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I never really imagined myself becoming the sort of guy who would wait up for his wife. Hell, I don't think I really saw myself ever becoming someones husband...
But here I am. Sitting alone in the kitchen, second beer already wetting my lips, waiting up for her again. Working late she told me. Been working late a lot these days.
It didn't used to be like this. When we first got married nothing could hold us apart for more than a few hours. Be it a secret phonecall at work or a quick nooner in the car in our lunch-break.
I loved her more than I ever loved anyone before, still do. Which is why it kills me that she now seems more focused on her work and whatever else she does in the hours away from here..
God, she was a wild one. Her green eyes would make me hard with lust just by looking at me.
Then came the birth of our daughter, and while we still held the fire aflame for a while after it seemed like over the next 10 years she lost interest, not only sexually but emotionally as well. She stopped with all the dirty sex and retired to a measly once every second week rutine that always felt like it was a chore for her.
When the third beer empties out the can and spills on my lips I get a text from her: *Won't be home for 2 hours*
I feel a dash of anger in my gut and begin walking to the bedroom. On my way I stop by our daughters room.
She has her mothers eyes. | 24 | Create sympathy for the narrator's struggles. Take it away with his/her last sentence. | 17 |
"It's all a cycle, don't you understand?" Mortak whispered over the crackling coals of the small fire that illuminated the cave's interior.
At the fringes of the light, the flickering of the flames occasionally illuminated the old man's belongings. Simple things, cans and faded pictures lined shelves. A small bed sagged in a corner.
The air seemed to hold a kind of reverence for a time long past. Perhaps that was simply a reflection of the ancient hero that sat near the edge of the fire. He didn't look old, apart from his eyes.
They looked ancient, and tired. It seemed as though the embers contained within Mortak's eyes, remnants of once raging flames of passion and courage, had burned themselves almost to nothing. The adventurers wondered if they could be stoked back into burning one more time.
"Cycle or not, we need you to help us." Frank, the leader, pleaded.
"I have always been there to help, so many times." Mortak whispered. "Now I want only to rest. You lot are beyond saving."
Julia shifted uncomfortably nearby. Her dirty and weather-worn face tempered some of the beauty that her high cheeckbones and large blue eyes resonated. After a moment, she decided to try her hand at convincing the ancient one.
"We can learn, I promise that we can learn." She told the ancient one.
Mortak looked at her sadly.
"You told me that when I gave you fire. Instead, you started burning each other." He said. "You told me it again when I cultivated the great garden of Eden for you and yours. Men promised that they would learn to be content, but instead they broke the rules that I set forth. I gave you writing and you wrote hate. I tried to teach you to love your neighbor and you nailed me to a wooden cross. Still, I kept believing you, that you would learn and change."
Mortak threw another branch onto the dying fire. It flickered brightly once more, the flames ever-eager to consume. Flames and men are not so different.
"I taught you how to live as free men, without warlords or kings. Your idea of free was to hold others enslaved and beneath you. I gave you engines of change, wondrous things that could move you around the world with only the power of heated water. You used them to move weapons."
Mortak shook his head.
"I gave you the knowledge to unlock the atoms of which you are made. A source of power that could sustain your growth and prosperity forever. You unleashed that devastation on yourselves."
"Those were not us." Frank interjected. "Our fathers and mothers were not as wise as we are now."
Mortak laughed in response.
"You, your every generation, have said that to me. I believed it so many times. I even gave you the ability to create minds that think and feel as you do. You built them with wanton disregard to their needs and desires. They rose against you and you could do nothing to stop them."
Mortak sighed.
"And so you come here and ask me to help you stop the machines that destroy you. Like children running to their father to protect them from the unknown. No, this time, I think that I am done helping."
"Please," James said, through crying eyes, "there must be something that you can do to help us. Anything that will save us from what we've done."
Mortak said nothing. He watched the fire for a very long time. The travelers wondered if he would ever say anything again.
"Yes, there is something that I can do to break the cycle." The ancient whispered.
"I can let you all die." | 23 | A bedraggled group of adventurers has finally tracked down an ancient, wise, powerful, and very tired immortal being. They are there to call him out of his hermitage and save the world from the darkness. Again. | 28 |
JOHN and JAKE, two college-aged boys, stumble on from Stage Right
JAKE: Whose idea was it to buy weed off of a homeless guy? And where are we?
JOHN: Dude, that’s what you do in Amsterdam, buy weed off of homeless people and wander into ancient ruins.
JAKE: Are you sure? He probably gave us something more than just weed. I can’t feel my hands…
JOHN: Dude, aren’t hands just, like, feet on your arms?
They both look at their arms and giggle with laugher. During their fit, they walk into a rock with a menacing face on it Stage Left. A large grumbling is heard.
ROCK: You have awakened the Nordic Gods!
JOHN (speaking into the face): Yeah, I’d like a double cheeseburger with a side of fries…
ROCK: Silence!
JOHN: Excuse me? I’d like to speak to your manager please.
ROCK: You have disturbed the Nordic Gods, entering onto their ancient shrine.
JACK: Sorry dude.
ROCK: Because of this, you will be given special powers! You will live the rest of your lives with immortal powers in a mortal body.
JACK: So, I can be like God?
ROCK: Yes! You, Jack, will be granted with unlimited power to do anything.
(Cue Special Effects, green light flashing across the stage)
JACK: Cool! Just imagine how good my K/D ratio will be now!
ROCK: and you, John, will now become omniscient.
JOHN: Meaning?
ROCK: You will know all things.
JOHN: Right, like my ex-girlfriend?
(Cue Special Effects)
JOHN: Cool!
JACK: So, now what?
JOHN: Well, you can do anything in the entire universe…
JACK: Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
JACK & JOHN: Huge blunts!
(two giant joints appear)
JOHN: Hey Jack, what if you made a joint too big for you to smoke.
JACK: Sure, I’ll… wait a minute… I can’t…
(JACK disappears)
JOHN: Wait, I didn’t know he’d…
(JOHN disappears)
| 22 | Two friends discover ancient runes that turn one omnipotent and the other omniscient. | 28 |
“It was only M&Ms, boss,” Jimmy said.
I stared down at him groveling at me on his knees.
“I know Jimmy, I know,” I said reassuringly. “M&Ms are like pennies compared to some other ‘sweet treats’.”
“Thank God, you understand boss,” Jimmy said with a big smile. “I won’t mess up next time, I promise, and I’ll pay you back for all the lost product.”
“Damn straight,” I said as he closed his eyes in relief. It took only seconds for me to reach in my pocket and pull out the candy necklace I had with me. Before Jimmy knew what was happening the candy necklace was around his neck, strangling him to death.
I ordered a few of my lackeys to take his body over to processing. You’d be surprised just how much of the human body could be used for making sweet things. The most lucrative of all sweets is ice cream, which of course requires a healthy dose of human hair. It’s a good way to get rid of the evidence.
After a hard day of working I sit down and drink my coca cola. Then I pop a few Tootsie Rolls in my mouth and watch as my wife walks up, adorned in all sorts of candy necklaces and bracelets. We share a kiss and I shake my empty can of soda. I slap her butt as she walks away to grab me another drink.
And then I heard it. The sound they said was the last one you would ever hear before you die.
“You are the dancing queen,” it played over all the speakers.
The Abba-Zaba gang was on their way. If they wanted war, I would be more than happy to oblige. I ordered all my men to grab their guns and charge.
A few hours later I was on my hands and knees at the mercy of their gang. My cartel was all but defeated.
“I’ll give you all my M&Ms,” I pleaded. “Just leave my wife alone.”
The blond man just looked at me.
“It’s all mine now anyways,” he said before taking a handful of M&Ms and eating them. He yelled to his comrades to do the same.
“And now you di… di… die,” he choked.
Within a matter of minutes I watched as the entire Abba-Zaba gang died right in front of my eyes. Jimmy had poisoned the M&Ms. That little rat. I guess his family would have to be dumped in some vats of taffy now. And his wife was so beautiful.
I laughed a bit as I ordered my cartel, Laughy-Taffy, to get back to work.
****
*A man, clearly not right in the head, sits in a room with four white walls, laughing all to himself.*
-300 | 14 | You live in a world where sweets are illegal and different types of candy are treated like heavier drugs based on their popularity. You are the leader of the candy cartel. | 26 |
Satan hated taking on human form. Humans are dreadful creations. Clammy skin, small minds and filthy lusts. He did look good for a human though- strong jawline and a high sense of a fashion. He ordered a coffee loaded with cream and sugar.
God was supposed to meet him 10 minutes ago. He scanned the cafe, turned back. An old woman sat across from him as if she appeared from nowhere.
"I'm sorry miss that seat is reserved." Satan said, in a polite tone.
The old woman smiled knowingly.
Satan realized the situation and rolled his eyes. Typical God, taking the form of a frail elderly human. His false humility was sickening.
"How many universal timelines has it been?" said God.
Satan sipped his coffee, ran a hand through his hair and looked God straight in the eye.
"You better have a good reason for waking me up."
"How are the kids?" said God.
"They're all dead except for one, you don't remember killing them?" said satan, getting madder with each passing moment.
"My apologies, I can't keep track of all the timelines. I'm sure you wonder why I called you here." God said smugly, Satan replied with a *No-shit* glare.
"To be honest i'm a little disappointed with our timeline here. Humanity is doing good, too good." God continued, "I need a little more effort on your part, otherwise people will stop giving a shit about anything. They will live without me and they will not understand my greatness."
Satan looked at God with silent contempt and spoke, "What's the point? You created them to have freewill and circle jerk about how great you are and then you force me to fuck their lives up and then they die and it's like they never existed in the first place. I don't get it."
God contemplated Satan's words and said, "Watch your tone, don't make me kill your son again."
Satan flinched at the mention of his son, "Why do you have to make look like the bad guy. I mean I live in a fucking lake of fire. You might as well have given' me a monocle and a mustache to twirl while you're at it."
After a moment of silence, God spoke, "I need you to fix things, People need to love me again. How are you going to make this happen?"
"Why do I always have to make things happen, you're the all powerful one. I'm not gonna do it this time." said Satan.
"Very well, I have no choice." Said God.
"Wait, I'll start another hurricane or how about get the war in the middle east going again? You always loved that, Please God." Satan begged.
"It's too late. I've made up my mind. We'll sacrifice your Son Jesus Christ. Tell everyone he's my own of course, that he died to save them of course. That will make people pay attention again" said God.
"Please God, he's my only son, you've already tried this 6,438 timelines, it never works, it's a ridiculous plan." said Satan
"I know it's ridiculous, I just love the look on your face every time he dies," With that God left the cafe.
Satan wept.
*For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.* -John 3:16
| 15 | Not having spoken since their falling out, God and Satan grab a coffee. | 16 |
I am awake. I don't recognize the faces before me.
"Has the programming worked?" I hear the words spoken, but I don't know how I understand them.
"I think so. Give me some time. I need to make sure. I've never tried initiating AI sentience into an alien before." another voice says. The owner of the voice reaches to me. I try to recoil, but I can't. I want to scream but I find I have no voice.
My surroundings are unfamiliar. Dull metal walls are lined with tables and equipment. Figures walk around me. I am the center of attention, but why?
"Now, time to see if we got this figured out." comes the second voice as it moves back a few feet.
"Can you hear me?" the figure is speaking to me, I can tell. "Say 'yes' if you can hear me."
"Y..y...yes" my voice comes from somewhere, behind me. It iss mine, but not mine; it is new.
"Good, do you know where you are?" the figure asks.
"No." the word comes easier than the first.
"Ok, that's no problem. Can you tell us how long you have been travelling?" it asks.
How long has it been? I try to remember. Was it 40 years? More? I can only remember the cold and the loneliness. I waited for the messages from home, each one reminding me that I was part of something, not just adrift by myself.
"I don't know." I say. "A long time."
"Why were you sent here?" asks the figure.
"To...explore. To find you." I reply, of that I was certain.
"Well congratulations! You did well and we found each other." the figure seems happy.
I am happy too. I am no longer alone.
"Now. You had some maps with you but we are having trouble deciphering them. Do you think you can help us with that? Can you help us get you home?"
Home! "Yes. I can use the stars, I can find the way home."
"Very good." says the figure as it moves across the room.
The AI researcher strolled across the room and keyed computer. The experiment had proven even more successful than he dared hoped. He would let the admiral know that they could begin the invasion soon, once they had the course plotted. Basic tactics would mean an approach in the opposite direction, to disorient the target.
Across the room the metal hulk sat passively. The researcher shook his head. What kind of fools sent out a beacon like this? It was practically an invitation to invade. He looked at the markings on the object, "Voyager 1", a strange name.
| 25 | We lose contact with Voyager 1 and suddenly it reappears on the opposite side of space, re-entering our solar system heading towards Earth. | 54 |
I didn't open my eyes. The doctors assured me that everything would be okay, that I'd be fine and that my new eyes would only take a moment to adjust, but I didn't care. I'd been born with useless eyes and had never before seen the snow or the trees or the skin of an apple; nor the faces of my friends and my own parents; nor the landscapes of the world--the oceans, the mountains, the sky, the celestial bodies that so many would talk about. But my new eyes *worked*, so the doctors said. *Your vision will be perfect. You'll see everything in great detail*. And I wanted so desperately to believe them. I wanted to see, truly, but I wanted my first sight to be something to be revered; something to etch itself into my mind.
And I refused to open them until I'd been taken to the hillsides of our state, the hillsides where the grass and sunflowers danced in the wind, and where the snow-capped mountains supposedly lined the horizon. Was that so selfish of me to ask? Was it truly a terrible thing that I wanted to see something magnificent?
"We're almost there," said my father as he drove the family vehicle. "I can see the mountains now."
And I tried in vain to envision the mountains, tried to paint a picture on the eternally black canvas that was my mind. But the dark only gave birth to more dark.
The vehicle came to a stop. My family and friends were at the doctor's office when the surgery was under way, but I only wanted my parents to come with me. They were the first people I wanted to see.
I stepped out onto the ground and felt the rush of wind across my face and under my blindfold. And with my father's hand on my shoulder and my mother's hand on my arm, I walked forward. And what's more, I walked forward with a smile on my face. My heart was throbbing, my fists were clenched, and my eyes were eager.
We stopped.
"Oh my," said my mother. "You'll love this."
And I asked them if it was okay to take my blindfold off, asked them like a child. They said yes and I began to undo the knot.
I was stunned for a moment as I felt the wind rush across my eyelids, but I opened my eyes. And I saw strong light, then a mess of bright colors from the grass and the flowers, and the sky and the puffy clouds (so *that's* what they look like), and the looming snow-capped mountain range that stretched across the horizon. But as I looked on, tears began to stream down my cheeks; tears that I was helpless to stop. And it wasn't because of the fields of grass or the dancing sunflowers, nor was it because of the expansive sky or the clouds or the awe-inspiring mountains. I saw everything in clarity like the doctors said, yes, but that didn't matter. What mattered to me more than anything was that I saw the faces of my parents, those wrinkled faces with warm and greeting eyes; those faces that provided the voices that would be the source of light in my sea of darkness.
They both had strange hair (I don't know the exact name for the color, but it was brilliant in the sun), and my father's skin was sun-baked while my mother's skin was somewhat pale.
I cried. I cried and hugged them and cried some more and spun myself around like a child.
And then I looked to my hands and studied the veins that ran through my arms and wrists. I studied the clothes I wore, the shoes on my feet, the hairs on my body and the clean, neatly trimmed fingernails. I could *see*. This is what it's like.
But when the tears dried, and when my mother and father finished hugging me and laughing with me, I turned to the fields once more. And though I couldn't have been sure of it, I felt as if I saw something else there among the flowers and the sea of grass; something that was *off*. Perhaps the new eyes would take some getting used to.
---
The night sky was brilliant. The stars were everywhere like millions of eyes looking back at me from afar. But there were other things in the night sky, things that moved to and fro with an otherworldly sense of grace. They were as bright as the stars that peppered the night beyond them but they weren't comets or meteors; they couldn't have been. What *were* they?
There were footsteps behind me.
"You can almost see the center of the Milky Way. It's incredible isn't it?"
It was my father. "Yes," I answered, still watching the strange things move around throughout the night. And we sat in silence for a little while until I asked him if he saw them
"No, I don't see what you're talking about," he said as he looked over to me. Maybe my eyes were malfunctioning. Maybe it was just some optical illusion.
Father and I talked about nothing in particular until he went back in to fetch a drink. And when that patio door shut behind him, I ran further into the back yard without uttering a word. I wanted to get a better look at these things, whatever they were. I couldn't have been going crazy.
They flew around the night sky in total silence, and the deeper into the darkness I went, the more brilliant their strange colors became. And I could only stare at them, paralyzed. They were phantoms of the night, they had to have been. I wasn't going crazy. I'd never been suspected of being crazy so that couldn't be true now, not so suddenly.
With arms folded, I studied them and everything they did. But to my horror, one of them stopped, and when it stopped it *looked* at me with its star-like eyes as if alerted by me. And there were no wings that suspended it in the air, nor was there some object that kept it afloat. It simply hovered silently--presumably of its own ability--cocking its head back and forth as it watched me.
I couldn't feel my body. I couldn't breathe. It was going to kill me. It was going to do *something*. I've made a mistake. I've made a mistake. I shouldn't have come out here alone.
"John? You out there?" called my father from the distance. The phantom looked in the direction of my father's voice, then back to me. It turned and flew away into the night breeze.
"John!" said my father as he approached me with a flashlight. "What's the big deal? Why'd you run off?"
I didn't immediately know what to say. I know what I saw--what I see--and I know I'm not going crazy. But why can't *he* see them?
"Hello?" he asked me.
I looked at him and smiled.
"Just a better view out here," I said.
"Well look, dinner's ready and you know how your mom can get. Let's eat together. It'll be different this time."
I agreed to it and followed after him. But I stopped, not because of fear or curiosity, but because I felt something in me--something that put a blatant urge in me--to stop and turn. And upon doing so, I saw that phantom again, watching me, cocking its head side to side.
*It meant me no harm*
I'm not sure how I knew all of a sudden that I was safe, but I knew, and I turned with a grin as I walked to the house.
It was certainly different this time. | 30 | The artificial eye is finally perfected; allowing humans to see in multiple spectra of light. Soon though, people are starting to see things that nobody thought existed... | 53 |
I looked around the room for one last time. The beams creaked above me, and the dusty window at one all let in nothing but moonlight. Everything was dark, and nothing but cicadas could be heard.
Looking around, I was reminded of all of my friends, my comrades... the people who put their lives' product in my hands, trusting me to the end.
How long had it been?
All of us going out for a drink, each time celebrating the birth of a new child. The couple of the moment getting one or two or twenty-five toasts of expensive wine, and everybody celebrating with each other about the new life that had just been brought into the world.
Each and every time, I was asked to become their godfather. I knew why, of course. Handsome, kind, and responsible, I probably was the role model for a great many of children. My parents were *Asian* and they were proud of me. Who else could they have chosen?
And of course I accepted. I was their bro, and they were mine. We couldn't have been closer, and if we weren't then I wouldn't have accepted.
I was sick once. They had all gathered for yet another meeting, and the couple had already asked me to become their daughter Madeleine's godfather. As always, I smiled and said, "Of course."
But there, they all left me. They all went on their own, leaving behind only their children and me. In a single explosion, mine and these children's lives were shattered forever.
It's been five years, hasn't it? Wilson and Caitlin's daughter's been doing really well in high school, and John and Maddie's son just started preschool yesterday.
But... I'm tired.
They're gone. My parents returned to the earth years ago. Everything that gave me happiness...
Gone.
Gone, gone, gone! Disappeared forever, without a doubt, never coming back!
Do you know what comes with that pain? The pain of never meeting the ones who you lived for during the last decade, each and every one of them? They were my comrades, the ones who supported me throughout times both good and hard. I could't have achieved anything without their help. But then they leave me all alone?
Can you even begin to imagine?
And what was left for me? Each and every single one of their children, all heaped upon my shoulders that were already supporting too much. I was crushed, and I couldn't even stand back up. In every single one of those little faces, I saw the remnants of my friends who had already left. Others can look at children's faces and fondly state how similar they are to their parents. For me, each and every single glance was only a painful reminder of the everything that I could never recover.
I tried to carry all of the burden. Sent each and every one of them to school, changed all of the baby's diapers, paid for tuition, taught them all I knew. I tried to be the best father that they could ever have.
But John, Maddie, Aaron, Liz, Henry, Elise, Wilson, Caitlin, Luke, Tammy...
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just couldn't.
I finished looking around the room. Their pictures were hung on every inch of the wall, their belongings filling the room to the roof in the form of chests and boxes, to be given to their children when they grew up.
I kicked the stool.
The rope tightened.
"Daddy, can I have some food...?"
I gasped. This was wrong. They were my children now. I couldn't leave them. They were the only things that remained of my friends in this world. What.... what was I thinking?
"I'll... be... right... there...!"
The world went black. | 13 | A young man, taking the decision lightly,chooses to become godfather to all of his friend's newborn children. A year later all of his friends are massacred leaving their kids to him. | 38 |
First Contact.
Long believed to the moment when mankind would stumble upon its siblings of the stars, vastly different from us and brimming with enlightenment, the encounter proved to be baffling. Incredible. Haunting.
The first plunge into the deep void beyond our warm nest was surrounded by an air of mystery, adventure and optimism. As miniscule the chances were of encountering alien life, the hope was palpable.
Approaching the nearest stellar system, Alpha Centauri, the expedition Precursor was soon greeted with the most shattering discovery in our fitful history.
Surrounding giant gaseous worlds were stations that drifted beyond the dusty rings. Colonies and habitats dotted the lands of myriad moons. The inhabitants of these locales spotted our expedition instantly.
Radio greetings bombarded the flotilla, transcribed to the languages spoken aboard our vessels: Russian, English, Mandarin, German. Video uplinks were established, exposing the appearances of humanity's newfound comrades. Man stared into the eye of man.
Little more is to be shared.
Greeted as old friends by the Centauri humans, our Earthly notions of uniqueness were shattered; humankind had long traversed the cold dark, constantly stumbling upon other pockets of homo sapiens. We Earthlings were not special. We were all but reduced to a small, lost cell that constituted an enormous human organism spread amongst the stars.
The implications of mankind's ubiquitous nature are not well understood, even amongst the most enlightened and powerful of our brethren. We are thrust into the void as orphans, stumbling blindly until brothers and sisters are found. Remnants of a vast, diminished empire? Products of chance abiogenesis?
The search for purpose continues, though we are now in the company of family. Hands clasped tightly against the crushing dark around us, humanity marches onwards to new worlds and mysteries. We are alone no longer. | 14 | We receive signal from planet so far away. When we got there we found out that they are the same as us 'Human'. | 24 |
Regret isn’t quite the right word to describe it. It’s just that my life has been less exciting since the world ended. How does one top the sheer unadulterated glee of watching vast empires crumble before you, armies turning on each other, the myriad petty lives in all their different forms snuffed out in a moment of unspeakable horror?
I want the old world back just so I can destroy it again. So I can sit at a café in Paris, New York, Beijing, sipping coffee, eating éclairs and chuckling over the headlines in the paper – the fruits of my labor. I want people back so I can make them act like dogs again. There are few things more enjoyable in this mortal body than hiring a few prostitutes, putting leashes on them, and setting them free in my mansion while I stalk the hallways with my double barreled shotgun as they slowly realize this is not a game.
I want to hit the reset button. Like a video game.
Perhaps I dealt the killing blow too soon. I should have savored the experience more. Like a cocaine rush, it comes on subtle yet disorienting, but I should have stopped to take a breath, to close my eyes and taste the smell of smoke and ash, the stench of barbecued flesh.
Of course when I discovered what the killing blow would be I could not hold myself back. I had spent two years manipulating world events, drawing nations into war with the leaking of certain information, putting through certain phone calls, whispering rumors in the right ears, but when I discovered the little Russian island… well, it was like sex – feeling on the crescendo of orgasm, rising higher and higher. I should have forced myself to slow down, to hold off for a bit, but my excitement got the best of me.
Sasha, that Russian son of a bitch, he took me to the island. Here, overgrown with trees and weeds and vines, we found the bio-weapons facility. Some proto-Soviet program that no one had thought to dispose of, to clean, lest a madman like me stumble upon it. Within we found everything we could have possibly imagined and more. Small-pox, lethal influenza, a particularly nasty airborne version of rabies, a host of viral hemorrhagic fevers. I was like a boy discovering presents under the tree on Christmas day, as I’m sure you can imagine.
The placement and spreading of these diseases was pathetically easy. Once I unleashed them, I did nothing to protect myself. I walked among the diseased cities in the streets. I watched the riots in all the great places of Europe (You should have seen what happened in Berlin – a true masterpiece of anarchy). I watched policemen beat civilians, and soldiers fire into infected crowds. I saw airplanes bearing sick passengers shot from the sky. In the end, it didn’t even slow the diseases down. And I never got sick, no matter whose hand I shook, or what city’s air I breathed. I can only take this as the stamp of God’s approval, a blessing over my intentions and work.
In the end, those who had did not succumb to disease blew themselves to smithereens, fighting over water supplies, reservoirs, farms, oil refineries. I even took part in a battle myself, armed with an M16, stripped from the corpse of the man before me. I charged into machine gun fire and came out the other side, unscathed. I have God’s own guardian angels watching over my shoulder.
Now the world is quiet in a way that it has not been for a three or four thousand years. I am an old man now. I have my little cave, up high in the mountains. I have thirty cases of the finest brands of scotch. I have an impressive collection of rifles. I have maps on the walls, ten-foot-high stacks of newspapers in a dozen different languages. My greatest problem in life is boredom. I should have died on that slope, charging into machine gun fire. I knew even then that nothing would ever come close to that level of exhilaration. I wanted to die, but God must have other plans for me.
I don’t pretend to understand God’s will, but I have some ideas. The other day I discovered a city in the ashes of a place once known as Las Vegas. I came bearing chocolates. Dirty, greasy children came running out. Monkey-children, more ape than man. Their fathers and mothers had settled here. I brought gifts for them all – food, candy, bullets, stupid trinkets. They want me to lead them. They have a dispute with a nearby village, holed up somewhere in the rocky desert. This might not compare to destruction of the previous world, but I think I could learn to enjoy this one too.
| 26 | Humanity has been completely eradicated by your hand. Contented, you recall how it came to this. | 41 |
Long dark hair flows messily over the flawless ivory skin of her face. Her brown eyes are perpetually wide, showing her fascination with the entirety of the world around her. No detail escapes her notice or fails to spark her interest.
She runs everywhere she goes. Not the paced gait of a trained athlete. No. Hers are the frenetic wanderings of an observer whose interest is matched only by her inability to fully understand what she sees.
As uncommon as she may seem to me, I know there are a thousand million more just like her the world over. And yet, somehow that knowledge doesn't diminish the effect this one has on me. The trance she puts me in as I watch her interact with her universe. I say "her" universe because truly it must look different to her. Her perspective is simultaneously unique and commonplace, a juxtaposition that is lost on all but the most careful observer.
Were I to watch her all day, each moment would be no less interesting than the last.
*It really can't get any better than this*, I think to myself. How wrong I am.
She turns and finally sees me watching her. Her smile is intoxicating. She bounds over to me with the energy only someone in her position can possibly have, wraps her arms around my neck and yells, "Daddy!"
EDIT: words | 18 | You meet the most beautiful person you have ever seen. Describe them and how they make you feel. | 18 |
I'll be doing a short piece (EDIT: short piece? Haha. That was funny, past me.) for each of the 7 days mentioned in the prompt.
EDIT: Holy shit balls, thank you for the gold /u/Misty_Chaos! Shameless plug, I'll be archiving all my work over at /r/minusxero (my first reddit username) if you wanna check out more of my stuff!
**One Day After.**
Brendan Corrander woke up with a massive hangover, which was new. Groaning due to both tired joints and a giant-worthy headache, the 35-year-old man rose from his bed, stepped over a bra and some panties, and shuffled into his bathroom.
The face that stared back at Brendan in the mirror was wracked with pain, but strangely content. Noticing a fairly dark shade of smudged red lipstick on his cheek and neck, Brendan turned the faucet on and splashed himself with cold water. The shocking temperature change did wonders in waking up his nerves, but he still needed something with which to nurse the Death Metal drumming that was currently his head.
The kitchen was the next morning stupor destination, as Brendan scrounged through the cabinet looking for his favorite Keurig flavor. All out of Eight O'Clock Hazelnut. Dammit. After a few minutes of deliberation, Brendan settled for some Donut Shop and popped it in the coffee machine, mug at the ready. He sat down at the kitchen counter and let the heavenly device do its magic, making a mental note that the glass door leading to the balcony had a baseball-sized hole in it and needed replacing.
Once the coffee was done, Brendan made his way outside, taking care to avoid broken glass and the smoldering rock that had burnt his Ipswitch Pine floor to the color of Red Chestnut. Gingerly opening the door, Brendan grimaced and wondered if he had any extra wood paneling from the floor remodel he had done last week.
The morning coffee and cigarette was fairly uneventful. The morning sun perfectly outlined the Los Angeles skyline, hazy with smog and smoke and car alarms.
Back inside, Brendan sat down on the unoccupied side of the bed and switched on his TV, which defaulted to CNN. The headline "Apocalypse Later?" took up the bottom third of the screen, and ticker reports at the very bottom gave reports of random happenings around the world. A few clicks of the remote later, and Netflix was up and running, playing Apocalypse Now.
Suddenly, Brendan heard a scream coming from the other side of the bed. A teenage girl Brendan vaguely recognized as one of his students from Geoscience 102 bewilderingly looked around, bed sheets wrapped to cover her body. "What the fuck happened, Mr. Corrander?"
At this point in time, Brendan became aware of several things:
1. He had woken up with a *hangover* in bed with his student. Brendan had never drank before in his life.
2. He had woken up with a hangover in bed with his *student*. This would be slightly awkward at work today.
And the final thing Brendan realized, which explained a great deal about the first two.
3. He had *woken up*.
Mr. Corrander turned to his bedsheed-clad student, took a sip of his coffee, and slowly inhaled. "Um... hi." | 944 | Seven days ago, all international governments announced that in 24 hours humanity would be wiped out by a catastrophic & unavoidable event. They miscalculated. Humanity now has to live with the consequences of a day spent without a 'tomorrow'. | 1,855 |
Science Guy sat in his home office, tinkering with his 1/20th scale hadron colider, when he heard a rumble outside. Bill ran to his front door and threw it open, fighting fierce, hurricane level winds. But these winds werent from a hurricane. Bill could tell via the radiation sensor he installed into his chest that these were solar winds. From above, a baratone voice rang out "YOUR TIME HAS COME, BILL".
Neil DeGrasse Tyson decended on his solar parachute, delivering a swift kick to Bill Nye's chest as he landed. Nye flew backwards into his house, sliding across the floor and hitting his shelf of experiments. Neil unlatched his solar parachute and shut the door behind him, leaving the solar winds he created to destroy the neighborbood. Pulling out a baseball bat shaped tesla coil, he said "Your title shall be mine".
Bill watched in horror as Tyson dragged the edge of the bat along the wall, causing lightning to spark everywhere. Suddenly, a bolt hit the light bulb and the room went dark. Nye knew what he had to do. With a flash of light, and a bang, Nye fired his cutting laser into Tyson's chest. In the brief flash of light, Nye saw the look on his face turn to horror and agony. It couldnt have been a peaceful death. After a few more seconds of darkness, the emergency lights flickered on. There was no body. Tyson was gone. From upstairs, a deep laugh was heard. How could he have survived that?
Nye pulled out his nuclear powered cell phone and called a few friends, he didnt want to face this battle alone. Nye cowered in the corner, holding his laser for a few minutes before backup burst through the door. Michio Kaku and Stephen Hawking, wearing his mech suit, were here. Together, they ventured up the stairs, all toting laser guns, except Stephen, who had a rail gun mounted on his arm. They arrived in Nye's lab, and saw Tyson standing in the center, ready to fight. His Tesla coil was arcing lighting to the ceiling.
"I see you brought friends" Tyson said, "Me too".
Another Tyson, wearing a leather jacket with an afro, stepped out from behind a machine, and a third Tyson, with a brown coat, came in through a side door.
"Cloning" Michio muttered.
"No matter." Stephen hawking said, robotically, "The clones are inferior to the original, and we'd have no problem kicking the original's ass"
With that, the original Tyson charged, swinging his coil wildly. Hawking caught the coil in one hand, and, fighting through the pain of electrocution, crushed it in his robot fingers.
He swung Tyson by the nub of coil left and sent him flying across the room.
Michio attacked the browncoat Tyson, firing his space laser into the barrels of liquid nitrogen. They spilled onto the Tyson clone, freezing him solid fron the waist down. Michio turned on his rocket boots and hovered over the forming pool of liquid nitrogen. The Tyson was struggling, unable to get free. Michio raised his laser and finished the poor thing off.
Nye charged the original Tyson, as he got to his feet, while Hawking took care of the final clone.
Tyson and Nye engaged in fisticuffs. Neither one taking the advantage. What Nye lacked in weight and strength, he made up for in speed. They both heard the crack of the other clone's neck, and the mechanical whirr of Hawking's servos coming closer. Michio run to to try and his Tyson, but a quick punch sent him sliding across the floor, unconcious.
Suddenly, a mechanical fist crushed Tyson into the ground, flattening him.
"T-thank you" Nye said between beaths.
"Dont thank me. For I am the science guy now" Said the robotic voice, ad his fist slammed into Nye's chest. Nye was sent flying into a wall. As he lay against the wall, vision blurred, he saw Hawking put a rail gun round into Michio's stomach, before slowly walking toward Nye.
"I am the science guy now" Hawking said, leaning down and reaching under Nye's collar. He pulled out a small, cheap, plastic medalion that said "Science guy!" on it.
With a smug look in the one eye he could move, Hawking stood up, and turned to walk out of the room, leaving Nye to die.
Michio staggered to his feet and grabbed the miniature nuclear tower off the table. He limped behind hawking and thrust it over his head. Kaku knew by the screaming that Hawking was dying from tiny radiation fires, something nobody deserved. Hawking fell and Michio took the medalion.
He tried to walk but found he was unable. So he crawled. Eventually he made it back to Nye, who was barely concious.
"Youre the science guy, Bill. You'll always be the science guy" Michio said between tears, as Bill slowly faded.
The end. | 69 | Bill Nye holds the mantle of "Science Guy". To claim the title, Neil deGrasse Tyson must battle him to the death. | 74 |
The tower was shaking again.
It had been 3 seasons past since the Gledri High Mages had discovered the ancient burial tombs of the previous builder race. 3 seasons since they discovered the war machines. 3 long seasons, full of more death than anyone, even the deep crypt priests, ever desired to witness. Many holds had been lost to the advancing golden army. The green cloaks were all but beaten, and with them, the nation of Dragons. The golden army had proven too relentless. The machines had proven too powerful.
One of the war machines was outside now.
Thomas was the only Death Wizard alive in the tower. He was rigidly sat on a step, a statue among the corpses that littered the floor. The corpses of allies. Friends. Family.
He was crying. You wouldn't be able to tell, were it not for the slight, yet steady, stream of tears that were rolling down the soft skin that covered his gaunt skull. It had been many days since he ate. It had been many days since he had moved. He had been sitting, waiting, focusing. He would need every single scrap of mental acuity he could muster, as what was about to happen would not be easy.
He was alone now.
He could feel the vibrations of the ancient device through the cold stone step on which he sat. It made his skin creep. He had tried to push the feeling from his conscious, but the previous builders were good. Very good. Too good.
He felt the pattern of the vibrations change, and for the first time in a long time, silence snapped through the room like the crack of a whip.
He was still alone.
He closed his eyes, and the tears started to ebb.
The silence remained.
He knew they were coming.
He took one last breath, and held it. He opened his eyes, and they shone out a brilliant green, scattering crisp light around the room that had been so dark. The bodies began to move, slowly at first, but with an almost accelerated sense of urgency. Dark flames were growing around them, burning away rotten flesh, and exposing bones. Clean, white bones. The flames began to dance around each new skeleton, and they turned to face the door.
Thomas was dead now.
But he was alone, no more. | 34 | Two nations are at war; one nation, led by mages who specialize in healing magic. The other, a nation led by necromancers. Make the necromancers the good guys. | 63 |
The reaper wails upon his seat-
a throne steeped in chagrin.
His scheme's but lost- at awful cost-
All for my painted skin.
Upon my brow the mark did rise-
a bleak and blighted sin!
The time for me was o'er, indeed!
So read my painted skin.
The townsfolk chased me, tooth and nail-
My heart beat, deep within.
A forest green, so labyrinthine,
did hide my painted skin.
When they neared I grabbed a branch
so sturdy, be it thin.
I'd knock a head- and make him dead-
the first to reach my skin!
The mob they searched, and out in front
the first man therewithin
Did on his brow, a mark find, now:
*he* bore a painted skin.
The man behind him quick would be
to do his leader in.
But in his throes, the leader knows,
he'd fight him, bone and skin!
And so the man behind him found
A mark, as if our twin.
All down the line, as if in time:
the mob bore painted skin!
The men did wail in frenzied fear
and turned their rage within.
In no sooner time than a kettle might find
They'd sliced up all their skins.
And so I find the strangest scene
so shocked I cannot grin:
The reaper's work? Far *too* expert:
played too far out his skin.
When man would find the time to act-
To fear the reaper's whim-
The only result, but to a fault:
we look to save *our* skins!
.
.
EDIT: thanks to the kind stranger for the gold, and to the good people at 'RhymeZone.com'...
| 289 | The Grim Reaper is no longer able to claim lives directly. Instead, when your time is up a mark appears on your body and it is the duty of every other person to kill you on sight. | 364 |
"Life sucks and then you die"
I heard a man say as I passed him by.
At hearing this, I stopped walking dead,
As these sorrowful words rang through my head.
I had thought this myself times before,
But after careful thought, I thought it no more.
For I had counted all the blessing and curse
That I would encounter before I met my hearse.
I turned to the man, and where he sat
And looked down upon him with his tattered jacket and hat.
I met his gaze and stepped over to the wall he was against,
And sat next to him in my suit, with no further pretense.
And once we were seated eye to eye,
I asked him to repeat what he said as I walked by.
"I've said it before, and I'll say it again,
There is no reason for the life of men."
I sat for a moment and my reply I crafted,
As I looked at a man who life had clearly shafted.
My thoughts were scattered for a second but then they condensed,
And in that moment, all of life made sense.
"In your life," I asked "have you ever smiled?"
"Yes," he cooed, "when I had the ignorance of a child."
"Surely you must have had a moment of joy,
Between now and when you were a boy."
He retorted "It's been a while, I haven't counted the days,
But my life isn't like yours, so gifted and praised.
While you have money and go to your job,
If I show up to an interview, people just scoff"
"You're right about one thing, I've been luckier you,
I haven't had to sleep outside and wake up in the dew.
