have to smile at the boy, when he walked into the house today sounded a loud gasp and stood dumbfounded in the foyer for about 20 minutes. He was so incredibly thankful, but I told him it was for his own benefit and that I hate to see wasted potential. He promised to fulfil all expectations and go beyond. Fingers crossed school goes well tomorrow.
September 21
School has not gone well. Being just about the only black child in your entire year, on top of being adopted has led to heavy, heavy bullying in only the first two days. It really is incredible what children will say nowadays. I have no doubt that the racist shit that was spat from these children's mouths was much less of there own creation and more so the forced ideologies of the hideously bigoted culture at that damn school. The story had of course been something of a press storm, but that was nothing compared to what Leroy has faced in the past two days. It's is absolutely hideously disgusting. I don't think I can write much more without having a aneurism or my head exploding. I need mediation and sleep. spoke with Leroy about it, but he seemed okay. He assured me he'd faced much worse than preppy rich-kid snobs hurling insults at him. I wasn't too sure. When I told him I was going to speak with the Headmaster he told me he was fine and not to do it. And it's only been two days.
September 25
Leroy got in his first fight today. A circle of boys from the lacrosse team began to push him around and give him a hard time. Of course Leroy disposed of all five of them swiftly, but soon the entire team had descended on him. When he got home he had a bloody, broken nose and a bruised eye. His head was lumped in an odd shape. He was much quieter at dinner tonight, and I only found out because Dr Tanner had the nerve to call and report that Leroy had instigated a fight against the poor innocent "lacrosse lads" who had only been trying to get him involved in a game of friendly pick-up lacrosse. Leroy seemed embarrassed by it, and only told me after I confronted him. When called the headmaster back to ask him to provide footage from the security cameras, he informed me that oddly enough at the same time Leroy was "laying siege to the innocents", all four cameras with a view of the central quadrangle had stopped working. "Computer glitch likely", he informed me.
September 30
There was a knock on the door this morning at half past seven. Bryan St. Clair's dad was on the other side. Allegedly Leroy had confronted his son in the park last night when Bryan and his friends where headed off to a party and had demanded that they hand over all their valuables. The shit-eating grin the slowly crept up Bryan's face as the conversation wore on was nearly enough make me want to punch him right there and then. When I informed him that Leroy had been in the library all night studying for the Biology exam, he lashed furiously back that there was no way I could know. When I asked him how he knew it was Bryan who was lying he said: "Because your son is a damned lying nigger-boy. You can't control people like them David, a nigger is a nigger at heart." It was incredible, like something out of a movie. I told him to fuck off back to the 1950s, he stuck his finger up at me and threatened my life should any harm come to his boy from the "niggerchild".
October 1
A call from Mr. St Clair. Allegedly Leroy threatened Bryan with a knife after the confrontation yesterday. I'm going over to the St Clair's to talk it out and smooth things out. It would be a shame to lose friends like this.
October 2
Something happened at the St Clair's. Everybody is blaming my boy. My poor innocent boy. He didn't do it. I received a call from Dr Tanner today about my boy's position at the school. I told Dr. Tanner he would stay at the school. Dr. Tanner disagreed.
October 3
Something happened to Dr. Tanner. People blamed my beautiful Leroy. There were several policeman here today to interview him. he's innocent I know.
There's a knock at the door. I do wonder who it could be.
October 4
I make the finest quality knives and blades in the world. Everybody knows that. That is why I have a lot of money. I have made a lot of money from my nice blades.
October 5
They took Leroy away. I told them they shouldn't. They said he was a liability to the community.
October 6
My beautiful Leroy is no longer with me. I got a call from Bob Grenzowski asking me to go over to his house. I think I will accept. He never liked my Leroy.
| 32 | Write the diary entries of a person who progresses from a charitable, altruistic man into a conscienceless, psychopathic serial killer. | 61 |
Times were hard for everyone. The folks is Washington called it a "depression", but all we knew was that there wasn't near enough work to go around. It wasn't long before Pa lost the store; though for a while he was able to make ends meet doing odd jobs around town. When the bank called the mortgage on our small farm we didn't have much choice, so we sold what we could, left what we couldn't and loaded up in the old Ford. We drove clear down to Marion County to help out on grandpa's farm for a while, at least until times were better Pa said.
Grandpa's farm had been hit by hard times too. Where there had once been half a dozen hired hands there was now just Grandpa, Pa, and me. Even so Grandpa still had his herd of dairy cows, which made him the best off farmer south of the county seat.
It wasn't long after we arrived that I first noticed the mist. It would come rolling rolling down off the mountain perhaps every fortnight. When Grandpa saw the mist coming would tell me to bring a few sacks of feed and a pail of milk to the back stoop. I didn't ask why and he didn't volunteer, but by the next morning the lot of it was gone.
Finally, I asked him where it all went. Grandpa said that when the mists came rolling down off the mountain, that they brought something else with them. That it helped people keep their pride. I didn't really understand what he meant, I must have figured it was some old wives' tail.
The next fall grandpa lost his whole herd to the anthrax within a weeks time. We tried to hire ourselves out, but no one else had much work for us. We hadn't had much to eat as I sat on the stoop with Grandpa one evening as the mist began to roll in. I looked up at him, expecting him to tell me to go get a few sacks of feed before I remembered all too quickly that there was none, and no milk neither. We sat a while longer as the mist engulfed us before turning in.
The next morning I remember being the first one up. As stepped outside I saw there on the corner of the stoop as small pile. A few mason jars of milk and a loaf of bread.
Grandpa always said that when the mists came rolling down off the mountain, that they brought something else with them. I never really believed any of it, or at least I didn't understand it before. | 90 | Grandpa always said that when the mists came rolling down off the mountain, that they brought something else with them. I never believed any of it... well, at least I didn't before. | 123 |
**This story is now complete in the response message below.**
Vatn shaped a tendril into a humanoid hand. It had been 1000 years since his visit but the memory was as fresh as a newborn spring. He held the hand up translucent in front of the ship's running lights and concentrated to form the bones and ligaments he had seen inside the first hand he had severed from its main body.
He remembered how surprised he had been that the humans could not reintegrate dislocated appendages back into the main body. Though their fluid had been red and easy to free from its container, it was the Carbon that dominated their thinking.
Soon he was able to wiggle the little finger.
Outside the spherical capsule hung a large blue orb. It was the planet that Vatn had identified as being completely covered in liquid. Much like himself it was mostly water, but at the lower depths he suspected other more valuable chemicals were at play.
Soon his ship was spiraling through the outer atmosphere of the planet. It's red glow another sun in the sky. When the sphere struck the water Vatn continued the momentum with a call to the rear thrusters on his vessel. It responded by plunging deeper into the void.
"Abundant lifeforms detected," the chemical emitter he was interfacing with on the ship's console reported, "Ship's hull adequately adapting to pressure changes."
