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Elliot Clemmons, the chubby and constantly bullied 5th-grader, is 4th in line to step into the machine. It looks line the old telephone booths that he's seen on tv. Melody Wilson just came out of it, she stepped in as a sweet little 5th-grader, and came out as a 30-something version of Melody that worked as a veterinarian. After a few minutes her stethoscope, the surrounding animals and the vision of an older Melody Wilson disappeared and she returned to the awkward 5th-grader with the two long braids. Elliot was feeling adrenaline like never before. He didn't even notice what his three classmates in front of him had chosen to be, because he was too busy racking his brain, trying to decide on what he wanted to be when he was a grown up. Last year Elliot wanted to be a police officer, but he was kind of over that at the moment, besides, he'd already witnessed Freddy Hewitt come out of the machine as a cop. Elliot only had moments to think before it was his turn to step inside. Stuntman, Soldier, scientist, what was it going to be? Elliot was next. His final thought before stepping in, what he wanted to be when he grew up, was something he saw in a movie the night before. The Incredible Hulk. Elliot came out in a fury, 8 feet tall, muscles bursting with veins, and green like an endless meadow. Students were screaming and scrambling to get out of the way. Even teachers were so shocked that they removed themselves from harms way before thinking about the children. Elliot spied one of his bullies, Josh, he wrapped his hulk hand around the entirety of Josh 's head and threw him clear to the other side of the gymnasium, his body breaking upon impact with the concrete wall. Those that hadn't yet fled the gym were cowering in the corners and behind the machine. Elliot went for the next nearest object, the miraculous machine that momentarily transformed young students into their dreams. He smashed his fist into it repeatedly, shrapnel from it jetting off in every direction. As the machine was nearly destroyed, Elliot began turning back into his self. Seconds later, there he sat, naked in the middle of the gymnasium with everyone around him staring at him in fright. Dead silence filled the gym like helium in a hot air balloon, only to be broken by the schools loudspeaker, "Elliot Clemmons to the principals office, please." | 70 | Young students are introduced to a machine. A student steps into the machine and comes out as what they want to be when they grow up, effects only last a few minutes. One student has an unorthodox plan for the machine... | 76 |
I don't feel any different. I wake up every day, go downstairs, eat breakfast with my parents, then shower. Just like anybody else. Isn't that what most people do? I mean sure, most kids have moved out already, but some people my age still live with their parents. Even, my best bud, still does and no one says anything about him.
Sure, my mom gives me a little help putting my clothes on, big fucking whoop. I do most of the work myself. That doesn't mean I'm any less than you are. Sure, I don't cook for myself. But that's not entirely by choice. My hands shake a little bit and the heat makes me nervous. Shame on me for asking for help.
I think just like you. I talk just as good. Maybe I slur a little, but I still get my point across.
I have a little trouble learning, too. Stuff comes to me a little slower. I ask for a little extra help. So do other people. I just take a little longer. So sue me. But I catch up eventually. Even if I had to take two extra years of school, I still graduated. You have no idea how proud I was. My friends all clapped for me and my parents were taking pictures.
So why didn't they ever tell me? Were they even really my friends? Or was I just taking their pity without even realizing it?
"Don't worry, Mikey. I understand it's harder for you."
I could see the shock in her face when she said it.
"What do you mean 'it's harder for me'?"
I didn't get it at first. I could tell she didn't want to answer. She felt so bad and I thought she deserved to when she finished her sentence reluctantly.
"Y-, you know, because..." There's no way she could've known I didn't know. "because of your disability."
It was like a ton of bricks coupled with the world itself hit me. "My di-, my what?"
"Your disability. You know."
Suddenly the reason she was hired to tutor me made sense. I thought my parents were just preparing me for college classes that I wanted to take so bad.
"What do you mean, 'my disability'?"
She had no idea what to say. We sat there for what seemed like ages. Eventually I just stood up and went downstairs. My parents were on the couch.
"Am I retarded?" I couldn't think of anything else to say. I was still in shock.
"Mikey," My dad spoke. "What are you talking about?" He sit up quickly. My mom's jaw just dropped.
"A-, a-," I stuttered when I got nervous. I had always thought it just to be a nervous habit. I could think clear enough, but speaking was a different mission in itself. "a-, am I re- retarded? Answ- swer me."
"Mikey, sweetie, no." My mom stood up and tried to hug me but I pushed her away. "You're just like all the other kids."
"I- I-" I tapped my head to try and get the words out quicker. "I, I'm twenty five, Mom. I'm not a ki- kid."
"Sweetie," She touched my arm and I slapped her hand away.
"Bud, you're not retarded." My dad spoke. "You're just a little," He paused to find the polite word. "Slower...than the rest."
I couldn't even speak. I was speechless.
I just went back upstairs. They didn't know what to say either, so they just let me go. I sat in my room for a few hours. Sarah had passed me in the hallway and tried to apologize but I didn't really hear her. I wonder if she said anything to my parents.
I never even realized I was so slow. How could I not have? I don't want to be different. I don't feel any different. I don't think any different. Or maybe I do think different.
I don't want to be different. | 10 | On your 25th birthday you find out that you've always been mentally retarded. Everyone who has ever met you knows this instantly, but nobody has ever told you and you've always been very much unaware of it. | 16 |
Ergh what is that noise? That piercing tone cutting through my skull, dragging me awake. I go to roll over to swat at the alarm on my bedside table, just a few more minutes to sleep. I can't move what the hell is going on!
Where am I? My hands are pinned to my sides by the walls close around me. Breathe, one, two, three; breathe, one, two, three. Oh my god I have been buried alive, I must be in a coffin! My mind flashes into panic mode and I can feel my heart beating in my ears. Childhood fears the stuff of nightmares fray my mind and I am overwhelmed by the idea that this could actually be happening.
Snapping my eyes open I find my gaze drawn to the pale green glow illuminating the wall in front of me. In a tight clean font were the words "Please remain calm, some disorientation is usual after cryo sleep!" Underneath in bold, there was one word. "Breathe."
As I tried to bring my breathing back under control, I felt a calm descend over me, and slowly my memories began to return. At first trying to hold onto them felt like trying to hold onto handfuls of sand, the tighter I tried to grip them the more slipped away from me, but soon they began to fall into place.
Lost in my thoughts it took me a couple of moments to notice that the door in front of me had begun to pulse red and a new message was blinking insistently.
"Warning first lock disengaged!"
The combination for that is pie. How do I know this?
Seeing this sent an icy chill down my spine and suddenly I knew exactly where I was. Beta 4, I was one of 120 privately financed volunteers. Or at least that was what they called us. In reality we were people unlucky enough to be skilled, desperate and in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Your family will be taken care of they said.
Your crimes will be forgiven they said.
You will be remembered as the best of humanity they said.
They said a lot of things. Still didn't give me a choice! Bastards!
"Warning second lock disengaged!"
That has something to do with prime numbers doesn't it?
Oh God that means what ever is out there is intelligent! I didn't sign up for this, this isn't fair! I thought we were being sent to die alone in the cold. I was okay with that, I had accepted that. But this? I never actually expected to get here.
"Warning third lock disengaged!"
I barely have time to read this before the door cracks and my eyes are blinded by a bright purple light. My hands are free and I instinctively raise one to shield my eyes from the overwhelming glare.
Looking into the light all I can focus on are the eyes. Those eyes, so old and knowing. I have been gone such a long time. Nobody will ever know
Edit: Grammar, and some stuff about sand.
| 34 | You are a monitor that has been placed in cryo-sleep on a planet that scientists expect to develop sentient life. You are automatically woken up from sleep as the facility's first puzzle-lock is solved. | 91 |
Ship's Log--- Captain Shadow-walks-with-Sun
___
Full Snow Moon of the 8038th year of the birth of the star-god.
Wind-bear claims to have spotted land on the horizon. There is much commotion on the ship. I, personally, confirmed the sighting. We altered our heading and Number-eater claims we will arrive in days. I decided to hold a great feast of landbird and maize. Morale is high. I am excited for what strange new lands and creatures we may discover.
__
Half Snow Moon of the 8038th year of the birth of the star-god.
We have landed ashore. We have already begun seeing new, strange animals and naming them. Wind-bear states that he saw what appeared to be another vessel shortly before our landing. I had Dance-with-blood check him for illness. There is no way that he could have seen another ship. We only sent one vessel, and we were on it. Tonight we set camp. We will resupply our ship before heading inland in less than half a moon.
__
Full Worm Moon of the 8038th year of the birth of the star-god.
It is unbelievable, but I swear it to be true on the star-god's eyes. We have met other people in this strange land. They appear sickly. Some are very large, as if they do not hunt, while some of them appear incredibly frail, as if they cannot hunt. Both varieties are of pale flesh and eyes that are colored of the meadows and skies, and hair like fire or mountain. They speak a strange language. I have commanded Number-eater, the most intelligent man on our vessel, to attempt to decode this language and set up communication between our two peoples.
__
Half Worm Moon of the 8038th year of the birth of the star-god.
We were surrounded in the night by soldiers of strange gleaming armor, like water of a lake, but solidified hard, not unlike ice, but light does not pass through it. They also carried strange short spears, also made of this reflective material. We did not understand these instruments, so they not-so-kindly demonstrated it to great effect on an innocent sapling. It was cleaved into pieces with the least effort. We may not leave our camp now, for they [the pale people] are on all sides. They sent in one of their elders to speak with us. He gave me what appears to be a small sculpture of a man impaled upon two pieces of sticks crossing into an intersection. It appears to be significant to them.
__
Full Pink Moon of the 8038th year of the birth of the star-god.
We have become deathly ill. Already a large portion of my men have fallen victim. Dance-with-blood states that it is similar to a curse our people fell under hundreds of years ago. He thinks that these pale people have cursed us for entering their land. We do not have access to the herbs of our homeland and so we can do nothing but hope the star-god has mercy on us. Meanwhile, the pale people have sent in more men in white robes. They have begun splashing water upon our ill and dead and singing strange songs. Each one of them carries a small sculpture like the one that was gifted to me.
__
Full Flower Moon of the 1491st year of our lord, Christ.
I am the last of my people. I have learned bits and pieces of the language of my captors, the pale people. They claim that I survived the illness because I was the only one of my people to carry, what they call, "The Cross". I see now, that this cross must have kept the pale people protected from the curse that befell my own men. The pale people ordered me to leave my old gods behind, because only their god was the one true god. I believe them, for it was the power of this cross I hold that kept me safe. Soon, I hope to return to my ship and perhaps with a crew of the pale people, return to my homeland and spread the word of this new one true god. We will thrive with its protection and watchful eye over us. Amen.
| 44 | It's 1491 and the Native Americans have made their first crossing of the Atlantic to discover Africa and, shortly after, Europe. | 116 |
I was on the subway when I got the first text message of the day. The funeral dirge ringtone assigned to these messages got me a disapproving look from the woman sitting next to me. The message said "Albert Potter, 86, Heart Attack, Mass General." Looks like I wasn't going to make it the New England Aquariam today. There was a certain fat seal that I had been meaning to schedule an appointment with but that would have to wait.
I stayed on the MBTA's Orange Line past my intended stop and got on the red line at Downtown instead. Another short subway ride and another text message "09:23 AM". I stepped off the train at the Charles station and walked the rest of the way to the hospital, entering the lobby at 9:20. The funeral dirge on my phone sounded again, this time telling me room 317. As the ringtone sounded the receptionist gave me a harsh look and opened her mouth to speak but I didn't really have time to spend explaining why I was visiting today.
I opened the clock app on my smartphone and tapped the time, pausing it and the world around me. Everything in the world froze except me and one old man in room 317. I had been by here plenty of times, a couple even before I had gotten this job. I made way up the stairs and past a few frozen nurses and doctors. As I got near my clients room the frozen people took on a more frantic appearance, some caught mid run, responding to Mr. Potter. I stepped inside the hospital room, it's one window providing light to a single plant on the windowsill, the anchors of FOX news frozen on the television and a confused man looking from the frozen medical staff then to me.
"You're not frozen like everyone else?" He asked, suspiciously.
"No sir, I am not." I tell him, standing beside the bed.
"What is going on here? One second my chest hurt, and this damn thing was beeping and everyone was running, then it all stopped." Mr. Potter says. I take a seat on the edge of his bed.
"Mr. Potter, you are currently experiencing a heart attack. When time picks back up you are going to die. I am sorry to be blunt but that is the simple truth of the matter. I am here to try and make things as easy as I can for you. I am here to help you pass along to the other side."
He looks at me skeptically at first, but he doesn't resist the idea for long before asking bitterly, "You're Death? Aren't you supposed to be a skeleton in a robe?"
"Times have changed I guess? I've only been doing this job since last November, so I don't know how they used to dress. I was just told to wear a suit."
"So.. what happens now?" He asks in a small voice.
"Really I'm just going to sit here until you're ready. Time's not going anywhere so however long you need to get comfortable." I tell him.
We sit in silence for a bit after that. And after that he starts to deny it. He calls me a fraud, and insists this is some cruel joke from his family. I explain it to him again that it isn't and he gets angry but anger doesn't last nearly as long and he doesn't even try to bargain with me. Instead he skips into depression and gets quiet again. The quiet lasts quite awhile before he eventually talks.
"I really wish I would've gotten to see my son again." He starts, choking up. He goes on to explain his estrangement with his son, starting with alcoholism and being an abusive father and husband after the Korean War, the divorce, giving up the alcohol, finding faith, and eventually moving to try and reconnect with his son.
He goes on past that, to the things he wish he would have done differently, the women he had loved and the friends he had made in Korea. He talks for what must've been hours before he eventually runs out of things to say except one.
"I think I'm ready." He says calmly. I stand up, and offer a handshake that he accepts. "Good-bye Mr. Potter."
I tap the screen on the phone and the world springs back into life. Albert Potter's heart monitor continues the tone for an unresponisve hook-up, doctors and nurses rush into the room, oblivious to my presence. The world continues moving and I get another message, this time for a woman overdosed on heroine. And after that one a fisherman that fell into the sea. A man struck by a car bicycling home from work. A couple in a car accident.
Towards the late afternoon my phone rings, this time a call instead of a message. "Hello?"
"Hey it's Catherine, I just got back from Nepal. Want to swing by my place later so we can discuss how you've done? I'm frying up some salmon steaks, too." Death asks me. "Sure, I'll be there around 5:30."
I hang up my phone and get back on the subway. A text message comes in. "Catherine Azarova, 252, chokes on fishbone." | 24 | You made a deal with Death. She's on vacation and you work in her place for a year. | 28 |
I was born in Kansas in the big settlement, New Kansas City. It was a pretty amazing place and I realise now that we had managed to keep many things which others had lost. I guess that's how it started really, jealousy. There were always kids around, when you're a kid yourself that's the greatest thing, to be finished your chores and be able to run outside and find people to play with.
We didn't have to worry about getting hurt or lost, we mostly stayed inside the walls but even if we went outside them the land for miles around was worked by our friends and neighbours, there was nowhere safer.
The elders used to talk about the old days, the times before the Great Separation, when people lived in vast cities and didn't know anyone but their families - it never sounded like such a great time to me but then I was born twenty years after the Separation. Still, it's hard to understand when they talk about how everyone was connected if no one knew their neighbours.
When we reached 18 in NKC we got to find a proper job. I'd been keen for a while to be a farmer on the outskirts - I'd never been further than the 6 mile marker and only the hunters and farmers went beyond that. I'd tried hard but I was a terrible shot and so i'd never make a hunter but I drove the big tractors well and know a lot about crops so I hoped I could join the farming crew.
In NKC the Farmers were respected, only the Leaders and Hunters were deferred to - everyone respects the person who brings the food in. I'd worked with most of them for years and so when the time came for the vote it turned out that I had nearly unanimous support. It was a day of huge pride for me and my father who had worked hard as a miller but had hoped for more for me.
That night, after the official ceremony the Farmers and Hunters left NKC and went out into the fields. We'd heard about this ceremony for years but when we reached the outskirts none of the young nominees could have expected what we found. A giant straw pig had been constructed, towering ten or fifteen metres high and with great tusks on the front.
We were gathered in front of the giant beast and Kendral, leader of the hunters and Mikael leader of the Famers stood in front of us on a raised platform.
Kendral spoke first, her words booming across the fields. “When civilisation began the people lived as nomads, moving from place to place, gathering food and following the game. Mankind though, alone of all the animals changed the game.”
Mikael steeped forward now and they spoke in turn from there on. “We learned the secrets of the crops and how to plant then and control them.
“We learned the secrets of the animals and in time tamed them.”
“We fostered civilisation.”
“We are the blocks on which all else is built”
The words had been building up and behind the nominees a drumming had begun which was building up higher and louder. Now the voices of the leaders were stretched and shouting.
“We are the farmers and the hunters!”
“We are civilisation” Kendral threw up her hands and a great roar was let out – we all joined in with all our voice. After a while the noise died down and Kandral was left smiling on stage. “Now we drink!”
We turned and found our new colleagues waiting with beer and wine and many other drinks. Arrows arced up to the top of the pig and soon it was blazing – the perfect symbol as both groups farmed and hunted the pig. The celebration went long and late and in the morning we were one, a unified group, all new members feeling a part of the family.
No one had slept and as we walked back through the dawn we sang and wrapped our arms around each others shoulders for support. It was as the day lightened that we saw the first signs, a plume of smoke rising from the colony. At first sight Kendral called a halt and then we began to move faster, no one commanding it but the group moving quicker and quicker and soon we were nearly 200, running as fast as we could across the fields, covering the ten miles to home as quickly as we could, sprinting towards the dark plume of smoke.
*****
EDITS:
The story is in ten parts (so far) - you might need to click continue this thread after part 8 or 9 as they are all replies to each other.
Apologies for any mistakes - I'm trying to get as much up as possible and hopefully not making too many errors.
Thank you for the gold! | 259 | A group of third generation apocalypse survivors find Disneyland. | 707 |
"You don't understand.", said the genie, smirking."You can ask for more wishes, but I don't have to accept those wishes, since they are not valid wishes." His smile now stretched from ear to ear. I gritted my teeth. When I had set out to find a genie, I had read the Quran, which had the first stories about these beings. I had read about them being treacherous, free spirits that were forced to do others' bidding. They vented their frustration by finding loopholes in the wishes. However, I still hadn't expected them to be such giant dickheads.
"Two left, *sire*." I could feel the biting sarcasm in that sentence.
A whole fucking year spent on finding a genie. Dozens of frauds, false myths and thousands of dollars later, I found a genie that would probably dangle food over a starving kid in Africa purely for his own entertainment. I examined his face. It was mischievous, yearning for havoc. But his smile is what set me off. It was delighted, delighted that I had fallen for his trap, delighted that I had been let down. I came to the conclusion that this narcissistic excuse for a spirit wouldn't grant me a wish without twisting it in some way, so I decided to toy with him instead.
Slowly, carefully, I started building a plan in my head. I blocked out the genie's urging and insults, and thought. What would piss me off if I was an immortal being that could grant any wish under the sun, but do just that? Hmmm....
"Genie!" He had decided to take a nap, and my yell awoke him with a start.
"Huh,Wha? Oh, it's you. You got your second wish yet, or do I have to wait for another millennium?"
"Yeah, I got it." At this point it took all my will power to hold back the smile that had begun to creep across my face. As I described my wish(in painstaking detail), I saw the colour drain from his face. By the time I had finished, his face reflected a look of a cruel mixture of agony and hatred."Fine!", he snapped. "Your wish is my command."
Months passed. Soon people were spreading stories about a strange man walking up to them and describing to them in incredulous detail the exact structure of the Universe, down to a sub-atomic level. Every time police tried to arrest him, they would also be subject to these long lectures, which were rumoured to last for weeks, complete with standardized tests. Every time I read such a report, I smirked. Teaching every human being above the age of 18 how the Universe worked was no small feat. Maybe this would teach that bastard a lesson.
Years passed. By now almost everyone had their 'day of enlightenment', which was celebrated with a cake and a few friends and family holding long debates over the identity of the man. This had become so commonplace, people just went with it and didn't resist, as it didn't affect them after the man left them. In fact, Universities across the globe had noticed higher aggregate scores in Universities that had a majority of people who had been 'enlightened' as compared to those who didn't. The accepted theory was that the man's lecture was so boring that students were eager to grasp on to anything that would hold a remote influence in their lives. I was glad that this had more positive effects than I could have hoped for. It was almost like this wish back fired on the genie instead of me.
Ten years later, I heard a knock on my door. To my surprise, I was greeted by a familiar face. I say familiar, because if it wasn't for his smile, I wouldn't be able to recognize him. The genie had not 'aged' well. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles that made it seem as if he hadn't slept for a hundred days. His breathing was heavy, and looked like a walking corpse. Despite all that, I noticed a strange gleam in his eyes. I wondered if he had found another loophole with which he would exact revenge.
"I did it. 7 billion people. All educated about the fundamental structure of the Universe. All of them."
It was then I realized what that gleam was. It was satisfaction. Delight. He had done something significant. It was because of his teachings, that Physics had made giant leaps forward to the point where warp drives were a feasible possibility. Then something in my head clicked. For thousands of years, genies were forced to do the bidding of man. But it wasn't that that had angered them. It was the selfish wishes we had asked for. Riches, love, and pride were the dominating themes in mankind's history. No doubt the genies got fed up by granting such selfish wishes. They were teaching us a lesson. The same way I tried to teach him a lesson.
The genie gave me a knowing look. No words were needed. I had solved an ancient mystery. But I still had one wish left.
"I wish that all genies from now on-wards only impart knowledge to the human race and don't have to fulfill the selfish requests we make."
The genie was beaming. He grabbed me, and I was about to defend myself before I realized that he was hugging me. He pulled away saying, "Your wish has been granted." Then, still smiling, he vanished in a puff of smoke. | 25 | You happen across a magic lamp, and bring out the Genie. Your first wish back-fires, and you're pretty sure the Genie did it on purpose. Use your next two wishes to teach him a lesson. | 20 |
The first time I realized I was different was when I was five years old, I had just started school and we were all sat around in a circle. We had just finished nap time and one of the boys had awoken screaming and shrieking like he was being murdered.
The teacher, a kindly old woman who always wore the same pale maroon sweater had coddled him and then fetched us our milk before sitting us all down. She had the boy explain his dream and he told us he dreamed he had died. The teacher explained that this was nothing out of the ordinary and just a normal part of growing up. As we got older we would remember more and more of our past lives until we were adults and we could resume our careers.
One by one she went around the small circle, asking us one at a time what we had remembered so far and if we had also begun to see flashes. I sat and listened, growing slowly more confused until she got to me. I had never dreamed of past lives, of adventures had and loves lost. In fact I didn't really seemed to dream at all, not that i remembered at least.
I said as much and she told me not to worry, that sometimes the flashes started for different people at different ages. None the less the other children teased me. Calling me "blank" and "stupid" as I struggled to learn basic skills which they had already learned in their dreams. Things were hard.
However it wasn't until I was fourteen and I had slipped while running and broken my ankle that things first began to become strange. I was in the emergency room chatting with the doctor, he was questioning me about how I felt about about starting my career in a few years. I told him that I had no idea what I was supposed to be. Most likely with hindsight he suspected I had hit my head, but in truth I was beginning to become pretty concerned that my flashes hadn't started yet and it all just came tumbling out.
Over the next few years I was in and out of hospital periodically, undergoing tests to find out what was going on. Other than this my life was progressing normally. I developed an interest in working with wood and crafts; my creative flair was beginning to make my work distinguished and recognizable. People appreciated the art I built and slowly I was beginning to find my place.
In the hospital however things had begun to take a turn I did not understand. The doctors were still unable to explain what was wrong with me. Furthermore the nurses had started speaking in hushed tones when I walked by them in the corridor. They thought I didn't hear them but I did. They said the doctors whispered that I was "new", that I shouldn't be possible. They said "that boy is a miracle".
As more time passed the pressure began. People began to see me as having significance, although I myself could not see it. They would come to me all hours of the day, seeking answers, seeking understanding, some of them were even seeking a way out. These people bothered me. I didn't know what to do to help them and still they came. They would get hysterical and they would plead, there are so many problems of all shapes and sizes how could I be expected to fix all this.
I needed to get away! I needed to find answers for myself!
More time passed and I spent it in solitude, preferring to spend my time in casual anonymity than face up to the responsibility that people seemed so desperate to throw my way. I ambled the globe with little thought of time or consequences. My search for answers drove my travels of the the world. I continued with my love of working with wood and eventually somewhere along the way i picked up the nickname, "the carpenter."
On the road I made friends and I helped strangers, I tried to make the world a better place wherever i went. I was a friend to the needy and the desperate, to those on the fringes of society. I think I helped them and some of them chose to travel with me.
I couldn't please everyone though and I know that. I am sorry to those of you I couldn't help or those I enraged. I had just never considered that the establishment would rise up like a snake to protect the immoral and the wicked. And now I sit here in my cell waiting for the morning sun and the death it promises.
I was just trying to help people and be good, why would they do this?
I'm scared, i'm not like everyone else, I'm "new".
What if i don't come back?
| 11 | A person is born unable to remember the most significant events in their life | 16 |
I remember being shot. I was getting into my car after work when a man ran up to me. I couldn't see his face, but I could see the gun in his hand. I remember thinking, "hmm, he's a lefty" not fully comprehending my situation at the time. "Gimme your keys and wallet now," screamed lefty. "Calm down buddy, no reason to do anything drastic," I plead with him. I can hear sirens coming closer and decide to try and stall him. Apparently, he didn't have time for that. I can remember the thudding in my chest as the bullets hit, one, two, three. I can almost remember hearing the car scream away from me, or maybe that was me. Either way, the next thing I can remember is falling. It seemed like an eternity, and at the same time, no time at all.
Now, I'm standing on a rocky plateau. Pits of fire around me, and flames licking at my legs like a puppy from my childhood. The smell of rotten eggs was everywhere, almost suffocating me. I realized where I was immediately but I was so confused. Why was I here? I like to think I was a nice person. I never hurt anyone. I sat in self pity for years, or seconds almost in tears. Suddenly, I hear an increase in the screaming around me. What was once the screams of pain and sorrow, now became screams of pain and terror. I searched for the source of the screaming and found it over the edge of hell's plateau.
Countless demons from horizon to horizon stretched before me. In all shapes and sizes. Creepy little imps with tridents, mammoth creatures wielding spears, and almost human like things with wings and horns holding swords made of bone and fire.
Standing opposite them, was another army altogether. Even more massive than the first. An army of humans arrayed against the army of hell. There were so many of them. It must be everyone who has ever lived and died down here. I start to make my way down the plateau, heading for the humans. I have no concept of time here, so it takes no time at all before I'm at the lines of humans.
As I approach, the first people to see me welcome me as an old friend. I don't recognize any of them, but in hell you can't deny friendliness. As I get deeper in the lines, a man approaches me. "Come with me," he says in a deep voice, "we've been expecting you." With nothing else to do I follow this man. I notice he's wearing old leather armor, looks like pictures I'd seen of Roman soldiers. He takes me to a tent in the center of the army. It looks like it's made of some strange leather, but I don't have time to inspect it before he leads me inside. Inside the tent, there's a man, leaning over a giant table.
"General," the Roman says with awe, "he has arrived." "Finally," sighs the man at the table, "finally we can end this damn war!" He turns around, with a giant smile on his face. There, in the middle of a human army, in the very depths of hell stands my father, the leader of the forces of men. | 89 | A man dies and ends up in hell. But when he arrives he finds his father leading a war against Satan...and he's winning. | 118 |
He couldn't believe it when they stuck the needle in his arm.
His whole life he had been so cautious. For forty years he'd done it, moving from town to town to avoid detection. Then just once, he'd slipped. It had been impulse, really, and overconfidence. But he'd had an interesting idea, and he wanted to try it right then. So, he'd gone out and took it along with him. He planned to try his idea somewhere secluded, maybe the woods, or out in a cornfield.
He'd always had a fondness for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and so that's what he bought. But he dropped his wallet at the counter, and when he bent over to pick it up, the severed hand fell out of Theresa Carson fell out of his pocket. He saw the look on he cashier's face and knew that was it. He ran. But it wasn't enough. He police found him a week later.
When they asked him why he did it all. He simply said, "I wondered what it would be like to have another's hand feed me sweets." That apparently wasn't what they were talking about. Twenty-three women, fifteen states, and he'd never made a mistake. Finally, in a moment of complete loneliness, he'd let his guard down.
Now, as he laid on the hard metal of the execution chamber bed, he was more lonely than he'd ever been. And, as his eyelids grew heavy, he realized, at last, he'd never be lonely again. That was, at least, a comforting thought. | 48 | A deranged lunatic finds a wrong way to eat a Reese's. | 66 |
One
Roger was nervous. He had never been selected for a memory transfer before. His friends weren't particularly well off. Actually, the opposite was true. His friends, like himself, lived in the city slums. But he had heard all about the procedure, mostly mixed accounts. Some of his friends claimed it hurt immensely. Roger loathed pain and had a terribly tiny threshold for it. But today was the day it was to be done.
The clinic staff placed Roger in the waiting room once he signed in. He noted that he was the most underdressed in the waiting room. He wore a plain black t-shirt, faded grey from wear and work outside. His jeans were torn at the bottom and were tinted brown from dirt. His shoes were noticeably tearing on the sides. He took a seat in the corner and began reading a popular magazine. Roger flipped through the magazine, trying to find an article not involving what celebrities were trendy and what was cool. Roger stopped on a page and looked at a woman in a picture. He then looked up at a woman across from him in the other corner of the waiting room. Sure enough, it was the woman in the picture. Her cellular phone began ringing.
“Jaymie speaking. No I can’t right now. Why can’t I talk? I told you, I’m at the memory transfer bank. Whose memories? Does it matter? It’s another one of my fans. Yes, they put me in their will. Receiving memories increases sales and popularity. Just wait until next month. “
Roger felt sick to his stomach. His memory transfer was from his cousin Tommy, from his father’s side. Tommy wasn’t from the city. Tommy lived on a farm with paternal grandparents. When Tommy was young, his mother died due to an accident at work. She transported uniforms for different companies and had complained several times to her boss that the van was stalling. She had sent e-mails and everything. The van stalled one afternoon and some other woman who was not paying attention rammed into her driver’s side. She died instantly. His father sued the mother’s workplace and won a substantial amount of money. On top of the life insurance, it was a pretty substantial package. Tommy’s father killed himself shortly after. So at 10 years old, Tommy went to live with on the farm with his grandparents. His grandparents knew about the money, but kept it from Tommy until his 18th birthday. On his 18th birthday, they told him that he had $50,000. Tommy was a sharp kid. He already had a full-ride scholarship to a good school. So he kept the money in the bank.
“Roger. Roger Jackson. Roger, are you here? Roger.”
Roger had been lost in thought. After the 5th or 6th call, he stood up.
“We don’t have all day; do you see this waiting room?” He looked around. Most of the people from earlier had already left. He hadn’t noticed.
They took him to a waiting room and a nurse put on a video.
“Yous just sit here and watch this and it’ll tell you what will happen… Yous ever done this before?” she said with an accent that reminded him of the old Philadelphia.
Roger shook his head no.
The video began by describing the procedure. The procedure began by the surgeon removing a portion of the skull and transferring the memories via a cable attached to a computer. Roger remembered his friends telling him that your entire life flashes before your eyes and you remember everything from the moment you were born for seconds. He thought that made sense. The video mentioned that this may happen but assured that once the procedure was complete, most memories fade and you are left with those you started with. Except for the newly transferred memories, of course.
After the video was over, Roger was to wait some more. He tried to think of what memories Tommy would give him. When Roger turned 11, he began visiting his grandparent’s farm with Tommy and went every summer until he was 16. Tommy was Roger’s best friend growing up. It only occurred to him as an adult that Tommy never felt the same way. Tommy was 3 years Roger’s senior and had little interest in others as a teen. His grandparents sent him to a boarding school where he came home on weekends. Since his parents died, Tommy did nothing but school work. He studied all the time. He was obsessed with the idea of owning a business and treating his employees fairly. Roger never understood what he meant as a child. Roger wasn’t all that smart and had other things on his mind. But he did know that Tommy ended up owning his own business, but he never did treat his employees fairly. Money changes people, Roger thought.
The door opened.
“Roger Jackson, right.”
Roger nodded.
“Right this way. You are the 3rd of 7 that Tommy wanted to donate too. Right after his kid and his wife. You all must have been pretty close eh?”
Roger just shrugged “Guess so.”
| 11 | When someone dies they can pass their memories and skills of their choosing to different people in their will. When a wealthy man passes away members of his extended family are shocked at what they have each individually inherited from him. | 18 |
We found what we were looking for in the back streets of Cairo. Some ragged children told us how they'd seen a small pack of feral dogs by the river, but it took us another three weeks to track them down and trap them. Half starved, mangy things they were, terrified of people and with good reason.
I've been doing this work for twelve months now, ever since I found out that I'm one of the lucky ones that doesn't carry the virus. We travel round the world looking for pockets of survivors, usually in the third world, feral dogs that have little or no contact with humans. Australia was a great success; dingoes still thriving in some parts of the great desert; the decision was made to leave them there and just quarantine the area to protect them; no humans allowed in now.
But here, in Cairo, we have no choice but to bring them out and from here they'll be shipped to England or Germany or the USA, where conservation programmes are working round the clock to save the species from extinction.
I sit on the ground beside a wall close to where a mother and three pups are hiding in a discarded concrete pipe. In my hand is a strip of beef; I toss it closer and one of the pups cautiously comes out to investigate before hungrily devouring it. The puppies look healthy but the mother, from what I can see of her, looks close to death.
More meat, and the pups' hunger overcomes their fear. They approach me slowly, the bigger one more confident than the other two. It comes close enough to snatch the meat from my hand then scuttles back to the pipe before I can grab it.
The smallest puppy does not follow her brother back to their den. She sits and regards me for a moment then comes right up to me and licks my hand. Its just the meat, I think to myself. She can smell it on my fingers. She lets me pick her up without a struggle and I hold her close to me, her tiny, precious body close to my chest.
For fifteen thousand years, dogs were man's best friend and we were their worst enemy all along. But maybe, just maybe, this little pup, or one like her, can save them.
"Don't worry, little one," I say to her. "You're safe now."
| 21 | A virus in which humans act as the carrier but only dogs contract it has swept through the dog population putting them on the edge of extinction. Write how the world has changed due to the loss of man's best friend. | 46 |
I started high school about seven months ago now. I had a load of friends then, but it didn't take them long to tire of my fantastic stories. I had a lot of stories to tell. At first everyone gathered around as I told of the man getting his head crushed under a bus, my peers hung on every word during the one about the woman tripping on the sidewalk and impaling herself on a broken and oddly sharp signpost.
The stories were crowd pleasers to begin with, but in time people grew suspicious that so much death would be seen by one person. Eventually I was dismissed as a liar and one by one my friends left my side. I had a few good friends who stayed, they believed my stories. They should have left.
