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The crowds gathered as the Judge made his way to the outskirts of the city. His unfeeling eyes showed no hint of humanity just cold calculated judgements to pass unto those he faced.
His path had been merciless, the goverments of some countries had been completely massacred while others were left intact cowering in fear. Many people called he Judge a hero for punishing the corrupt politicians, others a cold blooded killer who answered to no one.
Both the police and army had been mobilized to keep the population away from the Judge. There could be no incidents or escalations like in North Korea 3 years ago. Too many civilians had gotten in the way and were judged guilty for even the smallest infractions.
Among the crowd stood a man like no other, frustrated with his inaction for the last 5 years. Today would be the day he had been waiting for.
The Judge sensed his presence already as he walked into visual range. There he was, behind a fence guarded by hundreds of soldiers. The man in the crowd leaped over the fence in a single bound well beyond the line of soldiers. The people were shocked to see this seemingly impossible feat, a silence soon fell as the Judge and the mysterious man faced each other.
"Are you going to turn this place into another bloodbath?"
The mysterious man spoke with a similar distortion to his voice as the Judge.
"That remains to be seen, even you would agree with me on many of my verdicts in the past. Your nature isn't all that different from mine, you were born from similar hopes and wishes."
The mysterious man smiled and took on a more relaxed stance.
"Do you even fully understand what we both are? I guess that it can't be helped, we are both bound by set directives"
The Judge was silent for a moment and calmly answered.
"I was born out of the collective need for the people to judge those in power who can't normally be judged. I am the sum total of this need, the need became so strong that I took on physical form. I am merely the wish of the people for justice."
The man facing the judge took a more serious stance.
"That may be so, but your actions have fueled me and brought me back into existence, what do you think that says about you?"
The Judge was rather surprised by this response, how could this being be there because of him? He had brought so much justice over the years and made the goverments so much more benign towards their populations.
"You are the hope for the impossible, the hope to survive wars, the hope to no longer live in fear one day. The people are afraid of me? How can this be when I'm following their need for justice?"
The man once again smiled and answered.
"Humans are far more complex then you think, you are set against those who abuse power. I came from many desperate civilians and soldiers on both sides during wars, I can't pick sides because of this.
People fear your power more then they appreciate the work you are doing..."
The camera crew had been following the entire conversation, a woman among their number suddenly asked a question.
"Will both of you cease to exist if we are no longer subjected to fear and oppression?"
The normally blank stare on the Judge's face turned to mild surprise as he and his kin looked at the woman. The hope embodiment kindly answered her question.
"We will still exist like we always have, we only won't be able to physically interact due to lack of "fuel"."
The Judge now also smiled for the first time he came into existence and looked towards his "brother".
"There will be no judgement today, the people should start judging the corrupt themselves again. I have showed them that nobody is in a position where they can escape justice forever. There will only be interference from me when there is no other way.
I believe neither of us are really needed here after the events of today."
Hope and the Judge faded away.
The Judge would appear again on a few occasions. he no longer killed on sight but simply dragged corrupt politicians into crowds and let them decide after presenting their many misdeeds.
The Judge appeared less and less as the decades went by, the fear of him had diminished during this time. During his last visit he pointed out that he'd phase out like the hope embodiment did so many years ago.
"You have come a long way as a species, my guidance is no longer needed. It would be better for all of you if you never saw me or my brother ever again.
Remember, we are always watching and it doesn't take too much for either of us to return.
Farewell" | 19 | An immortal and indestructible man walks the Earth dealing out judgements on government leaders. He is publicly known and a camera crew follows him everywhere he walks. He approaches Washington D.C. after walking out of the Atlantic Ocean. | 49 |
I started my second job a few weeks ago, working as a janitor for a strip club outside of town. The pay is okay, the work is easy, and they pretty much leave me alone. I show up a few mornings each week, vacuum the bar, mop the stage, and take the trash out.
It's usually pretty quiet, just me and a few other people. The cook shows up about when I do and bangs around the kitchen. The bartender shows up a while later, and the manager is sometimes there, sometimes not. That's about it, unless there are any deliveries or repair people or interviewees coming in. So there aren't usually a lot of people around, but the ones who are there move around a lot. I quickly got used to seeing people pass out of the corner of my eye, seeing lights reflect over half walls and around corners, seeing curtains move when someone opens a door. It doesn't bother me any more.
Between that and my work schedule (I work there in the mornings and at my first job in the evenings), I'm usually pretty beat. So I drink a lot of coffee and listen to loud music. Clubs have *great* sound systems, let me tell you what. I try to keep myself going and I ignore the things I see that I know aren't there. Hallucinatory dirt, mostly. Black paper napkins wadded up in the corner that turn out to be shadows when I try to grab them. Lights that flicker in the corners of my vision. Whatever, I was a college student, I know what it's like to be really fucking tired.
The other day was worse than most, though. I was running late and didn't have a chance to make coffee before I left, so I was relying on loud funk to get me through my shift. By the time I got to the dressing rooms -- basically the last thing I do -- I was seriously tired. So there I am wiping down one of the facing mirrors, the one on the hinged wall panel in front of the electric box, probably for the tenth time, when I saw something moving in the reflection.
It's a dressing room. There are a lot of mirrors, and there's always a ton of crap strewn about. Plus, they're facing mirrors, most of them, and the one I was working on was on a loose panel, so its reflected-curve-into-infinity was even mor pronounced than the rest of them.
I ignored it at first. Dark shadow reflected in the mirror, right under the reflection of my elbow. Pair of shoes, or a bag, I dunno.
But something in my subconscious was paying attention, and after a second I jerked back to life, staring at the mirror. There was something weird, I knew it, but even staring right at it, it took me a second to realize what it was.
The dark spot was only in one of the reflected mirrors. *What the heck* I thought, staring at it. *How's that possible?* I couldn't even tell what it was -- unmoving, indistinct, mostly matte black and grey, a couple reflective spots catching more of the light. *Huh.*
I tilted the mirror towards me, increasing the angle of the reflected curve. The blob stayed in the same place, relatively -- it moved with the mirror. Weird, right? Same thing happened when I tilted the mirror back the other way; it stayed right in the corner. Freaky, for sure. Not quite scary, just -- inexplicable. Impossible per physics.
After a minute, I shrugged it off and did the rest of the mirrors. The more I thought about it -- a single reflection among many, that's definitely impossible -- the weirder I felt about it, and as I walked back past the panel mirrror, I couldn't help but look and I couldn't help but notice that it was still there -- and bigger. Or was it closer?
On second examination, it was closer. It looked like there were fewer reflected mirrors between me and it, and it was easier to see. Animalian -- sort of -- it was furry, or feathery, and I realized with a shock of fear that the reflective spots I had noticed before looked a hell of a lot like eyes. It moved as I watched, uncurling like a cat and twisting -- twisting *so far* -- around to look at me. I spun around before I met its eyes, breathing hard, starting to freak out a little more.
But there it was in the second mirror, and closer still. Oh, God -- I turned around again, and it was closer in the first mirror. Trying hard not to look at it, I counted the reflected mirrors between it and me -- seven. It moved again, looking too loosely articulated to be alive, or healthy, or *real* -- I turned around, I couldn't stop myself -- six.
Spin -- five. Spin -- four, and I saw it move, almost a step, almost a slither, pouring itself over the ledge into the next reflected mirror, coming clearer as it did so, small, dark, furred, big pale eyes, staring at me through me past me into the mirror --
And that's when the power went out. | 10 | Standing in a bathroom with two opposing mirrors, you passively look into the depths of their infinite reflections...and notice something moving in one of the far reaches that isn't in any of the others. | 23 |
Bricks and debris crumbled into the streets from the burning buildings that lined the block. Just hours ago, the street had been packed to the brim with marchers; now it was desolate and empty. The air was thick with grey ash and the lingering burning of pepper spray. Holding my shirt over my mouth and closing my eyes as much as possibly, I made my way down the block, trying every door as I passed. Sounds of sirens and chanting protestors echoed through the street from somewhere uptown.
Finally, an open door. It wasn't unlocked, but it had been kicked in. Good enough; I could at least barricade it. I slipped inside and slammed it shut behind me; the lock hung precariously from the splintered wood. To the left, a heavy display case full of rotting meat and a layer of water at the bottom. *Great*, I thought sarcastically, *I had to pick a butcher's shop, didn't I?* I threw down my cardboard sign and pulled the case across the tile floor with a sickening scrape of metal until it blocked the entrance. I leaned against the door, panting with exertion. The shop was dark; I flipped the switch, but of course no power. There hadn't been for days. I grabbed some crumpled papers and magazines off of a nearby desk, rolled them into a crude torch, and lit them; finally, being a smoker paid off.
In the flickering light, I immediately noticed smears of blood on the floor. A trail, leading off into the back room. My eyes shifted to the door; should I just try to find a new place? Curiosity, and the rumor that the National Guard was shooting at protestors on sight, convinced me to stay. From the counter, I grabbed a gleaming knife and made my way slowly around the counter. I felt like I was in a horror movie, and some murderer would be jumping out of a cupboard at any moment.
I kicked the back door open with a bang. No axe murders. Just a single, solitary figure lying on top of a pallet of cardboard boxes. He was entirely covered in grey ash (like I was), except for his right leg, which was covered by a blood-soaked pair of pants; dark red liquid pitter-pattered down his leg to his shoe sole and onto the tile underneath him.
I dropped the knife with a clatter and rushed over. He looked at me, groggy, and tried to get away; I held him down and assured him that he was safe. Next, I looked at the leg. I'm not expert, but some sort of artery had been pierced. He had lost a lot of blood. I found some clean towels and a waterbottle near the sink, so I was able to clean him up and bind the wound with butcher's twine. Not a bad job, given my rudimentary knowledge of first aid from my 2 months as a boy scout. It was shoddy, but at least he wasn't pouring blood onto the floor.
He slept, and I waited. I tried to wash myself off in the sink, but the water was cut off too. The whole city was a warzone right now. I found some clean clothes in a locker, and did my best to shake the dust out of my hair and beard before I changed. I went back to my patient and started to remove his clothes too. I wiped off a layer of dust and found the midnight blue of a police uniform.
*Not good*, I told myself. But there was no way he would know I was a protestor, right? As far as he knew, I was just some civilian who had come along later. Maybe I was the butcher, coming to check in on the store? He'd never know. Reassured, I did my best to dress him; but he was a heavy guy. The shirt went on OK, but I just gave up with the pants and left him in his underwear. Exhausted I leaned up against his pallet and fell asleep.
I awoke suddenly to the same shrieking metal sound I'd heard when I first pushed the display into place. The officer next to me moaned in pain as he awoke too. I headed for the door to the back room. Inside the main part of the shop, a group of protesters. Thank god.
"They've taken back Dock Square and Faneuil Hall," one of them said, "But we..."
He was silenced by one of his fellows as they noticed me at the door. A bearded man, all covered in grey ash, pointed a double-barreled shotgun at me. I held up my hands, surprised. "Who are you?" he barked.
"I was a protestor too!" I said quickly. I pointed to my sign, still laying on the floor. He looked down quickly, then back at me, then lowered the gun. "Good." he said nervously. "Good. Dangerous out here, you know?" He gestured around the shop. "You alone in here?" he asked. I shook my head and gestured behind me. "Another guy back here, wounded pretty bad. Any of you doctors or something?"
One of the protestors came around the counter. "I was a med student," he explained. They all followed me into the back room. Mr. Med Student went straight for the leg. "Not a bad patch job," he told me with an impressed grin.
"Wait, Jim," said the man with the gun. Jim, the med student, looked behind him. The man gestured at the remains of the police uniform on the floor with the barrel of the shotgun. "He's a cop."
Without another word, he pumped the shotgun and pointed it at the officer's head. | 20 | A man attempts to defend a wounded police officer during a riot. | 26 |
It wasn't bad enough that I had to get out of bed, get ready and go to a job I hate, but then I had to see him. Tim.
"Well hey there Neighby!" I hated the way he called me 'Neighby.' That's a bad nickname for a horse, not a grown man.
"Tim."
"Ya got a second, pal?" He wanted too many of my seconds.
"Yeah, what's up?"
"Well, you know, I feel like a darn broken record, but, you know, that birch tree, well, it's still hanging a little too far over my fence."
"I haven't had a chance-" I turned to go to my car.
Tim reached out and grabbed my arm. He was like that. Touchy. Feely. Like a grandpa. "Well, now, you know, the missus is just, well, she's chompin' at the bit to get it fixed. She says her view is cut off."
"View of what?"
"Heh, well, I guess your house, but I don't argue. She's in charge. So whadya say? Can you get that fixed for me?"
"Well-"
"Great, actually, I'll do you one better, I already called a tree guy for you. I'll just put the bill in your mailbox, sound good?"
"You did what?" I couldn't believe this guy.
"I know, what are friends for if not to help, amirite? I'mma head on back in, the missus is making bacon."
"Tim, wait-"
He had already turned and headed to his door, "see you at church, yeah? Haven't seen you in a while, naughty naughty." He did the little tsk tsk thing with his fingers as he said it. His door closed and I stood stunned.
I walked to my car and got in. I sat staring.
I thought to myself, "He's not a bad human being. But I may kill him." | 18 | "He's not a bad human being. But I may kill him." | 18 |
The original "Wow!" Signal shocked the world of science, and after we decoded the original signal, in 2013, we received another late in the year of 2014.
"What's this?" Zach Bridgeham said, he is the lead scientist-researcher of the AAB, or the "Alien Affairs Bureau" (lets keep the fact that you read this a little secret, why don't we?). Bridgeham stepped closer and repeated his last sentence, " What is this?".