Vatn continued to puppet the pseudo hand. He could only imagine what lifeforms he would find here. Would there be any like himself? Surely none so advanced.
Vatn lost connection with the chemical interface as his ship abruptly slowed. He found himself plastered on the rear inner hull as it shuddred to a stop.
His various droplets scattered throughout the smooth metallic ship soon formed larger blobs and then the main body.
Vatn quickly thrust an appendage back into the chemical interface. "Warning unidentified lif...." and then silence just before the top of the ship's hull was torn from above him.
The pressure from the liquid rushing into the capsule was crushing. Vatn's consciousness was now spread and unfocused. Part of him was moving very fast as if caught in a large current. The rest of him was clinging to some sort of tentacle on a very large organism.
It was hard to find himself in the void. He could perceive himself barely over the noise of the ocean he was engulfed in. This was not the first time he had been submerged. In fact he enjoyed a monthly cleansing but now the vastness was overwhelming.
Vatn maintained his grip on the tentacle. He allowed some of the salty water around him into his form to make up for the lost mass. This helped to equalize the pressure and allow him to relax his mental hold on his body.
The salt felt unclean. It was grating and he was sure his PH was completely thrown off. He would need to find a fresh water source soon but for now he was alive.
He allowed himself to touch the saltwater outside of his epidermis. He could taste so many chemical messages it was overwhelming at first.
Soon he was able to discern the scent of the large squid-like creature that he clung too. He felt the displacement of the water around the tentacle and that extra sense he could see the immense and horrible shape the creature took in the world.
Below within the liquid ocean, a denser liquid flowed as if it were a river on land. THe land itself was an even denser, but stationary liquid.
Vatn watched helplessly as his vessel rushed violently in the current of the underwater river and out of perception. He then lost contact with the conscious thoughts he had tethered to the matter he had spilled when the ship had torn in two. Fortunately like a hologram even when shattered Vatn's parts still contained the same information as when whole.
Vatn allowed the large creature to be his guide of the new world. The behemoth followed the underwater stream along with the current for several thousand meters seemingly transfixed on the spectacle. Its tentacles and water spout were awe inspiring tools that created magnificent thrust through the endless ocean.
Vatn used the time to reconstitute himself and start concentrating on an escape plan. Could these large creatures be subjugated and controlled? Could he use them to build another vessel?
**Will write more later if there is time and anyone is interested.**
| 13 | Write a story that occurs in a completely liquid world where different densities of the liquid create different levels of terrain. | 78 |
I can't believe I'm walking here again. I wouldn't have thought I could bring myself to do it, and yet here I am, step by step, marching steadily through the drizzle.
I look down at my feet and count the steps, clutching the bundle of flowers close to my chest.
Forty seven. Forty eight. Forty ni...
I catch sight of something out of the corner of my eye as I reach forty nine. I look up, and see a man dressed in black, crouched down low over the ground.
He's looking at a gravestone. At Liam's gravestone. Who the fuck do you think you are? That's not for you!
My body automatically runs forwards, and I realise I am already calling to him.
"Hey, what are you doing?" I shout. Tears fill my eyes as I approach him, and it seems as though he half turns towards me, although he doesn't show me his face. At least I think it's a he.
"Get away from here!" I shout, "Get away from my son's grave!"
The man does not move, not even slightly. He continues to stare at the gravestone in front of him, the stone that I know carries Liam's name, which has been blocked by his body. I am still clutching the flowers, now crumpled as I squeezed them against my body while running.
"Who are you?" I demand angrily. His body raises up slightly as he breathes in slowly, and he begins to stand up to face me. My earlier bravado slips away, and I feel a cold chill creep up my spine. He braces himself to say something, and I dread what words I will hear.
"Hello, Isobel," he says.
*What the fuck?*
"How the fuck do you know my name?" I ask him, my voice shrinking away, despite my best efforts to appear brave.
"It's a long story," he says after a long pause.
"No, you fucking tell me. How do you know my name and what are you doing here?"
He pauses again, not giving me a response.
"Who are you?" I almost whisper.
"My name is Liam," he replied, his voice almost as quiet as mine, but twinged with a small measure of sadness, as if saying the words pain.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" I respond. He shakes his head.
"My name is Liam," he repeats himself.
"Stop saying that," I reply. He looks up at me, and I catch a glimpse of greying stubble around his mouth, which twitches downwards briefly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a closed fist, his arm swinging quickly.
Instinctively, I flinch, expecting the fist to slam into me, but he keeps his hand stretched out in front of him, palm upturned. I lean towards him, and inside it is a small wooden carving.
It's a face. With the same jagged lines along the edges that I've seen before. The wood is dirty and worn, slightly chipped at the top, near the hole where a tattered string is threaded through.
It's the lucky charm that Liam made for me last year.
"How the fuck did you get this?" I scream, and I lash out at him, but he catching my hands in his own, withered hands. He grips me tightly and I try to break free, but he looks directly into my eyes, and for the first time I see him clearly.
He has the same blue eyes, the same boyish grin.
He has the same eyes.
The same face.
It's him. It's my Liam. | 32 | A mourning parent returns to the grave of their child, only to find someone else there. What they say next... | 43 |
Hank woke up to the sweet smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. He loved his wife for always going through the trouble of making the first pot before she left for work and today was a particularly special day. The Towers had fallen exactly 14 years ago and though he was lucky to get out with the first wave of people he stayed behind to try to help others. When the debris began chiseling away at his body, injuring his leg and creating gashes in his face, he evacuated and moments later the massive building crashed to the ground, sending up a blinding cloud of smoke. He went through rehabilitation and then therapy for years trying to reestablish a sense of normalcy but always declined the reconstructive surgery to his face. People had larger issues and more permanent problems than just a few scars and he directed the benevolent people to give those people some assistance instead.
He took the day off. Every year there were events held to honor those that passed but this year he didn't want to deal with any of that. He just wanted to be with himself and his family, though at the moment they were at work and school. That was ok with him. He grabbed a cup of coffee, black, and a muffin and took a seat on the couch. He turned the tv on and stared at the footage of the towers from all those years ago. He remembered how beautiful they looked and how this particular shot captured it so well.
"If you're just tuning in we have some astonishing news. The World Trade Center Towers are all back the way they were before they fell. At the moment there is no explanation for how or why they came back. Wait I'm just getting word that our very own Julian Simmons has made it to the foot of the tower and has managed to speak with some of the people coming out. Julian, are you there?"
His cup of coffee lay on the ground, surrounded by a pool of steaming blackness. Hank couldn't believe what he was seeing. People whom he knew could be seen exiting the tower into makeshift tents.
"Yes, Katey I hear you. No one knows how the towers just came back but there is no trace of the memorial center or any of the new construction in the area. It really is amazing. The people whom I spoke to have no recollection of anything that has happened and most are looking to go home and find out what happened from their family members. Officials here are performing a thorough examination of everyone and it would be a few more hours before everyone is let out and allowed to return home."