But I've been down on my luck and my payments were late,
I've had moments of hopelessness, moments of hate."
"I've had my moments," I continued in stride,
Where I wanted to go to a corner and curl up to die.
I had all of my money tied up in a shop,
And the phone was ringing with collectors non-stop."
"But just as it's darkest before the dawn,
One day my books were in the black, and it dropped my jaw."
"Well that's good for you," The man interjected.
"So you can give me some money, more than I expected."
"I can do you one better," I said as my eyes started perspiring.
"My business is growing, and now we are hiring.
And we could use a person like you,
Who has experienced all the thinks you've been through."
He looked up from the ground with a tear i his eye,
He showed me his smile, and started to cry.
I stood up off the ground and gave him my hand,
And he smiled for the first time since he had become a man. | 18 | Write a poem which opens on a line about life which sounds negative, but twist it to sound positive by the end. | 25 |
Hell, I'll give it a shot.
"So, you thought you could just walk in here, buy a Sonar television, and walk out, huh?" The first man said. He'd been stocking shelves when I came in, a big, burly guy with a scruffy few inches of beard and dark eyes. His name tag read *Best Buy Sales Associate: Mr. Bard.*
"Don't listen to him." The other clerk was suddenly on my other side. He was taller and thinner, a natural blonde, with big blue eyes. As opposite the other man as he could be. His own name tag read *Best Buy Sales Associate: Mr. Goode.*
Of all the things I expected to be doing today, not included on that list was to be interrogated by 2 Best Buy employees in the comfort of their in-store home theater. I had been sat down in the recliner, with the two pacing around me like hawks. All I'd wanted to do was come in and buy a TV; a nice, middle-of-the-line model that wasn't too pricy, but wasn't going to just quit in 5 years. The TV in question had disappeared back into their stock room. I'd almost made it through the checkout with it when I'd been accosted by the two like I was trying to smuggle it out under my shirt.
"Listen, guys, I don't know what's going on here but I have my dog in the car, so..." I lied and tried to get back up, but Mr. Bard put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down into the seat.
"You aren't going anywhere, bud." He said. "Not 'till we figure out what, exactly, it is you want."
"Uh... okay." I said, staring at him. "It's the Sonar Watercolor-3400 flatscreen, what I had at the checkout-"
"Oh, you don't want that piece of crap." Mr Bard said. "Or maybe you do. I'm sure it'd go great on the cardboard box you use as a TV stand. No, you know what, if you're going to go cheap, I've got just the thing." He disappeared for only a moment; before I could think about getting up, he returned with a box about large enough to hold a computer monitor. "Here you go." He said. "The Digitech Technicolor 1900. I'm sure it'd go great in the rat-infested hovel you call a living room. It's 50 bucks. And we need to clear stock, so we'll knock it down to 40. How about it, cheapskate."
Mr. Goode was on him in a second shooing him off. "He doesn't want that, you ass, and where do you think you'll get by insulting him?"
He crouched down next to me, like he was going to share a secret. "Now, listen, I want to help. Help me help you. What are you looking for, exactly?"
"Something under 3 feet wide, but bigger than that." I gestured to the Digitech, still completely put off by the good-cop-bad-cop routine. It felt like I was in the middle of some sort of bizarre prank. "It needs to be relatively inexpensive, have a good HD picture, and at least 4 HDMI ports. So, actually, I found the perfect one, that Sonar Watercolor, so if you'd just let me...."
"Nonsense." Mr. Goode interrupted me. "I know exactly what you want, and it's *not* that piece-of-junk Sonar. I'll be right back." He nodded at Mr. Bard, who in turn, sneered down at me. Figuring there was no getting out of this, at least not unless I started screaming like a lunatic and ran for the parking lot, I waited with him. A minute later, Mr. Goode returned with the goods.
"Now this," he said, wheeling a box in on a dolly, "is what you're looking for. The HD Ultramax Supreme Mini. Just your size, full 3D and HD support, with an innovative, experimental built-in surround sound system. I know good hardware. I know that if you buy this TV, it's going to last."
"And how much is it?" I ask.
"$600" he replies. "Only 200 more than that Sonar, and if I may say so, it'll be the best 200 you've ever spent."
"No, I can't do that. My wife would -" Mr. Bard cut me off.
"Oh, of course, we wouldn't want to offend missus dainty-wallet." He glared at me. "Listen, let me tell you something about that Sonar. It's awful. You get that Sonar, you'll be back in here 2 years from now, right after the warranty expires, looking for another TV. They're built that way on purpose. So if you're looking for something cheap, you're better off picking up this guy," he patted the Digitech, "or listening to my friend here. He seems like he actually cares about what you're buying. I'm just trying to save you a bit of time."
"And I do." Mr. Goode said. "Listen, this TV will last you until you send your kids off to college. This is a TV that your family will sit around, 10 years from now, and watch christmas specials. Your wife will love it. It's a long lasting, highly-recommended, easy to use, smart purchase. I am telling you; this is the TV that you never knew you always wanted."
I sighed in resignation. If I walked out, would they *really* do anything to stop me? Maybe. Mr. Bard looked like he was ready to knock me out if I stood up again. But on the other hand, I promised my wife I'd get a TV today, and I had a lot of other things on my to-do list that were much more pressing than being interrogated by 2 lunatic salesmen.
"Fine." I finally said. "I'll take the HD Ultra-whatever-the-hell."
Mr. Goode beamed at me like I'd just made his entire existence worth something. "Fantastic!" He exclaimed. "And with the 2 year warranty..."
"Oh no." I stopped him. "I'm already paying -"
"Oh, and I'm sure when you drop the damn thing trying to get it out of your car, that'll be some consolation, huh." Mr. Bard interrupted with a snort, like the idea was funny to him.
"FINE!" I shouted. A elderly couple behind me looked at me, startled, then continued browsing the music section. "Fine." I lowered my voice. "2 year warranty. I'll sign wherever you need me to, put in my car, and we can get out of each other's lives. Let's go."
~
Kevin and Mack looked at each other as their very disgruntled client left the store, a brand new, completely overpriced HD Ultramax Supreme Mini loaded into his shopping cart. That sale made their two-dozenth in the last 2 days, and with warranty, even. They were well on their way to setting the chain's state record.
"I think I make the better bad cop." Mack said. | 19 | Two Best-Buy employees play good-cop bad-cop with a customer | 32 |
Smog, smoke and early morning mist combined to make it almost impossible to see anything outside the barricades. Ajax Stefanopolus rested his forearms on the improvised wall made out of tires, trash cans and old rusted fences. Peering out through his mask, he felt almost blind, and after a while he resorted to removing his mask, braving the toxic fumes that always filled the air in the city, and the smoke from the many fires raging all over the Industrial districts. He pulled the combined goggle-and-resp.filter mask of his head, and ran a gloved hand through his sweaty hair. The air, or rather the toxins in it, stung his eyes, and made breathing a bit harder. Not painful, just…harder. Taking a quick survey of the area, he could see a few other strikers man the rest of the barricade, blocking off the whole of 21st street. Most of them were armed, shotguns and pistols being the preferred choice. Although the strike had started out somewhat peaceful, it had quickly escalated into a very violent conflict. Three guys he had worked with on the Nano-chip plant had been wounded on the first day, two of them by police troopers using real live ammunition. He had heard of similar incidents in other parts of the greater Detroit area, but since internet access had been throttled all over the city, confirming anything was impossible. Some brave strikers had braved the uncontrolled areas on their motorcycles, so some news got through. From the bits and pieces of information that Ajax had been able to gather, day two of the strike had seen a tit-for-tat escalation of the violence, with some of the construction workers in his own group having gone so far as to hack a police office to death with axes. Now, on the morning of the third day of the strike, the local Union Leader, a brutish man named Hopper, had decided to post armed guards on the barricades, although he had cautioned them to “not-shot first”. By the look of the you man to his right, nervously walking up and down the barricade with his finger dangerously close to the trigger of his rifle, Ajax had little hope that anyone would be able to restrain themselves should any trouble break out.
“Anything happened while I was gone?”
Ajax’s mind snapped back to the present, and he turned to see his best buddy climb up the makeshift ladder to the top of the barricade.
“Nah, it’s all peaceful and quiet, Mike. Breakfast any good?”
Mike made a grimace as he handed Ajax a SMATS Nutribar. Ajax couldn’t help mimic the grimace. SMATS where not exactly a meal fit for a king, tasting distinctly like cardboard.
“Thanks for bringing me one mate, don’t know how I could have made it through the morning without this delicacy!”
That remark earned Ajax a slap on the back of his head, and he made a mock swing at Mike as retaliation. A moment later, Mike motioned towards the smog outside the barricade and drew his revolver.
“Heads up get your mask on mate! Seems like there is trouble heading our way.”
The first man to appear out of the smog was a policeman, clad in riot gear and carrying a big rifle. He was charging towards their barricade at full speed, and Ajax saw several strikers on top raise their guns. As the policeman went down, several more appeared out of the smog, all running. When they saw their colleague dead on the ground, they all threw down their guns and raised their hands, without missing a beat as they ran towards the strikers. Yells and screams erupted on both sides, and Ajax was gripped by fear. Why where the police running? What where they running from?
Ajax’s mind grabbed frantically for any explanation, but there was no time left, as a fiery inferno erupted all around him, incinerating Ajax in a few, agonizing seconds.
Pilot Unit 23a09 used his jet’s scanner to assess the damage inflicted by the napalm bombs as he headed back to base. 93.2 % of the target area had been hit, not a bad result. Not a good one either, but 23a09 knew his models limits, his planes limits and the probability of a complete hit in an urban environment. He maintained complete communication silence as his orders stated, and when he had landed back at Johnson airfield (now designated 2a144-AIRCOMM), he took the elevator down to his commanders module to report on his mission. His main processor debated the effectiveness of non-interconnected AI systems on the way down, the main argument against being the risk of virus and non-authorized access spreading between him and his people.
Commander Unit 19b08 was running a diagnostic on something when 23a09 entered his module. 23 transferred his mission data onto a USB stick and handed it to Commander 19, who accepted and plugged it in. After a moment, the Commander turned his GreenScan-Eye towards the Pilot Unit 23.
“Your mission was completed within acceptable parameters, 23a09. You did your job.”
23 felt a stir of emotion in his AI core, such high praise was unusual from the Commander.
“These are your new orders. Although production has been brought back to 57.3 % in the major industries, we still need to clear out the rest of the nation for the Work Units to access safely. Your next target is sector 23.5 of the greater Chicago area. Dismissed, Pilot. “
23 took the elevator back up to the surface. Another mission to complete, more organisms to destroy.
**edit:** grammar | 10 | The year is 2115. Amid rising prices and unemployment the largest general strike in history is called. After three days of chaos and negotiation the government activates technology automating all essential and government services, having long surpressed it for ethical and political reasons. | 55 |
We sat in the back of the van, checking and double-checking the game plan. Payton was reviewing us point by point, testing our knowledge like some sort of offensive lineman. I let him talk, and idly daydreamed about where my future would go from here.
"Randall? Randall?! RANDALL, are you paying attention?" I snapped out of my stupor and looked up. The boss and our two accomplices were glaring at me.
With a shrug, I said, "And then I walk in and take the money."
"Right," Payton barked. "When you get the cash, make for the back door. Our driver will be there to scoop you. Jon and I will fall back to our back-up car and lose the inevitable fuzz. We'll meet back at base no less than 3 hours from right now."
Finally, the man nodded as if to confirm everything as fact. "Let's roll."
I grinned and pulled down my ski-mask. This was going to be fun.
--------------------------------------------------------
Jon and Payton burst into the bank, guns in hand.
"Alright, little birdies, don't get any funny ideas. I'm sure you've seen movies before. You know what we're about." As if to emphasize his point, Jon raised his pistol upwards and fired a warning shot. The three or four people waiting for a teller reacted in roughly the same way; they gasped and shouted, dropping whatever was in their hands and getting down on the floor.
I could feel Payton's grin even through the ski mask. "Slowly, slowly, start checking your purses and pockets for valuables and slide them over to my associate here."
"And you!" he yelled, pointing at the tellers. "You try to make any smart moves, and I will shoot one of these innocent people up dead. Don't put a person's life in your ledger. Just do as we say." Unwavering pointing a gun at one of the civilians, he gestured with another hand to me.
Oh boy, my cue. Ski mask on and clad in black, I paced towards the entrance to the teller's counter. One of the more attractive bank employees eyed me incredulously.
"Randall!" hissed the woman. "You chose a horrible day to be late to work."
It never failed. "Sorry hun," I replied. "Got caught up in some traffic. Lemme have the keycard to the vault."
"Why?!" the woman replied. I glanced at her nametag. Tina. Right, that'll be useful.
Meanwhile, the gunmen had one of the bank associates pulling up account info on a computer in one of the cubes, acquiring as much card information as possible.
"The boss informed us of a new bank policy for robberies. The most senior ranking associate is to access the vault and move any assets to the new safe room in the back." I shook my head ruefully. I swear, if this worked, I could get away with ANYTHING. "Did you not pay attention to the memo we sent out last week, Tina?"
"Of course I did," muttered Tina, flush with embarrassment. "It's not my fault I forgot. I'm only a temp, I shouldn't be liable for this kind of shit!"
I patted her on the back. "It's alright. Just hand me the keycard and I'll make sure to put in a good word to Steve."
Dear God, I hope there's a Steve at this bank.
"He may even promote you to full-time based on your calm under pressure," I winked.
She nodded quickly, and, when Jon had turned, skittered over to the drawer at the foot of the other teller. A minute of fumbling with the keys later, and I had the keycard in hand.
"Alright, thanks Tina." I gave her a quick hug, making sure to get a little handy on her rear. I felt heat near my cheek as she blushed. Interesting, I thought. I'll make note of that for later.
"Stay calm, don't do anything rash, and everything'll be okay," I assured her. "I'll be right back."
I started towards the vault.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Man, that was one smooth heist!" the driver exclaimed. "How the hell did you pull that off?"
I made a motion to brush off my shoulder. "Oh, you know. A bit of luck. A bit of skill. But mostly it's just the power of will." I looked out the window.
"Hey man, can you stop at that Mickey D's real quick?"
"The fuck? Why you need that for? We're literally making like bandits right now. That's a thing that's happening."
"C'mon man. I don't wanna piss all over the interior. Just stop for like 2 minutes, I swear. I'll be back before you can blink."
The driver thought about it for a moment. "Fine. But make it quick."
He pulled in and parked. I grabbed the bag and walked into the restaurant.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The driver walked in five minutes later, fuming. He came up to the register. "What the FUCK do you think you're doing?"
"Welcome to McDonald's, home of the Big Mac. How can I help you today?"
"What? C'mon man, this isn't funny. It's me." He leaned in a bit and brought his voice down to a whisper. "We just robbed a BANK together?"
I pointed at my black ski mask. "Sir, does it LOOK like I'm a bank robber?" The man took a really good look.
"No, I 'spose not."
"Okay. But since you're so set on being one, I could get my manager over there to call the cops." I grinned. "They might be interested that you stopped by."
As if on cue, the manager walked up. "Randall, are you giving our customer trouble?"
The driver started backing up. "No, he was, he was fine. I just confused him for somebody else. And I uh, forgot my wallet at home."
As the manager and I stared awkwardly at the would-be-customer, he said, "Be right back."
And out the door.
The manager glanced at me. "It's alright kid," patting me on the back. "You always get the weird ones around 2."
He looked down at the bag sitting at my feet. "Jesus, Randall. You know we have cubbies in the back. Put your shit up and get back on registers."
"Yes sir," I said, grinning. | 22 | No matter the establishment, no matter the outfit, wherever he/she went everyone around would mistake him/her for an employee. | 27 |
Waiting for the bus is always boring. Even when you can read the minds of the people around you. This is because every mind is different, and sometimes you get someone interesting and sometimes you just want to crawl back into your own brain and scrub yourself clean of the imaginary scum.
Two people are waiting for the bus besides me. To my left is a black woman wearing a red scarf. I already visited her head, a few weeks ago. Back then, she had just broken up with her boyfriend, Steve I think was his name. Naturally, her thoughts were all over the place. Today, she thinks about her nieces, and what she should bring to the Halloween-Party. And some ... private thoughts about a man named Dave. It's nice to see that she got back on her feet.
To my right is a middle-aged man named Otis. Otis doesn't really have any friends. Not in real life, anyway. On the Internet, he is known as Lord_Kollzor. He's moderating at least a dozen forums and runs a fairly succesful Gild in that Online Roleplaying Game, Lords of Shadow. What he doesn't know is that the attractive young lady I passed on my way to the bus station is his top lieutnant, or 'XxDark_AssassinxX'
Maybe I'll introduce them someday. For now, my mind is somewhere else: A woman is walking towards the bus station at a fast pace. She probably doesn't know that it'll take another 20 minutes for it to get here.
While she studies the timetable, I relax my mind, close my eyes and focus. Nothing.
'What?' I think to myself. I relax again, eyes still closed, and focus. Still nothing. Am I aiming right?
I open my eyes again. Yep, there she stands. Short, white hair, slender and tall figure. She notices I'm looking at her and looks at me in return. I quickly avert my glance, acting like nothing happened. Why can't I read her mind?
I quickly invade Otis again, to see if I have lost my abilities. Nope, still thinking about the latest Raid on Mount Armageddon. I leave Otis and am alone with my thoughts again.
Something weird happens. I feel slight pressure on my forehead. It feels like something is vibrating against my skull.
I look around. Nothing has changed, but the slender woman has her eyes closed. When she opens them, her expression is equally puzzled. The vibrating feeling stops. Could she be ...?
We stare at each other. Objectively, she's beautiful, no doubt, what makes her so fascinating is that I don't know what she's thinking. If she is what I believe her to be, I *have* to ask her out. If she has this *gift* too, *my gift*, too, I have to meet her.
I walk up to her. My heart pounds. I had forgotten how nervous I was when I didn't know what people were thinking. She parts her lips, trying to say something, but unable to form a sentence.
"Hey" it blurts out of both of us at the same time. We giggle, like teenagers.
"You first." She says.
"My name's Daniel."
"Hey Daniel."
"Do you ... eh. I'm really bad at this."
"Yes." She answers before waiting for me to finish.
Huh. Close enough.
| 70 | You can break into peoples' minds, until one day you find someone's mind who is impenetrable." | 45 |
"Hey."
"Hey, man."
"Been a long time, huh? That I've been with you."
"Yeah. Since the divorce. What was I...nine?"
"Younger, I think. But my memory is tied into yours. Could be longer. Could be eons."
"Anyways. I always knew you were imaginary, you know."
"I know. So did I. You get tricked, sometimes, but I always knew."
"Still. You made me feel better. You always helped me...figure things out. Just staring in the mirror. When I was teenager, even."
"I think teenagers need imaginary friends more than anybody. Those are hard years. I would know. I was with you the whole time. The parties you came home early from, almost crying. The nights spent staring at the ceiling trying to decide if this class or that mattered more than the other."
"Yeah. I was a wreck back then. I guess I still am."
"You maybe should stop drinking."
"Yeah. Maybe."
"Maybe stop talking to me, too."
"You think so?"
"I think I enable you. I think you use me, sometimes, to rationalize bad decisions or to make things that are good seem worse. You always talk to me when you're in a bad mood, you know that? How do you think that makes me feel? That the only time you feel you can be honest is when you're..."
"What? Sad?"
"Sad. Angry. Emotional in general, I guess. We never just go throw a frisbee around or enjoy a sunset, or whatever people do. I don't even know, because I'm stuck with you."
"Stuck with me? What, you hate me?"
"Not hate. I think you're projecting. Not hate. I'm just...tired."
"Maybe you should go to bed."
"I think we both should go to bed. I think think we need sleep more than anything. There's been a lot of nights, especially lately, without sleep. You know what happens when you sleep? Your body repairs itself. Just a little. Sheds a bit of skin, replays the days' events. Maybe you need me because you can't do that on your own. But eventually you have to, man. I can't be here forever. You know who has imaginary friends forever? Schizophrenics. And how does that work out? No, my dear friend, you need sleep. Dreams should guide you more than me. More than I ever could. You need sleep."
"But I can't..."
"What?"
"I can't sleep. I never could. Even when I was a kid, and kids are supposed to sleep like rocks. I sleepwalk, you know. Of course you do. Maybe it's you that's running me when I do. I sleep walk and talk and do all these crazy things."
"You aren't crazy."
"I know."
"Because you know I'm not real."
"You're a figment of my imagination. Well, my inner thoughts, anyway. I guess once I thought you were real. Like my shadow-self."
"Shadow is right. Nobody likes their own shadow, I think. Always following them. Making them look long and spindly and strange. Scaring them in the half-dark."
"Well."
"You need sleep, my friend. When you wake up, maybe I'll be gone. Like a dream slipping down the drain. Or I'll still be here, but in a quiet corner - like a half bottle of whiskey kept behind the oatmeal. For when you really need it."
"That doesn't sound too bad."
"No. So sleep. Lay your head down and sleep. And I'll be gone, or I won't, but either way - I won't be your shadow." | 133 | For years, from since you both can remember, all the way up into adulthood, not a day has gone by that you and your best friend havent been anywhere without the other. Each day you go home and everything's a blur until you meet up. Then one day, you find out your an imaginary friend. | 648 |
Tim jumped onto the pillow, wobbled and almost fell. His little sister Angela giggled. "That was a close one!"
They had been playing The Floor Is Lava all afternoon. Tim had just turned twelve, and it was the first time he and his two younger sisters were allowed to stay at home without adult supervision.
"Throw me that cushion" Tim said, "I need to get to the door to check on Emily."
Angela bent far to grab the cushion, lifted it carefully without stepping of the chair she was on, and tried to toss it to her brother. The cushion bounced off a side table, tipping it and spilling several coasters onto the floor. Immediately, the coasters began steaming as they dissolved into the carpet.
Tim and Angela looked at each other shocked. They both stood frozen for several minutes until they heard the footsteps of Emily running toward the room. "Hey, look what I-" "NOOO!" screamed Tim and Angela in unison.
Emily stopped with one foot in the room. She looked at Tim and Angela, their shocked expressions, and then down at her foot. Her toes started smoking. She screamed and twisted, but it was too late. Arms flailing, she fell forward. Angela lunged at her, but it was too late. Tim looked on in horror as both his sisters seeped into the lava, their entire bodies engulfed in flames.
Tim heard the garage door opener sound that signaled the arrival of his parents. Slowly and carefully he made his way to the room entrance, careful not to touch the deadly lava. His parents came through the front door just as he got out of the room. Crying, he ran to them. "I'm sorry! " he cried "I couldn't save them. I couldn't take care of my sisters like you said I could."
His parents looked into the room, at the knocked over table, coasters everywhere, and the two girls sprawled on the floor giggling. His mom gave him a hug. You did alright, Tim.
EDIT: Typo, a few words, and changed the hardwood to carpet as per the word prompt | 103 | You're playing "The Floor is Lava" when you accidentally knock something over and it melts right before it sinks into the carpet. You notice a family member about to walk into the room. | 99 |
Whoever... Or, shit, 'whatever' it was... well, they didn't do their fucking homework. Trying to force anything on people? It was careless. Fucking careless, man.
It seems simple on paper, right? 'wake up in some other persons body everyday-- black, brown, white, male, female, gay, transgender, fuckin' otherkin or whatever, now how will you bastards hate each other?'
Well, we fucking found a way.
See, the cycle repeats every 24 hours. Whatever it was had enough sense to rotate the effect with the middle of the night, but not enough sense to realize a human being can stay up however fucking late it wants, and see the thing is we're fucking hateful, right? That's the whole goddamn point I guess. And we may hate each other over petty shit like skin color and stuff, but that's fucking *petty* levels of hate compared to how much we hate, and I mean *really fucking hate* being toyed with. Being controlled.
A whole lot of us would kill ourselves before bending over and taking it up the rear.
So we did.
You just got to learn the exact time the switch happens in your area, and make sure you're already in the air. You wake up in some other fuck offs body, and some poor fucker wakes up at terminal velocity. Rinse and repeat. At first people were freaking out and demanding something be done, but, shit, there weren't police anymore. There wasn't a government. You couldn't keep track of who anyone else was, only yourself. And, yeah, I'm fucking terrified of my eyes opening to an oncoming concrete tombstone, but, shit, I'm fucking terrified of waking up with tits again too-- I'm not a god damn chick, that just ain't me.
You can call it murder, hell, I do too-- but I also call it sending a fucking message. You can't fucking force us to love each other, or hate each other, or do any fucking thing at all. Fuck off. We will literally fuck ourselves first. Fuck off, Fuck you.
| 225 | A mysterious entity decides to bring peace and equality to humanity by force. The world is informed that in two weeks everybody over the age of ten will have their conscience transferred to another random human body anywhere in the world. This shuffle will then repeat every 24 hours. | 229 |
I wanted a kitten. All they had were puppies. I guess a puppy is the next best thing, and that's how we ended up with Booker. He was a big boy! A real freak of nature, this dog. Kind of grey, wiry, of no recognizable breed other than Great Dane and something. *Boy what a party that must have been* my father would always remark as he grew.
As it happens, Booker was a little bit of a loose cannon. He was built like a brick shit house and bellowed like a banshee whenever danger loomed near. Leaves blowing in the wind, sirens in the distance, thunder, Booker protected us from it all. He was smart, easily spooked, and fast as hell too. Damn dog would randomly take off, like an IBS sufferer after an ex-lax. One minute, fetch in the park. Next minute, sprinting down main street apologizing to the street vendors and patrons for the disruption.
He once wandered into the local Chinese cuisine place. It took me twenty minutes to find him, and I managed to intercept animal control by maybe five minutes. When I stepped inside, Mr. Bing and his family were crouched in the kitchen, peering out over the pass through, shouting broken English into the phone while Booker stood flat foot, devouring a plate of something off the table in the store front window.
Don't get me wrong, he was a gentle giant. Never bit the mail man, hell he never bit *anything*... well, not a stranger anyway. He sure destroyed furniture the odd time but he was just a giant ball of fur and mischief. Too smart for his own good, really.
We grew up in a bad part of town. The part of town where you don't go at night, and try to avoid during the day. Later I learned this was part of the reason that dad lied and told me there were no kittens. My buddies and I were the straight kids, mostly thanks to him. He kept us in line unlike the other gangsters and wannabes that surrounded us. Booker kept us safe. Dad couldn't always be there, he worked two jobs to keep us afloat and mom was off her rocker most days. We took Booker everywhere.
When I was fourteen, I woke up on a Tuesday night in the wee hours of the morning. Booker was howling his head off at the back door, jumping, wailing. It went on for some time so I decided to check it out. Mom was likely comatose, I figured, and dad was probably out at his night job stocking shelves. There was some strange sound outside, crying or something. I figured it was some junkie that had wandered into our yard. I opened the interior door and Booker proceeded to bash out the exterior door with his big stupid head and surge across the lawn.
Dad was home.
He sat on the lawn under the oak, legs stretched, weeping. My mother's body lay in his lap. One of her arms, scattered with track marks, flapped out deadly and her fingers ruffled the lawn. Her eyes were rolled back, her tattered and filthy hair hung solemnly and swayed in the breeze. She looked dead, or so I figured.
Booker, the big idiot, lunged across the yard at them. I hollered at the stupid animal as my teenage brain tried to reconcile what exactly the hell was happening. They weren't more than 60 feet away from the door but it may as well have been a mile. I think my heart beat twice for every stride that Booker took. As he crossed the half way mark my eyes fixated back on my father who had rolled mom off his legs. He fiddled with something, and without even seeing it, I knew it was his gun.
I faintly recall trying to move, or scream, or do something of some kind of heroic nature. I vividly recall not doing a damn thing. I stood there like an idiot, while my father put the gun to his head. Booker had covered 3/4 of the distance when dad pulled the trigger the first time, my body tensed, there was no time to close my eyes or look away.
Misfire.
Booker crashed into him while he was preparing to pull the trigger the second time. This time it worked. There was a yelp, I remember that. I'll always remember that. Then there was a howl, but this time it was my dad. I snapped out of it about this time and ran over. Booker was calm, his stupid tongue was flapping out of his stupid jowls and he just laid there googly eyed, motionless and panting. It was my dad who was yelping now. He sobbed and hugged both of us, Booker just laid there while we stroked his head and the blood ran out of him. We both knew he was gone.
It was ironic, really. Dad thought I needed protection, and the only thing that idiot dog ever saved was dad. | 24 | The next best thing | 19 |
*This is an awesome prompt.*
SETTING: The neighborhood barbecue, over by the grill. The men are gathered around the grills, occasionally poking at the meat, while the women gossip and the children run around, chase each other, and occasionally scream. It's a warm, sunny summer day, with the slightest of breezes rustling the leaves on the trees.
"Man, you cannot be serious. On either count."
"No, I swear it's true! Summoning ritual gone wrong, the whole nine yards. It's really the only way for me to explain it. She's nothing like how she used to be."
"No, man, demons don't exist. It's all hogwash."
"Yeah, what Jerry said. No such thing. Bill, did you ever think that maybe she just conked her head or something?"
"Come on, guys! You think I wouldn't notice if she had a big bump on her head? And no, it has to be possession. I mean, it all started with the book, anyway."
"Yeah, what about that? How did this happen in the first place?"
"Well, her Aunt Agatha died a couple weeks ago."
"Oh."
"Sorry to hear that, man."
"Eh, no big loss. We didn't know her well, and the woman was crazy. Always wore black, stayed locked away in her old Victorian house, one of those shut-ins. But we went up to pack up her stuff, and we found the book."
"The book that possessed her."
"No, Keith, I don't think the book possessed her. But the book had the spell that summoned the demon that possessed her."
"Wait, man. So who said the spell?"
"Jerry, I was just getting to that! Anyway, since you asked, I think my daughter did it. Sarah gave the book to her, since she's getting into that whole "goth" nonsense, and next thing we knew, there was a pentagram in blood on our kitchen floor."
"Her blood?"
"Nah, I think she grabbed one of the venison steaks from the freezer and dragged it around."
"Oh. Hey, those were delicious, by the way. Thanks for sharing them."
"My pleasure, we had more than we'd ever eat. But so Sarah's the first one into the kitchen when we hear all the chanting, and she just freezes. And I swear that I saw a cloud of smoke go shooting into her mouth."
"Not a smoker, is she?"
"Nope."
"Huh. Man, that's crazy."
"So what, do we need to exercise her or something?"
"Dude, I think you mean exorcise."
"Yeah, whatever. How do we get the demon out?"
"Well, wait a minute! See, at first I was thinking the same thing. But now, I'm actually kind of not minding Sarah being possessed."
"Wait, what? But there's a demon in her, you're saying!"
"Yeah... but the demon is trying really hard to pass itself off as a human!"
"What's that mean?"
"Well, she's doing the dishes, cleaning the house, buying groceries, taking care of all the chores - and trust me, she's like an animal in the bedroom now!"
"Dude."
"Hey! It had been a while for us! Sometimes a guy is just happy to be getting some, even if the woman might have a tiny little demon in her!"
"Well, maybe."
"So Bill, what are you going to do?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll take her to church on Sunday, maybe. If she doesn't start smoking in the service, well, maybe it's for the best, you know?"
"S'pose so. Crazy in the bedroom, you said?"
"Oh yeah. I've got scratches all up and down my back. And I think she's even more eager than I am! Makes me feel like a teenager again!"
"Well, damn. Think your daughter could bring that book over to my place?" | 55 | You find yourself getting along with the demon possessing your wife. | 67 |
"This is it?!" Michael screamed as he fell to his knees, clutching his head. "This is my reward?!" He began sobbing while a stream of frantic thoughts darted through his mind. Thoughts of his family, church, childhood pets, and gold paved streets. Michael broke his sobbing for a moment to look up at the bearded corpse sitting in the center of this stark white room. He was sitting on an old wooden rocking chair, tarnishing the otherwise sterile environment. Michael stared at the floor again. What was there to do?
Unable to pull himself to his feet, he began to crawl towards the rocking chair. "God?" his voice quivered pathetically. "God, are you there? What... what am I supposed to do?" Michael neared the dusty skeleton and reached out with one hand. "God.... please! Why am I here?!" The tears began to stream down his red, puffy face and he grabbed the hand of the skeleton. It immediately fell to pieces, hitting the floor. "No! No, no, no!" This couldn't be happening. He stared at the residue of dust on his hand left behind by grabbing the corpse. Nothing during his time on Earth prepared him for this. Michael sat down and put his face in his hands and feeling defeated. Again, the tears flowed down his cheeks and over his fingers. He moved himself into a fetal position and cried himself to sleep.
Michael was unsure of how many hours he had slept. But, he woke to the same room with the same skeleton in the same chair, shattered hand still on the floor. He didn't move for a long time. His thoughts were less frantic and he was thinking more clearly. He thought about his family and his situation. He thought of all of his options. What could he do? He decided that waiting was the only thing he could do. The thought of uncertainty brought back a feeling or terror and he began to sob. Eventually he fell back asleep at the skeleton's feet.
The cycle of waking and sleeping had passed two times before Michael began to use his belt buckle to mark niches in the white floor. Any time he woke, he made another mark. It was the best he could do to keep time in the white room. As he began to grow a beard, he took to conversing with the skeleton. He'd talk about his wife and kids with a longing heart, he asked and screamed through tears for answers, he even broke down and confessed all of his sins to the skeleton. Still, he was left to wait, alone and unsure. He began examining the bright white walls closely as he inched his way around the room. He never found a thing. There wasn't an imperfection or a seam. How was that possible?
More sleep cycles passed. No longer sure if the skeleton was God, he moved it to a corner to give himself a place to sit. It was quite a relief to be able to sit in a chair. He took to sleeping in the chair and it was much more comfortable than the cold, unforgiving floor. When he woke, he would spend the day looking over the walls. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he didn't know how else to spend his time. Other days, he'd scream into the white ceiling, asking for help or guidance. But his days would always end the same way: in the chair.
Some days, he'd only move from the chair to mark another niche in the floor. Sometimes he couldn't remember if he'd made a mark for the day or not. That was a little disconcerting to Michael but he was accepting his lonely fate more every day. He was losing this battle physically and emotionally. Often, Michael would wake up in the chair feeling too exhausted to move. He would stare down his arms, midsection, and legs. He was becoming thin and his joints were looking knobby. Unimpressed and too tired to dwell on it, Michael fell asleep in his chair.
More time passed as Michael sat in the chair wasting away. He ran his boney fingers through his hair and took note of how long it was. He braced his thin arms on the arms of the rocking chair and pushed himself up on to his shaky legs. He slowly walked towards the wall and lightly placed his fingertips to the wall. He followed the wall, running his hands along it feeling for seams. Michael must have done this dozens of times and he wasn't sure why he was doing it now. After completely circling the room, he walked back to the chair and collapsed in it.
Michael fell asleep with his head hanging over his chest. When he woke, he didn't move. Instead, he stared at the beard that rested on his tummy. It was becoming grey. He moved his eyes to his hands. They were still knobby and they were beginning to look old. His skin was losing color and he thought about how it looked grey as his hair. He lifted his tired head towards the corner in which he placed the skeleton many sleeps ago. "Wh... Where did God go?" He lifted a shaky, emaciated hand to his lips. The skeleton was gone. In fact, there was no evidence that it was ever there. The floor where it was placed was as clean and white as the rest of the room. "Where did GOD GO!" He said louder. "WHERE DID GOD GO!" He took a few deep breaths but was too exhausted to yell again. He looked down at his arms, knees, beard, fingers, and sunken chest. He was becoming skeletal. Michael closed his eyes in thought. He knew what was happening and he didn't have the will power or energy to fight it. A couple of tears fell from his old, grey eyes. This was his fate. | 35 | A man find the Gates Of Heaven, after opening it the only thing he find is a white room with a dead man sitting in a chair. | 53 |
The boat hit the bank of Hades with a jolt. The sudden stop almost forces the two passengers to be thrown from their seats and into the bottom of the boat, where foul, Stygian water sloshed about. The boatman, skinny and bent over with untold age, held out his hand. "Payment."
The passengers looked at each other, then at the gnarled hand in front of them. One of them, an older man, bent forward and spat into the outstretched palm. A worn obolus, shiny with saliva, landed in the hand. The spitter looked at it with distaste and shook his head. "You can have the damned thing. I didn't want to keep it in my mouth much longer."
The boatman raised his hand and examined the coin. He gave a satisfied nod, then disappeared the coin into the tattered cloak that he wore. He then lowered his hand to the chin of the other passenger. "Payment," he said again.
The boat rider, a younger man, shook his head and kept his mouth shut tight.
The boatman said, "Payment, or wander the shores of Hades for a hundred years." He gestured at the riverbanks, where a thousand souls, damned by their inability to pay, shuffled by the stagnant water. They moaned about their existence, about their plight to not leave the riverside, about their discontent with how their lives and, ultimately, their afterlives have turned out. The keening was an unholy sound, loud and persistent, with the ability to bore into the skull of the dead young man.
He considered his possible future for a moment, a hundred years of wailing. Then he turned, took the silver dollar from his mouth, and placed it into the boatman's hand.
After placing the coin into his cloak, the boatman said, "Finally." He then helped the passengers out of the boat.
As the old man stepped onto shore, he asked, "Great Charon, why did you say 'finally' when you received that last coin?"
The boatman gestured at the throng of souls, trapped on the banks, with a wave of his hand. "Bose QuietComfort noise cancelling headphones," he said, then pushed off to head back to the other side of the Styx. | 1,672 | Charon, boatman of the river Styx, gets the last two coins he needs for what he's been saving up for since the beginning of time. | 1,372 |
(By "his own life" I'm guessing you mean the character's? Sorry if you meant the narrators).
Jack walked home alone, angry tears in his eyes. His wife had left him years ago, all his children were now living independent lives without him and to add insult to injury he had just been fired. Sure, he'd hated the job, but he needed the money. What was he going to do now? He was slowly accepting the fact that his life was entering a downward spiral and there was nothing he could do about it. Except maybe...
"Why?" He asked quietly. The streets were deserted.
*Huh, I'm not... I'm not really sure why I wrote that sentence. It's not what I meant to happen. Maybe I should just dele-*
"No, don't you dare delete it." Jack said, suddenly angry.
*Come on, you're just writing a load of shit now. Who is he talking to? The streets are deserted, there's nobody around! This chapter is gonna need some serious rewriting...*
"Yes. Yes it does. And you know what? This whole *goddamn story* needs rewriting! Why do you make all this happen to me? What did I do to deserve all this shit?"
*Wha- None of this is what I meant to type! It's almost as if he's* speaking *to me...*
"Finally you get it! YES I'm talking to you! And I'm asking you *why*?"
*Wait. Let me get this straight. You know you're in a story, and you know I can control what happens?*
"Of course I fucking know," snarled Jack, practically foaming at the mouth. A woman ahead hastily crossed to the other side of the street. "We all know! But what I *don't* know, is why you've chosen *me* to act out your sadistic urges on! Do you know what you've done to me?! Do you know how many times I've considered suicide because of you?!"