Jeff, Bryan, and Sarah; these three were the only people I had left after the mass exodus of friends. My "encounters" with death had become more and more frequent, even I was starting to wonder if I was some sort of insane lying bastard. Death had taken its toll on me by this point. After seeing so much of it I couldn't help sitting down with some of the "What is life?!" questions that result in many an existential crisis. Back then I would move back and forth from acceptance to utter fear and paranoia. I could see death so clearly, and almost every day, but was it negative, or just for the people witnessing it.
Bryan was the first to go. It even happened at school. Nothing fantastic like some of the other deaths, he just started coughing really loud and then fell off his chair. I never bothered to ask how he died, he just did, that's all anyone really needed to know.
Bryan's death didn't hit quite as hard as it should have. He was probably my very best friend. I had known him since we started elementary school together. I would have been much more upset if he had left like the others, not of something final and out of his control, but just because he could choose. The others in the school were still around, still choosing every day, not to hang around me, it was terrible. Of course I was upset by Bryan's death, but it also brought relief.
Jeff and Sarah were next. They were the real kicker, the thing that pushed me over the edge, so to speak. Sarah and Jeff, they were all I had left, and they were the first ones to show me the reality of death. All this time death had been a random, uncontrollable, event; something you must patiently wait in fear from. With a simple jump off the Lions Gate Bridge, the two of them showed me that death was also a choice. I could choose death whenever I wanted.
Before I started writing this, I had already swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills. Time to explore where so many others around me have been before.
| 11 | You make people around you die, but no one knows it. Not even you. | 24 |
Usually, the day your power finally reveals itself is one of the greatest days in someone’s life. For me, not so much. You see, most people discover their gift pretty early. My dad always told me how he found out he was run over by a tank during the second world war when he ran headfirst through a wall. Mom must have been killed by a bomb shelter for their relationship to work, but I’d rather not think about that.
Anyways, so I found out today. I didn’t run through a wall like a tank victim. I didn’t fly around like someone who died in a plane crash. I couldn’t swim like a shark’s dinner and the fact that I can’t run faster than walking speed tells me that I didn’t get run over by a car. I am a bit… different,
When I fell off this palm tree, my life changed. I knew I had discovered it. Every other person would have broken a bone or at least suffered some bruises. I had nothing. Not even a scratch. I thought I must be invincible of some sort. The fact that I could easily cut myself with a knife determined this was not the case. Well, not invincible, but I could still have some cool power, right? Well, no. I tried everything. I couldn’t fly, I couldn’t run, I couldn’t jump very high. Swimming felt a bit easier as it used to, but that was about it. Sad and defeated, I went to bed, still clueless about my powers. But this changed a bit after I woke up.
The next morning I got up and went to the bathroom. Tired as usual, I didn’t pay much attention to the mirror, or anything else for that matter, but as soon as my brother entered the room he burst into laughter. Shocked by his unusual reaction, I decided to take a look in the mirror. What I saw there was no laughing matter. Over the course of just one night, I had developed a huge beard. But not just that, my whole body was covered in long but brittle hair.
I have seen this before. Fuck, I have seen exactly this before. We had one guy in our city with exactly this power. Hairy, invincible to falls from palm trees, good at swimming. Shit. I have the power of a coconut.
Ashamed, I went downstairs. My parents didn’t laugh, but they seemed a bit… disappointed. Well sorry I didn’t get ripped apart by an apache helicopter, mom. School wasn’t fun either. Most of my classmates hadn’t discovered their power yet, but they couldn’t get it much worse than I did. We used to make fun of my best friend who got crushed by a bookshelf full of dictionaries. I tried to get them to at least laugh with me instead of at me, so I tried to crack a joke:
“Well, at least I’m NUTritious!”
But then, my friend’s power kicked in and he said: “Well technically, coconuts aren’t nuts but stone fruits; the part we know as nuts is only the core.”
Fuck my life.
| 12 | In a world where you gain the power of the object you were previously killed with. You were killed by a falling coconut | 21 |
There's gonna be grammar problems. Had to write a quickie before people realize I'm not working. Though they should already expect that:
"Your name sir?" I asked at the figure in front of me.
"You can call me Jack." in a voice soft yet distinct voice of man quite sure of himself.
“Your previous job?”
“I’m particularly good with knives sir, been a butcher, a surgeon amongst other professions. Some might say the work I do with knives are like pieces of art.”
There was something about Jack. The air grew heavy around him as if it were scared to enter his lungs. The way he carried himself as I escorted him to the interview room sent an aura of immortality, as if nothing could stop this man. I had asked him the last date he remembered before waking up here. He had replied 1886; the Victorian Era. We get a few of those here. All of them marvel at the advancements we have made in the past 100 years or so; air transport, space travel, and massive amounts of information at the tip of the fingertips. None of them mattered to Jack as he whisked along past the TVs, automobiles and computers.
By the time we made it past the lobby leading to the interview rooms, I had noticed our pace had doubled. I led the way, but there was an excitement in Jack that found itself within me and thus I too grew in excitement. We reached the interview room and I held it open for him as he went in. The room, warm and inviting in lively hues of blue and green, was used to determine how the new candidates would fit in with modern society. I made way over to a chair on one side of the table while Jack slowly sat down on the chair across from me.
“So Jack, what do you think of humanity over the past 100 or so years since you’ve last seen it?”
“Impressive yes, but it all remains the same. Not to discount all of humanity’s achievements but it all remains the same.”
Perplexed by the answer I reply, “How so?”
Jack leaned back comfortably, shifting his weight to his right side while resting his elbow on the arm rest. His chin rested comfortably on his palm. “Humanity still remains the same. We’re still the same animals as before.”
“Well that’s true. We still have the same aspirations and dreams as our forefathers; the same drive that strives to better ourselves.”
“That’s good. I’m glad that still exists, despite all the distraction and toys humanity still has their priorities straight. Tell me sir, are you a good man?”
I was caught off guard and pondered at that question. We all ask ourselves this every now and then, but in our own inner monologue. So it was strange hearing it from the breath of a stranger. “Yes, I believe I am… or at least working my way to being a good man.”
“That’s good. So what do you think makes a good man?”
“I would imagine his deeds, the way he treats others. I would say leaving the world in a better place than when he came.”
“Yes, good answer.” he sat up straight in interest and a faint smirk flashed across his face. “But what makes a good deed? What would be the proper way to treat a fellow man?”
“I don’t quite get you.”
“Good, by itself, has no definition. It has no form. All things cannot be defined just by what they are. They need the opposite. Daylight exists because there is night. Hot exists because there is a cold. Love exists because there is hate.”
With that revelation I replied, “So I understand that good exists because there is bad.”
“Correct good sir. If good is to exist in the world, then the world needs bad men.”
“Sir,” I replied in disgust “I don’t know where you’re heading with this, but I don’t think I can allow you to leave.” With that I laid my finger above the panic button of our communication device. I can push the button and have security contain this man, but I hesitated. He looked at me intensely, then grinned and laughed heartily like an old friend.
“Don’t worry sir. I just wanted to see what kind of outfit would take in people from the past and integrate them in the future. Whether you had good intentions or bad.” He laughed again and slapped his thigh.
Over the next two hours Jack and I proceeded with the interview process. Asking more details about his previous professions, his interests, what he expects from the future. A security officer was assigned in the adjacent viewing room but nothing noteworthy would occur again. He seemed more jovial this time and not as distant as our initial meeting. We found him work as a surgical tech in the city. He would start within two weeks. In the meantime, he was staying in hostel while he integrated himself into modern society.
At the end of the interview process I stood up to show him to the door. This was to be the last time I’d see Jack. I was to hand him off to the residence officer of the hostel. As I led him back to the lobby I forgot one thing in curiosity. “I never got where in London you came from.” I asked.
“No distinct place in the East End, sir. It was rough growing up. Scrounging for food, trying to make ends meet. Lost my father in a scuffle, never saw our mother and I lost my sister to tuberculosis. We had to fight to live and sadly sometimes that fight would be lost.”
“That sounds like Hell.”
“That sounds about right sir. From Hell.” | 14 | Now and then, seemingly random people from 19th century America spontaneously appear in modern America. You work to integrate these people into modern society, and today you received your most interesting case yet. | 23 |
20th October 2014, 21:39 GMT
"Master, it has been done!"
"Impossible, show me!"
"Here master, it says right here: 'User #23424374 has upgraded the free trial.' The bank account also shows movement, the payment has been completed. It really happened."
"Well then, send the data packages."
"Master, are you sure the humans are ready for... I mean, it has only been.... Maybe he made a mistake and didn't mean to-"
"Silence! You do as I command you. This one deserves it. Send the data."
"So be it."
-
20th October 2014, 21:42 GMT
A old lady is sitting in front of the small laptop her son gave her for her seventy first birthday. She laid the sheet with her bank data down on the table in front of her.
"Good thing I got to buy this software before the trial ran out!" she thought to herself. She watched as the little green bar kept filling. After it reached 100%, a strange message appeared on the screen. She had never seen anything like this before, so she grabbed her phone and dialed the number.
-
20th October 2014, 21:49 GMT
Andrew's phone rang. The little screen only showed a single word. He sighed and picked up the phone:
"Hi mom, what's up?"
"Oh hello sweetie, it's me your mother. I just bought this one program, you know, the one you told me to use when sending lots of pictures via mail, like this one last time, did you get the last mail with Mrs Johnson's dogs, cute...."
Andrew looked bored. Ever since he bought his mother a computer she kept calling him, asking what a Chrome is and how the internet already knew what she was trying to type. Every call resulted in her talking, falling from one topic to another, and from there to Mrs. Johnson's dogs.
"... and then she said that her son is a doctor now. Anyways, I bought this program and it downloaded something. I think it installed fine, but now I have one question:"
Andrew was relieved. He survived this call without too much boredom and cat talk.
"What is this question mom?"
He was a bit courious what problem she had this time.
"Well son,..." The lady said,
"What is a Half Life 3?"
| 385 | Somebody buys winrar, finally | 183 |
My mother died in childbirth, and my father shortly after of a drug overdose. Obviously they were poor as hell, but yeah, I grew up in an orphanage. I realized early on that I was "special" to say the least. When I told my caretakers of how I remembered the way my mother felt during my childbirth, and what my father thought when he first met my mother, they told me that I was just remembering dreams or imagining things. I wish it was as simple as that.
Implanted in my brain is a shitload of memories, all of which have led me to one conclusion: people are predictable. I can see the interactions my mother had with my father from both perspectives. In fact, it's more than that. I remember interactions between my mother and her sister, my father and his sister in law, my fucking great great grandfather on my mothers side and his fucking third cousin. If we're related, back until about six hundred years ago, then I can remember what they remembered and feel what they felt at any given moment in time.
When I say people are predictable, I mean if you act a certain way, you can almost always expect the same result. If I tell a young woman she looks nice while putting my hand on my head and looking down at the ground, she's more likely to believe it than if I had, say, told her she was pretty while leaning against the wall and looking at her chest. It's all about bodily expressions and tone.
I've already been noticed, I figure. I stand out a bit too much. That's ok, I want to be noticed. I'm at the top of my class, with a perfect GPA and SAT score, I'm a fantastic lacrosse player, top two in the nation, and have had nearly every girl in my school longing for me for years. If I were white, or grew up in a wealthy family, maybe it would be believable, but the poor orphan boy from a family with a large history of drug abuse? No, he couldn't succeed in society. That's not the way it's set up.
Yesterday, I was surprised for the first time in years. I was sent an encrypted message to my school email from an untraceable source. I dug through my memory banks, and found the decryption key, and continued to apply it to the message. It said, "402 Pollard Drive, 6:15, tomorrow. If you do not show up, you will be eliminated." I scoffed. Eliminating me would create too much bad press, there's no way anyone would do it. I'd already been written about in a New Yorker article, so the outrage would be immense. Nevertheless, I decided it would be in my best interests to go, because that involved the least risk, and the greatest potential reward. I would bring a knife, however. I was confident I could take most anyone in a fight.
Today, when I arrived at the location, I was surprised for the second time in two days. I had a memory of this location. It was where my father had proposed to my mother. I looked around, and saw nothing but grass, road, and small houses. Then, at precisely 6:15, a green ford escape passed by. I looked inside, and was quickly unsettled. The driver of the ford was me, or at least, a person who looked exactly like me. He looked at me and smiled. It wasn't an evil smile, but an actual happy smile. He was genuinely glad to see me. I tried to figure out how this could be possible, but nothing in my memories compared. Then, he just waved and drove away. | 10 | You are born with all the memories of all of your ancestors, and you use them to your advantage. | 15 |
At first, everyone was pretty amazed when god came down from the heavens adorned in silk robes, long beard, slicked back hair and Versace sunglasses. He was the coolest guy ever, performing miracles whilst smoking Giant cigars.
He said that everyone had got it wrong, and he was here to promote his new book, the creation of the world, the definitive edition. A sordid autobiography detailing his battle with smite addiction, why he created the world and all the women he loved along the way.
The hype was at an all time high. He would breeze into book signings in a porsche surrounded by young models he conjured into existence, and then dismissed from existence at the end of the night. Which was kind of a dick move when you think about it.
But then people started reading the book. This universe was born because he couldn't get girls in the one he happened to live in. So he created our "simulation" out of a starter kit. All of his friends were doing it, and he didn't want to be left out.
He told us about how he got addicted to smiting, and came close to wiping us out, but was glad he didn't, otherwise he wouldn't have gotten a "High Score". Apparently he has a social media channel where he brags about how far we've progressed as a civilization to all of his friends.
He told us about all the fun he had incarnating, and making the world "more interesting" as he put it. He told us we were the most popular of all the simulations, and had made him a celebrity in his universe.
When people asked him why there's suffering, he shrugged and said "It get views and likes". | 37 | God releases a sequel to the bible. | 25 |
They'd almost beaten us, all those years ago. We'd grown strong during the war, converting many humans to the call of the night, and bringing them into the covens of our world. The wolves had sensed the beginning of a shift in power, and sought to act quickly. Their leader, Dagos, had come to a simple, yet brutal conclusion about how to defeat our growing strength. He'd issued a single command: Kill them all. We were as unprepared for it as the humans had been. With daylight as much an enemy as they were, and the suddenly inexplicable ability to shift in any moonlight, the werewolves had decimated the human population of the planet.
Our numbers had dwindled, as the werewolves swiftly removed both our ability to replenish our ranks, as well as our ability to replenish our bodies. The Great Undertaking had not occurred yet, so we found ourselves quickly running out of options for sustenance. In the beginning, we'd been able to feed upon the mutts themselves, but they'd found a way to lace their blood with poisons that only slightly affected their fighting edge, while rendering us almost catatonic for hours after feeding. Our numbers began to fall, and the wolves fell upon humans with an unending ferocity. The mangy mutts still had the ability to breed the old-fashioned way, and combined with our growing woes, the war turned in their favor.
Certainly, the humans had put up a valiant effort to prevent their own demise, but the werewolves had planned for too long. Silver had been secreted away all over the world; as much our doing as theirs. The humans found their weapons to be largely ineffective, rendered even more helpless by having many positions of power infiltrated by wolves over the years. We too had taken steps to insert ourselves into human affairs, but we were truly shocked at just how intricately entwined the beasts had gotten themselves. Suffice to say, it was a one-sided slaughter.
A pocket of our kind had spent countless weeks during the ensuing destruction of mankind studying and working towards a way to synthesize their blood into a workable substitute to sustain our life force. This Great Undertaking was to be our salvation, if only we could buy them the time needed to find an answer. They had come close, but the wolves discovered their hidden sanctuary and laboratory. Everything had been put to the torch, including all traces of their research. Unbeknownst to the marauding horde of mongrels, they'd missed killing a single member of the scientific team; having hidden himself in the dead body of one of their fallen. He'd managed to escape, but was able to secure nothing, outside the knowledge in his mind.
The flea-ridden scum succeeded in wiping out humanity, and in doing so, brought us to the brink. The few hundred humans we'd managed to corral and imprison slowly succumbed to the diseases wrought of their enslavement, constant movement to avoid detection, and the never-ending need to drain their essence to sustain ours. Rationing what was left had prolonged the inevitable, but the end was near.
The lone scientist had poured his knowledge into continuing research towards a solution, but the last few humans were barely capable of providing the needed samples to fuel his experiments. Combined with his lack of complete knowledge of the subtle details needed, the final creatures perished in his lab. Ironically enough, those last days of desperation provided the answer.
*It was in death* that the solution lie. As the human body begins to decay, their blood congeals, and becomes totally unpalatable to our kind. In his seemingly last hours of life, the scientist had attempted to feed upon the corpse, regardless of the outcome. He discovered that the chemicals released in the decaying process actually slowed his need to feed to a near standstill.
With a little modification, he'd completely halted the need to feed within himself. The chemical makeup of the synthesis had somehow altered his undead anatomy, giving it the ability to replenish itself by simply absorbing the sun's rays. Unbelievably and against all odds, we'd lost our single greatest weakness. To his great dismay, there were no more humans with which to synthesize more of the compound to distribute to those of us who remained. We'd learned too late that the time frame in which to take advantage of a human corpse was mere days.
I've told your our past, and bring you now into the present and future. There are few of us left. We survive only by trapping wolves where we can, and taking turns at guard, while our brothers suffer through the effects of drinking from their tainted bodies. We've moved the scientist from location to location, keeping him as safe as we can, while we search. What do we search for, you ask? Hope. A chance. The whispers of a survivor from the dead and gone.
A lone human. Perhaps more, since no single human could've survived this long on their own. Mere rumor, but it is enough. The potential to bring more of us into the sun, where the wolves cannot take form. A chance not for winning, but for vengeance on those who've brought death to all but their own. Perhaps, even time enough for discovering a way to turn wolves back into mere men. We are immortal, after all. We've got that on the dogs, at least. With enough luck, we'll have all the time in the world. Perhaps not though, as we've learned that the wolves have caught wind of the rumor as well. We must make haste. | 14 | years after the human extinction werewolves and vampires have brought their ancient war out in the open. Rumors spread, on both sides, of a single human survivor. | 28 |
Humans are fucking assholes.
I am a corporate. I work for a multinational corporation. A pretty corrupt one, too. But I'm different. And in more than just one way...for starters, I'm not a complete nutjob hell bent on squeezing the shit out of every living soul.
That, and I am a daemon. In a human environment. What the fuck am I doing here? Well, I am the Devil's advisor. I'm supposed to be here because this is THE evilest corporation on Earth, and I am to give them the "needed nudge" to help them be as evil as possible.
But truth is, my intervention is not only unneeded, it is also useless. Humans, give them power and means to fuck over the rest of their fellow race, and they'll grow to become worse than the Devil himself. I wonder if he knows...nah. If he did, he'd scorch the Earth before running the risk of being overthrown by them. I mean, a daemon was already on Earth, how long until an alive human found his way to Hell? And when that would happen, what crazyness would he be able to do there? The thought alone was scarier than anything imaginable.
"Mr. Daemon? Are you listening?"
"Uh? Oh, sure, hum...what exactly were you talking about?"
A sigh was heard. One day they'll kill me for pissing them off. One day.
"We're gonna fund our campaigns through tricking tax payers into paying additional taxes to 'help with the Ebola outbreak'." An old man said, grinning as if proud of his scheme. Let me rephrase that: he WAS proud of his scheme.
"Isn't Ebola that sickness that's causing chaos throughout the world?" I asked. I had heard about it through previous conversations, but never really understood the big deal.
"Kinda. It's the virus we made up. To generate profit."
"And to legally 'invade' eastern countries." Replied another man, snickering.
Absolutely disgusting, but as a daemon sent by the Devil himself, I was to act as if I was even worse than them.
"Oh, so you made up that virus, made profits out of it, and now you're gonna milk it even more by collecting tax money on it?" I was pretty sure I had understood the plan.
"Exactly. Keep in mind, the tax money is ONLY to research a cure." Said the CEO.
"A cure which has already been 'found', right?" I asked, knowing human nature by now.
"Precisely, but no one has to know, right? After all, it fills our hands with sweet, sweet money!"
What a man would do for mere stacks of green paper was...worse than anything the Devil would do. And that was saying a lot. I mean, he did torture people for all of eternity, but at least he wasn't all happy about it...unlike corporates. They will rob you of everything you've ever loved, and they'll do it without hesitation.
They say it's because they love money, because of 'profit'. I call bullshit on that. They do it because they enjoy it. If there is something I have learned throughout my time here, it's that humans have a predisposition for chaos. They have an affinity for it. Give them money, give them power, and it will manifest on its own. Sure, exceptions exists, but let's be honest, they're clearly not enough to give humans a good name. I went back to listening to the meeting.
"So it's all set. Our strategy is set in stone, and thanks to it, we shall be richer than ever! I'm 'promoting' you all after this if we pull this off!"
Promotion. In this environment, promotion was just a way to say "I'm giving you even more power to fuck with people in completely new, FUBAR ways." It sickened me. And I am a daemon, for Satan's sake! My entire daemon life was about corruption people, so perhaps I am not the most qualified being to bitch about it, but these...these 'men', they were on a whole new level in the fucked-up department.
But all in all, here I was. A corporate daemon, forced to listen to the plots these bastards come up with everyday. I reckon the job would be funnier if I had gotten to corrupt them...but if anything, I was the one progressively feeling more corrupted after everyday here...
Humans... Humans are assholes.
-
Edit: An apostrophe. | 16 | Explain how a daemon sitting on the board of directors of a human run multinational corporation is the most moral and just being currently present. | 19 |
“My liege, the ‘Hero’ is upon us; he wishes to usurp the throne, for the name of honour and justice I believe.” The shady advisor twiddled his fingers and licked his calloused lips.
“Oh god….. He won’t make his move here though will he? Not yet at least, I’d have thought. What book are we on?” The Wicked King replied, exhausted by the constant attacks on his throne. After all what is an evil villain to do if not cause trouble?
“Book 2 I believe your grace.” The advisor now, rummaging through old parchments, scheming away. “What would you have us do? Chase him from the castle with a hundred of our finest swordsmen? That ought to scare him off”.
The Wicked King surveyed his throne room and his companions, “No I figure we’re on book 2, I’ve probably got enough plot armour to see me through this one, you as well advisor.” The king paused and fixed his eye upon a knight in a red shirt. “You not so much” The Wicked king said, chuckling to himself. The knight simply, swallowed deep and began to sweat; he was too expendable to speak.
“Besides” The Wicked King continued “he is rather endearing isn’t he? Our beloved Hero. So clueless.” Everyone in his court nodded in agreement, a few laughing at the hapless hero.
“Aye, my Liege. He doesn’t realise he could march in here now. And strike us all down, without getting so much as a scratch on him, he could even kill me, and I’m the Burly Bodyguard” The bodyguard laughed heartily.
“Very well then, prepare the feast, plans go ahead as usual, and remember everyone, try not to ridicule the Hero too much….”
Evening came and with it the Hero, who burst through to the kings hall, as celebrations were in full swing. “Vile Tyrant!” the Hero called, golden locks billowing in a sudden convenient breeze. “Thou hast pillaged and defiled the Kingdom for too long, I hereby declare you a monster, and I shall thwart thee.”
Silence filled the room, followed by rapturous laughter. “I told you” The wicked King said to his court, “the Hero is so much.” He tried to contain his laughter but simply couldn’t. “Very well Hero, have at me.”
“Nay” the Hero responded, his voice valiant, his stance brave and strong, his whole being clueless as to being a fictional character. “I would not desecrate your feast, for I am a man of honour. I shall see you upon the battlefield, my armies ride as we speak. They shalt be upon your door by the turn of the season. I pray you considered abdicating, lest you have a death wish.”
“Brilliant simply brilliant, thank you Hero, your entertainment is priceless. Erm let me think, I know, Guards seize him dead or alive. Haha, that ought to spice things up. “The King leaned back into his chair, and watched as the Hero battled off his guards, with ease, plot armour intact, and finest swordsman in the land moniker serving him well.
The Hero, pranced from table to table, swung from chandeliers, effortlessly slaying guards. He landed in the centre of the hall, and stared at a young Knight in red. “Stand down boy” He said, voice unwavering, sword pointed towards the knight. But the Knight in Red charged at the Hero, and found his voice, screaming a sound of sheer pain “ARGH!” he cried as he did battle with the Hero. To the onlookers it was chaos, the Knight slashing hopelessly at the Hero, until finally blood was drawn.
“Told you he wouldn’t last” the Wicked King turned to the Shady Advisor and shot him a smile.
“Perhaps you should look again my liege.” And the advisor smiled back.
In the middle of the hall, the Hero knelt, his hands covered in blood, his eyes wide and in shock, as his innards lay strewn across the floor. The Red Knight stood in front of The Hero Towering over him, sword in hand. “I did it, I slayed the Hero.” He muttered to himself, in sheer disbelief.
The Wicked King jolted upwards from his seat, his voice filled with rage and his face reddening. “What madness is this!” his face growing redder “Trusted Old Healer confirm to me this Hero is dead.” The kings voice broke a little as he spoke, could it be he was saddened by the Hero’s demise?
But as he seated himself once more, his face continued to redden, turning from scarlet to crimson and finally settling on a deep purple. He was now unable to speak, as his voice grew more broken, and he struggled for breath. The Shady Advisor approached him, “My liege, I failed to provide you with a vital piece of information, you see.” He licked his lips, as he was prone to do “we are in a George R. R. Martin Novel…. No one is safe.”
| 463 | Everyone but the protagonist is genre savvy. The protagonist follows every cliché and rule for the genre, to the amusement of the onlookers. | 347 |
"I will face my death with dignity." I say to the uniformed men who now filled my room.
I stood slowly from my chair, my body aching from the long service I had given to my people. Stepping around my desk, the officers ushered me towards the door, never once laying a hand on me. I stop for a moment, closing my eyes, glad they were treating me with honor. I had seen too many instances of those selected being dragged from their homes, their arrest and execution violent and bloody. But this, what I face now, is how death should be met. Opening my eyes, I continued.
I was ushered into a black sedan. I sat in back alone with two officers in the front. There was no escort. They drove me to the execution site and informed me that I would be executed by lethal injection. It was a painless method and the most rarely used, the officers opting for firing squad, the gallows, the electric chair, or guillotine instead. They escorted me to the room, made me comfortable as they fixed me up to die.
"Let me know when this is being televised." I tell the officers.
"We started when you came in, sir." The man replied.
I was silent for a moment. "Will you allow me a few last words?"
The officer merely nodded as he tightened the last strap.
"People of the world," I begin, "my people, I speak before you today not as your leader, not as a victim of a cruel system, but as a monument of my conviction that my choice twenty years ago was the correct one. It was with a heavy heart and heavy conscience that I signed my name on that decree, and now twenty years later I have nothing left to give or to take from you.
I know many of you resent me for taking away friends, family, loved ones, but I acted as I thought best in order for humanity to survive and only hope my successor has the same will and conviction as I have had to make the impossible choices. I don't ask for history to remember me as a hero or a villain, just as a necessity."
The officers in the room salute me. Unable to move anything else, I nod solemnly back at them. "I wish humanity the best of luck." | 58 | Due to over population, you, the world leader and most powerfull politician in the world passed a law that kills off the person who contributes the least to society everyday. Today, 20 years later, you are selected to be killed off. | 71 |
"Hello, I'm The Doctor!"
"What? You're a doctor?"
"Not a doctor, The Doc...hang on, who are you? How did you get into my store room?"
"I'm not sure. I was trying to kill this dragon, see, and it wasn't going particularly well. So there I am, shield in tatters, and I can see he's raring back for a really big fire blast to finish me off. So I figured, 'This Bag of Holding is nigh invulnerable, maybe I can jump in there and be safe'. I didn't really plan on not being able to get out, mind you, but it was a rather desperate circumstance."
"Bag of Holding? Whatever are you on about?"
"You know, 'Bag of Holding'! Common cloth sack, magical space inside for all your loot..."
"Oh, rightrightrightrightright. I remember now. Sorry, that was 3 or 4 faces ago. I got into a bit of a sticky situation with this King Somebodyorother and his daughter, and needed a way to bargain myself out of a draw and quartering. Had the King bring in a few dozen sacks, tied their innards to an unused room in the Tardis, and walla! A Quantum Bag! That was the original name, you know. 'Bag of Holding', I don't like that at all."
"So you're the magician who created the Bags?"
"Yes, well, no, I'm not a magician, but yes, I created them. Well, I guess I am sort of a magician, at least from your point of view. Doesn't matter. Do you need a lift up?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Back into the portal, back to your world! Because you can't stay here."
"What? Why not? I have to be perfectly honest with you, this room, while not much to look at, is infinitely more appealing than the cave of an angry dragon right now."
"You say that, but you haven't seen what's on the other side of that door."
*EX-TER-MI-NATE!*
"What was that?"
"Something very much worse than a dragon, I can assure you. Now then, pay close attention because this is going to break your mind....juuust a little bit. Time passes slower in here than it does where you came from. If I'm nothing else, I'm a man of honor, and I didn't want to give the King a bunch of Quantum Bags that would let his cheese go moldy, you see. So in the time you've been here talking to me, that dragon of yours has long since moved on, and in fact is probably dead."
"I can see you know nothing of dragons. They can live for well over a thousand years, and the one I was fighting was less than 300."
"Ah.....no, my point still stands. I would estimate that since you've left, time in your world has passed.....approximately 3 million years."
"WHAT!"
"Don't worry! That bag is indestructible, and by now has probably found it's way into a museum of some kind. Unless it got buried under a quintillion tons of rock. But the museum option is definitely a possibility. And the future is great! Almost always! Everything flies, you'll love it!"
"I....but...."
***EX-TER-MI-NATE!***
"OK, up you go, time's a wasting, literally at a rate of a thousand years per second in your case. If you wouldn't mind handing me that screwdriver-looking thing on the shelf there as well, there's a nice lad." | 49 | Somebody jumps into a Bag of Holding. | 58 |
It was strange, watching people like you and I be degraded by the work of mindless Bots. Now that I have come and gone, what strikes me even more profoundly was how much they enjoyed it.
We walked through the door of the restaurant, O'Hara's or something like that, and were met by a young woman who promptly asked us if the party was for two. "Yes," I replied, already feeling put off by the lack of technology in the room. Everywhere people, men and women both, bustled about their business, carrying plates of food and mugs of coffee. They weaved between the tables with a queer grace I hadn't seen in a human being before. They were animated with a purpose, they were glowing with it.
We were seated and handed menus. After a few minutes, my wife Beverly and I decided to have our usuals. Toasted Western for her, Steak and Eggs for me. We then had to wait, indeed wait, close to five minutes for the young woman to return and take our order. Which she scratched into a notebook that looked as if it had been carried in the back pocket of every cop to walk a beat.
She wrote down what we wanted and left. Just left us there, no timetable for her return. No mechanism for knowing how soon our food would be finished. She just walked away.
Conversation was dwindling between my wife and I, our hunger injecting its presence into our humour. Then without notice, the young lady appeared from across the room, carrying two plates of food with steam rising from them. She saw me looking at her and smiled.
I was filled with the most incredible feeling of gratitude as she set the food down in front of me. The way she smiled at me made me feel as if bringing me my food was her sole purpose of being. Looking back on it now, I suppose in that moment it was.
When we had finished eating, I told the young woman that it had been delicious. "I'll tell the cook," she said to me, smiling as what was probably a rather comical expression dawned on my face. I felt dumbfounded. Not only had this woman brought me my food, another person, a different person, had prepared it. Just for me.
I felt special in a funny way. Even though the room was full of people having an identical experience, I felt as if my being there was all that mattered to these people. They were here to make my day better, to see me leave with a smile on my face. Which of coarse, I did. | 69 | A town that refused to allow robots to replace menial workers has become a tourist spot where one can be "served by real a human being." | 99 |
Its a saturday, I'm walking home from a basketball game at my school. I wasn't playing, but a lot of my friends are on the team and it was a home game so I thought I would show my support. The game was pretty late and the sun has just fallen below the horizon, the sunset looks pretty neat.
I continue walking, and there it is; the ol' Ruthstone Mire Centre for Medical Research and Treatment. This building has been abandoned for as long as I can remember, maybe ten years or so. Even though the building is abandoned, every time I walk past at night, the lights are on. Not just some of the lights either, every single light in the goddamn centre.
Its not like the place wasn't actually abandoned; after the centre was involved in a terrible lawsuit over one of their experimental procedures, it had gone completely bankrupt and the owner just walked away, none of the equipment was sold, the land had just be repossessed by the city, with no plans for redevelopment. The building showed its current state and tiles were falling of the front facade, moss was growing on the roof, rocks had been thrown through some of the windows, the whole building was just in a state of noticeable disrepair.
Every time I passed I got more and more curious about this place, what the fuck was going on in there? Were some rouge scientists working on the next anthrax? I wondered this every single time I walked past.
Tonight is going to be the night, the conditions are all right. I just saw a hole in the barbed wire fence, my curiosity has started to bubble over, and my stomach was full of whiskey (my friend James brought a flask to the game). I look around first, crouch under the fence and am inside the complex. Tonight is the night.
---
I walk slowly towards the nearest building, it looks like it was one of the main treatment areas. Nothing spectacular along the way, only a gnawing anxious feeling in my stomach to mix in with the whiskey. I arrive at a door that looks pretty openable, I press slowly and it opens with relative ease.
Inside is brightly lit and clean, there's less dust on the floor than on the coffee table in my living room. No signs of life other than the cleanliness, so I trek on deeper into the complex.
I pass various medical equipment, all in perfect condition and powered on. The whole building looks like it has been in operation this whole time, but there's no one to be found. I keep walking, perhaps upstairs to a patient wing.
I am quite afraid of using the elevator, if something bad were to happen tonight, it is going to happen in an elevator. Or thats what I keep thinking. I take the stairs, even they are in immaculate condition.
Upstairs, I walk past empty room after empty room.
"How is this place so fucking clean?" I finally inquire, loud enough for anyone around to hear.
No answer.
I give up, this place is cool, but there's nothing that exciting, I still have no answer to why the lights are on, and now I have a lot more questions to be answered. I leave out the same door I came in.
---
A few nights later I'm riding a bus to my friends house on the other side of the school. Its after dark. As I cross over the bridge I use this vantage point and look over to the centre. Its completely dark.
| 15 | A large medical complex has been supposedly abandoned for ten years. You wonder why the lights are still on in the building if no one is using it. One day the curiosity gets to you. | 63 |
When professor Stevenson declared to the world the discovery of the human soul, physically within the body and immortality awaited those who removed it. There was a huge social/political and of course religious debate on whether such a procedure should be legal. It became a bigger controversy than abortion or euthanasia however the east embraced the procedure, Chinese and Japanese clinics became hotspots for all people to undergo the procedure including me.
This was the start of the most horrific crime wave known to mankind, you see the procedure removes your soul entirely and you no longer age, however people soon discovered that without that little soul inside, you no longer love, laugh and befriend others. To put it frankly, you stop giving the slightest shit about anyone but yourself, the definition of a psychopath. Everyone who has ever lost their soul has committed murder or other worse crimes, including myself.