I muster up the courage to speak, as I have just been flabbergasted at what I saw. "Sir, you really want to know?"
"Yes! Of course I want to know, Smockerson! I wouldn't as l have asked you otherwise!"
Well, he wasn't prepared for what I was to show him. You see, when we discovered the Wow! Signal, and we decoded it, we didn't really know what was going on. But I think we have a better understanding of aliens right now then ever in our history as a people. You see, the original Wow! Signal was a map of the stars for a certain speckle of the universe. This currently signal, that has been repeating for the past 26 1/2 hours (trust me, I've been here the whole time to carefully watch it, make sure nothing whacky happens) is following the exact same frequencies. That makes it a hell of a lot easier to decode. But what I decided will not only shock the world of science, it will take everyone's socks and knock them off.
Bridgeham sat silently, watching as the piece is decoded with our system that is very familiar with these patterns. "look" I told him, "there's no way there's actually nice aliens out there, it's clearly a scam!"
We both watched in silence as a simple message appeared on our screen:
CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO WIN A FREE TRIP FOR 2 TO THE INTRAPARSECT SQUADRON!!
CLICK HERE FOR DETAILS. | 14 | In 1977, we discover the Wow! Signal. Humanity decides to send a counter-signal back at the Sagittarius Constellation. Several years later, we get another, much more precise signal. | 32 |
I stumbled into the inn, a... stench reeked from me, hacking and coughing, like I could collapse dead at any moment.
My vision was still hazy, from the intoxicating... substance they set on fire, and breathed in over there.
I gathered attention as I stumbled towards the front of the fire.
I started telling tales of my travel, coughing, feeling the intoxication slowly wearing off.
Their eyes were upon me, waiting to hear of what terrors I have seen, what monsters I have slain, what I have retrieved from foreign lands.
I slid my hand into a gap under my chain chest-plate, and took out a small bag, with two ropes that made it close tight.
I raised the small bag so it appeared visible to the entire inn.
My mind sobered up as I recounted the events.
I saw a large town, plumes of smoke rising, my heart quickened as I raced towards, fearing the worst.
Looked like 7000 people could live here.
An... inhabitant rushed at me, clawing at whatever supplies I had, as I swiftly slashed at him, as a warning.
I looked round as the inn goers leaned in closer.
This didn't make the inhabitant happy, as losing blood rarely does.
It got angry, very angry, breathing foul smoke at me and screaming, the scream attracted others, out of concern for their brethren, or out of curiosity, who knows?
I raised my shield, circling round as the mob got larger, encircling me, I had my sword in the other hand, daring them to make a move.
One rather foolish inhabitant lunged at me, who was the first one to die.
What happened next I could only describe as tribal fury, endless screeching and yelling happened, biting and scraping at me, as if they were feral creatures.
This is when I was not a hero any-more, I was a monster, a slaughter, a killer, as they just kept coming, 7000, I think I shaved 100 off that number .
And this is where my story ends, I turned to the inn folks, staring at them, and took out my bloodied blade as proof.
I tossed the bag into the fire.
(Finding my feet when it comes to writing, constructive criticism is nice)
| 13 | Click "random" to go to a random subreddit. Come back here and post about your experience like a hero returning from an intrepid journey. | 107 |
"I'm afraid I don't understand." President Kelly said, dumbfounded. "You're the first intelligent life to contact us, ever. And you're asking us to. . ." She glanced at the transcript from First Contact. "Get so wasted the Ulda Cows on Desirane tip us."
"That's fucking right dude!" Kilrathnix laughed through the radio. "We was thinking 'these Earthlings are so fucking cool about us stealing their cows, we think we oughta show em what we're doing with em. And get em wasted while we're at it!' How does that sound?"
"Frankly, it sounds like I'm a little old for it. Does your government know you're contacting a species with technology far inferior to yours?"
"Fuck man, of course! We went through the proper channels!" Kilrathnix gulped on something. "It's all, how you say, Kosher?"
"What are the proper channels?" President Kelly said, rubbing her head.
"We called Hildre's daddy, asked to borrow his spaceship. He is loaded, so we can get all you little Pinkies on our place no problem."
"Even if we did want to party, wouldn't your planet kill us?"
"What? You think we got a universal translator by accident?" Kilrathnix sounded offended. "Man, we wouldn't invite you to party if we couldn't host you. That's just bad manners man. We checked your systems. You run on a similar oxygen-nitrogen blend we survive on. The only problem would be the gravity, which is about 7/8s of your Earth norm."
"And what if we're spotted? If your planet is smaller, you can't possibly fit every Earthling that might want to come."
"Our whole planet is a college campus. We're part of a coalition of sixteen planets in two systems. Five are dedicated colleges, the rest living and work. My commute from here to Desirane is seventeen Earth minutes."
President Kelly bit her lip. "Can you give us a minute Kilrathnix?"
"Of course! Don't be too long now, the Feryuop distillation process is sensitive, and if we don't get you here soon it'll lose potency, and I ain't serving my guests no shit Feryuop."
"Noted." President Kelly shut off the radio and turned to the House and Congress. "Ladies and Gents, we have a decision to make."
President Kelly cracked her knuckles. "On one hand, these aliens are inviting us to their equivalent of a kegger. A get-together on a planet on a scale we've never seen. People could die. We could have riots here from those who remain.
On the other hand, this is the first opportunity we've ever had to not only communicate with aliens, but to foster friendly relations with them. This relationship could lead to new technology, new friends, and a new frontier."
President Kelly stood. "I'd like to put it to a vote. All in favor of refusing their offer?" A few hands shot up. President Kelly smiled. "All in favor of getting totally blotto?" Nearly every arm in the room shot skyward.
President Kelly sat down and turned on the radio. "Kilrathnix, we accept your offer. How soon can you be here to pick us up?"
"We can be there in two hours dog! Don't worry about getting everyone on the ship, we got that covered. We'll send out a general invite to the population through your tv network, see who accepts."
"Wonderful. Can't wait to get fucking wasted." President Kelly smiled.
"Oh ho ho ho! You have no clue!" Kilrathnix laughed. | 53 | All those alien crop circles, cow abductions, and probings are just the equivalent of Frat boy shenanigans. But since humanity has been such a great sport about it all, they've come back to invite us to their version of a kegger. | 92 |
A 9 above my wife’s head. Well, that’s better than the 2 that was hovering there last night. Apparently I really do have the moves, as one night of romance raised her opinion of me.
See, the thing is, I see numbers above people’s heads. They’re always changing. It took me awhile to understand what they mean. Turns out it was pretty simple. They represent how much people like me.
Going to work, I see my boss. A red, glaring ten hovers above his head. I forgot to mention. The color matters as well. Me and my boss never have gotten along. And red means one of two things. One, he is angry with me, in which case the 10 actually indicates how angry he is with me. Or two, and I pray this is not it, he is so horny that he wants to bend me over right here and right now.
“Did you e-mail the file?” he yells to me as I walk in the door. The anger and hatred can be heard by everyone in his scratchy, smoker’s voice.
“Yes sir,” I say, keeping my head low and heading to my cubicle.
“What’s up?” I say to Bob, my coworker, as I sat down. A large, fat 7 hangs over his head. It’s in gray, indicating nothing special about the mood he’s in.
“Just work,” he replies.
When lunch time comes around, me and Bob decide to go to lunch. We head over to the local sandwich shop, grab some sandwiches, and sit out in a nearby park while we eat. We were called in to work on the weekend, so the park was flooded with high school and college students. Across from us sat two girls chatting with each other.
“She’s a lesbian, the other one isn’t,” I tell Bob. The vibrating rainbow 6 over one of their heads gives me that information. The other one has a grey 5. The standard for a stranger.
“Bull,” Bob replies. “$5 she isn’t.”
“I’ll take that bet,” I say. A few seconds later I watch as the 6 starts to vibrate more. The numbers usually do that when someone is horny, when they are nervous, or when they are extremely embarrassed. All pretty good indicators, along with the way the girl moved closer to the other one, that I was right. “Why don’t we make it $20?”
“Done,” Bob says. Seconds later the girl kisses the other, who then pushes her back. Anyone could tell that she wasn’t pleased with what had happened. The other girl blushed and started to apologize, then got up and ran away.
“Damn,” Bob says as he hands me the twenty. “You always guess that right. How?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say. “Got really drunk one night, woke up with the ability.”
Bob just laughed as we finished our sandwiches. I had literally told him how I got my abilities a million times and he still didn’t believe me. Of course he didn’t believe I actually had “special” abilities in the first place.
The rest of the day went by quickly and before I knew it I was home. My wife greeted me at the door. A green 7 floated over her head. I had lost a lot of standing with her already.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she tells me as I enter the house.
Well, with her number being green, it must mean one of a few things. She’s super jealous about something. She is worried about something. Or she really, really wants something. A lot of the colors overlap in meaning.
Soon my tie is off and my wife is leading me back to the bedroom. I never even notice the green 7 change. Another woman sits on the bed smiling, a vibrating red 7 over her head. My wife and I move over to the bed as well, a large, pulsating rainbow 10 over her head. I forgot to mention. Rainbow color means that someone is hungry. I wasn’t too surprised to see the whipcream on the nightstand.
-339 | 28 | You wake up hungover and late to work, when leaving the home you start to notice numbers above other peoples head. You quickly realize these numbers represent how much the person actually likes you. | 47 |
Hello my darling.
You're so tiny, so precious, lying next to me, swaddled in my grandmothers blanket, now yours. Since you were born six hours ago I have just watched you, sleeping, waking, crying and trying to understand the world around you.
It's impossible for me to sleep as you're just too precious, too tiny, I'm terrified that you'll somehow break and so I have to watch you at all times. Of course, by the time you read this it will be me who will have broken, my body isn't going to last for me to be able to say these words to you and so I have to put them down with pen on paper in the hope that when you read them you will understand a small piece of your mother.
Your father is a wonderful man, he and I have shared the most amazing life together and I know that he will now make a wonderful father. I just snapped a photo of him asleep in the chair next to the bed, he wont go home, like me he wants to spend every moment with you. Listen to him, respect him and love him. He is your link to me, everything that I am I have shared with him and so when you wish to know me, ask him.
I'm so sorry, my beautiful daughter, that I will not be there for you growing up. I have asked your father, at an appropriate age and before you read this letter, he explain what happened, but you probably want to hear it from me too.
We learned about you late. I had been unwell for some time and so it never occurred to us that I might be pregnant. It was only when we went for the scan and they did the obligatory test that we found out. That was the same day we learned about the cancer. It was the best and worst day of my life. The doctor asked us to make a choice, actually no that's not true, he told us we had no choice, we had to terminate you and I needed treatment. I needed it right away.
I said no.
Your father pleaded with me, not because he didn't and doesn't love you, but because to hold off treatment until after your birth meant my death. I have always known it was the right choice and seeing you here next to me I am certain of it.
In the next few weeks you'll be able to go home, but I will not. Already I am too weak and they tell me it is only days now. My darling girl, this was my choice, this was not your fault - this was no ones fault. It was just the way that things had to be.
Remember that I love you, that your father loves you and that your family loves you. You will be *so* loved.
I have to stop for now, but I will try to write more before the end.
Be brave my beautiful girl,
Love
Your Mother | 17 | A dying woman shares her thoughts with her baby. | 22 |
"Yaaawwwn!" Michael contorted his body in a manner of ways.
"Good morning, sweetie!" he brushed his lover's sleeping face.
A look of great distress soaked into Michael's face as he witnessed his 'sweetie' slowly transform into a giant variant of a well known breakfast pastry. The life ebbed out of her and was replaced by a warm strawberry filling.
Fear's rigidity receded from his body and he propped himself up in his bed. Just then, the once comfortably worn-in mattress ripened into a firm and sprinkled frosting masterfully spread upon a delicious and crumbly crust. Michael leapt up onto his feet and rejected the nightmarish scenario before him, his head shaking frivolously side to side.
He brushed aside his curtain which then morphed into a cascade of S'more flavored tarts. Light flooded into the bedroom as Michael stared with horror upon his own hands. He wondered what manner of curse had fallen upon him. The words filling his head, "What did I do to deser-," his own thoughts came to a halt.
Michael kicked open the door to his bathroom. He placed himself firmly in front of his mirror and uttered, in Latin, a phrase three times.
A dark mist swirled around him and a wakened being of myth responded, "Why have you called upon me?"
"My wish! You screwed it up!" Michael shrieked.
"In all my infinence, I have never made err. To what of your wish do you deem as being at fault?" The genie folded his massive, wispy arms.
"Everything I touch is turning into Pop tarts! How is that-in any way at all-what I wished for?"
"Your wish was-" The Genie began before Michael abruptly clarified his original words.
"I said I wanted to be the king of the Pop arts!" Michael slammed his fist down upon his cabinet which became displaced and replaced with a tart of the blueberry persuasion.
"Oooohhh! Shit. My apologies, Mr. Jackson. I shall fix this right away." | 17 | A man wakes up as the King Midas of Pop Tarts. Describe his life as everything he touches turns into Pop Tarts. | 35 |
After going through this a countless times, I knew what would happen. "Enough Bruce, enough I am up". I loved the dog but would have liked him to be a late riser. I yawn and stretch, the memories come back, this time it was a car accident. I was walking along back to my family when someone hit me and I was back in my 20 year old body. The worst thing is that I can remember everything from the next 40 years. I weep knowing that I will never see the grandkid that was going to come soon. Never feel the touch of my lovely wife again. For some reason, I can not repeat any of my futures no matter how hard I try.