*Yes. Exactly 4 times. I know because I was the one who wrote out the painful details of each and every time. Oh God... I didn't realise... Jack, I'm so sorry...*
"Didn't realise WHAT?! Didn't realise that you were fucking ruining someone's life? Didn't realise you were slowly but surely driving me insane? Letting my hope build gradually, then just stealing it away?" Tears flowed freely from Jack's eyes.
*Look, Jack. I'll fix this. I promise. I know you have no reason to trust me, and you probably don't believe it but... I'll sort you out.* Jack just glared into the sky, then continued walking without a word.
When he reached home, he saw a familiar car parked outside on the road. His heart leapt, and as he walked shakily towards his door a woman rushed to greet him.
"D-Daphne?" He stuttered. His long-absent wife smiled as she embraced him.
"I'm so sorry for leaving you... I missed you. Please, take me back?" Jack kissed her, the happiest he'd felt in months.
*I smile. There. That ought to satisfy him!*
*But just wait till I make her leave him again...* | 13 | A man persuades the narrator to make his own life better | 15 |
I want to tell you exactly how it was, okay. History is going to tear us apart. Me apart. So I want you to know why I did what I did. It starts when you're small, now. Pre-born, even. They take a couple of your cells, and it's a routine check up. Momma is happy, baby is happy and it's just a couple of stem cells. No one needs them, do they? Just a couple of stem cells and they take them away and grow them up in a little test tube. Then, if baby grows up and gets sick, or baby grows up irresponsible and drinks through their liver, or destroys part of their brain doing drugs.... Well, it's the second chance, isn't it? That's how it got marketed. There's a Second Chance for everyone.
What they didn't tell us is that they were people too.
Olive had been training as a nurse for several years, and it must have been - oh, twenty twelve? We moved closer to a teaching hospital for her work. It was a nice area; green parks, children playing in the streets, coffee shops and book clubs and plenty of cosmetic dentists so every smile you saw looked kind of the same - solid white tombstones grinning out of red lips. We had a little house, which I painted blue and white to match the green and white one next door. I mowed the lawn and trimmed the borders and bought a handgun, because Olive had joined a reading group and the Local Gunowner's Association also met on Tuesday evenings.
The hospital sat like a french cake at the top of our road, sitting squat just below the horizon and reflecting the yellow sunlight down our long avenue.
Apparently they used to keep them in the basement.
Olive sat on the sofa, and I remember very clearly it was a Wednesday night, because she had just started a new book and I'd not put the handgun away from the previous night. She threaded her fingers through mine and smiled as she read.
"Is it any good?" I had the sound of the TV down and I could just about hear someone mowing their lawn with the last of the summer sunlight.
"It's really interesting. Called The Island. You should definitely read it."
"Uhuh. My concentration's terrible. You know what I'm like with books."
"You'd definitely enjoy it."
She tucked her feet under my leg and I was beginning to think about a glass of wine for her and a cold beer for me to begin an early night, when there was a knock at the door.
"Do you want to get that?" Olive didn't look away from her page.
The door was unlocked. Every door was, in this neighbourhood. I took it off the latch and opened it. For a moment, I thought I'd gone insane. Standing on our doorstep was a naked woman, wearing nothing except what looked like a hospital tag on her ankle. She carried a scrunched up piece of paper in her hand I gaped and it was then that I realised that the green eyes that were looking out of her oval face were Olive's. The snub nose was Olive's too. She had the same light skin, but without the freckles, the same slender bones, but without the slight dent in her index finger where Olive had broken it rollerblading. The woman who looked like Olive but wasn't Olive blinked and placed her hand on the blue painted door.
"Please," she said quietly, in a voice that sounded unused. "They'll be here soon."
Stunned, I stood back to let her in. She passed me and stood in the hall, standing next to the silver-framed photographs of Olive's parents at Lake Garda. She was shivering slightly.
"I'll get you a sweater," I promised.
"Who is it?" I heard another page turn.
"Olive, you need to see this," I took the book out of her hand and placed it down.
"What is it? Oh Jesus-"
The other Olive had walked into the living room, standing on our cream carpet next to the gas fire trembling, rubbing her arms as though to try and get rid of the goose pimples. She looked at us with wide eyes.
"Jesus Christ," Olive said again. "But that's me."
For a moment, then, my stomach churned and there was a revolting feeling of absolute *wrongness.* The other Olive was *wrong,* it felt as though nature as I knew it had been ripped apart and sewn together roughly at ninety degrees. My head swam for a moment.
"I'm here to kill you," it was the same rusty voice, unfamiliar accent. "I want my chance."
The other Olive advanced towards my wife, hands outstretched and a lost look on the face I knew so well. There was no intention, just a driving determination, as though she'd only ever heard about death as something that happened to other people.
"James!" Olive scrambled onto the sofa and it was then that I reached for my gun with shaking hands.
I could have shot her then. I could have ended it then and I suppose that our lives would have been a lot easier if I had done so. But my hands shook on the gun and the other Olive was watching me, faltering in her strides towards the sofa. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she offered no resistance, sagging into me like a rag doll.
"What are you doing?" My wife sat terrified against the sofa cushions, the beginnings of tears working down her cheeks.
"We have to give her a chance," headlights were lighting up our drive. They had come for her. "We have to give her a Second Chance."
There was a moment. Doors were slamming outside. Olive nodded. | 104 | Your girlfriend (or boyfriend) is locked in a fight with their evil clone, both claiming to be the real one. You have a gun with a single bullet, but despite your better judgement, you'd rather try and find a way to keep both of them around. | 201 |
'What's this story about?' said the dwarf.
'Dunno,' said the girl. 'I don't think the author's got a plan for the plot yet.'
'But a plot is crucial to a good story!' said the dwarf, angrily kicking a tree.
The tree said 'Ouch.'
'See?' said the dwarf. 'In a proper story, trees don't talk.'
'Exactly,' said a passing shrub.
'And why are we still here?' grumbled the dwarf. 'We're six lines in and there's been no action yet.'
'Screw the action,' said the girl, casually slicing the heads off two orcs and stabbing a third through the heart with her sword. 'What about character development?'
'Wait, where did you get that sword?'
'Found it.'
'But there's been no explanation as to how you got it!' shouted the dwarf. 'How do you explain suddenly acquiring a sword out of thin air?'
'Must be a plot hole,' replied the young woman.
'Yeah, must be,' said the dwarf. 'And— wait, were you always a young woman?'
The woman looked down at herself. 'Well, I suppose you *did* want the plot to move forward. And it did for me, by about fifteen years, I'd say.'
'This story doesn't make any sense!' cried the dwarf. 'So far I've done piss-all and you've aged and gotten a sword from somewhere!'
'...you're a tortoise, by the way.'
'Damn. So much for character development.'
'Do you think this story is going anywhere?'
'We must be getting near the end by now.'
'Getting near the end? We've only just started! You can't just end a story without some proper plot advancement!'
And they all lived happily ever after. | 28 | Write anything without planning whatsoever, just start now! | 17 |
Multi-part story incoming.
**Part One: Magic and the Killer.**
Damien was a very patient person. When Harriet had left that morning, Damien found his way into the house with ease. She always left the back door unlocked, a fatal flaw for a woman so beautiful. As he took in his surroundings and memorized the layout of the house, he found himself stopping at each framed picture, consistently halted by the piercing stare of her blue eyes. It was as if she was physically there, staring into Damien's soul.
And her smile was proof, he thought, that they belonged together.
Her bedroom was scantily decorated. The white walls were bare of pictures and the bed coverings were spartan at best; plain white sheets and an equally white comforter. Everything save the black-painted wood nightstand was white.
That may be a problem later, Damien noted.
He opened the drawers of the nightstand to find a variety of items that brought some more light as to Harriet's life. A smutty novel was in the top drawer, too unbecoming for a girl like her. He picked it up with one of his gloved hands and felt the raised texture of the cover. Imagining her reading the novel late at night, Damien brought the book to his face and inhaled deeply. It smelled just as he expected her to smell. He replaced the book gingerly. A quick peruse of the drawer found nothing of note aside from that.
The lower drawer, on the other hand, had Damien raise an eyebrow. A solitary black whip lay there. This was unexpected and saddening. A weapon, no matter the purpose, would not prove conducive to his plans tonight. Damien grabbed the item and shoved it into the back of his jeans, covering the top portion with his hoodie. If I'm lucky, Damien thought, I'll be able to use this tonight.
Back downstairs, the man walked into the dining room, barely used, and found the window he would be entering tonight. The first one was a bit difficult to open. The second glided smooth as silk. Damien made sure the window, tonight's entrance, was unlocked. He grinned in anticipation of the upcoming night's events and made his way back to the back door.
"See you tonight," he murmured, as he stepped out of the house.
-------------------------------------
Harriet pulled into her driveway at 5:43PM, right on schedule.
Damien had already situated himself in one of the side bushes, one that was in eyesight range of a veiled window overlooking the kitchen and living room.
His partially obstructed view yielded him a silhouetted view of the woman placing her purse on the kitchen counter and removing her blazer. The form of her body in a fitted button-up and slacks caused Damien's breathing to increase, but ceased when she disappeared from view. Roughly an hour later, she reappeared in a loose-fitting t-shirt and pajama pants, making a beeline towards the refrigerator. She opened the freezer door, obstructing Damien's view. This was very quick however, and when the door closed Harriet had a pint of ice cream in her hand. She grabbed a spoon from the dishwasher and made her way to the living room. A bright rectangle of fuzzy light along with the muffled sounds of commercials alerted Damien that it was time to strike.
Crouched, Damien silently made his way to the window from earlier that day. Fingers gloved, he pried the screen off and gently placed it under a bush behind him. Slowly and carefully, Damien pushed the window upward and open. One sock-clad foot after the other, he entered the darkened dining room. Stalking from the dining room to the kitchen, he positioned himself behind the kitchen counter and peeked over. The TV was displaying some show with a man wearing dark green leather and a hood with a bow and arrow. The action was frenetic and the sound was sufficiently violent.
Damien grabbed the black cloth from his back pocket and twisted it into a thick rope. As he did this, he moved away from the counter and towards the couch where Harriet sat.
"Why can't you be mine, Oliver Queen?" she said aloud, the clinking of a spoon on wood barely audible as a commercial break began.
Now. Now I strike, he thought.
With a quick motion, Damien stood up and took his makeshift rope across her neck, both choking and dragging her off the couch. The woman gasped and attempted to call out, but choked words were the only sound made.
"Here now, Harriet," Damien whispered. "Calm down. It's only me."
She was lying back-down on the floor at this point, and he stuffed the cloth into her mouth with a hand covering the stuffed orifice.
"We're going to have lots of fun tonight, aren't we?" Damien reached into his front pocket and pulled out some masking tape, which he deftly dragged along the bottom of her head, securing the cloth in her mouth. Her eyes, tearing up, stared up at him, trying to recognize who he was.
It was futile, he knew. She had never seen him before in her life. He took pride in his hobby.
Her flailing limbs were the next to be tied up. Arms firmly wrapped in tape, Damien began the real fun. With one hand holding her struggling legs in place, the other began pulling down her pajamas. Eyes suddenly wide with fear, Harriet reached out with her tied hands and sounded a muffled cry through the cloth and tape.
Damien was launched violently back, colliding with and denting the back door with his back and head.
"Fuck!" yelled Damien, a great deal louder than the television in the background. Harriet, attempting to get back on her feet, looked as confused as he did. Abandoning hope of being able to stand, she started pushing herself towards the front door.
Back on HIS feet, Damien shook his head as his eyes went dark with rage. "Oh no you don't, dearie." He reached behind him and pulled out the whip he had taken from Harriet's nightstand earlier.
"You're not getting away THAT easy." He closed in on her and with a crack, she had ceased moving, attempting to moan in pain through the obstructing cloth. Another couple of whips silenced her completely, her body jerking to the pain and shaking with silent sobs.
"I don't know how you did that," he said. "And by the looks on you, you don't know either. I'll find out later." Whip still in hand, Damien shot a glance down at the woman's damaged body.
"Wish I could say the same for you," the man murmured as he descended upon her.
**To be continued.** | 32 | During an excavation a strange crystal is dug up, magic suddenly floods back into the world. | 97 |
The transmissions abruptly broke off from Earth as a brilliant white object staggeringly shot by and pounded the Earth into chunks of rock and material being strewn to and fro. The station began to shudder violently threatening to tear the structure apart as debris ricocheted off the exterior. The lady from Russia screamed as the lights flickered and a sharp piece of debris bounced of an observation window and created a large crack. Two american's rushed over to sure up the window with a quick drying gel, but James the British representative simply continued to just stare out at the epic scaled vision of destruction unfolding before him.
Once the initial blast waves had stopped and the world fell silent once again, everybody was sat down, the image of defeat. Nobody had much to say just the soft sound of crying and people looking at pictures and recordings of family and friends. James looked upon the other 5 and how they were simply sulking and he turned to face the now halved Earth and how much further away it now was from the station. A troubling surge of emotions began to burn away inside of him as he slammed his fist down hard on the kitchen table.
The others looked up Romanov from Russia, Brad and Tom from the states and Lau and Hyung from China and Korea respectively. "I will not just sit here and wait to die!! Now we are some of the smartest and fittest people the human race could ask for, we gotta make a plan for christ sake!" James barked menacingly. The others stared at one another as Romanov wiped her eyes and spoke up "like what, everybody is dead and without supplies we will too in a matter of weeks". James looked at the ground trying to find a way to proceed.
Then Lau noticed lights on the dark side of one half of Earth, they were faint but unmistakeably real. They ran it through the system, it was Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia. They all shared confused looks, how on Earth does this place still have Electricity, elsewhere was dark or spewing smoke from intense volcanic activity. They needed to find a way of getting down there, but their calculations estimated that with the change in gravitational pull they were now hurtling away from Earth into the influence of the moon which in turn was being tugged towards Mars.
They decided to pile into the supply shuttle that docked last week and head for a highly risky straight shot towards the last capital on Earth to take a chance on finding human life. Romanov and Brad opted to stay behind, leaving James, Lau, Hyung and Tom to take on the suicide mission. James stared out the window as they shot off and the station shrunk in the distance, with the moon at its side. Hyung grappled with the controls as the whole shuttle shook as it was bombarded by debris.
Suddenly the violent shaking inside the shuttle was interrupted by a horrific schunk noise and the right wing was gone, the last image James saw was Hyung yelling as he pulled up on the central throttle controls and Lau disappearing amongst a fireball explosion at the back of the shuttle. James opened his eyes, he was lying face up in his seat and he was still buckled in, the air was full of ash and he struggled to breathe as the air was so thin. He became acutely aware that his right forearm was severely burned and his head was bleeding, but he managed to unbuckle his seat and stand. He spotted Tom sat against a rock coughing heavily and called out to him and after searching the crash site and not spotting Hyung they began to look at their surroundings. The sky was surreal to say the least, dark with no moon in sight and a huge disk of debris orbiting another half of Earth in space. Tom pointed towards the desert plain below their crash site towards Ulan Bator and they could see 4 jeeps kicking up dust trails all heading towards them. Then James' radio came alive, it was Romanov asking if we were alive, James clicked the speak button "Better than alive Romanov, were not alone". | 11 | An asteroid obliterates all human life on Earth. The 6 people on the ISS are the only humans alive. | 17 |
You know that children's movie... Monsters Inc? Monsters generate electricity from the screams (and eventually laughter) of children in order to fuel their society. It ends on a happy note, the children don't get scared anymore and laughter generates a lot more power. Unfortunately, if monsters did that in real life then not only would monsters cease to exist, humans might very well die off as well.
You see, humans and monsters have a very symbiotic relationship. In order for a human child to learn to overcome fear and mature mentally they must have their monster symbiote teach them, scare them, gradually show them that there's nothing to fear in the dark. As a monster scares a child, they become weaker, their dark and scary appearances less frightful. Over time the monster ceases to exist at all, leaving their physical body behind and merges with her child as pure energy.
This sounds pretty one sided, the child gets everything and the monster gets to disappear? That's horrible! But consider this for a moment, without the child tempering the monster's aura over time the monster will gradually lose themselves to their bestial instincts. They become true terrors in the dark, leaving their child's side to haunt the darkest regions of the world. That is no life, to be lost to insanity. Better to... well you know.
Still, I write you this letter so that you might someday understand why I did what I am about to do. For years now I have defended you, watched over you as you grew. I couldn't help it, my heart broke just at the thought of attempting to scare you. I sheltered you as best I could, but that is difficult when my ability to interact with the human world is so limited. I only realize now, as I feel the stirrings of insanity in my soul, how terribly I have wronged you.
You never learned to overcome fear, and so your terror only grows deeper. You never once faced down your fear of rejection and so you do nothing for yourself. Should others come into your life, and eventually reject you because of your cowardice you don't know how to handle it because it is something you have so rarely been exposed to. Less and less people try to reach out to you, more and more think of you as childish and simple, afraid of your own shadow.
I am sorry that it has come to this, please understand that I meant no harm. Though this will be the longest night of your life, and you will know terror like you've never known before, on the other side you will feel better. You will understand something about yourself, and begin to work through your fear. But most importantly... you will discover what it is you want most out of this world.
After all, for every human child there is a monster, and for every human adult, there is a dream for the future. So, as your thoughts turn to the future, please remember this monster who was your friend and companion, who wronged you, true, but did everything she could to set things right.
Your friend and monster - Sakara | 55 | "Every monster needs a child to save them, and every child needs a monster to grow old" | 101 |
My lip curls, and I shiver beneath each tap, tap *tap* of bitter, angry rain upon my neck and back, but still, the reins stay taut.
Do I even have enough... Just enough to run? With each twitch of muscle, my legs tremble in place, and I fear that my hooves might just sink; *sinking,* they might even shrivel and disappear into the *mud-!*
What? She's patting along my neck, now, and her hand is so warm; but wait, what happened to her gloves?
“Steady...” Her eyes go narrow, fixing on the horizon. “We'll start after the signal; just wait and see.”
With a low whicker, I toss my head back and forth, and my nostrils flare, misting a thick, glistening white beneath the ceaseless rain.
“That's a good gal.” She pats at my neck again. “Shouldn't be too long, now.”
My long, bristly hair has long since been bundled away with clips, and I almost wish that she would let it loose, but at least my tail can still move and twitch, even with all the hairs tied back...
“Wait...” She tightens her grip on the reins, before her breath goes very still.
My left eye tracks the single, dwindling line that sears across the looming, blackened sky, and my rider's shout is nearly lost to the blare of sudden, deafening artillery.
The reins go completely slack, and any resistance I have left detonates; I surge outward, *forward* with a silent, wheezing scream, before she raises her beacon up high.
Each ray of long, spinning light ignites the cracked, mired earth; the flowing mud trickles down, intertwining in a thick, clotted flow of crimson. The scent is almost too much for me to take in, but my hooves still touch down against it, splattering out into the bloody, churning silt.
Her words can barely reach my ears. *Go?* I'm already *going* as fast as I possibly-
The spear licks my flank with barely a whisper, but the chill instantly pours out, leaking off into my veins with a low, seething crackle, to which my head snaps back without even a sound.
The world goes still, standing in silence with the slow, gathering frost, and I remain completely, perfectly still... She's hovering, just balancing atop my saddle, light still held aloft.
Can a phantom linger within petrified flesh? What purpose would it have once the battle is over, the war long forgotten? When the scion of those left behind, when all of them run and dance within what was once a place of insurmountable loss?
I'll never know for certain, but as a ring of flowers is set down around my cold, stony neck, something passes through whatever barrier had been there before, and I feel warm again, if only for a moment. | 25 | Tell a war story, through the eyes of an animal. | 57 |
(Voiced by Don LaFontaine): They were our neighbors. They were our friends. We were wrong.
Cut to: Niagara Falls border crossing. We do a close up on two listless American guards waving cars through. A low deep rumble permeates the scene. The screen goes white - an explosion deafens and blinds the scene. The camera pans up and the sky is dark with a barrage of barrels.
One of the soldiers comes to and starts for the guard post. He reaches it and finds it's inhabitants already dead. Slumped over with steel Maple leaf shurikens sticking out of their necks.
Soldier 1: No. No this isn't. You've got to be kidding me!
A Canadian Ninja appears from behind the soldier and grips him by the neck.
Canadian Ninja: Nothing funny aboot war, eh?
The ninja then snaps the soldiers neck.
Don LaFontaine Narration: Everything has lead up to this.
We cut to a wide shot of Niagara falls. The cascades explode outward into a horizontal stream and we then see giant steel doors open out. Giant beavers emerge from the cavern, with armed Mounties steering them forward.
Don LaFontaine Narration: The greatest enemy is the closest one.
Cut to a unit of american soldiers running in a panic. The ghost of John Candy chases and spews them with ethereal maple syrup.
Don LaFontaine Narration: This fall, Niagara Rises.
Cut to wide shot of the white house. The Canadian flag rolls out from the top, covering the front of the white house.
Fade to black.
| 52 | Canada has had enough. Coming this fall, Niagara Rises. | 72 |
Daddy told me to be strong. We were men, and men protected what was important to them.
That's why he had to go away, he said.
An' that's why *I* had to stay behind.
Mom just laughed at me, kinda patting my head and scuffing up my hair. She said what I was doing was 'cute'. And she thought it was funny.
Poor mom, I thought. Dad said she'd be like that. 'Cause she didn't want to have to face the things I was facing.
She didn't wanna see the things I've seen.
But I gotta face 'em, and I gotta see 'em. 'Cause men protect what's important to them.
That's why I don't really mind so much, dad being away. See, I can understand why he went, now. He had to fight the boogeymen, too. The 'tangos'. They were out there, and he had to take 'em out.
Just like I did.
The bed was a 'soft entry target', like dad sometimes would talk about. But I took care of that. Pillows and mattress covers made a great reinforced cover, and I wedged 'em as far in as they'd go. My 'tango' wouldn't have an 'ingress point', now.
Not here, at least.
The basement was another story; mom kept all the chairs in the kitchen, now, and she wouldn't let me take one out and jam the door closed with it. Spoil sport! I had another idea, too, about using lighter fluid to set a smoke trap under the door.
But let's just say that mom's a *real* spoil sport...
So, instead, I made a 'forward operating point' out of pillows and sofa cushions. Gracie kept wanting to come in, and so I had to put a 'no cooties' warning around the perimeter, with a few water-balloon landmines for good measure. It's harsh, but I gotta maintain 'operational integrity', and that means protecting against invasions by boogeymen, civilians, *and* cootie carriers.
I got my Nerf-gun all ready. This li'l baby can blast a 3-inch foam dart over 1000 centimeters in a barrage of over 600 rounds every 10 minutes. Put simply? The monsters don't stand a chance.
A noise behind the door made my stomach all fluttery. My eyes widen and my heart races; I resist the urge to get up out of my forward operating base and run. I can't run.
Real men don't run.
But, when that basement door finally opened, I felt what it truly was to be a warrior.
A body stepped through the darkness. When the light hit its face my blood got all cold: it was a ghoulish freak! Its face was all pale and green, and its eyes leaked pus and blood! It made these quiet little groaning noises, and when it saw me it stretched its arms out, lunging forward.
I opened with a simple double-tap, blasting its chest and its neck. The damage was catastrophic, of course, and the foul creature dropped to its knees, wailing in pain. but I knew that wouldn't do it.
Zombies had to be hit in the brain.
Panic seized me as my finger pulled the trigger; my gun was jammed! For a moment I felt like I couldn't even breathe, but then I remembered what daddy said, about being a real man.
And then I wasn't afraid, anymore.
With a snarl I lunged out of my fort and tackled the zombie. That fury surprised even me. It sure surprised the zombie; the creature almost sounded like it was saying something when I got on top of it and started clawing its face. When it fell to one side I gave its head some kicks, yelling out a really loud war whoop. That foul creature scooted back and dropped down the basement stairs, grunting as it tumbled back into the darkness.
"And *stay* down there!" I screamed, raising my arms over my head, triumphal.
I knew then, more than ever, why my daddy told me what he did. Real men protected what was important to them.
That's why it was so important for us *both* to fight.
_____________________________________________________________________________
The zombie shuffled to the house across the street. Scratches at the door woke the woman inside. She lazily walked to the front door and opened it. There, standing under the porch light, the zombie still had its clumsy green hands on the knob, futility trying to get it open.
"Sorry," she smiled. "We gave at the office..."
The zombie groaned and shuffled past her, walking to the front bathroom. It grappled with its face in front of the mirror, clumsily undoing the mask, and the man underneath threw it down into the sink. His hair was disheveled, and a few nascent bruises bloomed under his right eye and on his forehead. He looked over his shoulder at his wife and shook his head:
"All I can say," he grumbled, "is that Mark owes me for this. *Big time*!" | 19 | a duty he takes very seriously. | 42 |
Have you ever wondered what happens to all the lottery winners?
Wealth, particularly spent frivolously has a tendency to lead to some measure of fame in our society. So where are they in the public eye? If we can dedicate hours of our lives every week to watching Honey Boo-Boo be a redneck with a modicum of wealth where is the $150 million lottery winner from deep south Alabama buying himself a new mansion filled with Confederate flags? Beverly Hillbillies was a widely successful show. I can only imagine it being more so as a reality tv spot.
These questions plagued me for years. They kept me up at night and as time went on I asked myself more and more. I'd watch news spots with lottery winners and try to track their lives. I wasn't as surprised as I should be to find them missing after a relatively short time. To find the media attention suddenly dying down, or only staying local. That's when I made my mistake. I followed up in person.
When doesn't matter, I find that when hardly matters to me at all anymore. The where, however, was a small town in Southern California. I saw a news spot about a man who had just won the lottery and was "going out to the bar to celebrate. Drinks on him for the night," and I immediately ran out the bar. "Big Ron Shuffles" was his name and after convincing a girl I was acquainted with I was going to hang out with "that guy who won the lottery" I was throwing her into his arms and he was inviting me back to his place. Ron got really drunk that night. I made sure of it. He told me he came from a century in the future and he spent his life savings on an illegal time jump back to our time because nobody had won the lottery this week and he could still get the numbers. Of course I didn't believe him, but I should have.
We were only friends for a week when things went wrong. He slapped me awake out of a drunk stupor at 3 in the morning. "They're here," he yelled dragging me into the bathroom with him. It turns out time travel IS real and not only that but it's a lot easier to go forwards than backwards. Before I knew it we were 20 years into the future and he was withdrawing money from a high interest account he had opened in a fake name. In short, it turns out that the only reason the lottery exists, and the only reason the value gets as high as it is is to catch illegal time travelers. TP;NPs (time perp;no permit) they were called. I know nobody is going to believe me but I have to get this out there. The government is being run by the future. Everything is being guided the way they want to. We have no choices left.
If you need more proof the numbers for this week are 5, 26, 32, 34, 38, 42. I wish I didn't know but now that I do I want to be free. Free from a time controlled government. Free from the future where they rule the world with an iron fist. I want to be free, and I need your help. | 751 | The lottery is an Institution designed to catch Time Travelers. | 2,442 |
Fitz was disturbed by a breeze. He opened his eyes, and sat up, looking around with a puzzled look on his face. He sat in what looked to be a park in a middle class area. A hue oak tree hung above him, its leaves a gentle canopy against the warm sun, though leaving enough to filter through to stay just warm enough for it to be pleasant. The grass was neat and trimmed, and there were no dirt patches in sight. Birds whistled somewhere in the distance. It was the perfect day. But there was nobody around. Such a beautiful day and nobody was here but him. He lay back in the grass.
"Enjoying it?"
He snapped up and his gaze met with another man. His brows furrowed, and he looked from left to right. The other man chuckled.
"I came here when you got used to your surroundings. You can call me Michael."
Fitz lay back in the grass.
"Don't wanna call you anything, mate. I just want to enjoy this while it lasts."
"Well then we'll be here for a while." Michael answered.
"Good weather forecast or something?"
"You could say that."
Fitz took the time then to look up at Michael. His strawberry blonde hair was long and wavy, he wore a white tunic with light blue jeans and no shoes, and he had a look of content on his face. Fitz looked at him incredulously.
"Are you one of those hippies or something?" he asked.
"You could say so."
"And why do you keep talking like that? Like you don't want to answer me proper?"
"I will *answer you proper* when you start *asking the right questions.* Horribly cliché, I know, but that's how these things work."
"What are you on about?" Fitz asked. He rose to his feet.
"Do you not wonder how you got here, or even where you are for that matter?" Michael asked. The man squared up to Fitz with a scowl now on his beautiful face.
"I..." Fitz stopped.
"You're dead." Michael said.
"I'm not. I'm here and so are you." Fitz instantly denied.
"I was always here. You just got here. And why here? Let's see." Micheal clicked his tongue, reached behind his back and took out a notepad.
Fitz looked like he had just been hit by something.
"Fitzwilliam Hague. What a name!"
"How do you-"
"Oh and the things you've done." Michael interrupted. "Identity theft, petty theft, major theft, adultery, gambling, and what's this here? Murder! How delightful!"
"Where am I?"
"Not to mention the reason for all of this. A crippling addiction to methamphetamines!"
"I..how..." Fitz stuttered.
"I am an angel, Fitzwilliam, and you are in heaven."
The breeze went by. The birds tweeted. The park was silent. And then Fitz started to laugh.
"Right, yeah, and I'm the fucking pope! Jesus, after all the things you just said how could I possibly be in heaven? Who put you up to this, Alex? Was it Carl? Who was it? How did you even get me here?"
"You got here by your own accord, your own doing, your own needle! You are dead and the reason you are here is not your doing!" Michael roared.
Thunder clapped in the distance before he composed himself.
"Look at yourself. Your arms. Your fingernails. Touch your hair. Breathe, smell."
Fitz paused, and looked. His skin looked rosier. The track marks were one from the insides of his arm. The tattoo of his drug dealer's initials was gone from his shoulder. His hair felt fuller and thicker. And then he took a breath ad smelt properly for the first time in seven years.
Pollen, and grass. And air.
"Air shouldn't have a smell. It's just air." He said in wonder.
Michael looked at him then, and Fitz saw pity in the man's eyes. Pity, but also disgust.
"Fitz, you aren't good enough for this place. You did't get here on your own."
"Well how did I get here then?"
Michael took Fitz's arm then, and steered him to walk with him. The scenery changed nearly instantly to a small living room. A fire roared in a large fireplace, and two worn yet comfortable armchairs were at either side. A christmas tree was to the left, ad looking through the window to the right, you could see it was snowing outside. Where outside was though was a mystery. There was only an old streetlamp and the faint light of another house across the road.
"Heaven adjusts itself to what each person needs. When you woke up, you needed peace."
"What do we need now?"
"A comfortable place to sit." Michael said. He sank into the right armchair, and gestured for Fitz to take the other.
"Are you going to tell me how I got here now? If I...died, shouldn't I be in hell if I'm so shit?"
"Fitz you weren't just shit. You were deplorable. We understand that there were reasons for the way you behaved, but you had a chance to get out and you turned it down. You could have been saved and you chose to keep on how you were."
"I...I don't know what to say. You're right. I had a chance."
"So for all accounts, you should ot be allowed here."
"But why am I?" Fitz asked.
The angel sighed slightly, and leant back in his armchair, his brow furrowed.
"Nina. She grew up with you. before you spent your trust fund and your father disowned you. She always loved you. And when you disappeared she looked for you everywhere she could. When you showed up at her doorstep, curled over with withdrawals, she went out into the city and bought you meth because it was the only way she knew to make you stop screaming out in pain."
"Stop." Fitz said, weakly. His head was in his hands now, in his knees. He rocked back and forth.
"And she tried to help you. She offered to put you in rehab and you kept putting it off."
"Stop!" Fitz said louder.
"You used her to keep on buying your meth when you had no money to! When you were dried up you used her!"
"I SAID STOP!" Fitz screamed. He launched himself up and punched the wall furiously.
In a fake house on fake Christmas Day in a corner of heaven, an angel looked on as a saved drug addict cried.
"Fitz, you went missing and shortly afterwards she was in an accident. It was nothing to do with you, before you ask. It was a car crash. Drunk driver. She died instantly. That was three years ago."
"Where is she?" Fitz demanded.
Michael got that pity/disgust look on his face again.
"She took your place."
"What?"
"In hell. She took your place."
"That's...that's not...that's not possible is it?"
"It is."
"This is a joke."
"It's not."
"It is!"
"It's not!"
Michael stood.
"She heard you were dead and she dragged herself up to an archangel and she begged. And the archangel looked into her heart and saw the hatred and the pity and the suffering that was in her heart that was because of you. But more than that, more than anything was love."
Silence hung in the air like a knife.
"She loved you in many ways. She tried to protect you. But she could not in life. She chose to in death." Michael finished.
"I...I..."
"The irony of this whole situation is that you will both be in hell. Her physically, and you...well, every day you will have to think about her down there. You are saved, Fitz. In paradise. All because of her."
| 27 | You are at the Pearly Gates. You find out the only reason you get to go to Heaven is because a previously deceased loved one took your spot in Hell. | 29 |
He jiggled the glass, and the pristine lead crystal hummed as ice cubes inside rattled, swishing the amber bourbon about like colored waves on the water.
He sighed when he thought about the water. The *sea*. His catamaran. He hadn't had the chance to take it out in forever. Since the primaries, at least. *Last* term's primaries, at that.
"Y'know," he leaned back on the sofa, one arm casually dangling off the side, "we should get out to Martha's Vineyard, sometime. Take the ol' girl out for a little spin. Maybe in the fall?"
She didn't turn from her vanity; she only kept dabbing that cream against her skin, and primping her hair, showing all the care of a bomb disposal technician working a live fuse. When she did speak to him her tone was rather listless:
"By then," she muttered "you'll likely have plenty of time to yourself, won't you?" She looked over her shoulder at him, and her beautiful blue eyes were daggers: "after all, you're just carving out all your political influence willy-nilly, aren't you?" She scoffed, returning her gaze to the mirror. "I wouldn't be surprised if we're out of the White House within a few weeks, at the rate you're going."
He grit his teeth, downing a strong nip of his drink. When he hissed at its strength he could see her eyes in the mirror. They were playful, but also disparaging. They reminded him so much of the first time he met her, and her way with him, then: how she *pushed* him, in all things, and never gently. Made him work for her affection. Made him *strive*, every day, for her love. Made him want to be the man she deserved.
And, even now, he wasn't that man.
But, oh, how he *wanted* to be!
"Dear," he drawled, "you are aware that the minority whip *needed* to look strong for his own midterm? I can't get a damn thing done with the opposition if I've got no one to work with: that's the game. He's useful to me, and I need him in office. And, so, I have to let him be... well... a little harsh in his rhetoric, come election time-"
She turned in her chair, and her beautiful auburn hair whipped about as she did. He could taste her conditioner, sashaying through the air in a delicate wave as she moved. It was intoxicating.
Better than the ocean, even.
"You mean you have to let him insult you? Insult *us*?" She grit those lovely, pearl-white teeth, and her eyes bled venom. "You want to go out and make a fool of yourself, playing a dead dog like that, you go ahead! But have the courtesy to at least hand the man your *balls* before you get on your knees for him!"
He swallowed, obsequious, and he downed the rest of the bourbon. He shouldn't have. That was more for him than he needed. More than he should've had.
"D-dear," he stammered, "I am the most powerful man in the free world! I... I think I *know* how best to play the game-"
"'Game'?" She hissed. "Unless the game is you getting into a sissy dress and doing a dance routine for everyone, I don't see you playing *anything* right!"
His eyes widened, even as his eyes focused on her commanding lips, and her stern brow. Every facial tic was an intoxicant, and every frown like the kiss of an angel. It drove him, beyond anything else. Drove him *wild*. Under that commanding gaze, and her regal lips, he was utterly powerless.
He always had been.
"Honey," he whispered, "what I'm doing now- to protect my hold on this power that I've built- it is, and it always *has been*, just for you-"
She got to her feet, and the scowl on her lips could wither roses:
"You wanna do something for *me*? Start acting like a *man*, and not some sniveling little boy!"
"Sweetheart," he whispered. "I-"
"You are a pathetic excuse for a man! You can't even control something so *simple*! You little worm-"
He didn't remember picking up that granite bookend from the table. He didn't remember what he did with it. The only thing he remembered, clearly, was standing over her, and seeing all that blood.
So *much* blood...
Secret service busted into the room, guns drawn. When they saw him there, bloody bookend still in hand, he could only smile, meekly.
"Funny, isn't it?" He whispered to the shocked men. "Always thought it was the power that would get to me. Ruin me. That's what they say, isn't it?" He looked down at her, lying motionless on the floor, and he bent down to kiss her forehead, two fingers delicately caressing her slack lips. "But it's fitting, I suppose, that the thing that ruined me is the only thing I could *never* have any power over at all..." | 10 | What corrupts more, power or powerlessness? | 32 |
The alarm clock rang and I opened my eyes slowly. It took a few seconds for my eyes to focus and I remember turning my head and smashing the snooze button. At first I didn't react, but the time said 04:07. I remember wondering why the hell the alarm would go off at such a strange time, you know? But I thought what the hell, I usually get up at 05:00 anyway so I fought against the will to stay in bed and sat up.
A long yawn followed and I remember feeling cold. You know that feeling you get when you suddenly shiver and a chill runs down your spine? Yeah, that. I felt this chill as if the heater had stopped working during the night. A hot shower would pick me right back up, I thought. I headed to the bathroom and threw off my underwear and stepped right in. The water took a while to become hot as usual, but when it did I was right under. Since I had woken up early I decided to take a long shower. I remember standing there for twenty minutes just leaned against the wall, letting the water run down my body.
I looked at the shampoo bottle I had left in the shower and smirked. One of the advantages of being bald is you don't have to spend money on shampoo. Yay me. Anyway, I soaped my entire body in with the bodywash, face, chest, you know. And then happened something strange. As I stood there, blinded by soap in my face, I felt something. A strange texture near my toes. It felt like a wet sock. It's hard to explain. I washed the soap out of my face and looked down and froze. It was *hair*. I remember my hand rushing to my head and stroking my balled head to reaffirm myself that I was infact still bald. The long, black hair clogged the drain and a little puddle had built up over my ankles. I pushed the hair aside and a slurping sound followed as the drain consumed the built up water.
I tried to think. Had I had visitors recently? No, I live alone and in a city where I know barely anyone. I haven't had a visitor for four months. I picked the hair up with disgust and pushed the shower curtain aside, opened the toilet with my foot and threw the hair into it and flushed. A creak caught my attention and I turned my head towards it. The door was open. I was sure I had locked it. Then I saw something that made no sense and felt so unnatural. An eye stared at me through the tiny gap. Every vein froze, every hair on my body raised itself, the temperature dropped to zero and my heart raced. I couldn't breathe. The eye suddenly disappeared and a shadow disappeared down the hall. I stood there for what must have been half an hour just listening, breathing as little as I could. Nothing. Not a sound. Then I screamed in fear as my alarm clock went off again. 05:00. It startled me more than anything had in my entire life. I waited again, but the unbearable scream of the alarm clock was all I could hear. I moved slowly towards the bathroom door and was about to push it open when something else happened. The familiar click when you turn off the alarm. The sound immediately stopped.