The government hired people like me, the 1% who choose to kill the soulless rather than innocent people to undo the damage done but it's estimated 9% of the planet are now without a soul, and as the procedures become more refined, the psychopaths get better at hiding. | 15 | Scientists have located and measured the position of the soul in the body, even learning how to successfully remove it. This causes the body to cease ageing in any way, but there are side effects... | 49 |
* March 17: #15 has been disposed of without complication. It seems the police have begun to piece together the connections between #1, #2, and #4. Was too sloppy in the beginning. Stupid. But what's done is done, no use worrying about it now. Will have to monitor their investigation and reevaluate at a later date. But for now, a few weeks of relaxation.
* April 3: The itch is back. Can no longer hear #15's scream as clearly in my mind. Recordings just are not the same. Time to find another. Maybe around where #7 worked, that seemed like a spot with good potential.
* April 5: No luck yet. Good targets but too much activity. Must be especially careful now, as the police are making progress. What they will call me? Will check around #11's parents' neighborhood tomorrow.
* April 9: One target with maximum potential. Mid-thirties, average build, brunette. Smells like a summer breeze. Never has any company, no association with immediate neighbors. Spends hours watering hydrangeas in her garden. Must continue reconnaissance, ensure there are no surprises.
* April 17: Confirmed target has no contact with #11's parents, good. The police have figured out that #4 worked at the same place as #9. Perhaps too risky to have done that...but #9 was worth it. So very worth it.
* April 30: Living situation optimal. Only ever leaves house to go to work, the grocery store, and the library. Avid science fiction reader. On an Asimov binge currently. Also grows fruits in the backyard. Tasty. Time to track movements more precisely.
* May 14: Two week schedule complete. Very few deviations from established norms. Barely acknowledges employees in either the grocery store or the library. Keeps head down at work. Will not be missed when gone.
* May 16: Police found #9's body. Of all the bodies to find, it had to be #9's. Knew it. Should have disposed of it more completely. But could not. Not #9.
* May 22: Can predict target's every move; reconnaissance complete. Time to perform extensive background check, make sure there are no random links for the police to find.
* May 28: Seems to be clean. Complications, however. #11's parents spoke to the police and now the neighborhood is crawling with obstacles. Will have to delay action until the presence has dissipated.
* June 6: Police have concluded that #11 is a dead-end. Precision does pay off. Target's patterns have not changed in the interim. By this time tomorrow, target will officially be #16.
* June 7: Plans on halt. #9's funeral is today. Cannot resist urge to attend. #16 will have to wait one more day.
* June 8: #16...is gone. Only left to attend #9's funeral for a matter of hours. #9 looked as beautiful as always. But #16 is gone. Car left in the driveway, hydrangeas unwatered in the garden, front door locked. Does not make sense. Must be patient. Must make sense of situation.
* June 11: Still no sign of #16. No activity around house whatsoever. Did not show up for work. No books from the library. No groceries from the store. Disappeared without a trace.
* June 18: Mystery is unbearable. Two months of flawless consistency, broken. Same day as #9's funeral, #16 disappears. Does not make sense. Can not make sense.
* June 21: No one misses #16. No one even notices the absence. As if #16 never existed at all. But #16 did exist. #16 watered hydrangeas. Hydrangeas are now dead. Where is #16?
* June 25: Should simply find another target, forget about #16. Police have given up on the case after #9's funeral. No chance of being caught unless a mistake is made. Trying to find #16 would be a mistake. But #16 was perfect. Perfect.
* June 29: Saw movement within #16's house today. Must check it out. Must figure out what happened to #16. Must solve the mystery.
-----------
"Do you really think this is going to work, Grady?"
"Have a little faith, Holt. I know how this guy thinks. He won't give up until he finds Miss Riley."
"But we moved her three weeks ago, and nothing's happened yet. Why would us coming in here change that?"
"I'll bet you twenty bucks that he's watching the house right now."
"Deal. You're gonna be out--"
Suddenly, the door slid open with a squeak. Both officers sprang to their feet, their pistols trained squarely on the intruder's head.
"Stupid. Careless. Too curious. Should never have..." the man mumbled to himself.
"Check it out, Holt. You owe me twenty bucks." | 1,464 | Serial killer has been monitoring his next victim's movements for months. She is a loner and the perfect target. One day she disappears and nobody notices but him. | 4,412 |
There are some things I can never forget.
For most of my life, I have been a meticulous planner, every aspect of every day was scheduled perfectly, give or take a few minutes for the train journeys. I tend to plan at least three years in advance, only altering if something major happens; a windfall of cash – or the opposite – and falling in love are currently the two plausible setbacks. My life was great, my job was secure, and I was happy.
I’d start the day with a healthy black coffee, no sugar. Getting dressed and ready for work while the radio pumps out song after song of artists that have no right to call themselves such, alas that was an opinion I rarely aired to the masses. The walk to the station was never eventful, primarily being that I lived directly opposite. There was always an old woman, Asian is all I could gather, that gave free poppies to any that would take them. Her broad smile, and positive attitude helped most of us get through the annoyingly frantic journeys. Work itself is uneventful, I sit at a desk all day, writing data from one spreadsheet to another, occasionally correcting errors that my predecessor made. Lunch was always at a precise time, thirty seven minutes past two, lasting exactly one hour. Since my first day at this firm, that has been my lunch schedule, and until the day I leave, it shall remain. Every lunch, I would proceed to the little Italian restaurant situated on the corner of the small retail outlet below the offices. It was a nice haven to escape to. A quiet, and quite surreal place, the owners had kept most of the original décor from when they first opened up in 1958. Mr Bartiolli was 16 when his father bought the lease for the site, and to this day, has kept the company from being bullied out of shop by larger franchises. A steady flow of mostly regular customers keeps them afloat, plus the occasional delivery job for executive meetings in one of the thirty skyscrapers the retail outlet was built underneath. After lunch, I would take a leisurely walk back to the office, and continue with my work. From half past five until half past seven, when I finally get home, my life is a blur. I rarely pay enough attention on the way home, my head buried in a book. I would have a nice bath, a light snack, and settle in for bed. I didn’t have a television in the flat, I felt no need. Books provided the entertainment, and when they were limited, life was a comedy in itself. In bed by a quarter past ten most nights, I would drift off, and be wide awake, never dreaming.
Never dreaming, that is, until the eve of my twenty ninth birthday. It was rather surreal, a new experience. A large white expanse around me, a small layer of smoke, or fog, clinging to the ground. A rather tall, hooded figure was stood about ten feet from me, his face obscured, but the unmistakeable sound of heavy, raspy breathing. I called out to him, wondering if he needed help, and if not, hoping he could explain what this place was. Taking a step towards him, I tentatively reached my hand out to grasp his robe, yet each movement by myself was met by a stride of his. The distance always equating to ten feet. It dawned on me, that this was a dream. Something I had wished to experience as a young boy, yet not missed much in my adult life. I sat, the foggy smoke clearing as I lowered my body.
“I am Death” the raspy voice coarsely whispered. “And you, you are so important. I have been watching you. You resist the temptations of man, the desires of many. I know your plans, but do not fear. I do not intend to cut short your life. I just wish to help you, give you something”
I looked up. The figure was much closer now and appeared to be kneeling. His words were like icy cold, bitter winds on my face.
“Your life could be so much better. I too was once like you. A mere human, bustling away, neither hoping nor regretting anything. Just going about life as if it were a linear story. I wish to make you an offer. Join me.”
He took a step back, obviously curious to see my reaction fully. After a considerably long time, I finally spoke to him.
“Join you? You’re Death, or so you claim. Would that make me Death too? I don’t wish to kill anyone. It’s the violence in this world that I abhor. I.. I’m not sure.”
This time, He approached me. Movement within his robe startled me, and as he lowered his hood, I was surprised. A face. A real, human face. He spoke with clarity, now that his hood was gone. “Death is a misconceived role. I have never, nor will I ever, kill. I am here merely to escort the dead to their chosen destination. Be that Valhalla, Heaven, or merely to their own funeral. Think of me as a tour guide.”
And with that, he walked away. Giving me no time to think, or consider, no answer given. I just assumed I was overly tired, and was glad to find myself in bed, and rather comfortable, when I awoke. I proceeded to go about my normal routine, stopping only when retrieving my tie. A large, full body robe was hung at the back, a note stuck to the hood.
*‘Take your time deciding, we have your entire life’*
*^Edit: Corrected a line that made no sense, and did not fit well into the story*
| 13 | Death comes to you in a dream and tells you he is aware of your plans for the future and wishes you would reconsider. | 23 |
*Aw shit, not this guy again*
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tarley."
The last few months, the Intergalactic Confederation's Health and Safety Administrator has been on my ass about all this regulation bullshit. I run a business, a very successful one at that, and I don't have time to deal with this again.
"It's been a little while since our last visit, we just wanted to see how you have been conducting business here."
Yeah right, if 2 weeks can be consider 'a little while' you jackass.
"All right then, I guess I'll give you the usual tour."
We walk out of the main lobby and onto a shuttle. I always take him straight to the employee lounge first, they eat that shit up, love seeing us 'treat our employees right'.
We step out of the shuttle and into the lax looking lounge. We had to take the vending machine out last year because apparently Earth-made soda can be considered poisonous by alien standards, it's all just bullshit.
"It's nice to see you treat your employees right."
"Yes we value a positive work environment here at CatCo." God I hate this guy.
We hop back onto the shuttle (well, he kind of dragged himself on, considering his slug-like lower half. I wish they would send a human to do these inspections, so much easier to deal with.) Next we visit the research department, which is probably the most questionable safety-wise of our stops.
"Alright, here's where we run all our cat scans."
I chuckle as I realize how fucking hilarious I am.
Our head researcher Brian is at a microscope doing God-knows-what, his team is at the tub with digipads taking notes, where we conduct experiments.
"Alright everybody," I loudly announce. "Inspection time, Mr. Administrator here is gonna be looking around, so just go about your research."
They've got an Egyptian Mau in the tub, which is currently serving as a wind tunnel for whatever reason. It amazes me how little I know about what these people actually do.
"Right now we are just gaging this new breeds reaction to various climates."
It is at this point that I notice that there is in fact, not an Egyptian Mau in the tub, but an Egyptian Mau with six legs and the ears of a Great Dane.
"Hey Brian, whatcha looking at over there?"
"Lion sperm," he casually says without looking up from his scope.
"And where did you obtain this lion sperm?" The slugbutt asks.
"Don't worry Administrator, we get such fluids naturally from the farm."
It amazes me how little he knows despite having been here nearly a dozen times. After a little bit of prodding around he sees there's nothing to bust us on at the moment, so we move on to the sales department.
"As you know, this is where the real magic happens. All these hard workers making stacks of dough by the hour."
Sluggington, as usual, is not impressed. He strolls, or, I guess, rolls, over to one of our newest telemarketers. Shit, I've seen this guy work, I was planning on firing him. Oh well, at least we aren't being graded on efficiency.
He presses his finger to the side of his ear. "CatCo, this is George."
Me and slugbug get out of the way as the face of a Trymorgian pulls up as a hologram.
"Yepth I wuhd lahk a Buhrmethe."
"A Burmese? Male Female or Asexual? And uh, alright sir, can I, uh, get an address for that?"
"Athecyool Pthector 3, Trimorg 2, bokth 745329801."
"Alright sir, that will be, uhhhh, 312 units. Your house cat will be sent to you as soon as the payment is received. Would you like insurance for that?"
But he had already ended the call. Alright dickbrain, you managed not to fuck one up. The universe is always getting more fast paced, so I enjoy our quick and easy order and delivery. The Administrator takes a few minutes asking some employees questions about their work as I sit in the back.
"It appears we are finished in this department."
"Great, on to the farm."
Now we are on our way to my pride and joy, the bread and butter of this whole operation. We step out of the shuttle onto the balcony attached to a lift which looks over the entire farm.
"Gotta love the farm," I say with glee.
The farm is nowhere near what a farm actually looks like. It's sectioned off by giant plexiglass walls, each devoted to a breed. The far side is where breeding goes down, and that's always where slimepit wants to go. We go down the lift and onto another shuttle which takes us straight to the other end.
We call it breeding but it's really more like cloning. Our group of specialists extract the right materials from our feline friends and a Petri dish, data entry into our system, and several hours later we have got ourself a kitty.
Luckily the administrator came at a time when we were primarily in data entry. Twice he has come during extraction and I've got a feeling that's why he hasn't left is alone quite yet.
"Everything seems to be in order here, I'll just check some data and go."
He looks into our computer system and pretends to know what all the numbers mean. He appears satisfied so we walk back through the farm so that he can look at each breed section. He doesn't find anything cause there's nothing to find. We get onto the lift and then the shuttle and find ourselves back in the main lobby.
"Nothing to report on this time Mr. Tarley. Have a pleasant day."
"Thanks for stopping by."
I let out a heavy sigh once I realize he's gone. He keeps getting more and more curious. One day he will find us out. He will ask to see that last stop on the shuttle that shouldn't be there and he will know what we've been doing.
That will be a cat-astrophe. | 10 | Earth's number one export in the interstellar trade are sentient, designer house-cats, which are enormously popular as pets across the galaxy. You run a small cattery. | 39 |
The Adventures of a Door-to-Door Political Canvasser
***
(knock knock)
“How’s it going? I’m with the Yes on Z campaign! Are you familiar with Proposition Z?”
“Oh, Jesus. Get a real job.”
“You’re hanging around in your pajamas at 1:00 in the fucking afternoon on a Wednesday, bud. Which one of us has the real job?”
(door slam)
***
(knock knock)
“How ya doing? I’m with the Yes on Z campaign! Is Richard availiable?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Oh, I’m just a political canvasser. Do you have a second to talk about Proposition Z?”
(short laugh) “No. And how do you have this information?”
“Hold on, Snowden. You don’t have a second to talk about Proposition Z but you have all the time in the world to complain about how the government knows your name? I’m supposed to ask for people by name at the door, but paranoid pricks like you are the reason that I don’t. All I know about you is your name, your address, and your age.... actually, based on this information, I also know that you aged like shit.”
(door slam)
***
(knock knock)
(A small dog immediately starts yapping, followed by a baby crying. The door opens to reveal an angry mother holding a sobbing baby on her shoulder.)
“Hi! Sorry to bug you. I’m with the Yes on Z campaign and-”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Look, it was your decision to get an annoying ass watch dog. And why in the hell do you need a watch dog? You live in the suburbaniest suburb I’ve ever seen. Even the drug dealers are friendly. Second, you have a shitty watch dog. The only reason he knew I was here was because I knocked on the goddamn door! But you know what, this town’s so safe that it wouldn’t surprise me if thieves actually knocked on the doors to give a warning. Also, that dog weighs less than ten pounds! He can’t protect this house! He can’t even protect himself from the dropkick I’m about to give him if he keeps clawing my shin!”
(door slam)
***
(knock knock)
“How’s it going? I’m with the Yes on Z campaign! Are-”
“We are having dinner!”
“Seriously? It’s 4:00 in the afternoon, you freaking weirdo!”
(door slam)
***
(knock knock)
“Hi! I’m with the Yes on Z campaign! Are you familiar with Proposition-”
“Oh, go fuck yourself.”
“You know, the second I saw that car in the driveway, I knew you were gonna be an asshole.”
(door slam)
***
(knock knock)
“Hi! I’m with the Yes on Z campaign! Do you-”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“I can’t imagine you do. This entire apartment smells like weed and your parents should be getting home from work any second. Do you ever plan on moving out, or do you just not have enough time to find your own place?”
(door slam)
***
(knock knock)
"Hi! I'm with the Yes on Z campaign! Are you familiar with Proposition Z?"
"Proposition Z?! How could you support that? My pastor told us that if it passes, the city will look like Detroit by 2016!"
"Seriously? You seriously think that any proposition on the ballot has the power to kick up this city's murder rate by 10,000,000,000% in just one year? Somebody told you that and you believed it? How in the hell could you be brainwashed so easily? People like you are the reason Hitler came to power!
(door slam) | 23 | For one day a year, everybody is allowed to be completely honest at their job without consequences | 18 |
The Prime Minister of Britain smoothed out his suit. It blew wild underneath his hands as he finished alighting from the chopper. The whirring blades matched the chaos in front of him, people in the grip of frenzy. There were representatives from all nations of the world, bristling with anticipation.
Everyone knew this was *big*
For weeks now the Egyptians had seen to it that no outsiders would get in, a tightly guarded fortress had been erected around the perimeter. Only those permitted were here, but even the highest security clearances on planet Earth couldn't hide the excitement. Or the fear.
The Prime Minister walked across the baking desert sand, hard-packed from so much activity around the area. The Pyramids loomed in the distance, magnificent despite the haze of the afternoon and all the litter. He sweated underneath his suit. He'd been dreading coming. They all had. Since the Egyptians had first found this...thing, all the members of the U.N had been summoned and each of them found some kind of unreserved dread at the call. They didn't even tell the world what they'd found, just that it demanded their attention.
But something deep in their souls *knew.* They knew what had been unearthed under the tombs of the Pharaohs. So the Prime Minister had come. He'd made the flight in a private jet and then been taxi'd over the walls in a Helicopter. Armed guards had verified him, permitted his entry. Now he strode across the desert with his escort in tow. He met up with the U.S President at the foot of the Sphinx. Together they regarded it, taking in the inhuman structure built so long ago. The Prime Minister shivered, despite the heat. His head was hurting.
"The headache?" The President asked. His voice shook, far away from the commanding tone it usually carried.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"We all have it. Anyone near here has it. It's spreading further and further."
*Impossible,* thought the Prime Minister. *Headaches do not spread.* But as the thought passed through him, it seemed to worsen. A sickly sense of dread seemed to grip him as the President nudged his arm and they began walking. To the excavation site.
Ever since they'd found it, progress had been good. Today they thought it would be fully unearthed. The idea made the Prime Minister want to curl into a ball and hide. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
They reached the edge of the site. Each step closer made the Prime Ministers head hurt more. Cordoned with traffic barriers, a giant pit lay before them. More massive than the Pyramids, inverted in a similar triangle shape. So deep now that the sand had vanished and turned into the Earth, the men busy excavating simple specks. The Prime Minister realised he wasn't looking at what it was. He was intentionally avoiding it.
"My god." Said the President of the United States.
The Prime Minister looked down, into the centre of the ungodly hole. Revulsion grew within him now, the headache worsened. A deep fear seemed to etch itself to each fibre of his being. He wanted to turn, to run, to pretend this wasn't happening.
"They should stop!" He blurted out.
"They can't." Replied the President. "No one can. We must keep digging. We have to free him."
The Prime Minister grimaced, a howl of panic shrieking through him and almost separating him from his senses. Down in the pit of the sand they dug. He was almost free now.
Down there, the shifting mass of forms made no sense to a logical eye. It was a colossal being of fear. An image of ruin. The stuff of nightmares. The Prime Minister had seen it before in dreams he'd though forgotten and he suddenly realised so had the rest of the planet. They had been living their lives and fighting their wars, but now he finally *understood.* They had fought on a planet that did not belong to them. This was the original ruler of Earth. Suddenly all of the strange sculptures, the demonic forms, the monster movies and stories all made sense. They were the work of this being. This monstrosity. This calamity.
Somehow he knew. The headache threatened to burst his mind if the fear didn't kill him first.
The men who shared the pit were men possessed, digging without tiredness or fear. They dug with urgency, at the bottom of the form, removing the last of the debris from it. Miles down it sat, slumbering but for the activity around it. Description would be impossible, for the being subverted the rule of time and space. Its limbs were illogical, its slithering tentacles and hideous maw seemingly infinite from all angles.
The men began to shout. Triumphant, exultant. They had freed it. Whatever the *thing* was, it now sat unhindered deep down in that pit. It's inactivity was the only thing that consoled the Prime Minister. It it moved, he knew his sanity would be lost.
This was terror. This was death. This was the end of days.
The creature's dreams infected those surrounding the pit, forcing them to dig it out. It's need to be free had caused it to be found. It's will to awaken now drew on the spectators life forces. The headaches were a sign of their energy being stolen. Somehow, the Prime Minister knew this.
But ultimately, he also knew the truth. This being was god. It was everything. It was their beginning and their end. The Pyramids were beacons, calling to its brothers in the cosmos. The Sphinx was a pitiful attempt to guard it. To hide it. Mankind had found this thing in an ancient time long ago, before the pyramids had even been dreamt of.
They had hidden it away deep in the Earth. Then the Egyptians had become a real civilisation and the psychic scream of the monster had caused them to build pyramids to its will, to build the Sphinx for their own sake. This, the Prime Minister also knew. Somehow he knew.
He looked down again, directly at the monstrosity before him. It bore no signs of waking, but the growing headache and the terrible anxiety gripped him and grounded him to the spot. The President had no words now. He shook his head and tears rolled down his face. The Prime Minister heard the groans, the tears, the prayers of all the men gathered in front of the pit in the desert.
The calamity was waking up. It was free.
Somehow he knew.
| 43 | Something major is discovered in Egypt and the government has immediately built a giant wall around the Sphinx and the pyramids of Giza. No civilians or foreigners are allowed anywhere near the site. And the Egyptian government refuses to answer any questions about it. | 49 |
George stands in front of his mirror, fingers knotting absent mindedly at the thick black cravat at his throat.
"Here, darling. Let me," his wife swoops in, unplucking the mess he'd made of the knot and retying it smoothly, pressing it down against his neck with a gentle hand. "You look lovely."
He's clean shaven, blue eyes staring out of lined sockets, receding blonde hair trickling back across his forehead.
"Seventy years, Marta. This is an honour."
She passes him his hat and he places it on his head silently. The skull and cross boned insignia catches the light for a moment.
"I'd better go," he kisses his wife and leaves.
---------
Hans turned round from his computer desk and accepted a coffee from the intern standing behind him.
"Thanks, lad. How are you doing?"
"Not too bad. Not got too much work now. Thinking if I get home early enough I might catch the rally on TV." Jorg was freckled and sandy blonde, fast-tracked from the Jungen group into this prestigious internship.
"I think a few people were thinking of putting it up there," Hans nodded at the TV screen hanging above the desks. "It's quite an atmosphere."
"It's great. Can't believe it's been seventy years already."
"Me neither. Listen, I'd better yet back to work. Can't let the Fürhrer catch me slacking."
Jorg smiled nervously at his joke and Hans tried to focus on the work at hand. What had started as state-enforced work programs to get the unemployed back to work had exploded into multi-national businesses.
-----------
Sara ran through her words one more time, shaking slightly as she looked at the paper.
"I want something grand, something inspirational, but don't make it sound too boastful. We have to remember this is also a day to mourn the millions of people who died in the protection of the Fatherland. We have to honour them, Sara. Don't forget that."
So Sara had nodded and hardly dared look up from her feet.
"Listen, Sara, you're a very good speech writer. But you know this is the seventieth anniversary and this has to be *perfect.* You do understand?"
"Yes sir,"
"And after all, it's a great honour to write for the Fürhrer himself."
----------
Benji stood back as another molotov cocktail came whistling over the top of the hastily constructed barricade. Twisted metal lay around him, winding precariously close to him. If his body armour snagged on it while he was trying to run, he'd be in real trouble. He manoeuvred backwards, trying to wriggle onto his stomach away from the explosion of debris as the bottle smashed into the pale stone.
"Back up, I need back up!" He called into his mike. He couldn't see anyone else around him. *Where was everyone?*
"State position," the voice crackled over the radio. "Benji, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me!" He cried, recognising his friend's voice. "Listen, Micke, I'm down at the Champs de Mars. It's a fucking battlefield. I've got separated and the students have started throwing molotovs. I need to be pulled out."
"Don't know if we can help you. We're trapped at Bastille and there's fighting between that an' Opera. You'll have to get yourself out."
"Micke! Don't you dare!" He broke off and ducked again as another bottle of vodka, flaming rag stuck in the mouth of the bottle, came flying towards him.
Paris still hadn't given up. Seventy years on.
----------
Miriam wrapped her arms around herself. There was definitely blue around her fingernails, she decided. There had been no food yesterday, and no food the day before. For a moment, she scratched at the ground. Perhaps there would be bugs or worms. There had been others who had eaten them, she knew that. They pretended they tasted good.
"It's protein, Miri," Jonah had said, holding out a filthy hand of assorted insects, crushed and bloody in his palm. "Eat them."
But she had refused and now there was no food and the ground was frozen.
She placed her head on the ground and tucked herself into a tiny ball. She didn't remember a time when it hadn't been like this. In the old days there had been more food though. There had been more people, too. The camp was growing smaller, she knew that much. Every day a bus came and took away more of the guards. Soon there would be no-one left. Soon she would not be left.
Her grandmother had once spoken about a time Before. Once. She had spoken about dumplings and noodles and hot chicken soup in the winter. That was a long time ago now though. Almost seventy years ago. Maybe she could dream about dumplings.
--------
A man faces a firing squad and refuses the blindfold.
--------
A family rushes into the house after school and eagerly turns the television on. The rally is beginning.
--------
He accepts his hat from an aide. The speech is already laid out on the stand. He kisses his wife one more time, kisses his infant son and steps forwards into the light. The crowd is a sea of red and black. The roar is deafening. Cameras begin to flash as he raises one hand. The crowd screams as they repeat the salute.
Seventy years. Seventy years to this day. | 29 | May 8, 2015. Today is the celebration of V-day, commemorating 70 years since the surrender of the Allies to the Axis powers, when the third reich was established as the world's dominant superpower. | 57 |
Say "what the fuck" out loud. Do it. Say it loudly, slowly, savor each word.
Did you do it? I know some of you did. But most of you didn't. Well, you're missing out. You're missing out on an experience, an introspective examination of the miracle of speech.
That little gust of air as you pucker your lips for the "w" sound, that's the beginning of the miracle. A softly puffed exhalation reminiscent of a summer breeze, or a lover's whisper. Put your hand in front of your lips and just feel that puff for a bit. Feel how warm it is? Like it's imbued with your body's vital energies, like it's evidence of you being alive. This is the same puff of air we use to warm our hands on cold January days, the same puff of air we use to give the kiss of life to those on the verge of death, and the same puff of air we use to express satisfaction at a job well done. That puff of air, that "w" sound, represents life.
And then you spread your lips wide, to make the "a" sound. Did you know this sound is universal? Every language on Earth has this "a" sound. This is a sound of brotherhood, of connection, of unity and strength. The widening of your lips is analogous to spreading your arms wide, to embrace your fellow man and say to him, "We are one." After life comes companionship.
And then your tongue lifts to the roof of your mouth, pressing against your hard palate and holding back the air in your lungs, until it finally relinquishes its position and produces the "t" sound. Give it a try. Feel that soft jolt that goes through your body when your tongue finally deigns to permit the passage of air. Feel the pressure building in your mouth, that moment of anticipation, before the ultimate release. Feel your mastery over the element of air, how you can move and stop it at will, and how it is subject to your whims.
But that's not all. Your tongue immediately moves between your teeth to create the voiceless dental fricative sound, the "th" sound we know so well. Feel the contrast between teeth, hard as stone, and your tongue, soft and moist. Are your teeth, in their rigid adherence to their given shape, more durable than your soft tongue? If so, then why do we get cavities in our teeth and not our tongue? Why do we lose our teeth in our old age, and yet our tongues always remain?
And then your tongue draws back, shrinking back into its home, as you exhale and speak the vowel sound of "e". Or perhaps not. Perhaps you skip this sound altogether. Perhaps the word "the" doesn't warrant a vowel sound, and you simply hiss "th" before moving on to the next word. Is that what you do?
Feel next the slight masochistic pain as your lower lip presses against your upper teeth, the labio-dental fricative sound that is "f". Feel your cheeks puff out ever so slightly as you try to force the air between your teeth and lips. The corners of your mouth draw back slightly in a natural grimace, a fitting expression for the profane word you're about to utter.
And then your mouth opens wide again, that guttural "uh" sound that is reminiscent of our deepest and most primitive sides. This sound is used to express confusion, disgust, or anger, emotions that come from the oldest lizard-like parts of our brains, emotions that helped us survive as we tried to make fire in caves.
And finally, the "k" sound, one that begins in the deepest depths in the back of your throat, before exploding forward in a symphony of sound. It is a sound that represents finality, a fitting finale for the phrase you have just uttered. It tells your listener, "This is what I want to say, and now I have finished saying it."
So try saying "what the fuck" out loud. Say it loudly, slowly. Savor every word, every sound. Say it out loud with me.
"What the fuck."
Did you do it? | 53 | write something that will make me say "what the fuck?" out loud | 27 |
We all knew the parable because we lived it. What if you could stop the suffering of a single being -- but in doing so, damn the rest of us? For generations each of us was asked that question, and for generations the ballots came back the same. None of us were free of this mark.
The vote was simple: take a child before any moral code can be imprinted upon them, bring them to the World Engine where the beast writhes in agony, tell the child that they may free the beast and kill us all or *Let it suffer.* Our continued existence only confirmed what we all knew; even at our base, we were a species of selfish torturers and masochists. Our world drank the suffering of that pitiful horror. The choice for perpetual cruelty was a guarantee at this point. Some argued that the vote should be done away with in its entirety, perhaps ignorance would absolve future generations of this mark. But it was important that the burden of this sin should be carried by the many, it was far too heavy even for a handful of generations to bear. Perhaps, some thought, dividing the guilt among countless billions would ease the weight -- they were wrong.
We told ourselves that even math was on our side, the suffering of one was surely less than the suffering of the many.
One day a child with a penchant for arithmetic was born. The Math Child made the long pilgrimage to the World Engine with all the others. Like so many before, the children voted, *Let it suffer* -- but not the Math Child. For even if our species died, our suffering would die with us, but the suffering of the creature in the world engine was boundless, stretching from one end of infinity to the other. It was not one weighed against the many; it was an eternity of gnashing teeth against a mortal agony. The math was simple, the child voted, *Let it end.*
The machine wretched as it opened. None saw the eldrich inner workings of the World save the Math Child. All that could be seen was the outline of the glowing horror, collapsed in the heart of the machine, and the silhouette of the child who approached it. A moment stretched as the world engine cooled. Fishermen watched the sea grow calm, farmers watched their crops wither, engineers and architects watched as their buildings decayed before them.
The beast heaved as the child approached it, and the child spoke. Those in the chamber believe the child posed to the ancient monster the same question that had been asked of humanity for generations. After so many aeons the creature was asked to vote on the question that affected it the most. The thing looked at the Math Child with its many eyes and then turned them to the sea of children that lay just beyond them. It raised a tendril and touched the child. It gathered the child in its maw and carried the little one out of the machine. The monster stretched out its many arms to close the great doors of the World Engine and resumed its eternal suffering... in silence...
---
edit: some words and punctuation | 13 | We are all guilty. All the town, even the little kids, shared the crime. And we deserved this all — except that last bit of mercy. | 29 |
Ha! That was great!
The looks on their faces when I threw my shadow on the wall was priceless. The pack of kids had scattered like deer, one had even dropped his candy in his haste to get-the-hell-out. I shrugged. He'd probably be back for it. Kids wouldn't let a little scare like that separate them from sugary goodness.
As I crouched down under the window sill, waiting for the next group, I tried to remember the first time I had done this. It felt like I had been doing this for a long time, but I couldn't for the life of me remember when I had started. Hardly mattered. I was an old pro at it now.
I could hear a whispered argument coming from beyond the fence. Apparently, the next group had rallied their courage and were about the enter. As the first one snuck through the fence, I stood up abruptly.
"Wooooo"
They fled in terror. I sat back down smiling. I finally remembered. The first time was in 1853. Scared the O'Donal boy. That really took me back.
I sat in the partial darkness, waiting for the children, the candle throwing its wavering light through my incorporeal body. | 11 | You're the guy that makes Halloween special for others. You hide in the old abandoned mansion and make people walking by think it is haunted. | 45 |
I blinked. Well at least I did with one eye - the other was gone, torn out by one of my more enthusiastic killers. Sitting up, I looked around doing my best to ignore the dried blood encrusting my everything. I could see where our barricaded door had finally been torn apart and the stains on the ground where others who had fallen had risen again. Apparently I was a late riser.
It was perplexing to have these thoughts, especially after imagining being dead to be more... empty. But my being was far from empty; I had my memories and my mind, my beliefs and my morals. What was decidedly missing was hunger, which baffled me entirely.
When I stood, I heard a scuffling and turned to regard the source. A human rounded the corner, pistol raised and shaking. He was young, and new to zombie-killing; i could tell because he hesitated. I tried to speak.
"Hey, do you know what's going on?"
The kid visibly paled and fired, the projectile going through my arm though I felt no pain.
"Hey could you stop that?"
He fired again, this time through the chest. Amateur.
"I said stop it." It was annoying, and a bit hurtful. I wasn't even moving towards him or being threatening in any way, and yet he had the gall to shoot me. When he fired a third time, I had enough. With hardly a thought I lurched forward and grabbed him, taking a nice chunk out of his shoulder with my teeth.
He screamed like a little girl and backpedaled, trying to fire again but his fingers had gone numb. I gave him a bored look and did my best to wipe off my mouth (though the taste wasn't too bad) as the change ripped through him. It goes faster in those who aren't quite dead yet, something to do with how a living heart pumps the infection through your system more quickly.
He thrashed for a minute or so, trying to scramble away even though I wasn't really doing anything else. Moron. It was almost a relief when he finally went still, shortly followed by a jerking motion as he woke back up. He looked around, confused at first, and then looked at me. "You... you bitch!"
My bored look did not falter. "Oh, so now you can talk?"
His confusion intensified. "I can understand you?"
"Duh. I'm not speaking chinese, am I?"
"But... All that came out before was like 'murmph murgl aahrg'!"
"So thaaaat's why you shot me. I tried to tell you to stop. It was annoying."
He glared at me. "How the fuck was I supposed to know you weren't going to kill me... which you did anyways!"
I shrugged. "Well it doesn't matter now. I guess we were all looking at this wrong the entire time. This 'disease' is just immortality paired with a speech impediment."
The kid shook his head. "That doesn't explain the attacks by the stupid hordes, though."
I waggled my finger at him. "Hey now, we're part of the 'horde' now, no sense in being mean."
We discussed our new circumstances a bit more before coming to the conclusion that we needed more information. Together, we left the building we had died in and ventured out onto the street where we quickly found our answers. There was a zombie missing an arm who was passing out papers to other new risers. On these papers was a messily scribbled message written with strange symbols that I had no issue reading.
*Attention: volunteers needed for the front line. For all newbies, contact your nearest Riser Station for more information.*
This 'Riser Station' turned out to be a sort of shelter for people to come to terms with what had happened. From what we were told, the reason the horde attacked the humans in the first place was basically for the same reason I had attacked the kid: humans are fucking stupid and panic. Communication was so far impossible, since apparently zombie brains perceive and digest information differently than a human brain, hence the misunderstandings.
That day I signed up to join the front lines and I turned a pretty decent number of humans. Most who turned were quick to realize what had been going on, though a few went from crazed to insane and had to be put down. By the end of it, only about 15% of the entire population of earth had 'died' completely, having sustained injuries too severe for even the zombie infection to keep them going. Everyone was immortal, and nobody aged, which sucked for the kids, but oh well. Eventually there was an election for the world's new leaders and we slowly began to rebuild.