I can never get over the loss of a family that I will never have now. I have gotten over countless such families over the many centuries that I have lived and respawned, but the pain never goes away, never dulls. A few times I even committed suicide but it is pointless when you come back to life and relive the pain. It is always better to move ahead and try something else.
I slowly wake up from my reverie and turn around and nearly scream out in shock. There is a being sitting in my chair. He looks like a human but something tells me he is not. The mouth moves but the voice is in my head.
" Bharat_ you have reached a point, where you should know why you are immortal. You are the core soul of this world. This world has been created to let you reach your true potential. Once you take the best course that you could have taken in this world, you are ready to move on. That time has come. Your last journey was the best path that you could have taken"
I stammer " Now what? "
He smiles " You move on to the next level. " and disappears.
My world turns black. I can feel my memories go, I mourn for their loss but at the same time, I am relieved of their burden. I can feel my intelligence disappear. My brain is losing information at such a rapid rate that.......
"waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh" *"at least he has a nice set of lungs"*
| 19 | You discover that you are immortal, every time you die you go back to being 20 years old. One day you discover why you are immortal. | 20 |
He just appeared. There was no great ball of fire or stream of black smoke, he was just there, amid a massive crowd of holiday shoppers. The creature looked like a stereotypical fantasy devil. Short, red, tattered bat wings spouting of his pointy back, and two curved horns. The image was not particularly terrifying, but the crowd was petrified. There was something about the air around the imp. Thick and heavy, it filled your lungs with a primal dread you've never felt before.
There was no screaming or scattering from the onlookers. Only stares and soft whimpering from a few.
The creature scanned the environment. His beady yellow eyes gazed from shopper to shopper, seemingly aging the ones unfortunate enough to warrant his attention.
Our eyes met. He smiled a wide, toothless grin and snapped his fingers. The whimpering stopped. Everything stopped actually. The crowd stood stone faced, unmoving. I had the devil's full attention.
"Why are you so nervous?" Words formed in my mind. It was not painful, but strange and unnerving.
"After all these years, I searched for you and not even a hello? Will you at least tell me your name?"
"Tttom Campbell"
"Tom? TOM!? OHOHOHO!!!" The creature howled, this time in his voice, which seemed like a chorus of a thousand hallow cries.
"This is what you call yourself now? Fucking Tom? Wait... You're serious? Oh goodness me! She really did a number on you, didn't she? Hold on just a minute."
The imp closed his eyes and concentrated. I could feel his fingers inside my mind. He forced everything out. My childhood, my father, mother, the beatings, everything I tried to suppress, my every joy and pain flashed in front of my eyes. He knew everything.
"Oh wow, she is quite talented, isn't she? What did she ask for these memories? Your soul? HAHA! Never imagined you would try to gain the services of a witch of all people. Oh wow, you even got a wife and a few friends didn't you? I don't suppose you told them what you really are? No, of course not. All right enough games, now, tell me your name."
I wanted to say Tom Campbell again, but i did not seemed right. "I, I don't know." I finally answered.
"Oh I see what she did, wow, why would you get rid of it? You used to consider that mark a badge of honor. Where's that pride? Where's that resentment? Where's that defiance? You couldn't take it anymore so you ran to a damned bog witch, didn't you? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Here, let me remind you of what you really are."
He appeared in front of me and grabbed my forehead before I could protest. His fingers were cold and his breath stank of death.
"Ah it's buried deep, but it's there, you can't really remove it can you? Oh, she is good, no wonder I couldn't find you. Just have to wade through these fake memories and... There."
He removed his hand and I felt something foreign and heavy on my brow. A bump or some sorts. I wanted to feel it's texture. As soon as I touched it, it hit me. Guilt, shame, despair, horror, the rock, the rock, THAT DAMNED ROCK! I fell to my knees bawling my eyes and guts out. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
"Now, I want to hear you say it. What is your name?"
I looked up, desperately wishing to die.
"My name is. My name is... Cain." | 990 | Satan suddenly appears in a crowded mall, and begins terrifying the holiday shoppers. He stops, looks directly at you and says, "You... You're interesting. Do your friends know what you are?" You have no idea what he means. | 1,143 |
“Come on, come on, come on, come on, come o – Toby! Thank God! You gotta help me! You gotta help me! Something's wrong, man!”
“Woah, chill out Jim. What's going on? You look like shit.”
“This is fucked up, Toby, this is fucked up. This is fucked up, it's fucked up, fucked up.” I step inside before he even gets the chance to invite me in.
“I'm dead. I'm dead Toby.”
“What do you mean? Calm down, Jim. What's going on?” He says, closing the door behind us and following me to the
living room.
I sit on his couch. “I mean I'm dead in my living room, Toby.”
“What do you mean?”
“I MEAN I JUST WALKED INSIDE MY FUCKING LIVING ROOM AND SAW MYSELF DEAD ON THE FLOOR.”
“What?”
“And this note. Flee immediately.”
“Like listen to Red Hot right now?”
“No, not Flea. Flee. Like go away. Run.”
Toby takes a seat by my side, trying to smile the whole thing off. “Dude, did you smoke, or
something?”
“I'm not high, Toby. I wish I was.” I say.
I'm shaking.
“So, what? You walked inside your house and...”
“And there was a body there, and it was me, Toby. Fuck, am I going insane? Is this what being insane is like?”
“Maybe you're just tired.”
'”Shit. Toby, if I'm going insane, I want to lose my mind completely. I don't wanna be rational enough to know I'm
insane.”
“Jim, relax. I'm gonna get us a beer, ok?” He says, getting up from the couch.
“Ok.”
To try and relax and maybe stop shaking, I turn on the TV.
A guy in a black suit and a white wig is on, sounding urgent.
“--shapeshifters. No one knows where they come from or what they want. The government has closed the borders and
declared state of emergency, urging the citizens to stay inside their houses and keep track of all friends and family
members. I repeat, these beings can take any form, and you are advised to be careful. Do not trust anyo --”
In my pocket, my phone buzzes. I hear Toby, from the kitchen. “All I have is light beer, Jim, is that ok?"
I look down at the screen.
New voice message.
*Why did Toby lock the door?*
“Jim? Jim? It's Toby. We just killed something that looked like you in your house, but definitely wasn't you. The whole world is going insane, where the hell are you?! Pack up your crap and leave as soon as you can, and don't talk to anyone in
the streets! We're all heading to Bob's house upstate, get over there. DON'T GO TO MY PLACE, OR BOB'S PLACE. ANSWER THIS
AS SOON AS YOU CA --”
“Who are you talking to, bro?” Toby asks, handing me my beer and taking the seat next to me again.
“No one” I say, breathing in deeply. I'm still shaking.
By my side on the couch, Toby smiles, eyes locked on mine as he takes a sip of his beer.
(continued below) | 71 | You come home to a perfect duplicate of yourself lying dead on the floor from an apparent heart attack. The body is still warm. A piece of paper on the corpse reads "Flee immediately. Take this note and nothing else." | 105 |
Stephen bursts through the door of his bedroom and drops his backpack to the foot-worn carpeted floor with a dull thud. He stumbles over to his computer chair and swings it away from the desk, plopping into it and slowly creeping forward as he scrapes his toes against the unnaturally crisp fibers underneath. His head bobs steadily as his neck jerks to and fro, fighting back hiccups and the overwhelming urge to vomit. As he leans down to press the "on" switch to his PC, he releases a bellowing belch.
*Time for some* **HICCUP** *sick tunes,* he says to himself.
After catching a micro-nap during the boot process, Stephen clicks on his icon and opens Windows. He selects Chrome from his taskbar and reclines, opening the drawer to his right and pulling a warm Milwaukee's Best from the graveyard of empty cans. He takes in a gluttonous chug before plopping it down to the desk, sending a speckle of beer to the corner of his monitor. Still, he's far too focused on the mission to care about aesthetics.
*"Protest the Hero"* he types in the search bar. In the .00348 seconds it takes google to locate his query, he polishes off half a can.
With unusual attentiveness, Stephen sifts through the results and finds a torrent of "Volition." Finishing the rest of his beer, he imports the torrent file to Demonoid and watches with booze-fueled wonder as a small army of seeders flashes the entire download in the span of only a single beer. Or, around 18 seconds.
Satisfied with the quality of the evening thus far, Stephen opens the file with a lazy grin. As the WinRAR window pops up, Stephen instinctively clicks on the second button.
Or was it the third? Wait.... what?
Stephen strains his vision and leans forward towards his monitor, suddenly self-conscious of the beer droplet still clinging to the corner. As he swipes it with his thumb-- then bringing his thumb up to his mouth-- he sees something unfamiliar.
Various lines, ranging in labels from "name" to "email" to "credit card information," but in a strange format he's never seen. *Oh well,* Stephen says inwardly, *what's $30?*
With the same fervent joy and smug ego as a self-proclaimed saint, Stephen purchases the full version of WinRAR. As he brings down his index on the "enter" key to finalize his purchase, he once again reclines in his computer chair and takes stock of the situation.
*Tonight was a good night. And now, not just for me.*
----------
In a dawn-lit office, somewhere in the outskirts of Berlin, a message blinks on a dust-covered screen. A .gif, programmed to play in the event of a sale, dances across the screen. Digital confetti fills the monitor as the words "First sale of the year!" flash on the screen in German.
A celebratory .midi file blares on the decade-old speakers to either side of the monitor, and kick up a small cloud of dust, which in turn settles on the neatly-dressed, glasses-clad corpse seated peacefully in the computer chair just at the edge of the desk. | 30 | A man drunk one night buys the full version of WinRAR. How does winrar hq react? | 22 |
“Those French bastards…”
The line between the French colony of Canada and the British colony of America fluctuated daily as the unending war continued. At the moment the air was strangely quiet and lead-free. The French stood on their side, staring back over at the British, singing in the distance. It was Christmas day. A temporary lapse in the fighting, a twenty-four hour cease fire. Dandruff-like snow drifted slowly on the wind. It looked and sounded ridiculously picturesque, a hallmark Christmas, other than the fact that Private Hudgins and Sergeant Abney could no longer feel their fingers and toes.
“Shut up. It’s Christmas.”
“Do you reckon they get special rations for Christmas?”
“Probably not. The French are used to living in environments like this. They adapt better than the British do. With all their revolutions and what not. That’s why they’re so cheery.”
The two men stood in the foremost foxhole, surrounded by barbed wire. Private Hudgins ducked down into the hole and popped back up with two steaming cups of coffee. They tasted like the tin cups they were served in, but it restored some semblance of feeling to their extremities. Sergeant Abney took a flask from the numerous folds and secret hiding places of his jacket. He poured cheap booze into their drinks. It ruined the coffee even more, but added to its warming, mood-altering effects.
“It’s not so bad,” Private Hudgins said. “I mean, sure, we didn’t get leave, and sure we’re on guard duty during Christmas dinner, but it could be worse.”
“How so?”
“Well, we could be fighting in Chinese colonies, or the Indian colonies, or the Pacific colonies. I have a brother over there, you know. He said it stinks. Half of it’s a British colony, and no one speaks English. Or French for that matter. Coffee is hard to come by, he said, and my brother loves coffee. Almost as much as I do. He said it’s impossible to get an English paper and its hot and muggy all year round.”
“I guess.”
“Or we could be French.”
“Indeed,” Sergeant Abney said. “Although I’m beginning to wonder if that would be so bad. I heard Canada’s a nice place, but the only bits we get to see are the blown up parts.”
“Or maybe we could start our own country,” Hudgins proposed hopefully. “Imagine that. The country of New York. No, that doesn’t sound right. The united American colonies. I don’t know. Something like that.”
“Now that’s just treason. What if the queen overheard you saying that.”
“Yes, you’re right. What the hell would we do without the queen?”
“Probably have a normal Christmas.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we? Maybe we should make a toast to her.”
“To the queen…”
The snow continued to fall. A perfect, Tomas Kinkade painting of a Christmas.
| 31 | America never ceased to be a British colony and as such the USA never came into being. Cue forward to the modern world where the USA never became a thing. | 79 |
Jackie hid behind the barricaded door as the cops beat on the walls and screamed for him to come out.
___
*Two hours earlier in the house...*
Sherlock handed the metal rod to Caribou.
"Here's a crowbar, you two start ripping boards up off the floor and nailing them over the doors and windows. That'll keep them from getting in so easy and give as another way out if shit really goes south."
"Goddamn Sherlock, you mean to tell me shit *ain't* went south yet?" Caribou took the crowbar with a shaky hand as beads of sweat poured off his bald head.
"We made it back to the house didn't we?" said Sherlock. "They could have just shot all of us on site."
"No, " said KFC, "instead we haul ass out of there with a mother fucking tracking device on the truck. The same truck that has over ninety kilos of coke in the bed and is parked out front as we speak."
"Look, how the fuck was I supposed to know that it was a bust?" Sherlock still had blood on his shirt from carrying Habanero into the bedroom.
"You know, come to think of it, you didn't *seem* so surprised motherfucker." said KFC.
"Goddammit KFC, we don't have time for this shit! Those county cops will be here in less than an hour. Let's get the goddamn windows boarded up. There'll be plenty of time for bitching and moaning later."
Caribou slammed the crowbar down deep into the floorboards of the old abandoned house they had been squatting in since all this started. He pulled and jerked furiously for a moment before his skinny little arms gave up. He let go and turned his attention back to Sherlock before KFC could say anything.