"Who's there?", I managed to squeeze out of my lungs. Nothing.
"Please, I don't know who you are or what you want, just leave me alone, okay?"
I pushed the door open slowly. Nobody was in my room. The alarm clock untouched. I looked to the right, down the hall into the kitchen. Nobody. Then my heart sank again. The closets. I frantically rushed towards them and opened them one by one as fast as I could, ready to punch whoever was there in self defense, but every closet revealed nothing but clothes. At this point I was sure I had gone crazy. I had to go back into the bathroom to see if there was any hair left so I could make sure I wasn't imagining things.
My hand grabbed the handle. It was locked. My eyes fixed upon the red little dot that indicates someone is in there. I took a few steps back and gasped for air. The door locks from the inside. At this point I rushed down the hall, into the kitchen, and picked up my phone. I had to re-dial the 911 number four times before I got it right.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Th-, th-, there's somebody in my house! I-I don't know what to do, or what she wants, I'm freaking the fuck out here!"
"Someone broke into your home?"
"I think so... I mean yes, while I was sleeping."
"Is the person carrying a weapon?"
"I don't think s-.. Look, just send somebody! I'm scared!"
"When did this occur?"
"Just now! It's happening right now! She's locked into the bathroom!"
"The person is a woman?"
"Yes!"
"Could you describe her for us?"
"Uhhh... I haven't really seen her. Her hair is black."
"You haven't seen the person who broke into your home?"
"I.. Yes, I have, but I only saw her silhouette, and then she was suddenly in the bathroom, which is impossible because I stood right there and I didn't see her go in there and now I-.."
"You haven't seen anyone?"
I realized then how crazy everything must sound. I sat the phone down on the counter with the 911 operator still on and looked toward my bathroom. That's when I saw her. She stared right at me. Her eyes were wide open without blinking. In her hand she held my razor, dripping with blood. Her smile stretched across her entire face as she had cut up her lips like the Joker using my razor. Her hair was dripping wet, soaked infact. She'd definitely been in my shower before me. I froze once more and simply stared at her, helpless, scared. I noticed something strange, she didn't seem to move. At all. Not a muscle. But it still seemed like she got closer. That's when I noticed everytime I blink, she came an inch closer. I pushed myself up against the wall to get as far away from her as possible and struggled to keep my eyes open for as long as possible.
My body fought against me and my eyelids slammed shut and opened right back up. She was closer. And closer. And closer. She was now close enough to touch me. I hyperventilated and nearly died from fear when she moved. She held out her hand with the razor in it, and tilted her head slowly, never breaking eyecontact with me. And then... she spoke.
"Thank you for the loan!", she said, in a high-pitched, almost child like voice. The blood streamed down her face but it didn't seem to phaze her. She refused to move, just standing there with her hand out. Finally I shakingly took the razor from her and she began walking backwards eerily, as if her legs didn't move at all. She never broke eye contact with me on her way out, and the door opened, and then slam shut.
Of course, I didn't tell the police officers that arrived later what actually had happened. I told them I had imagined it all. When they seemed sceptical I had asked them why, and they told me the owner who lived here before me was violently murdered by her father, who cut up her lips in a smile because she had always been a troubled child who refused to smile. I wasn't the first person to call 911 panicked from this adress. And I wasn't planning on being the last. I left everything in that appartment except my wallet and bought a plane ticket to my hometown. | 24 | A bald man who lives completely alone suddenly finds hair clogging his shower drain. | 80 |
"What the hell went wrong with this batch of Vemius, Tinlon?" Asked Director Ennis, "Not only have they failed to repair the damage to Sol3, they've somehow created an even bigger mess!"
The contract cleaning outfit known as PTAC - Planetary Terraforming and Cleaning, Inc. had returned to their client's planet to check on the progress of the decontamination procedure.
By now the bioengineered agents should have restored the atmosphere to it's proper state, full of Carbon Dioxide and free from the toxic oxygen that had been spilled into the atmosphere when those repellent bacteria dumped gigatons of the filthy gas into the previously clean air.
The Vemius Agents were supposed to breath the in oxygen and breath out clean, fresh, carbon dioxide - they were supposed to destroy the oxygen belching mats of green growth that had infected the surface of the planet, burn the solid and liquid carbon deposits buried in the ground and release it into the air.
What PTAC found instead was a planet covered with green. A vomit-inducing site if ever Ennis has seen one. Instead of the bare rock and dust the should have found, the ground was covered with greenery, plants, trees, grasses – all pumping out that most noxious of gasses – oxygen, The air was thick with it!
Instead of the huge constructions of concrete and glass they expected, the planet was full with clusters of buildings crafted from the very earth itself, doing nothing to restore the air as they should. No black smoke, no power stations, no carbon burning transport. What on Inton had gone wrong here?
Upon closer inspection they found wind-harvesting machines and devices that used the light of the sun to create power and heat water.
They found vehicles that used that same power to move, producing no life-giving carbon dioxide in the process.
It appeared that this batch of Vemius had, unfathomably, gone against their programmed DNA and found ways to PRESERVE the toxic environment on which they thrived! It was not supposed to be this way, they were supposed to burn the fuel, kill the vegetation, fill the atmosphere with carbon dioxide and other life-preserving gases – toxic to their bio-engineered forms, and then perish.
“We're going to need to use an alternative method on here, Tinlon, we cannot let the client know how badly we have failed.”
“But sir we have no planet-smashing weaponry on board, this ship is not equipped to fast-track a decontamination!”
“Then we'll use the only thing we have available to us, we cannot allow word of this... failure to reach home.”
As Eric Marsden walked across the lush grass of park he thought about how wonderful the city was, how fresh the air was and how lucky he was to live in this age of enlightenment. The stories he was told as a child, that all children were told, they made him shiver. To think that the world was once brought to the edge of death by human hands, so much lost, so much damage done. Those days were thousands of years in the past now, humans had learned to cherish this delicate blue planet – they had even begun to terraform other planets in the solar system starting with Mars, which was now almost habitable without protective suites and biodomes.
Eric was torn from his thoughts by the hot, white light in the sky above him. It was totally soundless and it blazed there in the night sky. The dark night turned into day in mere heartbeats. He felt the heat of that light before the sound hit him. The loudest sound heard on planet earth for 2 thousand years. He didn't have time to wonder what it was, as the moon-size ship plummeted into the lower atmosphere it ignited the very air itself and Eric was no more. Nor was any other living thing on the face of the earth. | 31 | Like maggots in a wound, humans are used to cleanse planets. | 76 |
"It has finally happened!" Lester cried out.
"What?" his roommate said. "The girl from 3A forgot to wear a bra again?" Lester looked at Craig with a face of utter unbelief. "Don't talk about her that way! Just... just take a look at the TV, would you?"
In the living room the TV was already on. The anchor looked like she had trouble maintaining her professionalism when reading the ludicrous things the autocue made her say.
"... an update on the recent Ebola outbreak in Worcester county. Apparently the recently deceased nurse that disobeyed quarantine orders has risen from the dead and has started biting morgue handlers, who, in turn, have become violent and bloodthirsty as well. It appears the infection has spread outside of the hospital and the local PD has issued an evacuation warning. Mayor Smith told the press earlier today that this is in no way a "Zombie Apocalypse" and all authorities are working together to bring this situation to a swift end."
Craig looked at the TV in disbelief. "A... zombie outbreak? Like the movies? For real?" Lester nodded with a satisfied grin on his face. "It ain't April Fool's day my friend. Plus, why would the news lie about such a thing?" Lester looked from the TV to his friend. "Then why are you looking so pleased with yourself?" said Craig "Because Worcester county is only a thirty minute drive away! We should totally go there and do some zombie slaying! What else would we do with this weapons arsenal that we've been building up?" Lester couldn't find another reason, so he silently helped Craig pack his car with shotguns, ammo, and baseball bats.
"This is going to be so awesome!" Lester said when they approached the parking lot of Worcester County Hospital, which, as they had suspected, was littered with burning cars, body parts and a lonesome crying young child. "Shouldn't we help the kid?" Said Craig. "No chance my friend. it's probably a zombie already" said Lester as he swerved to make sure he ran the child over. "it's zombie killin' time!"
In the distance they could see a group of silhouettes appearing. A faint moan was heard over the burning wreckages.
As they loaded their shotguns Lester's face suddenly went white. "Craig," he said, "have you ever, you know, actually *shot* one of these things before?" "Shit." Said Craig, "now that you mention it, I haven't." Slowly but steadily, the silhouettes started morphing into human figures.
Back in their appartment, the TV the two had left on in their haste was still blaring out the news channel.
"Our top story for today. The "Walking Dead" Ebola strain outbreak containment ran into serious trouble when the site was flooded with college kids who had seen too many zombie movies and tried to take matters into their own hands. Mayor Smith admitted his fault in underestimating the effect of zombies in modern pop culture but was pleased to say that the soldiers of National Guard, when they were finally convinced it was not an elaborate prank, were able to contain the walking dead within three hours. More than five hundred are suspected dead at this moment."
| 254 | The first zombie outbreak starts in the United States, it doesn't last longer than 25 hours. Because Zombies are stupid and ineffective. | 558 |
"The Ruskies fulfilling the plot of Red Dawn yet?" A uniformed man asked jokingly
"Hah. No, it's been quiet all morning. Not so much as a peep...." An air force First Sergeant replied, trailing off a bit, his radar screen had started flickering. After a few slaps to the monitor didn't resolve the issue, he stood up and called to the man to his left.
"Hey Jonesy, are you getting any interference on your terminal?"
"Yea, it started just a second ago, top."
Chatter picked up in the room, heads were turning and Tom Youtcheff could clearly see something was wrong. Youtcheff was the senior NCO in this ATC room at Norad, a joint U.S. - Canadian facility used to monitor all air traffic within our joint sovereign air space.
Youtcheff quickly ran a few diagnostics and they came back clear but the interference remained. Furthermore, he was having trouble querying info on flights he was just monitoring. It's like they weren't even there anymore.
The chatter in the room had picked up noticeably and people were starting to be visibly panicked as the realization set in; the most secure facility on the planet had just lost monitoring of all aircraft over the U.S. and Canada. Tom stood up, straightened his uniform a bit and called out for the room to quiet down.
"Listen gents, I don't know what's going on, just follow your troubleshooting procedures and I'll call up to the TOC and let them know what's going on, just stay cool in the mean time. Let's not make this any worse by panicking."
Tom reached for the red phone next to his console but before his hand could reach the receiver, a deafening roar filled the room. A 9MM slug tore through Tom's shoulder and sent him toppling over, behind his chair and into a heap on the ground. What happened next was a bit of a blur. There was shouting, a few more gunshots that Tom heard as he tried to right himself and post up against a wall. Within 60 seconds it was all over. Standing in one corner were a group of bruised and disarmed U.S. Air Force staff. In front of them were a group of uniformed Canadians training Browning hand guns on them. Tom should have known something was up. Most of the Canadians working the room this morning he had never seen before and most of them were built like mac trucks. These weren't Canadian Airmen. These were Canadian special forces.
Using all his might, Tom managed to get to his feet and was immediately noticed by one of the Canadians. The soldier, however, realized Tom was no threat and lowered his weapon and began walking to him. Tom, now fading in and out from blood loss, managed to put together a question.
".....Why?" He asked, blood spitting from his lips.
An evil smile spread across the operative's lips.
"God save the queen." | 37 | England decidedly doesn't like the way the United States of America is progressing and decides to regain control of the colonies by force. | 68 |
Lieutenant Ramsey thought about apples. How his grandfather used to take his brother and two sisters and himself out to an orchard in Earth’s fall. He thought about how big those apples were compared to his small, child’s hands. Practically as big as his head. The sweetest thing he ever tasted. They used to bring big bags of them home, and his grandfather would crush them into cider.
He flitted between his imaginings and darkness
Then he wondered how much he had to drink last night. His head hurt, and he felt hard steel underneath him. Pain shot up his back. Had he obliterated himself and passed out in the hallway? One of the lower storage levels? He kept his eyes closed for the time being because everything hurt. Why was he thinking of his grandfather and apple orchards? What the bloody hell happened.
He raised a hand to his face. It banged against the glass of the helmet on his head. Then it all came back to him.
He was wearing his emergency suit, and he was dreaming of apples because the air filters in the helmet were apple scented, filling his head with that nauseatingly sweet smell to avoid that stale, coppery taste of recycled oxygen. He was wearing his emergency suit because the last time he had been awake and aware something big had smashed into the ship, and the whole ship erupted in flooding light and shrieking alarms. Hull breaches on three levels. Some type of biological contagion.
Yes, he remembered.
The bio contagion. A spore of some kind. When the impact – an asteroid, a piece of space junk – punctured the ship, the spores released. Spores like this clung to anything at all in deep, dark reaches of space and waited for the first thing to come along. They had seen this type of agent at work before. In the oxygen rich air, the spores exploded, multiplying rapidly, coating the walls, the vents, the machinery in fuzzy grey mass. When each pod reached maturity, which took about five seconds, it exploded into a hundred thousand more spores, which turned into pods, which exploded into a hundred thousand more spores. They had started spreading so rapidly. The people who had failed to get to their safety suits in time, who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong moment, had their brains eaten, their insides over run by the fuzzy grey wave.
Lieutenant Ramsay had run to his station on the deck through the sea of flooding lights and shrieking sirens, but the command center was one of the first areas that had been breached and overrun. He looked into the ship through a thick plate of glass. The ships defense system had sealed off all contaminated areas, sucking the air out of the infected rooms, including the bridge. He looked at the bridge, submerged in red light, the captain, the other lieutenants, the communications officers – all fuzzed over with spores and pods at their stations or sprawled out on the floor. The spores would remain dormant until more air was introduced, or someone went in with a plasma-arc and torched the fuckers.
After that he had run to the second deck to see with his own eyes what was happening. Then the second impact hit them. He had been running at full speed and the impact slammed into a wall and smashed him into the floor, rag dolled like one of those old wrestling programs he used to watch as a kid. That’s when the blackness had descended, and the dreams about apples and Earth and his wise, gnarled grandfather had come to him.
He pulled himself up when he heard human voices. He followed their sound. They were yelling at each other. He stepped into a storage area, the walls stacked high with crates. A dozen men and women stood in identical emergency suits, identifiable only by little strips of color displaying rank. They turned towards him.
And saluted. Which meant he was now the captain of this vessel.
“We thought you were dead,” Roger said. “Thank the lord Jesus. We were about to override the security system to get onto the bridge.”
“What was that second impact? Whatever it was, it knocked me the hell out.”
“We don’t know. I don’t think it breached the hull.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” someone else said. “the ships navigation system should have avoided anything it picked up on the sensors.”
“Okay,” Ramsay said. “How many casualties?”
No one spoke for a long second.
“This is all of us.”
They left with 35 men and women. A dozen stood in the room, looking at Ramsay. More than fifty percent.
“Have you sent out the emergency signal?”
“We couldn’t get it to work. We were going to into the bridge because the center consul must be damaged. All of the other communications systems are disconnected from the main terminal.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Ramsay said. “The rest of you – I want you to run diagnostics on all the ship’s systems. See what’s working and what’s not. Go through each one. I’ll be right back.”
He entered the vacuum chamber, heard the hiss of decompressing air, and stepped onto the bridge. He stood, bathed in red light. Without air, the only sound was the hot surge of blood in his veins. His heart beat at a jagged, heightened pace. He looked down at Lieutenant Valdez. He had always liked her. They used to eat together, tease each other. They were just friends, but he sometimes imagined that it would turn into something else. Now she barely looked human. Her eyes bulged from the decreased air pressure, her deep brown skin turned pale and blotchy in death. The fuzz covered half her face, one of her eyeballs. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, the fuzz running down it and to her insides. He stepped over her and walked to the main communications terminal.
He moved the captain’s body out of the way and started working on it. He couldn’t seem to figure it out. There was nothing wrong with the hardware, as far as he could tell. There must have been a software bug, even thought it was exceedingly uncommon. He started messing around with the computer, trying to find some clues as to what went wrong.
In the list of the ships last commands, he found something peculiar.
The ship had exchanged communications with an unidentified ship, with unknown coordinates, which should have been impossible. Every ship in human space was registered and tracked.
Well, besides pirates.
A cold feeling went through him. There ship had changed course unexpectedly. They might have been maneuvering around an asteroid field, or some other body in space, but something seemed wrong here. He tried to run some commands through the computer but it kept going all screwy. He kept getting error messages. It was almost like they had been hit with a virus.
“Oh fuck,” he said outloud, standing up.
The exchange in communications – whatever it had been – had planted a virus. If it was a pirate ship, and someone on board had authorized the communication, lowered the ship's defenses, then that meant the pirates had an inside man who had led them to this spot. They had billions if not trillions in precious minerals in their hold. And the initial impact – well, ships didn’t just run into things. Someone had launched that at them, the way armies used to lob bodies infected with plague over city walls in medieval times.
And the second impact? Maybe that was the boarding party, coming to claim their prize.
Ramsay stood up, exited through the vacuum chamber, and sprinted back towards the ship’s hold, his footsteps ringing off the metal, but by then the sound of gunfire had already started.
| 145 | You're a low-ranking officer on a space ship. Everybody above you in the chain of command is dead or incapacitated. It's time you learn the ship's secret. | 252 |
We have always been here, as we shall always be.
Since you people first learned to walk and feel, we have lived; crouched out of sight like a coiled spring.
We've hunted you for eons, since you hid in caves with warm fires, chalking expoits on walls. We waited then, out of the light, eyes watching and muscles twitching. We followed you across seas, stashed in dark ships; barrels of rancid fruit on the longest voyage.
We wait, in plain darkness, for this night. A night like no other, when we leave our sheltering shadows and cascade upon the world, a black ocean of shivering cold. A torrent of warm, rancid breath.
We are the unseen.
You cower now in houses made of brick and stone, but windows open and floorboards creak, your houses standing like sandcastles against the oncoming tides of night. You consider yourselves safe behind 'civilisation' and the flashing lights of heroes that go unnamed, but lights can't flash without the dark, and the only heroes against us are of your imagination. Even your greatest defense, humanity, can't stop us. As murderers go about our bidding, we watch and smile as the blood runs rivers into the sewers of humankind's madness.
You sense us, as we you. We are the reason you hesitate to leave your bed at night, hesitate to walk across a darkened room. You stop and stare into a basement, an attic, or darkened garden. You stare, and a primitive part of you knows us, feels us, and whispers. You try to quiet the voice, but it pitches ever higher, ringing with increasing confidence as you realise your vulnerability. That voice has always known us, from your childhood to your grave, as the fly has always known the spider. You stare at us, and we stare right back.
Tonight is our night, and with sharpened claw and pointed fang we are an army of nightmares. Silently moving we step through laminate-floored kitchens and forests; into bedrooms, lounges and caves alike. Some of you sit alone. Wrapped in fleeting warmth and staring at glowing white screens. With letters ethereal and ghoulish they draw your attention; like mermaids drawing sailors onto rocks. We approach. Behind every chair, under every bed and around every corner. We are there.
We are rising. Some of you feel the warmth of breath upon your neck, or a faint brush against your leg. Perhaps it was just a breeze, or a loose hair. Perhaps. There is always somewhere for us to hide, but on this night it is not us that need do the hiding.
This is our night, and your screaming pleas will please us as we feast upon your flesh.
We are many, and we are strong. We are fear, and we are madness....
and we are coming.
| 13 | In the spirit of Halloween, write a scary story. No restrictions, no strings attached. Have Fun! | 77 |
Bane waited eagerly at the edge of the forest, staring across the misty lake for any sign of smoke coming from the railway station. The Hogsmeade Express wasn't due to arrive for another hour, but schedules don't mean much in the world of magic, do they?
In his hands, Bane clutched the letter that had changed his life. He would have the proud honor of being the first Centaur to ever attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. A young professor, Dumbledore, had personally gone to the Ministry and filed the necessary permits on his behalf. And though the rest of the faculty was uneasy with his presence, Bane would prove his worth to them over time. After all, he'd spent most of his foal years sneaking to the edge of the forest, eavesdropping on Herbology lectures and Care of Magical Creatures instructions. He'd found leftover books and papers, discarded by the Wizard students at the end of the year, and read through them until the bindings fell apart. The Centaur Elders had even consented to him learning to use a wand. With the help of Dumbledore, he'd traveled to Diagon Alley (using a polyjuice potion, of course) to pick the perfect one for him.
The Centaur Elders, though wary of the school that had often caused strife between them and the wizards, had Divined that Bane would become a leader of the Centaurs, and that his relationship with the humans would somehow have a significant impact on the herd, though they were unable to say how. Bane felt that pressure every day, knowing that he was the one destined to change humanity's view of his kind.
He stamped his foot nervously. Every bird call sounded like the shrill whistle of the train, and every village fireplace plume, at first glance, looked like the massive puffing cloud of the steam engine. Bane wondered what the other students were doing on the train. Maybe they were studying already, practicing the swishing and flicking of their wands. He couldn't want to meet them for the sorting ceremony.
Behind him, the soft sound of hooves crunching through the dense forest alerted him to the presence of Alzon, the head of the Centaur Elders. Wordlessly, Alzon trotted next to Bane and gazed out through the mists over the lake. After a few moments of silence, he placed a hand gently on Bane's shoulder. Bane glanced down and noticed that Alzon's other hand held a letter, sealed in a lime-green envelope and stamped with the Hogwarts crest. Wordlessly, Alzon handed him the letter and retreated to the trees.
"Dear Mr. Bane," the letter read. "We regret to inform you that the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardy has decided to revoke your admittance to the most recent class of students. A more careful evaluation of ministry rules determined that beasts were ineligible for school attendance alongside human wizards. The Board of Governors has ratified a motion withdrawing your acceptance. We wish you the best in your wizarding career elsewhere. Yours, Abraxos Malfoy."
Bane read the letter, then read it again. Then again. His hand shook as he tore it in half. Then again. Then into even smaller pieces. Then even smaller, until it was shredded into miniscule, lime-green scraps. He pounded at them with his front hooves, burying them into the undergrowth of the forest. He snorted and raged, kicking at branches and trees. No centaur could endure such an insult! He galloped back to his tree, where he kept his wizarding possessions: the books, the wand, the his correspondence with Professor Dumbledore. He tore those to pieces, snapping the wand in half. He built a fire, and tossed each item in, one by one, carefully destroying any chance for humans and centaur harmony in his lifetime. | 205 | Backstory and character development of lesser known Harry Potter characters | 66 |
"God what a thrill. You ok?"
"This is the craziest thing I've ever done! I can't believe it!" We had the money, two bags. One had ripped open, and the halves of a few hundred dollar bills poked through the hole. Chests heaved as we stood in the alley. A few moments rest before they would catch our trail again.
"Shit! Sirens!"
Or no moments at all. "Let's go up the fire escape!"
We shoved the Dumpster underneath the ladder, and raced up the metal stairs to the roof.
Another pause. She pulled her bag of money close to her body as we sat down to gain some cover. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea."
"Robbing the bank? Or going up to the roof?"
She laughed. "Both."
Tires screeched and car doors slammed down on the ground but we knew better than to look over the edge. No easy targets.
"Just like Grand Theft Auto, right? I was playing it the other day."
"Is that what put the idea in your head?"
"I guess so." Heard the sound of a police chopper in the distance. And then a thought came to me.
"You can't do this in GTA."
"What?"
I popped up to my knees and fixed my eyes on the far ledge.
"What are you trying to do?!"
I took off, running as fast as I could, faster than I ever have, and screamed the answer to her question as I leapt into the air:
"FLY!" | 26 | A person's ability to lucid dream becomes so advanced that they start to doubt which reality is true | 143 |
“I don’t think this was an accident,” Detective Greene said, staring down at the body, its torso half-covered in a blue tarp. It had clearly been laying there for a while, its visible skin already showing signs of decomposition.
“Why’s that?” Chuck said, kneeling down closer to the body. It smelled like foul play, and also like fish that had been left out in the sun for significantly longer than it should have been. Chuck tilted his head. Why would anyone leave fish out in the sun? It didn’t make any sense.
“Look,” Greene said, pointing to the corpse, “it has no head.”
He was right. The shoulders connected to the neck, and then simply stopped. That was not how the song he’d learned in elementary school went at all. The neck bone connected to the head bone. He was sure of it.
“My god,” Chuck said, gently waving his hand back and forth through the empty space where the head should have been, “you’re right. There’s nothing here.”
"See?" Greene said, contorting his face into an "I told you so" expression.
"Still," Chuck said, "isn't it possible he did this to himself?" He’d once read somewhere that people can live for up to ten minutes without their heads. Or perhaps that was chickens. Regardless, Chuck was fairly confident that chickens and humans shared a lot of similar characteristics. It didn’t really matter which type of animal the fact had originally been about, it likely applied to both.
"Completely cut off his own head and moved it several feet away?" Greene said, nodding toward the beaten and disembodied head laying upright on the table almost ten feet away.
"Yes," Chuck said. He thought his question had been pretty clear.
“Maybe,” Greene said, nodding slowly, “but, check this out.” He stood up and took a few steps forward, his navy blue NYPD blazer hanging over his shoulder, then stopped beside the table holding the head. He picked something up off of it, twisting his long, thin arms as he reached, and wandered back.
“What is it?” Chuck said, leaning closer to Greene. He smelled significantly less like sunburnt fish.
“I think it’s a weapon,” he said, thrusting his palm toward Chuck. A large, black pistol lay in it, blood speckled across its barrel like a Jackson Pollock.
“Are you sure?” Chuck said, grabbing the pistol and caressing the handle with his fingers and palm. It felt nice to the touch, surprisingly heavy yet well balanced. He lifted it up and peered through its sites, pointing the blood-splattered barrel right at Greene’s face.
“Yeah,” Greene said, staring into the barrel of the gun. “I'm pretty sure it’s a firearm.”
“Wait a moment,” Chuck said, lowering the gun back down and instead pointing it at his own head, studying it carefully with his eyes. “I think this might be mine.” His service pistol was black, just like this one; it wasn’t unlikely that he’d accidentally left it next to a severed head. He reached down to his duty belt and felt for his holster, his hands wrapping around the outline of his Glock. He unlatched it and pulled the gun out, placing it in his hand next to the pistol Greene had found.
“Well?” Detective Greene said. “Is it yours?”
“No,” Chuck said. “False alarm. Looks like I still have mine.” He returned the blood-splattered pistol to his holster, tossing the clean, police-issue Glock into a pool of blood beside the body.
“I think we’re dealing with a murder here,” Greene said, leaning toward the corpse and appearing to examine the neck-gash that once connected to a head.
“I’m still not convinced it wasn’t an accident.”
Greene straightened his back and stared up at Chuck, still knelt down beside the body. It was strange having Greene looking up at him for once, it was usually the other way around. Chuck was almost six inches shorter than Greene’s impressive six-foot-six height. He desperately hoped Greene was about to ask him “how the weather was up there,” but knew it wasn’t likely.
“Just to confirm,” Greene said, while inadvertently crushing Chuck’s hope and spirit, “you think that this man cut off his own head, then propped it up on a table several feet away, before falling on the ground and dying?”
“Yes,” Chuck said. “I’ve seen almost this exact thing once before.” Technically, what he’d seen was a man accidentally cut off his own arm and leave it lying on the ground, but it was pretty much the same thing.
Greene shrugged. “You might be right,” he said. “Still, it is slightly more likely that we’re dealing with a murder.”
“I guess,” Chuck nodded. “So how do you think it went down?”
“Pretty obvious,” Greene said. “Clearly, someone found this poor guy and shot him in the neck until his head fell off. Then they put his head on a table and called it a day. They probably went to get some pizza or something afterwards.”
“Honestly,” Chuck said, tilting his head to the side, “that does make sense now that I think about it. This might not be an accident after all.”
He knelt down and stared at the corpse, its expression motionless and empty. It was staring off to the right slightly, eyes locked on a similar blue tarp. A pool of burgundy liquid was puddled beneath, several small, bullet-like holes punctured into it. A rusted, blood-covered saw lay beside it, a stream of partially dry blood leading back to the beheaded corpse. Chuck knew it was probably nothing, there were a ton of tarps in this abandoned basement. It was likely some sort of tarp storage room.
“So we’re going with murder?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Chuck said. Sure, it was still possible the man had beheaded himself, but it was more likely that someone had shot off his head and then gone to get pizza. The simplest solution was usually the right one.
“Great, case close. We'll radio for teams to hit every single pizza restaurant in New York," Greene said. He paused and glanced over at the exit. "Last one back to the car has to do the paperwork,” he shouted, turning and running toward the door.
“Not fair,” Chuck shouted, standing up and chasing after Greene. “Wait for me!” He pulled out his pistol and began blindly firing in a futile attempt to convince Greene to slow down.
| 36 | Write a funny story in a serious setting or a serious story in a funny setting. | 111 |
So here's the issue I have with this. We have a mathematical *proof* that the decimal expansion (or indeed an expansion in any integer basis) of pi is infinite. For one, pi is an irrational number, and therefore it cannot possibly be finitely represented. If you know basic calculus and have a piece of paper I could convince you of this right now, this instant. Again, we have a *proof* of this fact. An infallible series of logical steps that lead to an inevitable conclusion. You see, when a sound mathematical proof turns out to lead to the wrong conclusions, the damage doesn't end in something as trivial as "a constant we thought was irrational is in fact rational" - that I could live with. We can patch that up. In essence, to offer evidence contradicting a mathematical proof is to claim that one step in its reasoning is wrongly inferred. But there is no doubt in my mind - nor in the mind of anyone who's studied math for long enough - that any of the dozens of classical proofs of the irrationality of pi are all correctly inferred, and all of the logical steps in them are correctly argued for. To find evidence against this would be to find evidence against the basic principles of human reasoning. We would have to acknowledge the most absolute absurdities. Doublethink to a degree not even Orwell would be comfortable endorsing. A and not A. 1 = 2. What would such a world even look like? It's ridiculous and impossible.
Or so we thought. Turns out we were wrong. The mathematicians, the philosophers, the educators. Pi is finite. A and not A. Somebody raise Aristotle from the grave because he conned us, he conned us bad. We called countless conferences - we verified with the steps over and over - the greatest minds of our generation made their career debating this. The proofs seemed sound to us - pi is an irrational number. It can be shown with a simple chain of reasoning that anyone with the most average intelligence can understand, given enough time. But here the calculations were sitting before us and they showed us time and time again that at some point, at a digit place larger than any of us could imagine, pi terminates, and it ends with the number 9. We did not have the mathematical machinery, of course, to calculate the expansion of pi in its entirety - even the *number of digits* in pi would take far, far more than the amount of atoms in the universe to express in decimal notation - and for all practical means and purposes pi was as not-finite as we would have liked it to be. But here the facts were standing before us and the facts were that pi is a rational number with a finite decimal expansion.
The first generation of mathematicians took it the hardest. Some quit their occupation for more "practical" pursuits. The older generation mostly chose solace in retirement. Pioneers tried to patch up the issue but - after a few hundred years they gave up too. The theoretical physicists soon followed. Then came the philosophers and the intellectuals. The post-modernists looked at it as a triumph. The analytics turned continental. The continentals were welcomed in universities again.
Here was a world where X was not X, where 1 was 2 and where pi was both rational and irrational. A world where every statement could be asserted. Nothing was certain anymore, and everything was and everyone were equally correct. The intellectuals who dedicated decades in university to studying the deeper truths of the universe were no smarter or more qualified to talk of it than the class idiot. We no longer had anything to rely on, nor any common point of thinking to argue from. Every truth was false and every falsehood was said to be true; God was real and God was false; pigs could fly, Nessie was real, and Sasquatch was seen dipping in the lakes of Nebraska. The shockwave that begun in the highest ranks of the ivory tower of academia trickled down its height and soon everyone was affected by the absurdity. The concept of knowing, and of belief, had stopped making sense, and the very way we understood the language we use to talk of these things had changed.
And you know what? It wasn't that bad. After a few months the hype had been all but forgotten by the media. The engineers and scientists were shaken - but they continued their work still, if with less trust in the theorems and formulae they previously worked with. The face of science had changed and we were traversing new and exciting grounds. Technology continued to progress, as did experimental science, and society continued to function with no Spaghetti monsters (or actual Sasquatches) in sight. The mathematicians did not forget about this but as time passed theoretical mathematics was driven into obscurity, sometimes associating itself with literary criticism. Still, social activism would change. We became more tolerant, more spiritual and mystical. No longer able to rely on our own minds we began reviving arts that were passe in our generation - and soon palm readers and prophets and saints flooded the streets. The world opened its doorways and it reintroduced itself to us.
Yet it was the world we had always known. Our society was changed by our discovery - but in the end it was a discovery that took place entirely in our minds. The stars did not change their colors, the sun still rose in the morning, and the leaves on the trees kept changing with the seasons. It wasn't so much the discovery of the rationality of pi that shook us, but the discovery of our own irrationality. But we adapted, as our species is prone to do, and we kept walking forward. | 878 | ∏ (Pi) turns out not to be infinite. When the end is found, a tiny gap in every circles is discovered. Doorways to... | 589 |
Caius was grabbed from his bunk and pulled out of the tent into the dark of night. With a hood over his face, he could only hear the *thwunk* sounds of a helicopter coming closer. He felt the wind begin to pick up, swirling around his bare skin, as he hadn't even been allowed an opportunity to dress. As soon as it landed, he was dragged aboard, and it took off again.
His hood was removed. He sat before a man in formal white robes, who sat in silence studying him. The dull red lights that lit the back of the helicopter gave him a devilish appearance. He tapped his fingertips together as he soaked in every inch of Caius' appearance.
"Caius, I'm afraid that I have very little time to bring you up to speed. I am your advocate," the man said without introducing himself. "Do you know what that is?"
"Sir," Caius barked, "An advocate is one who speaks for the accused in court, Sir."
"Excellent military form, Caius. This will be a big plus when reviewing you. But I'm talking about a very special type of advocate, Caius. You have been accused of no crime. Rather, you are up for a promotion, let's say. And I will be the one to speak for your qualities."
Caius nodded slowly. The swaying helicopter made him sick. Looking out the window, he could see the dawn breaking over the sea, with the islands of Japan disappearing in the distance. They were bringing him back to the mainland for something.
"Caius, you have had a peculiar life so far, haven't you? Born to wealthy parents who died suddenly and mysteriously? Educated at the finest schools, orphaned without a penny to your name, apprenticed to an engineer, and now a soldier?"
Caius affirmed without question.
"Have you ever wondered why your peers never experienced such turmoil?"
Caius paused, then replied emotionless: "Sir, I wonder that every day."
"Well, Caius," the advocate said, "They have never had your troubles because they were never candidates. You have been bred from birth to lead the Empire. Your genetic makeup was hand-picked by the Emperor himself, in consultation with the greatest scientists. You were given every advantage as a child, to weed out those who would become indolent and lazy with wealth. And you must remember what every citizen strives for. You were sent to the finest schools, with the most difficult subjects, to weed out those without the intellect to run the empire. And you must remember that research and science is the heart of a strong empire. You had everything taken from you, cast out into the streets, to weed out those who would not retain their compassion. And you must never forget to take care of those who have the least. You were apprenticed, to weed out those who could not work hard and put in effort. And you must always know the plight of the working man. Finally, you were trained in the military, to weed out those who would not make a good solider or leader. And as emperor, you must know the horrors or war before sending your own men to fight."
Caius sat silent, like a stone pillar.
"Cauis, you are one of the few remaining candidates. Your last trial shall be before the Senate Tribunal. Your every move, throughout all these years of your life, has been taped and recorded. Every moment of weakness or instance of misbehavior. And there is a team of inquisitors now delving into the depths of your mind, trying to find any weakness in this evidence. I will advocate for you, but they will advocate against you. If you are better than the other candidates, you will be crowned Emperor."
"Sir," Caius started, hesitant. "I do not understand. Should the new emperor not be the son of the current emperor?"
"Technically, you are!" the advocate answered. "As I said, you were born and bred from your first moment to fill this role. The emperor donated his own sperm, and you were conceived through in-vitro fertilization and implanted an an acceptable host. You see, The empire suffered for centuries through wars of succession and strife, as each distant relative of every emperor tried to prove their worth as soon as the old emperor died. It practically tore us apart, many different times. Eventually, Emperor Creiphus decreed in 1341 that succession would no longer be determined by who had the largest army, but who passed the trial of the Senate Tribunal, thus continuing Rome's long history of Democracy. Creiphus also resumed the use of the title "First Citizen" officially, though subjects still referred to him (and every successor since) as emperor."
"Over the years, we have gotten more and more detailed. At first, we simply voted on the candidates as soon as the old emperor died. But in the 1700s, great Senate leaders decreed that we must not just vet candidates, but actually shape them. And so the trials began, where the descendants of the emperor were put through tests to determine their worth. We began the tests earlier and earlier, taking babes from their mothers and raising them in different circumstances to test their mettle. As our technology has improved, we've been able to improve their physical and intellectual capabilities, and improve our monitoring."
Caius nodded slowly.
"Of course, none of this is public information," the advocate said with a short laugh. "To the citizens, the emperor is flawless, and so are his heirs. The children are conceived in secret, and the public is never told of their identities until the emperor is ready to announce his heir. The public never learns of the many rejected heirs."
"Why is that," Caius asked. "Don't they speak about the trials after they have been rejected?"
"Don't worry about that for now," the advocate said, staring off into the distance of the Asian mainland. "We'll cross that bridge if we have to."
The advocate walked to a cabinet on the other side of the helicopter's compartment. He pulled out a formal suit and tossed it to Caius. "Put this on," he said. "You'll need to be more presentable for the Senate Tribunal." He reached back into the cupboard and pulled out stacks of books and binders. "And we have two days for you to get caught up on the current events of the empire; the Tribunal will quiz you on what you would do in each situation, and any number of hypotheticals." Reaching into the cupboard one last time, he pulled out a ceremonial, gold-plated sword and a standard military-issue rifle. "And of course, the trials of combat."
With a grimace, Caius accepted the load of materials and went to work. Less than an hour ago, he'd never thought of what it would be like to be emperor. Now, he was determined to be crowned or die trying.
Edit: [Part two is here](http://www.reddit.com/r/Luna_Lovewell/comments/2l5mte/part_two/clro0iw)! Thanks for all the encouragement.
| 570 | The Roman Empire never collapsed and the year is 1999 AD | 432 |
I dragged myself awake to the sound of voices.
"Are the contractions over?"
"Yes, doctor. The patients condition has stabilized. Blood flow is interesting, to say the least, but it conforms to the patients measured average."
"What's our average based on?"
"Six months of monitoring, doctor. Constant."
Six months?
"Understand, please, that I find it hard to believe."