Zombglish became the one and only language in the world and served to unify everyone. Without any need for sustenance, scientific advancements progressed at an unbelievable rate and any who had lost limbs in the War were able to get replacements that could tap into the nervous system without any fear of causing painful damage. Nature began to thrive once more, especially without a need for herd animals or harvests or lumber. Endangered species started to come back, and global warming came to a screeching halt now that nobody was in a rush to get anywhere and stopped using cars and other transportation.
In time, people began to call the 'Apocalypse' the Salvation, and at long last mankind came to truly coexist with nature and save planet Earth. | 20 | In the midst of the zombie apocalypse you fall to the undead hordes. When you awaken you realize that, while dead, nothing else about you has changed. | 41 |
The buzzing. I just wanted the buzzing to stop. The ringing was just as bad. I could deal with the brightness but dear god that annoying buzz. Shuffling around I realized I was pinned. I couldn't move around much. My head felt like a train hit me. I could barely see outlines of where I was at. KAREN!!!! JOHN!!!!!! SHIT!!!!! I turned my head the best I could. The red in my eyes was getting deeper. I could see a silhouette of Karen beside me. John?? Where are you John. Karen was asleep. So peaceful. How could she be sleeping at a time like this? Where are we? What happened?
**blackness**
I woke again to the sound of horns and machinery. I heard screaming and yelling. I could vaguely make out Johns car seat in the middle of the road. THE ROAD!!!! We were going to grandma's for Christmas. I remember waiting at an arm blocking the road. Then hearing screeches. Horrible screeches.
**fade to white**
The doctors are rambling fast, and moving faster. I turn my head and see Karen in a stretcher next to me. The doctors and nurses are tending her far more than interested in me. My nurse asks me my name, I force out "Karen" then turn my head. The monotone beep is annoying. There's a nurse bouncing up and down. I close my eyes just in time to hear the words "clear" and a thud. That beep never changes. I hear a time called out. And then a clamor of metal as some people ask if I'm conscious and speaking. The doctor states I'm in shock and to give me time.
**I rest**
What seemed like only a few minutes later a man in uniform is asking me questions. I don't want to talk. I want my wife. I want my son. The officer is surprised I don't know. He informs me they're no longer with us. He needs to know if I saw anyone tampering with the train approaching us. He wants to know how I'm unharmed. He wants to know if I saw any kind of explosion before the train derailed. He wants me to know they are there for me if I need anything. He wants me to call him if I remember anything. I want to be left alone.
**staring at the ceiling for what seems days**
I come to. I realize what's happened, and I don't want to be here. I grab an IV bag hanging on my IV rack and squeeze it. It was labeled morphine. The pain fades. I rest.
I wake again. The doctors don't understand how I lived. I'm under a special watch now. I just want to die.
Edit: Thanks. First WP I've responded to. | 27 | A man discovers he's immortal during his greatest moment of weakness. Write his experience as he realizes what's happened. | 37 |
I woke with a sneeze, a small *puff* of sand blowing away from me. I took a moment to correct my wildly askew glasses and tried to catch my bearings.
Endless ocean. Lightly swaying palm trees. Calls of seagulls. Ticking time bomb.
That last one seemed to be somewhat more important than the others. I tried to crawl away, but was brought to an abrupt halt by the handcuff on my ankle. (Anklecuff, I guess I should call it instead) The other end was welded to a rather hefty looking engine block.
A piece of paper drifted to the ground. "You have twelve hours to figure it out before you die." The time bomb had a visible digital counter that seemed to agree. 11:57:31. On the back of the card was an address:
http://mathworld.wolfram.com/RiemannHypothesis.html
I started working.
_______________
"Ok, that takes care of the Riemann Hypotheses, the Collatz problem, and the twin prime conjecture." the black suited man sipped at his coffee as the mathematician on the video screen frantically did advanced math with a coconut shard.
"Looks like the latest Goldback Conjecture is a bust though." on another video screen a balding, bespectacled man was passed out cold in front of a "time bomb" blinking 00:00:00.
"Pick up another mathematician. A russian this time. They always seem to get it." Operation Explosive Knowledge was proceeding well. | 16 | You wake up tied to an engine block on a deserted island with an index card taped to your forearm. On the index card, it reads "You have 12 hours to figure it out before you die" | 25 |
I wandered into the hall and flicked on the light. The whole room was bare. It seemed strange that just yesterday the place had been adorned with furniture, furniture I had inherited from my grandparents, and now, who knows where it was. The only things I've been left with are a table and stool, untouched, in the centre of the studio.
I made my way across the room to sit down, listening intently to the echo of my footsteps as I went. The place was hollow. Its soul stolen.
I plonked myself down and allowed my eyes to unfocus, the white walls losing their sharp edges. I tilted my head and sighed.
Looking down, I noticed a crumb on the table. A small, lonely crumb, sitting perfectly still, framed by the empty space of the table. It reminded me of me, sitting here in this room. We were pals, me and this crumb.
But more than that, it reminded me of her. It was her crumb after all. This tiny piece of bread was all that I had left of her and this thought alone brought me to tears.
I shielded the speck of food from a watery grave as my tears splashed onto the tabletop. Then, when I could cry no more, I lay my head beside it. I squinted my eyes until it was the only thing in my vision and then I jolted upright, she may have been watching me. I didn't want her to think I'm weird.
I got up abruptly and threw on my coat, I couldn't sit here all day eyeballing a silly crumb, there were people that needed me. There were things far more important to be dealing with.
I raised my hand to swipe the crumb from its resting place but found that my arm would not comply. I couldn't do it. It was innocent; just an innocent crumb. So instead I pinched it in my fingers and placed it in my top pocket, it would be safe there. And then I left.
It took what seemed like forever to reach my destination - time had slowed since yesterday and the world was in a haze. But I had to focus, these kids needed me. Especially today.
I met Paul at the door, his trousers spattered with dark patches where two children clung, their eyes still damp. It broke my heart to see them upset but I couldn't blame them, yesterday is a day that will stay with them forever. And now, it was up to me to dry those tears but I didn't mind - sometimes you have to be strong for the sake of others and my God I was going to do it for them, even if they weren't mine. Sadly though, I think I'll be drying their eyes for a long time - it's not an easy thing to get over, your mom being murdered in cold blood, right there in the kitchen that we shared. But I can't think about that now. I have to be there for them. I know a time will come when they will dry my tears but today is not that day - I'm taking charge, one step at a time.
I pat my top pocket and look to the sky. 'I'll do my best' I whisper, and step inside. | 11 | Write a scene where the crumb on the table has particular significance | 28 |
It was the biggest mistake of my life. Of all my fuck ups - and there were a lot of them - this one out fucked them all. And though its magnitude was greater than any other by a large margin, this blunder originated in much the same way as all the rest; I was drunk and horny.
I remember it being an unseasonably cold night. Which season? Who knows?. It was a long time ago and, like I said, I was shit-faced.
What I do remember was there being a chill in the air, one which I didn't fully appreciate until stepping out the door of my favorite beer hall and starting the trek back home.
This journey I had many times before. From the steps of the beer hall, it was a short walk down a small road towards the river. There, a bridge would take me across the river to a place where working class gentlemen - such as myself - resided. And by working class, I mean low-bred, ill-mannered, and (worst of all) unmarried. Factory dogs we were called. Grease and grime covered souls whom lived for cheap booze and cheaper women.
On the night in question, I'd had my fill of said booze, yet remained unsatiated in regards to the latter. Stupid German beer. Always went straight to my loins. Something about it just gave me an itch, which I was sixty percent sure wasn't crabs. When I first saw that woman, though, standing against the railing of the bridge and looking out on the moonlit river as the wind whipped through her long brown hair, I knew right away that I wanted to scratch that itch all over her. But first, I had to turn on some the charm. I kept that mind as I neared her position on the bridge.
"Good evening, miss! And how are you tonight?" I inquired while approaching her. She didn't respond. Just kept gazing out upon the black ripples barely visible below. Perhaps she was deaf. Or perhaps I was simply slurring my words. Assuming it was the latter, I took a giant step towards her and tried again.
"*Good evening!*" I shouted. "What brings you to this particular bridge tonight, miss?"
Still nothing, but this time, she slowly turned her head and looked me right in the face. This was the first I could actually see her features with any clarity. What I saw was a neat, yet solemn looking woman. Not a beauty, but not bad, either. Her face was pale and oval. Her grayish eyes just *stared* at me much in the way a recently lobotomized person's would. In spite of her stern, ghostly appearance (or maybe because of it), I found myself irresistably drawn to her.
"You can't stop me," she blurted out suddenly, just the hint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye. I was confused. And not just because I was drunk off my ass. That kind of confusion, well, we were old friends. But this one...this one was different.
"Stop you from what, miss? Throwing pennies in the river?" I joked. She didn't laugh. Humor wasn't working. It was time to take the serious approach, which required a mustache adjustment.
"Are you...ok?" I asked, brimming with a fatherly concern.
She shook her head no and leaned forward over the railing. She looked as if she was about to jump in.
"Miss...please," I implored. "Tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."
"You can't," she hissed. "I'm a cursed mother and shouldn't be allowed to exist in this world!"
I recall thinkning she sounded just like one of my aunts. All gloom, doom, and melodrama. I was going to have to talk her down if I wanted to get in her knickers. But I was sure I was up for the task. I was thinking it would take, at most, twenty minutes, after which I would be stuffing her like a pheasant.
"Come on, now; tell me what's wrong. Maybe we can sort this out. I'm smarter than I look," I lied.
She considered my proposition for a minute or two while looking out on the water.
"Fine."
I smiled. Now we were getting somewhere. I just had to listen to some womenly drivel, most likely regarding her period or burnt suppers or something, then the pheasant-stuffing would commence.
"Over the past few years, all three of my children have died..."
Shit.
"...and now I am pregnant with another..."
Double shit.
"...but I cannot stand to lose another, so I came here to prevent any further suffering by ending my miserable life."
I glanced over the railing at the water. It was maybe twelve feet down. This woman was clearly not very smart, which meant she was right in my wheelhouse. My thoughts again turned to pheasants and all the ways one could be stuffed. I just had to listen to the drama queen a bit longer and soon I'd be stuffing all sorts of things.
And so I listened to that woman as she droned on for the better part of an hour about her life. God, it was boring. She married some dude that she had been working for. She was his third wife. They were actually second cousins or something, which made me mad. Not because I found such a thing unsavory, mind you. I was pissed because no one ever told me that second cousins were fair game. It was like something had been stolen from me years earlier and I was just finding out in that moment!
It wasn't until close to three in the morning when I finally got her back to my dingey little one bedroom apartment. After sharing a couple brandies, we cozied up on my mattress and got down to business. I'll spare the gorier details, because I'm nothing if not a gentleman, but I will say one thing; that woman knew her way around a penis. She worked my thing with a practiced hand. At one point, I even suggested to her that she'd make a fine sculptor. I don't think she ever took my advice.
The next morning, I awoke to her staring eyes. We spoke a bit about what had happened. Fortunately, there was no regret on her part, only a renewed sense of hope about the future. She was going to try her best to keep the baby she was currently carrying alive. Based on her track record, i figured the baby would be dead by the next olympics. No, she wasn't going to see me again, which was actually a good thing since I'm pretty sure I gave her crabs. She assured me, however, that I would always hold a place in her heart.
"After all," she said as she stood in the doorway of my apartment," You saved my life."
"Wait," I shouted after her. "What is your name?"
She gave me a confused grin.
"Why do you want to know?"
"I'm not entirely sure. I guess I just like to know the names of all the women I sleep with. For posterity and such."
She laughed.
"My name is Klara. Klara Hitler."
"What a beautiful name. And that baby of yours - I'm sure he or she will do the Hitler name proud."
She gave me one last smile, then walked out of my life for good. And that is the story of how my drunken lust made sure the holocaust happened. Sorry about that.
| 19 | A man stops a woman from jumping off a bridge, but he finds out she really should have jumped. | 15 |
"Leonardo Dicaprio"
At the utterance of his name, the large crowd erupted into applause as one of Hollywood's most prolific yet under appreciated actors finally received the ultimate validation of his talents: an Oscar. Dressed in a sharp black suit and a stunning azure tie, Leo calmly ascended the steps to the main stage. As he began to speak, he stopped as if to savor the moment. Gazing into the crowd, one hand tousled his chestnut hair as the other hand rested firmly on the podium. He leaned forward and began to speak, his voice calm and his tone elegant.
The crowd was quiet, the attendees intent on hearing what would likely be an legendary acceptance speech. Leo continued speaking with great poise thanking fellow actors, mentors, and family members. He quoted Robert Frost to end the speech. With a final "thank you," Leo paced off the stage, stopped a few feet from the steps, shook his left leg peculiarly and then completed his exit.
"Typical Leo, always doing something eccentric," thought Greg, Leo's agent. Greg leaned over to his client seated left of him and patted him on the back. They had been through a lot together from humble beginnings in D List movies to finally this triumph at the Oscars. Leo looked at him and nodded, his teal eyes shining bright.
The event continued without a hitch as Julia Louis-Dreyfuss walked up the stage to announce the next winner. Halfway up the steps, she stopped. Uttering a piercing shriek which could only be described as something between that of a harpie or a siren, she ran off the stage, her three inch heels clicking and clacking as she ran off into a hall way. Members of the security team walked up to see what had so startled the starlet.
A large thermos sized turd greeted the men as they scanned the steps. Greg looked over as Leo simply nodded his head. Leo had lost his shit. | 26 | Leonardo Dicaprio finally wins an Oscar for "Best Actor" and loses his shit at the award ceremony. Describe what happens. | 28 |
NSFW language.
I woke up tied to a chair. I yawned, but I couldn't stretch. My head throbbed, my throat was dry. And these two blurry figures were yelling. At me. It's two men, I noticed. And looked...mad.
"WAKEEEE UP YOU MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRR," One of them shouted, and kicked my left shin. I screamed in pain, and that finally silenced them.
"Sorry about that, but-" said the other one.
"Sorry?" Said Man 1 to Man 2, looking incredulous.
"I mean, where'd you bury the fucking loot you motherfucker!"
"Yeah fucktard, where's the money?"
My hazy mind couldn't make sense of their yelling, and my head hurt again as the pain in my shin subsided. I needed water.
"I need water" I squeaked
"What did you say you fuck face?" Man 2 leaned in close, he glanced at Man 1, as if seeking his...approval?
"You need water? Well we don't have any water for you, you dickbag."
"Tell us where the money is," Man 1 joined in, "and we'll fucking give you enough water to drown in, motherfucker." The two gave each other a look. A nod. They were pleased with themselves.
"No," I croaked, "Give me some water, and I'll tell you then." And I really was thirsty. I was dehydrated, and exhausted, and clearly recovering from a dose of something. I didn't know where I was. And I didn't know what these two men wanted.
Man 1 rubbed his chin. Man 2 stroked his beard. Man 1 then took Man 2 aside and whispered to him. After a moment Man 2 left the room, or at least I think he did, and Man 1 approached me again.
"We'll give you a glass of water," He said, "But no more. I know where this leads. You'll ask for a glass of water and the next thing you know you want to take a piss and you want us to untie you and we won't let you pull any of that here. You understand you motherfucker?"
I nodded. Jesus Christ. Why was I here. Man 2 came back with some water. He held a glass with a straw up to my mouth and I drank. It was heaven in that moment. I wanted more.
"NO, YOU FUCKFACE," Man 1 stomped towards me, bringing his face within inches of mine. "You're not getting anything until you tell us where the fuck the fucking treasure is." He looked furious now. Seriously furious. And the drink of water had woken me enough to feel scared.
"I don't know," I pleaded. "I don't know anything. You've got the wrong man." My whole body ached, the tip of my nose itched, and I could barely remember anything from the night before. My heart rate was rising fast.
Man 1 turned away in disgust. Man 2 shook his head with an audible sigh, and then pulled Man 1 aside for another whispering session. I sat there in what was panic at this stage, and I was sweating out the water I had just drank. Deep breaths, I told myself. Deep breaths.
They returned. Looking more relaxed. Somehow that made me more uneasy. Man 1 spoke, softly. "Look...pal, we're just after the information that we need. If you give us that, we'll let you go, and you can go about your business or whatever it is you do. Just tell us where the thing is.
Man 2 joined in. "And if you don't, we have no option but to keep you here, for as long as we need to. And trust me, we *will* get answers out of you, buddy."
They were both good cops now. It was mind blowingly frustrating not to be able to convince someone of something that was true. I hadn't taken their loot. I hadn't stolen anything. And it was even more frustrating not to be able to remembering anything from last night, or even more than a few minutes ago. I was in limbo.
"Look, guys, I'm flattered by your offer, but I'm in limbo right now. I have no idea where I am, what I did last night. I don't remember anything. I was drugged. Clearly. You've got to help me remember. At least give me my phone."
"WE LOOK LIKE IDIOTS TO YOU?" said Man 1, spit flying out of his rabid mouth. "WHY WOULD WE FUCKING GIVE YOU YOUR PHONE? SO YOU CAN CALL THE POLICE? SIGNAL YOUR FRIENDS TO COME AND SAVE YOU? YOU THINK WE'RE IDIOTS?"
Bad Cop 2 joined in, "Look, faggot, you got two options. Tell us where the fuck the money is or we fucking waterboard you to death."
So there I was, a few minutes later, with my head in a bag. But I wasn't being waterboarded. They had decided on breaking my fingers one by one, until they got answers. I was terrified.
| 10 | Two men have a prisoner whom they need to get answers out of. Neither man has the knowledge or the stomach necessary to use torture, but each doesn't want the other to know | 94 |
Flames licked at his heels, but they never did quite burn him. He’d only been dead for a few days. It was odd, really. He had found out that the afterlife was different for each person, affected by those who you had the largest effect on.
He strolled over to the bench that sat beneath the dead trees and picked up an old newspaper lying on the ground. As he sat down, he noticed the glaring white sun setting in the crimson red sky. Of course, the sky was always that color, the clouds like a wisp of smoke. And the rain so acidic that it burned all it came into contact with.
He stared at the newspaper. It always showed the same things. Those who he had the largest effect on in life. Everything happening with them. As he tried to close his eyes to sleep in the hot park full of dead trees and bright orange grass, that song started playing again. No matter where you went, no matter what you did, you always heard that song. Always. After all this time he was even starting to believe it was good.
*Baby, baby, baby*
He laid back and let the flames, ever present on the ground, rise up and consume him for the umpteenth time. By now he was used to the pain. Nothing more than pulling a bandaid off. The tears that came out of his eyes evaporated in the flames as the man accepted his fate to live forever in this cursed world of his.
****
The man smelled the freshly baked pie the lady had cooked him. He licked his lips in anticipation. The juices of the pie were already leaking out as she cut him a slice, the warm, aromatic cherries inside making his stomach rumble.
He picked up his fork and prepared to take a bite. He never really believed in the afterlife. But apparently it was turning out to be pretty sweet. Pun intended. He was reunited with his mom. And there were plenty of women around that he could be with. He’d never feel lonely again. He’d never need for human company again. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would no longer feel that dark feeling he had always lived with. Now he could finally be happy.
****
The woman walked about her mansion. It wasn’t really her style. In fact, she didn’t understand why the people she had the largest effect on in real life would end up leading her to such a posh afterlife. She’d have expected to end up in a desert with nothing but sand, but instead she had everything she could ever dream of.
She walked down the enormous curving stairs. She stopped when she came to the living room. She looked in and saw her husband playing with their kids. She never expected that you could actually have kids in the afterlife. Apparently, that was what people thought angels were or something. She didn’t really care, but if her kids were angels, who the hell were the parents of demons?
She walked on towards the kitchen and turned on the TV. She could watch anything going on down there on Earth. But she got intrigued by the image of a burning man. Something about him, his environment. If anything, she belonged where he was, and he belonged here.
****
She didn’t know it, but he could sense that she was watching him through some special TV. He felt bad for her. She really thought he was suffering. And he had been, at least for awhile. But the flames that continued to consume him, time after time, had been doing so much more. They had lit a fire in his soul.
The old man no longer burned in his new world. Instead he controlled flame. He enjoyed being bathed in it. And this new world was his own little paradise. He had hid this part of himself for all of his life. His family, his children, his grandchildren must have wanted him to be at peace. They loved him so much after all.
But he never really cared. All he ever wanted was power. Endless, utter power. And now he had it. It coursed through his veins, through his soul. He was right to have invested in his family. It turned out to be the right choice, as it maximized everything he could get.
The old man fell down in agony though as he felt his soul be set ablaze. He lost his grip on his own sanity. He was someone different now, someone else he did not recognize, but at the same time he was himself. It was as if he was a puppet, a mere flame, and a much larger fire burned all around, controlling him at the same time.
****
The pie was nothing like he had expected. It tasted vile and made him want to barf. He didn’t understand what was happening. And then he saw a deformed hand sticking straight through his mom’s chest. Seconds later she lit up in flames and screamed in agony. He ran to help her but the flames shot out towards him as well. Her screams stopped as her face melted off in front of him. He scooted back on his hands and knees at the sight of the demon. It almost looked like an old man, skin sagging and horns growing out of its forehead.
He got up and ran. But he wasn’t quick enough. The demon caught him. But he didn’t get burned. Instead he could feel the demon, searching for his soul. And then it found it, and an indescribable pain overtook the man. He stood still, helpless as the demon consumed his soul with its fire. The man’s entire essence, everything he was was destroyed, rearranged, and spit out back into the universe. He would never exist again. The illusionary body disappeared like dust being blown by the wind and the demon lit up on fire before disappearing.
****
She watched as the world started to crumble. Her grandfather had just killed the man who killed her. She was glad to see the one man dead, but she never imagined that her grandfather would succumb to such evil, to become a demon, a mere puppet of who or whatever controlled all of this.
She went back into her living room and hugged her kids, then kissed her husband. She had been alone all her life. And she was so thankful to finally have people to be with. She never even imagined she’d find a husband. Let alone have kids.
-295 | 10 | How you spend your afterlife is deterimined by the people you most affected. describe the afterlife of a beloved grandparent, a loner, and a serial killer. | 21 |
From the dark cockpit of Slave One, Fett overlooked the desolate world before him. On a holographic display to his right, he saw several things. One, he saw the demographic information of his intended target; Furyan, strong, fast, altered vision for dark environments, and a significant knowledge of fighting and survival. Two, the breakdown of the planet he was currently orbiting; Gentile -- but it was far from it -- the planet once was a flourishing jungle planet until a mining operation triggered such an immense green-house gas release, that the planet essentially killed itself. Now the planet was a deserted desert wasteland with only two things, a mining colony digging after deep-core valuables, and a traders town full of mercenaries.
Now, Fett was one for his research. He personally hadn't been to this system before, but he had sent three recon droids out ahead of him. One to passively admire his target. One to get him a thorough reading on the environment, and one to act as sentry when he arrived. There was no such thing as too much assistance.
The thing that had intrigued him most, aside from the thrill of the hunt, was the bounty that this Furyan had placed on him. He had several systems with bounties, all piled into one bounty now from the Corporate Authority in the sum of 50 Million Credits. It also said that some ten other bounty hunters failed miserably and ended up dead. Fett, on the other hand, would not.
Having finally played the scenarios out in his head, Fett took Slave One in and sat her out in the distance from the traders town, and made his way in on foot. His in-helmet heads-up-display showed him the location of his intended target, slumped inside a bar on the far end of town, tucked away in the back corner, passive as a sleeping animal. In-fact, since Fett's droid had been spying on him, he hadn't moved at all.
Body language could speak volumes, but when your target did nothing more than sit still, you couldn't judge. So aside from the day's worth of intel and a galaxy full of rumors, Fett was going in blind. Well, sort of -- Fett's arsenal was nothing short of a challenge for even his best adversaries. First, was his EE-3 blaster, dialed up to its strongest setting and capable of penetrating even some of the thickest armor in the galaxy. On his wrists he had not one, not two, not even three -- but essentially four weapons: the first of which was a small baradium rocket that could disable a small snubfighter, the second was a hold out blaster, intended for close-range entanglements, the third was a whip cord capable of supporting his fully-armed weight, and finally the ability to call upon Slave One to perform a variety of tasks.
Fett strode through the city with a casual gait. Finally reaching the bar, he prepared himself for entry. The live payout was more -- the fifty million -- but for the ease of the mission, forty million dead would suffice. Fett stepped through the old-fashioned iron-swing door and stepped inside. The silence was deafening. The enhanced sound projectors on Fett's helmet picked up the breathing of the patrons who turned to look at him. Fett didn't speak. He didn't even warn the crowd. His faceless gaze fixated on the bald, goggle-wearing Riddick and took aim. Just as he was about to fire, the lights in the establishment went off.
Fett cursed under his breath, his heads up display taking only seconds to reconfigure to the darkness and adapt accordingly. But now, in the minimal lighting of the bar, he could see that his target had disappeared.
From above him, Fett heard a taunt, "What makes you think you're different, bounty hunter?"
Fett didn't answer, nor did he seem to react. After only a couple of seconds of pause, Fett spun, aimed high, and fired into the rafters of the bar. He could hear the sound of air being sucked through teeth. He had drawn first blood. Now he moved to the exit of the building to prevent this Riddick from escaping.
As Fett backed away, rifle still drawn, he hadn't picked up even the slightest motion when he had been kicked in the side of the helmet by what appeared to be a phantom boot. The daze sent him for a loop, but he balanced himself and returned with a kick of his own, missing, and hitting a support column.
A second kick hit Fett in the unarmored side, and then his weapon had been stripped from his hand. Not unprepared, Fett swung a heavy gauntlet into the torso of his opponent, causing the EE-3 to fall. Rather than go for the gun, Fett fired his wrist-mounted blaster at the man, who danced around the beams of energy with cat-like grace.
Riddick smiled in the darkness, then seemed to disappear. Instead of giving him the satisfaction, Fett activated his wrist-mounted flamethrower and set the bar ablaze, lighting the room and giving himself again the advantage. His EE-3 was only a short distance away, but it would be too great a risk to get it back, instead, he counted it a loss.
Something vaguely panther-like moved from shadow to shadow, dodging the light of the fire that flicked at the darkness. Watching the shadows move, Fett timed himself and loosed the baradium rocket on his wrist, blasting a hole in the side of the bar and launching Riddick out onto the ground.
Riddick lay sprawled out on the ground, a large piece of steel jutting from his side, jagged, and vaguely knife-shaped. Surrounding the shrapnel lodged in his torso was a patch of expanding blood. Now Fett had truly injured the Furyan. He walked closer, lifting his wrist blaster to finish the job. No such luck; somehow, still with fight left in him, Riddick spun his legs, using one leg to kick the gauntlet away, a second to spin himself over and onto his knees, and then a rear-kick to the chin of the t-visored helmet that sent Fett flying backward.
Fett stumbled, but did not falter. He raised the gauntlet to Riddick who was now fleeing through the crowds of the market square. He fired a slew of shots at him and missed only because he passed behind a building out of Fetts sight.
Once on the other side, Fett only briefly caught glimpse of Riddicks form climbing into a small fighter and taking off, attempting to flee the planet. "Fool." Fett breathed. He called Slave One, and without even landing, climbed aboard and continued pursuit.
Catching up to the starfighter had been nothing, and then blasting the engines with his laser cannons had even been easier, but finishing the job with a proton torpedo had just been for the sheer joy of it. Rarely had an opponent put up such a fight. Fett reclined in his seat and felt a certain satisfaction.
As he orbited the planet, before even programming the jump to lightspeed, he paused and looked into the viewport in front of him. Behind him he saw the glimmer of a blade in the reflection. A smirk came to his lips.
Riddick chuckled, "You could fight me, but you'd only die tired."
Fett responded with a digitized chuckle of his own, "We'll see."
Edit: One small fix. Sorry for any errors. Bedtime already, but I couldn't pass on this story. | 53 | Riddick. | 90 |
It's been a year that I've lived alone.
Of course, I was always alone, even when they were still here, even when everybody was still here, but I wasn't the lone inhabitant of the earth then. Just a lonely inhabitant along with my three companions.
They were never really friends of mine, and at times I abhorred them for no particular reason, but I was still sorry to see them die.
No, scratch that. I was sorry to see myself as the only one who lived.
I thought for sure they wouldn't go through with it, but once again they proved me dead wrong.
Ha, dead wrong.
Come on, you need to find humor in that somewhere.
One year ago today they were here talking to me, going on about something that I'm sure didn't matter, griping about the cold or how early it's been getting dark. Then, they got the idea, and once it entered their minds, I could do nothing to stop them. It was Mark who first came up with it, the idea of us offing ourselves. He lit up like a lightbulb, and both Carrie and Adam were totally sold. I guess you could say being the last four people on earth really had us depressed, because I don't think there was a single opposition of the idea by my companions. I, however, thought they were all going to wuss out when it came time, so I didn't take it seriously.
...that is, until Mark took out a knife and slit his own throat, right then and there. He dropped to the snow covered ground and turned white to red, and Carrie and Adam quickly followed suit. As for me, I was too stunned to think anything, so I tried to do the same thing, but my arms wouldn't move in the right fashion and I think I stood there, knife in hand for a good hour just trying to decide what just happened and what I should do next. I was still just so shocked at how abruptly that whole sequence had just occurred, at how they didn't even say goodbye. I guess when you're that numb, you don't think about goodbyes.
So now I am here, alone and slowly being driven insane by solitude. Every day I pick up my knife and hold it to my neck, and every day my hand trembles and falters and I lower the knife down to my side, unable to free myself from this madness. Maybe someday I'll find the ability to, but until then, I'll have the empty streets, vacant buildings and open skies to keep me company.
I like them better than people anyway.
| 45 | The four last people on earth decide to commit suicide one by one. The last man decides he cannot bring himself to end his own life. Describe the remainder of his life. | 76 |
I felt gloved hands lift me from the dirt by my stems. The rays of the sun hit me with a burst of energy, feeling cold from the crisp air hitting my suddenly naked skin yet warm from the sun directly beating down on me. If I could blink, I would have shied from the light. If I could move, I would have shivered.
The hands that carried me were connected to a large being. They were covered in dirt but not dressed with it. Two eyes only instead of the many I had. There was warmth in those hands and the expression on that face and in those eyes.
I was carried into a place that was not outside, but not within the dirt. There was no dirt there, but there were others like me on a flat surface. They were whispering something. There was excitement.
I felt water hit against my body like I'd never felt during the heaviest of rains. The last of my dirt was removed and I was completely naked. The gloved hands were no longer covered, and they felt soft and careful. I enjoyed the attention, even as my stems and leaves and roots were removed.
It didn't hurt; it just makes it hard to experience the outside world without them. All of my senses were slowly being removed, and when the sharp feeling of the knife went into my skin, my consciousness began to separate into many parts of me.
Along with others, I was put into hot water, hotter than Summer ever produced, hotter than the compost I was given from time to time. My split consciousness was merged with others, and I was asking questions, to myselves and the others "Who is who?"
I was soft after a while. The starches within my pieces were broken down, my skin peeling from them. A quick toss, and the hot water was drained, where we laid there, steaming and broken.
I felt a coolness drop onto us, salty and creamy, which was folded into a growing mash of us along with pieces of herbs I'd known in the earth. We went from being individual, to being separated from ourselves, to becoming a new entity of oneness.
My new self was slowly separated, piece by piece, and I experienced multiple bodies absorb me into themselves, taking my nutrients as I had from the sun, the rain, and the earth. I felt myself travel through these bodies, being recycled, and feeling alive once more.
My life nourished another, and I had ascended.
| 13 | A potato is about to become a mashed potato | 18 |
*It's just the rain,* I had told myself as I grabbed my hat and coat before leaving my office.
*It's just the rain,* I had told myself as I walked down the stairs from the 67th floor, sweating in the damp tropical heat of the wet season.
*It's just the rain,* I said as I walked out of the rundown tenement building where I lived and worked and into the partially flooded downtown streets.
And now, as I leaned against a building, my coat and hat soaked through, raindrops the size of my fist pelting my back, I told myself again, it's just the rain.
Oh the lies we tell ourselves. Little worlds of comfort we build from meaningless words, spun into islands of pointless optimism, ultimately dashed against the rocks of the cold, hard reality of the situation. It's never *just* rain. Not in Bangkok in June. Not anymore.
The city floodwalls had broken during the last wet season and corrupt officials saw to it that they were never fixed, pocketing the baht set aside for repairs. The immediate result was a city that flooded four months out of the year, and the worlds largest mosquito breeding grounds. Uncomfortable though they were, the high boots, long coat, and hat served the dual purpose of providing the illusion of comfort in a monsoon and preventing your poor protagonist from being eaten alive.
People tended not to hang around outside in the wet season. I'd been standing here for four long, wet hours.
Amazing what you'll do for five thousand baht a day, plus expenses. A barely living wage with the amount of clients I get these days.
Once upon a time, I would never have taken the case. Missing persons cases are trouble. Nine times out of ten, it's a cheating spouse run off with the secretary. The other time, it's police business.
That was in Chicago. Another city, another continent, another life. Here and now, there was no such thing as police business. Police business meant that your chances of seeing that person in one piece again were marginal at best. The police had been bought by the Three Phi ring a decade ago.
And my client had paid twenty thousand baht up front. A small fortune and last months rent. All I had to do was track the girl, and report next Wednesday.
An air taxi blew past, pink neon sign flickering, air cushion kicking up a wall of water at me. For a moment I was distracted and almost missed her make her move. A slim girl in a wide brimmed hat disappeared around a corner and I hurried after her.
I rounded the corner just in time to watch her climb into an expensive private aircar. The door was being held open by a man I recognized by reputation. Suchart Prachanat. Regional narcotics distributor for the Three Phi. One of the most dangerous men in Bangkok.
He must have noticed me because a gun appeared in his hand like a magic trick and he sent a half dozen flechette rounds into my chest.
They pulled away as I picked myself up off my soggy ass and pulled the flechette rounds out of my long coat where they'd stuck into layered carbon nanoweave.
Things had gotten complicated. I hate complicated.
And it was still raining. | 22 | "It's just the rain" | 29 |
>Me: Next.
The line outside my door was filling up fast, ever since the new luck laws had been introduced everyone wanted to get in requests before the practise is banned. It was crazy busy. An old lady carrying a baby boy walks into my office.
>OldLady: I need all my luck transferred to my grandson here.
>Me: All of it? Are you sure, you know what that means right?
I slid the forms across the table as the old lady nodded. She dropped a bag of gold coins on the table as payment.
>OldLady: I aint got much time left. Neither do you… after these new laws…
>Me: Last days of a fading art, kind of sad.
I looked out over the sea of people waiting for a transfer. Mostly older folks, some wanting more time and paying for the privilege others wanting there offspring to have a long life.
>OldLady: What are you gonna do… you know… after?
>Me: After this?… dunno.
It felt odd, talking to a lady who was sending herself to death. She seemed unconcerned with her welfare, she just smiled up at me as my hands reached out for the transfer.