Hank ran to his room to get changed. He had to see this for himself. *It was absolutely impossible, so how?* He grabbed his keys off the table. Before he could leave the house he heard a knock from the front door, followed by keys shuffling around. The door swung open and Hank was face first with his reflection from 14 years ago.
"Who the hell are you and where are Martha and Ben?" The man was calm but firm in his demand to know what was happening, but Hank was shocked. He took a step forward to get a better look. "Look, don't come any closer." The man unholstered his gun, "Why are you in my house."
Hank felt older than he had just moments ago. His mouth was dry and his throat parched. "I'm…you."
The man at the door stared at the scarred face and his jaw fell to the floor along with the firearm. "What?... How?....It can't be true. That…that's impossible" He saw through the scars and the age and could see that it was the truth. This limping old man was him.
"They said on the news the building came back. They said that the people would be going home. It's been fourteen years." Hank walked into arms reach of his younger self. He reached out to touch his face, to remember how it felt without those scars. To remember how life was before the tragedy. A feeling of euphoria came over him as the weight of his life slowly left his body.
"Wait. NO!" Tears rolled down his face as he watched the body of his older self glow brighter and brighter. He looked away when the light became unbearable and when he looked back the body was gone. He stood in the doorway alone."I…I had so many questions."
From the street a weak voice whispered. "Oh my God." Hank turned and saw Martha standing there watching him, her face aged but still as beautiful as he remembered. He wiped the tears from his eyes and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her.
"I'm home honey. I'm finally home."
| 16 | On September 11th 2015 humanity wakes to discover the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center are standing just as they did before 2001. There is not a shred of evidence of any kind that they were ever destroyed, save for the memories of humanity. | 41 |
The security guard was a boar. I could already tell this was going to be a problem.
"You there!" he shouted and pointed at me, "Stop where you are!"
I freeze in place and hold up my hands in surrender. His shadow snuffled along behind him as he stormed towards me. Its tusks held low and ready to charge. On the other hand the security guard himself looked like a rather ordinary, balding man in his late 40s. But, like most people, I knew better than to look at his face. Always look at the shadows. The shadows tell the truth of a person. Which, unfortunately, was the very problem he had with me.
"What are you?" he demanded as he stepped closer and inspected the ground around me.
I sighed in exasperation. For anyone else that question might refer to their job, coach driver in my case, but for me the question always meant "what sort of shadow do you have?" I used to lie and tell people it was a flea until the day I met a real flea. The guy was all sorts of creepy and, since then, I figured it was better to tell the truth.
"I'm a shadeless," I told the guard. He took a step back and grasped for his cudgel. Oh great. He was the superstitious sort.
"What are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously, "It's late. Decent folks should be indoors now."
"Yes," I agreed, "But for the less decent who still need a ride home after the taverns close they will probably want a ride."
I nod in the direction of the Eastern Coach Company placard on the gray stone building just ahead. It was in the direction I had just been walking before the boar shadow security guard had stopped me. He glanced in that direction and shot me a confused glance. Honestly, in this day and age do people really believe the whole shadow stealing myths?
"I work there," I explained slowly, "I'm the night coachman."
It took awhile, but I could see realization slowly working its way across his face. First a lift of the eyebrows. Next his eyes refocused. After that it traveled as a wave all the way to his down turned lips. He grunted and relaxed his grip on his cudgel, but didn't take his hand away entirely.
"A coachman," he said, "Been doing that long?"
"Six years now," I admitted. It was one of the few jobs I could do at night. Night time was the time I was most free. When shadows were swallowed up in the darkness. It was the only time people would not stare at me.
The guard scowled at me but I knew he was going to let me go. His shadow's attention was wandering elsewhere.
"Fine," he grunted, "But I'll be keeping an eye on you!"
I nodded and, without another word, stepped into the front door of the Eastern Coach Company. My boss, Grady, stood just inside the window. His frog shadow hopped about anxiously.
"Sorry, Jeb," he said quickly, "I saw him coming towards you. But I didn't think it would help none if I-"
I waved him into silence.
"It's okay, Grady," I reassured him as I doffed my coat and hung it on the hook by the door, "I have to go through this every time the city mixes up the patrol. He's probably just from one of those Lowlander tribes. He'll get used to me."
Grady nodded once and mopped his forehead with a tattered rag. He's a good enough man. After all, he hired me when no one else in the city would give me a chance. But frogs tend to be a bit skittish. I knew for a fact if I had been arrested he would not intervene. He was too afraid of being arrested himself for being an associate of a shadow stealer.
I guess I shouldn't be too upset. Not even fifty years ago I would have been put to death because of my unique birth defect. Back then idea was that a shadow was not just a mere impression of, but the actual physical image of the soul was still fairly commonplace. Modern science swears this isn't true and, through some sort of complicated alchemy I don't understand, supposedly proved that a shadow is nothing more than a light interaction upon the ethereal projection of a spirit. For whatever reason, my particular spirit just didn't happen to project into the right plane to interact with light. Physician after physician has reassured me that it means nothing and that I can lead a normal and healthy life. I can probably even have children with normal shadows if I could ever find a woman who wasn't squeamish about the whole thing.
As Grady stood there twisting his rag and fretting, I grabbed my uniform cloak and hat and exited the room towards the stables.
Handsome Dan nickered as I walked towards him. I smiled back and stroked his mane in greeting. Animals, at least, didn't seem to mind my company. Maybe because all animals only had to deal with shadows of themselves the didn't think they were that important. I don't know.
I had just finished hitching him up to the coach when Grady stepped out.
"Jeb?" he said, still sweating, "I just got a wire from the Bucket and Stone."
I shook my head in disappointment.
"Is Ferris at it again?" I asked.
"Drunk off his seat," Grady agreed, "The barkeep asked if we could send him home. Asked for you specifically."
I shrugged. Why not? Ferris was one of our regulars. Or, should I say, one of my regulars. About once a fortnight he would stumble into one of the local ale houses and get drunk and try to start a fight. His shadow was a monster. A real monster. Ten feet tall with spiky horns and sharp claws. In his youth he had been a real terror. But old age dulled his reflexes enough that seven years ago, during a knife fight with a lion shadow, he had let his guard down enough to take a dagger across his eyes. He was completely blind now. More a danger to himself than anyone else. Still, even in his damaged state, the other coachmen tended to give him a wide berth.
For the past four years I have given Old Ferris rides back to his squat cottage on the edge of town. Helped him to his bed and pretended not to hear his drunken sobs as I slipped back out the door. In all those years he's never once asked me what sort of shade I am.
"No problem, Grady," I said as I mounted the seat on the coach, "Crippled monsters need to stick together."
I rode off before he could say another word.