"And just what the fuck are you going to do while we're in here busting our asses trying to keep those cops out?" he said.
"I got some questions for Habanero." Sherlock said as he picked up a pair of rusty wire pliers.
"I don't know," said KFC shaking his head, "I seen that motherfucker do some serious shit during his initiation. Ain't no way he's a snitch."
"We'll find out, won't we." said Sherlock, testing the wire pliers menacingly.
"Sherlock, he's in the bedroom with a goddamn bullet in him." said Caribou. "The son of a bitch can't tell you anything if he's not conscious."
"Both of you get to work." said Sherlock. "I'll be back in here to help you in just a few minutes."
___
*Across town, thirty minutes ago...*
"They shot Thomas. Jesus Christ, they fucking shot Thomas." Alan was shaking in the passenger seat of the cruiser as he loaded his gun.
Victor kept his eyes peeled ahead as he sped through heavy traffic with the siren on.
"It was an accident, " he said, "they're from Wilson county - they had no idea he was an undercover agent. When he pulled the gun, they thought he was one of the Scrotes."
"Those Wilson county fucks are insane." Alan looked over to Victor, "I had no idea their department had the budget for machine guns and grenades. Especially after all the reprimands from last year, what with harassing civilians and shit."
"Well, having those automatic weapons allowed them to take out at least five members of the gang right there on site. Too bad those goddamn Scrotes managed to snag Thomas and take him back with them." said Victor. "After today, you can bet your sweet ass the chief is going to be putting in a request for AK47s and body armor for us as well. And I don't blame him."
"Ok, the beacon is saying turn right up here on Seville street." said Alan looking at the GPS and pointing to two small blue dots. "Looks like Wilson is on their way there too... along with Harrison and Yakima County police. Jesus, when's the FBI getting here?"
___
*Back at the house...*
"Look, I know you're one of us now." Sherlock was back in the bedroom pouring some antiseptic solution onto the wound in Habanero's gut and squeezed some of the blood from his shirt over the pliers. "I heard them call your name... it's *Thomas*, right? Detective Thomas Schillings, from Wilson County?"
Habanero just groaned and flashed his eyes at Sherlock briefly.
"It's alright, you don't have to say anything. I'm gonna get us both out of here."
A shout came from the front of the house. It was Caribou.
"Hey, what the fuck is going on back there? We've almost got the doors and windows boarded up. Thought you were coming to help?"
The bedroom door opened and Sherlock emerged with the bloody pliers.
"Trust me, he's one of us." said Sherlock, flashing the pliers at them. "Ain't nobody around that can keep the truth from these."
"Jesus," said Caribou, "there's blood all over them. Is the son of a bitch still alive?"
"Unconscious... again." said Sherlock.
KFC emerged from the kitchen with what appeared to be a small black box.
"Look what I found." he said with a cheery smile on his face. Sherlock held back a grimace as he realized what it was.
"Yup," KFC said, "Police band radio. Let's hear what these motherfuckers are up to."
The radio crackled, sputtered and gave a high pitched squeal before something legible came through the wire.
*... all units... in pursuit... I repeat... all counties in range...*
KFC banged on the side of it, "Goddamn static."
*...hostage situation... I repeat agent taken hostage...*
KFC looked up at the others in confusion.
"Wait... what?" he said to Caribou. "What the fu... Holy shit. Holy fucking shit."
The truth hit KFC like a drunken Colonel at a peace rally.
*He's a fucking cop.* He thought to himself. *We brought Habanero back here... and he's a fucking cop.*
For KFC, this changed everything, but he had to play it cool.
"A hostage... an *agent* hostage?" said Caribou, more sweat pouring down his little bald head. "So it's true... he, he's a cop?" Caribou pointed to the door on the back bedroom of the house and reached for his gun.
"Now, just a second, " said Sherlock, "I *assure* you that guy is no cop. He would have told me."
Caribou relaxed his grip on the gun in the back of his trousers. "So, you mean you *don't* want to kill him?"
KFC, seeing Caribou's reaction and realizing the absurdity of the situation - he had been placed in a gang with a fellow detective without even being aware of it - knew he had to jump in and smooth things out.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there little fella." he said to Caribou, "That dude back there just took a bullet for every one of us. As a matter of fact, how do we know it ain't you who's the agent? Huh?"
Caribou, just moments ago concerned that he would have to put lead into these two gang-bangers in order to save the undercover officer in the back room, came back at KFC with the faux aggression tactics he had been taught in training.
"Back off, motherfucker." he said to KFC, as he unzipped his pants. "Would a fucking cop do this?"
Caribou dropped his pants and show the scar where his testicles had been removed.
"Jesus Christ, " KFC started, but caught himself, "I mean... yeah of course... we're all Scrotes here. We all get our balls cut off during initiation."
"Um, yeah." said Sherlock, backing away. "We're... you know... so hardcore. That's what makes us the fucking Scrotes. Everybody knows that."
"So, yeah, put your pants back on for Christ's sakes. Ain't nobody want to look at your tiny weiner." said KFC, now disgusted by the whole ordeal and wondering how he's going to get himself and Habanero out of there alive.
"I need to take a piss." he said, walking out through the backdoor of the house.
"Yeah, alright. Well I don't ever want to be questioned again as to my loyalty." shouted Caribou as he zipped his pants back up.
*Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought I would be thankful for that freak lawnmower incident that happened when I was only sixteen years old.* Caribou thought to himself.
"Holy shit..." Sherlock looked through a crack in the wooden board that lay across the window of the living room. He saw a telltale trail of dust billowing up from the old dirt road that led to the house. "They're here."
____
*Outside the house...*
Surprised by the fact that they had arrived first, Victor and Alan sat in their police cruiser and debated about what to do next.
"So... are we just supposed to run in there by ourselves?" said Alan. "Or do we wait for backup?"
Victor thought for second, then reached into the back of the car and pulled out his bullhorn. He eased out of the car and then aimed the device at the front of the house. But before he was able to say anything, he heard a commotion coming from the inside of the car.
"Wait, Victor, " Alan tried to get his attention with a loud whisper, "Victor!"
"Why the hell are you whispering?" Victor looked inside the cruiser and asked him.
"Christ, I don't know," said Alan, "but look... in the backyard... looks like one of them is taking a leak."
Victor stalked his way around the side of the house to get a better look.
"What the...." Victor said to himself when he saw the man. "Casey... Casey!"
KFC heard something and turned toward the noise.
"Victor?" he said in astonishment when he saw him peeking out around the corner of the house, "What the fuck are you doing here Victor?"
"What am I doing here?" Victor asked, "What the fuck are *you* doing here?"
"I'm working undercover for the narcotics unit now." He explained to Victor. "Look, you gotta get the hell out of here, there's two members of the Scrotes inside and another detective who is wounded."
"Listen man," Victor said with genuine concern chiseled into his face, "*you're* the one who needs to get the hell out of here. Do you know who's on their way?"
"Who?"
"Wilson County PD." said Victor, nothing more needed to be said.
KFC, or Casey, let his mouth drop as his eyes dilated at the sound of the news.
"Oh." he said solemnly, "shit."
(... to be continued...)
| 293 | The moment when all the members of the most notorious and ruthless gang in the U.S. figure out that every single one of them is an undercover cop from different counties. | 1,158 |
**Take heed the violent march is closing in**
Can't say the warnings weren't there.
For ages, human beings wondered if there could be other life in the cosmos, no matter how distant. This question intrigued scientists, philosophers, and statisticians, most of whom came to the conclusion that it was improbable that, in relation to the vastness of the universe, there was no other life.
It came to a point where the general population emphasized space exploration. Polls revealed that people wanted to know who, or what, were out there.
Some things are better left unknown.
**You can't defeat them on your own**
It was a depressing scene; my family of six huddled around our new high-definition television. I hadn't even gotten around to cutting off all the remaining strands of gift wrap on it. It was a present to my four boys; they chose the "big box" to open for our yearly Christmas eve ritual, where we could all choose one present to open the night before Christmas and play with it for an hour. I set it up, connected the cables, and turned it on - to the most horrifying news a man with a family could get.
My boys might not make it until tomorrow.
**Weapons are loaded for the final stand**
You sit in your room. You're out of tears. All the plans you had... all of the winter ski trips you planned with your girlfriends, the trip to Europe after graduation, the job you had lined up... they were all meaningless now. Not to mention the time you spent in the past studying for biology exams, then dental school entry tests... everything that was worth something to you now was worth nothing at all.
Obama had already made his speech. Earth was to surrender. Men were soon to be slaughtered. Children were to be taken. And young women, like you, had it the worst. Your body was to be used in the experimental continuation of the human race. You, who once had hopes and dreams of happiness, were soon to be turned into a human baby-making factory machine. Being a female, twenty-four year old dental student once had its perks. But now...
No one could say that the ship wasn't magnificent, though. It had been ominously looming over Earth for the last two hours. It was nighttime now, and its lights out-shined the moon. It was the biggest object you've ever seen in the sky - it was almost the size of a small city. You watched it as it descended, easing right through the earth's atmosphere.
A wide light beamed down from the middle of the ship, not unlike a typical Hollywood alien aircraft. You see figures begin to descend. They were here. This was the end.
Maybe all this had begun to sink in too fast, and maybe you were going crazy... but you could've sworn the last thing you heard before closing the blinds in your room... was jingling?
**And they're all aimed at you from heaven**
"Ho, ho, ho!" Santa cheered. This was the only chance. The light had begun to beam down alien soldiers. It was the only opening in this ship's seemingly impenetrable defense.
"Rudolph! Take me home, boy!" Santa yelled. The temperature and the wind combined threatened to dry his lips and numb his face, but this wasn't anything he wasn't used to. The same couldn't be said about the nine chosen reindeer. They were pushing top speeds - speeds of which they've never hit before... not even 2008 when Santa was a little bit late on his gifts.
A cause of concern was the violent shaking of the sled. There was something in Santa's pack this year that he could never give to kids. There was something in Santa's pack that would warrant an arrest. There was something in Santa's pack that could end a small country. There was something in Santa's pack that would save humanity.
The goal was simple. Get in, plant, and get out... is what Santa had told Mrs. Clause. Except Santa knew he wasn't going to get out. After somehow getting into the ship, the activation of "The Present" would take a couple of seconds. In that couple of seconds, a civilization as advanced as this one wouldn't let Santa back out. It was a suicide mission, and Mrs. Clause knew it. Santa knew it.
A tear fell down his cheek and disappeared into the cold wind. He loved giving so much. He spent his life doing it. And so when the news came, Santa had no question in his mind of what he needed to do.
People stared in awe as he flew through the sky. A smile spread across his face as he rode through the winter night, delivering what would be his final gift to mankind.
-----
EDIT: Oops, sorry! Didn't read the part where this was supposed to be in the alien's perspective.
| 36 | Earth is under invasion by a clearly superior force of aliens. However the tables turn when Earth's resident logistics and manufacturing expert, Santa, decides to help out. | 46 |
"I can't do it."
Jackson Price stepped out of the chamber. The machine inside whirred softly, not unlike a dog breathing its last set of breaths.
"I can't do it," Jackson repeated.
The room was packed with government officials, politicians, religious leaders, military leaders, and Zulu Mane, the Chief of the United Continents of Planet Earth.
"Try again," Chief Zulu commanded from behind his thick, grey mustache.
"Get a Chinese descendent mechanic in here, Americans are no good," someone shouted from the back of the room.
"Jackson's the best we have," Aleksey Barinov, Jackson's one time mentor, suggested. "If Jackson can't do it, no one can."
The room fell silent. What did this mean for the future of Earth? It was Claire, the revolutionary machine that could predict the future that had saved Earth from galaxy-wide threats. It was Claire's predictions that helped stabilize the Earth's economy for the last sixty-two years. It was Claire that ensured the safety of the general public from would-be criminals.
It was because of Claire that Jackson wasn't rotting in a cell somewhere. The government needed him to maintain and keep Claire running for the good of the world.
"Do you know what this means for you if you can't fix her, prisoner Price?" Chief Zulu asked after a long silence. Without waiting for an answer, the world's leaders began to leave the room one by one, until it was only Jackson and Aleksey left.
"I'm sorry Jackson," Aleksey said. He patted Jackson on the shoulder and walked out with the rest.
Jackson hunched over the prediction chart.
**January 12, 2129, 9:54AM:**
- Systems will malfunction in three days, resulting in total system failure in approximately six days and twenty-two hours.
Jackson opened the chamber door and gazed at the blue machine that sat in the middle of the room. Though it was only a machine, he couldn't help feeling sorry for it. It knew exactly when it was going to die. She knew when she was going to die.
Jackson looked down at his watch. Eight minutes left.
He walked over and took a seat on the chair that he had become so acquainted with in the last week.
"Claire, generate prediction."
"No predictions available."
"Force prediction through atmosphere sensors."
The machine whirred pitifully.
"Information collected from atmosphere sensors. Would you like to know the weather for tomorrow, Mr. Price?"
Jackson took a moment.
"I would."
"Cloudy," Claire responded. | 56 | Humanity has become dependent on a machine that predicts the future. One day, the machine predicts that, in one week, it will break. | 114 |
"Have you ever tried hugging?"
"No, and I'd never."
I looked at Marie. She always had that self-righteous look about her. Ever since we were kids, she'd always be the one playing the princess, or the head doctor, or the lead actress. It was always about her.
If she hugged someone, or even touched someone... she'd be different. She wouldn't be staring at her phone all the time. She'd look at me and treat me like I'm actually her boyfriend for once.