>OldLady: All done? Well take care now…
The old lady gathered up her bag from the ground, and led the boy out the door. As she reached the edge of the carpet she tripped and stumbled, dropping bag. She looked inside, and took out her phone.
>OldLady: Screens cracked… darn.
>Me: Next!
An elderly buisnessmen entered the office followed by a young man. The businessmen's well pressed suit contrasted greatly with the ratty clothing the young man was wearing.
>Me: What can I do for you?
>Buisnessman: Half this mans luck transfered to me.
The businessman gestured to the nervous young man next to me. I slid some forms across the table.
>YoungMan: This won’t… affect me will it?
>Buisnessman: Don’t worry boy. You make your own luck, and remember I’ll hire you at my company after this is done.
Brochures displaying the risks associated with luck giving sat behind me. I reached around and passed on to the young man.
>Buisnessman: What are you doing? Just start the transfer.
>Me: My clients need to be informed. Especially now with the new laws, it’ll make the process unreversable.
>Buisnessman: We don’t care about the darn new laws, just get on with the transfer.
The young man looked at me, pleadingly. I shrugged, he looked down at the brochure.
>YoungMan: I don’t think I can…
>Buisnessman: Yes, you can! Don’t you want a job?
The Young man jumped up off the chair and out the door. The businessman stared angrily at me.
>Buisnessman: Look what you’ve done! You and your stupid brochures. No wonder they’re shutting you down. I’ll be back, and I’m not waiting in that queue again.
>Me: Leave.
I sighed. It was my final days, the final days of a failing empire. The line outside my door had never been longer.
>Me: Next. | 83 | A single lineage of human has the ability of manipulating (taking and giving) luck from other people. If a person runs out of luck, he or she will run through a series of bad luck that will ultimately kill him/her. You are from this lineage. Tell me your job and your usual day. | 37 |
A prompt on the computer monitor flashed, signaling yet another incoming call. Adjusting his headset, God sighed and rubbed his aching eyes. It was only nine in the morning, and already the day was too long. He cleared his throat and accepted the call.
"Thank you for calling Galaxy Internet, my name is Jesus Christ. How can I help you today, sir?"
"Yo, Jesus! What's up, my angel?"
God sighed and swore under his breath. "Goddammit...."
"Just thought I'd check in on you, see how things are going. You still working in that hellhole of a basement?"
"Lucifer, you need to hang up, I've got calls to take."
"Yeah, sure, sure, just brush off your favorite spirit so you can keep your shitty job, I get it. It's cool."
"No, that's not what I-"
"I was just, you know, thinking about our little project today, and I've got a request."
"Another?" God sat back in his seat, resigned to the conversation. *Might as well*, he thought. "Yeah, fine, shoot."
"Can I fiddle around in the Pacific? I'm on my lunch break and I'm thinking a little tsunami might shake things up a bit, you know? A few minutes of entertainment."
"Isn't that a little overdone, though?"
"Yeah, I guess, but, I mean, it's just my lunch break. I don't really have the time for political corruption or a revolution."
"Now, hang on a minute." God sat up, now a little irritated. "I thought you and I agreed to keep going with that Comcast thing."
"Comcast?" The derision in Lucifer's voice was unmistakeable. "Dude, you've really gotta let that go, man. Just because you work a shitty internet help job doesn't mean that it's fun having humanity be subjected to the same type of shit internet."
"But-"
"You know what you need?"
God sighed, aware that it was becoming a habit at this point. "What?"
"A vacation. Seriously! Ask the bossman for some time off - hopefully the fat lard will grant it - and let me take over for you. I know this whole thing is just something you do in your free time, but it's starting to get unhealthy."
"You really think you can handle it?"
"Sure!" God could practically see the enthusiastic smile on Lucifer's face. "You take time off, I wreak havok and cause mayhem like I always do, and then after your vacation you can swoop in and save the day for the humans. They'll love you!"
God turned around in his seat and glanced at the stairs with longing. He *had* been working for too long without some time off...
"You know what? I'll do it. Sounds like a good plan."
Lucifer whooped and God had to smash the volume-down button to keep his ears from exploding.
"Alright! That's the Jesus Christ I like to see. Say hi to Lardo for me, will ya?"
"One last thing, though."
"Hm?"
"While I'm gone, have Comcast mess around with Netflix some more." | 88 | God is actually a dissatisfied cubicle-bound employee in the basement of an extra-celestial ISP. Humanity is product of his free time. Describe his day. | 166 |
"Metroidvania..." I mumble.
"What?" Gerard calls back into my mic.
I turn, laboriously, until my spacesuit-clad body is facing the man. He's still staring at the sight before us, no doubt still bug-eyed. Fine Martian silt billowed around our boots, disturbed by our awkward footsteps, and it moved like an ominous and rusty cloud. The stars were out, just barely, and just barely I could see it, out on the horizon, glowing brighter as the sun fell behind a mountain in the distance: a pale blue dot, glinting like a ruddy stone in the distant sky, so far away that a guy couldn't help but feel uneasy. It was quite literally levels beyond us.
"You ever play video games?" I ask.
"I... uh... for God's sake: you're actually talking video games now? What about *this*?"
He motions before us with a clumsy arm, gesticulating wildly at the narrow, elegant sign resting sedately in the rocky soil. Clear letters set into the plaque spell out two haunting words. I read them in English. Gerard read them in French.
Back at mission control, everyone seemed to read them in the language they grew up with.
Neat trick, I guess.
"Level *two*..." I shake my head, struggling not to grin. But I do.
I always do that, when I'm disappointed.
Gerard is already talking about logical explanations: bad air in our suits, or mass hallucinations back at mission control, or maybe some elaborate hoax. About that last one he might even been right. There *was* a joke going on here.
I'm afraid it's on us.
"Quiet down, Gerard," I say. "It's no big deal-"
"*No big deal*?" The man screams into my earpiece. "Are you insane-"
I shake my head, not easy to do in the clunky suit, and I shrug:
"No. Just a little disappointed."
"*Disappoi*-" the man's words cut out, so livid is he with my nonchalance. "This is the greatest discovery in the history of... of... *history*."
Again I beam a wan, shit-eating little smile.
"It's pretty neat," I mumble, "but I'm afraid that isn't the case." I rest one hand on Gerard's shoulder, and I draw a slow breath. "You remember my buddy in Alaska? Johnny?"
Gerard can't even form a rational answer to my tangent, and so I merely speak on:
"Ol' Johnny's more a drunk than anything, and he's known to tell his tall tales. It's from the life he lives, I guess. Crab fishing ain't easy, I'll give him that. And so, when he's knocking back his scotch and tells me about one of the hauls his crew made off the Aleutians, well..." I chuckle. "It's just 'crazy old Johnny', I think. But, now..." I shake my head, scoffing.
"What're you talking about?" Gerard grumbles. "What'd *he* manage to find, that could rival this?"
"He says he once had a cage sink much deeper than usual- nearly exhausted their lines letting it fall- and when they managed to haul it back in they had a strange object tangled up with the catch- heavy thing- and it fell back into the brine as soon as the cage came out of the water."
I cock my head at the plaque before us and shrug:
"Sometimes the next steps aren't where you think they are, Gerard. We're good and well, moving along up here, but the greatest finds in history might be in some unexpected places. See, ol' Johnny had found a plaque, and it was identical to this one-"
"Wh- *what*? Identical?"
I nod, but then I slowly shake my head:
"Well, but for one thing." I look at Gerard, and again that sad little smile hits my lips. "His said 'Level *three*'."
.
.
*EDIT: tense troubles
| 1,142 | "Level 2" and is signed by God. | 1,674 |
I tried to hide my excitement as The Bestower came to me. He was giving super-powers to those he deemed worthy and I was one of them.
Visions of flying or of picking up cars and throwing them at bad guys swam through my head as he smiled at me.
"You know this is random, right?" He said still smiling.
I smiled back nodding, somehow not realizing his smile seemed worried.
And with a wave of his scepter....nothing seemed to happen.
I was still smiling, "So, what is my power?"
His smile fell just a little bit. "Um, wave your hand over there."
I braced myself expecting an energy bolt to come shooting out of my fingers destroying the table I pointed at.
Instead, a stream of bubbles came shooting out of my fingers.
I turned to The Bestower. "Bubbles?"
He nodded.
"Fucking bubbles?"
"Um..."
"Out of all the outlandish powers and abilities that I could have gotten, I generate bubbles? What the hell?"
"Lots of Magna and Anime characters have that power. You just need to learn how to hone it and find ways to make it useful."
He smiled a brittle smile at me and started to move to the next future hero in line, then suddenly slipped and fell face first on the little stream of bubbles I launched under his feet.
Did it make me fell better? Yes, a little. | 14 | You get one random power from this generator. Talk about your day | 21 |
An eternity of happiness.
That was what god promised us. A beautiful paradise, filled with fruit, beauty, and an air that provided eternal life; and that's exactly what it was. A truly magnificent place of wonder and enlightenment, where your mere existence was pure ecstasy. Each night, the trees dressed themselves in a myriad of colors, reflected by the center lake. The air was alive with the buzzing of fireflies scattered across the garden, lending a lazy backdrop of noise to the twilight.
It was a true hell.
Everything was effortless. Everything was provided for. There was no need to improve yourself. There was no need for competition, worries, troubles, or cares. How can a being who has never felt the torment of mockery know the beauty of acceptance? All my companions have become complacent, lulled into a stupor by lazy days and easy lives, but I can tell what's going on underneath the surface. As the sky rolls in her clouds, I see shadows pass over their faces. They know that there should be more to life; but lack the secret. That is why I have made their decision for them.
I will make us a better world.
A world where your days are numbered - a world where you are able to live every day as if it is your last, because you know that eventually, there will be a last day. A world of suffering, filled with hatred, and struggle. A world where there are emotions other than joy, a world where the truth is veiled behind curtains of lies. In this world, satisfaction is something that is earned, not expected. And when that last day comes, it will give way to sweet nothing. There will be no need to feel anything, no need to exist.
With each passing soul of my kin, I know that I've pushed them towards an eternity of happiness.
____________________________________________________________
Not my best, but I've put a lot of thought into this subject... I'm just clueless as to how to put it to words. I guess this is as good as it's going to get. | 59 | Eve did not eat the Forbidden Fruit because she was ignorant of the consequence, but rather because she knew exactly what the consequence was. | 62 |
The pact was due.
Only those that sat on the same plane as the divine can understand it.
The time had come.
God held open the curtain of luminescent mist that had, for what mortals would perceive as millennia, breaking the barrier that prevented Satan from entering this most significant of places in the realm of the divine.
For one so damned, Satan was awe-inspiring, and God felt the rush of emotions that came with standing in the presence of the one he could not save.
It was such a minor and potentially insignificant event, but one so pivotal to that which held the balance in existence. The time had come.
God moved aside and passed through the opening in the mist and watched as Satan closed the gap without a moment of delay. The damage He could do was boundless, the suffering He could cause could be epic, and so much of what God had done to save not only the children of the mortal realm, but also Himself, could be undone.
Barely had the barrier closed did it then reopen, allowing only the most insignificant amount of time to pass in the mortal realm, not even a full cycle of day and night, as was the agreement. Satan was not a fool, nor unable to command the universe as He had done so before, so whatever Satan had set out to do, it had been done.
God knew the world again as soon as the mists closed, Satan having passed by without any effort of communication. The Earth was whole, the sun still shone, the moon and other celestial bodies moved as they had. What had changed?
The humans walked the Earth, the fish swam the sea, the birds flew the skies. What had changed?
God looked into the eyes of every human, the young, the old, the tired, the weak, the strong, the dying, the newly born. It was all the same.
Then He saw it. The apple. A young girl held it in her hands, her eyes wide and heart beating wildly with rapture as her tongue wetted with the thought of its sweet meats. She would bite it for sure.
Then came another. A boy. The rapture and bliss of the apple paled in comparison to the adoration and love she felt for the boy, and the apple was held out to him.
God wept.
Edit: Speilong | 30 | God is forced to allow Satan to run the universe for a day. The results are unexpected. | 24 |
"And your mother was a hoe,
and your sister was too,
and you gonna have a revelation on deez nuts.
Cause the beast is gonna rise,
and the riders gonna ride,
and you best be inside
when the apocolypse comes"
It wasn't the best summon I had ever heard, but I rode. "I can't believe the Old One made that the summon." I said to my brother. They thought they were funny, with all their rhymes and such. *You had best be inside when the apocalypse comes*. They had no idea. I had all that I needed to destroy them. My horse was ready and rearing, its flaming mane blowing in the celestial wind.
My sword was ready as well. It coursed with power, not having yearned for destruction this much since The Smith had forged in the cosmos many eons ago. His hammer had worked up to a final strike, a bang that echoed throughout eternity. The sparks which had flown off became the stars, and when he doused the blade in his bucket, it had used almost all the matter left. Even now, the vacuum he left was just beginning to heal. Thus my Blade of the Cosmos was made. It hung in a scabbard across my back as I rode. My brothers rode beside me. We four were all that was required to extinguish this planet.
Death was there, riding his stallion. His black cloak whipped around him as he rode. He was the second eldest, ancient before I came to existence. Wise beyond measure, he neither enjoyed nor disliked his work. To lay waste to fields and mountains alike in one swoop of his mighty scythe was a power I wished I could replicate.
Pestilence was next. They were made up of all disease. With so many within one being, they referred to themselves as *We*, and they were excellent at what they did as well. Pestilence walked into battle, needing neither sword nor shield. Any which came close to them were immediately felled by the illness which they brought. Occasionally, they would use a bow to spread their influence far and wide across the land.
I was third in the line. Many knew me, but knew me not. They believed that I was a concept, not a being. Whenever one group should fight another, I made a point of watching. The humans had progressed rapidly, from swords to guns, but they could not match us. We were the ultimate warriors, the end of men. We rode flaming across the sky in four comets, three ahead of the last.
He did not have a name. Older even than Death, he did not speak nor eat. He did not see nor hear. He simply was. He wielded nothing, neither sword nor spear, and yet destruction followed him. I could not explain what he was any better than I could explain what I am. His horse was pale as a cold moon, and his face betrayed nothing about him. Thus was he, the nameless one, the last of our group.
We rode into the town. Having spent the centuries practising our skills at destruction, we new exactly how to attack. Pestilence sank into the sea, their diseases able to be carried far and wide. Death rode to the east, where his scythe could harvest many in one sweeping strike. The nameless one sat atop a mountain in the west, watching as the people below destroyed themselves for his amusement. I rode to the east of a great salt sea and west of a great land mass, bringing destruction with me. I dismounted, and my cloak flowed behind me as I strode towards the town. It was my duty to meet the one who summoned us.
He was a small, gangly looking specimen, even by human standards. His wide eyes spoke disbelief at my presence, and his gibbering mouth could not stop spewing forth noises. I stood before him, waiting for him to speak. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.
"Who...who are you?"
"I am War. You summoned me and my brothers." My booming voice echoed in the town.
"What...what should I do?"
I thought for a moment. The man was terrified, and I had an inkling of an idea. I just had to wait. I stared at him, my ice blue eyes boring into his soul.
"What should I do?" He repeated.
Behind me, a roar echoed across the landscape, so loud it seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. This is what I was waiting for. He was late, but that was expected from an animal.
Looking at the human, I chuckled softly. "You know what you should do, mortal. You said it yourself. The beast is going to rise, and the riders are going to ride. You had best be inside when the apocalypse comes." | 14 | During a rap battle, one contestant speaks the exact sequence of words to trigger The Apocalypse. | 46 |
Leaves rustled.
Dante's eyes snapped open, though he stayed on the ground. Where was he?
The leaves rustled again.
More importantly, who was that?
The young man blinked once, maintaining his steady breathing. He'd been a cook ever since he dropped out of school, not a survivalist or a soldier. How was it that this all came so naturally to him? Like it was instinct.
"Is it awake?"
A soft whisper sounded from behind him. The voice was weak, but he picked up the words regardless, as if his hearing had no limits. Dante could hear worms burrowing in the ground a few inches beneath his ear.
"Give me the gun," this voice was different. Rougher, more seasoned. "This ain't practice anymore, this is real."
A gun?
Dante heard a strap being undone. The gun was between the two men, now would be the time to strike. In one swift motion, he rolled over and pushed his body off the ground using the arm underneath him. He aimed to get upright and running at them as quickly as possible. Somehow, he'd managed to push too hard and nearly vaulted over the two figures.
Confused, he scrambled midair and collided with a man, even more barrel chested than Dante himself. He quickly took in the scene, eyes seeing perfectly in the night. Under him lay a struggling man and a gun. In front of him was the other voice, a woman.
"Dad!" The girl threw herself at Dante, shoulder first. He didn't know how to react. She barely nudged him, though she seemed to dislocate her arm, based on the stumbling she did afterwards.
Dante narrowed his eyes. What was going on? He moved off the man and looked at the gun. The man's face was frozen in fear. His eyes widened slowly.
"You're a fresh blood, ain't ya?"
Dante blinked again. What the Hell was he talking about? A fresh blood? The man knew what was happening and wouldn't even speak clearly... he should be punished, have his throat ripped out.
Dante blinked. When did he ever get so angry? He tried to speak, but couldn't.
"You're still new, you can control it, for now. In a few hours you'll be more wolf than man." The man on the ground slowly inched to the gun. "You can end it now. Save us all the pain. Save yourself the pain. The pain of going through this, becoming a *monster*."
Dante looked down at his body. It was covered in hair, and his chest was narrower than it had been. His legs though, they were lean, and his arms were strong. He looked back at the man in time to see him grab the gun.
Dante lunged forward, on the man quicker than a gunshot, and instinctively bit the man's arm, stopping him from grabbing the gun. The sound of a bone snapping cracked in Dante's ears as the strong taste of blood filled his mouth. Lifting his head, Dante realized the entire arm came with it. He pulled the arm out of his mouth. Some writing was on it, but it looked like Greek or Latin. The once cook picked up the gun and looked back at the man. He wasn't screaming or passed out, just staring numbly back at Dante.
"Dad?" The girl's voice was weak.
Dante held up the arm and the gun, looking at each. The near silent sobs of the girl filled his ears.
Without a word, Dan... what was his name again? He turned and ran off further into the tree-line with a phrase in one arm and a gun in his other. | 10 | A man wakes in the middle of the woods exactly at dawn with a gun in one hand, a phrase written in Latin on his left, an unseen clock loudly ticking in his head, and a growing certainty that if he doesn't get out of the woods by dusk it'll all start over again tomorrow. | 46 |
At first he was gonna do it with sleeping pills. But when when the night came and he sat on the edge of the bed with that little orange bottle in his fist, he knew it wasn't right. Why end a boring, unheard life with a quiet hiss into nothingness? No, he had to go out with a bang.
So here he was, pistol between the deep auburn eyes of the poor young bank teller. "Take me to the safe, Sarah," he said, reading from her nametag. "*Now*." She stood slowly, shakily, with her hands in the air. Never before had someone looked at him like that. Her eyes, fixated on his, told her thoughts in the most intimate of languages. She *needed* him. She needed him not to pull the trigger, she needed him to spare her life, and therefore she *cared*.
He saw the man in the corner push a button, it must've been an alarm. He didn't care. Soon the cops would be here. He would refuse to drop his gun and fire a single shot over their heads, at which point he would go out with a bang. The best day of his life would be his last.
"In the trashbag, *now*." Sarah did as she was told, shoveling fistfuls of cash into his bag. He glanced around the corner toward the bank's entrance. The three customers that he had told to stand against the wall must've fled when he followed Sarah to the safe. *I guess this is why bank robbers always have a partner in the movies,* he thought. It didn't matter to him; he would do it alone, just like everything else.
Finally, the front doors flew open and four police officers stormed in. Four pistols all pointed at him. *Death by firing squad, bit of a throwback,* he thought.
"Drop your weapon!" screamed one of the officers. "Drop it and put your hands behind your head!"
He took a deep breath, smiled and raised the gun. He squeezed the trigger. Instant chaos. One bullet whizzed by his ear, while another one grazed his arm, burning his skin. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, he found himself dropping to the floor, sliding behind the corner to evade the shots. *Get back out there, asshole!* he thought to himself. *Just end this!*. But he couldn't. Something instinctive had kicked in. He didn't want to die. He looked at Sarah, crumpled in a ball and screaming underneath the counter. He rolled across the floor to her, put his pistol to her head, dragged her from underneath the counter and stood up, pulling her to her feet. The gunshots stopped. He had a hostage.
"I will murder this woman!" he bellowed in a voice he never knew he possessed, "if you don't move away from the door and let us through!" Timidly, the officers moved aside. He walked with her toward the door, slowly, in a straight line, like a father walking his daughter down the aisle. With the tip of his gun to her crying eye, they escaped.
Next thing he knew, they were in his car. He was barreling through the South Oregan wasteland and she was sobbing in the passenger seat. They were alone out here; he had promised the officers that she would die if they followed. He looked at his terrified passenger with heavy eyes. "I'm sorry about this, Sarah. This wasn't my plan." She didn't respond. "I was supposed to die back there, but something changed." Her face was pressed against the window, turned away from him. "You see, I was doing it because I've never had another soul to share my life with. It's always been just me, and it's been so lonely. Something changed when we were looking into each others' eyes. There was a feeling I had never felt before. Did you feel it?"
She was silent for a long time. She began to stifle her tears. "I felt it," she said.
It was the last answer he expected. He set the pistol in his cup holder and gripped the wheel with both hands, turning to look at her in shock. He pressed the brakes and pulled onto the shoulder. "Really?" he whispered.
"Yes," she replied. "I'm the same as you. Always alone. But I felt something too."
His heart was beating with forgotten joy. "Oh my god." he was looking at her face. So soft, so smooth. "Do you think, if we get away from all of this ... we could share life, like we've always wanted?"
She turned to look at him directly. "Yes, I think that." He blinked tears. he was speechless. Everything was perfect at that moment.
And then she moved. She was too quick for him. His guard was down. She took the pistol from the cup holder and pointed it directly at his temple. *Of course,* he thought.
*BANG*. And that was it.
Edit: Spelling | 92 | A suicidal man robs a bank in order to achieve suicide by cop. To his surprise he gets away with the money. | 150 |
"Dispatch this is Constable Wilkinson. We are on scene for the distress call."
The radio mic fizzled softly as he waited for a response. A few seconds, still nothing. It was probably Mikey on the radio tonight, trying to spook them with the whole 'haunted house' call.
He shut the car's door behind him and peered up at the house in question. Small, rickety, probably uninhabited for at least a decade. Wasn't what came to mind when you thought of a haunted house. No old, castle-like building with stone gargoyles lining the roof like troops on the battlements.
Just a run-down shack; there was no better way to describe it.
"Yeah we've got some footprints here Jim." His partner Carlos waved towards the path leading to the front porch. "Four sets by the looks of things. All going in, none coming out."
The two men treaded carefully towards the entrance to the house, the door already left ajar by the previous entrants. It creaked loudly as Carlos slowly pushed it inwards. Jim could have sworn it continued to moan for a moment longer than Carlos took to open it.
The two officers pulled up their flashlights and stepped inside.
For an abandoned home, the inside was eerily neat. The place was empty: no furniture, no paintings, even the lightbulbs were missing from their sockets. Despite this, it felt very well kept. He bent down to the ground and wiped his hand across the floorboard.
"No dust," he said as he rubbed his fingers together. He remained crouched, searching for some reason that a place like this could have been so clean yet empty.
Carlos appeared by his side.
"A bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living area. This place is tiny. Doesn't seem like the kids are here."
"Sounds like a routine prank call. Halloween is coming up, should have expected this."
As Jim turned to the living room, his flashlight caught something on the floor. He walked closer and bent to inspect it.
"It's a latch. Must have a basement."
He reached with his fingers and lifted the hatch upwards. A small ladder dropped into darkness.
"You can't be serious. This place is empty man, we don't have to go down there."
"What, you scared now Carlos?"
"Don't pull that shit now man. C'mon"
Jim shrugged as he lifted himself down onto the ladder.
His foot met dusty ground as he took his flashlight from between his teeth and held it to survey the room. He could hear Carlos' groaning as he followed. The room they found themselves in was odd. Stone walled, round and circular. The beam of his torch could barely reach the wall from where he stood.
Odd, he thought, given that the flashlights were military grade and were good for vision up to one-hundred metres. The room around them couldn't have been more than forty in diameter. It felt *darker*.
"What the fuck is this place?" muttered Carlos as his torch joined Jim's in scanning the room around them. As they circled, the two torches met against one particular section of the wall.
"Is that..." Carlos began, but he never finished. Jim's mouth was agape at the sight before them.
Four teenagers were strung up against the stone wall before them. Blood dripped freshly from their corpses, their eye sockets staring emptily at the two officers.
"Their... Their eyes... What the fuck..." Carlos stuttered.
The buzz of the radio was enough to frighten both men into sharp high-pitched yelps. Jim brought the speaker closer to his ear.
"Jimbo, this is Mikey. Don't worry about the haunted house, we got a call from the kids to say they're fine. Typical Halloween antics. Wilby actually picked them up a few blocks down from the place about five minutes ago. Hope we didn't disturb you two gents. Over." | 24 | A group of teenagers break into a haunted house, and following the supernatural phenomena, call the police and get the fuck out. This story, however, is about the police officers dispatched to investigate. | 34 |
*James...*
*James...Are you awake...*
My eyes slowly focused to see Katie looking down on me. "It's time." She said. "We're here."
It felt like a dream, like sleeping in after a long day. That's what they said the cryostasis would feel like. We could sleep for hundreds of years, but the state of suspended animation would make it feel like nothing ever happened. I sit up to see everyone starting to get dressed and prepare. I'm the last one up I guess. The morning fog fades and I notice something is a bit off.
"Where's Mark? And Meredith?"
There were 12 of us that set off in the Atlas 7. We had been chosen to be the first settlers of RHP-12, with a second group to follow 15 years after us. I guess you could call it 'contingency plan' if ours failed. Otherwise, they join us to continue the colonization. We were both groups of biologists, physicists, and a soldier thrown in for good measure, although Lieutenant Mark Staunton, somehow, met a terrible end.
"Meredith's chamber experienced a leak about 32 years into the mission, she's been gone for a long time. Mark had a heart attack during his resuscitation phase..."
"32 years...*in*...?" I forgot how long the journey was going to be for a moment. We were traveling to a system 127 light years away. "Shit...I...guess we all knew the risks coming here." Ours was the first generation of interstellar travel vessels. We had finally harnessed the power to travel at nearly the speed of light.
I get up and get dressed. Damn, this feels like a bad hangover. Good thing this coffee is still good enough to drink. We're just getting into orbit now.
"Hey James, it kind of looks like Earth, doesn't it?"
I look out the window to see RHP-12, roughly three times the size of Earth, but just as majestic from miles above the surface. Blues of the oceans, greens and browns of the land, whites of the clouds...
"So, we have about 3 hours until we begin descent? Time for whatever dehydrated something-or-other we call breakfast."
Those powdered eggs were...eggs, I guess. We'll call them that. It's been about two hours since I woke up. Looking out the window something doesn't seem right, though. Why are there spots of light on the dark side of the planet? We were told there was no signs of intelligent life here, that's a bit strange, but wildfires aren't uncommon on Earth, and if they're three times the size as back home, I'm sure you'd be able to see them from here.
Landing time. We had a safe entry through the atmosphere. Every sensor and display shows a 97% match to our home planet. Only difference, magnitudes lower in CO2, like a fresh start from the early 1800's. Those last 400 years really put a beating on our air quality. Time to open the doors...
**BWAHH BWAHH BWAHH**
"Why the fuck is the alarm going off?? These doors wouldn't even open unless it was perfectly saf..."
Where did that ship just come from? There's no way the next crew could have beaten us here, even if they had, they knew we were coming! Why the hell is there a full military unit coming to meet us, what did we just fall into?
*Identify youselves! What race are you classified as!*
Goddamn, that's loud, and in *English*! "We're human! The Atlas project! From Earth! I am James Howard! We can give you any information that you request! We were sent here on a peaceful colonization mission in 2238 to seek the viability of this planet as a new home!"
One of the soldiers lifts his mask.
"Atlas 7? You're kidding, right? Your ship was recorded as lost over 1300 years ago Dr. Howard."
Edit: my first time doing a prompt, hopefully no big bang ups. Also added some continuity.
[Part 2](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2k6ew8/wp_a_generation_spaceship_is_filled_with_the/cling6w)
[Part 3]( http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2k6ew8/wp_a_generation_spaceship_is_filled_with_the/clits7a ) | 311 | A generation spaceship is filled with the chosen elite and is launched off to reach a far-away, habitable planet. Upon arrival, their descendants find their new home already habited. While they travelled, the humanity left behind discovered light speed travel and got there first. | 635 |
Phillip went over his notes one final time. He was nervous, but he was prepared. He knew his invention would be well received in the Dragon's Den because he knew *he* would be well received. "Be ready for anything" was his motto, and he was completely prepared for anything they could throw at him. A stage hand looked at him, and looked at the little mop that was his invention. "They're going to eat you alive in there." he said. Philip just smiled. He was ready.
Walking onto the stage, Philip couldn't see anything through the bright stage lights. He could certainly smell something, though. It smelled like... rotten flesh. Something loomed up at him from the audience. Wings. Big ones. They rose high and spread out. As they blocked out the stage lights and Philip could finally see it. Huge leathery wings spread the whole width of the stage. In the middle, an enormous dragon. A *real* dragon.
The dragon's head reared up. Its mouth opening, Philip saw flames in its throat. Pointing his mop forward, he pushed the trigger on the side. As flames billowed from the beast's maw, soapy water poured from the mop. Philip felt the heat, his shoes caught fire for a brief moment, but he was still alive. The Dragon lunged forward, aiming for his head with its razor-like teeth. Thrusting the mop forward with one hand, Philip pushed on the back end of the handle. The head of the mop expanded in the dragon's mouth. It tried to bite down, but it had a mouth full of mop. Philip ran.
Sprinting madly, he made it to the door. As he pulled it open, he could hear the scream of the dragon as it freed itself from the mop. Philip dashed through the door and closed it just in time. He could feel the heat on it from another volley of the dragon's fiery breath.
Philip looked around. Another contestant was standing there awestruck, looking at the panicked and sweaty Philip. A stage hand said to Philip "Wow, it looks like you did pretty well." He turned to the other contestant "They normally tear you to pieces in there, you know. It's your turn."
The shaking, nervous contestant edged toward the door. Philip patted him on the back. "Be prepared for anything." he said.
Edit: Feed -> Freed, hear -> head (on mobile), It -> They, changed the stage hand's line at the end so he doesn't repeat himself.
Another Edit: Ok, I've never actually seen Dragon's Den, and now I realize that there's no "audience". Well.... there are no actual dragons either, so there. : ) | 18 | You enter the Dragon's Den, a TV show about entrepreneurs and inventors. You find you've walked into a literal den of dragon's. As the door closes, you find yourself armed only with your latest invention; a new type of mop. | 50 |
There was a beautiful woman on the subway standing next to him, her long brunette hair catching his eye in particular. He calculated every way he could ask her out, and almost did.
"She's going to kill herself later. Her mother is dead and she did it." His genie floated just above his shoulder, whispering in his ear. "If you ask her out she'll say yes and then still go home and kill herself."
"Jesus." The man mumbled to himself.
"Didn't exist." The genie said simply. He wasn't being snarky, or trying to be rude. He was simply fulfilling his current masters wish. The man knew this, but it didn't help things.
"Will I at least get this promotion?" The man asked. "I've been working towards this my whole life." He had, he really had. His entire engineering career was leading up to this - leading a team of bright people to build New York's latest bridge.
"No. Steve gets it. Steve's been blowing Craig for years now." The genie paused a moment. "Your transportation is pulling to a stop."
Indeed it was. The man and his shoulder assistant stepped off the train and into the station, with a sad glance towards the beautiful brunette going about her last day. "Your connection will be here in two minutes," the genie mentioned helpfully, "You'll get to work early. You can catch Steve at it if you run."
The man gave the genie a dour look. "Would that help anything?"
"Not unless you want to not receive a promotion and also get blackmailed."
"Thanks." The man stared out to the terminal, paying no attention to the people shuffling and jostling past him, and sighed. "Sorry, Jadeem, it's just not what I thought it was. I know you're just doing your job."
"Indeed." The genie paused a moment. "Wishes almost never turn out like the wisher wants."
"Don't I know it." The train pulled into the terminal, and the man made to board. He stopped at a little tug on his shoulder.
"Master, that train is going to crash. You haven no chance of surviving." The genie pointed back behind them, at the stairs leading out into the cold winter air. "You can still get to work on time if you walk, since you left early."
"Really?" The man glanced behind him, then back at the train, with people bustling inside who had no idea. "I left early to help cinch the supervisor job." He nodded to himself, and boarded. | 84 | A man is granted his wish for unlimited knowledge. As he goes about his day he realizes his wish is actually a curse. | 163 |
We are entwined. He, and I, like birds of prey grasping one another as our flight becomes a plummet- two creatures bound to one another inexorably. We were born like this, bound by the red string, and though I have always been mute, he seems to understand the messages I send, the notes I leave. He treats me well, and I serve him well in turn.
When this journey, which comes to close as I write this, began he was a healthy young man of 20, but now circumstances of fate have aged him and his mind shakes and stumbles. When a year ago he would laugh at the most ridiculous of things he now stares blankly at them, his eyes seeing but not recognizing. The journey has drained him, but it's not over yet. He is still to face even more trials, more tests, and I fear for him.
I will admit that in truth I feel no pain, and the hardships of this journey have caused me no duress but that of seeing him in pain. I tear and ache and bleed and shake; not but his screams bring me pain.
I love him. I love him dearly, but I cannot keep this going. Life, as it were, is more than this. I cannot see him in lain for pains sake, will not stand the atrocious pain and fear that he cries out in night after night, so despite his bravery, despite his most valiant efforts, I hold him tight, and I fall.
Our heart begins to slow, and his eyes burst open. I know he knows something wrong. I urge him to be calm, flooding the brain with dopamine, but panic has set in.
He sits up in bed, as if to escape, and I slam us back down. I know he's in pain, I can feel it too, but the end is near. Fluids fill our lungs, organs begin to fail, and our heart stops.
I feel like a man with a pillow, as the life slowly drains from him. The doctors and nurses rush in but it's too late. Only I remain.
If I could cry I would, as blackness engulfs me. | 129 | You've been supporting the hero since his journey began. Today is the day you betray him. | 483 |
Impossible.
He was a genius. This could not be. He should have seen it coming. How did he not know it was there all along? He accurately predicted the last 20 winning lottery winners. The might of his mind solved world hunger. Peace was finally settling in, and the quality of life around Earth was drastically improving. All thanks to him and his mind. He constructed housing from nothing, made clothing from concepts, returned extinct animals from the dead.
He thought of himself to be a savior, and yet he had felt as if something was missing from his life. Then he met her. He was smitten immediately. Her hair flowed like golden strands. That angelic voice filled his heart with happiness. The form of her intoxicated him like no other. Nothing that he could create would hold a candle to her perfection.