EDIT: I originally submitted this when I was getting ready to head out the door. Corrected some typos. Thanks for the feedback, everyone. | 533 | You live in a world where people's shadows show who they truly are at their core. Some shadows look like monsters, some look like animals. You are the only person in the world with no shadow. | 496 |
The knock rang through the empty house in the empty world, and Tony's heart nearly burst at the sound. He eyed the door warily, heart racing. He didn't know whether to open the door and hug whoever was on the other side with delight, or to climb out the back and run like hell. "Do I really want to live on this world alone?" he thought, as he found his feet inching him ever closer to the door.
He approached the eyehole. He saw a tall man in a white dress shirt and black tie. Was he an assassin? Was he an FBI agent gathering together the last strings of humanity, in a hope to weave them together once again into a new society? Tony opened the door slowly.
Before Tony had a chance to survey the situation, the man was already speaking. "Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a chance to hear about God's Good Word?"
Tony stared at the man with wide, incredulous eyes. "Wh-what?" he managed.
"God's Good Word. The reason I'm here. Do you have a moment? May I come in?" Unable to conceive a reason why not, an extremely troubled Tony opened the door for the man to come in.
"I'm Mark, nice to meet you."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Well, when I was a little child I heard the voice of an angel and I-"
"No, why are you *still* doing this? Everyone's gone." Mark's face creased as he took in Tony's claim. Seeming confused, Mark arose from the couch he had situated himself on and walked back outside. Tony followed him, resting at the door.
Mark walked to the end of Tony's driveway, spun himself in a circle and surveyed the empty street. He looked up at the sky. "Oh!" he burst, his eyes suddenly coming to life. "You mean all these people?" He gestured with his arm as he spoke, indicating the empty houses. "They're with God now, Tony. The rapture has come."
Tony narrowed his gaze. Why was this crazy idiot bothering him? Suddenly, a realization hit Tony so abruptly that he almost lost his footing at the doorstep. "I never gave you my name," he stammered, blood draining from his face. He thought he was going to faint. Tony set his back to the doorframe and slowly lowered his body to a sit.
Mark, as if on cue, had already walked back to the house and was now standing in front of Tony. His eyes had changed now; the innocent hazel eyes that Tony had moments ago found naive were white, almost glowing. "Tony, everyone is gone. Every last human on this planet, except you. God has a plan for you, Tony. Then you may join us."
Tony looked up at Mark the way a helpless dog gazes upon his master. "What must I do?" he begged. It had been only 3 days since everyone vanished, but boy how the novelty wore off! By 24 hours, Tony thought he would surely go crazy. Tony had felt lonely before all the humans had vanished. Now, there was no chance at redemption. Nothing to do but to read books and surf the Internet until the electricity gave out. Tony was wondering what masturbation would be like when he'd have to resort to scavenging for some stranger's crusty old Playboys. No; any salvation, be it offered from Jehovah, Bhuddah, or even Satan, Tony would accept. No matter the cost.
Mark gaze down at him and exclaimed, with all the conviction that a beacon of God may bear: "You must find the Reddit server, and destroy /r/atheism." | 89 | The last man on Earth hears a knock at the door. He opens it to a Jehovah's Witness going about their normal routine. | 136 |
Beep, beep, beep, beep.
Jack stood up, wiping his brow. It was 5:00. Time was running out.
Blue had gone completely silent, his ears drooped low. The mutt wasn't saying much. The only thing Jack had squeezed from him were howls of pain, as Jack had hammered Blue's cute little doggy fingers one by one. Jack's phone began to ring.
"Talk to me Chloe, what are we dealing with here?"
"This goes deeper than we initially thought Jack." She sounded nervous.
"What are you talking about? This doesn't end with the Secretary of State?"
"No Jack," she paused. "It's the president."
Jack's mind went instantly reeling, and the fire of his rage ignited to a grand crescendo. He snapped the phone shut, and knelt in front of the heavily breathing animal. Jack grabbed Blue by his collar.
"You will tell me what I want to know." Jack snarled. "NOW, WHERE IS STEVE?"
The hammer comes down.
"Aroooooooooo!"
"I know that the rumours aren't true Blue! I know that Steve is alive! WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?"
The hammer comes down again and again until Blue finally cracks. Little remained of his face. Blood seeped onto the floor. His teeth lay scattered, icebergs in a red ocean.
"The United Nations." Blue barely whispered, his lip bubbling with blood. Jack's phone is out seemingly instantaneously.
"Chloe. Steve and the bomb are in New York City, at the UN headquarters."
"Copy Jack, I'm dispatching the SWAT team now. Good job."
"Thanks."
Jack pulled a chair in front of Blue and sat down. He hung his head in resignation.
"I don't get it Blue. You and Steve are the most talented, sought after criminologists on Earth today. What made you resort to this?"
Blue, who by all rights should now be called Purple, looked at Jack.
"It's this place, Jack. America. I once thought this land was a paradise on earth." Blue was breathing heavily at this point, and had begun to shake.
"Steve was the one who brought me to Afghanistan. He was the one who introduced me to al-Qaeda." Blue smiled, one last time.
"I have never looked back since taking my vows...and I never will."
At that final statement, Blue's brain begun to hemorrhage.
"Blue!" Jack fell to his knees. BLUEEEEEE!!!!!!"
Beep, beep, beep, beep.
| 14 | Jack Bauer is interrogating blue from blue's clues about a dirty bomb in the city. | 49 |
The button had always been there. Just... sitting there. On the wall. ***Emergency Stop***.
Jeff looked around the his office. Just a solitary computer, a solitary human, and nothing else. What was there to stop?
He reached his finger out tentatively, pausing only a centimeter away from the glimmering red button.
*Press it*.
Curiosity killed the cat, but Jeff was no cat right? Right. Just do it.
***Boink***
Boink? Odd sound for a button to make. Still, nothing seemed different, nothing stopped. Then the computer disappeared. Jeff didn't believe his eyes, but he sure believed his ass when it hit the floor. The chair was gone! With a ghostly flicker, his desk was next. *What?*
The floor was next, he fell a story, then another, soon he found himself sitting on an empty plot of land where his office once was. This didn't make sense. A building on his left flickered out of existence. Then another, and another and another. Within minutes the city was gone. The people were gone. He was alone.
The button couldn't have done this right?
As he pondered his role in the annihilation of humanity, a light opened up from the sky. With a golden brilliance, he was brought up to the clouds. Jeff found himself standing in front of a luminous being. A voice boomed. **"HUMAN! HAVE YOU TOUCHED THE EMERGENCY STOP BUTTON?"**
Jeff trembled under the perceived power of this being. "*Yes*" he managed to squeak out.
"**DAMN IT! NOW I HAVE TO REBOOT EVERYTHING**".
Jeff saw a flash of light and he was back at his office.
The button had always been there. Just... sitting there. On the wall.
*Don't do it*
Ehh, when was the last time curiosity actually killed a cat?