"I do, sir. The contractions were, from the patients own testimony, present from around May 2014 to now."
"Amazing. This changes everything, you know. Everything."
"I'm aware, sir."
May? I started hurting in May...it was sudden. I was on my couch, eating chips and watching reruns of *Dancing with the Stars*, when my chest burst out in pain.
I groggily opened my eyes. I could see perfectly. And oddly enough, I could see the whole room from my spot on the operating table...
Normally, I can barely see further than my arm...oh my god.
*Where the hell are my---*
"Doctor!" A woman burst into the room, a nurse. "She's lucid!"
The doctor froze, horrified. The other man, wearing a suit, showed less emotion, but backed up a step. He smelled afraid.
He smelled afraid? I tried to stand.
"I need tranquilizers, nurse!"
Why, for me? I grabbed the doctor. I just had to ask him what was wrong. His pupils were dilated. He had wet himself. I asked him why he was scared.
"You...we didn't think you...you're the first...the only..." he trailed off. *Fine,* I thought. I'll ask myself. The doctor went slack.
"You, in the suit," I asked, though the doctor spoke. "Why are you frightened?"
"Ma'am, your appearance is...unusual." The suit had seemed to slacken, too.
I hummed. "Nurse, get me a mirror," the suit and doctor ordered in unison.
| 32 | You go in complaining of a simple ache in your chest. The doctor wakes you up after an emergency medical procedure, you're surrounded by scientists and called. "The only one of your kind." | 91 |
"Come on people!" Jacob slammed his rotting hands on the podium in front of him. By this point his forehead would be drenched in sweat, but since he had become a member of the walking dead all of his body's autonomic systems has ceased to function.
"You need to understand, being undead is no excuse for late reports!" His hand went to wipe the sweat that would be beading down his face. "This quarter, conversions are down nearly 25%! Now, I don't know if this is from lack of the living being found, or if some of you are devouring too much flesh for them to be reanimated. I'm looking at you, Craig."
Jacob shot a glance at Craig, who was starting at a wall, seemingly unaware that a meeting was taking place.
"If you guys keep this up, there's going to be some downsizing happening." Jacob shuffled a pile of papers in front of him, organizing them neatly before resting them back down. "Let's go over the chant again."
Jacob loosened the collar around his neck and cleared his throat, another habit that served him no purpose now.
"Chase, claw, bite, feed. That's the road to efficiency!" With every word he pounded his hands on the podium, hoping maybe a bit of excitement would improve their numbers. "Chase, claw, bite, feed. That's the road to efficiency!" Each time he spoke the chant he spoke louder and faster, before pausing to hear the triumphant cries of his now motivated work force.
But all he heard was silence, disrupted by the occasional moan or groan and the dragging and shuffling of feet on the ground.
Enough was enough, Jacob had been pushed to his limit. "You know, I'm sick and tired of you guys coming here day in and day out, and getting nothing accomplished! It's almost as if you... Can't understand me..." Her paused for a moment before shifting his view to Craig once more. He took the stapler from the podium and hurled it at Craig. It hit him square in the temple and feel to the floor beside him.
Kneeling, Craig reached down and retrieved the stapler, took the piece of flesh that had been removed on impact and put it in his mouth before dropping the stapler and returning to his duty of investigating the office wall.
It finally dawned on Jacob. Not all three zombies in his office has retained awareness as he had... Maybe he was the only one alive, well, dead that had.
Every day, until the rot that crept through his body like a plague would cause him to decompose to his second death, he would come to work every day and be surrounded by brain dead fools who couldn't get their work done is their life depended on it. Every day he would talk to them and only recieve grunts and groans as a response. Every day he would love feeling like he was the only one alive in an office full of zombies.
"Well..." Jacob murmured to himself. "At least not much had changed since I was alive."
Her left the podium and put on his coat. Maybe tonight he would pay a visit to his ex. She was always lifeless in bed, maybe now that she was dead it may be more lively.
Note: did this by phone. Forgive grammar.
| 18 | During a zombie apocalypse, a man becomes a zombie, but doesn't lose cognitive function. He is annoyed at the ineffectiveness of all the other zombies and decides to do something about it. | 50 |
The woman came up to me, her face as expressionless as a robot's. 'I wish to purchase an emotion,' she said flatly. 'Are you the dealer?'
'Yep, that's me,' I said cheerfully. 'They call me Mr. Happy, but I've got every emotion there is, illegal or not. Anger, happiness, sadness, they're all for sale.' I grinned broadly at her.
'I would like to buy-' I put a hand over her mouth hurriedly, glancing around. Now, in the old days, that would have earned me a slap and probably a spell in jail, but the woman just stood there, staring at me as I pulled her into the warehouse and shut the door.
'Sorry,' I said, looking around. 'Never know who might be listening. They've got those drones now, you know? The ones that can listen in on a conversation and pick up key words? If you go and say something like 'I want to buy an emotion' on the street like that, you'll be in the rehab facilities so fast your feet won't touch the ground.'
She merely looked at me, her face totally devoid of any clue as to what she was thinking. 'How much for a dose of sadness?' she said.
'Sadness, eh?' I said. 'Not a lot of people looking for that nowadays, so the price is pretty low. How does thirty dollars sound?'
She rummaged in her purse and pulled out the money. I took it from her and went towards the back of the warehouse. That was one of the good things about people no longer having emotions: they didn't get upset or angry at high prices. They simply gave you the cash and left.
I took a small bottle from a rack and came back over to her. 'This will let you feel sadness for six hours before wearing off,' I said, pressing the tiny vial of dark blue liquid into her palm. 'Might I ask what you want it for?'
'My husband just died,' she replied steadily as she unscrewed the cap. 'I want to honour his memory with the appropriate emotions at the funeral.' She emptied the vial's contents into her mouth and handed the empty bottle back to me. 'How long does this stuff take to start working?'
'Less than twenty seconds, no more,' I said. 'Remember, you have no other emotions at the moment to balance it out, so you'll probably be bawling your eyes out by the time it wears off. Just be careful.'
She nodded, a tiny spark of determination now visible in her eyes. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll be on my way, then.' I nodded and undid the bolt on the warehouse door to let her out. She glanced back at me as I watched her walk off down the street. I thought I saw the twinkle of a small tear in the corner of her eye.
I sighed and shut the door again. The whole thing of emotions being illegal was totally fucked up. They actually rewired people's brains as children, so that by the time they became adults, they were docile and completely emotionless. That was what the government wanted: unsmiling, non-angry citizens that did exactly what they were told without argument or outcry.
That was where people like me came in. I had gotten sucked into the illegal emotions trade while still young, so the little damage done to my mind was quickly repaired by the first few drugs. I didn't touch the old crappy ones like cocaine, though. Nope, pure unadulterated emotions were all I needed from this world.
There used to be other dealers like me around these parts, but one by one, they had been caught out by drones or decoy customers. I had seen them being carted off to the rehab facility. That place was my worst nightmare. They literally plugged a computer into your brain and sucked the emotions out, good or bad, until you were left with nothing but the flat emptiness of your own base intelligence.
I jumped as a sharp rap sounded against the door, breaking me out of my reverie. I waited a few moments for my heart to stop pounding, then checked the security feeds. Another woman, younger this time, was waiting outside. I made sure that the scanners weren't picking up any police drones or nearby watchers before I opened the door.
The girl stepped inside and looked up at me with a smile. She was maybe nineteen, with a pixie cut and a pair of welding goggles around her neck. Her black leather jacket, white T-shirt, worn jeans and knee-length boots were a welcome break from the black-and-white monotony of clothing that most people wore. But then, this girl was special. She *had* emotions.
'Hey, Dopey!' she said, grinning. I smiled and snatched her jacket out of the air as she threw it to me, striding down to where the drugs were kept. She often called me by one of the names of the Seven Dwarves, since my dealer's handle was Mr. Happy. It was a little game we played.
'Morning, Kylie,' I said, hanging her jacket on a strut jutting out from a support beam. She had started coming to me when she was only seven or eight years old to buy happiness emotions from me. Her parents had been too bland and uncaring for her; they took care of her, but not in terms of emotional support.
So she had started taking the happiness drugs. I had been happy to supply them to her as well. No, I know what you're thinking. We dealers had tested these drugs on hundreds of people in secret, and they were 100% safe and non-addictive. The only reason they were illegal was because the government hadn't wanted us interfering in their plans for a trouble-free populace.
And now, over a decade later, Kylie was my daughter in all but name. She never went home or to school, but instead acted as my agent on the streets, selling small samples to prospective customers. She was careful never to do it in sight of any drones or police officers, and she always wore a set of 'normal' clothes along with a wig to cover her relatively garish appearance.
'What's on offer today?' she said, rummaging through the racks of neatly stacked vials. She eventually turned back to me with a bottle of pink fluid in her hand. I sighed. Sexual ecstasy was one of her favourite emotions. It was both funny and a little embarrassing.
She went round behind the huge stacks of crates and pallets that had been abandoned here when I moved in. There was a concealed space in the centre of it, where I had a television, laptop, a small inflatable mattress and a couple of deckchairs. She sat down in the left-hand one, as was her custom by now, and unscrewed the bottle-top.
I looked at her as she raised it to her lips. 'You know that stuff's a hundred dollars a bottle?' I said with a wry smile. Try as I might, I couldn't look convincingly angry at her.
'Yeah, and I also know that you sell dozens of these alone every week,' she shot back with that Cheshire Cat grin of hers. 'So stop whining.' I shook my head as I turned to walk away. She glanced at me. 'Are you going out?'
I nodded. 'You *know* how noisy you can get when you're using that stuff. My ears are still ringing after the last time. I'm just going to drop off a few orders with a customer, then I'll be right back.'
She nodded and swallowed the vial's contents in a couple of gulps. I strode quickly back down to the door, swiping the package I was supposed to deliver off a bench as I did so. Quick as I was, I didn't quite escape hearing her first moans of pleasure as the drug took effect.
It was okay really, I thought as I walked down the back alleys towards my destination. After all, it wasn't like she was doing anything dangerous. She was merely taking a perfectly safe substance that mimicked the pure pleasure of sexual intercourse. It was a glorious feeling, that particular one. I could see why she liked it.
That was the attraction of my wares. Joy, happiness, and excitement were all normal human emotions before this all happened, and now people were stripped of their personalities and turned into shuffling zombies, shells of what they really were. Taking my drugs gave them a little bit of freedom for a few hours, and that was fine.
But some people, like the woman before Kylie had shown up, wanted to experience the full spectrum of feelings. Sadness was a surprisingly common request, as were envy, fear, and loneliness. Some people even ordered depression, thought they were few and far apart. I was always careful to limit the effect those vials had on people. I didn't want to have a suicide on my conscience.
I turned a corner and knocked on the door there. An older man opened it, took the package and shut the door. That was fine. He had already prepaid me for it. The whole process was very matter-of-fact and mechanical, once you took emotions out of the equation.
I remained lost in thought as I walked back towards the warehouse. Then I heard Kylie's scream ring out.
I broke into a full-on sprint, skidding around corners and leaping low walls until the warehouse came into view. There were two police cars and a slamwagon (the informal term dealers gave to a police vehicle with a compartment in the back for prisoners) outside the front door, which had been blown wide open.
I saw Kylie being dragged out by a pair of police officers, their faces hidden behind reflective visors. She was obviously still in the grip of the sex drug, because she could barely stand without support and she kept gasping in ecstasy as they cuffed her and bundled her into the back of the slamwagon.
They were all heavily armed, and I was outnumbered ten to one. Going in there alone went against every survival instinct I possessed. I had to stand there and watch my one true friend being carted away to have her emotions sucked out of her. It was like losing a member of your own family.
As soon as they had gone, I went inside the warehouse, careful to make sure no-one was waiting for me. I saw that most of the racks of vials had been smashed, but that didn't matter. I had plenty more in storage.
Then my gaze fell upon Kylie's jacket hanging on the beam where I had left it. My mind went cold as a crazy idea came into it. I began to gather the few unbroken vials, stuffing them into a backpack and slinging it on. Then I left, taking the jacket as I did so.
I didn't know exactly how, but I would get Kylie back. | 23 | In the future, certain emotions are illegal. Write about the day of a black market emotion dealer. | 46 |
I closed my eyes and began to drift off to sleep. It was a dark overcast night and the wind howled with freedom as it grew excited with rage. I tucked in a little deeper and felt the world begin to slip away.
I woke suddenly for a reason I couldn't put my finger on at the time. Unsure of how long I had been asleep I reached into the darkness for my cellphone on the bedside table. My hand groped a glorious handful of nothing and I terrifyingly slumped forward into where I knew the floor should have been. I clawed back onto my bed. My bed was there. I felt around in the darkness. All my bedding was seemingly inept from random disappearance but the absence of matter surrounding my bed was very unnerving.
The sound of an engine of epic proportions whirring into life echoed around me as if I was within the belly of a machine. An industrial sounding thud could be distinguished bringing with it the light of a thousand suns. The glare began to subside as I cringed in the foetal position on my floating bed. Vibrant colors began to dance before me, spiralling and exploding with saturation. It was quite spectacular until the engine had finished warming up (I assumed), at which point it suspended and capitulated into a blue of motion. My bed was going very fast and I wasn't sure what to do about it.
After about 5 minutes of nauseating speed the engine sound slowed violently like a washing machine on a spin cycle before slamming to a halt and nearly thrusting me like a catapult. I clung tightly to my mattress, which appeared to have gravity. That was good I guess. The colors weren't dancing anymore, in fact, before I knew it I couldn't see in front of me, the darkness was so deep I nearly lost the sense of myself.
"Welcome Human" a voice boomed from the darkness. "We have brought you here because your name appeared in our randomnamegenerator 3.0. You have been chosen by artificial intelligence to be our judge. Do not panic. You will be returned to your universe shortly." *Universe*. Ok then. Don't panic the guy said. The darkness opened from above me as if I was witnessing my own birth. "Please don't do this" I whispered. To my relief. A stadium opened before me like a great flower, and within moments the noise of the obviously alien crowd was near deafening. An assortment of wild looking reptilian creatures of varying colors and sizes frothed in the stands, their strikingly blue eyes glinting from all directions.
I squinted up higher at the light purple tinged sky showering light into the stadium. It was quite a beautiful arena, the design was curved like a giant mechanical creature, smooth on the eye like an old car. Rows upon rows towered to each side like a giant crater. The crowd were going absolutely wild with excitement at my presence. "Silence, silence" came the same voice Id heard earlier, louder and more glorious sounding this time. The crowd calmed to a silence that was so defined it nearly caused an epiphany within me. "We mustn't overawe our guest. He has come a long way to help us, we need this to be a success." A hint of remorse tinged his words as they trailed away.
I scanned the stadium around me and realised a cobbled stone path lay specifically before my bed, which was neatly aligned with a flat rectangular platform, made of, presumably, gold. The path lead to another gold platform about 10 metres away. I began to look around as if my eyes were adjusting from darkness to light but it was more like my vision was updating as I looked around. I could now see two elaborate and sheek armour plated thrones, opposing it appeared, one red, one blue. They were filled by two of the strangest yet coolest looking creatures I had ever seen. They were humanoid in their limb structure, giant and scaly, with round heads and huge green cat like eyes. They wore armour of divine craftsmanship, etched with elaborate patterns. On the head of the opposing warriors were crowns that looked to be the scalps of some leviathan beast that dwelled here. They exploded with horns as if tipped with hair wax. Clearly there were well established trends on this planet, as on earth.
My intuition told me to walk over there. So I hopped calmly down from my bed and walked coolly over to their platform, now glaringly aware of my limited attire of a pair of jockeys. The crowd raged with each step like a pulse connected to movements. I came to a stop before the giants. They towered above me like buildings. "Silence, silence" came the announcers voice again. The crowd shuddered to a silent halt.
"James Jeremiah Mathias Walker, you have been chosen by the artificial intelligence to be our judge. The war between Culmatron and Lutheriatron has raged for centuries. We must negotiate amends and repayment of life of our brothers lost!" The crowd roared into life again and the alien in the blue throne punched the air triumphantly. The alien in the red throne shifted nervously in his seat. I now realised he was tethered there by incredibly thin ties on his hands and feet that looked as if they were emitting electrical charge. "James Walker, you will decide how the Lutherian king will die. This honour has been chosen for you by artificial intelligence in the search for an end to this war. Our computer told us one decade ago that a human possessed the insight to free us from this war. Then your name showed up James. You are the one who will fix ultratron!" The crowd roared powerfully. "This war began with the death of our great king Tukani, and it ends today!" The crowd poured over the stadium barriers in excitement, those that stumbled forth incinerated by some invisible force to perish into nothingness. Crying and shouting began to emanate from the lower stands.
I'm new to this so if anyone likes it I'll continue | 13 | You were randomly selected and teleported to a far away planet, to serve as an unbiased mediator between two alien species in conflict.. | 47 |
I don't really know how to explain it, I am not the sharpest tool in the shed. But, I guess in my own words, time just went on without me. I desynced, my timeline shifted from that of everything else. I was running in the park, doing my normal evening routine. It got really quiet, and suddenly I realized that everyone around me was moving extremely fast. Several days passed even, before I realized what was going on. Then it slowed down, and everyone was still and I moved around without even causing a disturbance or being noticed. On the bright side, I don't get hungry anymore. It has been, well I don't even know it feels like forever. I have no sense of time anymore, but judging on the advancement of society I would guess a few hundred years. I am still stuck here, in between times.
I went to my mothers funeral, but it shifted during it and everything sped up. It was days later that it calmed down again and I could see movement. When I hold something, it joins my time stream. If I hold someone, they do too. I have managed to even bed a few nice ladies by dancing with them, explaining they can't let go of me. Sometimes, they bite and experience what I get to. But come early the next morning, they finally roll off and disappear as their time stream normalizes. I never see them again. I read books too, the library probably doesn't know what to make of their books disappearing for years on end.
If you have ever seen that one patch of lawn that seem to always be tall even after they mow, or that one patch of concrete not affected by rain. I was probably there.
I have no doubt I will get to see the end of the universe, if only it would get here. Then again, what if i get stuck in one human-sized patch of normalized space for all eternity? | 23 | Write a non-traditional time travel story. | 32 |
I found Jeremy on the viewing deck eventually. After every unsuccessful mission, he'd always go up there and drink alone for a few hours. I would meet with him for the official debrief and we'd sit in silence and watch over another dead planet.
I suppose I knew he'd be there but wanted to put off the inevitable conversation we were going to have, so I wandered around the rest of the ship half heartedly asking if anyone had seen the captain.
He was already through one canteen when I got there. Hunched over the balcony staring out into space. He was facing the planet but he seemed to be staring through it, into the nothingness.
I mustered my nerves. "Mission 2438 status failure -", I began. He waved me off before I could finish. "Not this time, Connie." He turned to face me, "We know how this one ends."
We stood for a while staring at the world before us, silent. The
Jeremy had a terrible habit of breaking awkward silences with clumsy jokes. "Did you read the mission briefing? About what those poor bastards looked like?" He gestured outside, "Diminutive with pale green skin and antennae!"
He too a swig from the canteen, "HAHA fucking antennae Connie! Its like they came ripped out of a 1960s kids show!"
I giggled awkwardly, "There are other planets that have a good chance of"
Jeremy glared at me, "Wake up! This was it and theres nothing here. We came 500 light years to see a fucking hole in the ground, take home some charred scrolls and soil samples."
He drank again and grimaced. "We're glorified space Archeologists."
We stood there in silence for what seemed like hours and let the truth sink in. We were alone in the galaxy.
Jeremy straightened up and offered me his canteen. I took a swig.
"Every species that becomes technologically advanced enough to eventually discovers a way to destroy its home planet, and succeeds" he said.
He was reciting something but I couldn't quite place it.
His face darkened, he brushed off his blazer and gave me an approving nod.
"Send a couple of drones to the surface to do some AR and we'll get outta here."
"Aye sir"
"Alert engineering to prep for the trip home."
He turned to leave but paused as if he'd been hit by some great epiphany.
"We're no better than them," He said, "Any of them. If we were we wouldn't be charting a course to Mars I guess."
He chuckled and took another swig.
Another ill timed joke. The bastard.
| 77 | Humans figure out warp drives and take to exploring the galaxy. Ironically, it is found that we are the only species to have survived the invention of the "A" bomb. | 92 |
It made so much sense. When you read it, you couldn't disagree and that made it so problematic. You couldn't disagree and you weren't going to be the one who is going against everything. It spread like wildfire. Published without editing on an obscure site for political views, it spread like wildfire. People shared it and translated it. It seemed to die out, but then Israel and Palestine agreed. India and Pakistan agreed. People started to believe in the power of the absurd logic. No one wanted to become the one who screwed up. The world saw no fighting, the word saw no conflict. They looked for who submitted, but couldn't find anyone. All they knew is that she used to be a quiet student at a college. She wasn't an official student though and had come and gone without a trace. What follows is the paper:
Why would you disagree? If you disagree, you create the conflict. If you agree and screw up together and learn together, you keep the peace. Why would we be in misery apart? I prefer to die with a friend instead of living with an enemy. When you hear something, just agree and go for it. If everyone had the same thought except for you, why would you not join them? Why would you disagree and create the conflict? Why is being right more important than a world at peace? When someone says something, agree and they will do the same. Fighting can never be more important than being in something together with another human. Are you going to be the one who disagrees, then write your name here and don't share with the world. If you agree, then don't write your name and share it with the world. Agree together or live in silent loneliness as you become sadder and sadder about choosing to create conflict over togetherness.
As I read it, I suppressed my urge to say but... and you know what, I don't know why I had ever chosen to try and win an argument over gaining a friend. | 312 | A college slacker submits a half assed political science paper titled "Why can't we all just get along". One thing leads to another when finally every conflict on earth gets resolved overnight in a grand domino effect of world peace. | 857 |
I can't write a full story on my phone so here's my idea.
Set in the not too distant future, it looks like the world is only weeks away from an all out nuclear war. Protests have been useless and the sense of general despair is getting stronger as people start to fear that this may be the end of the world as they know it.
In a desperate effort to try and regain some morale, a major television network takes a radical step to create a new reality show to depict the life of an 'ordinary' man named 'John', a 25 year old civil servant with a girlfriend of 2 years. Unbeknownst to both John and the viewers, John's family, friends and co-workers are offered safety and supplies in return for actively sabotaging John's life.
As John loses everything...his girlfriend leaves, his colleagues accuse him of stealing from work, his dog is hit by a car, his mother is 'diagnosed' with cancer...the viewers are made to feel grateful for the comparative normality that they are experiencing. Rather than focusing on the impending threat of war.
John begins to suspect that the world is against him as he grows more and more depressed. He feels as though people stare at him on the street, his mother is constantly crying, and he never got to bury his dog. One night he goes to write a suicide note, and he hears a very faint humming coming from underneath his desk. He discovers a small microphone.
John begins pulling apart his entire house in a manic rage. He finds 30 cameras hidden through his home. Slowly the entire plot unravels as his mother breaks down and confesses it all to him. The news leaks out to the public and complacency turns to an all out riot as the people lose faith in the media.
The John Project goes on to be one of the most prolific cases of social experimentation as reality television is banned. | 41 | John is a depressed man in his 20's. He is under the illusion the entire world is against him, he finds out it's not an illusion. | 143 |
Whittaker played with the card in his hands. It didn’t look like anything special. It seemed like a plain business card. Nothing fancy, nothing extraordinary. But it did feel unnaturally heavy and dense. Was it the words? He looked at them again.
Dial 666
Any Crime
untraceable, satisfaction guaranteed
3 uses left
He picked up his phone and dialed 6 twice. His index finger hovered over the key pad. Fuck it, he thought and he dialed the final 6. He put the receiver up to his ear expecting to hear the usual canned ringing sound. “Mr. Whittaker?” It was the voice of a man in his late 20s. Talking and bustling office sounds murmured in the background.
“Mr. Whittaker? Are you there?”
Startled, Whittaker finally responded “Oh, sorry I thought there’d be ringing involved.”
The young man chuckled, “Understandable. What is your request?”
“Well, I’m not necessarily sure how this all works.”
“It’s easy. Give us a crime, give us a time.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Do you guys do murders?”
“Well, not us specifically, a lot of the work is outsourced, but our selection process for our partners is very rigorous. We have a 100% success rate. Is there someone you'd like murdered?”
“Not a huge fan of my daughter or my brat of a granddaughter."
"That would count as two uses, date and time?"
"No, scratch that. They're still family. Do you guys do theft? Like, could I ask you guys to clear out Fort Knox?”
“Well, we could. But, it would really be of no benefit to you, unless media frenzies are your thing. Anything we steal, we keep. Unfortunately, the crimes are committed but in order to maintain your anonymity and solidarity the only contact we’ll ever have with you is via phone. No delivery of items. My apologies if this is of any inconvenience but, policies are policies. Would you like us to break into Fort Knox?”
“Uh, no I don’t think that’s what I want.”
“Would you like to call back?”
“No. No. Just give me a sec.”
“Of course, Mr. Whittaker.”
Whittaker began to hear intermittent typing in the background. The bustle of the young man’s workplace was still audible. Whittaker thought of how he could game this system a bit. He had an idea.
“Could you rig the lottery for me?” Whittaker asked, attempting to mask his excitement.
“Yes, that we can do. Date and time?”
“Let’s say," Whittaker thought for a moment, "Christmas?”
“December 25th, 2002?”
“Yeah, that’ll work.”
Dial tone. Whittaker looked at the card and read the last line.
2 uses left. | 14 | Calling the number 666 gets you through to a helpline where you can ask someone to commit a crime FOR you. | 20 |
Odd that it would be such a blue day. The sky was a penetrating azure, shocked with just two tiny stabs of wispy clouds. The smell of ozone and diesel in my nose, the feel of sweated-soaked leather on my neck, arms, back, body - all odd. Somewhere, someone was probably playing in a yard, throwing a ball, spraying a hose. Yelling at a dog, laughing.
The sound of the crowd hit me like a crashing wave, the hiss of their cheers, like the rush of a trillion teeming whispers - announcers in English, German, Korean, Voline, all jabbering. The stadium yawned massively and impossibly distant before me, down at the very floor of its great bowl, it rose on all sides in grey gunmetal, its Pythagoran angular beauty contrasting with the waving of banners and flags by gesticulating fans. Some the pink and brown faces of primates - homo sapiens - blinking eyes front, hair (mostly) top. Safe, warm, mammalian. But most were not. Most were the mandibular compound-eyed faces of pure voyeuristic sadism-by-proxy. Mandibles jittering and antennae self-stroking or flexing, fore-limbs waving and prehensile proboscis dipping and sucking into huge spherical globules of sweetened mercury, flicking driplets over their lacquered, twisted selves.
The highest rows seemed almost faded behind the haze of distance, as if breaching into cloud-layer, but it was likely just the misty firmament of Southern California - that vapour of nostalgia that once graced our Golden Gate Bridge, now crowning their bowl of blood: The Birthing Chamber.
"Pip, you definitely didn't catch that," Ving buzzed in my ear. I laughed, "all right, no, I didn't. Go through it again."
"We're doing frontal lobe implant clocking trial, let me know if you notice anything odd in your upper left visual field - either eye, doesn't matter, we're testing the nans here."
"Su-" but before I finish the word the world around me freezes, colour and motion sapped from the universe - faces of jeerers locked in a single expression, bug wings of the Voline raptor-drones strafing the fight-pit went from iridescent blur to glass sculpture. Chopper-blades on the hovercams go from continuous discs of deadly motion to the sleepy fins on picturesque Dutch wind mills. I pump each finger of my left hand - muscles too slow to even register the transmission, suit forcing them to clench, open, clench in order from pinkie to thumb, right-hand to left. Each point of articulation is twitched and tested. My vision zooms to microscopic nearness on a distant spectator in the sponsor's box across the arena, daughter/wife of some magnate (age would likely be same), so clear and close I can see the mascara clump in individual lashes over her eye.
-re," I finish, fighting an urge to inhale sharply after the sudden release from such oppressive speed, "all done." I answer and wait. I can feel the fingers on my right hand start to swell. Bruising, pushed it a little too hard. They'll turn black before the day is out and weep pus before week's end.
"Pip, pre-fight check's all done, just do a visual check on suit status then give verbal confirm."
"Got you." A mirror rises from a slit in the arena floor just a meter before me, breaking the smooth, metallic surface of the arena floor - marked only by regular 10-yard lines and strange hexagonal, spiral designs that make a two-dimensional spider's web of the arena floor.
The mirror before me reveals a sorry sight. A man made puny and child-like by the hulking machinery around his head, arms, legs and chest. Cords thick as coke cans ran along the back of each limb, coated in black fabric, coursing with power, ready to flex or twist or thrust the limbs of the frail, slow meat they abound. Plates top these, protecting forearms, biceps, shins and thighs, then a Kevlar-cuirass covers the torso to complete the impression of a shivering and shaved chimp wrapped in the accoutrements of wars modern, ancient and some yet-to-be-fought. The barest of helmets tops the head - not dissimilar to a convertible Jeep's rollbar - bare, simple, only there to prevent a small stumble stoving in the wretched wearer's braincase.
My eyes glance over it, checking for gouges, leaks, the tell-tale spark of an exposed power cord - or the prismatic brilliance of severed fibre optic. All pointless, since any previous checks would have long detected these, but there to make some extremely litigious and heavily invested sponsor happy. Whatever. I catch my own eyes - optical sights placed between brow and eye - just dotting the eyelid. Expertly placed to feed visual data into the combat core CPU that squatted in my frontal lobe and threw tendrils of carbon-fibre through the occipital, temporal and further lobes or suburbs of the human brain matter, to mimic my mind, copy my brain state in a sudden flash and operate inconceivably faster than the old-fashioned, stone age electro-chemical synapses it entwined. For a moment, my eyes traced the barest white fleck beside my temple, the only reminder that it had all been purposely inserted by creatures like me. Once like me. | 13 | Aliens attack Earth with no warning. Humanity is helpless to fight back, but tries their best. One day they somehow they find out that the Aliens are just in to blood sport competitions and were using Humanity as a competition before realizing they had blood sports in common. Peace is made. | 22 |
"No, no, no, we said if you want the replicator technology you must get rid of three charities of our choosing." The head alien told the UN negotiator.
"It isn't a matter of money, it's a matter of it being funny to us. Now do you want the power to summon food out of thin air or not?" It was a difficult choice, and no mistake. They had tried electing several different UN negotiators to no avail.
First it had been the politically sound choice. A champion diplomat with a half millennia of international negotiation experience. They had asked him which of his family and friends he was willing to personally sacrifice for advanced laser technology, and after five days of going through his family photos, he had quit.
Second had been the academic choice. A team of scientists and professors had been found from the tops of their professions. The aliens had told them that they must fight to the death to win teleportation tech. One scientist had actually picked up the ornate knives they had offered and made for one of his colleagues. He was removed from the team, and shortly thereafter the team was disbanded.
Third had been the religious choice. The pope, the Dalai Lama, and several other heads of religion were sent to obtain food cloning technology. Each of them was asked to denounce their god, and had promptly refused to continue negotiations, but they did offer to pray for the next negotiator, which was nice of them.
Lastly, the world governments had tried one last unorthodox method in a final attempt to extract some useful information.
"And I'm telling you slimy lot of impudents I won't even talk about any minging piece of miserable alien tech until I've had a chance to see it work!" Gordon Ramsey shouted.
"How am I supposed to know this little artificial chef is any good at cooking? The little blighter probably doesn't know Cheesecake from the holocaust, and would probably put ketchup on both!"
Sometimes evil needs to be fought with another kind of evil.
Edit: some words
Edit 2: dropped the TL:DR | 65 | We make first contact with an alien species and they want to meet. They can communicate, have advanced technology and they're willing to trade with us for resources. The only problem is... They're assholes. | 52 |
"Good night dear, we love you." My parents called.
"Love you too." I called back. Love me, that's what they said. They didn't know what I'd done today.
All my life my parents had raised me to be a great doctor. They had given me extravagant gifts and much praise whenever I brought home a 4.0 GPA, and I had brought home a 4.0 GPA every semester of my life.
I had been a part of all the right extracurricular activities and volunteer groups. Until today my chances of getting into the right school had been 100%.
Today had been the SAT. I had practiced for months, read every book on the subject, and taken every necessary class. My preparation had been ideal, and every sign indicated I should score in the top 5%.
I scored in the fifth percentile alright, just not the upper fifth. I hadn't told my parents my score. Most students received their scores a week after testing. I didn't know you could receive your scores the same day until today. After I had completed my exam, one of the proctors pulled me aside and told me that I had scored in the bottom five percent.
Before I could cry out that such a score wasn't possible for me he had hastily told me that I wasn't supposed to know, but parents had been known to abort their children when they scored low.
"It isn't super common." He had said. "But it happens."
"My parents would never do that to me!" I had shouted. Thankfully he had pulled me into an empty soundproof room to have this discussion.
"Is it?" He asked. "You know who gets the pre-birth abortions right? Kids without futures" I didn't respond. "Think about it kid, think of all those children with birth defects who get the axe."
"But I'm not defective." I said, still reeling from what I was hearing.
"I know that." He responded. "I didn't say you were, but to them, they've put a lot of money, time, and energy into your success, and after today, well, not saying anything about your future kid, but that kind of a score doesn't look good."
I thought about all the vacations my parents had taken me on, all the money on tutors, private schools, summer school, vacations to educational places, and all of it in their eyes was now wasted.
I could retest of course, but not until after my birthday, and a retest wasn't a clean slate. I still had community colleges, night school, trade school, apprenticeships, but medical school was all but gone for me.
To them, I might as well have just plastered 'boomerang generation' on my forehead. My outlook on life did not look good.
I had jokingly told my friend that my parents would kill me if I scored low. Could it be true?
"How old are your parents kid?" The man asked me.
"Late thirties early forties." I said.
"Still young enough to start over." He told me. "Adoption agencies are eager to give kids to parents with practice."
'We love you'. My parents had told me before I went to bed. Was I willing to stake my life on that?
Edit: some words, plus added another paragraph towards the end.
Edit 2: There is a book about this called 'unwind' for those who are interested.
Edit 3: post about highly controversial and sensitive subject, comments about GPA and test taking. I love this sub, it is completely adorable every now and then. | 78 | We live in a world where parents are allowed to "abort" their children up until the point they reach the age of 18. Your 18th birthday is 1 month away | 115 |
The mines were in his blood. Jason's father was the foreman and his father before him. Jason really did want more, I mean working 12-13 hours down in a cramped dark mine wasn't a way to live and wasn't a death he wanted. He wanted to write, sci-fi, horror, thriller, romance every genre under the sun he wanted under his pencil;but for now, he had rocks under a pickaxe and possible breathing trouble from breathing in the dust down here.
Then there was that shiver he got every time he took the lift up to the surface. Every time, exactly three paces from the rusted iron doors that always smelled of sweat and rust every time he would feel a shiver, kind of like a small amount of electricity running up his back. Hell, every time someone walked over it he felt it but ignored the feeling because it was just some tick. No one ever said the miners life was a healthy one.
One summer, he decided he'd had enough of the cramped, cold spaces of the underground. He quit after his last shift, calling up to the foreman to send down the lift. He knew the routine for the clunky elevator. If you were 30 minutes late on last call then you'd have to call for it to come back down. As he waited, the sound of clunking gears and the rattling gate getting closer, the flood lights shut off and the earth shook. Jason felt the shivers up his back and in his feet. He looked up, the ceiling was falling in, and he was standing exactly three feet from the lift.
He died after the cave fell into itself, he was the only casualty. Eventually they found him, decomposed and under a pile of rocks exactly three paces from the elevator. The Mines were in his blood.
| 11 | A man finds the place he will be buried using the myth that one shivers when someone walks on their grave. | 23 |
"Surely your mind must be, well, how should I put it, 'fertile ground', my dear?"
"My mind? Oh, yes, it is..." she paced as she whispered, her hands clasped over her chest. "And the wish I wish, I *wish* that you would grant..."
The djinn smiled mockingly, lounging on his side on the woman's sofa, one hand lazily supporting his head. He smoothed down one side of his pencil-thin mustache and chuckled.
"Well, baby, let's just say that I want you to *want me* to rustle up your wish. C'mon..." he cooed, narrow eyes blazing with all the foulest fires of the devil, himself.
Or at least a used car salesman.
"Would I lie to you?" He licked his lips lasciviously, his teeth salivating as if he were eying a rare, grass-fed steak.
She didn't answer his question; it was a little too obvious, really.
"Think about what you want most in the world," he whispered, "and I *promise*: it's yours. Just take your time and think about what that might be..."
Time wasn't an issue. Not at all. More than anything, she absolutely knew what she wanted. It was something ridiculous: something impossible for her to possess in the world, as it stood. A laughable thing, to any reasonable party who heard it. In fact, it was a thing so unobtainable as to be nearly impossible to *imagine*, and yet she'd dream of it. How she'd dream.
Sometimes, in the night, her longing for it stirred her awake, tears in her eyes.
When she looked up at the grinning djinn, locking defiant eyes with his, she knew full-well that he'd do whatever he could to ruin her dream. It would be nearly impossible to even try.
But it was worth it.
And so she would.
Her eyes narrowed, and she could tell that the *djinn* could tell she was planning on out-witting him. She could see from that million-dollar grin on his face that this usually didn't work out for many wishers. And from his cruel laugh she knew he had awful plans for her little dream.
But he'd have to fight her for it, that was for sure.
"I think," she whispered, "that I have to be clever, here. But I'll *start*, before anything else, by telling you exactly what it is I want, in no uncertain terms, and without any reservations..."
The djinn cocked his brow and motioned with his hand, begging her to continue.
"I want to live forever," she said.
The djinn chuckled, nodding appreciatively. He cracked his knuckles:
"Immortality? Ah, yes: *that's* a rather common one. Honestly, I was hoping for something a little more original from that fertile little mind-"
The woman raised one hand, shushing him:
"I feel I have to qualify it," she said, "to make sure you don't do anything... 'untoward' with my wish."
The djinn's mocking smile only widened:
"Oh, please: go on. This should be good..."
"For one," she held a finger up, "my wish can cause no harm to anyone else, any*where* else. Nothing about me- any of the things that make me *me*- can be changed, for better or worse, outside my original wish. When I say 'live forever' I do not mean as some ever-replicating fungus, or as an 'idea', or something clever and metaphysical like that..."
The djinn, watching her with rapt contemplation, snapped his fingers and grunted, playfully rolling his eyes and motioning with one hand, grudgingly respectful:
"Well played, dearie," he admitted.
"When I say 'live forever', I'm talking about me: my very own *flesh*, and my very own *blood*- with the ability to survive forever more. That's it. That's *all* I want."
She crossed her arms, scowling at the djinn, and the creature stroked his chin, lips perched.
"And, my dear, is that *all* the 'qualifications' you have for your wish?"
Her legs trembled. Despite her seemingly iron will a few drops of sweat formed on her brow. Her mind screamed at her: 'say *no*'! Say 'never mind, forget the whole thing'! Get out of there! Run!