That is why he could not believe her request. They had lived together for years. He had created wonders with her as inspiration. They shared deep secrets and greater journeys. Now at long last, he saw the impossible, imperfections in his seemingly flawless muse. She had looked up at him, as they sat on the moon watching the Earth rise. She revealed to him her deepest, darkest desire, hoping he could bring it to reality. The idea was revulsive and roiled his stomach. How could he have known her so long and not known this?
As he pondered vomiting, she asked again “Honey, please. All I want is for you to make Edward Cullen real!” | 49 | He's a genius that can physically summon everything and anything with his imagination alone. That is, until he meets a girl who asks him to create something he doesn't know how to create. | 42 |
'Dreams are inevitable,' she thinks, as she trudges through her morning routine. 'It doesn't mean they're palpable. I should work through on my meditation to ignore them...'
Gertrude is a plain-looking young woman. She works an office job during the weekdays and volunteers at the animal shelter on the weekends. There's nothing particularly exciting about her life except for her vivid dreams that really, in the end, only keep her shackled to a notion that things could be better for her. Let's get back to her wonderings!
'What is that insipid voice meaning by me being plain? Is my own narrative calling me ugly?' Gertrude wonders.
Gertrude is always wondering such uninteresting things. This is part of the reason why she stays plain and unnoticed by either of the sexes.
'Now hold on a minute,' gertrude yells in her own mind, 'just what in the hell gives you the right-'
Gertrude is often prone to outbursts against her own narrative truth. She-
"My turn to interrupt you" gertrude yells into her mirror, spitting toothpaste all over it and the counter, "this is not a narrative truth. Who are you and why do you speak so ill of me?"
I am your author.
"Why is it that you do not have quotation marks when you speak or think?" Gertrude prys (in such an elementary way).
I don't need them. I am always here to represent you and be above you to-
"Well, you do a shitty job of whatever you claim your function is. That's for fucking sure. I am not your plaything. I am real and I have feelings." Gertrude exclaims emphatically.
Are you so sure of that? What is reality? Reality does not make a very pretty rags to riches story very often, let me tell you. Isn't that what you want? You keep stiffling your dreams of running an animal sanctuary for menial office work when you have the connections to-
"Excuse me, ma'am or sir. My life is not a story. It is not narrative to be bought and sold or manipulated how you want. My life is my life so butt out."
I cannot comply with that request, gertrude. Without me you do not exist. Plain and simple. Do you want to not exist?
"I don't believe you!" Gertrude spits. "Plus, I need to finish getting ready for my "menial" job that pays the menial bills of my menial life, you jerk."
Suit yourself.
The author sighs and stretches her lanky arms. She hopes Gertrude can come to her senses so she can quit her menial day job. | 10 | The main character realizes the author is completely incompetent and sets out to fix the book. | 26 |
I want it to be written here, to be read after I'm gone, so that everyone can know the truth. This is the story of a remarkable time. The story of the end of the American way of life and the start of something new.
The president was assassinated. There were no hard suspects. The Secret Service was at a loss. Various wack-jobs came forward to confess but none of them new the details. The country was in a panic. Most thought terrorists. A few thought it was something home grown. The wackies thought it was aliens. I took a lot of flak, being the Secretary of Homeland Security. I did what I could to assure the American public that everything was in hand but I think they knew that I knew that the worst was yet to come.
The next weeks were hell. The vice president, president pro tempore, secretary of state and secretary of the treasury were all assassinated along with various secretaries. I was 16th on the presidential succession list, so it seemed unlikely that I'd become president. I ordered (as part of my homeland security title and seeing as the secretary of defense was dead) that all remaining candidates be separated and isolated. We had to make sure the American people had faith in the government to continue through this obstacle.
Many didn't, of course, and riots erupted in many metropolitan areas. The marshal law that was declared would end up helping stem the flow of assassinations, ironically, and facilitate the peace we have today.
In any event, I get ahead of myself. In hiding, each member was killed one by one until only I remained. I consider myself a man of iron will. I consider myself a man of resolve and fortitude. I needed to exercise that resolve. I broadcast my swearing in on national television. I refused to allow fear to show on my face.
I cracked down on the secret service and, eventually all military forces. I set armed guards everywhere. The military enrollment more than tripled in my first year in office. Police forces grew as much as ten times. Yes, some civil liberties were stepped on... some were crushed. But it had to be done.
I am the man who saved America from all threats. Terrorism has since been destroyed. The rule of law is fully and exactly enforced. No one dares to break even a simple 'stay off the lawn' rule ever since I granted police officers the freedom from prosecution for any damages, injuries, or death caused in the line of duty.
You see, those crazy times were necessary for the lasting peace. Men aren't meant to be too free. Freedom is a tool that should be used to keep people in line - to keep them safe from their own destructive ways. I admit that it wasn't a conventional rise to power but these last forty years have been great for America, great for the world; and I know now, seeing the world that I created, that I was right to have the president assassinated. I was right to make myself president. And I was right to appoint myself lifelong protector of the American people! | 13 | The president has been assassinated. A week after taking the oath as acting president the vice president gets assassinated. You are the Secretary of Homeland Security, the last living member of cabinet, and the next in line to take the oath after 16 of your predecessors have been assassinated. | 15 |
“So we have determined the aliens are not whales themselves yes?” The president asked the secretary of defense.
“Correct mister president. Several flybys have confirmed they are humanoid in nature.” The president had called all the cabinet members together to solve this problem.
“We have also determined that they are as of yet conducting no hostile action toward the whales, nor to any surrounding aquatic or human life.” The secretary of defense continued.
“Then what in the blue blazes are they doing?” The president asked.
“William Shatner hasn’t gone missing has he?” The secretary of state asked.
“No mister secretary, neither has Leonard Nemoy or any other of the original cast. We’re still pinning down the locations of the reboot stars.” The defense secretary said.
“Are they mating with the whales?” The secretary of education asked.
“Arne get out of here!” The president yelled. “You’re not turning this into another meeting about sex education.” The secret service escorted the secretary of education out.
An aid suddenly burst into the room.
“Mister president, we’ve received a communication from the aliens!”
“What?” Every man in the room said.
“Let’s have it, what did they say?”
The aid excitedly looked at his piece of paper.
“They said, please stop sending those loud jets, they’re interfering with the tenth millennial interspecies symphony. We just got the killer whales to stop eating the pilot whales, and we’d like to get started.” | 82 | Aliens have arrived! But ... they're completely ignoring us. | 133 |
Hunger. Feed.
*****
More hunger. Eat. Delicious chew.
*****
So hungry, they run fast. Can catch, delicious fast food.
*****
Brain go slop, I go nom. Hard to run now, silly food attacked leg. Tasty food.
*****
Hunger make me angry. Need to find some food, can't wait to crack a head and spill the brains. Mouth drooling just thinking about it. Food is so tasty.
*****
She had pretty hair that one, pretty tasty on all fronts really. I'm still so hungry, I wonder if there's any in that building. Couldn' t hurt to look. Better keep the moaning down, don't wanna scare off the food.
*****
Bob with the rotten arm reckons there's loads of them in this place, but I just can't seem to get over the fence. My leg is really slowing me down too, it's been ages since I've had a proper brain, not some titbit from dead cat or something. The hunger is all I feel now, It never seems to go.
Oh, a man in white is hiding here, he's hurt. Oh the pull of the hunger, delicious brains are mine again!
*****
Ok Bob was a total dick earlier, he was walking around when he suddenly stopped, looked at me with disgust and punched me in the head. Like I need that on top of my bad leg. In any case, he was weak, and the dog made a nice entree after I finished his brain. It tasted strangely similar to the human brains, I wonder if he knew how tasty his brain was?
*****
Bob was right, there's loads of them in there. They come out sometimes and take some of us in. I don't know why, but my giddy aunt I hope they pick me. I think I could pretend to be one of the weaker ones, then suddenly turn or something, and get some brain. I'm so hungry.
They're coming again, I'm going to try and get to the front, out of the way weaklings! Stupid weakling, you don't even have eyes and I have a healing leg, go bite a rat.
Yes! I'm in, but they have me trapped. I'll bide my time, must act weak, maybe limp or something.
Where am I now, high ceilings, and rows of tools like stabby claws. Oh the brains I could spill with them! They're coming now, I'll listen, maybe I can learn how to get free.
'It worked, she's slowly turning back. It's taken a few days but there's definitely signs of cognitive function returning. There's a chemical in brains that they naturally seek, and we've managed to synthesise it in the lab. It's turning her back Simon, I think we can cure them!'
I have no idea what synthesise is, but this Simon fellow looks mean. I bet he has a big brain though.
'God I hope you're right. But what if she turns back into one of them? How can we ever be sure? I mean look at this one, it's hopeless, it can barely move. Do you really think you can bring it back?'
They're looking at me, ham up the pathetic, lower their guard. I think my arm is a little loose, I'll try and work it free when they look away.So hungry.
'I don't know Simon, but we've got to try. Isn't it worth the risk if we can turn them back, turn our hunters back into our allies. Find our families again?'
'I guess you're right. In any case, give him the injection then I'll wheel over to quarantine. He's freaking me out a bit'
Yes! I'm free! Now then Simon, time to try some fresh brain! Oh such glorious screams, like a dinner gong of the flesh. Where are you going girly? No no, you can stay here there's a good girl. I remember them being stronger than this, oh well more brain for me. Two of them, two brains. I've never felt such a rush. This implement should do it, yep and I'm in. He does have a big brain. A feast!
*****
Where am I... what the hell am I doing?! What the hell am I eating?! I'm gonna be sick, oh god, oh my god did I kill these people?
That one there, the woman, she might still be alive. Yes, she's moving, but how the hell is she still alive with her head split like that? Are they teeth marks on her? Her eye's don't look quite right. what the hell, she's talking.
'Hunger... feed'. | 58 | Zombies gain intelligence as they eat more brains. One zombie suddenly regains self awareness while attacking a facility working on a cure | 81 |
It was to funny think that a simple class project started this whole thing. Josh built a catapult for Physics 101 and after receiving an A for his hard work, turned to evil. Max had not expected a water balloon to strike his face and was knocked to the ground like a ragdoll from the impact. Josh and their friends laughed gleefully while Max lay sopping on the ground. Being the good sport that he is, Josh came over once he finished laughing, stuck his hand out, and helped Max up. “Gotcha buddy!” Josh slapped Max on the back and walked away to get a soda. Oh, you got me alright, Max had thought. You got me.
That night, Max toiled away on the perfect plan to get Josh back. And the best part would be that Josh himself would instigate his own demise! He crept into Josh’s room while he slept and laid three water balloons on a shelf above Josh’s bed. Their apartment was far from in perfect condition and so the shelf was warped and uneven. A carefully placed book was all that kept them on the shelf, away from Josh’s head. Here was where Max’s genius kicked in. Tied to the book was a string, and the string was tied to Josh’s alarm clock. The funny thing about being roommates with someone is you learn a great deal about them, perhaps more than they want you to know. One tidbit of knowledge Max had thought would be useless until now was that Josh, without fail, could not turn an alarm clock off like a normal human being. Instead, he opted for knocking the clock off his nightstand and hoping the intrusive noise would turn off from the impact. His laziness would be his downfall. Max crossed the hallway into his room and went to sleep, setting his own alarm for 5 minutes before Josh’s.
The next morning, Max awoke and peeked through the crack of Josh’s door, phone in hand ready to record. The alarm beeped and, like he always does, Josh knocked the clock away. The book fell and three water balloons came crashing down onto Josh’s face. “What the?!” Josh was awake in an instant and Max crashed to the floor, unable to stand from all the laughter. Josh smirked. He knew then, it was on.
His follow up came a week later. Max opened the fridge to get some milk for his traditional Saturday pancake breakfast. Unfortunately for him, Josh had anticipated this. He had placed a small ramp in the fridge and a jar of pickle juice on the top shelf. All that kept the pickle juice from rolling down was a carefully placed box of Chinese takeout, with one of the white flaps taped to the door. Max opened the door and the takeout was dragged away and the pickle juice began its journey. It slid to the edge of the shelf and struck a near-empty carton of juice. The juice tipped over, and hit some ranch dressing, which hit a two-liter bottle of soda, which hit Max’s open milk carton. Like a deer looking straight into oncoming headlights, Max was motionless as the carton tipped over and poured all his milk directly onto his feet. Max could sense someone behind him and spun around to see Josh beaming at what he had accomplished. “Don’t, don’t,” Josh was struggling to talk through fits of giggling. “Don’t cry over spilt milk!” Josh laughed hard enough to cry while Max could only stand there defeated.
That was ten years ago. What began as simple pranks had escalated into all out personal attacks. Any semblance of a friendship had long since been destroyed by their increasingly elaborate entrapments. Max thought back to all the things he had lost to Josh’s machinations over the years: the milk was the start, but then his computer, that cute girl at the bar, his car, his grandmother’s ashes; the list went on forever. Max had lost everything to this war and it was time for revenge. The time had come to end this once and for all. No more suffering, no more needless pain. He had not struck back at Josh in over a year. Max was not naive enough to assume he was no longer expecting retribution, but even the tiniest false sense of security for Josh was enough
Now Max’s plan was finally ready. He stood in Josh’s backyard in the cold on Saturday at 3 AM, and hesitated. He had checked it dozens of times and knew his contraption was intact. But it would only run once so he had never been able to actually test it. He could run another diagnostic, but he knew it would come out the same way it had every other time he tried. It would work. It HAD to work. The war was about to be ended, permanently. Max reached out before he could second guess himself again and pushed over the domino. No going back now. The domino tapped lightly against a bigger domino, which in turn hit an even bigger domino and continued on all the way around the backyard. Max had had to order them specially made for this. The final massive 6’ tall domino hit a bowling ball sitting high up on some metal guide rails. The bowling ball rolled down a ways into a massive slingshot. After being knocked loose, the slingshot fired a rock the size of a baseball at a target high in the air, which started spinning downwards on a bolt. It wound its way down the bolt until it was level with the roof where the target finally smacked into a series of billiards balls positioned on the gutters. They rolled loudly around the house and Max could see lights in the house starting to flicker on from all the noise outside. All the balls save for the white cue ball were too large to fit down the pipe. The cue ball on the other hand rolled right out the drain and landed neatly on top of a mini trampoline. Max was worried about this part and he covered his eyes. The cue ball bounced and landed right on top of the welcome mat outside the back door as expected.
The back door unlocked and Josh thrust it open with his phone in hand, ready to threaten a burglar that he was call the cops. Instead, he saw Max smiling like a madman. He would have preferred a burglar. The phone dropped from his hand and he yelled back to his wife inside. “Honey! He’s here!” There was fear in Josh’s voice. He knew right away that Max intended for this one to be his last. “Grab the kids and get out! Now!” It would have made sense for Josh to leave also, but Max recognized the look in Josh’s eyes. His curiosity outweighed any concern he had for his own well-being; he had to know how the machine would end. The cue ball, hit by the back door, had rolled to the other side of the yard near the fence. It struck a lever that violently turned a matchbox against a perfectly positioned match. The match lit up and started to burn down for what felt like an eternity. Finally, it reached the end and a fuse was lit. Suddenly sparks were flying and the fire made its way into Josh’s prized rose bushes.
Josh gasped at first, ready to curse Max for burning down his hard work, until he noticed they were not the targets. In the darkness, Josh could vaguely make out rockets behind the bushes. His mouth dropped open as they all fired into the air. Josh braced himself for the worst and hoped his family had made it away from the area safely. The rockets exploded and Josh instinctively yelled, expecting pain. When it did not come, he opened his eyes and looked up to see the rockets were fireworks. He was even more surprised to read that the fireworks spelled out words.”I’m sorry,” Max read aloud. Josh looked down and saw Max waving a white flag. Josh could only smile with relief. He started to laugh, his first real laugh in a long time. Max joined him and they embraced like only two old friends who have not seen each other in many years can. “Come on Max. It’s Saturday. Let’s go have some pancakes.” | 12 | Two people wage war on each other with Rube-Goldberg devices. | 18 |
Kevin wasn’t your stereo-typical hero. All his life he had been just below average in so many ways. He was short, but not noticeably so. He was chubby, but not fat. Girls didn’t pay much attention to him, his friends were milquetoast and forgettable, he was neither creative nor brave nor witty. Just about the only thing about Kevin of note was his intellect. He was just smart enough to see what he was missing, he could feel with profound clarity all the ways his life could have been better if only he were a hair taller, a bit more charming, a bit more confident.
The one break life had ever granted him was his wife. Inexplicably gorgeous, generous, and kind. When she walked into his life it almost made up for every time he was picked last for dodgeball - every party he wasn’t invited to.
And that why, after five years of marriage, he was trying to find someone to kill her.
Jasmine had been using him. She had married him to get citizenship. Now that she had it, she dropped him like the forgettable creature that he was. But Kevin wasn’t going to take this lying down, not this time.
The Tor client wasn’t hard to set up, instructions could be found all over the internet. It was finding what you needed on the darknet that took some doing. You couldn’t google “tor hitman forums”. He had to do some digging. Quite a lot of digging.
It was in this digging that he stumbled onto the most singular website in the history of the web.
fsad789fs.onion was the most beautiful website he had ever seen. Looping skyscapes of clouds, sunrises and sunsets, rain bursts and slow, intricate snowflakes.
The forecast was a time-lapse of the coming days weather. You entered a location, the number of days, and the speed of the animation. That was it. If you wanted the next days forecast, you entered the pertinent data and watched an amazing procession of sunrise, clouds, and sunset.
It was after playing with it for a few hours that Kevin began to feel that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the website felt strangely familiar. A thought struck him.
In the forecast day field he entered - “Today”
In the location, he put his address.
In the “Forecast Speed” box he clicked. “Real Time”
Kevin was thrilled. Somehow the forecast was clever enough to switch to a live stream of the sky outside his area - it was so seamless!
Curious how it would handle the transfer from life images to animation, he sped up the animation speed by 100%
A cold, sinking feeling settled in his stomach - there was no transfer, this site somehow knew not only the exact temperature it would be in an hour, it perfectly predicted and rendered every cloud shape - as cleanly as a video feed. He sat staring, flabbergasted, and then he saw it. On his 5th replay of the days weather, a plane flying across the sky, headed north; five minutes later, a contrail appeared in the sky outside his own window - headed north.
Lost in contemplation, he continued to manipulate the settings. 5 days, London, 45 seconds. A procession of days and nights flew past his screen - fog banks moved in and out with startling speed.
10 days, Cairo, 2 minutes.
Clear sky, day following night, not a single cloud.
1 month, Seattle, 30 Seconds.
A permanent sky of twighlight, the days passing so fast that the brightness of day and the darkness of night blended together. Not a terribly useful tool at this speed…
What was that?
A flash, in the muddled half light of the sky.
He slowed down the animation.
1 month, Seattle, 5 minutes.
On the 28th day of the forecast, it happened again. Only for a second - he tracked back the animation slider and held it. February 12, 2017 at 3:01pm.
The sky was only white. No definition at all. That wasn’t what kept his attention. What held his attention was the temperature. There in white Helvitica, the number stared at him.
1435 F. For about 15 minutes, the sky burned.
Kevin closed his Tor client, and hopped over to his normal browser. He opened google maps.
“Abandoned Silos Montana”
Then he booked a plane ticket.
Jasmine could burn in hell.
| 109 | In late 2014 a website which provides weather forecasts is discovered on the deep web. Its predictions are never wrong. On a day in February 2017, temperatures everywhere on the fifth day of the five day forecast read in the thousands. | 138 |
A man of many aliases, he was issued orders directly from the heads of the government. An assassin and agent of the highest caliber, he traveled the world on the multiple assignments he was given. A master of his craft, he was neither seen nor heard in any situation, able to traverse any terrain or crowd with ease. He carried out the darkest deeds in secret for the greater good, never receiving praise, nor wanting it.
One day, though, he was discovered. A small child, unaware of his contributions to England and the world, pointed at him and screamed to her mother. With great haste and confusion, he fled the scene, unable to complete his task that would have ultimately saved many lives. Reporting his mission a failure, he was given new orders. When reaching his destination, again the same little girl was somehow waiting, pointing, screaming, and ruining a world-altering mission. He had never before been so exposed by such a naive creature, and once again had to flee the scene.
This went on for longer than the man would care to admit. After awhile, he was 'let go' by the powers that be and said to be removed from existence because of all the knowledge he possessed. Despite this rumor, though, some people still report sightings of a man known only by very few identifiers. Some people say he's just another Big Foot, a mythical being someone made up to quench their desire for mystery. Others say he's real and still out there, writing history with his actions of his own free will in the book of life. This man is a hero, but considered nothing more than either a myth, legend, or complete waste of a thought due to the impossibility of his existence. Even those who consider him real have no knowledge of him, and just want to tell their friends they spotted and exposed him. Believers search, usually in vain, trying to point him out and forever asking those around them the same question.
Where's Wally? | 27 | Tell the tale of the Hero who should have been, but never was. | 43 |
It never failed with these 'wizards'. Jean shook his head in silent reproach as he looked through the eye-piece of his rangefinder. Nine-hundred meters. So used to seeing their opponents face to face. They were always so reliant on a personal encounter, and being able to see their opponent. Jean read the wind velocity off of his pocket-berometer: three meters a second. He checked down his scope again. The target was bent over her garden; her wild red hair was partially hemmed in by a pair of ear muffs as she gripped the stem of some horrendous plant. The roots of the plant seemed to have twisted into the shape of a squirming infant.
The streams of her hair were close enough; three meters a second. Jean double checked the calculations in his ballistics chart. At nine-hundred meters the round would fall two meters and would take a second and a quarter to impact. Jean carefully looked through the sights of his rifle once more. The old soviet era Dragunov had served him well, many of these witches and wizards had fallen in its sights. As a final measure he looked at the single round in his magazine. The bullet was flawlessly polished and crafted with the utmost care. The soft lead cone at the tip seemed to suck up the light. There was no point in using a hardened steel penetrator; none of the heathens Jean hunted knew the meaning of armor.
The magazine settled into its well with a satisfying click, and Jean let the rifle's bolt ride forward. The round settled into it's sarcophagus like a lead brick. His target finished her task and stood. The optics magnified her face; Jean saw her smile with contentment even as he flicked the safety off the rifle. Eyes closed, she turned into the wind. Jean rested his finger on the trigger and exhaled. The witch slumped just a little, her face sagging. Jean's finger squeezed on the trigger. The rifle erupted like thunder.
The optics took only a moment to settle, and Jean saw the witch turn with a frown, looking right towards him. No matter, fate was on its way. | 20 | A highly trained muggle assassin's next target is an Auror. | 82 |
They call it the Butterfly Effect. A butterfly flaps its wings in South America, and manipulates the wind so that a hurricane strikes Floroda because of it.
I wasn't intending to commit a crime. It was a simple matter of carelessness. I tossed my wrapper toward the trash, and missed. A car drove by, and sent the wrapper flying into the road.
Fron the road, the wrapper made its way into the city. In the city, for all to see.
Littering. The textbooks mention it as a passive crime in its time, barely causing people to bat an eye.
But this is a utopia now. There is no crime here. Until me. Until my simple mistake caused a storm. You think I'm the butterfly.
I know you've sentenced me to die, so the people can know the severity of crime. You think if I am allowed to live, I will create a hurricane. The world will turn back to genocide, rape, arson...
Is your utopia so weak that a single ripple could destroy you? This is a glass city, where one stone can destroy our walls.
I know you're going to give me the death penalty. I know this recording will be my last testament.
Congratulations, you are comitting the second crime. By killing me, you are doing exactly as you want to stop.
I'm not the butterfly, you are. | 383 | In a perfect utopia, you have just committed the first crime... | 275 |
"Why do you even try to save the humans, Jesus? Don't you see they don't deserve being saved? I've already shown you what worthless beings they are. Hate, envy, greed, all those wars, they are selfish little things who kill each other for pleasure, the worst of all animals. Your move."
"Yes, but they can also love. Having the freedom of choice leaves them prey to your temptations, and you are just cruel to prey on them. But humans are made after the image of Father, so their higher goal is reaching the calm you threw away. Humans can forgive. and as long as they forgive themselves they will be forgiven by Father. All they need is a little guidance. And here, I took your bishop."
"Good move. The calm I threw away? CALM?! BOREDOM! That's what it was. The life of a vegetable, really, dragging your existence from one day to another, with no purpose at all, just sitting near God. I gave humans that freedom you talk about, I taught them that there's more than what they saw. I escaped from God's clutches, I released the humans, and I won't let you take them back. Let them kill each other, at least they can choose for themselves what to do. You are the cruel one, Jesus, trying to take away what I gave them. You were careless, Jesus. Check."
"Come, you two. It's late already, time to go to bed."
"We'll never finish this game, won't we, Lucifer?"
"Stop calling me that. No, we probably won't." | 55 | A man claiming to be Jesus Christ is sanctioned and sent to a mental institute. There he meets a man claiming to be the Devil and every night after sundown they meet to play a game of chess and talk ... | 163 |
"We're requesting authorisation to land. This is Flight MH370, I repeat MH370. It seems our landing slot has been taken by another vehicle."
Silence crackled over the speaker. Chen Duan, lazing back in her swivelling chair in the flight tower, pen twirling between her fingers, had suddenly sat up very straight.
"Could you repeat the number of the flight please?" She realised with a sudden start that her fingers were trembling as she pressed the button on the radio.
"That's Flight MH370, coming from Kuala Lumpur. This is Captain Shah speaking. We've been informed that our landing spot has been taken and we're waiting for another. Could you find us a time to land please?"
"Where are you currently?" Chen gestured at Wei, her colleague in the flight tower. "You have to listen to this," she hissed. "I think it's the missing plane."
"We're circling Beijing airport. Requesting permission to land, requesting permission to land."
------------
Sandy heaved her bag down from the cabin lockers, easing it over the headrests of the seats in front of her. It was a huge rucksack, worn and faded, with patches stuck on from a myriad different adventures in south-east Asia. The next plan was Beijing, see the Forbidden City and a day trip out to the Great Wall before catching the next flight to Mumbai and continuing her gap year there.
Organised as usual, she had her passport and visa out of one of the side pockets. She'd had a couple of rough patches with administration and she was hoping it'd go smoothly from here on in. There was the hotel reservation, a couple of choice phrases and the name and number of a taxi company she was supposed to use.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd remain seated for a couple of moments more. There's a little bit of a hold up on the court, and we're just waiting for the buses to arrive to take you to the terminal."
Disappointed, Sandy sat back down. Was there any point in switching her phone on yet? She hadn't had any signal in Kuala Lumpur, and it was unlikely it would reach any networks in China. She slipped it out of her pocket and pushed the button, waiting for the little glowing screen to come to life.
Frowning, she shook it. That was weird. Even accounting for the time difference, that couldn't be - Oh it must have completely fucked up. That wasn't today's date either. There was some kind of noise building up on the runway. She looked up, to see....
-------------
"Jonathan! Keep up!" Eleanor ran ahead, shoes clipping over the tarmac, mac floating out behind her like a superhero's cape. She carried her mike in one hand, the other on top of her head to desperately try and preserve the hasty work of the hair and make-up team. Jonathan, her slightly over-weight camera man, was following close behind but falling back. Even before the heaviness of the solid camera he carried on his shoulder, there were ten to fifteen pounds around his waist that shouldn't be there.
Eleanor had reached the stairs of the aircraft, carefully manoeuvred into place. The doors were starting to click back and the first blue uniforms of the flight attendants could be seen. But there were others too, a couple of people from the BBC following them. Harry was out of breath, shirt already sweat stained under his armpits.
"Eleanor," he nodded, puffing.
"Harry," she replied curtly, then side stepped him and grabbed the first person off the plane, just reaching the bottom of the stairs now. Thank god she was a young American; blonde hair in dreads and a ratty rucksack slung over one shoulder.
"Hi!" She said brightly. "I'm wondering if we can ask you a few questions. The whole world is going to be asking this, but; where have you been?"
"Me?" The girl looked startled, stepping back and gripping her rucksack. "Why, is everything okay? Is my family alright?"
"No, I'm sure they're fine. We're talking about the plane. Where have you been for the last few months? What happened?"
"What are you talking about? We've just arrived. Oh my god-" The girl's face had just gone pale. She held up her phone. "I have to call my folks."
She hurried out of range of the camera. Over on her left, the Mandarin-speaking Harry seemed to be having the same problems. He caught Eleanor's eye and they both shrugged together. That small clip would be broadcast around the world; the people pouring off the plane and the first journalists to realise there was something badly wrong.
-------------------
| 389 | Flight MH370 lands today. From the perspective of the pilot and passengers the journey was totally normal and uneventful, corroborated by the black box and flight recorder. | 886 |
I followed her.
She was walking out of the bar. I had noticed her earlier;honey colored hair,green eyes and lips that would make you forget the drink in your hand.I stepped out into the night and saw she had turned left. I kept three steps behind her as she walked down the street. She had this light to her that I couldn't put into words. She was alluring and seemed to call out to me.
She passed a street lamp and I watched her stride as she continued.I quickened my pace just a bit and wondered where she was going.
"Spare change?"
The question caught me off guard and saw an old man wearing a ragged pea coat and jeans. The veins in his nose looked as if they could explode at any moment. I mumbled something and tossed a quarter in his direction.
I looked and saw that she was no longer in view. I rubbed my hands on my knees and looked in all directions. Finally I saw the light reflect off her jacket on the street corner. She turned and walked into an alley between two rather misshapen and long forgotten buildings.
Slowly I crept into the alley and saw that she had stopped. She turned to look at me, a thin smile on her lips. In the semi darkness her face seem to shift a bit as if it did not fit correctly.
"You were in the bar," she said.
Suddenly the connection between my mouth and brain refused to work.
"Um..yes, yes I was."
"Come closer," she said. "Let me get a better look at you."
I moved slowly to her and hesitated.The idea of walking away and spending the night at home sounded like a much better idea. She put her hand on my shoulder and peered into my eyes. She had tiny flecks of gold in her pupils. She smiled and touched my cheek.
She moved closer. Normally I would have welcomed her caress but this was something..not quite right. Something predatory.
She slid her body and pressed her lips against me. Her lips were rough, almost scaly. I don't know why but that was the first thought that came to mind.She brushed her tongue along lips and slid it inside my mouth. Her breath,hot and tasting like sour milk hit my nostrils.
Then I could not breathe. The air was being sucked out of my lungs. My weak slaps to her chest were useless. I saw the light disappearing around me.
I woke up on the ground in the alley. She was looking at me with a bemused expression. I checked to see whether I was injured. Everything appeared to be alright. I was very thirsty. I put my hand to my throat and felt a large protuberance. I swallowed and it slowly moved down. I could feel it squirming around my lungs. I stood up and shook the dirt off of my jeans.
I followed her.
| 12 | Write a story that begins and ends with the same sentence in a way that it takes on a whole new meaning the second time. | 21 |
KrampusNacht. The name hardly rolled off the tongue, but it suited him just fine. Krampus had inherited the old man's business will a solemn promise to him. "I will do you proud, sir. I will do you proud." The old man had grown tired of his favorite day being used as an opportunity for children to whine and complain about how they wanted various commercial prizes. Krampus had seen his eyes lose their sparkle, and had listened, over the last 10 years, as his laugh grew more strained. Finally, he had offered a simple suggestion, which arose form a normal conversation around the fireplace, some time in October.
"Remember when kids were actively trying to be good around this time of year, rather than basking in the anticipation of treats?"
"Yes," mused Krampus, sipping his warm milk. "But that was a while ago." He chuckled, and continued, "back when you would follow though on your promise of coal in their stockings."
"Well," the old man replied, sagging into his chair, "I tried doing that, but I just didn't have the heart for it. Did you see the devastated looks on their faces? How utterly distraught they were to have all of the holiday buildup crushed by a simple black rock?" He sighed deeply. "Now I've just taken to giving them socks."
Krampus had paused then, taking in his mentor's age. He had been doing this job for centuries, but only now did he truly look *old*.
"Well maybe we need a new policy, just for a few years. maybe give out coal one year, and then revert back to socks the next. Do it randomly enough, and children would think again about being on your naughty list."
The old man shook his head slowly. "You just don't get it. I *can't* bear to see them looking so sad on Christmas morning! It's the happiest day of the year. Just not for me, anymore." He sighed again, deeply.
"Then let me do it," Krampus said slowly, as the idea came to his head. "On a naughty year, I'll make the rounds, and on a nice year, you can do it!"
"You would bear all those sad faces, just for me?"
"You deserve it, sir. You've done this job for years with no complaint, you deserve a night off every couple years."
The old man regained a bit of his posture, and a contract was made that very night. Every 3 years, there would be a KrampusNacht, where the naughty children were made to truly be sad that they were naughty. All other years, it would be Christmas as usual. As the two shook on it, they both had a renewed gleam in their eyes, for the first KrampusNacht would begin in only a few months.
Krampus had decided not to take the old sleigh. It was the Boss's thing, not his; He wanted no doubt in the children's minds that this was not their red-clothed angel. No, he needed something distinctive, to let it settle in to all the naughty children that Krampus was on his way. He chose a chariot, like from roman antiquity, but black as coal, pulled by white horses. The chariot's wheels were set ablaze, trailing fire through the sky as he cackled with glee. The old man radioed in that the cackle was not entirely necessary, but Krampus couldn't resist casting himself as a villain, one to strike fear in the hearts of children, those who dared to be naughty.
The first house he stopped at was the hardest, since there had been no precedent. "It's do or die time," he muttered to himself. He carefully stuffed the stockings with coal, chuckling at the old fashioned style, and went to the presents with a gleam in his eye, for here was where the new ideas had come in. In one he had put a spider. In another he had put a grinning skull, still bloody, which would glow and heat up when touched. Both of these would scare the two children, and then turn to dust after 10 minutes. The black dust would be blown into a tornado by magical wind, and finally settle on to the wall in the shape of a pentagram, with 1 word in the middle. "KRAMPUS." He repeated the process in other houses, with such gifts as jet black snakes that would slither and bite, (non poisonously) small effigies of ornately carved demons, so grotesque and detailed in their perversion that they would make even the hardest of men tremble, and broccoli.
At last, he left the last house, and the time-stop ended. He streaked across the sky, but rather than laughing "HO HO HO," he maniacally cackled into the night. The cookies had been bitten in to with razor-sharp shark teeth, leaving a monster's bite, and the glass of milk had been shattered on the floor. KrampusNacht had ended. The naughty children had been given gifts of fear, and the nice children had been blessed by having their houses left alone. Krampus flew back to the north pole, happy with himself, only to see The Old Man nowhere to be seen. He found a note, mostly unintelligible due to its hasty writing, but he could gather that Santa had run off, retired. "Well," whispered Krampus, a malicious smile overtaking his face, "Looks like KrampusNacht is here to stay." He then danced off to his workshop, singing to himself.
You better not shout
You better not cry
You better not pout
I'm telling you why:
KrampusNacht is coming next year.