**Boink!**
| 370 | Your office has an emergency stop button. You have no machinery. No one knows what it does. | 592 |
"Kill it"
Voices whisper back and forth as a the sound of a crowd gathering surrounds her. The shuffling of feet and exhaust of deep breathes force the voices to become louder.
"Yes, kill it."
She opens her eyes to see the shocked faces of foreign species, mirroring her own reaction. She's a spectacle, never before seen. A human.
She has awaken still wearing the Monday elementary school clothes her mother dressed her in. The tremble of her body making her shoes tap on the ground.
"It's awake... attack!"
A frail creature balances on the edge of a table and slowly lowers itself to the ground. It pulls a rock out of it's pocket and attempts to throw it at the girl, falling short by many feet.
The deep, out of shape breathes gasp as the girl stands tall. Although she stands just over 4 feet tall, she towers over the creatures, shivering.
"Please don't hurt me..."
The creatures audibly gasp as they hear her first words. She can speak their language and uses such a loud, booming voice. The creatures cower in fear.
"What do... you want from us? Take what.... you need and please leave" the elder whispers to the girl.
"I just want to go home"
...
It's now been years since she arrived. A Goddess among these aliens, she remains optimistic, still looking for a way home. She's reminded of her story every time she passes her statue, though she still tries to act at ease.
The tired creatures bow to her feat just for bearing witness to such a strong creature, a trait she didn't understand.
"We are blessed by your presence, leader."
"And why is that?", the girl sarcastically asks, fully expecting another compliment.
"...because our rival planet has been en route to destroy us for the past ten years and you will be our only defense."
Silence fills the summer air.
"What planet?..."
"Earth..." | 12 | A normal human lands on an alien planet. He or she is powerful enough there to be considered a god. | 28 |
And she wasn't even all that beautiful. There was an eerie darkness to the way those yellow-green eyes shone out to the world, following your every movement around the Pritchett's living room. The half-crooked smile that was neither happy nor side, nor in between. Her pale skin was almost snow, perfectly contrasting that rock back hair. When I asked Mr Pritchett who she was he replied that he had no idea, and that it had been passed down through the generations from "God knows when." Every time I went over to the Pritchett's to visit or to speak to Mr Pritchett she seemed to stare only at me. Like she was trying to talk to me. She was talking to me. Every now and then I saw her mouth and lips moved, and her eyes danced and the snow shuffled. But what was she trying to say? As I began to go to the Pritchett's more frequently I realised that nobody seemed to notice the fact that she almost moved within the painting. She did, I was so sure of it. Every time I tried to inform Mr Pritchett of it, he half-heartedly smiled and grunted. Occasionally he asked me if I wished to buy it. I could never accept though. She was captivating sure, but there was no reason for me to own her, and I knew I couldn't have taken such a painting from the Pritchett's. I began to see her in my dreams to, she'd dance around, talking to me. We'd have such great conversations. For someone from such a long time ago, she certainly had a great sense of humour! She'd smile at me then, and it was such a warm smile. When I woke up, I knew I just had to go back to the Pritchett's to see her again.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Police Report: Friday 18 April 2004
A Mr Donald Pritchett reports that his home was vandalised late
Thursday evening or early Friday morning while he and his wife, Mrs Joan Pritchett, were asleep.
Mr Pritchett reports that one of his neighbours, a Mr James Guthrie, appears to have painted
a portrait of himself in the living room over the top of an existing painting.
Attempts to locate Mr Guthrie have been futile, however this morning, friday 18 April a female:
around 5 ft 7, black hair, pale complexion, "yellow" eyes;
was seen leaving Mr Guthrie's home in the early hours of the morning.
Witnesses say she had long fingernails painted blood red, and a large grin on her face. | 19 | A man becomes deeply disturbed by his physical and emotional fixation he has towards a painting of a woman from the 1800c. | 51 |
Mom’s been away for at least two weeks now… but that’s okay, she always goes on work trips. I can’t wait for her to get back, she always brings me cool things from the places she goes, and she goes everywhere! Last month I got a stuffed kangaroo and earlier in the year she got me this really cool rock necklace from Peru or something!
What does she do? Something to do with knots; I think she’s a sailor. I heard her talking about loose ends on the phone once so she’s got to be one of the crew and plus we always have that thick rope around the house, I think it’s the type they use to hang the sails up. I hope one day she takes me on a boat with her and we can sail across the ocean… that would be so cool!
No, she’s never sad; when she gets back it’s the happiest ever! She usually takes me out of school for a bit and we go to the zoo. She really likes those colourful little frogs with the spots, we watch them forever! I like the rhinos though, mom can’t stand the smell.
We move all the time! Usually we stay close to the water, probably something to do with a boat she works on. People are always really nice to me wherever we move; I just don’t like the schools so much. Mom says private schools are the safest but all the other kids are so boring, we never go on any fun adventures, I always play by myself. When I grow up I want to be a captain so I can be a sailor with mom, we could go everywhere together.
| 33 | You are a 12 year old son of a professional assassin. Describe what you observe at home. | 27 |
“Sir, we have a problem.”
The President barely glanced over at the officer who had just entered the room. “Write a memo and stick it on my desk, I’m occupied at the moment.” He carefully rounded the carving knife over the ear of the wooden bear taking shape in his hand.
“Sir, there’s been a death.” President Barber’s hand jerked and the ear fell onto the floor. He stared at the officer, the jagged edge of the bear’s head going unnoticed.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “How? Where?”
“Maine, about ten minutes ago. Her name was Sophia. She died in her bed, only 426 years old.” The officer hesitated. “There doesn't seem to be a cause of death. It looks like…sir, it looks like old age.”
President Barber shook his head in disbelief. “No, no, no…we eradicated this centuries ago! No old age, no sickness...there’s nothing in this world that could have killed this woman! We said there would be no more death, didn't we? That’s what the chips are for!” he brandished the back of his hand, where a small x-shaped scar barely showed. “Immediate healing, no sickness, no wounds!”
“Sir, I understand, but people are already beginning to panic. Word has spread. When will the next death happen, they ask,” the officer said. The president had not dealt with any serious issue in many years, not since the healing information patch was released two hundred years ago. They had been able to remove everyone’s third arm, but he had been forced to make a public announcement to the country.
“Get the cameras ready,” he said. “It’s time for a talk with the constituents.”
Ten minutes later, Barber was positioning himself in front of the main camera in the oval office, which was rarely used anymore. A layer of dust had to be removed before the cameras began rolling.
“Good afternoon,” he said into the camera. “As you may have heard, an incident has occurred that may involve all of us. Mrs. Sophia Carter, age 426, has been found dead. The cause of death is uncertain, but seems to be old age. I urge everyone not to panic; the chips are still active and working. I have deployed my best people to investigate the situation and ascertain the reason behind Mrs. Carter’s death. As you know, the chips cannot be removed and to do so would mean instant death. Please keep calm and continue to go about your daily lives. I will continue to update you as more information is obtained. As always, work hard, live well, and survive always.”