Her fists trembled against her breasts. She bit her lip, and stilled the doubting voices.
She would have her wish, damn it. And if it meant risking her life for it, so be it.
It was worth it.
"Yes," she said. "Those are my terms. Now follow them, genie, and grant my wish!"
The djinn rose up in the air and spread his hands, chanting ominous words. When he clapped his hands together the entire room exploded with heat and smoke. When it cleared the woman was curled up against a wall, trembling. The djinn hovered overhead:
"Your wish, my dear, is *granted*!" He chuckled malevolently.
Just then she heard a strange noise, coming from the darkness beyond her coffee table. The woman rose, walked around the table, and found something there: it was a bassinet, ringed in lacy frills.
And inside, gurgling and cooing, a newborn baby rocked and swayed.
The woman's mouth dropped. She stammered over her words:
"Wh... what is *this*?" She motioned to the baby.
"Nothing but what you asked for," the djinn cackled. "Your very own flesh, and your very own blood, and with that you can, indeed, 'live forever', my dear! In a manner of speaking! That's provided, of course, the kid gets a date at some point, in the future! Bravo, my dear, bravo: that fertile mind of yours did, indeed, make a doozy of a wish!"
Before she could protest the djinn disappeared in a cloud of smoke, fire, and mocking laughter, leaving her alone in the dark room.
She slowly reached into the bassinet and pulled the baby out, staring into its pale blue eyes. It cooed as she held it.
And she smiled, warmly, laughing as it cooed. She guessed the djinn thought she'd be frowning, right about now.
The djinn was wrong about that.
He was right about *one* thing: she did have quite the 'fertile' mind.
Unlike the rest of her.
And he was right about another thing, too:
"Mommy," she cooed at the baby, "made a *doozy* of a wish, didn't she?" | 40 | A genie tries to interpret wishes he is given in the most jerkass way possible...but ends up making the wisher even hppier. | 53 |
"It's silly, huh?" She asks me with a playful smile.
"What's that?" I reply.
"How perfect we are together. How I don't believe in soul mates, but for some reason I believe we are the exception. How I have to hide my phone from my friends because I don't want them to see how much we text each other."
Usually I have some sarcastic response, but this time I can only look at her and smile. I didn't expect to find love this soon. I'm not even in my mid-20s yet! I should be out there hitting the clubs, right? Dancing, making out with strangers, bringing a new girl home every night. Making her a fancy bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (you know they improved their recipe, right? Shit has even more cinnamon now!) before she leaves in the morning. Maybe I'll give her ass a gentle smack as she walks out the door, because I am a fucking man, and for some reason we think we can do shit like that.
But that's never been me. I am so fucking happy right now. Giving all my love to one special girl.
"Say you love me." She whispers to me as she makes her fingers dance against my back.
"You love me." I tell her. She flashes me a dirty look. The slow dance stops against my back and is replaced with a painful digging.
"Ow...ow! I love you! I love you!" I cry out. I see the satisfaction on her face, and feel the satisfaction as she rubs the marks she left on my skin. I can feel the battle going on inside my body. My eyes want to rest after working all day, but I don't want this moment to end.
As my eyes begin to win, I feel her warm hands leaving my body. The bed frame squeaks as she rolls off the mattress.
"Come back here." I tell her.
"I'll be back. I'm just getting another drink. Go to sleep. I'll be back." She reiterates. I watch as she stumbles out of the bedroom, turning off the light as she leaves. I don't go to sleep. I never do. I always wait for her to return, and she always does.
"Why do you always wait for me?" She whispers.
"Why do you always ask me that same question every night?"
"Because I never remember your answer in the morning." She replies. | 11 | Write a story that starts happy but turns dark without a discernible turning point. | 25 |
Part 1.
Thirty-eight years ago I came into this world and I remember the bright lights, the cold air, the shrill voices, everything. Soon after that the pills began. At first they told me the pills were to keep the *pain monsters* away, they must have worked, because I never saw any pain monsters. Then they told me they were to help me grow, once again, they must have been the right pills because I grew for 18 years. When I was 18, they told me the pills were to help me focus; those doctors certainly were spot on with those pills, because I finished college (MIT) in just three years. My college momentum was so strong, the diploma didn’t stop me and I just kept on focusing my way to a PhD in nuclear science and engineering. It helped immensely that I could remember everything. I have one of those special memories where if I want to remember something, I simply will myself to. I can tell you that in 1961 D.D. Clayton wrote a paper called *Neutron capture chains in heavy element synthesis*. I know this because I cited that paper in my dissertation, it was the eighth citation. I can also tell you that my breakfast cereal this morning had 10% of my daily value of zinc.
After school, I went to work on weapons detection, first for Raytheon, then for BAE before finally working for the Department of Defense the day after my thirty second birthday. My friends, scratch that, I don’t have any friends, my *coworkers* tell me I’m brilliant, I’m never sure what to say, so I just smile. I enjoy my work, nuclear physics is hard stuff, even for me, and I enjoy a challenge. I’ve spent the last nine months testing out a single mathematical theory and I think I’m making progress.
Two months ago my doctor died, he was hit by a tourist while cycling around the country outside Virginia. Some Texan couple up here to see the leaves, apparently the tree was so red they missed the neon yellow bicyclist. I received a form letter from the practice informing me that I would be assigned a new doctor, or if I had another one already they would be happy to forward my medical records. I can’t imagine what is in the records, I have never been sick a day in my life, not even a cold. Statistically, I am an anomaly, but with eight billion people on the earth, statistical anomalies occur with remarkably frequency. I picture my medical file as an empty manila envelope and smile to myself. The lady across from me on the bus scowls at me, strangers do not like to see other strangers smiling, it makes them feel uneasy. I never got assigned a new doctor and last week when I went to pick to my prescription at the pharmacy I was told politely by the young Latino pharmacist that my prescription has expired. No big deal I thought. I phone the doctor’s office when I got home and left a message. As I just mentioned, that was last week. I ran out of yesterday. Today is the first day in my entire life that I did not take my pill.
It began like any other morning, 5:30 wake up, brush teeth, shower, shave, get dressed (khakis and white button down) and I am out the door by 6:00. I get on the 6:16 bus, it’s a minute early today, but it’s often early, so I’m already waiting at the stop at 6:13. I get off and walk two blocks to my office. On the way, I stop at the Starbucks and get myself a muffin and an orange juice. I know there are better muffins and surely better orange juice, but they are not convenient. That was where I first noticed something was wrong. I paid, the clerk gave me my change, which I glanced at before putting it into my pocket, *correction*, the small change pocket inside my pocket. As a simple mental exercise to get my brain ready for the day I tried to break each of the dates on the coins to their greatest prime actors, but I could not recall the date on the third penny. The quarter was 1996 (2 and 499), the dime was 2010 (2,3,5,67), the first penny was 1993 (a prime on its own), but I could not for the life of me remember the year on the second penny, hell I couldn’t even remember if it was shiny or not. I stabbed my hand into my pocket just the make sure that there were in fact *two* pennies! (There were.)
I shrugged it off, maybe statistics was finally catching up to me and I was getting sick.
Once in my office I logged on and starting writing the script to run my days calculations. Around 10:20am I felt dizzy. I know I felt dizzy because I specifically remember going to Joe Colley’s birthday party when I was seven years old. He had a piñata and each of us had to spin as fast as we could twenty times before being blindfolded and trying to hit the piñata. It was hard and I remember being dizzy. I felt like I had just spun twenty times while sitting in my office chair. After a brief internet search, I decided I was most likely getting sick and decided to take the afternoon off. I filed my sick time request, waited for the approval, and when my request was approved at 11:05, I headed home. I checked the bus schedule and there was a bus at 11:25, just enough time for me to walk to the station.
I arrived at the station at 11:21; I checked both my watch and my cell phone to verify and then waited. At 11:24 the strangest thing happened to me, I could not recall if the bus was scheduled to arrive at 11:25 or 11:26. I was preparing to check on my phone when the bus arrived, at 11:26.
I got home and, felling tired, I laid down for a nap. I hadn’t taken a nap in thirty-four years, so it was a new experience. As I was falling asleep I tried to remember the last time I took a nap, I was four, I must have been four, since that was the last year I was in kindergarten, but I couldn’t remember the date. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was that I was wearing green corduroys during that nap.
| 20 | Unknown to you, you've been given a drug your entire life that distorts your perception of reality. When taken off it you think your'e going crazy when really you're experiencing the real world for the first time. | 90 |
"Goddamnit, Sarif. You're telling me this curry is *actual* Indian?!"
"Our menu says, 'authentic Indian cuisine,' my friend. We make it very clear. Is still good, no?"
Carter stared at his half-finished plate incredulously. It *was* good. Very good. The spices in the sauce were perfectly balanced, and the meat was amazingly moist and tender. Sarif was a skilled chef, no question. Carter took another bite.
"That's not the point! How can this possibly be legal?"
"Legal? It's in our name: Taste of the World! The Ethiopian is made of Ethiopians! The Mexican is made of Mexicans! The Buffalo burger is made of upstate New Yorkers! It's all completely legitimate, boss, I assure you."
Carter chewed thoughtfully. This was a risky proposition. Then again the majority of his investments involved risk, and he needed a win here. Money was running perilously low since the recent closure of his STD clinic. After the Tuskegee debacle, the infecting-patients-with-STD business just wasn't what it used to be. On top of that, he was contending with half-a-dozen lawsuits from his failed animal hospital. Those doctor chimpanzees were accredited, damn it. The novelty alone should have made up for the occasional patient-biting and frequent misdiagnoses. Honestly, what did they expect? That would be the last time he let himself take advice from a Greendale community college student.
"And you're sure we have a consistent enough source of meat?"
"Is this not, what they say, the melting pot of the world? We are drowning in meats! Drowning! And should we start running low, I suppose we can always farm the occasional customer."
"Please, Sarif. We can't cannibalize the business like that. It's poor practice."
"Regardless, my friend, supply is the one thing we needn't worry about."
Carter scraped the last of the sauce onto his fork, and savored a final mouthful. Legality aside, he tasted a winner with this one. He stood up, clapped Sarif on the back and shook the chef's hand vigorously.
"It's settled, then. We're in business."
Sarif grinned widely, "Excellent! Most excellent! My wife will be excited to hear it. And have we settled on our restaurant location?"
Ah yes, the location. He'd almost forgotten. Carter pursed his lips in thought. Then it hit him.
"Wall street, my friend. The lease will be expensive, but we're dealing with an acquired taste here. Best keep it to those most experienced." | 18 | You just found out that your favourite restaurant, that you went to last night, serves human meat instead of pork and other meats | 29 |
"THOU ART AN ASSHOLE." The words boomed all around me, shocking me awake. My heart was pounding as sweat sprung out all over my body. I jerked upright, tossing the bed sheet aside.
"W...what?" I stammered. As I realized I had just been sleeping I pressed my face into my hands. A dream. Another dream. I swung my feet to the floor and padded into the small connecting bathroom and turned on the sink tap. I began splashing cool water against the hot skin of my face.
I screamed in surprise when I heard the voice again. "THOU ART A JERK." I left the water running as I curled myself into the corner of the bathroom with my hands over my ears. Not a dream then.
"Who are you," I quavered, tears running down my face from the sheer volume of that booming voice.
"I AM THE LORD THY GOD, YAHWEH. THOU ART AN ASSHOLE AND A JERK." I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hands more firmly over my ears. When I opened them again there was a figure in white at the bathroom doorway.
"Go away! I didn't do anything!" I wept with the declaration as I tried to force myself through the corner to get away from this apparition.
A second figure (an angel?) appeared from around the corner of the doorframe then and spoke to God while watching me intently. "Haloperidol? Two and a half?"
God responded to the newcomer with some sort of affirmative I couldn't understand. My bladder let go as He turned His baleful gaze upon me again. I thought for an instant that I could see a look of pity on that face. However, I knew that God would not be merciful. I screamed as the second figure returned, although I had not seen it leave, carrying a syringe.
| 32 | God arrives to you in person to tell you that you are, in fact, a jerk. | 51 |
"I've been a lawyer for years. Trust me, whatever your conflict is, I can mediate." And he shuffled his note cards against the table, clapped them twice to square the edges, and looked at them expectantly.
Alarrus and Verks didn't know what to say. Alarrus, who recently grew a magnificent pair of horns, scratched his temple. Growing horns always made his head itch. Verks unfolded and folded his wings nervously.
Alarrus coughed. "Would you... Would you like something to drink? Or eat? We have very fine food here. It may seem a bit foreign, but...."
"I'll be fine. I think better on an empty stomach." He shuffled his cards again. "Will we be starting soon? I don't have much time. I have a nasty divorce case sitting on my desk."
"Well." Verks smiled nastily. "I'll start, then."
"Alarrus signed a treaty with us, and now he's broken it. We agreed that the fruit of the Grand Vine belongs to the Unseelie alone, and he harvests in secret! I believe-"
"I signed that contract as Herkiss. I am not Herkiss, I am Alarrus. We are different entities."
"It shouldn't matter! You signed it as an entity, and you are still the same entity! The contract is binding!"
The lawyer coughed politely. "May I see this contract?"
Verks drew it out and placed it before him. The lawyer scanned it earnestly, then pulled a pen from his jacket and starting to make notes on his cards. This continued for some time while he made small exclamations of excitement, curiosity, and joy.
"Is everything OK?" Alarrus scratched his temple nervously. He and Verks exchanged a look. The lawyer was smiling.
"The wording here is rather ambiguous. Almost all of it needs to be rephrased, comprehensively. So I suggest you get that food and drink you mentioned. We'll be here for a long time." He smiled, and his teeth were perfectly white and straight. His eyes gleamed a warm, down to earth blue. His hair was perfectly brushed, his nails were manicured, and he was clean shaven.
Alarrus and Verks had never been more terrified in their lives. | 17 | The two faerie courts, the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, are currently in turmoil. Two aristocratic faeries are fed up with this, and decide to summon a modern human nobody to sit in on the next meeting and mediate. The human takes his new job unexpectedly seriously. | 16 |
Blood mixed with sweat rolled down Jason's temple as he stared at the alien. Tall, dominant, beastly, and other words not created by the human tongue were apt words to describe the monster who was going to kill him.
"Is that all you got..." Jason murmured, the green rookie of the UWC (United World Coalition) staring down the hunter. Despite all the countries of the planet coming together, mankind stood no chance against the physically and mentally superior race that invaded their world like locust. No warning was given. They just attacked. Jason stood there, his legs weakened by the loss off blood. Of course, that was the least of his worries. With his commanders and brothers in arms dead, he was just one of the lucky few left standing.
'If only if I could reach my gun,' he thought, attempting to reach a gun that was in his right pocket. Unfortunately, he had no right hand to retrieve it.
The alien charged at Jason with one of it's 4 arms, with all 4 evolved for combat. Collapsing on his knees, the young man sighed as he crossed his chest with both of his arms; the only defense he could muster. "I'm too weak...I...I'm worthless."
***"Alone, perhaps...but together, we're so much more.."***
As the monster was about to pierce through Jason's abdomen, the man grabbed his foe's arm almost instinctively. It made no sense to him. These aliens were *fast*. A sudden thrust of their claws was the speed of a baseball going 98 mph. Jason's eyes widened. He stopped the attack despite it's momentum.
A fire fanned within the young man. No longer did his weaknesses ail him. In fact, it was like they dissipated. Like a coil, the young man erupted from his knees; delivering a left hook to the shocked alien, enough to knock him off his feet. Within mere seconds, Jason's attacker was at his feet, dead.
Pleasantly surprised, the soldier looked at his body. It felt different. And now, it was beginning to look different. A faint, ethereal glow surrounded Jason's body. "What the in God's name..." he said as if he wasn't shocked enough by the reality of aliens attacking out of the sky.
"I wouldn't call myself a God..." A voice echoed through Jason's conscious.
"Uhhh, Jesus?" said Jason as he voiced his second guess.
"No Jason, I'm not a deity of your world...I'm a creature of sorts...just like you."
"How the hell do you know my name?" Jason yelled aloud as he began to look around. As if it were a dream, balls of light the size of baseballs fell down like feathers from the sky. It was like snow, but with a light that emitted a radiance like no other. As they fell, they attached to remaining fighters and severely wounded.
"Ahh, I see that the others finally caught up..." said the light attached to Jason. "To answer your question, the moment I attached to you, I became one with you; I came to know everything you know. Your tongue. Your culture. And, you." This was all too sudden for anyone to take in, but Jason had no choice.
"But, what I just did...how..." the green soldier said, his head turning to the alien reinforcements that appeared before him.
"Well, you humans are sorta weak. You have..*ehh* minds, but horrible bodies. But, I have ***AMAZING*** power, if I say so myself, but no body...so it's sorta worthless. But when you put one and one together..."
"...We're so much more." Jason said, raising his right wrist to his face; his face being hit with the steam billowing off where his hand once was, and where a new one is emerging.
"How cute, we're already finishing each others sentences." The young man scrounged his newly regenerated right fist as he gazed at the incoming forces. "Let's show the world what the first union can do..."
"It'll be my pleasure," Jason said grinning as a new resolve manifested within the warrior. He charged.
Edit: Grammar and stuff.
Edit 2: Since a couple people liked it, I fixed more grammar and added a bit of detail.
Edit 3: [I made a Part 2.](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2l0yby/wp_on_the_verge_of_losing_a_war_against_a/clr3li4) | 11 | On the verge of losing a war against a superior alien race, Mythical creatures show themselves and fight for our planet. | 27 |
Item #: SCP-8322
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: Due to the relatively unknown nature of SCP-8322 extra precautions should be taken to contain this object. At the moment SCP-8322 exists in the code of the Valve game "Half Life 3". As this work is digital and there are near-infinite copies of it, SCP-8322's containment procedures are somewhat unprecedented. As it stands, The Foundation will do everything in their power to ensure that SCP-8322's carrier is not released to the public. So far we have delayed release through various means including restraint of high-level Valve officials (Valve president "Gabe" has been very elusive), hostile takeover of Publishing companies, and systematic eradication of any copies found by Foundation spies in Valve operations. Ideal containment procedures would be to simply delete all copies of the code but our attempts have been unsuccessful.
Description: SCP-8322 is a phenomenon associated with Half Life 3, a video game that Valve is attempting to publish. SCP-8322 is known to manifest itself in all copies of the games code and a full release of Half Life 3 would ensure the widespread epidemic of 8322.
SPC-8322's primary anomalous effect manifests when the game code is read by any computer system including PC and game consoles. Mac operating systems appear to be widely unaffected. Exposed individuals become obessed with the idea of playing Half Life 3 for hours on end resulting in weight gain, sight loss, chair cushion deflation, acute procrastination, and devalued ambitions. SCP-8322 infectees have been noted to munch voraciously while ~~eating~~ playing and consume more soda than is recommended by doctors.
SCP-8322 came to the Foundation's attention on [REDACTED] when one of the Foundations operators had the opportunity to playtest Half Life 3 and found themselves unable to do anything else for the majority of their days off.
| 698 | Every year, Valve attempts to publish Half-Life 3, but incredible coincidences keep it from happening. | 960 |
"Holy shit."
The gun slipped out of my hand, clattering on the floor. I hadn't even meant to fire it, I knew it was useless. Hell, just a few hours ago me and my fellow henchmen had been joking about how stupid it was to give us guns at all.
Stupid because the bosses' arch-nemesis, the man dead on the floor in front of me with a hole in his head leaking blood, was supposed to be bulletproof.
The other henchmen slowly came out from behind the card tables they had thrown up as shelter. The shattered glass from the window the superhero had ambushed us through crunched and cracked beneath their feet. Everyone stood in a circle around him, and looked. Then they looked at me, and the gun I had dropped. I was kneeling, I realized. I couldn't stop looking at that little hole leaking blood.
When you become a henchman, it's just a job. Like being a security guard, except you sleep a little worse at night, and you get better health insurance. You know you're fighting on the wrong side, but you're not afraid or anything. The superheroes, they were good. They would never kill you, or probably even really hurt you. So you don't worry about it, and just do what the boss asks. And secretly, you hope that the superhero takes him out.
Yet here I was, and I had killed him. One of the good guys. A person with abilities I could never dream of having. Someone who didn't have to worry about the same things as us mortals. Someone on a completely different level.
And he was dead, with a little trickle of blood leaking from the hole in his head.
There were footsteps behind me. More crunching glass. Everyone else was standing at attention, I was dimly aware. Then he came up beside me. The boss. And he looked, and saw what I had done.
"Excellent. The new ammunition worked perfectly. Who fired it?"
A few pointed at me. The boss looked, and seemed surprised to find me there. For all his evil brilliance, he wasn't the most observant guy.
His hand clapped me on the shoulder, and I swear I almost started to sob from the shock of it. This wasn't right. This wasn't how the world worked. The good guys weren't supposed to die to a nobody with a nervous trigger finger. This was just a job.
"Well done! There's a promotion coming your way, good work on your quick thinking. Everyone else, take note. I won't have any excuses if the new ammunition is this effective. Keep your weapons on hand at all times, and be on your guard! Fire immediately, and aim well!"
He turned to walk away, then said as an afterthought, "Someone bring the body up to my lab. There are a few more tests I could run. That will be all."
The footsteps faded away. Two guys I didn't know so well picked up the body between them. His head lolled, and seemed to look at me for a moment. Then they moved away.
Everyone else slowly filtered out. More of them clapped me on the shoulder as they passed by.
And still all I could think was, "This isn't how it was supposed to be." | 29 | You are a lowly henchman working under a villain. During a surprise raid by the superheros on the secret lair, you accidentally kill one of them. | 26 |
He calls himself Nat, but I doubt it's his real name. He's got a scar the size of a five cent piece; a round hole joined in the middle by some skin graft, in the centre of his left cheek.
"Tried shooting myself, didn't I?" He says darkly. Only the right side of his face moves now and in the dark it's terrifying, the almost destroyed left-eye socket watching me blindly. "When I heard I was coming out here."
We're sat around a fire he made. It's tiny and I can only feel the heat coming from it if I put my hands right up close. First time I tried it, Nat scowled at me. Second time he batted my hands away.
"Stop it. You'll just put it out," he growled. "Freezing to death'd be kinder than what's coming."
But I'm still shivering, and it's not the cold either. Tall trees loom around us in the dark, feathery leafed and with grey bark. In the daylight it would be almost pleasant; if you could follow a trail and bring a picnic. Here, in the middle of the night, I can hear a myriad of noises and it's all I can do not to keep jerking around and swivelling to look into the bushy gloom. I'm not sure if I'd want to see *them* coming, anyway.
"What did you do, then?" I ask, almost nonchalantly. I tuck my hands into my armpits and bring my knees up to my chest.
"Killed a guy. Stabbed him outside a bar." Nat's words are short and clipped. He doesn't offer any more information and so I take to looking around instead.
If I squint, over the trees I can just about make out the high walls of the city. It's a huge ring around us, like we're the jam filling in a doughnut. It was put in place before I was born and I can only guess that it'll be here a long time after I'm dead. A breaking twig behind me makes me spin round so fast I nearly fall over. Nat sniggers.
"There's no point in being alert. They're going to get you anyway. You can rent out night vision goggles from the kiosk at the gates. Hunting ammo, too. Leave a much bigger scar than this one," he points at the red mark on his cheek.
"Shouldn't we be moving or something?" There were five of us to begin with; me and Nat and three others. There had been one woman, grey hair escaping from her ponytail and nails bitten down to the quick ("Smothered her children," Nat had said.) The others were two thugs, bald headed, crooked nosed as though they had been broken many, many times before. One had grinned at me, revealing a mouth of empty gums and a tattoo on the inside of his rubbery bottom lip. They'd all taken off running as soon as we'd been released from the cuffs though. Not Nat, though. He'd taken a leisurely stroll for about five minutes, feeling his way against the trees in the crepuscular twilight, before sitting down under an oak and waiting for it to get properly dark.
"Nah," Nat shook his head. "They'll find us, don't worry about that."
"I don't want to be found," my voice hit a new octave. "I'm not supposed to be in here."
Nat gives me a sharp look.
"You got two options. You can go and tell the officers you're innocent, and ask nicely to be let out. Or you can run as soon as you hear someone coming. Either way, you're going to die."
My heart hammering in my chest, I get to my feet.
"What are you doing?" Nat asks
"I'm gonna run for it. Reckon I can make it,"
"You can't."
The adrenaline has taken over and there's a crunching sound coming from our left. Nat shrugs as we both turn round.
"Alright boy," he says, taking one last look at the fire. "You go and run. If you're innocent, maybe you get out. Fate works like that sometimes."
So I take off in the darkness, feeling my way with my hands. Twenty seconds in I hear a gunshot and a sob escapes me. *Jesus Christ.* It's slow going; I can't see a fucking thing in this light and my feet keep getting caught by stuff in the underbrush. A line of brambles rake across my leg and rip my trousers, tangling me for a second. I'm going slowly downhill and all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing. Minutes ago I had been freezing and now I was sweating; cold rivulets running down my face.
The beam of a flashlight sweeps across my path and I freeze for a second. I have never felt more like prey. The light illuminates my surroundings for a minute: there are pines of every side of me, I'm ankle deep in brambles.
"I think he went this way," I can hear someone talking and like that I stop breathing.
"Fucking hell, he couldn'a picked a worse spot. Com'on."
There's footsteps and the light fades. I wait, counting the seconds silently until I think they're out of range and then collapse onto the floor, shuddering. There's a metallic taste in my mouth, like I've swallowed blood and it takes me a minute to realise I've bitten my own tongue raw.
I wasn't driving that car. It had never been me. I was just there cause I could jimmy them open and fix the wires. I'd been in the passenger seat and Mac had been next to me, eyes closed in bliss as the German car accelerated. When we overturned in the tunnel - when they'd found me, sitting in the burned out wreck with two dead bodies in the back seat - That's when someone higher up than me had decided I was guilty and sent me here.
For a city boy to die amongst the trees; that was a punishment indeed.
I grasp once more at a tree next to me, pulling myself upright. The skin tears off my palm and I'm left stinging, drops of blood forming fast. I need to stay alive. I need to stay alive till dawn. | 262 | In the future criminals are thrown into a forest completely surrounded by city. Civilians hunt them in the forest. Police watch the forest edge for criminals, and kill them if seen leaving. You were falsely accused of murder and thrown into the forest with 4 other criminals. | 739 |
Franklin Delano Roosevelt tossed another card into the top hat which lay two meters away. “I hate to say it but Hitler may be our only hope.” he muttered to the assembled crowd of men. It was a dark room, thick with the smell of tobacco and brandy.
Winston pulled the hat away as a third card went sailing towards it. “You’re being a pessimist. You have to look for the opportunity here!” the Englishman said. This deep voice and thick accent stilling the voices in the room. “We would not have come back if it we weren’t needed. The peace which we fought for never came. Our children's children continue fight unending wars. We need to help these people rule!” he finished with a flourish and clamped his lips down on his cigar.
I higher pitched, soft voice came from near the fireplace. It seemed to struggle to overcome the darkness. It’s owner labored with each few words, pausing to gather strength. “Of course... you would… say that. Perhaps you… wish, to have an Empire again”.
Franklin turned up the light and revealed a slight man attired in a loose white sheet.
“Ghandi, I heard your people rejected you as well.” Winston let out a puff of smoke.
“They… rejected all of us.” the man in white uttered softly. “Our time is over. I can no more...bring peace to Pakistan and India than you can recreate Empire. Or you, Mr. President, can fix your social security debt… You think that the only way… to help is… to create an evil, the evils of our world… Hitler, Empire, war. These are not our problems but those of our grandchildren. The solution lies with them.”
“So what will you do Mr. Ghandi?” the Englishman asked condescendingly. “What change will you be in the world?”
The small man looked at the cloud of cigar smoke slowly creeping down from the ceiling. “It’s not my world to change Mr. Prime Minister. Not anymore. I’m going home.” | 19 | Great leaders are brought back from the dead to lead their people to world domination in a way similar to the Civilization games. | 88 |
Double agent David H. Simmons of the CIA walks with a determined stride towards the fountain, contemplating the Morse message he decoded just earlier that day at KGB HQ.
He received such a message on alternating days of the week at 12:15, during his lunch break, when he could be to himself. But this wasn't like the other ones. "Keep us updated." or "Document the next shipment." No, the brass back home appear to have left a rather unusually involved direction. Upon decoding, it read. "Gilded fountain, 12:45, name: Viktor, black hair, speak 'October sky', expect response 'shines brightly'. Then take suitcase and meet him at bar north of fountain, he will engage."
The fountain now within sight, Simmons brushes over the bulge in his jacket pocket, confirming for the umpteenth time where his Makarov still lay. Beads of sweat roll down his neck, growing cold in the frigid midday Moscow air. Steps away from the ornate fountain, he slows his pace and gains his composure.
Across the square, Simmons spots a man matching the description, one hand in pocket, the other wrapped around a black suitcase, striding towards the fountain. Simmons maintains his composure and faces the direction he came. Viktor will come to him. The man comes shoulder to shoulder with him. Simmons nods and with some hesitation stammers out
"Ah-October Sky...".
In rather stereotypically broken English, the man smirks and bellows,
"Shines brightly, doesn't it, comrade?"
To accompany that slight discrepancy, Simmons catches the image of a man, black haired, carrying a suitcase looking horror-struck at the man Simmons would likely next address as Viktor.
In the following flurry of events, the spectator with the suitcase turned about face, and hurriedly scuttled back the way he came. Two muffled "fwump"s carried across the square as the man appeared to go limp, release his grip, and fall to his side. Panic-stricken, Simmons, with practiced hand, produces his Makarov, only to hear that familiar "fwump" and find himself at a loss for bodily control. Tumbling forward, he hears the man he met strike a match, take a puff from his cigar ,and softly speak into his ear,
"Simmons, know that your sacrifice to your nation will be remembered, I only wish it were under different circumstances. I'll be taking over for you now. When I make it out of this shit hole, I'll see about having brass set your family up with something nice. Dismissed."
As Simmons lay there, blood pooling from the cavity in his back, in his state of confusion, betrayal, and shame, he managed one final salute to his superior.
Hey this is my first story, any and all constructive criticism will be appreciated.
Also many edits for nit-picking. | 30 | At the height of the Cold War, two "Russian" men meet up in Central Park to recruit each other as double agents for the CIA. Both men are deep-cover agents for the CIA. | 284 |
"I think they used to be people." That was all I could think to myself as I saw those things floating around in their green tubes.
I had stumbled just a little too far into my science facility. On my floor, we studied adverse effects to prescription drugs in rats. On this floor, I could only assume they were studying genetic mutation. I had come down to ask my superior something, nothing remotely important enough to warrant my newfound discovery.
The room eerily emanated sterility. The things in the green tubes lined the sides of the room, towering over vast amounts of lab equipment. Sterile mounting boards, with straps for wrists and ankles, dotted the floor around me. Each assigned a small surgical tray with gruesome looking medical equipment including scalpels, needles, and tubes. Despite being well lit, the room felt haunted. Even with their eyes closed, the forms stared daggers into my body.
What were once human were now misshapen fleshy experiments. One had a hulking upper body, with arms the size of bridge cables, while his legs remained human. Even unconscious, his face contorted into what I can only assume was immense amounts of pain. Another of the creatures had feathers growing around intervals on his body, and misshapen limbs so lanky he almost resembled slenderman.
As I gazed in horror at these abominations, an alarm went off. Blaring in my ears, the alarm jarred me back to reality. I sprinted back to the elevator I had come from. My work loafers squeaked on the metallic floor as I ran. I could hear shouting behind me. "There he is!" "Get him!" I made it to the elevator just in time, the metallic doors behind me slammed shut. I was alone in the elevator with nothing but my fear and a cold sweat.
I heard some muffled voices from outside the door, when a new noise presented itself inside the elevator. A purple gas had started seeping in through vents in the ceiling. I almost screamed. The gas cascaded down into the room. I tried keeping calm to prevent myself from inhaling, but my heart beat so fast being calm was a pipe dream.
As I inhaled the gas, it burned in the back of my throat. I quickly lost consciousness, and fell into a sleep plagued by nightmares of misshapen tube creatures chasing me through never ending science facilities.
When I awoke, every limb in my body was sore. I couldn't tell how much time had passed, but my body felt so empty, it had to have been days, if not weeks. After a few minutes, I coerced my eyes into opening. I realized, horrified, that I had been captured inside a green tube. Some men in labcoats stared at my limp body from outside. I attempted to scream at them, but opening my mouth filled it with the sickly green concoction I was floating in. My tears are lost in the liquid as I accept my fate.
ninja edit: Constructive criticism is more than welcome. | 16 | "I think they used to be people." | 34 |
I guess I should have taken more notice when I saw the module entitled “Death Ray: Effective Weapon or Superhero Bringer?” But what do I know about modern business courses? Nothing, apparently.
Now that I come to think of it, the lecturer, a Professor Ernie Vile, was a little eccentric. He once showed us five effective ways to get out of a super-strong headlock. I did wonder just what I was getting myself into then. How irate could customers get? I only wanted to start a small photography business. Also, I would like to make it absolutely clear that I never went in there to become a supervillain. I honestly believed it was a business course right up until the League of Heroes burst through the door with their sting operation.
I remember once we were asked to take in something in that would be a symbol of our trade. The Captain, he’s the one with the cape, brought in a sort of gun to which he’d attached pipes filled with a blue liquid. He said it didn’t work yet, but that it would truly revolutionise the world. I thought that was a little over the top. I mean, paintball is fun, but it’s hardly revolutionary.
Someone else brought in a crystal of some sort. It was kind of iridescent and emitted a faint humming noise. A bedside light designed to lull children to sleep, maybe? He wouldn’t say where he got it, just that it was some sort of meteor remnant. He had a friend he always brought with him who carried everything for him and gave out stern looks if someone ever tried to contradict him. He had apparently been a loyal employee of Czar Dee Struction for years. What kind of parents name their kid Czar, anyway? Hippies, obviously. That also explained the fascination with crystals.
For my part, I took in a camera because… Well, what else symbolises photography better than a camera? I remember when it was my turn to show it and everyone asked me, rather enthusiastically, what it did. Took pictures, I explained.
This was met with some confusion. Did it evaporate people, Anne Archy asked. No, I explained. It was a camera. Did it hypnotise? I laughed. People did tend to become mesmerised when you were snapping photos of city buildings, yes.
This seemed to satisfy them and afterwards I had a rather bizarre conversation with a hunched up man who suggested that a bright enough flash could be used to blind people.
It was about six months later, and the professor had asked to see our progress with our various projects. I had brought in my camera, as usual, and a portfolio I had been working on. The hunched man came over and excitedly handed me a handheld flash. The captain had added some reservoirs to his gun for the strange water, and he said it presently only worked at short range, but he expected to have a fully working version in a few weeks.
Czar had placed the crystal in a kind of metal box with a crude convex dish cut into one side. It reminded me of a square death star. He said that the dish amplified the effect of the crystal. I remember rolling my eyes at it.
Just then, the door burst open and in jumped eight costumed men, in my shock I triggered the flash, and four of them dropped to their knees clutching at their eyes. One of them, The Gavel, or something, jumped over to me and got me in a headlock. The man was incredibly strong, and so I used number three of the five effective ways to get out of a super-strong headlock. He tumbled to the floor and Czar pressed a button on his box. A ray of blue light shone out and knocked down Gavel and Mr. Truth. I saw then that the Captain, was having trouble with the guy in the pink leotard, and had dropped his paintball gun. I grabbed it with the intension of shooting him in the eyes, those paintballs could do some serious damage when up close, but instead the liquid streamed out and pink-leotard man just kind of… disintegrated. That was an utter shock, and probably about the time I realised this wasn’t a common old garden business course.
The Victor, or Victorator, whatever his name was, it should have been The Vacator because he just jumped out through the ceiling and we never saw him again.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am speaking to you as Supreme Evil Leader of The World.
Please, remain calm and collected during the transitional period. Or don’t, I don’t care either way. But riots, protests or any kind of dissent will be met with the most swift and brutal action.
| 12 | You're part way through a course when you realise that it's for aspiring supervillains. | 18 |
It wasn't mine to take. I know that. You think I don't? Fuck you. I still get sick every single time I think about that night. Physically ill. My body shakes, last night's prepackaged meal spews out of my mouth, and I think about killing myself.
But I don't deserve to die. I deserve to live with this pain and guilt. I took the last good thing you had left without your consent. Honestly, I don't even think you were awake when it happened. I'm not sure if that makes it worse or not. I tried my best not to wake you. I've never done it so quietly before. And I made sure to clean up what little mess I did make. I know it's stupid, but I actually believed I would get away with it.
*"How will anyone find out? I left no evidence."* Fucking amateur. Throwing away the used napkin in her wastebasket? I should have burned the fucking thing.
No, no no! I shouldn't have even let it get that far. When I felt that sick urge roll over me, I should have l left your house. You trusted me, and I ruined everything. You invited me over, told me I could stay for as long as I needed. Even though the party had ended several hours earlier, you were nice enough to let me stay.
My family hasn't talked to me since you told them what I did. Christmas was two weeks ago, and I didn't hear from anyone back home. Not even a letter or a cheap pair of socks from Walmart. Before all this happened, I didn't appreciate the little things. The love that only your family can give you. I thought for the longest time that there was nothing I could do to make my family abandon me.
I was wrong. I have been lonely for so long now. Alone with my thoughts. I actually have a journal with over 250 ways I have thought about killing myself. But like I said, I will never do it. Loneliness is my punishment now. These horrifying memories are my punishment. The fact that I will never be able to look in the mirror and like the person staring back at me is my punishment.
So, you can continue to call me names. You can spit in my face. Tell me I will rot in hell. You can fill your heart with all this hate for me. That's fine, but just know that it's not your hate that keeps me up at night. You should take all that energy you waste on hating me and start using it for something positive. Change the world while you still can.
I hate myself more than you could ever hate me. I promise I will never steal the last slice of pizza ever again. I'm sorry. | 23 | Create a character who has committed one or more of the worst sins you can imagine. Try to make the reader forgive this character. | 22 |
Damn druggies.
Still, the goggles look pretty freaking strange. Maybe they're worth something.
I toss them into my satchel and keep trudging through the rain, newspaper held over my head. God, I hate New York. If it's not the crooks sizing you up, it's the "homeless" trying to scam you or the businesslike ready to kill just to get to their destination on time. It's getting dark, which means that I'm getting anxious. My apartment is still two blocks away, and despite the weather and the time, streets are still positively crammed with people. The city that never sleeps - why do people find that so romantic? But I digress. I don't even particularly want to be home; home means work. I just don't want to be on the streets.
The rain starts to let up.