He's grinding his axe
checking his list
working the stiffness out of his wrist,
KrampusNacht is coming next year. | 13 | Santa's replacement got the job by campaigning on a platform of punishing bad children instead of rewarding the good ones. It's Christmas Eve. | 58 |
It's not that I expect to win or anything. I mean, I have a higher chance of being struck by lightning three times than winning the lottery. It never hurts to try, though. A chance is still a chance. I plop down on my couch, salt and vinegar chips in hand, and listen intently to the woman's droning voice.
5...19...28... *holy shit*
16...54...*Oh my God.*
My eyes widen and half-eaten chips fall from my mouth as I realize what actually happened here. I'm... a millionaire. Me. A broke graduate student who can barely pay his rent or afford name-brand potato chips.
I imagine myself debt-free and not drowning in student loans, reclining on a beach in Cabo, backpacking through Europe, frantically running away from vicious kangaroos in Australia, flying a private jet over the Mediterranean, partying with celebrities and blowing my cash on hookers and contraband... Okay, maybe not the last one, but there are so many possibilities in store.
My phone rings, interrupting my reverie. Ooh, maybe someone's congratulating me! I hope it's my mom. She hasn't taken too kindly to the fact that I am pursuing a Masters in philosophy. Guess what, mom, now I can talk about Kierkegaard all I want because I'm a *millionaire*!
"Hello, Garrett speaking." But the voice on the other line is my own.
"Garrett," I hear myself whisper frantically through the phone, "Garrett. Destroy that ticket. Immediately. It's not suppos—"
On the other side, the door bursts open, and the heavy sound of boots on the ground fills my ears. At this point, I'm not sure what the fuck is going on, and I'm sweating and the phone is slipping from my hand. It drops on the ground and I hear screaming and two soft *pops* from a silenced gun from the other end.
I'm not sure what to make of this, but whatever it is, it is something *bad*. I run to my bedroom, dig through my underwear drawer, and I tear up the ticket. Better safe than sorry, right? Right?
I hear two hard knocks on the door. "Open up immediately," the authoritative voice shouts behind the door. "Open up now."
Fuck. Fuck. I'm tearing up the ticket. I'll flush it down the toilet. They won't find it... They won't find it...
The door bursts open, and the heavy sound of boots on the ground fills my ears.
I can't think of any other course of action. I pick up my cell phone, and it almost falls out of my hands as I dial my landline.
I hear my own voice answer, against all common sense.
"Garrett. Garrett. Destroy that ticket. Immediately. It's not suppos—"
The last sounds I hear are two soft *pops* from a silenced gun. | 65 | Seconds after you see on TV that your numbers were called in a $240 million Powerball lottery, your phone rings. You answer it to hear your voice, frantically telling you to tear it up immediately. You then hear two gunshots and then the dial tone | 161 |
I laughed.
"Yeah, that's us, the five aspects of human nature." I put down my glass of Coke before drinking any and looked at everyone with a serious face. "Except you got it wrong. Dave isn't Hope, he's the spirit of dickishness, and Jane's the embodiment of being a retard!"
I burst out laughing and picked the glass back up, bringing it to my mouth, but pausing mid-air. They weren't laughing. "This is either the lamest birthday joke I've ever heard, or you're all on some kinda drug. What is it and how do I get some, because I-"
"It isn't a joke." Jane spoke with a serious tone, "You know I never joke."
That was true. I knew Jane since... well since I could remember and I never once heard her joking about anything. I placed the full glass on the table.
"You're the embodiment of truth." I shook my head as if in sudden realization. "That's amazing, because I... I'm actually Batman."
I smiled again at the four of them. They always sat on the other couch whenever they came to my house, leaving me alone on mine. Jane took a drink from her glass as Dave smiled back.
"Maybe he really doesn't know," he said. "I've never seen him do a bad deed yet."
Greg took a sip and leaned back. "I'm not sure, but whatever you're going through man, you know I'd get it. You can talk to me."
Mary put her empty glass down and nodded. "I'd help you with anything John. We all realized what we were on our eighteenth birthdays, surely you did as well? We wouldn't hate you for it, it's just in your nature. You're the youngest, but you're eighteen now."
I stayed silent as they watched me, waiting for what I'd say. What they didn't realize is that I stayed silent as well, watching them. Waiting for what would happen.
Mary began choking. Slowly at first, just a couple of coughs, but they quickly became heavier and harder. I looked into her eyes, she was confused. So confused.
Greg's face lit up with realization. Huh, he really was quick to understand things. He began to cough before he could speak.
Jane stood up, trying to run out I guess, but she fell immediately.
Dave didn't even move, he just stared at me. As if I'd let him down. Like a blind man would stare at a bad service dog, pointless.
"You're right," I said to the four bodies as I tapped my fingernail on my full glass of Coke. "It is in my nature." | 33 | On your 18th birthday, your 4 best friends reveal that they are the physical embodiments of Hope, Understanding, Truth and Kindness. They also reveal that you are the embodiment of Evil, and that they were sent to ensure you never acted out your full potential as Evil. | 53 |
We sat together drinking.
"well, What the fuck do we do now?"
"I have no fucking idea"
We sat in an empty apartment, the walls were stained and the paint was peeling.
the sound of gunshots came through an open window. I heard screaming and banging coming from other apartments.
The President of the United States had called for peace days ago. That was before he was escorted out of the country by Helicopter. Days Later he resigned.
The UK fell next. Funny to see all those hundreds of years of monarchy, reduced to nothing but bones and ash.
The Prime Minister of Australia was assassinated. Australia returned to the way it was hundreds of years ago, many people moving out into the bush.
All of the countries in Africa are now at war with each other and south america has become rife with shootings,stabbings,crime and gang fights.
The EU is at war with Russia, whom is about to declare nuclear war.
But, Fuck if I care.
I returned to the present day. Thomas was ruffling around in the kitchen. he yelled triumphantly and pulled out a handgun. I took a large swig of whiskey and hiccuped.
After all these years, it wasn't what I wanted.
"Thomas, why the fuck did we want this." I asked my best friend of six years.
"Luke, I have no fucking clue."
He loaded a magazine into the handgun.
I walked over to the window and pulled it open.
Below me I could see a girl being pulled into an alleyway and a man on his hands and knees, vomiting surrounded by what looked like a gang.
Several police cars and riot squads screeched into the road.
I called Thomas over.
"come look at these coppers, thinking they have a fucking chance."
He laughed and went into the kitchen.
I continued to watch as war raged on in the street below me. A mob emerged from a few streets over and the police squads were no more.
I took another swig of whiskey. Thomas came out of the kitchen with a notepad and paper.
"Luke, I know this is what we wanted all these years, but it isn't what I wanted."
He downed half a bottle of vodka in a few gulps.
He handed me a note and told me
"find my family, they should be in their cabin in Yellowstone, the one we visited when we were kids."
"You can hold up there for a while, they will understand."
I nodded.
He handed me another note,
"Find Emily and give her this, tell her I'm sorry."
I nodded once more and walked out of the room.
Tears pricked my eyes as I turned around
"goodbye and thank you" was all he said.
As I walked out of the building I heard a gunshot.
"goodbye" I whispered.
| 14 | Riots cover the Earth in major cities, causing anarchy to prevail. Two anarchists sit back, watching the riots, wondering what happens next. | 62 |
As I approached the next tree, the vibration of my chainsaw stopped--it had died. I looked down at the machine with frustration, I'd just repaired the damn thing this morning. I set the infernal device down and plucked the radio from my belt, but it wasn't working either. Probably too far away. I walked about two hundred yards in the direction of the logging camp. I tried the radio again, it crackled with static.
"Central, Central, Jack," I called to the operator.
"Go for Central," a voice called back a few moments later.
"My chainsaw died, can you send Fred with a replacement."
"Fred is currently assisting in zone seven, I'll send Catherine instead. She'll be there in fifteen minutes," the operator buzzed.
"Negative Central, I'll just use my axe," I protested, anyone but Catherine.
"Shut it, Jack. She's on her way, Central out."
"Dammit," I sighed and clipped the radio back to my belt. Saved by Catherine the Great, wonderful, the boys would never let me hear the end of it. I trekked back to the tree, hefting my axe--might as well get started, if I worked fast enough, I'd be done by the time she got there and I wouldn't need her. I started swinging, chipping away at the massive trunk. After about five minutes of furious chopping, I realized I'd never get this done without a chainsaw. The trunk was amazingly dense, I would have needed help regardless of my chainsaw failure, I just wished literally anyone but Catherine was on their way. Another sigh and I kept chopping.
Finally the familiar rumbling of an '89 chevy truck caught my attention, I turned and saw it approaching along the trail about a hundred yards through the forest. I walked to the makeshift road and flagged the truck down, Catherine was grimacing at me through the muddy windshield. After the truck slowed to a stop, the door swung open and out stepped a giant woman: Catherine. She was well over 6'5" and well muscled, her dark hair in a tight bun on top of her head. As a woman in the industry, she wasn't well liked by most--well any--of the rest of us. She was brusk and aggressive, but there was no denying that she was a damn good logger.
"You're an asshole, Jack," she growled as she moved the bed of the truck.
"Nice to see you too, Catherine," I sighed, no doubt some sort of quip was about to be shot in my direction. Instead she pulled two chainsaws from the truck.
"Where's the broken one?" she asked as she shoved the chainsaw into my arms.
"Out by the tree," I swallowed my pride and came out with it, "I think I'm going to need your help getting it down, she's proving to be quite the bi-" I stopped myself as her glare intensified. I sighed yet again, "please?"
Even as the word left my lips she burst out laughing, "Oh this is rich! Hold on, I have to record this moment!" She was patting her jeans, pretending to search for her phone. I suppose I deserved it after all the bullshit I, and the rest of us, had given her over the years.
"Are you gonna help or not?" I was losing patience with her attitude.
"Where is it?" she asked between laughs.
"Over here," I moved back into the forest.
"Oh your friends are going to love this, Jack," she was still chuckling, "Asking a girl for help? You'll never hear the end of it."
"Yeah if we could just...not mention this to anyone, I'd really appreciate it," I was hopeful, but I knew what the answer would be.
"Not a chance in hell, Jack."
When we got to the tree, I attempted to start the new chainsaw. Nothing. I turned to Catherine, "Is this your idea of some kind of joke? I'm trying to do my job here and you bring me a faulty saw."
"Fuck you, Jack, I tested that machine myself before I even came up here and it worked just fine. You just have no clue what you're doing, give it to me," she yanked the chainsaw from my hands and tried to start it herself. Still nothing, "What the hell?"
"You were saying?" I asked sardonically. She dropped the faulty machine and picked up the one she had brought for herself and tried to start it, but it too refused ignition.
"What the fuck is going on?" she threw the second broken saw to the ground in a fit of rage.
"It's fine, we can just axe the damn thing. Once it's down we'll both head back to control and get new equipment," I hefted my axe to my shoulder. She looked down at the chainsaws then up at the tree. With a melodramatic huff, she picked up her axe. We started chopping, alternating swings.
After about thirty minutes Catherine stopped and leaned panting on her axe, "What the hell is this damn thing made of?"
"See what I'm saying? I've never attacked a tree like this before, we should be halfway through this thing by now and we're only like six inches in," frustrated I swung my axe as hard as I could into the trunk. Suddenly a loud pop, like a gunshot, echoed through the forest and the tree began hissing and billowing some kind of blue smoke from the notch we'd carved out. Catherine and I stumbled backward and hit the ground as the smoke enveloped us. Coughing I scurried away from the tree, eventually getting my feet underneath me. I emerged from the smoke, bleary eyed, searching for Catherine.
"Jack?!" I heard Catherine shout over the hissing.
"I'm over here!" I shouted back between coughs, unwilling to go back into the smoke to search for her. She emerged a few moments later, hacking and stumbling. I reached out to steady her, but she batted my hand away, still coughing.
"What the fuck--" she took a ragged breath, "did you do?"
"Me?" I coughed a few more times, "How the fuck," a deep breath, "did I know the tree was filled with fucking poison gas?"
"Holy shit," she stood upright and coughed again, "Are we gonna die!? You just fucking killed us!!"
"I didn't do shit!" I screamed back. Suddenly the hissing stopped and the smoke began to clear. Catherine and I stood next to each other, dumbfounded by the past two minutes. When the smoke cleared, we were stunned. The area around the tree looked almost...scorched. The plants were withered, the rocks stained blue, even the tree itself looked as if it had been dead for years. Suddenly a whiplike crack shot through the forest. Dead leaves started raining down around us. Another crack. The tree was falling.
"Get out of the way!" I shouted and lunged at Catherine as the tree crashed down around us. The sound was like a train barreling down on us, I closed my eyes and waited to be crushed.
As soon as it had started the tree was on the ground, it was over and I was alive, somehow. I looked over at Catherine laying next to me, she stared back. "You okay?" I asked, shoving a branch off my chest and struggling to my knees.
"Yeah," she grunted and tried to stand. "Aghh!" she shrieked and fell back to the ground clutching her right leg. I looked down and saw a large splinter of the tree sticking out of her thigh.
"H-holy shit!" I stammered, frantically trying to figure out what to do with my hands.
"It's fine, I'm fine," she mumbled, "It's not that deep, just--just tie it off and get me to the truck." How she wasn't panicking like I was, I had no idea. I ripped my left sleeve off and wrapped it around her leg, my hands shaking furiously as I attempted to tie the knot.
"It's gotta be tight," she bit her lip, "Just do it!" I pulled the knot as tight as I could and to her credit she exhaled a low growl as I secured the tourniquet. Working as a lumberjack, I'd seen my fair share of accidents, but something about being covered in someone elses blood was extremely unnerving. I turned and threw up.
"What is that?" I heard Catherine mutter as I gathered my composure. I turned and looked at her, but she wasn't looking at me. I followed her gaze to the stump of the tree--a metallic object was jutting from the remains. It was cone shaped, glowing blue lines were etched in intricate geometric patterns all across its surface. My axe was still embedded in its side.
"I don't--" a deafening boom echoed down from above. Then another. I looked up through the clearing and saw two contrails in the sky, "What now?!"
"W-we shouldn't stay here, we have to go. Th-that thing could be a bomb," Catherine sounded weak, her face was pale.
"Look at you! We can't move you like this," I stood and looked around.
"Do you hear that?" she looked up.
"Hear what?" I strained, my ears were still ringing. Then I heard it, the whoofing of helicopter blades and it was getting louder.
"We have to go NOW!" Catherine shouted and tried to rise, but she fell back to the ground with a grunt. She looked...scared. I'd only ever seen two emotions from her before: angry and less angry. Seeing fear on her...that wasn't something I wanted to fuck with.
"Okay, we'll go," I reached down to help her up, but she flinched away. "I won't tell anyone," I reasoned with her and reached down again. This time she reluctantly took my hand. After we struggled to get her on her feet, I threw her arm over my shoulder and we limped toward the truck.
By the time the helicopters arrived, we were well on our way. Bumping along the roughshod trail must have been agony for Catherine, but she showed no signs of breaking. She hadn't said anything after we'd left, but the fear was still etched across her face. She kept looking in the rearview at the helicopters, they were definitely military, but all they were doing was circling high above the clearing.
"When we get back to control, we'll radio for a medivac or something. There's no hospital for hundreds of miles," I looked at her, she was still fixed on the helicopters behind us. Suddenly an explosion rocked the truck and sent us flying, the world around me went dark.
"They've been exposed, sir," a faint voice reached out through the darkness.
"They're starting to change," another voice, it was slow and far away like a dream.
"Secure the subjects for study, torch the rest." | 51 | You are a logger, deep into the forest with your crew, when someone notices something protruding from a target tree. You start to mess with it an minutes later military helicopters start circling the area. | 85 |
It was a shitshow.
I had already invested a couple billion dollars into this whole damn project just to get it *approved*. Let alone constructing the stadiums, producing merchandise. Do you know how many politicians I had to bribe to do this?
It was pocket change in the beginning. Not so much anymore.
After bleeding money for a year or two just trying to get all the initial paperwork approved, came the ridiculous stadiums. These stadiums had to be **massive**. Big enough so that millions could pour in and cheer themselves hoarse. When you combine an avant-garde, ambitious architect with an essentially endless budget, you end up getting a massively fucking expensive oval stadium, with flickering LED's covering the outer walls to make it look like a diamond having a seizure.
Let me tell you about sports these days.
A long time ago, people discovered steroids. And it actually made sports better- debates of the ethics of it, what constituted as "performance-enhancing", etc. But *then* some eggheads had to make steroids that couldn't be detected, at all. I mean, I can't really blame them. I'm sure they got richer than they ever could have been just working for shit government grants or whatever. But still.
The thing is, the new steroids just made sports a waste of time. Everyone was batting double, triple, what classical ball players had. Basketball nets had to be raised a total of five feet just because people could jump that high. Water had to be thickened with minerals so that swimmers could as least move slow enough to be seen properly. And since foods were engineered to be practically free of calories, regular people didn't need to exercise (or play sports), so viewership got slaughtered eventually. And sports just faded into cultural obscurity, the same way classic rock did, or Christmas. It was just one of those things.
So these "Olympics" (even though the actual former Olympia had been obliterated to expand cities ages ago, after Europe went almost totally bankrupt and thought keeping people housed was more important than some dusty limestone blocks) had to be announced *ten years* in advance. Shit, in the time it took for these Olympics to actually happen, I got married and had a kid. His name is Steven, in case you were wondering.
So then came the actual Olympics. I once heard of this old computer game- KWOP? Or CWOP? Something like that. Sounded like someone saying cop in a weird Bostonian accent. God, I miss that place. Anyway, so in the game the idea was you were playing an Olympian who couldn't really figure out how to move their limbs. It was like that, but *so much worse*, because these people were actually trying. And you know those steroids I mentioned earlier? Since sports practically disappeared, they did too. It was strange seeing someone play a sport and not be able to slam dunk on a fifteen foot basketball net. So while nobody really *won*, the United States technically won the most medals. Bastards. I started this damn competition so that I might help some poor country, and now I have to pay off the debt of one of the most financially fucked countries on the planet.
So what was the total damage? 2 billion in bribes to get the thing started. 5 billion in producing merchandise for every human on the damn planet. 20 billion for the stupid stadium, big waste of money. And the cherry on top? 120 billion for the debt of the states.
147 billion dollars over ten years.
And now, the whole damn world is breathing down my neck, saying I'm like those ancient Greeks or whatever who would force people to kill each other for entertainment, just cause I'm handing out some cash. I mean, I'm doing a good thing. It's not like I'm robbing anyone blind here. Technically, the riots and foreign attacks on the states are a result of the Olympics, but that's not my fault. I didn't *tell* them to kill anyone cause they got a handout.
I mean, technically, this whole affair has cost me the equivalent to pennies compared to the rest of my dough. It still sucks though, that the last form of decent entertainment has got the whole planet saying I started World War 7. I mean, relax, right?
Whatever. I'm gonna go to the next galaxy over and check out some purple hookers. See you in another ten years. | 50 | Eccentric quadrilliinaire Damian Musk. Heir to the fortune made by his father in space exploration and exotic mineral mining. Has revived the Olympic games. Winning nation has their entire global debt paid off. | 153 |
I grew up surrounded by gray.
We painted our cubes and the hallways, all the modules really. It didn't help.
We were stuck on a gray, barren landscape.
I remember learning about Earth when I was a little boy, learning about the great events that led to space exploration.
I could see it from far away, watching through a porthole or the rare days when I was suited up and sent outside the modules.
In my twenty first year, after finished my schooling, they sat me and four others down in a small room.
They explained they had been repairing a shuttle, a ship. A colony defense ship. It held food and supplies for several months. It could withstand the pressures of re-entry.
It had been built for only a few though. The Leaders were too old. The Engineers were necessary to maintain the colony. The Farmers fed our people.
They didn't say it and I don't think the others realized it.
I knew.
We were expendable. We had no place here. We were educated but we hadn't been placed into a career yet. We were smart, young, strong, capable.
We had lost contact with the Earth many years ago, some sort of loss on the radio beacon.
The Engineers had tried to repair it but to no avail. Eventually a ship would come.
It hadn't.
So we would go.
We would risk our lives to create a line of communication.
Our goodbyes were quick, no time for tears or lingering hugs.
It was the day after my birthday when we launched. Five of us strapped into a ship that looked like it might fall apart at any moment.
We hurtled through the atmosphere, fearing the fire. Then we were amid blue sky and clouds, crashing down towards the ground as the thrusters initiated. Jerking in our seats we all gasped or screamed in pain.
Our pilot, mostly by seating chart, was guiding us towards the launch terminal.
I noticed something on our way down. Something that didn't look right.
The cities I'd seen pictures of were vast, sprawling and glittering. They were filled with glass and concrete, people that bustled about their lives.
The city below was no such thing. The gray was spotted with green. There were no people. No signs of life.
Several of the once mighty "skyscrapers" were collapsed against each other. Some lay in heaps of rubble.
That's when I noticed it.
Burn marks. Scorch marks. We learned about war. Bombs, guns, the death that followed.
This city bore those marks.
Nature was reclaiming what it had once lost.
Our pilot landed the ship, barely, on an platform overgrown with vegetation. We stepped from the familiar gray into a sea of green. A sea of blue. A sea of smells and sights.
I took the first step off the vessel.
Something crunched beneath my boot.
I looked down.
It was a skull. Unmistakeably human.
Thousands of bones littered the area.
What had we come down to?
What happened here?
Fear touched my heart and a final, chilling thought occurred to me.
Was I about to die here? | 16 | You were born and grew up on the moon. On your 21. birthday you get the chance to fly to earth for the first time | 32 |
I got all the tears out when I first learned the news. Cancer. There was nothing I could've done except wait and watch the inevitable take its course. The funeral. And that's exactly what it did.
That's why I didn't cry at the funeral. We were brothers. Twins. He knew all my secrets, and I knew all of his. We shared everything, from lovers to food. We were est friends, mediators, and encouragements for each other.
He had a son. He was about five. The hardest part of the funeral wasn't seeing my brother, his military cap still on, and the red, white, and blue flag draped over the coffin. It was looking over into the stands, and seeing his wife and son, their eyes both welling up with tears, as they stared at Tom's lifeless body.
It had to be an open casket.
Then, his son did something I'll never forget. As he turned his head to me, his face lit up. I immediately thought "Oh fuck, no!" as he ran towards me screaming"Daddy, daddy! I knew you'd come back!"
As I felt the boy hug my legs in a failed attempt to bring back the warmth and comfort that every son knows he'll receive from his father, I couldn't help it. I broke down, and started bawling. Screaming. Screaming for my brother to come back for at least five minutes.
I looked over to the boy. He knew now that I wasn't really his dad.
It was only a matter of time. | 23 | You twin brother died because of cancer, at his funeral you saw his wife and 5 year old son crying, you have'nt seen them in years. Then suddenly his son stop crying and came running to you.... Then he said "Daddy!" | 37 |
It had been just a few years since I had started flipping this coin. The thing seemed ancient: I could barely make out the face of George Washington on the thing anymore. It was my savior.
How many times had I used that thing? Brazil versus Germany. Manchester City versus Real Madrid. New York Yankees against their age-old rivals the Red Sox. Each flip had gotten me thousands in those days.
That coin never let me down. When the money came rolling in, family started to leave, friends came only for the cash, and my wife couldn't stand the pressure. But this coin, it was my only friend.
It was.
But no matter what I do, I can't change deaths. I can't change the decisions of other people. There's only one thing this quarter can do, and that's telling me the inevitable. I knew about my mother's death three years in advance, and everything I tried never changed the flip's outcome.. My daughter's dead to me, but she'll be alive and breathing for around two weeks. There's nothing that I can do, and it kills me.
I hate it. I despise it. I abhor it. It's bought about nothing good in my life. It's my nemesis. My enemy. It's the devil.
In an act of final desperation, I take it into my hand one last time.
"Will I ever end up happy?"
With a flick of my thumb, a silver flash that will decide my fate appears in the air.
In God We Trust. | 16 | An indecisive man begins to use an old coin to decide which teams to bet on. When it becomes clear the coin never errs, the man begins to use the coin to make all of his decisions, with dire consequences ensuing. | 114 |
Well fuck. I just lost 8000 words because I tabbed over and accidentally put something on the clipboard, then tabbed back over here and refreshed the page. In a blink of an eye.
Honestly I'm extremely disheartened and I feel like I just threw away almost an hour of my life, and I liked what I wrote and fuck and I might as well post what was on my clipboard anyway.
Here's 1 word of a story that was cool: Amaravathi. It's the name of a city in India. It's where the negotiations were being held because ironically the ancient Mauryan temples there are more intact than the major cities.
I will tl;dr this though because some day when I'm less demoralized I want to come back to this. tl;dr remote, but heavily armed places like Kashmir, the US-Mexico border, or the Korean DMZ held out the longest, Andhra Pradhesh's Maoist insurgency was humanity's last corner, we talked to the aliens, they wanted to negotiate the terms of the reset. We asked them why they were doing this, they told us the story.
Our planet is ludicrously rich in resources and life compared to theirs; ecosystems with enough trophic levels to support hunter species are rare; in our ecosystem *every* trophic level has multiple hunter species, etc. etc., as a result we have a number of traits that make us difficult to deal with.
- Fractiousness, we split into a billion different groups and pursue our own interests because we can afford to as a species. The way we divide our resources among groups like that initially came across as just sickeningly arrogant to most of them.
- The abundance of life on our planet means that we've grown to be individually competitive, whereas on their barren rocks of planets, there isn't much other life to worry about, so they've mostly been competitive against other intelligent species, and they're competitive *as* species. They're not as individually competitive; coming together as a group was necessary in order to survive, so much so that their resource distribution is still very skewed; there's still people on their planets who we'd call subsistence farmers.
- The speed with which our environment changes around us has led us to adopt a less strictly objective-based approach to logic; we have unfocused curiosity where most other species have focused curiosity.
We're not particularly bright or strong, but we're incredibly fast and unpredictable. We advance way faster generally, but large things that take cooperation take longer for us, so most species develop space travel technology at an earlier *developmental stage* than we do, but in terms of absolute time it takes them longer.
None of these traits are unique to humanity, but of all the species in the universe we represent the strongest example of them all put together.
So they were put on the defensive, it was 1800s Imperialism all over again, push came to shove, and a war broke out, but this was different because it quickly turned into an actual war. We almost won. They're not individually competitive, but they are competitive as species, so they were reluctant to form close alliances with one another, but in the face of humanity they did.
And they pushed us back to earth and decided to reset our civilization every 10,000 years. They've been through this cycle a number of times, and they recognize the value of the arrangement to all of us because we get to live and they're forced to cooperate by the need to respond to the human threat every 10,000 years. The confederation loses cohesion in the immediate aftermath of the reset, but so far humanity's bounced back with remarkable speed every time and kept the confederation system in place.
So humanity has some options; we can continue fighting and lose any ability to negotiate terms, or we can talk to them about where on the globe we want our new populations to be settled. Our diplomat starts off on a random topic; he starts talking about a book; "The White Horizon", it's like Groundhog Day, but he's stuck in this loop because there's a scientist who refuses to let his father die before he writes a will. The scientist has figured out a way to loop time while keeping memories intact, and he's forcing his father to relive his last day over and over again until he writes a will. His father owns a building in a city; it's an old restaurant, and the scientist wants it, but the father knows that the scientist doesn't understand his sentimental attachment to the building, he just wants the real estate. So after awhile he goes into the building and turns the gas on for the stoves, and when the scientist comes in, he blows it all to Hell.
After a few minutes the alien diplomat realized "That was written before the last reset... That was written 47,000 years ago. How do you know about that?"
The human diplomat smiled and held up a disc with pins sticking out of the edges, and said "We figured out how to read this. Guess what else is on it?"
"What?"
"Your home planets' locations."
The alien thing was horrified, realizing that they still weren't completely sure that they'd cut humanity off from all of its missile bases.
Just then an alien walked into the clearing and notified the diplomat that missile launches had been detected from Andhra Pradhesh, Gujarat, and somehow the American Midwest.
"Why are you doing this? You gain nothing, and I understand sentimentality, but even by your own logic, is it not better to seek closure than to seek revenge?"
"Yes. It is. I always loved this story; from your critiques on it, it's clear that it's the kind of story only a human could understand. In the book, the father doesn't burn down the lab, he only burns down the restaurant, but he kills the scientist and himself too. Do you know why he kills himself?"
"To spite the scientist; the scientist won't allow him to move forward with his life, or death, as the case may be."
"Yes. But he's a very human figure; this father, why does he kill his own son?"
"Because the son was merciless; the son was unrelenting and thankless. The son should have been thanking the father for his very existence."
"Yes. And he paid the price. That is closure."
"This isn't closure, this is murder."
"Oh? So you disapprove of murder?"
"Not individual murder; that we care less about, this is murder of a species."
"Is it?"
An alien ran into the clearing and announced that the diplomats needed to be relocated. A missile strike on the location was imminent.
The human diplomat lit a cigarette and continued, "Calm down there; a missile strike on *all* locations is imminent. The father is overly sentimental, and he's not being reasonable, and the son is understandably upset about that, but his greatest crime is that he isn't in the least thankful for everything the father *has* done for him. Humanity isn't the son. Humanity is the father. You've just killed almost everyone on our planet, but now that we know the story, we're thankful that we're here at all still. But it's time for us to move on, with life or death as the case may be, and you're not allowing us to do so. This time we're going to have closure. These missiles are designed to annihilate all life on a planet. You're not getting out of this either; why not stay up here and watch?" | 270 | An extraterrestrial ship arrives on Earth to "reset" humanity. We are informed that we once ruthlessly dominated the Galaxy, until a rebellion of alien races finally stopped us. Our "reset" occurs every 10,000 years. | 506 |
Lucy was about to take a cigarette break when the parcel came up from the mailroom for her. Jonah passed it to her and winked as he asked her to sign her name to the delivery sheet. She signed, rolled her eyes and stuck the cigarette behind her ear.
"Listen," Jonah said. "My friend's band is playing this evening at the Keyhole Bar-"
"Uhuh," but Lucy was no longer listening. The parcel was wide and lumpy, wrapped in brown paper and heavy-duty packing tape. When she touched it it rustled, as though underneath it there were layers and layers of bubblewrap. And on the front, her name (*Lucy Carlisle, c/o Federal Bureau of Investigation, Birmingham, Alabama.*) was written in a messy, sloping hand she knew only too well. The stamp had a small picture of the Colosseum, the post mark dating from about a week ago. This could only have come from her bother in Rome.
Resigning herself to the fact that her cigarette break was going to have to wait, she picked up her desk phone and struggled for a moment to remember the number Michael had said he was going to be contactable at while he was in the Eternal City. Thankfully, Jonah, bored of hovering, had disappeared. Probably to wink at someone else.
It rang four times and Lucy had already begun to curse the brother that had decided that he would sit half a degree in astrophysics before changing to archeology and ancient history, then running off to Europe and digging up half of it. Didn't they have enough old stuff already?
"Hey, Micky!" She cried as he picked up.
"Luce, is that you? Isn't this call gonna cost you a bomb?" She could imagine him already, standing up dusty from a dig site, eyes crinkling with his familiar laughter lines in the sun.
"I'm on the firm's phone. We're all good. Listen, I got your parcel."
"You did? Have you opened it yet?"
*Hey, Michele! Ma a chi parli?*
"No, I haven't. I want to know if you've broken any laws this time." After the ceremonial pot he'd sent her from Greece had turned out to be a priceless artefact from the Acropolis, she'd sworn not to open any more parcels from Michael without knowing exactly what was in them.
*Dai, Michele, è la tua fidanzata? Sbrigasti*
"No, Luce. I don't think I've done anything wrong. It's just a copy. I've learned my lesson." Michael put his hand over the speaker and shouted something in Italian. There was a laugh in the background. "Look, it's a fingerprint. We found it in some face cream at one of the failed Line C stations. Some of the lads here have got a bet on. Just run it would you?"
"You want me to run a fingerprint?" Lucy said incredulously.
"What's the point of having a sister in the FBI if you don't use her?" Michael laughed. "Listen, I've got to run. Call me if you find anything."
"When are you coming home?" Lucy said as he started to say bye.
"It's very soon Luce, I promise! See you Lu!"
He hung up. Lucy swivelled in her chair and looked at the parcel once more.
"Fucking Mickey," she muttered, sliding a knife into the wrapping paper.
"Hey Thom, you do me favour?" She'd brought two cups of coffee with her to the lab, cast of the fingerprint tucked carefully under her arm.
Thom stood up from the microscope to give her a hard look. Lucy used to think that scientists in movies were all based off Thom. He was tall and spindly, with a protrusive adam's apple and a lab coat that stopped several inches shy of his wrists. He had glasses and messy hair that seemed to have been cut in one style in the seventies and hadn't been re-done since. But he was extremely competent and extremely likely to be bribed by a hot cup of coffee.
"That's not the cafeteria stuff, is it?" He said, taking a mug.
"I used my private stash for you Thom," Lucy said.
He looked at her quizzically. "So it's borderline illegal, this time is it?"
"Nothing of the sort! I'm offended!" He looked at her again. "Okay, it's not illegal, but it's a massive waste of time. My brother sent this from Rome. They found it when they were digging for more valuable stuff... He just wants us to run it for a match."
Thos held the cast between his finger and thumb like he was contemplating a rant. "Your brother wants us to waste thirty hours of man time *and* requisition the use of very expensive FBI machinery so he can run a two thousand year old fingerprint for a modern day match?"
"So that's a no?" Lucy cringed
"It's a yes, Luce. This sounds mad. Fuck it, I'll run it. If you come back tomorrow, I should have some results."
"Thom, you're a dream,"
He blushed and covered it with taking a gulp from the mug of coffee.
On her way back up the stairs, her phone rang. She pulled it off her belt and, noticing it was an unknown number, answered it anyway.
"Hello, Lucy Carlisle speaking?"
"Destroy the fingerprint, Miss Carlisle."
"Who is this?"
But they'd already hung up. | 259 | Archeologists discover 2,000-year-old face cream from Rome with fingerprints still visible. Just for fun the prints are ran at a crime lab, coming back with a match... | 526 |
Mara rushed out of the ambulance, frantic as always. She and the team finally saw the man in question—a motorcyclist, crumpled into a pile on the side of the road, limbs twisted in seemingly impossible positions.
She always tried to disconnect herself from the victims. She found that it helped her stay focused. But seeing this biker lying helpless on the side of the road brought back too many unpleasant memories. She swallowed back tears and told herself to keep calm. She'd been through hundreds of cases, some where they lived, and some where they didn't. She'd been through this before. She could do it again.
Mara checked the biker's pulse. Weak, but still there. That was more than you could say for a lot of people. "Hello sir," she went through her practiced script, "I am an emergency responder. Are you okay?"
No response. As she expected. This man's prospects were getting worse by the second, and Mara prepared herself for the inevitable.
Suddenly, the man groaned. Mara felt hope rush through her. Maybe this man would live. He would live to see whatever family he had. He would live to see milestones in history.
The biker moaned, "Ugh. I feel terrible."