The light on the camera went off and President Barber stood up. “Thank you gentlemen, I’ll be in my rooms if you need me.” As the camera crew began dismantling the equipment, Barber walked off towards the residential wing of the building.
He had almost reached his room when his hand began to ache. He looked down to see the x-shaped scar glowing red. “That’s odd,” he said before collapsing onto the ground. As his eyes closed, he saw the red glow lessen and then go out. *I wonder if hers did this…*
| 14 | In the future, we've achieved immortality. After centuries of utopia, someone has died unexpectedly. | 31 |
I have actually discussed which phrases used in erotica are the most uncomfortable with friends. I'll give a shot.
"Oh yehhhhh," Helga moaned as Igor pistoned his thick meat into her beef curtains.
"Yeah, yeah, take it woman" Igor hissed as he continued to jackhammer her poontang with his thickness.
"Put it in my poop pucker" Helga ravenously requested - Igor was all too excited to oblige.
As Igor's strawberry-pink tip pushed against Helga's brown mound she let out a soft whimper. After a few minutes of Igor's one-eyed snake flicking in and out of her butt, Helga thought of another request, this one would even be considered romantic.
"Gag me with my butt-juice, Igor" she demanded. "Make me your dick slave."
Igor began to pump Helga's mouth with a ferocity previously known only to 6-cylinder engines and honey badgers in heat.
"Helga I'm (enters Phantom of the Opera scene) *paaaaaast the point of noooo RETURN*...*The final THRESHOLD,* *What warm unspoken secrets will we learn?
Beyond the point of noooooo return.*"
"FILL MY THROAT WITH YOUR BABY GRAVY" Helga calmy replied.
Igor busted a nut into Helga's mouth, and she gulped it down like the naughty gurl she be, and it was finished.
I'm probably on a list now.
| 54 | Write an erotic story using the worst slang terms possible for each act/body part. | 55 |
"Comrade Joseph Kony," Osama said, blushing slightly at the sound of my name. "It's been so long! I've been looking all over for you! How have you been?"
"Please, Ossy. Call me Joe. I'm fine, thank you for asking. And you?"
"Perfect, now that I'm here with you, " he smiled, considerably more flirty than usual. I suppressed a smile; I couldn't be showing any sign of weakness, not in front of the children.
"Oh! Where are my manners? Please sit," I said as I pulled out his chair for him.
We sat down and, immediately, cups of tea were placed right in front of us. We both took a sip, careful not to burn our tongues. Jasmine. With a wave of my hand, our child-servants left us, turning off the lights and lighting candles along the way. The room was now dim, with a single lamp above spotlighting the both of us. For a moment, we enjoyed each other's company in complete silence.
"How's your army?" Ossy finally said.
"Not bad, not bad. Children make better soldiers. Take orders more easily," I remarked. "They don't call it *infantry* for nothing."
"Oh, I love children!"
"I can't recommend them enough."
"You must teach me your ways. Perhaps we can arrange a future...discussion?"
"Perhaps," I winked. "I can't promise you children, but I can sure as hell try."
We talked the whole night, exchanging guerrilla warfare strategies and terror tactics. At some point, I spaced out. I was too lost in the stars of his eyes, the rugged forest of his hair, and the seductive desert of his skin.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" I said out of the blue. We looked into each other's eyes, unsure of the other's reaction. Ossy took this as a sign, closing his eyes and leaning closer.
The next few hours were filled with the feeling of rattling guns, explosive screams, and screaming explosions. There were bullets fired; there was fire in the hole. It was a war both of us welcomed.
Finally, as we laid in bed, my arms around Ossy's chest, I heard a soft, husky whisper: "I need to hide soon. Promise you'll find me, okay?"
I squeezed his hands and dug my face into his neck. "Okay. I promise."
| 19 | A romantic comedy between two of the most hated figures in history, leaving you sympathising with the two main characters in the end. | 28 |
To commit my exact experiences to paper would be to commit a sin against existence itself. Nothing could compel me to describe the true nature of what I saw for I fear it would apply too great a strain to what remains of my sanity. However it is, I feel, safe to say that what I witnessed on that unholy, bright day has both aged me and given me cause to rethink the nature of our universe.
Perhaps by the end of my explanation you will be more confused than satisfied. Let me assure you now that satisfaction would be utterly impossible for me to provide as even I have my doubts about the entire affair. I shall omit some of the more unsettling elements in an effort to preserve as much of my remaining sanity as possible.
There is, not far from where I live, a rather pleasant park. The trees there are of a particularly agreeable size and shape for climbing. Indeed, if given the choice, as I often was, I would spend the whole day scaling one of the larger specimens. It is my experience that the trees without the lower branches are at once the most challenging and the most rewarding and those were usually located at the centre of a small thicket where the majority of the sunlight was filtered through a thick canopy of leaves.
The day that I saw it I had committed myself entirely to a fairly challenging oak tree. It had bested me once before but I felt sure that I could find a route to the top. In my mind I was an intrepid explorer, climbing some strange Antarctic mountain that no man had ever dared attempt.
About halfway up I halted my expedition and broke for lunch. My mother had insisted that I take a small bag of sandwiches with me to ensure that I was properly fed at all times. Having found myself hungry once or twice in the past it had not taken much to convince me as to the merits of this idea, although I must say carrying the small satchel had certainly added to the difficulty of the climb.
As I ate I was happy - and then I saw it. A foul creature whose very shape was an impossibility. It lurked in the higher branches, regarding me with eyes that had a colour I had never seen before. It was the colour of madness, of despair, and I feel sure that even the most skilled artist could never recreate it.
I could not tell you how many limbs it had, for to my eyes it possessed innumerable arms one instant and the next none at all as my mind struggled to contain the reality of what I was seeing. Sometimes, and I think it was these moments where I glimpsed its true, blasphemous nature, it disappeared entirely as it took on a shape that I could not comprehend.
That I did not go mad at once...
Maybe I did, and that terror will haunt me for the rest of my life. How I escaped has been stricken in the main from my memory, leaving only patchy moments of a lunatic run through the park and back home to the embrace of my mother.
I can only say one thing with any certainty - the creature I saw was hungry.
---
Teacher's note
2/10
I suspect you had some help from your parents, but all round a poor work of *fiction*
On a side note; of course you could describe the monster - just say it had a big mouth and some sharp teeth. If you really are serious about becoming a writer you have to learn to paint a precise picture in the mind of your reader.
See me after class.
-- Edit
Oh wow - someone bought me gold :D Thank you! | 308 | "What I Did on my Summer Vacation," by H.P. Lovecraft, age 9 | 277 |
When the broadcast finished they both sat in silence and stared at the radio. After a moment or two, Harry broke the silence. "...Did he say we had to leave the area because of an unexpected... wharrgarble?"
-"Yeah I think so", Mary replied, her facial expression equally confused as his.