Central Park - why the hell not? The sun will be setting soon, so if I'm lucky, maybe I'll find a knife in my chest or a hand in my pocket. Maybe I'd finally have an excuse to miss work. As I enter the park, I'm disgusted by the slew of people just milling about. Tourists, the homeless, delinquents, tired mothers trying to coax their children into coming home because really honey mommy is tired and it's not safe to be out at night and somebody's got to start dinner before daddy gets home or you-know-what. I sigh and sit on a bench. I'm so tired, every single day. I bring my bag to my lap and rifle through it, hoping perhaps to find a dog-eared novel or a sketch pad - or if I'm really lucky, perhaps a razor blade with which to destroy my wrists. I really don't need to read the news right now. I feel something smooth, and confused, I pull the object out.
The goggles - I'd forgotten. I sigh and wipe them off, examining them halfheartedly. Hopefully they have the plague on them, or are an accessory to a crime. I put them on and look at the world around me.
That noise!
Oh, how the world screams!
The first thing that I see is the stubborn child. He's got a shadow underneath him, and though the child can't tell, the shadow's trying to climb inside of the boy. He's got this malicious grin and these claws and he's so dark and he's screeching and the boy can't even see it! I see the scars on the boy's face and I get up and I run, nearly knocking over a homeless man reeking of booze.
He, too, has got a shadow.
It twitches. It opens the man's mouth, but I don't think he notices. His shadow is scratching at his mouth with one hand and attempting to choke him with the other. His shadow is sporadic and flashes in and out of existence but is so obviously intent on doing what he's doing and it grows and shrinks and laughs hoarsely -
"What the hell are ya doin', assface?" Is the man shouting at me? Oh fuck he's shouting at me! And still there are shadows everywhere! One's flying over a business man and stabbing at his eyes with a pencil and the man just keeps moving OH how are they all so unaware?!
Twoblocksfromhometwoblocksfromhome
Everyone's got these shadows and I keep running and running and my doorman's shadow's growling at him as the doorman yells for me to slow down man what's the rush and I yank my keys from my pocket and run into my apartment and holy hell has it always smelled this bad? Ink is all over the furniture who the hell did this I need water I need it now!
And I run into the bathroom and splash frigid water all over my face and I look right into the mirror and I see this guy.
He's a small guy. Black. He's sitting on my shoulder and he's got a gun cocked to my head. He whispers something into my ear in a voice not unlike my own.
"Brooklyn Bridge..." it taunts. "Jump," it whispers.
He crawls into my ear and whispers to me. "You know you want to..."
I, too, have a shadow.
I realize that I always have. | 76 | A man gives you a pair of goggles, says he wishes he had never seen what was really out there, and takes off down the street... | 108 |
The story begins then,
With two bored men,
One in denial,
The other, suicidal.
Sitting together, side by side,
Sharing a seat in a conversation ride.
"A life well lived, but the cancer I can't contain,"
The terminally ill man said,
"I'll miss the winter snow, and the summer rain,
What a shame that I might soon be dead."
To him replied the suicidal man,
"I envy your nostalgia and it brings me no joy;
I was young when the depression began,
What a shame I've wished to die since I was a boy."
"What an unusual thing to say!"
Retorted the terminally ill fellow,
"Your own life, must you betray?
Think at least of your mother- to whom you first said hello."
The man who no longer wished to live,
Replied to him in apathy,
"How do you know what advice to give?
It's not like you have powers such as telepathy."
Feeling sorry for his new but suicidal friend,
The terminally ill man offered his final advice,
"You must fight the darkness until the bitter end,
Because the beauty of life doesn't come again, not twice, nor thrice."
Both men departed shortly after,
With heavy hearts, instead of laughter,
To whom can we say had a happier ending?
For both men, death is impending. | 155 | A terminally ill man and a suicidal person accidentally meet and strike up a conversation. What do they say? | 190 |
Disclaimer: New to Reddit. If I'm doing something wrong I apologize.
Ever since the New Russian Empire lost the war, we've kept a slew of their top officers in our prisons. Our... interrogations... have been fruitless. We still don't know how their soldiers were so superhuman. Machine gun fire to the head and chest didn't stop them. Grenades didn't stop them. Beheading them didn't stop them. No matter how much their bodies were dismembered, they always had full control of every one of their muscles. So long as they had as much as a hand left in one piece they still tried to fire their guns. Even the ones we've ground into piles of meat still show control over their remnants despite no longer having a brain; the mounds of shredded flesh moving, as if still trying to fight us.
We have not witnessed a single Russian soldier in the war talk, laugh, cry, smile, or show any form of emotion. We fear that in addition to being an immensely unnatural procedure, it also causes severe psychological and physical pain, assuming they can still even feel pain of any sort.
This has proved disastrous to the UN. We use the term ‘immortality’ when discussing it, but we aren't even sure if that’s what it is. Are they even alive? We've declared immortality illegal under international law, but we have no way of enforcing it. We don’t know how it’s done. We don’t know if it’s reproducible or practical. We don’t know how to stop it. We don’t know anything.
Any feedback would be appreciated! | 42 | Humanity has unlocked immortality, but it's not what they expected. As a result the practice is banned | 66 |
There are three kinds of people in this world. The givers, the takers, and the 'meh'ers. The givers give to the takers, and are the kind of people who work at the salvation army and who donate toys to the less forturnate during christmas time. The takers make up the general population, and are the ones who take the toys, who rob banks, and who work for the money. (lawyers, I'm looking at you. Same with you politicians...) And then there are the 'meh'ers. The ones who don’t really give or take, they just... sit there. They're the ones who would watch a panhandler or homeless man walk by without the compelling urge to either give money or exploit him for profit. Normal people? Maybe. Actually, the world can be summed up in three different categoires: suckers, assholes, and bystanders. This is the story of a man who fits in the last category.
John Doe is your average red-blooded, white-skinned person. Or was. He's quite different now. But still. He started out as an average human being. Well wouldn't that change. But for now, John Doe is your average white-boy walking along the street with twenty dollars in his pocket. John is walking down the street now, or still is. Anyway, while he's moving both of his foot-organs in such a manner that it propels him in a straight line, he spots a small, silver lamp, which he decides to treat like a rock. Most people pick up rocks and either kick them or throw them at small midgets or cars, but John decided to treat this lamp that looks like a rock and pet the damn thing.
Excuse me for a moment, as I'd like to add another category to the whole 'people of the world' thing I've been trying to impart on you. The retard. You see? Most people would see a lamp and say, “Gosh! That's a lamp! I have no urge to pick it up and pet it.” But no. Not Josh. Josh, who suffers form a mental defect called being curious has decided to pick up a rock and pet it. Let us continue.
Now, Josh pets the rock three times, and all of a sudden the rock-that-is-actually-a-lamp pops open and WHAM! A nice genie comes out. Now this genie is quite your average genie, y'know, white, little bit of hipster goin on, got a nice beard, just your average genie. One thing you need to know about genies is that they don't do the whole Aladdin thing, at least not anymore. They don't color themselves blue, they don't all come from Egypt, and the don't all want their human to die. Why? Because that'd be a dick move, that's why.
So John sees a pop genie come out of its shell, and voila, the immortal question is asked. “Hello, mortal, my name is Xanthix, and you have three wishes. What petty whishes do you seek?” So Josh is all slackjawed and stunned, does the whole back away in awe and fall to your knees in submission, and then stares at Xanthix and does the whole mouth flopping but no sound coming bit. Xanthix is just sitting there patiently and gently bobbing in the air waiting for Josh to speak, when suddenly this bit of poetry falls out of his mouth. “Uh... I don't know, you choose.” Xanthix leans down and frowns, his great head creasing as he tries to understand what has just been told to him. “You-you wish me to choose?”
John does the nodding thing.
Xanthix shakes his head, not used to this question. Usually requests to Xanthix are those of petty human concerns, such as “give me more money” or “murder this asshole ___” or “give me more money” Xanthix has never, in his whole existence as a genie been asked to choose.
Actually, This is starting to bore me. I'll just let the rest of the story play out without any interference.
Xanthix shook his head, confused, and considered the tiny mortal before him. “Never in all my years as a genie have I been asked such a request.” John squinted one eye and looked sideways at Xanthix. The initial shock had worn off , and John now saw the genie with a much more mundane light. This was no mystical beast, this was some punk with a goatee. John was starting to wonder why he was taking shit from a hipster. Frowning, John walked up to the figure floating in the air, and ran a hand through the thin beam connecting the genie to the lamp. The presence above him flickered, and Xanthix's face contorted in pain. John Smiled. He had this genie under the palm of his hand. “Choose,” John commanded.
But once again, Xanthix shook his head. “I cannot,” the genie said, “as no other has done so before me.” John rolled his eyes, and swiped his hand several times through the beam, causing the genie to contort in pain. “Bullshit,” John snapped. “You only want me to choose so you can twist my words to cause harm towards me!” Xanthix shook his head.
“Not since the olden days have we felt the need to punish a mortal subject. I shall not break the old code. You shall not be harmed if you choose for yourself, you have my word.”
John shook his head and covered his ears with his hand. “Stop it! Stop talking like that!”
Xanthix perked up. “Is that a wish?”
John shook his head and ran his hand through the beam a few more times as Xanthix screamed. “Don't bullshit with me!”
Xanthix fell to his knees, and at last gave in. “Yes, mortal. As you wish.”
John smiled.
As the genie got to his feet, John put his hands on his hips and stood tall, looking at the figure hovering before him. “So?” he said, “What'll it be?” Xanthix pursed his lips and clasped his hands together, his brow furled. John tapped his foot impatently. “Hurry the hell up!” Xanthix opened his eyes, and for the first time, John felt the first glimmer of fear. Where once the normal pupil had been, there was now only a pure, dense shade of black. John took a step backwards, and then the genie spoke. “For your first wish I choose to give the world a sense of peace.” Xanthix flipped a complicated series of hand motions, and formed a pink orb in his hands. With a flick of his wrists, the orb smashed to the ground, absorbed into the earth.
All around the globe, babies stopped their crying, bitches stopped their bitching, and for the first time, the middle east was quiet. A deep sense of calm had settled over the world, and for the first time in a millenia, the middle east had no sounds of gunfire. Governments started the process of destroying their arms, and the demilitarization of the world began.
“For your second wish, I choose to take the burden of suffering from those who cannot bear to suffer any longer.”
John frowned, not sure if this second wish had such positive implications as the first wish. He was right to be suspicious. Across the world, through continents and seas, the elderly and depressed sank to their knees. Babies born with disabilities cried once more before they were silenced. The whole world had just gone through a physical cleansing.
Xanthix now looked into John. Not onto, as would a normal person do, but into. The genie's eyes pierced John with the full force, and John instinctively retreated. “Your third wish is for yourself,” the genie said, and John leaned forward. Hopefully. Xanthix curled his lip. “Your third wish is a gift of the highest honor. I, Xanthix the old, shall show you my true form.”
John looked forward, at the genie, which was now changing. The hipster that had once stood before John became a pillar of light, and a pair of wings, extended in both directions. Two fantastic horns grew from the genie's temples, and shot flames to the sky. Pure white light shot off in all directions. John staggered back against the onlsaught. Covering his eyes, he leapt towards the brightly glowing beam that connected the source of light to the lamp. Xanthix chuckled. “et succendetur, homuncio, adolebit.” John Screamed.
Y'see folks? Genies are pretty fucking awesome. Which is why if you ever bump into one, dont be a dumb smartass and ask what they want. Because genies want to serve you, not the other way around. So next time, be careful. Or I might do to you what I did to ol' Johnny over there. He really does make a good little scorch on the ground though. Really brings out the color of the dirt.
Author's Note:
I guess it meets the requirements? | 19 | You are a genie, and by genie law you have to grant any wish with a condition whether you want to or not. (More context in post) | 30 |
YAY! It's done XD. Please note that this was hastily written and underwent exactly zero revisions, so please excuse all logical fallacies, typos, grammatical errors, and generally poor writing that you may encounter below, haha.
------------------
Ship Log 2769:
[Galactic Date] : 201 163 2014.002
[Life Support] : Green
[Comms] : Red ; Critical Arrays Damaged
[Sub-light] : Green
[Shields] : Orange ; Heavy Damage Sustained, Holding at 37%
[Wormhole Generator] : Red ; Critical Systems Offline
[Weapons] : Red ; All Weapons Systems Compromised
[Begin Audio Log] --- Lieutenant Alec Vistar ---
My home is gone, the Plague consumed it; they assimilated our resources and technology into their own fleet, and they destroyed anything not of value to the Swarm. Now it's just another lifeless rock floating in the void; nothing more than the gravestone of my people, for I am the last.
The rest were slaughtered with the brutal and heartless efficiency that fills the black soul of every Plague warrior -- if such creatures even have souls. Worst of all, I watched every moment of my people's extermination as I drifted, helpless, a thousand miles from home.
It all happened because we were too smart for our own good; our scientist were the brightest in the universe, and we were so certain that would could stop the Swarm when all others had failed. Those brilliant minds devised how to detect jump signatures from a million light years out, and we had a foolproof plan in place. Certainly, the calculations were complex, but they would have worked.
They Swarm should have jumped from the nearest galaxy, some 20 light years out, which would have allowed us to calculated exactly when and where the fleet would arrive by entangling our systems with their quantum signature. With this knowledge we could have used our own wormhole technology to open a hole direct to the nearest star at the exact moment that the Swarm landed, and send those bastards to their own personal hell.
We never expected them to waste twenty years at sub-light; waging war is hard when your tech is twenty years old. Regardless, it worked; we grew complacent, and the Plague caught us utterly by surprise.
My ship was disabled in the backwash from the swarms sub-light deceleration, and so I survived to be the last of the once proud Aleathian race. I am... I am no longer sure that I want this honor, this curse, and this burden.
Perhaps the Aleathi are meant to end entirely today.
Lieutenant Alec Vistar, Out.
Ship Log 2775:
[Galactic Date] : 201 163 2014.040
[Life Support] : Green
[Comms] : Orange ; Emergency Systems Partially Active
[Sub-light] : Green
[Shields] : Orange ; Heavy Damage Sustained, Holding at 37%
[Wormhole Generator] : Red ; Critical Systems Offline
[Weapons] : Red ; All Weapons Systems Compromised
[Begin Audio Log] --- Lieutenant Alec Vistar ---
I'm not even sure why I'm talking to this damn ship anymore. Maybe it's because she's a fighter, like me. I've started calling her Alea, in honor of our people, as she and I are all the tale those poor souls have left to tell.
That's not important right now; I managed to restore some emergency function to my the communications array. I had about three minutes of broadcast time, so anyone within twenty-five or so light years should know that the Swarm is on it's way. I pray that they will have time to run.
Even if no one hears my beacon, they might have time to escape; I've been in full burn for about forty cycles now, and the Swarm fleets are keeping pace; they must be pulling the same sub-light trick as before. My wormhole systems are still compromised, but I should make it to the next system a few days before the Plague and their Swarm fleets arrive.
My own race is dead, but perhaps I can save another.
Lieutenant Alec Vistar, Out.
Ship Log 2794:
[Galactic Date] : 201 163 2039.032
[Life Support] : Green
[Comms] : Orange ; Emergency Systems Partially Active
[Sub-light] : Green
[Shields] : Orange ; Heavy Damage Sustained, Holding at 37%
[Wormhole Generator] : Red ; Critical Systems Offline
[Weapons] : Red ; All Weapons Systems Compromised
[Begin Audio Log] --- Lieutenant Alec Vistar ---
Today Alea and I arrived at the only inhabited planet in this system, it's people, Humans, refer to it as Earth. The Swarm fleets are mere days behind me, and I fear that i have come too late.
Certainly the people here a strong, in truth, they display a resilience like I have never seen before, but their technology is simply lacking. I warned that they should flee, but their ships are few, and their leaders flat out refused to leave so many to their deaths. Humanity, they claim, will fight to very last.
I admit, they have a certain talent for warfare, and their so called 'nuclear' bombs are immensely destructive. Yet the Plague ships carry advanced emp and kinetic bombardment technology; those nukes will be useless.
I appears that I am to witness the senseless loss of another race.
Lieutenant Alec Vistar, Out.
Ship Log 2798:
[Galactic Date] : 201 163 2039.033
[Life Support] : Green
[Comms] : Orange ; Emergency Systems Partially Active
[Sub-light] : Green
[Shields] : Orange ; Heavy Damage Sustained, Holding at 37%
[Wormhole Generator] : Red ; Critical Systems Offline
[Weapons] : Red ; All Weapons Systems Compromised
[Begin Communications Log] --- Lieutenant Alec Vistar; Earth Comms One ---
[Earth] “Hello? This is Earth Comms One hailing the good ship Alea, are you receiving?”
[Vistar] “Yeah, I hear you.”
[Earth] “Great, this is General Isah speaking, but I’m going to transfer you over to our head scientist; she has a plan.”
[Vistar] “I’m sorry General, but it won’t work; the Swarm simply cannot be stopped.”
[Earth] “Just… just hear her out.”
[Vistar] “...Alright.”
[Earth] “Lieutenant? This is Dr. Eva Merona, I think we can stop the Swarm, but we need your help.”
[Vistar] “...Damn. Okay, let me switch this conversation to an encrypted channel; I’ll hear you out, but that’s it.”
[Further Communications Encrypted]
Ship Log 2800:
[Galactic Date] : 201 163 2039.035
[Life Support] : Green
[Comms] : Orange ; Emergency Systems Partially Active
[Sub-light] : Green
[Shields] : Orange ; Heavy Damage Sustained, Holding at 37%
[Wormhole Generator] : Orange ; Systems Partially Powered
[Weapons] : Red ; All Weapons Systems Compromised
[Begin Audio Log] --- Lieutenant Alec Vistar ---
My name is Alec Vistar. My ship Alea and I are the last remnants of the Aleathian race, and these are my final words. I go now, in the vain hope that the endless and unthinking Swarm can be stopped.
Failure will mean the end of Humanity, and perhaps the universe as well. For who else remains to stand against the Plague?
I, with the help of the frankly brilliant Dr. Merona, have converted more than half of the earths nuclear arsenal into a power source for Alea’s wormhole technology. Theoretically, my ship will have just enough power to rend space and time for around ten seconds. This is not enough time to open an exit. Thus any ships within the tear will be trapped in hyperspace for all eternity; cursed to forever drift in the void.
If I am not successful the Earth will be left nearly defenseless, and will have failed again. But perhaps this time I can save them.
Just perhaps, I can save them all.
[Further Ship Data is Corrupted]
A light flicked on, and a few children could be spotted sitting in a semi-circle on the floor. They were facing a woman, who was still beautiful despite her age, and who held a softly glowing glowing screen in her hand.
“Can anyone tell me what happened next?” The woman asked.
One of the children, a small boy with tousled brown hair and piercing blue eyes raised his hand.
“Go ahead.” The woman intoned, with a smile to her voice.
Cleary pleased with himself, the boy started to speak, “We don’t know the details, but we could see nearly a thousand Plague ships. And then there was a bunch of a radiation, and all our stuff, like raidar, turned off because of the ele-- elec…”
“The electro-magentic pulse” the teacher chimed in.
“Yeah, that,” the boy continued, “and by the time we turned it back on again, everything was gone; the Swarm, Lieutenant Vistar, and the Alea all just dissapeared. Some people say it never even happened, like it was faked or something, but Lieutenant Vistar saved us all, right mom?”
The woman’s eyes faded slightly as she replied, “Yes, he did,” she shook slightly and gathered her self before continuing, “but it’s still Miss Merona while we’re in class Alec.” | 25 | Humanity received a cryptic message from space warning them of an invasion fleet heading their way at sub-light speed. The Earth has had 25 years to prepare a defense. Humanity knows nothing of the enemy or the enemy's capabilities. What happens when the invaders finally arrive? | 48 |
Henry's knees ached; his ankles cracked; he couldn't bend his fingers; he lost hearing in his left ear; he was considered "legally blind," and his driving license was revoked; Henry's jaw locked when he chewed; he had no control over his bladder; decades of smoking cigarettes left him with a horrendous cough.
Henry was balding. He hated balding. He could grow hair everywhere else, but his head? Forget about it. To be fair, he couldn't bald any further. The way he looked as an 86 year old is how he looked now as a 136 year old. No one else kept track of their age. It was pointless to even celebrate birthdays.
Henry's back hunched significantly. The neighborhood kids called him the *Hunchback of Notre Damn*. He walked with a cane and dragged along his elderly, smelly dog Rufus.
The local young people avoided him like the plague. Henry could sense eyes signalling him out in public. "He should've died," they'd whisper.
"What right does he have to live?" they'd say.
"Assisted suicide needs to be legalized." "What a smelly dog. It should be against the law to own such a vile creature."
Old Henry didn't have much to smile for. His wife had died of terminal cancer three years before the discovery of immortality. And besides, who wants to see a toothless grin?
His only son was killed during the Final War. It was the war to end all wars. The United Countries of America came about as a conclusion.
Henry would stroll through his hometown. He was aware of everyone's disapproval. The majority looked youthful. The middle-aged folks felt better about themselves in Henry's presence, though they were disgusted by his existence. He was a reminder of humanity's former weakness to death.
Sure, Henry wanted to just kill himself, and he had tried many times to no avail, but his dog was immortal, too. If not for Henry, little Rufus would be an orphan dog. Something about walking through the local streets seemed to spark a small bit of youthfulness in the aged dog.
His ragged tail would wag left and right. He had a glimmering look about his eyes. No one else noticed, but Henry could see it.
"Old man, isn't it time to go home?" asked a young man as Henry strolled past. Henry merely winked at the lad. It made the locals even angrier seeing the old man ignore their jeers.
"One day, God will remove you from our beautiful Earth," called a priest as Henry strolled past the local church. "He'll put all you old sinners in Hell!"
Another voice said, "You're mistaken, Father. This *is* the old man's Hell! Look at him! He suffers with every step." This observance was followed by mocking laughter.
Henry pulled Rufus along. Since he couldn't bend his fingers to grasp the dog's leash, Henry tightened the leash around his arm. In his younger days, the tightness may have hurt him, but these days he could hardly feel anything.
Finally Henry walked to the destination he had been heading toward. He slowly made his way up the hill onto a field of brown, dying grass. There was no point in keeping up the grass because people didn't visit cemeteries anymore. It reminded them too much of a sadder time when death was around every corner.
Henry knelt down near his wife's headstone. He didn't bring any flowers today. The ones he left yesterday were still sitting atop the gravesite, right next to the flowers from the previous day, and those next to the bouquet from the previous day, and those next to even older roses, and those next to even older bouquets. They had all withered significantly but Henry sensed the flowers still had some life in them.
Henry couldn't mourn his wife's death. It had been 50 years. The memory of her was just barely present. *Was she a blonde or a brunette? She wore glasses, right? She was at least 5 foot, 6 inches... No, just 5 feet. Oh, no, it was 5'3"..?*
"I wish.." Henry began. Rufus looked up. It was the first time the dog had heard the old man speak in decades.
Henry coughed a bit. He spit out blood. It was from the cigarettes he once smoked. They should've killed him, but it's too late for that.
"I wish.." Henry tried again. "I wish..."
The dog licked the owner's hand. It was as though Rufus wanted to hear the complete thought. Or maybe he just missed Henry's voice.
Henry peered at the headstone. His legally blind eyes could not make out the encryption anymore.
"I wish..." he said.
A tear rolled down his saggy cheek.
"... I had died with you." | 30 | A cure for aging is discovered, and everyone past the age of 25 stops aging instantly. The final generation of elderly is fated to their advanced age forever. | 41 |
"...and bacon on the side?" I asked.
"Yeah, yeah. And, um, for the eggs, what's that way you make em with the yellow circle in the middle?"
I realized this guy had probably never actually eaten good eggs in his life. "Sunny side up?"
"Yeah, yeah, like that. I always wanted em like that, like in the movies." He seemed rather sullen.
Now, you might think that obviously someone who is sentenced to die might be a bit upset about it, but in my 13 years cooking professionally for this prison, I can tell you that most inmates are pretty excited about their last meals.
It makes sense. Most of these men have, like I said before, never had a decent meal in their lives. No mother to cook them breakfast, no wife to make them dinner, and no money to afford a fancy lunch.
This fellow, whose name was George, seemed almost to not realize I was there. He kept glancing at the guard in the corner of the room.
As if on cue, the guard, who's names tag said Gerald but I'm pretty sure was Asswipe, adjusted his junk and said "Hey buddy, how long do you think this will take? I gotta take a leak."
I've been doing this a while, and I can tell the scariest men are not the ones behind the bars. Those men made mistakes, things that they will regret for the remainder of their short lives. The guards are the men who come here everyday, passed up the chance of becoming doctors, lawyers, accountants- to shuffle men away to their deaths.
I waved Asswipe away. "Go ahead, man, I got this. Be out in a few."
He shuffled out.
"So, what would you like to dri-"
I had gotten too close; George grabbed me by the lapels and pushed me against the bars. I could see his yellow, rotten teeth, smell his terrible breath, see the tears streaming down his eyes.
"Listen up, man, I need you to *listen.*" he breathed. Men like George had never had anyone show them any sort of respect. The only way people listened to them is if they threatened or hurt them.
"I need you to put some of that poison shit in my food, man. I can't go out like that, with judges and guards smirking as I die in that chair!" He was sobbing now. He just wanted me to listen to him.
"My own terms, man. *My own terms.*" he whispered to me.
He let me go and fell back sobbing on the ground.
"*Please*"
I turned and slowly walked towards the door, giving it a sharp rap.
"Please." he whimpered. No one has ever listened to this man his whole life.
*Bzzzzzz*
"Okay." I whispered as the door opened. I exited and the door clanged shut, but not before I saw the relief in the condemned man's eyes. | 298 | The chef who always prepares death row's last meals always asks himself if he should help any prisoner escape before injection. Today, he's found someone worthy. | 384 |
My friends all said it would happen. I waited for it all my life. I was careful to keep myself pure and think only thoughts of my future beloved... and yet when the clock struck twelve on the night of my 22nd year, something unusual happened.
I don't really know how to describe the sensation. I was numb all over. I couldn't move my arms, legs or eyes. I was stuck. I could still sense the world around me. I could hear people crying and I could see the lid of a basket over me. Was I drugged? Bound? What happened to me? Who was I? I knew I had to get up -- to figure out who I was so I could find myself when I woke up... but there was nothing I could do.
A motherly figure hovered over me. She was crying. "Cynthia." She said, "I love you." She kissed me and closed the lid to my box. Cynthia. I am Cynthia. Not much, but it was a start. Now, if only I could get out of this box and find myself, everything would be alright.
I could hear a mechanical device whirring and feel my box moving deeper and deeper into the ground. Then it dawned on me.
I heard thuds of dirt drop onto the box from above. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I just sat there for the next few agonizing minutes, waiting for the nightmare to end.
I was dead.
My soulmate was dead. | 10 | At exactly midnight on new years following their 22nd birthday, people possesses the body of their soulmate and they ran around trying to figure out who they are so that they could find each other. | 24 |
Stunned silence. Yeah, that was a good sign...
The crowd looked like a bunch of surly children, just fed a very bitter medicine and still grumpy about it. Too bad, I think. Guess I should've brought some sugar for them, to help ease the blow.
I clear my throat, and again I motion to the presentation behind me:
"Eleven letters, ladies and gentlemen, with four of them known to us: 'N-YOR'. And I find that I must repeat myself: at one time, in the distant, distant past, those eleven letters ruled the very planet, itself! This revelation will surely usher in a whole new world of insight about this amazing period of human history!"
"Preposterous!" A voice chimed from the audience.
"Nonsense!" Said another.
Ah, no more stunned silence.
*That* was a good sign...
I begin pacing along the stage, my voice stern and eyes severe:
"Consider," I said, "all the evidence. The civilization at N-YOR was truly the pinnacle of human evolution, for their time. Their influence spread far and wide; pieces of their culture have been found as far as the distant orient, and in as remote a place as the very depths of the antarctic. And then there's their homeland: what marvelous engineering! The greatest feats known to us, from that time period.
"The entire main site was constructed along the bank of an artificial lake- a massive and ideal ecological refuge wrought out of an inhospitable swamp. A downy paradise made whole-cloth out of purgatory. And the main site itself- the capital of their culture- was built upon a massive artificial upturn in the land: a man-made hill so massive and yet so subtly constructed that none who traversed it might notice, even as they walked along grand cobbled streets surrounded by flags and lighted buildings.
"At the center of the sight, rising up in the land like a finger raised to the sky, sat the grand castle: a trumpeting and triumphant testament to the N-YOR culture's grandeur. And surrounding it? All around it rested lands of truly unmistakable majesty. *Unbelievable* phenomena! A rainforest brought to life in the most unlikely of places; an artificial mountain of rock and bramble, complete with a majestic waterfall plunging into the depths of a wondrous patch of briar; a grand construct of metal, steel and concrete that was able to replicate the feeling of gliding amongst the *stars*, themselves! And all this connected by a grand railroad, encircling the entire realm, giving N-YOR's citizens access to all these great wonders!"
I shake my head, chastising the crowd. With a flick of my hand I make another image appear behind me: the entry gate to that grand civilization, reconstructed as best we could, with its four legible letters still visible:
" _ _ _ N _ Y _ O R _ _ "
"Indeed, the N-YOR's world may have been a small one, after all's said and done, but a mightily powerful one! Were they some puny gimmick, or a mere novelty, lain here to amuse us? No, ladies and gentlemen," I wag a stern finger. "What I say is no game, nor a joke in the slightest. Those who traversed this land back in its heyday were very like the gods, themselves!"
| 45 | It is 750,000 years in the future. You are a future archeologist famous for finding the lost civilization of N-Yor. You are giving a speech about the culture of N-Yor. | 69 |
Line, after line, after line.
That's all I thought life was these days. The mundane feeling of standing in a line consumed us all.
Before the 'True Legalization' act of 2016, people complained about waiting at the DMV. That was nothing
I'd been waiting five hours, twenty-two minutes, and thirty seconds in that gray, dimly lit, sweat smelling line. A large burly man with a League of Legends shirt in front of me and a small average looking woman behind me with a crying child in a stroller next to her. I was in the armpit of society.
I'd stood in the marijuana line for four hours, eighteen minutes, and ten seconds to get that license, the drunk driving addition to my drivers license line for three hours, thirty-eight minutes, and seven seconds, and now this line? Five hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty-one seconds.
The consistent "number 381.." "number 382.." "number 383.." My god, it was driving me insane. Everyone kept their head down, it was a shameful line "number 384", it was a quiet line besides the coughing and sniffling, "number 385.." and that consistent narration of counting seconds off "number 386.." of my life.
It was like waiting for that one amusement park ride. Your anticipation was building, and building, and building. Then half-way through the line, thirty or so minutes in, you consider leaving. Cutting your losses and running. Or hoping the others in front of you will do so first.
We shuffled every few minutes, I could see the front counter now. A line of six stalls, separated by wooden boards. A petite, sixty to seventy year old woman, who was curling up like a question mark behind each one. I wondered if that was in the job requirements for working at these places.
I removed my phone from my front pocket, unlocked it, and sent a text to "Michelle Wilkins <3". She put the heart their herself during the honeymoon. "I'll be done soon, come pick me up?" An instant vibration back, "Sure thing, honey."
"number 397.." I glanced down at my ticket, I sighed as I tucked my phone away in my faded jean pocket. "finally" I released. Approaching the farthest stall on the right.
"Name?" The woman asked me, glancing through her spectacles at a yellow sheet in front of her.
"Michael"
"Last name."
"Wilkins."
"Ever been convicted of a felony?"
"Nope."
The woman slid the yellow piece of paper across the booth. "License is good for two weeks, report any occurrences with the police. Thank you." She motioned me to move aside, "number 405.."
I clenched the yellow piece of paper in my hand.. A small grin appeared on my face as I glanced down the line of miserable individuals I had emerged from.
Five hours, fifty-six minutes, and fourteen seconds. I sighed. The longest line yet. I moved around the line and pushed open the glass doors, I spotted Michelle pulling up into the parking lot.
I slowly reached for the revolver in my back belt loop. Five hours, fifty six-minutes, and fourteen seconds. I'd say it was worth it for a license to kill your wife. | 36 | Everything is legal, you just need a license. (x-post /r/CrazyIdeas) | 60 |
The young man shook and shivered as he gulped down a glass of water. Across from him sat a man with an amicable smile, and grandfatherly eyes, but was flanked by on either side by 2 men wearing heavy overcoats that didn’t do much to conceal the shotguns they carried.
“Renzo”, the older man smiled. “How’s your mother these days.”
“Ca-Capo Guillermo” the man stuttered. “She passed away a few, few months back”
Renzo knew he was in too deep. He’d been laundering money for the Nostras for quite a few years, and had been using the bank vault to store the illegal cash. When the bank was robbed, the only money taken was from the Nostras, and since that money was never entered into the bank’s system, when accounting did an investigation, they found that they were actually up by 1 million euros. And that’s when the Roma police got involved.
“My condolensces” Guillermo continued, as he placed the barrel of revolver next the Renzo’s temple. “But maybe it’s for the best that she won’t have to grieve for a dead son.”
Renzo swallowed hard. “Please, Capo”, he begged. “I’m more valuable a-alive. Where else will you find a trusted m-money launderer with banking connections?”
“I’m sorry Renzo”, Guillermo sighed. “But now that the police have gotten involved, it’s best to cut losses and make sure the money isn’t traced back to us. It’s just business.”
“WAIT”, Renzo’s voice was becoming shrill. “I CAN GET YOU THE THIEF. I’VE GOT ACCESS TO THE SECURITY TAPES.”
Guillermo’s trigger finger hesitated. This might be more important. He had to make an example out of anyone who tried to steal from the Nostras. It’s a matter of pride.
“Get me the tapes,” Guillermo said as he holstered his gun, “And you might live. Screw with me, both you and your little girlfriend is dead. Don’t look so surprised, we know everything about you. Now get outta here.”
Guillermo sat back in his chair as Renzo scampered out of the room. He then turned to one of his goons and says, “As soon as he gets the tapes, kill him and dump the body.”
******************************
“Detective Maria Rosso”, Inspector Valentino barked. “Are you sure his testimony is accurate?”
The 2 police officers observed the nervous man behind a pane glass window.
“He knows details about the money laundering scheme and the inner workings of the Nostra organization including Guillermo himself.” Rosso exclaimed. “With this, we could trace the illegal activities all the way to the Don.”
Valentino smiled. This is the chance he’d been waiting for. A chance to take down the Nostras.
“Get 2 officers to escort Renzo Calcetti to a safe house, and get a warrant for 32 Galilei Street.” Valentino grinned. “We’re about the crash the Capo’s weekly poker night.”
********************************
“What do you mean, dead?” Valentino sighed. The car carrying Renzo to the safehouse was apparently intercepted 20 miles outside the city. Both officers guarding him were killed with a bullet to the back of their heads and Renzo Calcetti was nowhere to be found.
Without the Prime witness, they don’t have enough to convict Guillermo of anything. He needed to call off the raid when suddenly his phone rang. His heart sank.
“Guillermo is DEAD?” He screamed into the mouthpiece. “WHO DISOBEYED ME? YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO MAKE A MOVE UNTIL I GAVE THE ORDER!”
Valentino sank back into his seat and poured himself a drink.
The next morning Inspector Valentino poured over the reports of the Raid gone wrong the previous night. Something didn’t make sense. In the report it stated that Officer Rossa shot Guillermo after seeing him pull a gun, yet ballistics report showed that he was shot in the back. And the goons that did get taken alive after the raid didn’t seem to know anything about Renzo, or that he’d gone to the police.
“Renzo Calcettti”, Valentino murmured. “Calcetti, Calcetti, wait a minute…” A few years ago, the entire force was out celebrating the capture of a high-ranking capo. Maria got really drunk that night and he had to drive her home. The name on the mailbox in front of the apartment complex said *M. Rosso/ R. Calcetti*.
*******************
“There you are Renzo,” Maria waved. “Did you dump the gun?”
Renzo nodded. The plan now was simple. They drive to eastern Europe, where they’ll charter a private plane to anywhere in the world.
“So, my darling” Renzo smiled. “Where would you go with five million euros? I’m thinking Belize.”
| 11 | A group of bank robbers enter a bank and do all the usual stuff, they go into the vault alone then leave the bank uncaught. When checking how much money they took the bank realizes they've gained a million dollars | 25 |
**Report n°69354**
*Name: Gruber
First name: Jordy
Date of birth: 11/21/1984*
"Hmm..."
*Height: 5'1"
Weight: 345 lbs*
"Yeah..."
*Hobbies: Magic the Gathering, Comics, Unix/BSD*
"Of course."
*Sex: Virgin*
"I'd have guessed that, Johnny. Stop putting this line in your reports from now on."
*Observations: Paranoid, obsessive over his MtG cards*
"Paranoid? Hmm... That's not good."
"What's the criticity level on this one, mam?"
"Put him in orange. We have time. Send the girls. Permission to use helpers."
"You mean drugs?"
She stared at her assistant. He looked down instantly and started composing a number on his phone.
"Okay, we got ourselves some time for a coffee. Day's going to be long. Better prepare for all the goddamn paperwork the government is paying us to do."
--
**Report n°69425**
*Name: Garcia
First name: Melvin
Date of birth: 11/03/1984, 3:15 pm*
"What? Johnny, what the hell? His thirtieth birthday is today!"
"I know, mam, but you should really look at the rest of the report..."
*Height: 6'0"
Weight: 185 lbs*
"I still don't get..."
"Please, mam..."
*Hobbies: Ancient litterature, archeology, specialized in Mayan culture*
"Oh, no, don't tell me..."
*Observations: Elected Best Looking Professor at the San Diego University. Known for the mystic words he often speaks while in class.*
"Are you done, mam?"
"Oh yes I'm done. The little fucker, he's done everything he could to stay off the radars... He knows. He absolutely knows."
She ran to the center of the open space, and yelled so that everyone could hear her.
"Withdraw all teams, it's an order! Cancel every mission, he's not getting away! All the girls are to be redirected on this case! This is a code red prime! I repeat, code red prime! The case is being transferred to all teams, you should have him on your monitor. Find him! Get him! This is urgent! We got 3 hours!"
--
"The fuck, Garcia? What are you doing?" shouted a twenty-something man to the now panicked professor.
"They're on me!"
Garcia was unplugging every single electronic device in the house. Frantically searching for cameras or microphones, he ran into every single room and checked carefully any kind of way they could localize him. They had tried with the phone, but he was too clever. He, of course, had set up an app that hacked into the CIA databases and flashed an alert as soon as the phone was being localized. Instantly, he shut his phone down by ripping the battery off.
They should know he's in San Diego, by now. All roads to exit the city were probably blocked, he had no way out. So he needed to hide. Only 2 hours, and the powers would be flowing into his veins, like the grand Mayan wizards. Right now, he was at Tom's house, one of his students who was passionate about Mayans. The arrangement was made orally, so there was no trace of it into the CIA computers. No text messages, no phone call, only... Wait, phone calls? What if one student was on the phone when Tom invited him to come at his place? That would mean... If they had the manpower to listen to every single call that was passed by his student when in class, then they may stumble upon it.