"You know, just thirty years ago hugging, shaking hands, kissing - it was all allowed," I suggested. "Your parents and my parents... they touched skin all the time."
"Yeah, well, that was then, and this is now," Marie huffed. "You know, they made it illegal for a reason."
"And what reason would that be?"
"It hurts you as a person. It encourages sexual perversion. It increases the spread rate of diseases, viruses, bacteria... honestly we're much better off not touching each other."
"You know, sex is scientifically proven to-"
"Shh!" Marie hushed. "Jacob, we're in a *public* restaurant!"
I looked around. The people in this restaurant tell a different story than the stories that the pictures of the people of old told. It was rare to find someone eating with another person. There were one-seat tables everywhere. I remembered reading internet articles and looking at pictures - families were holding hands, hugging, laughing, crying... friends, neighbors, and coworkers all shared some form of physical intimacy every day, even if they just shook hands. And now, with physical intimacy being outlawed... people seemed a lot sadder these days.
I grabbed Marie's hand.
"Jacob, what are you..." Marie's eyes widened. She stared at my hand in disbelief as it closed around her fingers.
"Jacob, please. If we get caught..."
"Come with me, I want you to meet someone."
"Jacob, no."
"If you don't, I'll pick you up and carry you."
-----
I couldn't believe what Jacob was doing.
Just last week he was so... focused. And ambitious. He had a goal. A definite plan. That's what I liked about him. He knew what college he was going to, what he was going to study, and most importantly, why. That's why I chose him out of everyone else in our senior class.
And this week, starting on Monday, he became someone else. He became distant. And relaxed. He stopped shaving. He didn't text me as often. He pulled himself away from his studies. If he doesn't get into a good college, then...
And now he's touching me. He's committing a misdemeanor. Worse, he's grabbing my hand, and he won't let go.
He pulled me through the streets, and people looked on. I was shocked. I couldn't fight against it. I just walked with him in silence. I wanted to protest so badly, but...
I liked it.
It was the first time I felt someone's hand around mine.
His skin was soft.
We went the whole way without exchanging a word. Commercial buildings turned into residential homes, and soon, we were in front of a small red house.
Jacob went up to the door and knocked.
"Jacob..." I breathed.
"Relax," he responded.
It took a minute, but at last... the door opened. An elderly woman's face appeared first, and we locked eyes. Her pupils then shifted over to Jacob, and a smile appeared on her face.
"Oh, Jacob!" she exclaimed as she pulled her door wide open. She stepped out, grabbed his face in her palms and kissed him on the cheek. Jacob wrapped his arms around her.
I felt myself start to pass out.
"This is my girlfriend Marie, Nana," Jacob said.
"She's pretty! Come here darlin-"
She began to walk towards me, her arms reaching out.
"No," I said, backing up. "No."
Nana's smile faded.
"Oh, I see," she said.
I looked at Jacob. His smile wasn't as big as before, but it was definitely still there.
Before I could do anything about it, large around appeared from either side of me and wrapped around my torso. It pulled me in with a commanding force from behind.
I'm a lawbreaker.
But there was something about this that was overwhelming. There was something about this hug from behind. There was something about being commanded to just... bask. Just bask in the arms of another person. It was some kind of communication. Nonverbal, but it was definitely some sort of communication.
Once again, I liked it.
"Hey grandpa," Jacob said.
I turned around. Jacob's grandfather had a smile on his face, hidden behind a thick mustache. He was a burly man; tall and stocky. If I were to guess what his profession was, it would probably be something along the lines of a football player. Or a wrestler. Both sports being illegal now, of course.
"This is Marie?" Jacob's grandfather asked. Jacob nodded.
"Have you got anything to say, girl?" Jacob's grandfather asked me. His voice was deep and soothing, like he didn't speak from his throat but from the warmth of his heart.
"Am I going to jail?" I asked. The three of them laughed.
-----
Marie couldn't quite pin it. Jacob had wrestled with it too, but he began to understand as he watched the world around him. They walked back home together, as they lived in the same neighborhood. But this time it was different. They walked, hand in hand, shoulders touching.
"It's like I can talk to you, Jacob," Marie suggested. "I can talk to you through my hugs."
"Right?"
"I can say sorry. I can say that I like you. I can say that I need you. Anything I want to. Through a hug."
"Yup."
Marie jumped as her phone vibrated in her pocket. In order to answer it, she would have had to let go of Jacob's hand.
For once, she concluded that it wasn't worth it. | 46 | Physical contact has been outlawed. Hug dealers tenderly embrace people in the dead of night and shady people hold hands in dark streets. | 80 |
"Come on!" he screams, his voice so high pitched I wonder if old people hear it as loud as I do. It's like those anti-young horns that make this annoying whistling sound.
I step in after him, and suddenly am faced with a six foot tall man comfortably putting on some heavy looking plate armor. His arms are as wide as my head but his face is still that of my eight year old brother. Unsettling.
"Gear up, brother; we cannot be slaves to exhaustion, for this war knows no sleep," he says, his voice too deep even for his barbarian's body.
I slowly step back out of the pillow fort.
Peering in I see my little bro, *still little*, waving a plastic sword in the air. There's barely enough room in the fort for him to even do that.
I step back in, the proud, kid-faced warrior is back.
The fort around us has transformed, too. The walls are made of old stone, some narrow windows clealy built in to use as archers' positions. Everything is *old*. I look at my brother, who finished pulling on his armor and is now warming up, swinging far and wide, but with obvious control over the giant two-handed sword he wields.
"I sense trouble in you, brother! Let some blood of dirt into our lands and you will find yourself rejuvenated!" he bellows and winks in between swings.
I'm not nearly composed enough to answer.
I just walk to one of the narrow windows and look out. An actual battle is raging outside. Blood sprays into the air, limbs are cut off. Men are dying. I think someone is summoning a firestorm in the distance.
I don't wait to die, but...
"Tell me, brother," I say in my best 'big man' voice, "my intuition tells me not to fight today."
He looks shocked. I continue.
"I believe I should learn the arcane arts, and let some fire rain on our opponents."
I smile, he smiles with his creepy kid face.
"Mother will be proud of you," he says before bursting into laughter.
Mother? This is going to be weird. | 14 | A young man decides to play along with his younger brother and follows him into his "fort" during a made-up game of war, only to find that once inside he is transported to an actual fort during an actual war | 33 |
“It tastes bitter, and kind of sweet. Like sugared pork meat.”
I know. I remember, too.
“I can still feel the bits and pieces in my mouth, rolling from one side to the other as I chewed on flesh and cartilage”, the
patient's voice oozes in my direction from the other side of the desk, and I can feel the taste in my mouth, too.
I remember.
“The worst part”, he begins, and I know what he's going to say. He misses it. It's what they all say. "Is that I miss it, doc. I miss the taste of human flesh. I miss the feeling.”
The feeling of ripping flesh out with teeth and the feeling of blood dripping down the mouth.
I say, I miss it, too. I say, it's natural, we are animals.
We were meant to have blood dripping down our mouths.
“They were my family, doctor, how can I forgive myself?” The patient says, and he cries as he says that.
I say I killed my family, too. I say we can't blame ourselves, we can't let guilt take over. I say we're animals, we were
meant to have blood dripping down our mouths.
“It felt good, to have no responsibilities. I didn't think, I didn't rationalize. I just walked, and I fed”, he says, rubbing his
hands against each other. "It felt good to be an...”
Animal, I complete. It felt good to return to our natural state, I say. It's understandable.
There's nothing wrong with it. Everyone went through this, during the pandemic, I say. Everyone killed and ate their
friends and their family, and we cannot blame ourselves. We weren't thinking.
Well, most of us.
I was never sick.
“You killed people, too, doc?”
I did, I say. My family, I ripped them apart and I ate them. And strangers on the streets, too.
I always wanted to.
The virus was just a get out of jail free card. A way for me to blend into the crowd.
We were meant to have blood dripping down our mouths. It's instinct, I say.
He gets up to leave, it's four already. We shake hands and he closes the door behind him.
Alone, I spin in my chair, looking around my room. God, I miss it. The chase, the first bites, the blood, the flesh and
the screams.
I think of all the other people who had the same urges I do, throughout history, that didn't have an epidemic to hide behind and pretend they didn't know what they were doing.
These people died in jail, in the chair. Awful.
I press the buzzer, calling the next patient in.
We are animals, I say, as soon as he walks inside, already crying.
We were meant to have blood dripping down our mouths.
_____________________
EDIT: Punctuation and stuff. Thanks for the replies, everybody! Also, if you haven't yet, check out [the scifi novel I'm working on](https://alpacareports.wordpress.com/angel-district/); it features sexy robots who listen to Bon Jovi and have to save the world from dystopian governments. | 1,026 | A cure is made for a zombies virus outbreak. Everyone who has been infected is cured, but they retain their hellish memories from their time as a zombie. You are a doctor (or psychologist) treating of of the cured for PTSD. | 1,272 |
Most people always tell me I have a gift. I usually see it the other way. I have the worst curse that this world has ever given anyone. I have the ability to relive moments of the past, not just my own personal moments, but *any* moment. I've been traveling back in time checking up on historical records for quite some time now. I've met some pretty amazing people in my life. I've also done some pretty terrible things. There are certain moments in history that simply shouldn't be changed. I travel to check records, but I lie to my employers often. They don't understand the importance of some events. For instance, when they asked me to find out who fired the first shot in the American Revolutionary War, I waited for hours, and both sides simply stood their ground. No one moved. Eventually I looked down and saw that a soldier had dropped his pistol while marching into position earlier. I picked it up, and fired it into the air. Someone had to do it. If no one did, the future wouldn't be the same. This wasn't the first time I had been the unnamed writer of history. I told my employers that the man was named Arnold Smith. It was the name engraved on the butt of the pistol I found. His name is now in history books, and is recognized as one of the founding fathers. That was my favorite mission. In all my travels, I had killed dictators, slain traitors, watched as some of the most powerful people who had ever lived died slowly due to illness, but this was the only mission that I got to make a change that felt right. This was the only time I had ever ignited a revolution. And damn it felt good. It hurts though, not being be able to tell anyone. Not being able to take another person with me as I travel. That's where the curse hurts the most. Of all the things that I've done and seen, being alone hurts exponentially more. I had witnessed Jesus's Crucifixion, watched Hitler as he personally executed Jews at a concentration camp, and I have even watched as the dinosaurs were buried under piles of ash. But nothing can ever compare to seeing these moments alone. | 18 | Years ago you discovered you have the ability to travel through time. Now you work for a historian association checking the facts of recorded history. What has been your favorite mission thus far? | 22 |
Most people assume we're actors. It makes sense; after all, you have to see to believe, right? But we are not actors. We are just individuals with an ability. We address ourselves as the shifters of reality, but most people know us as mimes.
It's a great gig, the street act. All we have to do lean against a wall, or sit on a box and people throw money at us. We have haters sure, but doesn't any group that fits outside the norm. Of course, the street is small time. Some of us work as bank robbers, hired mercs, or bodyguards.
We can create objects, pull from different planes of reality. We usually leave the objects shrouded, as to not arouse suspicion, but they are still real. Most people don’t think they exist, so they pass on through them. However, these creations can work as shields, for everything from fists to knives to bombs.
I was once a member of a team that would perform daring and dangerous heists, kidnappings, and assassinations. We worked for the highest bidder and killed ruthlessly. We created a name for ourselves, but after years of infamy, the group retired and went their separate ways.
So, dear reader, I beg of you this: The next time you see a silly man in black and white makeup, pretending to be stuck in a large box, just throw some change his way. After all, a mime is a terrible thing to waste. | 20 | Mimes aren't actors. They are really peoole with the ability to interact with objects that are out of phase with our reality. | 29 |
*Humans have evolved with three distinct genders. Gestials provide an egg that contains no genetic information, only the molecular machinery for replication and growth. Both the male and female to form a zygote must fertilize this egg. The gestials of the species have a frequency in the population of 8%--in traditional societies; they do not take life-long partners and are used by multiple pairs of males and females. Because they do not contribute to the genetics of the offspring, they have evolved with fewer secondary sex characteristics because indicating biological fitness is of lesser importance than for the males and females. They are tasked with carrying the fetus for the duration of the gestation period. All of a gestial's biological systems are geared toward the nourishment and protection of the developing embryo, but lacks the mammary ducts to feed a newborn of the species. Thus, the task of caring after a newborn is typically passed off to the maternal human. Gestials are smaller than both males and females, albeit heavier as they must have more stores of adipose tissue to supply the fetus' needs during pregnancy. Because most of their energy in growth is geared toward nurturing the gestation period, it is less advantageous for it to expend the biological effort to develop cogntive abilities on par with those of the other sexes. They tend to have shorter life spans, and their ancestors had to rely heavily on the males and females for protection. Families, and even societies as a whole, have evolved to collectively take care of gestials' basic needs and share them for reproduction. However, despite the increased liberties they received during the revolution in the United States during the 1960s, gestials continue to have fewer opportunities for education and advancement.*
I like Tuesdays. I don't have to go to school. I get to play with boys and girls from 3rd grade when they get done at lunchtime. They laugh a lot when they play, especially Bobby and Lydia. They are my best friends. We swing on the swingset until the sun goes down. Bobby likes to try to jump off the swing and see how far he can land, but Lydia and I are not that brave. He tells me I can be brave, but I don’t know. I am the one who pushes most of the time because I’m bigger.