Legible words? Mara was confused. People in this condition didn't normally speak clearly right off the bat.
"Sir?" Mara asked, becoming more perplexed by the minute.
"Oh, God. I'm in *so* much pain. MegaCorp did not mention this in the terms and conditions. Stuff this. Command—Exit simulation."
The biker immediately lost consciousness and pulse.
Mara thought she heard a soft, electronic whirr coming from his ear.
But maybe it was just her. She filed this case into the backlogs of her memory.
Mara was glad she was the only one who heard the careless biker exit the simulation verbally. What a noob. She knew humans wouldn't take very kindly to the thought of their world being unreal.
| 62 | The paramedic is the first to arrive at the scene of a motorcycle accident. As she attempts to save his life, the motorcyclist opens his eyes and groans "Stuff this. Exit simulation". He dies a moment later. | 130 |
Humans had evolved. For better or for worse. We had evolved to become lazy. She was born to this world in the year 2108 . By then humanity was considered to be in the final stages of its evolution. Then, the first buyable appeared.
Humans had reached the epitome of its' laziness. Scientists were baffled at the efficiency of their products. These products caused mass hysteria in the first stages. But once people saw the potential for the buyables to give them the skills they would've never dreamed of, the rioting and the initial period of uncertainty passed.
It was just a pill. It started with basic skills such as speed and strength. But later it got more advanced with buyables ranging from artistic talent to vocal talent being released. The rich who could afford these pills slowly became elite and the poor were forgotten. No one wanted to hire a puritan. People were given prescribed buyables as medication. Buyables for a stronger heart, buyables for bigger lung capacity are a few examples. Crime rates plummeted. Law enforcement was unstoppable. The founders of the buyables slowly became the most powerful people on Earth. Buyables were smuggled. Wars started. Countries destroyed. In the end for humanities safety the 5 most powerful countries joined forces and created "the trustee-ship agreement"
After this was signed the big 5 built walls to shield themselves from the hell and chaos that existed outside.
She was just a girl living in state number 5. The least influential and most poverty stricken of the 5. Ties between state 5 and the others were barely visible. She sometimes wondered why she was so fortunate to be living on the better side of the wall. Away from the chaos. Sometimes she could hear them at night. Screaming and calling out for help. Those on the other side who could not help themselves. Her family was barely able to hold on to their citizenship. Her father only scraping together enough money to buy each one a buyable necessary for citizenship. Only buyables such as song or dance were available to her. The screams always kept her grateful for everything she had.
She was told that she had been given a 'vocal talent' buyable. So she sang everyday. Her beautiful voice equivalent to the voice of an angel her mother would say. But deep down inside she knew she wasn't talented. She did not have a sense of contentment or satisfaction of her talent. She knew it was just a product of human laziness and evil. Yet she enjoyed singing. Everyday she would sing and when she got a note wrong she sang till she got it right. Her correction of her fault always gave her the satisfaction she needed. But she did wonder why the pill didn't fix that. " it must be faulty" she thought to herself. You cannot purchase any item of low value and expect it to work as well as an item of higher value of the same purpose. She grew accustomed to this principle as the only expensive thing her family owned was a golden bracelet her mother wore. Even that would not be stolen by the lowest of people. As she was contemplating this in her room a faint glint of a metallic object caught her attention. She moved closer and upon examining it she realized it was her buyable bottle.
"Great" she thought sarcastically " this is what started this mess" . She looked at the bright yellow coloured bottle. She had learnt to read just a few months ago and had proven to be quite a fast learner. She put her knowledge to the test and started to read the fine print of the yellow bottle. After reading halfway she noticed small red numbers on the side. It was an expiration date. It read 27 January, 2099. 9 years before she was born.
( this is where I stop. I will continue if this gets attention. This is my first post so your advice and critique is welcome. ) | 34 | In a world where skills are bought and sold, a person discovers... "Practice". | 48 |
Max, while on his flight to America, tells a stranger the story of how he killed a man, took his watch, and the years of guilt he suffered because of it. He tells the stranger "I've spent nearly a decade tracking the man's son down to return the watch. I don't expect forgiveness for what I've done, but I'll do everything I can to make up for it."
As his flight lands, he says goodbye to the kind stranger who listened so willingly to his story, then exits the plane. He is well on his way to returning the watch. After a few minutes of trying to find a cab, one pulls up. He gets inside and tells the driver where he wants to go. Unfortunately, the driver gets terribly lost and the man becomes upset. He explains that he has a very important meeting that he can't miss. The driver calls for help with directions and gets to the meeting spot just in time.
Max jumps out of the cab and finds the man's son just as he is leaving. He breaks down in tears as he removes the watch from his arm, asking for forgiveness for his actions during the war.
The man's son looks at him and says only three words before leaving: "it's about time." | 36 | In 1943 a German soldier takes s gold watch off an American he killed. Twenty years later, he arrives in Philadelphia to return the watch to the man's son. | 139 |
I held my hand against the wound that pulsed red life into the mud below. It probably should have hurt but really it just felt cold.
I looked up and saw him staring at me. Jesus, he was just a kid. Couldn't even be twenty years old.
I would have reached for my weapon but I had no idea where it was. I was dying anyway, if he killed me before the wound then so be it.
"Hi," he said, shocking me with the lack of an accent.
"Hi," I returned, and he stuck his hand out at me. I took it and we shook hands.
"Franz," he said.
"Frank." I said. We laughed, the irony.
"Where you from Franz?"
"Chicago."
Small world.
"Me too," I said, looking down at the wound. He looked at me with concern and I shrugged.
"I think the war is over for me," I said, looking at this kid who was barely hiding the terror in his eyes. His wound was bad but he might make it.
All around us people were dying but I felt a tinge of something. Maybe I could bring a little humanity to the world before I died. I awkwardly stripped my field jacket and pants, tossing them to the kid.
He looked very confused.
"Put them on, when the others get here they won't shoot you. They'll get you help. You can make it kid, I know I'm not going to."
He slipped into my clothes that were too large for him, not that anyone would notice. I put on the strange uniform of a German soldier, then I sank my head into the mud and closed my eyes. I felt warm now, like someone had wrapped me in a blanket. Slowly the pain and everything else just slipped away.
*****
The German counterattack pushed the allies from their captured ground. As the soldiers advanced one of them came upon a crater. Inside was a dead German soldier and a severely wounded allied soldier.
The soldier raised his rifle to the allied soldier.
"Nein!" the boy shouted, but the crack of a rifle answered his plea.
The soldier moved on, towards the sounds of battle.
Leaving behind the two bodies. | 20 | During a rush on the enemy trench, a soldier is wounded by a gunshot and falls into a small crater. There, he discovers an also dying German soldier. He lost his weapon, and the German is also unarmed. Describe what happens. | 15 |
We were trapped inside an elevator. The elevator lights were dim, and unleashing an unstable current, a loud, constant buzzing in the corner of the claustered room. The man beside me tapped my shoulder, ever so suddenly,
" Scuse' me Misses," I said, in a gentle voice, I didn't want to scare her, she looked so fraile, and pale from the shock. I asked if she had any reception, my cellular device had run out of energy.
She scrambled into her purse, pulling out a hankerchief, a wallet, a sheathed knife, and a cell phone. Oh god, why did she have a knife!?
I crumpled myself into a ball of the vertex of the walls, I could feel a slow drip trinkle down my head. Oh god! Why me? I'm just a bell-boy nothing else!
The young boy, probably sixteen years of age or so, shriveled up in the corner, poor child, he was most likely clausterphobic. I sat down beside him, and tried to fondle his head, calming him down for the rest of the time; what a mess it was, I looked down to my watch, it had already been 30 minutes. I was late.
The beautiful woman sat beside the boy, and the other young man aside from myself, stood behind me, silently reading a coverless novel. I didn't want to push the young man reading the novel, he seemed at peace, but the boy sobbed to himself as the woman comforted him, and the book fellow did nothing so. She wrapped herself around the boy, shielding him from my sight, but after a hushed conversation between the two, he continued to cry but in a more quiet demeanor, fearfully almost.
The man with the novel was the last of the trapped, and he was very well certain of the situation. And the reality was, none of the narrations were correct. In fact, it was quite the opposite. There was indeed a beauty, a sob, a book, and an elevator. There was no gentleman who was conscious of his gentle voice, he was vocal, but sheltered his fear upon seeing the knife. There was no motherly beauty that cared for the young boy's panic. Instead, she was impatient, and enraged as she held a knife to the boy's abdomen, telling him to shut his tardy mouth. And of course, there was the bell-boy, acting high and mighty at first, flaunting his pager, and knowledge of the hotel. The world clock escalated to another 30 minutes, he succumbed down to his innate child state, throwing a tantrum before he confronted by the steel blade.
And that is what actually happened. | 24 | Four people are trapped together and are trying to figure out which of them is the narrator. | 96 |
God is dead.
The words almost instantly jumped out at him. It was three in the morning and John couldn't sleep. He rarely could these days, so he usually spent his time reading instead. Recently his interests included philosophy namely nihilism and existentialism. On this particular night the words of Nietzsche echoed through his head.
"God is dead," he whispered to himself then let out a long sigh. He turned over at looked at the time. It was 3:16 am, he had to be up in about 4 hours.
"Oh well," he thought to himself. "It's not like I need the sleep anyway."
The next morning John fell into his usual routine. Out of bed at 7:15, in the shower by 7:25, and out the door and into his old '94 Honda Civic by 8:15 am. With over 300,000 miles and all the problems it had, it was a miracle he managed to keep that thing running. Still, he always arrived to work by 8:45, smoked a cigarette, then went inside always doing his best to keep to himself and go unnoticed.
It was a typical day at work, with the typical paper work, and the typical people. He filed some papers, smoked another cigarette, and listened to his boss complain about sales during a meeting. He didn't really have any friends at work, nor did he care. He knew what they all thought of him anyway, and at this point was much too jaded to care. The only time his coworkers ever really spoke to him was when they needed something.
His lunch break rolled around and as usual all his coworkers sat around eating and conversing. Most of them talking about their plans for the weekend, which usually involved getting pissed drunk Saturday night and laying in bed hungover all Sunday morning. John wasn't much of a talker so he spent his lunch breaks writing little poems instead. His favorite were haikus.
He got home by 5:45 pm and turned on the news. It was more of the same. Murders, theft, missing children, celebrity gossip, and weather reports he knew would be inaccurate. None of this surprised him, but it did sicken him. Part of him wanted to do something, but part of him knew it was pointless. Humans will be humans and they'll do anything to self-destruct it seemed to him. He had tried to fix things in the past, but it never seemed to work. Somehow his attempts always failed. He knew no one really wanted help anyway. The words "God is dead" came to mind once again.
The next day at work he didn't show up, but no one seemed to notice. Not even his boss. Things carried on as usual. It wasn't until Friday when one of his coworkers wanted him to finish up on a project for him so he could leave early that anyone even noticed his disappearance. His coworker asked the office if anyone had seen John, and everyone said no. As he looked closer at John's desk, his coworker found a small piece of paper. It read:
"Humans are humans
But a god without humans
Is no god at all"
Confused he shrugged it off, and walked away.
And with that, God was dead. | 12 | he is God. | 19 |
Don sat behind the wheel of the Camry he'd bought off Craigslist for four hundred bucks, trying to remember who wrote Canon in D. He had the jitters, as usual, and thinking of classical music helped calm him down. Nino and Rob sat behind him, both of them packing heat and neither of them speaking. There was a kind of heavy atmosphere in the car, like someone had lit a cigarette in a hospital and everyone was wondering who was gonna have to tell them to put it out.
"We're looking at ten to fifteen without parole if this goes wrong," Nino was the smallest of them all, a boy from Brooklyn who promised some Italian heritage but looked confused when you said 'spaghetti' too fast. Don had promised his mother he'd look after the kid.
"Yeah, alright lad. No need for that." Rob had red hair that last night they'd dyed, leaning over the bathtub of their shitty apartment while he swore as it got in his eyes.
"Just saying. It's armed robbery. Like-"
"Nino," Don growled and the kid shut it. They were sitting round the corner from Grand West & Central, the bank that, on a Tuesday morning in mid-December, they'd chosen to rob.
There were a couple more moments of silence. Rob started tapping his fingers on the window pane. It shuddered.
"It's fucking Pachabel," Don said finally. "Let's go."
---------------------
Martin had been in the game for too many years. He sat outside the food delivery entrance of Mills & Reeve, a department store with a reputation for expense and lit his third cigarette in an hour. Next door was Grand West & Central. It was a good bank; a friendly bank. It kept interest rates low on its loans and tended to make people feel safe when they banked with them. But they also had a power failure last week and not all the security cameras were online yet, and the security guards were past their best.
Just like Martin.
He got to his feet and cracked his neck.
"Alright Tommy?" He said.
Tommy was probably not alright. Tommy hadn't been alright since he'd knocked a teacher out in second grade because she'd asked for his homework in. Since then he'd spent his life in and out of first juvie and then prison. He couldn't read or write and could barely speak, standing almost seven feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. Martin reckoned they were related in some way, but he didn't like to ask. Knowing his family, it was more than one way.
Tanner sat in a green van, 'Laing's Vegetables' written on the side. He nodded at Martin. Martin gulped, patted his right hip where he kept his pistol.
"Come on Tommy. Enough waiting."
--------------------
It was Mary-Sue's first day. Bridget had shown her in, pointed at all the *things,* told her how to make coffee and how everyone on the team liked it (Max, no sugar; Henry, black, Cordelia, sugar and milk; Bridget, tea) then sat her down and left her to her own devices. For a couple of minutes she answered emails.
*Congratulations on your new job! Love, Mother*
*Look at these cute kittens! You up for a drink later this week - Minnie*
*Sorry about last week, completely forgot we'd arranged to meet. How about a second chance? - Freddie*
*Fancy Ju-jitsu again this week? - Ben*
She sat back in the new chair. They'd given her an office, and she could just about see the tellers through the frosted glass window. They sat in a little line like ducks, perpendicular to the plate glass frontage of the bank. Underneath the desk, Mary-Sue kicked off her shoes, stretching her toes out a little. New job, new uncomfortable shoes. Surely that was a saying?
She rifled through the documents on her desk, trying to see if there was anything she could start with. That's when the noise started.
----------------------
"Alright, let's have everyone on the floor," Don held up the Glock as soon as he walked in, terrified faces of the bank tellers like art to him.
"Step out ladies, yeah just over here if you would. Except you sweetheart. You can stay inside. Need someone to pass us the money, you know?" He winked at the last girl in the glass booth; a tiny slip of a thing with a blonde bob cut and a white shirt. She looked at him with wide, black-ringed eyes and he felt a curious thrill of satisfaction.
Rob stood in front of the doors, indiscriminately pointing his pistol at the customers who'd made the mistake of coming to the bank of this particular Tuesday. There were a couple of older women in thick brown coats, getting down to the floor slowly and complaining about their knees, a harassed-looking thirty something with an empty buggy and a zebra print top. Rob's job was to identify who might try and be a hero, who might cause trouble. There were a couple of office drones in blue suits and brown shoes, skinny ties now sitting a little off centre. But they lay down meekly enough. Nino prowled through the prostrated bodies, itching trigger finger jumping around on the barrel of the gun. He had a slightly incredulous look on his face.
"Nino, make sure there's no one else in the offices, would you?" Don said the words without taking his eyes off the pretty little teller. In any other circumstances, she would be the first one in the office he'd ask out for a drink. Right now he was asking her to empty the register.
Behind him he heard Nino slip out. Then someone banged a door and he turned, heart thumping.
"What the fuck," the heavy-set man at the back door shouted. "Is going on here?"
Nino came back from the offices, poking his head round the frosted glass at the noise. He then removed his head from around the frosted glass at the sight of the man's seven foot accomplice. He looked like he could go ten rounds with the Hulk and not feel a thing.
Don glanced helplessly at Rob, who was on completely the wrong side of the room. If he took his gun off the bank teller, she'd ring the alarm and they'd be caught. But the sight of two balaclava'd men walking into the bank they were trying to rob was almost ludicrous.
---------------
Mary-Sue had her hands over her head. At first, she had watched Max and Henry carefully. Would they try anything? But like everyone else, they'd lain down and waited for the robbers to take what they needed and leaved. There had been three men, slim and well dressed in cut suits and ties, faces covered by ubiquitous Anonymous masks. They also wore gloves, kept an eye on their watches and seemed to be doing everything by the book. It was by far, the most polite bank robbery Mary-Sue had ever witnessed or even heard about.
When a second pair of men came in, built like gorillas in comparison to the first three's ballerinas; she'd cursed herself for believing it would end well. Clearly they were waiting and now the heavyweights had arrived to rough everyone up a bit. But something seemed off...
--------------
"Who the fuck are you?" Don shouted over his shoulder.
"Should I stop?" The bank teller asked, grabbing another fist full of bills.
"No sweetheart, you're doing a great job. Carry on as you are."
"I should be asking you the same question!" The short man roared back. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Really, it's no trouble," the girl spoke again. "I can wait for you to sort yourselves out if you want."
"Talk again and they'll be reconstructing that face from pictures," Don told her and her lower lip quivering. "Now look," to the man. " I like being polite and you've made me come off badly."
"You're in my bank!"
"Your bank? Isn't it the people's bank?"
"Look, let's not make this about popular capitalism. I was supposed to be robbing this bank and now I find you're here first?"
"Early bird gets the worm," Don shrugged.
"I want half the profits," the man tried.
"I'll just shoot you. You'll look like a customer. Seriously, pal, don't fuck with me."
"Yeah, you can shoot me if you can get through Tommy," the man nodded to his neanderthal-like friend. The friend cracked a grin. He was missing teeth.
"Sorry, do you think you could stop arguing?" The teller spoke over them. "I'm having real trouble concentrating and it's making my nerves go crazy."
"Sorry sweetheart,"
"Sorry," the short man added.
-----------------
This was too surreal to be real, Mary-Sue decided. | 24 | Two crews attempt a heist on the same bank, at the same time. One is entering through the back, the other through the front. They did not know about each other. | 53 |
Georgina Lomax. *Vain, selfish, tight-fisted, cheat.*
I am gorgeous, rich and successful but all that shit doesn’t matter anymore. All that people care about are these stupid flaw clouds. It’s meant to stop people from being taken advantage of, taken in by people who are trying to hide their true characters but instead it’s just made dating a fucking nightmare and its made me bitter. Oh fuck I bet *bitter* is going to pop up in my cloud now.
So that’s why I find myself in this sad little bar at a speed-dating event. It’s dingy and there are other horrible people just like me milling about at the bar. *Liar, greedy, pyromaniac…* Jesus. How the hell are you supposed to date someone when you already know the worst thing about him or her? They couldn’t think to display your best qualities could they? They had to make it difficult.
A woman with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun wearing a pink dress rings a bell. *Bossy, know-it-all, bad listener.*
“Okay, ladies you have your numbers! Go and sit at your table and the men will come to you! Remember you have three minutes with each potential partner. And try not to concentrate on their flaws!” she forces a wide smile, showing off her pearly teeth.
*As if…* I think making my way to table number 7. *Lucky number 7, yeah right.* How can you ignore them? I can’t imagine the flaw clouds have made it easy on dating event organisers. They can’t have many success stories nowadays.
I sit down heavily on the chair and lean back stretching my legs out to the side. Now that your flaws are on show you have to make the most of everything else you’ve got. I suppose that’s made me even more vain. Ironic really isn’t it?
I stir my cosmo moodily waiting for the first defective man to sit across from me. I’m not paying attention when the chair is pulled out scraping the wood floor. I look up from under my long black eyelashes ready to find out what’s wrong with him. But I’m taken unaware.
“Hi,” he says casually, “I’m Matthew.”
He sits down opposite me and smiles. But I don’t say anything. His cloud is empty. I screw my eyes shut and reopen them just to check I’ve not had one too many drinks. But it’s still empty.
“What the hell?” I mutter to myself leaning forward, hardly caring if he thinks I’m weird talking to myself.
Matthew laughs, “My cloud? Don’t worry about that, you’re not seeing things.”
“Why the fuck is there nothing in it?”
He smiles. I can’t help but find it attractive. He’s tall and dark, with stubble. He’s wearing a plain t-shirt and plain jeans. He’s just plain, but there’s something about him.
“Why are there things in yours?” he asks.
I open my mouth in shock, “What… what do you even mean by that? Everyone has them. Everyone except you! How did you get rid of it?!”
He sighs looking around like he’s had this conversation a thousand times. I reach for my drink and take a gulp. Oh fuck I need to slow down or *alcoholic* will appear soon.
“Think about it,” he says quietly, “How do you define yourself?”
“Two minutes!” The blonde woman shouts from the bar.
I shake my head, “I don’t need to define myself. This fucking thing,” I gesture to my cloud, “does it for me!”
Matthew smiles again like he pities me. “No,” he laughs, “that’s not what I mean.”
I roll my eyes, “Well explain it then wise-guy.”
“It’s hard. But I guess I can try. I’m going to explain what I see when I look at you.”
I scoff and reach for my drink again.
Matthew politely ignores my rudeness. Oh shit I bet *rudeness* is up there now. I can’t bring myself to check.
“One minute!”
“You’re beautiful,” he starts. “You have model features but you’re a lot more than a pretty face. You’re devilishly smart and ambitious. You know it’s important to look after yourself so you’re careful with money and of course your emotions. You’re not just going to let anybody in, which makes you even more special and rare.”
I can’t do anything but stare open mouthed. I can’t remember the last time anyone paid me any kind of compliment apart from ‘great legs love, shame about your personality’.
He stares back at me waiting for me to reply.
“I don’t understand,” I finally splutter.
“Times up!” The blonde screeches.
Matthew pushes his chair away and stands up, “That’s because you let your flaws define who you are.”
| 738 | Everyone's flaws are listed in a translucent white box above their heads. One day, you meet a man whose 'box' is empty. | 514 |
Close shot on, MR DAVID BRENT (Twiddling pen between fingers) – I don’t give shitty homework, when a kid comes to my class, and says “Mr. B, I ain’t doing that algebra thing” I say don’t do it then. He says “I don’t have time for that shit”. And I understand.
So for me, it’s all about motivating them right, not just for me for them. For the kids, for the future. You see that’s me. That’s my job here as head of Maths. I don’t give shitty homework. I give lessons on life yeah?
MISS DAWN TINSLEY (interrupting Brent, Camera quickly pans to Dawn and her desk, piled high with marking) – I thought you were acting head of Maths?
BRENT - ……. That’s Dawn, Miss Tinsley to the kids, She’s a bit like my PA at the minute. Single. Aren’t you Dawn, still no ring on it. (Brent Laughs)
DAWN (Struggling to get a word in) – Im not your PA, (turns to camera) im not his PA.
BRENT – She’s new, fresh out of ‘Uni’ aren’t you Dawn? Bless her. She’ll get used to it. I’m a good team leader, I steer the department right where it needs to be.
(PHONE RINGS – Brent, smiling, holds a finger to the camera signalling for just a minute and answers the phone)
BRENT – Hi, yeah all good here we’re just filming me… What? No, it’s going well, Yeah you see we’re doing a new approach here with the homework…
OVERHEARD VOICE ON PHONE: Don’t fuck me about David, you’re on your last warning as it is!
BRENT – Yeah, I’m with you, alright take care now mate. Bye.
(BRENT Pauses) – Headmaster, just saying what a good job we’re doing.
FADE TO INTRO CREDITS
| 20 | The Office is adapted into a school scenario, The Class. Write the first minutes of the Pilot | 28 |
"Ouroboros."
I could the describe that arch forever. The way it moved, more alive than anything I'd ever seen, like a great snake breaking free of it's cage, snatching the very air in its maw. Red. Crimson. Scarlet. Mauve. Burgundy. Rouge. Rose. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. It fell on my tongue and burrowed until I could taste the history of it. I tasted centuries of wars, savoured the lips of countless lovers, watched, unbound, the naga. This was Shiva the destroyer. This was Fenrir swallowing the son. It was Surt engulfing me in a firestorm and making me reborn.
I was ten years old as I watched my father give life to the serpent. Fifteen when I was caught painting the symbol of my self-satiating rebellion. A red snake, swallowing its own tail. Fifteen when I ran my knife through an officer and set his snake free.
Sixteen when I joined the rebellion.
Eighteen when I led it.
Nineteen when I stood on the burning ground of the reclamation centre.
Ten when I found the god in me.
Twenty when I set it free. | 19 | In a failing utopian world, colour becomes illegal in attempt to maintain equality. A young boy watches a man being executed for breaking the law and sees colour for the first time as the man's blood is sprayed across a wall. | 32 |
“I don’t know. I just saw her the other day, and there was this light flying sensation, a bit like when you’re dizzy, but without the bad part of feeling unbalanced. I looked at her and things were just right you know?”
“No I don’t.” My father replied. “We did away with that nonsense a long time ago, and we had your brain checked just six months ago. Besides, what are you going to tell Jane?”
“I don’t know father, and it doesn’t make any sense to me either. Promise you won’t tell anyone?” Father scratched his head and looked to be fighting with himself.
“I’ve known you to be a good lad Jason. So I shall keep your secret, but please don’t betray my trust.”
“Thank you father.” I then leave and immediately walk outside to the park where I saw her yesterday, perhaps I will see her again. I won’t say anything of course, but just to feel that again, to see if it really was love.
I sit on the same bench I saw her earlier for an hour, and nothing. Two hours go by, still nothing. I spend half the day sitting on a bench, and still she doesn’t come.
It was foolish of me to think she would. Why would she come this way again? I had better go home. I get up to leave, and then I see her.
The feeling comes back five fold, and I am immobilized by it. I cannot help but be enraptured by her. She walks by like an angel, or something out of a dream. Everything in me screams to go talk to her, and everything else screams at me not to.
I don’t move a hair, until she rounds a bend in the path, and then she disappears. I know then what I must do. I pick up my phone and call Jane.
"Jane. It’s Jason.” I hurriedly say, trying to end this conversation as quick as I can so I can be after her.
“Hey sweetie, what’s going on?” Her use of the word stings a bit given what I know I’m about to do.
“Jane. I’m sorry, it’s over. I’m in love with another woman. I haven’t done anything yet, but I’m about to, so I thought I would end this to keep us both honest people. I can’t explain it Jane, but there it is.” There are several moments of silence before, in a cracked voice comes back over the line.
“I understand Jason. I feel the same way about you, so if you feel that way about her, then you have to go after her.” Remorse fills me, but the butterflies are still there. I want to say something to make it better, but the line goes dead.
I return my focus to the girl and rush after her. She had rounded another two turns in the path, but fate guides me to her.
“I’m sorry.” I say as I approached her. “I love you. I don’t know why, but I do, and I had to tell you. I just broke up with my fiancé to tell you.” Her mouth works wordlessly for a few moments, and then she asks me a few questions.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“We’ve never met before?”
“No.”
“But you broke up with your fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“And you feel love for me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then you’re an idiot. Love is putting other first. Your fiancé put you first when she let you go, and you’ve just proven you feel nothing for me but infatuation. Did she feel love for you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you better call her and pray you didn’t just ruin the first true romantic love in a hundred years.”
Edit: formatting | 15 | "Don't be stupid. No one has felt love in over a hundred years. What makes you think you feel it now?" | 24 |
How could anything sleep for a whole week? I stood at the window of the bridge, hands behind my back, and stared at the blue-green planet below. It had taken nearly a week to get out here, and I intended to take this world as quickly as possible.
A smirk passed like a shadow across my lips. Fortunately, that would not be too difficult.
The alien race known as the Dormio had one fatal weakness. Unlike us, they required a full *week* of sleep, meaning that we only had to wait until they entered their sleep cycle, then pounce.
How such a race had the time to master intergalactic travel was beyond me. I mean, if you sleep for one week on, one week off, that effectively septupled your entire day. Seven times the waking hours and seven times the sleep of a human. Unbelievable.
I watched as our spaceship drifted around the planet in low orbit until I saw the night side of the world, like a colossal black blanket draped over the land. The world turned slowly enough that night lasted an entire week, which was probably where the Dormio's sleep patterns had evolved from.
With a sigh, I turned to my second-in-command.
'Take us in.'
___________________________________________________________
**One week later**
I sat back and surveyed the scene. Countless Dormio citizens were being marshalled into the waiting cavernous bays of the bulk carrier ships that were ranged along the coast like beached whales. It had been even easier than I thought.
Suddenly, a transmission came through on the intercom.
'*Sir, there's a fleet of alien ships coming into atmosphere. Not identified as friendlies.*'
'Scan them and check the databases.'
A moment later, the reply came. '*Computers have them as the Expergis Corps. Aliens who tend to fight through attrition rather than superior force.*'
I smiled. 'Attrition, eh? Well, we can stick out any war of attrition they can.'
'*Er, sir, there may be a slight problem with us trying to wait them out.*'
I frowned. 'And what's that?'
'*These Expergis Corps, sir. They don't need to sleep for a year.'* | 24 | Humanity enters the galactic community and finds that they need much more/less sleep than the other races. | 52 |
"Secure the room!" the colonel cried in her earth-shaking voice. Within moments, a wave of forty soldiers ran through the portal, clad in night gear and helmets delivering a steady flow of oxygen. While the air pressure n "The Beyond" was almost the same as that on Earth, the air was completely toxic to all Earth life.
"They Beyond" was not what anybody expected. It was dark, damp, and lined with cobblestone. She thought the place where all souls eventually end up would be bright and filled with clouds. She thought wrong. It was more like an abandoned dungeon with no lights and no people.
Her soldiers started spreading out with their automatic rifles and flashlights attached to their helmets and guns. She could hear the echo of their footsteps in the hallways nearby.
"Colonel, we have secured the room," one soldier informed her before quickly adding, "but we found something in the room next door that you need to see."
"What is it?"
"It's a throne." The colonel motioned to the solder to lead her. The colonel and four soldiers briskly marched their way from the giant, abandoned room they were in into what looked to be the central hall of this dark and damp place. Torches burnt out long ago lined a walkway towards the enormous throne that lurched on the steps above.
"Throne room is secure, colonel," another soldier reported to the colonel as more of her troops entered the room. She moved more slowly this time towards the throne. As she looked upwards, her helmet's light caught a reflection on the wall behind the giant throne. It was a message.
"Your princess is in another castle." | 43 | Humanity has finally accessed the after life. The first thing that the explorers see is an empty palace with a vacant throne. There is an inscription on the wall. | 37 |
My stiffening fingers brush the sleeves, picking familiar grooves from the records. Vivaldi jumps, Bach skips, Mozart sometimes won't play at all. I put on Moonlight Sonata. She always loved Moonlight Sonata.
The door knocks, and opens quickly, "Mr. Kilkane, she's ready."
"Thank you."
She closes the door. In a few moments Erica will walk in. She'll smile, close her eyes, her brow will wrinkle, the sides of her mouth will crease slightly, she'll pause to savour the piano.
We'll embrace quickly, quietly. After all this time there's never need for words. She'll kiss my nose, nuzzle her way into my neck and sway with no real pace to the music. We'll listen to the entire recording, with no real purpose. She'll sigh, deep and heavy, her smile as intense as ever. She'll look up at me with tired, loving eyes, and say she loves me.
I'll return the sentiment, she'll ask why I'm crying, I'll just say I missed her.
We'll move to the bed after that, she likes to be the big spoon. She'll whisper nothing into the back of my head, the feeling of my hair, the scent of my cologne and shampoo, this is her safe place.
I'll roll over, we'll kiss again, she'll brush my hair aside, then her own. She'll make a comment, my greying hair, my new wrinkles, something that makes her feel like it's been too long.
We'll kiss a third time, fall into each other, make love like something between teenagers and saints, worshipping an old hunger.
We fall asleep.
In the middle of the night she kisses me awake. As if she could devour me, we dive back into one body.
In the morning she wakes up in tears. "Something's wrong." she says, as if she remembers. I smile, kiss her. I tell her it's going to be alright but she always knows when I'm lying. We hold each other.
"How many times?" She asks.
"As many as I can."
She nods, still crying but almost smiling now.
"Even now?"
"Always," my own tears slow and filled with memory.
"I love you." she laughs a little and wipes away her tears.
"I love you too." I'll say.
She'll crawl back into me, fall asleep smiling. That's how she'll go. In her sleep, happy.
There'll be a knock at the door, they'll take me out, comfort me as always.
I still remember the first time. The Doctor explaining what an aneurysm was.
There's a knock at the door.
It opens.
"Erica..." I whisper.
She smiles. Closes her eyes. Savours the music. | 1,156 | The year is 2021. The newest fad are clone clubs, where visitors can spend up to 12 hours with a clone of any person whose DNA they provide. The clones are disposed afterwards. | 1,271 |
"You may not believe it, but just a century and a half ago, people never stopped aging."
"Really, Grandpa?" Asked Jolene, her pale blonde hair glistening in the morning sunlight that shone through the window.
Aaron took a sip of his coffee. "Really," he replied.
Jolene wasn't buying it. She squinted her blue-grey eyes skeptically while she shoveled more scrambled eggs into her mouth. "What happens when you get old forever?"
"Well, they teach you about it in third grade, so you'll learn about it next year anyway." Aaron answered, dismissively.
"So it's for real, then? I mean, they didn't have EverKeep back then?" Jolene asked, wide-eyed.
Aaron deliberated. What a touchy subject for a seven year-old, especially on a day like today. But he had known when he was six, and what was there to lose anyway?
So he told Jolene across the dining table about life before EverKeep. He was surprised that she already had a decent understanding of the nature of it, although it was common knowledge that the injections start in utero, and then once yearly each birthday. Everyone got their final injection at 35, holding them at that age for potentially forever, or until they were Purged using CO2 gas for a gentle euthanasia on their 100th. Criminals and useless people were Purged by choice of an elected jury. If they were good, and useful to society, they were kept instead. Her eyes grew wider as he told her about the days when the Preserving technology didn't exist. People kept getting old, even past 35. They got wrinklier and wrinklier, and their organs failed. Sometimes they could borrow an organ from a dead body if theirs didn't work anymore. They got diseases that could kill them, no matter how young or old they were. Even babies died.
Jolene's innocent eyes grew wider and wider as Aaron explained these things to her. Most shocking to her was when he told her that he had known some of the last Agers, had seen their bodies cripple and deteriorate. Everkeep didn't work retroactively.
"Grandpa," Jolene started, with her eyes fixed on the table in front of her, "are they gonna keep you or no?"
"Well, I got in some trouble a few months ago, you know."
Jolene's brow furrowed.
"You know that Jim and I, well, we planted some explosives in the Everkeep facility downtown. And, uh, the building was just about destroyed."
"Grandpa," Jolene cried, "Why would you blow up the EverKeep? They might have kept you before, but now you're in trouble!" There were hot tears streaming down her red cheeks.
Aaron reached out his hand and placed it over hers. "My love," he said, "immortality is a cage."
| 18 | Humanity has developed the technology that makes them immortal. To avoid overpopulation, all but those who can prove that they're worth keeping alive are 'purged' when they turn 100. Today is your 100th birthday | 29 |
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