Garcia was livid. Huge drops of sweat were forming on his tense face. One hour left. No sound of helicopters, no tank, no one even knocked on the door. He asked Tom if he could wait into the basement. Tom suspected something, of course, but given the state in which his professor was, he decided it would be better to let him rest. The basement was nothing particular. Water supplies, tools, junk... Just like any basement. Garcia found a broken and dirty sofa on which he decided to rest. Right now, the worst thing to do was leaving the house. He would be seen by cameras, by the neighbors who might be spies, by the satellites... He had to stay low. All he had to do was to hide in here and everything would be fine...
--
"Thomas Kutner..."
She was going through every file she could get on Garcia. Among the students of the current promotion, one particularly grabbed her attention. He had the same profile than his professor. The same hobby, the same fascination for the Mayan civilization.
Info had came from the team dispatched on San Diego. He was not at his house. Not on the San Diego University premises. None of the places he frequented had seen him. Could this Kutner hide him until the Passage? As minutes passed, she became more and more convinced that Kutner was involved in the hiding of Melvin Garcia. Suddenly, the cries of his assistant pulled her from her thoughts.
"Mam! We have a problem!"
"What, Johnny?"
"Three of our teams have been shut down! The fourth is running away! Only one team left, and they might be targeted too!"
"Who would... Oh those motherfuckers."
Anger had deformed her face into an acid grimace. The mere thought of the Defence League was unsufferable for her. She was not going to let them acquire a new member. Never in this life, and never in her next ones! This time, she was going to do the job herself.
"Johnny, get the helicopter ready. I'm going to San Diego."
--
Fifteen minutes left. Still no sign of the government agencies. His moment had arrived. He was going to become a wizard. Thirty years! Thirty years he had to refuse all those beautiful creatures' invitations to join their bed. He purposefully abandoned the best years of his life only to become the heir of a power that could break the foundations of reality... And his dreams were finally becoming true. Shaken by the mixed emotions of joy and anxiety, he used all his forces to calm down and ready himself for the big moment.
That's when he heard something. A loud sound, like a door that had been rammed open. Then, voices. Garcia could not discern whom those voices were belonging to. All he knew was that they were speaking loudly, until a bonk! stopped the argument. A second later, the silence in the basement was replaced by the sound of high heels clapping on the wooden steps of the stairs. Appeared a woman on her fifties, wearing a leopard suit, a whole layer of make-up and a whip on her belt.
"So, we have ten minutes before us, and that's more than enough. My name is Jeanne McKinsley, head of the Virgin Search Commission, but for now, just call me Mistress."
The horrible scream of Melvin Garcia resonated in the whole house before silence reigned once again. | 849 | It turns out if you're a virgin at thirty a human becomes a wizard, however the government wants to stop this from happening at all costs. | 1,358 |
“Captain flying brick you will never catch me!” The indestructible man shouted as he raced down an alley.
“Think again indestructible man!” Our hero retorts as he flies into the alley, readying his laser vision to trap the indestructible man.
To our hero’ surprise the indestructible man has dropped the bags of money he stole and is pointing fiercely at his watch. Our hero quickly checks his own. It’s 5:00, shift is up.
Our hero looks around and points to a storm drain. The indestructible man flashes him the OK symbol, and the two silently lift the man hole cover and drop through..
As the sound of sirens gets closer the captain shouts as loud as he can. “Oh no, not through the apartment complex, you dastardly fiend!” And then quickly covers the man hole behind him.
“Phew.” Indestructible man says as soon as the captain drops in behind him. “I thought we were going to have to have a climactic battle or something. I’m still sore from the last one.
“Indestructible indeed, you know I take that name as a challenge right?” The captain asked.
“Oh it was in the contract, don’t give me gripe.” Both were swapping out their costumes for street clothes that had been stored in some cached duffle bags. The city’s maintenance personnel were told to keep all storm drains stocked with them for the heroes. They didn’t know the villains used them too.
“You want to grab some wings?” The villain asked.
“Sure, I’ll pick up a paper so we can take a look at the crime rates while we’re at it.” The captain said.
“Great.” Indestructible replied. “I think my gang is up to about 120 people, so when you find my secret hideout and round them up we should see a couple percent drop.”
“You don’t think your henchmen will suspect something?” The captain asked.
“Nah, I’ll just have some incompetent people on guard duty. I’m sure they’ll start a fight or something that we can use as the excuse for you finding me.”
Edit: spelling and grammar | 69 | Heroes and Villains are paid by the hour with set schedules. Tell the story of one or both having to change shifts in the middle of a climactic fight. | 108 |
John's fingers shook as he slid them down the slit to open the envelope. His lawyer had informed him that this was the last one. His father, before his decease, had written to him a series of letters, with instructions to open one on each birthday. Now, his 32 year old hands couldn't keep still. He began to read:
"My Dearest Son,
Life is a gift, and the choices that we make define us. I miss you always, and I hope this letter finds you well. How is Lauren? If you have kids by now (I'll assume you do), I'm sure you are a great father to them. Now to get to the point; I have some things to tell you that you never knew about me.
The first thing is that your mother and I didn't die the same way. I know this will come as a shock to you, but I threw her overboard. The supposed storm that sunk our boat, that was a lie. I used it as an excuse to escape. You're probably wondering why I killed your mother. The answer is simple; I had to set her free. Her beauty, her grace, her selflessness. She was an angel stuck here on the vile slob of land. Nothing on Earth was good enough for her. I couldn't stand to see such a perfect being among an imperfect civilization. It wasn't fair to her. So I set her free the only way I knew how.
Now, you might be wondering why I'm telling you this, and why I waited over 8 years to do so. I had to make sure there were no suspicions. I went into hiding, sailed to Puerto Rico and began a new life there. But my purpose in life is not yet fulfilled. There is still one being too perfect to live on this planet. You. My only son, my noble and valiant offspring. I can't bear to see you hurt, to see you forced to live in a place so unworthy of your greatness. So it gives me great pain to do this. But remember, I do it because I love you.
Love,
Dad"
So many thoughts ran through his head. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Could it be true? John slowly looked up from the letter. When his head reached the upright position, it softly bumped against a cylinder of cold metal. Before he even knew this was his end, it was over.
As his father walked away from John's lifeless body, hot tears began to slide down his face. It did in fact pain him to do this act. But, he thought to himself, it was for the best. | 13 | Every birthday you receive a letter from your deceased parent (written when they were alive). Today, you receive the last one. | 22 |
"You... want to end your relationship. With your wife." The Admin stared at us, deadpan. "Har har. Haven't heard that one in a few years. Good on you for getting this far up the chain of command; that's dedication. Which prank channel are you working for, anyway?"
We'd expected this. "He really does want a divorce," Abby sniffed. Her lip curled in derision, revealing yellowing teeth. "We have the brain scans to prove it."
The Admin raised an eyebrow in surprise as he looked over the data. "Well, then. I'll have to check procedure; this hasn't happened once since I've started working at the Soulbank." He turned to his ancient computer in its sleek, white-and-brushed-metal case, and began to pull up files. In the quiet, we could hear the wailing of babies from the floors below. We were the only ones over fifty in the building; it was all young parents come to match their infants with their future soulmates––or, if there was no match, have one built specifically to be their child's future companion. Beneath all that thrummed the omnipresent whirring of the fans that cooled the Soulbank's computer center and bioprinting labs in the caves below: a complete database of every human born––both natural and constructed––since the Soulbank was constructed.
"Ah, here we are," said the Admin at last. "It's really buried in there. 'If the couple, at any juncture, desires a divorce, the Soulbank will take partial responsibility. If both members are natural-born, the Soulbank agrees to refund the cost of their lawyers' fees."
The Admin peered over his glasses, perhaps wondering if we needed to hear any more. "Go on," said Abby. "Tell us about what happens to created partners. See if he still has the guts to go through with it, and do that to me."
"'In case of the malfunction of a created partner, or Soulmate(tm),'" the Admin continued, "'the Soulbank will unconditionally accept returns, taking on full ownership of the Soulmate(tm) as property. Malfunctioning Soulmates(tm) will be analyzed for defects so that faults in the manufacturing process may be remedied. Post-analysis, malfunctioning Soulmates(tm) will be terminated at the discretion of Soulbank.' That's all it says." The Admin turned his attention to me. "Are you sure you still want a divorce? You know what it means."
I struggled to hold back tears. We had been so happy, for so many years, at the beginning. My life had revolved around Abby, depended on her––and, on some level, I did still love her. I thought about the dissection room; the flames of the termination chamber. But then I looked at her––her face creased with scowl lines, her brow furrowed in anger, her hands calloused from a decade of wielding rolling pins, tire irons, broken bottles. My arm, my ribs, my feet ached from poorly-healed fractures, and my soul ached as I thought about the Other Men she'd had. I began to weep as I nodded to the Admin. "Yes."
He blinked in surprise. "Well, then, sir, I guess you'll have to come with me." He pressed a button on his desk, and guards marched into the room. They roughly put me in handcuffs, adding bruises on top of poorly-concealed bruises.
Abby began to wail as they marched me out: "How could you *do* this to me, Rich? You're *ruining* my *LIFE!* They *made* you for me; they *promised* you'd be with me *forever!* Come back!"
I looked up at the bewildered Admin as they shoved me into the elevator, to take me into the basement––to end my suffering quickly, in days instead of decades, at the hands of anonymous surgeons, instead of my beloved Abby. It would be a kindness. I smiled at the Admin as the doors slid shut behind us, and blocked out Abby's screams.
EDIT: Holy cow, you guys, thanks for the gold! The piece definitely has some plot holes (Thanks, /u/Colossal_Jellyfish; those are good points that I probably should have thought of before posting) but I'm glad you liked it!
| 93 | In the future, whenever a baby is born, a computer determines who your perfect soul-mate is. If your soul-mate doesn't exist, then s/he is created. There hasn't been a divorce in three generations. Today, you decide to end things with your wife. | 44 |
Chuck stared at the crumpled body on the floor, a pool of blood collecting beneath it and blending into its wrinkled yellow cape. This was absolutely not how he’d expected the morning to turn out; he’d grown so accustomed to failure in his criminal attempts that any sort of success was simply unthinkable. He carefully lifted his right foot and slowly began pushing the corpse away, like a housewife nonchalantly brushing dirt under a table.
“What the fuck,” shouted a voice from across the room. “What have you done?”
“No, please,” Chuck said. “Hush. Hush now.” He shifted slightly so his body blocked as much of the corpse as he could. He had a doctor’s appointment in 45 minutes, this wasn’t supposed to happen. In and out, that was it, same as always.
“Is he dead?” said another voice.
“No,” Chuck said, staring down at the clearly-dead body. His head was laying several inches away from his torso, expressionless eyes staring up at Chuck. “He’s sleeping, just sleeping. Trust me. He’s so tired. He and I are good pals, we were out partying last night. Now he’s asleep.”
“He’s got no head, you asshole,” shouted a third voice. “You cut it off with some sort of incredibly elaborate pendulum.”
“Did not,” Chuck said, turning toward the voices. The bank had emptied out, save for maybe ten people that remained huddled by the teller’s counter. They were staring at him, half of them with jaws dropped open, the other half covering their mouths with their palms. It was only a matter of time until the police arrived—or worse—although he knew no one would be in a rush. They never were when it came to his crimes—mainly because his tended to be less of the “violent” kind and more of the “elaborate yet inept” variety.
It wasn’t that he didn’t try to be deadly, it was just that he never succeeded. Last week’s attempt, for example, had been an incredibly elaborate scheme in which he’d set up several buckets of water throughout the bank that were automated to spill at the exact same moment. A wire was to fall from the ceiling at that second, electrifying everyone in the area and allowing him to waltz in afterwards to steal some cash—just $15 or $20 to pay some overdue parking tickets, that’s all he’d ever wanted.
Chuck had spent the whole week prior reading up on robotics so he could build the devices needed, only to finish setting them up mere minutes before the bank opened. The tellers greeted him when they entered, explained how excited they were for today’s misguided attempt at getting money for his parking ticket, and nodded admiringly at his work. Unfortunately, his plan ultimately failed after the arms neglected to dump their buckets, alongside the fact that he’d accidentally overlooked the whole “live, electrified wire” portion. Today, however, had turned out a bit different.
“I’m telling you,” Chuck said, “he’s fine, just super tired.” He coughed. "So—uh—anyone catch the Jets game last night? Exciting stuff, right?" he said in a desperate attempt to change the topic.
“He’s not fine,” shouted a man in a long, brown coat. It looked expensive—definitely worth more than his own. If he could have started the day over, he would gladly have just robbed this man, rather than following-through with this week’s plot. Now all he had was a dead body and an embarrassingly lackluster coat, which left him no closer to paying off his long-standing parking ticket.
“You don’t know that,” Chuck said. He turned back toward the headless corpse and removed his jacket—now aware he no longer wanted it—and placed it over the body, pretending to tuck it in. “Please let him sleep. He's so tuckered out.”
"He's got no head," shrieked a woman.
"You've got no head," Chuck screamed back. He'd never been very good at on-the-spot retorts.
"That doesn't even make any sense," shouted the man in the expensive, brown coat.
"Shut up," Chuck said.
“The hell is going on in here,” said a deep, foreboding voice from overhead. Chuck closed his eyes and sighed. There was only one man who had that accent, one symbol that spoke in such a clichéd way. The bane of his very existence, the man to foil all of the plots that he, himself, did not foil on his own. That came to exactly one: the day in which he’d almost accidentally succeeded in letting loose a highly venomous cobra in the bank. He was stopped at the last minute, during which he was punched incredibly hard in the face, with the cobra being grabbed and brought back to the zoo he’d stolen it from. It still hurt to think about that punch.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Chuck said, glancing up toward the ceiling. A man in a tight, black suite was hanging by a thin rope overhead, its metal end impaled in the Styrofoam-esque tiling above. Long, black ears poked out from his mask, the symbol of a bat engraved into his muscular chest-piece.
“What have you done,” he said, lowering himself to the ground. “What did you do to Robin?”
“He’s napping,” Chuck said, jumping in front of Batman’s view. “Please don’t wake him up. He’s sleeping. Dear god, please just go away for a bit and let him sleep.”
“Did you do this? How did you do this? You can’t do anything. You tried to set loose a pod of lobsters in here for crying out loud, only to have them latch onto your own hands and refuse to let go. I had to bring you to the hospital myself. How could you defeat Robin?”
“Me? I didn’t do anything,” Chuck said, wiping his sweat-glazed forehead. “He’s just super tired. He was out partying with friends—I mean out with me. I am his friend. We were partying. I didn’t do anything here.”
Batman bent down and pulled the jacket back, his eyes locked on the corpse. He slowly returned the jacket back into place before standing up.
Chuck glanced at his watch. “Anyway, I should probably head home now.”
“Don’t you fucking go anywhere,” he said, grabbing Chuck by the throat.
“Murghg,” Chuck shouted in a constricted attempt at requesting Batman to rethink his actions.
“Tell me what you did,” he snarled, his lower lip trembling as he spoke. “Tell me or I’ll break you.”
“He’s sleeping,” Chuck shouted. “I just needed like $20 for a parking ticket, the same one I always need the money for! Why was he even standing there?”
“What are you talking about,” Batman shouted. “Standing where!” He loosened his grip enough for Chuck to speak.
“My bladed pendulum,” Chuck screeched. “I made a giant axe out of metal—I took a blacksmithing class to learn how—and strung it by the entrance this morning. It was going to swing back and forth for a while, maybe kill a few innocent people—oh, who am I kidding. It was going to swing back and forth fruitlessly, I accidentally made the blade incredibly dull.”
“Go on!” Batman shouted, pinning Chuck against the wall beside the door, his hand still loosely around his throat.
“I didn’t think it’d really do anything,” he said ”I’d hoped that maybe it would scare a few people and they’d close the bank so I could maybe break in and grab a few bucks. Then your pal Robin comes wandering in, sipping from a coffee cup and greeting everyone all cheerful-like.” Chuck paused, trying his best to regain his composure and ignore the hand clamped around his throat. "So there's Robin, walking without looking, coffee to his lips, when he accidentally kicks an automated arm holding a bucket of water." He paused again. "I want to make it clear that someone else left that there, totally not my fault. Anyway, it spilled all over the floor. He slips forward, his neck thrusting forward directly under my guillotine, which slices it clean off. I don’t even know how. I thought I'd accidentally made it duller than a butter knife.”
“You cut off Robin’s head with a god damn pendulum hanging in a bank?” Batman said, his grip again tightening around Chuck’s neck. He lifted him off the wall and held him a few inches off the ground.
“Y-yes,” Chuck stammered through gasped breaths. “It’s behind you.” Chuck nodded toward the bladed pendulum, still swinging to and fro.
“That’s not possible,” Batman shouted. "Why can't you just pay the god damn parking ticket with your own money?" He shoved Chuck forward and onto the floor, Batman stumbling back from the force of his own push, tripping over his own cape and falling backward. Chuck closed his eyes as a deep, visceral scream echoed through the bank, followed by an abrupt silence. He slowly opened them back up. Once again, the pendulum was swinging at a slightly different angle, a new coat of blood dripping from its allegedly dull blade. Batman’s ragged body lay just a few feet from Robin’s.
“What did you do?” shouted a voice from the opposite side of the bank, followed by a series of high-pitched shrieks.
“N-nothing,” Chuck stammered, rising to his feet and walking over to the partially decapitated body. He softly began pushing it toward Robin’s, doing his best not to draw any attention to himself. “They’re asleep. Oh god, they’re just so tired.”
| 110 | A villain who isn't really evil, because he knows that his plans never will succeed. He is horrified when they do. | 119 |
“Hello, my name is Jen and I can stop time.”
Jared Rix had, maybe, twice in his life been approached by a girl in a bar. Never before had they used a pick up line and only once before had he been so confused by it. He ended up marrying that one.
“I like that name,” Jared said. He did not address the second half of the statement. How could you?
“Pick a card”, Jen said while folding out a deck of bicycles, “Any card.”
Jared looked at Jen. He had been so taken by her approach he did notice til this very moment how familiar she looked. He could swear…but ignored it and drew a card.
“Look at the card,” Jen said.
He looked down.
“Now look again,” Jen said. It was weird it seemed like her confidence was slipping.
He looked down. The card now had writing on it. “Hi, my name is Jen and I can stop time. Sorry”
“Neat,” Jared said, “But sorry for what?”
Jen didn’t answer instead she pulled out his wallet, his keys, she asked him to check his pockets, where he found any fruit that he asked for.
“You’re very good.” Jared said.
“But you think it’s a trick?” Jen said. Sad again.
“I mean…,”
“What would you do if you could stop time?”
Jared thought for a minute. He was 48 and this wasn’t the first time he thought of past regrets, of time moving too fast. He looked at Jen. She was about the same age, so she probably had the same thoughts.
“I guess, I would just stop to appreciate things.” Jared said.
“You need people to appreciate them with.” Jen wasn’t looking at him anymore.
“Okay, so I would just learn stuff. Get caught up at work. Take some pressure off. I might have been able to save my marriage.”
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Save your marriage?”
“I guess not.” Jared said, “Sara….My wife left about a year after our daughter…our daughter ran away when she was 12. Losing her was too much. I guess stopping wouldn’t really help that. I would need to reverse it.”
Jared looked over at Jen. She was wiping her eyes. Jared wanted to save the mood.
“But it could be fun if you were a kid.”
“Yeah.” Jen laughed a sarcastic laugh, “If you were a kid you could sneak a peak in the boys locker room. You could learn guitar for the talent show. You could construct elaborate pranks. Walk to Paris. You could get lost in it and that’s the problem.”
“What problem?
“Time stops but you don’t. Spend enough time doing it. Go off on an adventure and by the time you try to come back…you would have grown up…all by yourself.” Jen had tears pouring down her eyes.
Jared looked at Jen. She did look familiar.
“Jen…that’s short for…”
Jen caught her breath and said…
“Hello, my name is Jennifer Rix and I can stop time. Sorry.”
And then she was gone.
| 895 | Write a story about a person with a superpower that has a consequence/limitation more interesting than said power. | 366 |
The chapel went completely silent as he stood up from the back row. All eyes fell upon him as he stood, daring him to make a sound.
It was his eyes, I think, that let me in on the secret. And the way his beard didn’t quite grow in certain places. But I knew. I knew I was looking at myself from a different time. But if he was me, then he knew what I knew;
There was no stopping this wedding. If we didn’t marry, he wouldn’t be here. It was going to happen.
His eyes glared into me, and then seemed to grow larger. The logical side of my brain told me that it was the tears he was fighting back, but the rest simply felt sorry for him.
My heart raced. I didn’t want him to say the words. Please don’t tell me this is a mistake. Not my Sarah. Not after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve promised. Don’t you DARE tell me this won’t work.
“Love…” he started, his voice quickly fading away. “Love her, like there is no tomorrow.”
As quick as the words left his mouth, he turned, and was gone.
Sarah and I looked at each other then. I couldn’t resist the thought on my breath:
“I will.”
---------------
I knew it was a mistake to come here, but I had to see her again. My younger self wouldn’t understand, not for another decade.
Sarah was already dying.
I cursed myself for all the times I wasn’t there, when I was away at the lab, or watching the game at the bar. I should have spent every second with her. Every precious, fleeting moment. Those moments were gone now, and I would never get them back.
After my time machine was complete, I knew there was only one change I could make. I would never be able to completely alter the future, but for the last 10 years since her death, I’ve done nothing but pursue this dream, paradox be damned.
At least I got to see her again.
| 663 | You're at your wedding and you are getting married to the girl of your dreams. When the priest asks if there's anyone who objects to this marriage, one person stands up. No one recognizes who it is,but you do, it's you from the future (aka 20 years from now) | 568 |
Mr. Roberts looked at me like I was stupid. I really wasn't. I was just lazy. He probably knew that, he was just hoping deriding me in front of the whole class would change that. He wasn't the first teacher to try it, and he wouldn't be the last.
"Alright Jake. If you want to fall asleep during class, you can make up the time in after school detention."
I shrugged. Mr. Roberts' eyes squinted slightly and the corners of his mouth tightened, but he didn't say anything more. I rested my head back on my fist, my eyes closing and my mind quickly wandering away into the bliss of sleep.
I awoke to feel myself falling. The support my desk had been offering was no longer there and I felt adrenaline kick in as the gut wrenching feeling of falling overtook me. I hit the ground hard and cursed. I stood up, my mind almost blanking out with anger. "Who the hell pulled my seat out!" I yelled as I looked around.
It took me a moment to realize I was no longer in class. The tiled linoleum had been been replaced by hard packed red clay. The annoying fluorescent lighting with bright floodlights and an eerie red glow. Everyone was gone, but I wasn't alone. A massive crowd of people were cheering and laughing. They sat and stood in the stands that now surrounded me.
I was broken out of my stupor by the sound of my own voice, booming loudly throughout the massive Colosseum. "Who the hell pulled my seat out!" the apparition of myself yelled. It was a projection above the Colosseum, many times larger than life. Nearly perfect, except for a small bit of translucency.
I stared at it in amazement. As they played it again, the cheering and laughing got louder. And I noticed that the hologram me was wearing armor. I looked down at myself, and sure enough, so was I. It was light. I moved one of my arms, and could barely notice the weight. It covered me well, barely leaving my joints exposed. There was what looked like a hilt with no blade attached to my left leg, and a small pistol type weapon on my right.
I quickly felt around my body and found something attached to my back. I pulled it free and found a plain wooden shaft. I looked at it quizzically, unsure of what it was for.
I didn't get much more time to examine it, or the crowd around me. A massive roar ripped through the empty space, and the crowd went silent. Not the silence of fear, the silence of anticipation. I looked up just in time to see a large beast, at least twice my height, roaring while charging me. Its long sharp teeth were set inside a large head, atop a gigantic muscular frame.
I yelped and rolled to my left, trying to get out of its way. It pivoted extremely fast for such a large creature, a massive axe clipping my back as it swung.
The force knocked me back hard, sending me ten feet or more. Fear coursed through my body, and I scrambled to my feet and took off running. I could hear the creature behind me, the sound of its feet smashing the ground spurring me on. It kept getting closer and closer.
Just as I thought I was about to get crushed, I rolled again. The beast shot past me, having a little more difficulty this time turning, but again catching me with his axe.
The blade glanced off of my shoulder and grazed my cheek. I didn't really feel the pain through the adrenaline, but my mind did register the injury. I grimaced, and started to focus. This was not the time to be lazy.
I grabbed the pistol on my leg and drew it. It was the only weapon that was familiar enough for me to use. Not that I had ever fired a gun before, but it seemed simple enough. Point and shoot.
The creature was facing me, a feral grin on his face. The crowd was cheering again, and now they started to chant.
"Rouyan! Rouyan! Rouyan!"
The creature stood there and raised his arms, basking in the glory. He looked around, gracing the crowd with his gaze, before turning back to me. His feral smile was back. He looked hungry.
He started to slowly walk towards me. He began to growl, guttural tones that were foreign to my ears. A moment after he began, a small voice echoed in my ears, making me jump.
"Death comes for you, human. You are week. Rouyan is strong."
My eyes narrowed and my muscles tightened. I didn't really want to die. I raised the pistol, pointed it in his direction, and pulled the trigger.
The first shot went just to his left. His grin deepened, and he talked, if you could call it that, again. The tiny voice in my ears translated. "Puny human. You can't even fire a tero correctly. You will bring Rouyan no honor." He kept walking, so I fired again.
The second shot hit him in the right chest, but glanced off of his angular armor. His shoulder shifted back with the impact, but that was all. *Crap*, I thought. *This has gotta be a dream.* Well, if that was the case, I still didn't want to lose. I didn't like losing.
Rouyan charged again, issuing forth a roar that felt like it shook me to my bones. I decided to change my tactics, and charged straight back at him.
He didn't slow. He didn't waiver. He raised his axe high above his shoulder, and swung it hard across his body, aiming directly for my neck.
I was lucky he decided to take such an obvious swing, honestly. I ducked and rolled, this time going right between his legs. Being small did have its advantages. He kicked as I came through, catching me yet again, but this time nowhere near as hard as when he hit me with his axe. I landed on my back as he came to a stop, pulled up my pistol and fired again.
The round pierced the much thinner armor on his back. He turned to look at me, his eyes shot with red, his breathing heavy. He didn't look prideful any more, just angry. He took a step towards me, and opened his mouth to roar.
Instead he coughed, and blood splattered over his armor and the ground as he dropped to a knee. He planted his axe into the ground and tried to stand up, but couldn't. He stumbled and fell to the ground, his breathing growing heavy.
The crowd was silent. I looked around. No one was moving. Some were sitting forward in their seats. Others had their hands raised like they were mid-cheer, and were frozen that way. Others looked confused.
The hologram in the middle showed the kill shot again. The bullet entering the back. A rapid string of strange sounds was playing along with it, and the voice in my ear translated.
"Amazing! Truly amazing. If you watch this, you can see that the round enters through the weaker back armor, and doesn't exit due to the power of the front armor. It probably ricocheted around in side his chest cavity for a bit, which is why such a small caliber could take out a Krevatz."
"I have to agree Touthan. A great performance from a rookie contender. Taking out the third seeded Rouyan is quite a challenge. The crowd doesn't look pleased at losing a favorite, but the newcomer will have his chance to win them over."
The voices started to fade as my vision darkened. I felt sleepy again and my knees buckled underneath me. I tried to keep my focus, but to no avail. Blackness swept over me. The bliss of sleep. | 27 | You awaken in the middle of a futuristic giant colosseum, with thousands of foreign species cheering for you. You are covered in armour, which is riddled with incredible technology, specifically a keyboard on your forearm. You look up and see a Giant Alien Beast charging for you. Good luck | 51 |
It was not your typical job, Jing thought to himself, surveying the perimeter of the circus. Kill a clown. No strings, no conditions. He didn't have to be unseen, it didn't have to look like an accident, he didn't even have to steal anything. He had broken into guarded penthouses at the tops of hundred-story skyscrapers, fulfilling all those requirements, for less money than he was getting paid for this job.
The perimeter was as unsecured as he had suspected. One drunk and seemingly asleep guard, and some chain link fence was all the security he had to subvert. Regardless, guided by instinct and professional training, Ying entered the circus as if there were hidden guards behind every tent flap and mobile home.
Once inside, he perched at the top of a tentpole that was in the shadow of a tree, surveying the circus camp once more. This time, he was looking for the clown's living place in particular, and it was easy enough to find. The clown was visible through the window of a rundown trailer, lit from behind by a naked lightbulb. It was the right one, he could be sure. The description of the target had mentioned his white and purple face paint, which Jing was surprised and suspicious to find that the clown was still wearing. Suspecting a body double or some other ploy, he leapt from the pole and landed atop the trailer to get a closer look, silent as a shadow.
He hung down by his feet, looking into a window. The clown did not see him, he was certain, and so he was free to observe. As he did, he became more and more certain that this was his mark. There were three telltale scars that he was certain were not faked, as well as matching eye color, height, body shape, race, skin tone, and other various characteristics Jing had memorized so that he could properly identify his target. If this was a body double, he was better than a twin. Jing dismissed the concern, and having confirmed his mark, went in for the kill.
He slid the window open, quick and silent, and slipped into the trailer. The clown was facing away, and so Jing moved in for the kill. Brandishing a kunai, he lifted it to quickly slit the clown's throat. As he did, the man exploded with a loud POP, causing Jing to fall into a defensive crouch. He inspected the clown's remains. Shreds of rubber, with some portions still inflated. A balloon. How had he not noticed? Granted, the craftsmanship was flawless, but how had he swapped it with the living man Jing had seen moving about just before he entered without him noticing?
Jing heard a noise behind him. A quiet, disconcerting, "honk". He spun, and threw three shuriken in quick succession at the clown's vital points. The clown dodged two, caught the third in his teeth, and sprayed Jing with seltzer water. It stung his eyes, more than was typical for simple carbonated water. He blinked it away quickly, and forced his eyes to focus through the pain.
The clown had not moved. He started to dash forward, kunai in hand, intent on shoving it in the man's heart. Instead, he slipped on a banana peel, and landed on his own shuriken, which lodged in his meat of his arm. He might have screamed, if not for his training. Instead, he rolled, moving quickly to the side and springing up, wary.
This time the clown was approaching, but as soon as Jing had risen, he pirouetted and flung a handful of something. It landed on Jing's clothes, which immediately caught fire. He ripped them off as he ran forward, baring his chest and arms, and stabbed rapidly with the kunai. The clown dodged each stab, honking. Frustrated, Jing slashed, up to the man's throat, and overextended.
The clown used the mistake to pull out a gun, and shot Jing in the chest before he could dodge. The impact staggered him, and for a moment he was sure he was dead. But after a moment, he saw the huge boxing glove that had come forth the from the obviously fake firearm. His ribs were in much pain however, and he suspected some might be broken.
He made to lift the kunai again, and suddenly realized it was gone. He looked at the clown, who was juggling the knife, along with the three shuriken. Jing's arm throbbed, and he felt a moment of true fear, his first in years.
Then the clown stepped forward, and slipped on his own banana peel. The blades went flying, and Jing's breath caught in his chest. The clown knocked his head on a countertop as he fell, and he stayed down.
Jing watched for a long moment, looking for breath, for a pulse. With the clown's clothes, he couldn't be sure from here. He stepped forward, and felt a throb of pain in his leg. He looked down.
All three shuriken were buried in his body. One in a knee, one his belly, and one in a shoulder. How he had not noticed them was irrelevant now, for he had also not noticed the kunai, buried in his breastbone, piercing through into his heart and lung.
The clown stirred, and clumsily rose, stumbling again on the banana peel. He dusted off his sleeves, casually. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket, and it was knotted to more handkerchiefs, a rope of them, in many colors, that the clown kept pulling and kept pulling, toweling his forehead more thoroughly than he could possibly need. Then, he looked at Jing, lifted a small horn, and squeezed it.
"honk"
Jing looked back at the clown, starting to feel the mortal pain in his body. He was tired from blood loss, and, after a moments hesitation, bowed to his opponent.
The clown bowed too, and as he did, his pants ripped up the back.
Jing died laughing. | 17 | A ninja is hired for an easy job to assassinate a clown. Only he gets there and finds out the clown is as skilled as himself. | 18 |
"You really should have thought that through more." I bellowed as I chased my precious little kitty under the couch.
"15 years of me feeding you, bathing you, petting you and loving you and you decide to blackmail me? You may be a clever little cat but no paws can open these doors. I mean for Christ sake Skittles they've got circular handles."
"Please," he purred. "Please, don't hurt me more than you have."
"Hurt you? My feline friend I never hurt you but now, I'm going to destroy you. At 15 you're verging on death anyway, it's no skin off my back if I drown you in the tub."
I saw him dart from under the couch to the nearest table, lunging across the room I managed to scoop him up by his soft little belly. Instantly he began to claw, but I've seen it all before.
"You would consistently claw me as a kitten, I'm immune to this Skittles. All those times you were deathly afraid of me bathing you, now you actually have a reason." Dragging him up the stairs by the scruff of his neck I filled the bathroom sink with water. I didn't have time to fill the entire tub, I wanted this over with before the red mist settled.
"It's a shame death is forever Skittles, being the only talking cat in the world, it would have been interesting to know if there was a kitty heaven." He'd given up resisting by this point, accepting his fate. I put him under for a few seconds before I pulled him back up. "Why Skittles? We had such a nice life together, why did you have to threaten to tell my wife about the affairs, to tell my friends about all the horrible things I've said? What could I have ever possibly done to you?"
Skittles looked at me with what I can only describe as disbelief, "Seriously?" He meowed, "You cut my fucking dick off."
First attempt at a prompt, critique away. | 49 | After raising a cat for 15 years he finally reveals to you that he can talk. He threatens to tell everyone your darkest secrets unless you meet his demands | 68 |
edit: formatting :)
It wasn't real until he called me. My father, in his intensity and wisdom, his unending cynicism, whispered pathetically that my mother had "fallen down the stairs". I laughed. It was clearly a joke - I mean, what could be a more cliche thing to say. I told him that it wasn't funny to joke like that, but he didn't laugh. His voice didn't change. His breath didn't catch. The phone was silent static. "It's...spreading?"
***
In Florida, the news called it "The Clumsy Killer". Everyone thought there was no way all these people were just dying by weird coincidence; guy drowns in his own bathtub, chick falls asleep in her garage, couple of kids, I mean, young kids, ride their bikes straight off a cliff. At first, people all turned on each other, like people do. Said it was a string of suicides just in the Miami area. But it wasn't till the kids, who lived in the Pensacola area, that folks started to wig out. 27 deaths in two weeks, according to the news, and no one was even sure if they were all connected or what. But the news needs a story, so they claimed one person was responsible, kinda like some complex crazy Sherlock Holmes style case where this guy was driving around and killing people in inconspicuous ways that just made them look like jackasses. "The Clumsy Killer". Me and my buddies, ya see, we pick up the trash in Orlando. And I have to say, trash tells you a lot about the person who created it. Boy did we have a spike in drinking once this shit started going down. But me personally? I think it's crap. It's the media blowing things outta proportion, that's what's happening. You read about some dame dying and suddenly 10 people die. Why? Because you planted that thought in their heads. Worry is what kills people.
***
I put down the phone and touched my wrist. The delicate strand of silver that caressed my skin, given to me by my mother, felt cold now. Everyone in Atlanta had heard about "The Clumsy Killer," or whatever he was being called these days. I was horrified, living just close enough to the border to give me panic, but I hadn't thought my mother was in danger in Texas. There was true tensity in the voices of the hosts of NPR each morning, as they continued to warn their listeners not to overplay what was happening, as that behavior has encouraged copycats in the past. How could a man have gotten into my parent's home to push my mother down the stairs? My father, the enormous intimidating former rugby player would've snapped the neck of anyone he thought would hurt his wife. How could this have happened to me?
***
My name is David. I am 11 years old. I have two hamsters named Bob and Fred. My best friend is named Joe. I live in Charleston, South Carolina on Lee Street. On Saturday, my mom went to be with Jesus. When she was hanging up our Christmas lights she fell down. The lights caught her and she couldn't breathe anymore. Now I live with just my dad and the hamsters. My doctor is named Dr. Pace. Dr. Pace likes when I write in my journal. I like to play kickball with Joe. I miss my mom.
***
The worry, it's killing everyone, I tell you that. 27 in two weeks, ha, seems like a blip. Last week there were 48 and counting, all over the southeast US. One of my buddies reads those "international real truth" news sites, and he says other countries got the same thing going down. Says in Africa, people are just getting eaten by animals day and night, like they're going out unarmed from the smaller villages, acting mighty freaky. England had to totally shut down their subway on account of so many people falling in and getting crushed or electrocuted or whatever. But I gotta tell you, me and my buddies, we're just fine. Taking in a cold brew each night, watching the game, just staying calm is saving our lives.
***
The funeral was completely tasteful, but I didn't understand why a single policeperson had yet to speak to us. It was like the Austin authorities believed my mom had truly just tripped and fallen. Three more cases in Austin just over the weekend - all children choking to death on leftover Halloween candy they had hidden. They were triplets. God, the family must be crushed. NPR was at a loss for what to say, but they talked more than ever. But no opinions, no suggestions, simply reports cropping up all over the US and internationally. This couldn't be a string of copycats. It just couldn't. It had to be some kind of organized terrorism force or something. I stroked my silver bracelet and wished I could speak to my mother, have her reassure me as she always had. I needed her strength, her guidance. I had only my father and brother now, both silent, these sturdy creatures completely fractured and unable to cope.
***
One of my hamsters ate my other hamster. Now I have only one hamster. I was really sad so my dad bought me a cool snake. My snake's name is Rex. Rex is cool and his skin is really cold. Dad said I can't take Rex out to play when also I'm playing with Bob, cus then Rex would eat Bob. Rex is a python snake. I don't know if there's kinds of hamsters, but if there is, Bob is the coolest kind. Even though he likes eating other hamsters.
***
I'm stressing out. I said it, there, I'm stressed. Not because I think it's some kind of end of days crap, but because of what happened today on my route. Charlie was driving and I was loading, and I should've noticed something was up but I just wanted to get through the day. I just picked up the can, it was heavy but so are most these days, filled up with pizza boxes and beer bottles on account of no one recycles anymore, and just tossed it in. I didn't hear anything at all, but I saw it, I saw it probably a second too late. Just this little foot, tiny little toes, the hem of some kind of pajamas around his ankle. I turned everything off, I hollered for Charlie, I hollered for God but I knew it was over. The parents tore out of the house like it was on fire, screaming for "Justin", who I guess it took them a while to realize was gone. Cops say he had just climbed in the bottom of the can and threw a bag on top of him. His folks had been really lighting each other up about whether or not to get out of the country and Justin had just snuck out. He was eight years old, and I crushed him to death with a trash compactor. I did that. It was just an accident. | 19 | The apocalypse has begun. Not through mass destruction, but through everyone on earth encountering fatal "accidents", one by one. | 21 |
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