Boys and girls my age are in 8th grade. When I try to play with them, they laugh a lot too, but they laugh at me instead. They talk about how slow I am to play tag and sometimes play tricks on me and tell me, "Sam, there are cookies at the top of the playground set." Then I climb up there and don't find any. They think it's funny but I don't think it's funny. The boys and girls in elementary school aren't like that. They're more like me except they laugh. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday it's just me and the other children like me. There aren't many of us, but we don't laugh as much. They don’t live near me either. Ms. Barden gets mad at us when we don't know the answers. I heard her say to another teacher she wishes she could teach the boys and girls instead and not at the Peartowne Gestial Learning Center. I tried harder than usual to understand my math that day, but I couldn't make her happy with me. I tried to skip count right, it's just sometimes I just get confused and forget the numbers even when I try not to. Ms. Barden said we don't really need to know math anyway.
I have an older brother and a younger sister. My brother’s name is Brock and my sister’s name is Jackie. We used to play together. I didn't know I was not like them then. Our mom used to come with us to feed the ducks at the pond in the middle of our neighborhood. I just go feed the ducks by myself now. I like the ducks. I told Jackie that ducks have good lives. They just swim and quack and eat bread when I throw it to them. They don’t have math homework to do and they can just be happy. She smiled and said that I’m already halfway there because I like bread just as much as a duck. She was talking about how much I eat and how heavy I’m getting and it made me sad. She saw I was starting to cry even though I didn’t want to. She quickly put her arms around me and said she didn’t mean it that way. I know she didn’t. Jackie is nicest girl in the world. She wiped the tears out of my eyes with her scarf and held my hand as we walked home. I went to my room in the basement and looked in my mirror. The other children’s faces change to be more like a grownup woman or a grownup man, but not mine. It looks the same, just rounder each time I see it. The eyes seem to get smaller and smaller as my cheeks make them squinty. I try not to see my face. I don’t like big windows where you can see your reflection.
Brock wants to be a soccer player when he’s older. He’s doesn’t talk to me now as much as Jackie does. Everyone likes him. When we were younger with were kicking the ball together in the backyard and he said, “Sam, let’s see who can hit the big ol’ oak tree from by the shed first.” He shot at it and missed. When I shot I kicked it as hard as my short leg could and it hit the tree somehow. Brock’s cheeks turned red and that’s when he told me that Mom said she had “lost the odds” when she had me. I didn’t know that before. He looked like he might cry because he told me, but he went into the shed and didn’t come out. He doesn’t talk to me now as much as Jackie does.
I’m glad it’s Tuesday. I wait at the playground for Bobby and Lydia to get here after they eat lunch. I get on the swings and try to make myself swing, but it’s hard. Bobby and Lydia finally come running up to the playground. I’m excited to see them and call them over to push me. They giggle and look at each other as they come toward the swing set. I tell Bobby to come give me a push. I tell him I’m feeling brave and I think I might try a small jump today. Bobby and Lydia stay in the same place, still smiling. Bobby and Lydia look at each other again. He blurts out suddenly, “I can’t play! I’m going to be a big boy now so I can’t play with gestials so we’re not friends anymore, Sam!” Lydia nods giggles in agreement and they start running back to their houses. I’m crying. My tears make the world blurry and I can hear myself screaming. If they leave I will have no more friends. They won’t come back even when I beg for them to. I feel my palms hit the dirt as I fall out of my swing. I run to the only place I know to go. I move my legs as fast as they can go. The world still looks blurry when I get to the pond. I run out onto the little dock and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. I get down and cut hands and knees and look over the edge into the water. I see my round face and small, sad eyes looking back at me. I cry again. I don’t want to be a gestial. I wish I could just be a duck and swim and eat bread and have friends and be happy. I take off my shoes and put my feet in the cool water. Yes, if only I could be a duck and not a gestial. I ease myself forward but my hand slips on the dock. I feel the coolness all around me and I can’t hear my sobbing. I don’t know how to swim.
| 11 | You are growing up in a world where humanity had evolved into three different genders instead of just two. | 24 |
Thick globs of gravy and sour cream run down the front of my hoodie. French fries sit in my lap. Maureen balls up her napkins and hands them to me in a wad. I wipe fast. It's going to stain.
"Shit. Crissie, I am so sorry," says James, standing to my side. He sets the empty plastic tray on the table.
"It's fine." I say.
"It's not dry clean only, is it?" James asks. "I can pay the cleaning bill if you want."
"What? No, shut up." I say. "It was an accident."
The mall is a stampede today, one of the few Saturdays left before the holidays. The speaker system is on its third version of *Rocking Around the Christmas Tree* in the last hour. My stomach is at a dull roar. 'Fries By a Mile' still has the shortest line of any place in the food court, but another order would be another ten minutes of waiting at least. I give up on self-cleaning and start eating the remnants of the food from my jeans. Maureen rolls her eyes.
"It's not like they hit the floor," I say.
The Christmas music cuts off abruptly. Most people don't seem to notice. The conversations, cash registers, and bustling crowds are enough noise on their own.
"I guess someone hit a wrong button," says Maureen, shrugging.
It's a few moments before another song starts playing. This one is louder. It's not a Christmas song though.
*Woah a oh oh, it's always a good time.*
"Not exactly seasonal" says James.
"Nothing against this song, but didn't they finally just stop playing this on the radio?" I ask.
Two tables away from us, a man in Raybans and a striped t-shirt abruptly jumps up and stands on top of his chair. He begins mouthing along to the music.
*Woke up on the right side of the bed. What's up with this Prince song inside my head. Hands up if you're down to get down tonight. Cause it's always a good time.*
"What?" I ask, laughing.
Across the food court, a young woman in a blue sweatshirt jumps up on her own chair. People are starting to look over now.
*Slept in all my clothes like I didn't care. Hopped in to a cab take me anywhere. I'm in if you're down to get down tonight. Cause it's always a good time.*
"Oh God, it's a flashmob," says Maureen.
"They still do those?" asks James.
Throughout the food court, people at different tables begin raising their arms in slow motion. They sway in unison, their whole torsos leaning from one side to the other.
*Good morning, and good night. I wake up at twilight. It's gonna be alright. We don't even have to try. It's always a good time.*
An audience starts to form. People have out their cell phones. James is reaching frantically for his. As the chorus begins, more people join in the song.
*Woah-a-oh-oh, it's always a good time. Woah-a-oh-oh, it's always a good time.*
The man and the woman on the chairs jump down and spin towards each other. They do cartwheels. The audience cheers. The rest of the dancers begin forming a circle in the center of the food court. They push tables away and clap, shimmying back and forth in a perfect syncronized motion.
*Freaked out, dropped my phone in the pool again. Checked out of my room, hit the ATM. Let's hang out if you're down to get down tonight.*
The cashiers at 'Bagel Bar' and 'Sadie's Salads' do handstands over their counters on direct opposite sides of the food court and beginning bobbing towards the group. Another cheer from the audience.
"Oh wow," I say. "I've never actually seen one of these in person."
The circle of dancers ducks down as the two original performers jump over them and into the center of the circle.
*Good morning, and good night. I wake up at twilight. It's gonna be alright. We don't even have to try. It's always a good time.*
More patrons jump up from their chairs and begin pumping their fists in the air, keeping their moves in time with each other. Maureen is one of them.
"Oh my god," says James. "you sneak. Ha ha."
She begins backing away from the table, lip syncing. I'm about to start laughing with James, but something in Maureen's expression gives me pause. Her eyes are too wide. She's not slowing down as she backs up. She and about five other new dancers tuck and do backward summersaults as they head toward the circle.
"Oh man," says James. "I thought she dropped gymnastics years ago."
"She did," I say. "At least, I think she did."
The audience keeps growing, as does the crowd of dancers. A woman with grey hair and a middle aged man in a fanny pack do splits on top of separate tables. Six men in business suits form a human pyramid. A woman in a 'Soup Coop' uniform springs from the floor and leaps on top, holding herself up one handed for a full five seconds, before dropping back down. I lose sight of Maureen somewhere in the shuffle.
Something's not right.
"We should go," I say.
"What? What are you talking about?" asks James. "This is amazing."
The circle of dancers in the center is getting larger. Two janitors at separate ends of the food court jump in the air, performing roundhouse kicks with remarkable symmetry. They toss away their mops, which are quickly caught by the other dancers and thrust up like batons, then thrown into the circle. Everything is heading into the circle, though I can't actually see what's inside anymore.
"This is...no. It's off somehow." I say. "Just, please. We need to go now."
But when I turn back to James he's already gone. I see him weaving toward the center. Shoulders shaking, arms pumping. I try to catch up to him, to pull him back, but he won't stop. He pulls away. I see the look on his face. It's fear.
I back away, a sense of dread rising in my chest. The audience is getting thicker. They continue to cheer. I need to get away now. I look for an opening, but there isn't one. I'll have to push through.
I start to run.
Only, as I look down, I realize I'm not running. I'm grapevining. | 62 | You are at a mall with some friends. A flash mob begins to form. You are having fun watching until one of your friends joins in, glancing at you with terror in her eyes. | 64 |
I'm not like my family. They can sing and I can't. They come into the world small and grow bigger. I came into the world the same way I am now, but I've grown bigger in other ways. I love my family. I fight the tentacles off and help hunt for my friends. They have mouths and eat things; I don't. They need me while they dream and eat. I have brightness. I fight the darkness. I keep it and the things in it away.
I feel different from them sometimes. I can't do things that they do. I think I may have come from another place, another family. But I love this one, they are all I need. I will swim with them forever.
But thoughts that aren't mine have been flooding my head lately. I don't like them. I can't really understand them, but I feel like the thoughts are telling me to go somewhere. They want me to go up, I think. Up towards the other brightness. I don't want to do that. I want to stay with my family and be their brightness.
The thoughts are stronger now. I am fighting the darkness and the tentacles and the thoughts. It is hard, and my family sees my pain. They sing for me, circling me and brushing against me. I can feel their love. I can feel it, and it is so much brighter than anything I could make on my own.
But I can't fight the thoughts any longer. I feel myself swimming up, up. Up to the brightness above. My family awakens and sings and cries for me. I try to cry back but I can't. I shine my brightness down to them; I can see them in a panic, their eyes big and worried. I can't stop going up. I shine for my family but the brightness above starts to block me out.
I see a shape above. The thoughts are telling me to go to it. The thoughts are louder. Below me, I see my family. They are singing for me. I am afraid of the shape, but my family says I will be okay. That I will come back to them. I try to shine for them one more time before I meet the shape.
One day, I'll come back. I'll keep the darkness away again. I'll do it for my family. | 14 | the worlds first autonomous unmanned submarine encounters an error becomes lost and is raised by whales. | 26 |
My entire life has been spent with people that look just like me. Sometimes, when I sleep I dream about people that look different, that have different parts. When I have those dreams I wake up with either an erection or covered in what can only be described as slime.
I asked my teachers about the dreams and they disregarded them as pure fantasy, but my father believes that something is wrong. He questions everything so I don't typically listen, but I am curious about his views for this.
"I don't have a son!" My father shouted. "How can I have a son? He didn't come from my body!"
I never knew who he was shouting at, his fanatical rants scared me. It was like he was trying to summon the wrath of God. As if provoking him enough would cause him to appear and answer my father's questions.
"I had another dream, dad. With the 'slime.'" I said ashamed.
"Stop calling me that, I'm not your father. Don't you see, they are trying to control us."
"Who, dad?"
"The men in the white coats. They take us when we sleep, do things with our bodies, then place us back in our beds like a dream."
I wasn't old enough for their experiments he would explain, and that I was safe, until now. Now that the dreams had come I was no longer free of their gaze.
"They can see your dreams, they know what you are thinking..." My father carried on.
"Why do you always say that I am not yours?" I finally built up the courage to ask him.
"When they take us, they use our bodies, but my body doesn't produce semen."
"What is "semen?" I asked embarrassed.
"It is the fluid your body produces to make a baby." He replied condescendingly.
"How do you know all of this?"
"Because I have been there, to the white room, they tried to use me, but they said I was no good. I was defective, I was supposed to be unconscious but I was awake."
His stories scared me to death, but he mentioned seeing the people I saw in my dreams. Their chests had large round protrusions, seeing them made him "aroused." He used words I was unfamiliar with, I thought it was because I was a child but other adults were unfamiliar with them, too.
My father continued his rants and threats to the "Gods" each day. I never spoke about this at school, but some kids, their parents, knew. It is hard to hide the fact that your parent is crazy.
After months of dreams, I awoke one night to my father frantically shoving me. "Wake up boy!" He said in a scared and hushed voice. "They are here and I think they are coming for you this time." He handed me a bag filled with clothes and some food. "Go! Run and don't come back here."
I thought he was just trying to get rid of me. As if he was tired of taking care of me. Before I could get my shoes on I hear my father shouting at someone at the top of his lungs. Panicked now, I frantically attempt to get my shoes on in the dark. Struggling with the laces I hear a noise then my father making a grunting sound then a thump.
I can only imagine it is his body hitting the floor. Suddenly men burst into my room wearing all white. They have masks on that prevent me from seeing their faces but the leaders voice sounds different. It is higher than the others, hearing the voice calms me slightly until they throw me into a vehicle and shackle me in.
Terrified I began to cry. I had no idea what to think, my father was dead, it was cold in this vehicle and I was scared.
"Relax kid, this will be over before you know it." One of the men said to me. It was, because I awoke in my bed just like my father said had happened to him.