They sat in silence again for a minute.
"What does that even mean?" said Harry.
-"I have no idea."
Suddenly an alarm blared in the distance. It started moving closer. They looked out the window. On the street were hordes of people running around in panic and despair. Some of them were wearing surgical masks on their faces.
"Holy shit, I gotta see what's going on", said Harry and moved towards the door to the balcony.
-"Don't open that door!" - Mary yelled.
-"Relax, it's fine", Harry said and stepped out on the balcony.
"See? Completely fine". Harry had hardly finished talking when a splash of saliva squirted out of his mouth. His mouth started filling up with saliva and he seemed to have no control over it. "WHARRRGARBLE", he shouted and promptly fell to the ground, drowning in his own spit. | 10 | An emergency evacuation message is broadcast on TV and radio but is garbled so nature of emergency is unknown | 16 |
*You could read this prompt several ways I guess. I read 'worst' as in 'most awful/horrible'. (NSFW)*
***
'Fabbo!,' ejaculated Chardonnay, gurning wetly. She slithered another dime the length of my dropsical thigh and giggled shrilly. 'I haven't been this muntered since I was a tweenie', she dribbled, and I concurred with a soft gurgle. 'See, sweetie, I thought this gear would be bunkum since I got it from that uncouth dweeb who loiters around the costco in his uggo trackies, but it turns out to be troppo coolio. I mean, I feel like I could twerk until sun-up.'
Her pupils were ballooning like slick latex bubbles as she moaned softly and squeaked across the linoleum to fix herself. 'Easy, tiger' I mumbled into my teats, which were sweating with the gentle tepidness of warm brie, 'Don't want to tweak too hard yet', I also burped, and a little sick slipped into the gooey folds of my armpit hair. 'Honey-baby, you are cranked like an oldsmobile aren't you! You're so gassed I could burst you with my fingernail!'.
She placed her fingernail on the glassy counter and scraped it back and forth, back and forth her fingernail, fingernail, finger nail. Finger. Nail.
As I regurgitated my consciousness I found we were dozing side by side in the cramped and nauseous bed. Chardonnay was lazing in a steady slumber, fermenting in her own queasy excretions. Dizzy and parched, I cleared my throat of bitter mucus and sat up unsteadily, then padded towards the kitchen. I was finally coming down, and I was coming down with a mighty flu, too.
I slurped down some water, only to discover its straw-yellow pallor in the lamp above and, retching, blew a glassful of my own urine across the breakfast bar, then passed out again on the moist parquet. | 85 | Write a story with the worst words possible. | 34 |
He heard a slight crinkling sound as he searched through the pile. It sounded like someone stepping on autumn leaves. He dug down deeper trying to find the source of the sound.
After several minutes he had unearthed an old kitchen cabinet. It must have been quite old because it did not have a place to enter a passcode. Everyone's cabinets had those now, his mother said is was to make sure they did not go hungry because you never knew who would try to get at their fluid bags. They couldn't afford pills like other people, which were much easier to store. That's why his mother always made sure their cabinets were locked.
He opened the cabinet in search of the crinkling sound. At first all he saw was some odd looking metal utensils in a tray. Some of them had serrated edges, others had prongs at one end and still more had a kind of rounded head which was concave on one side. Stacked next to the utensils was a series of discs. Some of the discs had designs around their edges, while others had pictures in their centres.
Finally the cabinet was bare after he had removed and studied it's contents. He had decided he would take the discs home to show his mother, she might like them as decoration for their home. He had still not found the source of the crinkling sound, however. He stuck his head into the cabinet and turned on the light attached to his glasses. The light glinted off something in the corner of the cabinet. He grabbed it and pulled it out.
It felt strange to his touch, slippery but sort of sticky at the same time. He studied it, rolling it around in his hands until he noticed something written on it. It wasn't something he could read, so he asked his glasses computer to translate for him. It told him the language was American English and the words said Nutrition Facts.
He remembered hearing those words before, when he asked his mother why they needed the IVs all the time. "It's nutritious," she said, "we need it to keep going." Then he realized what he had in his hands. It was food. Real, actual food. Something no one else had had in hundreds of years. He asked his computer what it was called. His computer told him it was called a Twinkie, created by a man James Alexander Dewar, manufactured by a company called Hostess in place called River Forest, Illinois.
"A Twinkie." he said, holding it tightly. He raced home and had an actual meal with his family, the first in hundreds of years. | 11 | The year is 3274, and Earth is depleted of any and all food. Humans are sustained using IVs and pills exist to show society what food once tasted like. One day, a little boy discovers a twinkie in a buried cabinet... | 26 |
Drew has a sad life: Part II
Initially, this hobby of compulsive lying and “catfishing” seemed harmless; he was the big, bad JANITOR93 who felt sexy in his chemistry goggles. But as time went on and as the scars on his wrists continued to remind him of his chronic loneliness, this innocent game of escapism turned sour.
One day, while Drew was photoshopping pictures of his oriental “girlfriend” into his shameful selfies, he got a phone call that changed his life forever. “Hey Johnie,” his wavering voice squeaked. “My nigga, my nigga,” Johnie chanted across the line. “What do you say you join me and the rest of the KKK [Kool Kid Krew] to NYC for some lols?” Drew gulped. Johnie was one of many online friends he made – and also lied to all this time.
Sweat beaded at his hairline. Drew became thankful for his tear-free shampoo once again because of the excess perspiration he seemed to produce as of late. “Well…I….have…” he stumbled on his words, searching for the right excuse. What would he tell Johnie? What would the KKK think if he did not show up to NYC?
| 11 | Drew has a sad life. | 47 |
Stamped on the back of his hand like a brand was a skull; hollowed and grim, a worm crawling from the scooped-out eye socket. It twitched as he made some inane gesture, and Took watched, fascinated, as the thing’s grin seemed to leer with the motion. Below, on his belt, the stranger wore a gat, tucked up under his traveling coat and hidden from most wandering eyes. Such a thing was unseen in these parts, unholy even, *fire and bloodshed* a preacher would have said. Took had to restrain from crossing himself; the smell of danger wafted off the man like a fine perfume, and it would do no good to insult the likes of him.
“So, you’ll do it?” Wes asked, the words coming out in the Platet drawl; “you’ll” sounding like a drawn out “yaall”.
The stranger remained silent. His eyes were hidden behind the enveloping folds of his *dunna*, but Took imagined them to be sly eyes, hard eyes, a killer’s eyes.
“Yall gave us your word.” Wes persisted, looking to the others for support and then returning his gaze to the stranger, “Your *word*.”
The stranger barely nodded. The motion was slow and deliberate, but to Took the man gave off the impression of a coiled spring; hard steel wound too tight. “Aye,” The stranger said, “but I ain’t here to save the fuckin’ children.”
A nervous silence descended. This had been their fear, and when the four of them had met prior, caps in hand, they had prepared for this possibility. It was Took’s turn to speak, he knew, and with great effort he swallowed the lump growing in his throat.