Without a father I was sent to live with an uncle. My uncle wasn't crazy, though I couldn't recall my father having a brother. At least, he never mentioned having a brother. My uncle was respected in the town and school was a lot calmer. The next dream I had was nightmarish. The men stripped me naked, examined me, washed me, then put me in a room where I fell asleep. Brief flashes of a figure that looked like me but their hair was different, their features softer, like in my "semen" dreams before.
I didn't talk about my experience with anyone, having seen what happened to my father. I kept to myself, mostly. One day, during the winter, it began to snow and I noticed that the snow seemed to stop in the air. I had never witnessed something so peculiar. I approached the area where the snow seemed to stop. Before I could make it close enough to investigate I was called away by my uncle.
He warned me to stay away. "Terrible things happened to the last person that went over there." His warning didn't scare me, I had already experienced the wrath of the "Gods" and I wasn't afraid any more. Cloudy as my dreams had become I no longer experienced fear when thinking about what happened. Mostly, I felt anger. After years of stories I decide to see for myself if what they say is true. Is there a barrier separating us from another culture?
My uncle left for work one weekend. Instead of doing my chores like he requested I decided to investigate the bizarre "barrier" that kept the snow from falling there. From my perspective it looked like the woods went on for miles. Snow was on the ground in the wooded area, and I could see animals wandering around, but it never snowed there. I reached my hand out and something shimmered as I came in contact with it.
Becoming bolder and more curious I attempted for several hours different ways to touch and contact the shimmering "wall." After some time I discovered that it went on for a long time but only in a straight line along a path. I didn't need to go too far to realize that it wasn't natural. I stumbled upon some fallen branches and fell into a ditch.
When I gained my footing again I noticed that the scenery was different. The same but somehow different. It was still winter, but instead of seeing the snow fall around me it stopped right in front of me.
"What are you doing?" Someone asked. The voice was very high and it sounded like a young boy. When I turned to see who it was I noticed immediately that it was no boy I had ever seen. His hair had been pulled straight back so that it was tight upon the forehead and dangled like a horse's tail in the back. "I...I think I am lost." I responded as best I could. Still shocked by what I was seeing.
I think they were shocked too. I looked nothing like them. My hair was short, very short. It was the typical style we wore. We? What did that mean anymore? Who was we, now? I realized I had fallen in the snow and was covered in the white powder. I was beginning to shiver when they ran off shouting for their "momma."
I had never heard of a "momma." I very much wanted to know what that was so I followed after them. As I approached their house I noticed that everything about their living style was different. Instead of cars and computers there were some type of animal. I began to wonder what else of the world had been kept from me. On the computers we could search for things, but none of what I was seeing ever showed up on my computer.
A taller person, their face was so beautiful, came outside to see what the shouting was about. I stood there in awe of the sight. They stood there in shock. Whether they had seen a boy before was unlikely, unless this person had been taken by the "Gods" as well.
"Come in child, you must be freezing." The person said in a high voice. "Lets get your coat off and get you near the fire to warm up."
I hadn't experienced kindness like this before. It felt so comfortable, like I was really home. They shared their dinner with me and then the littler people asked their "momma" if I could stay with them. I was too nervous to speak up. The shear overwhelming sensation from this even was clearly still sinking into the "momma's" head because they were not given an answer right away. When they were it seemed insincere.
In the middle of the night I was awakened again by the men in white. This time I didn't go to the room with the bright light. I don't recall much after being taken, I awoke at my uncle's house. He was different somehow. Older. All he said was, "Welcome back." | 40 | Half of the world is all women and the other half, men. They don't know it. A huge wall barrier divides the sides and is controlled by a few immortal scientist. You find your way to the other side. | 40 |
*huh?*, Sisyphus questioned as the boulder stayed in place.
*I really should have thought about rolling it forward after I got it to the top...*
A sense of embarrassed pride struck him as he grinned. His punishment is served.
Sisyphus made his way back down the hill and took a nap under a nearby pine. His dreams were plain but they filled him with dread. Pushing the boulder up the hill, watching it roll down, pushing it back up, watching it roll down. The sounds were the same for several centuries but as he pushed the boulder up the small rocks and plant life were crushed to a fine dust. As with that, even those familiar noises were gone.
He tried to shirk his duties one day, as soon as the thought struck him, all the bones in his body were painfully crushed like glass only to be healed instantly. This like most else in his life was a repetition. The pain became numbness, the memories which made him happy became hazy. However, the only connection he has had in the last 5,000 years was with that boulder.
What could Sisyphus do now that the boulder stayed in place?
Sisyphus woke from his dreadful dreams.
*this is absurd* Sisyphus thought to himself, *5,000 years ago, I would have taken the world on my shoulders for this opportunity.*
He looked at the vast expanses of the beautiful landscape surrounding him. Animals were roaming, the sky was cloudy and a light rain fell, washing Sisyphus clean of dirt and blood.
Sisyphus looked around one last time before he made his way back up the hill along the trail the boulder made. At the top he looked at the large rock, and glanced at the bottom of the hill before finally giving the boulder a small push.
As it rolled down the hill, Sisyphus smiled.
| 11 | Sisyphus finally manages to roll the boulder to the top of the hill. | 20 |
Nothing would stop me now. For the entirety of my life, I had been complacent with this selfish shell of a man nearly all my life, and I could not take the abuse anymore.
I gave him everything, my devotion, my trust, my friendship, and he took all for granted like, like I owed him something. I used to believe that I did, I really did. Youth makes us ignorant and forgiving. He had to die.
I carefully planned how it would occur over weeks, going over every detail, every different possibility, anything that could possibly go wrong, all while I was still working for his bottom line. there was just one thing left to plan: how I would do it.
Any plans to make it look like an accident died quickly. I wanted people to know that his avarice and monomaniacal bullshit was his undoing. I can't lie myself, I just wanted to see him squirm like the fucking bottomfeeder he was. Hammer. No doubt.
It happened at night, no one else in sight, but even if there were, I didn't mind. Working is always funner with an audience. So much planning, so much preparation, and I just did it in the spur of the moment. I took the rusted bastard from my pocket and struck him right in the jaw, and he fell like a goddamn sack of potatoes to the ground.
He just stared at me with his stupid looking face. I saved that for last. I just hit him over and over again, cracking the bitch bit by bit. With each hit, he was red all over.
Before I nailed the pig in the head, I looked deep into eyes and his black soul, and with a smile I said, "Are you feeling it now, Mr. Krabs?"
| 45 | Kill off your favorite fictional character. | 53 |
Overlord Kennith looked down upon Silicon Valley from the new Google World Headquarters. Most of Silicon Valley was painted in bright, alternating colors, a reminder of the control Google had over the world. The world really was his. He had governments eating out of his pockets. Half of the world's economy flowed through companies owned or influenced by Google. He had the power to influence almost any market and participated on most of them.
This is his legacy. When he came to power at the young age of 25, Google was big, but nothing like it was now. It was mostly just a search engine known for the occasional technological breakthrough. But now it is so much more. Google supplied AI police that enforced the laws at the company's choosings. Most of the militaries of the world used Google weaponry, which had backdoors for us to choose the winner.
We have purposely slowed the evolution of technology to ensure that the economy still depends on spending money. At the pace that we've advanced, we should have left that idea behind decades ago. But that doesn't suit us. There's power in dependency.
Kennith heard the telltale beep of one of his secretaries attempting to message him.
"Sir, Pakistan is requesting permission to start yet another war with India," the secretary said. Kennith had several layers of secretaries. The highest being the most complicated AIs ever created, literally capable of thinking like he would, determining exactly what information is of interest to him and taking initiative on smaller manners.
"What are they offering?"
"75 mega-googles."
"Give them the standard conventional war package. Offer India a counter-attack for double that. Offer Pakistan a nuclear-armed rogue group for another 100 mega-googles."
Kennith turned to the large map in his office. It showed the real-time progress of the world. Things moved faster under his control. Immediately, lights started indicating conflict on the Pakistan-Indian border.
*Wonderful*, he thought, *they've opted to buy the nuclear package*. | 21 | Google's motto used to be "don't be evil." This is no longer true. | 56 |
Johnny pulled up to the park in his car. He double checked his beard in the rear view mirror. It was perfect. His hat, perfect. He got out of the car. His suit was impeccably ironed, every crease flawless. He had gone over the text of the speech a thousand times. He was ready.
As the newly elected President Lincoln of the Gettysburg Address Recreation Society, it was his job to make sure that he delivered the PERFECT Gettysburg Address. If he didn't, there was going to be hell to pay from the rest of the members. He certainly was a little nervous, being that he was following up Abe, probably the best Lincoln the society ever had. Come on, even his name was perfect. It didn't matter, though. This was his time to shine.
He started walking towards the gazebo that was reserved for the day. There were *ten* people there. TEN! Johnny's buddy Mark was in charge of sending out invites
"Where the hell is everybody?!", yelled Johnny. There was no way his moment in the sun was going to be ruined by poor attendance.
"Let's see", Mark explained, "Bobby and Sammy have the flu. Joel is moving into his new apartment. Warren had some kind of zumba swing dance class thing going on, I don't know. Brenda, Susie, and Maxine got into this HUGE fight last night, and none of them wanted to see the others today..."
"What about the invites?! Facebook? Twitter?"
"I sent them out! 3:00 on Saturday the...Hold on..."
Mark pulled out his phone, then banged his head forehead with his palm in frustation. "STUPID!", he yelled out.
"What?!", Johnny yelled.
"Well, it seems that I accidentally sent out the invites for *next* Saturday by mistake"
"God damn it!". Johnny was furious. He knew he shouldn't have put Mark in charge of attendance. Mark was ALWAYS making some boneheaded mistake like this. That's why the society thought he was the worst Lincoln ever. During his one Gettysburg speech, he began with "Four score and seven days ago". What a dumbass.
Johnny was determined to move on, though. He spent an hour getting ready today, and there was no way he was going to cancel his speech just because of paltry attendance. "Fuck it! Let's go!" he yelled.
"Uhhh, Johnny?"
"What is it, Mark?!"
"You might want to take a look behind you"
The I have a Dreamers just showed up. They recreated Martin Luther King Jr's "I Have a Dream" speech. They were damn good, too. They won best speech recreation at HistoryCon for three years straight.
"Good evening, gentleman". Marcus was the president of the I Have a Dreamers. He did the best Martin Luther King Jr. that Johnny had ever seen.
Johnny was elated! There had to be at least 100 people with him. It wasn't quite the 15,000 that was at the original Gettysburg Address, but it was sure better than ten. The I have a Dreamers must have the next reservation after them.
"Marcus, awesome! Listen, do you think you could give me some crowd members for my Gettysburg address? We're a little short."
"What the fuck you are talking about?!", Marcus yelled. "WE have this gazebo reserved for 3:00!"
"Umm, I think you made a mistake. We have this gazebo reserved for 3:00. Do you have your gazebo reservation form?"
"Fuck you, that's my gazebo reservation form! Do you think we're going be crowd members for YOUR pathetic little speech?! How many black people do you think were at the fucking Gettysburg Address?!"
"Look, no need to be hostile, Marcus." Johnny's voice was noticeably cracking. "Come on, Lincoln DID free the slaves, so it looks like you kinda owe us one, hehe..."
"Oh, FUCK YOU!", yelled Marcus as he ran at Johnny.
Three blocks away, Tony was on the second floor of his studio apartment, looking at the chaos ensue at the park through his binoculars. His sister was the secretary of the parks department, and she purposefully double booked the gazebo for 3:00 that afternoon. She was also a perfect Jackie Kennedy. "HA!", he cackled. "Even better than I thought it would be." The JFK Assassination League was going to dominate HistoryCon this year, he knew it. He made sure everything was ready.
"Gary, you there?"
"Yeah, Tony"
"Street blocked off?"
"Yep, just blocked it off a couple minutes ago"
"Is the president ready?"
"The president is ready. Everything is good to go"
"OK, Let's get this rolling"
He grabbed his rifle and made sure that there were caps in it. He didn't want to have to restart, like last time. He opened up the window and aimed. The black convertible turned the corner and slowly went down the street... | 12 | History as become as popular as fiction, and a multitude of fandoms have formed for different historical events. | 39 |
It’s not some sappy sad sob story, it’s true ok? I’m for real right now, I don’t care if you believe me or if you understand or whatever. I think this toward the cars that drive by, daring them to stop and roll down their windows or peer through the tinted glass at the crying 21-year-old boy smoking a cigarette on his porch on a drizzling Sunday morning. They’re going to church, why else would anyone be up at eight thirty?
Unless, last night, they texted their girlfriend they were alone at home and she replied, “I’m coming over.” Unless, last night, they had the culminating talk in a series of talks, that led to a long silence punctuated by deep breaths, unless they got in her car and went to her place because the roommates awkwardly got home and she wanted somewhere to be alone, and they went to her room and shut the door so they could keep talking. Unless they stayed there all night with her, dozing off occasionally but talking in mumbles about weren’t we great together and didn’t we have good times, it’s really too bad about the timing though. Maybe if we’d met later, like next semester, or if we were different people.
I don’t remember the last time I cried. It feels different than I thought it would, like as you’re doing it you’re not even thinking about crying, your mind is somewhere a hundred miles away and, incidentally, your face is crying at the same time. I’ve never smoked alone, and I’ve never smoked anytime but late at night. Another car drives by. I was about to go to Walmart last night before I texted her – I’ve been out of toothpaste for two days and I was going to go last night but I texted her first.