“Sieur *dominus*.” He started, and when the stranger turned to him he began to regret using the archaic term. *This was no master of men, only of death.*
“Speak yer peace.” The stranger said, and Took continued haltingly upon the path his tongue had set him on.
“You bring with you death, we know it to be true.” He began, “There at your waist and there on your fist lie the marks of such as yourself.”
At his side Crofter whispered exaltedly; “*memento mori*” and Wes shifted uncomfortably. *Remember death.*
“Remember it well, we do.” Took continued, “Pray for it. Aye, some still. Though to do so’s a sin, or so the preachers say.” Took had doffed his cap and it sat clenched between his wrinkled fingers. “We cannot help ourselves. You must know this. The ages turn the mountains to dust and we toil, but our children die. Starved. Their tongues black with soot, their bellies swollen-”
Took broke off here for a moment, biting back the sob that rose in his throat. *So much death, and none for us, aye, none for the sinners.*
“*Memento mori*.” He managed finally, his voice grief-stricken. “Save our children. Make it so that they never must know those words after we have gone.”
The stranger was silent for a moment, considering, Took hoped. The gat at his belt looked a fine thing to end a life. A fine thing indeed.
“It is a sin to kill so young.” The stranger said finally, his voice flat. “They die, starved as you said. I play no part in that cycle.”
“Only most.” Took said, his voice a desperate whisper. “Some live, and grow old, and linger. Some bear children of their own and plant their bodies in the ground to feed the soot.”
The stranger remained unswayed. “God’s will.” He said simply.
The knuckles of Wes’ hands were bone white, his cap clenched in a vice-like grip. “Gods will.” He said, his chest heaving like a bellows. “*God’s will?*” The man had lost seventy-eight children to shallow graves, Took knew, but those did not compare to the eight living, and when Wes next spoke it was anger that wound its cord tight around his throat. “The Gods that done this left long ago. Left before the water ran dry between our fingers, left before the plains caught in fire and burnt the crops to ash. We lusted just as them, aye, lusted for the eternity, but we’ve paid for our sins, paid tenfold, and our children had no choice. Took *no choice!*” Spittle flew from his lips in his anger, his eyes burning with fire. “The Gods wanted life, and we too, but no more. Can you not see that for what it is? It is *God’s will* that we should beg for it and you should come! *Gods will!*”
The stranger raised a hand and Wes fell silent, suddenly very aware of whom he had been addressing. A single trail of spittle hung from the corner of his mouth and it dribbled slowly into his wiry beard.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Currently under progress. | 27 | "I ain’t here to save the fuckin' children." | 77 |
As he lay on the bed, breathing rapidly and shallowly, he smiled weakly. This home of mine...we'd always been here and the slightly tarnished walls were there to prove it. It's just him, me, and my 6 year-old daughter here.
"I live," he began, looking straight at me in the eye, "just for you my son."
My Dad looks exactly like me if only with a few more folds in his skin. And, as of the past few days, a lot thinner.
"I remember when you were just a little kid," he continued. "You ran around like crazy jumping onto every low table there was and climbing onto the high ones too. You almost fell off one, once."
"History repeats itself," I said, looking at my little girl.
He chuckled.
"Lucky I caught you, though. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wasn't the last."
He started to laugh again, but this time it degenerated into a ominous sounding cough. His brown eyes were once wide open windows reflecting his childlike energy; but, they're now very close to being closed from this world.
He's down to his last dollar.
I try not to cry. I shut my eyes tightly. I'm a grown man...grown men can't cry. I have to be strong in front of my daughter.
"Daddy," she says in her sweet million-dollar voice, "what's happening to Grandpa?"
I look at him. He looks at me.
"Honey," I say softly, "Grandpa needs to go somewhere but won't be coming back."
I bring my sleeve to my eyes, dampening it.
"You need to say goodbye to Grandpa."
She thinks, much deeper than a 6-year old has to think. Oddly, she understands, a feat of maturity for a 6-year-old.
"Okay, Daddy."
She hugs my Dad.
"Bye bye, Grandpa. I love you."
He looks at her lovingly. "Goodbye sweetie. I love you too."
He coughs again, breathing becoming more laboured. He's on his last breaths, now. He turns to me again.
"Son...take care of your daughter, okay? She'll be your life, too. You'll do this too, when the time comes."
"But why do you have to go?" I say. I can't hold it back any longer. I'm trembling.
He holds my hand. I feel the thing I dread - his last gold coin, between our hands. If he lets go...
"I caught you when you fell back in the old days," he says, "but now it's your turn to do that for someone else. And..."
He looks at my daughter, and back at me.
"Life is a million dollars, but the people you live for are worth so much more than that."
"I love you, Dad."
"I love you, son."
He lets go of his gold coin, smiling, and stops breathing.
The only way money is earned in this world is when it's given to others, but he's given me so much more than that .
I grip my daughter's hand. She looks up at me with innocent eyes.
I'll keep this dollar for her.
| 38 | A world where everyone is born a millionaire, but everything they do costs money. When they become bankrupt, they die. You can choose one method by which people can make more money. | 62 |
I've been waiting thousands of years to die. The gift of the gods eventually revealed its cursed nature to me. Generations of being the undying savior who repelled threat after threat, who honed his body into an unmatched killing machine, only to end up with a weak populace barely able to leave their houses to till the fields without my help.
I watched my wife grow old and die, as I did with my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on, until I was unable to even count how many people carried a fragment of my genes in them, and moreover, was unable to care any longer.
That was when the true weight of the gift-turned-curse settled on my shoulders. "As long as there is sentient life on this planet, you will live and be of service."
No one would understand the decision I made, you would have had to live unwillingly for thousands of years for it to make any sense. But it made sense to me, and was my last recourse. I removed all sentient life on the planet. I waged a long and bloody war that roamed from one end of this planet to the other, taking no prisoners, and razing to the ground every settlement in my wake.
In the end there was only my keep, and my group of devout soldiers, who all gladly fell upon their own swords in an effort to finally free me from my servitude.
That was nearly 20 years ago, right around the time the first strange metallic birds started flying out of the Forbidden Cavern. I sat, I waited, I watched, but I never died.
Today though, I realized I missed something in my purge of the world, I watched people walk out of the Forbidden Cavern. They were garbed strangely, flexible cloth in patterns of mottled greens and browns, and carrying long black sticks that I can only assume are weapons, though to what purpose I cannot determine.
It doesn't matter. I encase myself in my Dragonskin armor and secure my twin blades to my belt. Heading down the stone stairs of my keep, I feel the thrill of battle flicker to life in my stomach. It seems there is more purging to do. | 21 | The World Resources are almost depleted. A frantic team of researchers discover a alternate dimension but find nothing but a lone castle. In an utter state of emergency the World send their best people to investigate the Castle | 29 |
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