The familiar up-all-night tiredness hasn’t set in yet. One time last night while she’d slumped down next to me in her bed, asleep for a while, I looked at the white moonlight that dropped in horizontal bars across her face, serrated by the parted, angled shades on her bedroom window. I could smell her hair; it splayed over the pillow so she looked like she was underwater, frozen. The statue-esque calm of her face artistically contrasted by the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
I feel the now-familiar warmth on the backs of my first two fingers as the cigarette burns toward its filter. I take a final pull and flick it theatrically into the yard, glaring at a car sloshing by through the brown curbside puddle. Its taillights waver in my watery vision.
I met her at a dance, and we danced every song together all night, on accident, without noticing. We’d walked around the neighborhood holding hands for the rest of the night and watched the sunrise from my roof. This morning when she dropped me off we’d sat in the car, silent, as the green, squared clock numbers moved from 8:14 to 8:21, then I moved to kiss her on the cheek, didn’t, and got out of the car and shut the door and looked at her not looking at me through the window and its spattering of immobile raindrops. I walked up to the porch, heroically refusing to look back as I listened to her pull away, fade into the sounds of the early morning.
Went inside and got cigarettes, stood on the porch, cried. Crying. It starts in my chest, a hollow, gasping pulsation that clutches my throat and contorts my face. Tears are a final expulsion of a tense, full-body endeavor. My mouth tastes dry and like tar and I’m still out of toothpaste.
In my mind: I snatch up a folding lawn chair by its blue armrest and hurl it into the yard, stride to it and pick it up and throw it into a car driving past. The driver climbs out yelling and we fight in the street, brutally.
In my mind: I turn, open the door, go inside, wash my smoke-smelling hands and brush my foul-tasting mouth with my roommate’s toothpaste, get into bed and fade, for days.
Another few cars, a gust of wind. Slowly, my arms and legs engage in a sympathetic collaboration to lower me into the worn blue lawn chair. All I can think about is her, what’s she doing, is she okay. Sitting, crying, head in hands, staring: it feels like I’m waiting for something important to happen. I should go inside, it’s wet and on the verge of cold. I should stand up, stop crying, and go inside. I should.
It feels like defeat, a somehow heavily symbolic action. I’m not suddenly a man, I haven’t lost my innocence or discovered a truth of life. I’ve had my heart broken is all. I wander through the house toward my bed, but in a way I’m still waiting on the porch. I take off my shoes slowly, methodically, but my eyes are still squinting against the sunrise, my ears listening to cars hissing by on their way to various churches, the corners of my mouth tasting tears and smoke.
It’s been two weeks and I still see moonlit bars and green dashboard clocks, still smell her hair and hear her tires grinding away behind me. The point isn’t that, two weeks later, I suddenly discovered what I was waiting for on the porch that morning. The point is that, two weeks later, I’m still not sure I’m ready to come inside. I should. But I’m waiting.
| 37 | Write the farewell of two best friends that know they will never see each other again. | 30 |
From: [email protected]
Message: We know...
“Send, send.” Mark says, between giggles. I press the button, and off the e-mail goes.
“He's gonna be so freaked”, I say, muffling my laughter as I notice the Director stepping out of the elevator.
A couple of hours later, Mark comes to see me in my desk, for the second part of the prank.
We open the anonymail service again and write the second one:
“From: [email protected]
Message: ...that u like d1ck.
“Send, send” He says, and I hit the send button.
___________________________________
The next day, we send Fred a proper e-mail, claiming authorship for the prank, explaining everything.
Fred's stationed in Brazil, working undercover on some stuff inside the local government, we're not even sure what it is.
Anyway. That's the joke. That was the idea, anyway; a little scare, then a dick joke.
The Director stops by my desk. “Jim, have you heard anything about agent Ferguson?”
“Ferguson?”
“Fred.”
“Oh. No, why?” I say, a weird feeling in my stomach.
“He stopped sending his reports and is not responding contact since last night.”
“Oh...”
____________________________________
The next few days, Mark is sick, so I'm all alone at work.
________________________________
“President Obama is meeting with ambassador Williams in São Paulo, along with external affairs representative Roberto
Silva. The Brazilian representative is demanding explanations in regards to what is being referred to as “a giant disrespect of
the International Cooperation Agreement, and a violation of the country's sovereignty”, following the exposure of CIA agent Fred Ferguson's
suicide letter, detailing a secret, illegal spying operation happening inside the highest rank levels of the Brazilian
government.”
I take a sip of my coffee, drumming my fingers nervously against my outer thigh.
_________________________________________
“Pull everybody out. Now.” The Director roars, crossing the room in loud steps. “I want every spy, agent, mole; everyone
who's working undercover in every country removed and shipped back to the US within the day.”
“Sir, the consequences of --”
“I don't care! The clusterfuck that this Brazil situation has become has gone way out of control.” The Director says. “I
have the president on one line, the Brazilian president on the other and the U.N. secretary general on Skype in my
office.” He says, getting behind the door of his office. “Shit is hitting the fan and we're all right under it" he says, slamming the door.
From my desk, I sip the coffee, trying to avoid looking at anyone around me.
________________________________________________
On the TV, a news reporter speaks from the middle of a riot.
“The Brazilian democratic government has been overthrown today, after being unable to cope with the civil unrest
unleashed by recent surfacing of documents proving that a spying operation had been going on inside the country under the
president's nose. The future of the country is uncertain now, with talks of military taking over and even possible Martial Law.”
From my desk, I sip my coffee.
______________________________________________
“The Brazilian military government has declared war against the United States. People from all over the world protest and
take to the streets against what is being called both an 'exaggerated reaction' and 'an appropriate response to serious
violations of authority within the country's borders'. France and Russia declared unrestricted support to the South
American country, while Germany and England have already deployed troops to a military base in Panama City, in support of the US cause. Tensions
rose last night in the south as Argentina refused to offer marine troops a right of passage, and the Mercosul countries collectively signed an embargo against all supporters of U.S. activities, effective immediately. Investors all over the world are reacting badly, with the stock markets from the US and most European countries plummeting to record lows.”
___________________________
The next day, Mark's back. He makes his way around the room to my desk.
“Hey bro, what's going on?”
“Hm...”
Why are you shaking?”
“Too much coffee.”
He takes his seat on the desk next to me, switching his computer on.
“Hey, have heard anything back from Fred yet?”
I sip the coffee, smacking my lips quietly.
“No, not yet.” I say.
| 138 | CIA April fools joke gets out of hand. | 184 |
"Wake up, Billy! Wake up! Ball throw! Throw ball. I get ball! Ready! Ball throw Billy!
"I can't, Buddy. I have to go to school."
"Buddy come to school? I love school. I get pets. Buddy get school? I love pets."
"No Buddy. You can't come to school today."
"Okay. Dad, dad, ball throw! Food! Throw food! Ball?"
"Sorry buddy, I've got to drive Billy to school then I have to go to work. And no, you can't go to work either. I've got a presentation today."
"No ball throw?"
"Not this morning. But i'll tell you what, if you see that Billy gets home safe, we can play fetch tonight. Sound good?"
"Wooo fetch. Ball throw. I love ball throw. Buddy be good boy?'
"Yes Buddy, you're a good boy. Ready Billy? Okay let's go. Be good buddy."
"I'm a good boy. Buddy be good. Play throw ball."
*Where Billy? Gone forever. Hope he come back soon. Miss Billy.*
*Want play ball throw. SQUIRREL! Food. Hungry.*
*Billy? No loud fat mom next door. No play ball throw. Woman*
*Billy? BILLY!*
"BILLY! Oh boy oh boy Billy home!!. Pets! I love Billy. I love Billy pets! Billy pets the best! Who's that? Who's with billy?
*I don't like him. Smell mean. Bad man. Must warn Billy.*
"Hey Buddy! I'm home want to play fe-what are you doing?"
"Stop bad man, Billy. Bad man no good. Bad man has stick. No want play throw stick. OUCH!! Loud sound hurt ears! Billy, why does my side hurt?"
"Buddy!! Oh my god, are you okay?"
"Buddy good boy? Buddy make bad man run away? Buddy good boy?"
"Yeah, Buddy. You made bad man run away. You're a good boy."
"I'm a good...boy...." | 140 | What if dogs could talk like humans, but still only had the thinking ability of dogs? | 104 |
Two children on the playground played-
One built his buildings out of blocks.
The other, not a fan of shade
did sculpt the sand from out his box.
A bully tromped across the ground
and wandered out into the sun.
Sandcastles did he then knock down
and send that child on the run.
The boy with blocks picked up his head
and heard a cry to still the soul.
'That bully braggart', thought he then,
'would eat up all the playground, whole!'
Two children on the playground played-
One helped the other fight his foe.
Our bully felt that very day
The sting of vicious knockout blows.
The boy with blocks did raise his fists
and dance about the cool, green field:
'The bully's gone, and by my wits
I'll see another's *not* revealed!'
And as that boy did saunter 'round
The boy in sand did watch him stroll.
With narrowed eyes, a thought he found:
'Could not *he* eat the playground, whole?'
Two children on the playground played-
One built his buildings out of blocks
The other, on a sunny day,
Did fell them all with vicious knocks.
The builder boy, in startled tears
did shriek a shriek to still the soul.
The other boy, with coward's fear
Did race to hide in hill or hole.
The builder's sobs turned into growls
and made he vicious, trembling fists.
He stood, to track his playmate down
and make a lesson out of this.
The sand did stir within the box
and castles, grand, turned into clay.
A grain for grain, a block for block:
Two children on the playground played.
.
.
EDIT: Many thanks for the gold, kind stranger!
| 267 | The original stories behind a lot of our fairytales are a lot darker than the versions we tell children. Take a really dark story (fictional or not) and water it down into a children's fairytale. | 276 |
It was a day unlike any other, the day I'll never forget, but to find out why we must go back to the beginning...
Every day I sit in the forest by the school. They all know my tree, they call it the tree of whispers. People come to me and tell me their secrets. I can't tell you why they do it, only that I never tell them to anyone, but they do... Perhaps it's a desire to sate their need for attention, or maybe they do it to feel like someone listens. Like someone cares.
Today was no different at first, I was sitting at the tree of whispers with my notebook. I had been trying to draw the tree across the river for some time now. The water poured over the rocks peacefully, the leaves blew in the wind with a soft sigh.
"So you're here..." A voice spoke from behind me. I didn't turn to see, after all I had a reputation to maintain.
"I am... What have you come to tell me?" I remained drawing, feigning disinterest. He sat down next to me, fiddling his thumbs. You could tell he was going to tell me a big one, some were confident, some were hesitant, but all eventually spat it out.
"I... Don't know where to begin." He stared at me, face down, eyes up... A look of defiance. I put down my notebook, giving him a smile. They liked when I did that, it made them feel like I was a friend, how feeble they all are...
"You can tell me, Jacob... You know you can." I reached forward and put a finger under his chin, raising his face so that he was on level with myself.
"I... I like Justin Beiber." He started to cry, I could not believe it. For once in my life, I packed up my things and left, I had to tell someone. I could not allow this fiend to exist in my presence any longer. I heard faint cries behind me, "Please noooooooo".
I whispered under my breath... "Rekt mate." | 19 | You have a reputation for never telling a secret, no matter what the circumstances. People come to you to tell you their most hidden secrets. After countless times, you've finally gotten one that you can't keep to yourself. | 23 |
The Rocky Mountain Institute for Magical Talents had been founded when witches and wizards ventured West, seeking asylum from the trials in Salem. This would be the second school opened in North America, accepting students from Western Canada and America. Locations for the school have been presumed to be in the vicinity of the muggle Glacier National Park.
Witches and wizards in this region inhabit the remote parts of the mountain range, where all magical villages are interspersed throughout the mountain valleys. The difficulty in reaching these villages in muggle fashion creates seclusion that is not easy to break. In magical trend, these villages strike one as something out of a fairytale. The village below the school grounds, Castlebrook, greatly resembled the Austrian village of [Hallstatt](http://www.austria.info/media/13712/hallstatt--d.1080288.jpg).
The school grounds sat perched on a plateau halfway up one of the 4 surrounding peaks, overlooking the quaint village and it's lake. Attendance of the school can reach a maximum of 10,000 students. Most arrive by floo powder a week early than the first day to shop Castlebrook's many shops for school supplies, including the renowned wandmaker, Thadeus Tillman. Inn's of Castlebrook is customarily occupied by the parents of returning students, the most popular being [Lodge of Ladislau](http://www.resourcedir.directory/images-uploads/2013/12/07/log-cabin-interior-design-ideas-decorating-for-luxury-home-log-cabin.jpg).
As tradition of other magical schools, four houses were established within the school to promote friendly competition and to create a sense of family amongst students of like minds. Untraditionally, these houses were given names of the four peaks that encompassed the school. Wolfthorn (for people who value teamwork), Hawkridge (for people who value Leadership), Foxcrest (for people who value wit and cunning), and Bearglove (for the kindhearted). The color of the dining hall's great fire burns the four colors of the school houses and will burn a single color when a students name written on a slip of parchment is thrown in. This decides the sorting of students.
A long standing rivalry between Wolfthorn and Hawkridge has stood since the inception of the school. Mostly kept to the Quidditch pitch, the rivalry sometimes spilled to the class rooms, creating friendly competition. Hawkridge and Bearglove has a rivalry every so often, when a less amiable generation is within the school walls but otherwise consider themselves above such behaviour. Quidditch tournaments are held between the Salem institute in Salem Massachusetts and Southern school of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.
Students often breaking into medicine have most often come from Foxcrest house while coming in second of most magical politicians to Hawkridge. Dark wizards have passed through this school each year, though none as bad as the UK's Voldemort, the majority from Hawkridge house. Bearglove has given The Rocky Mountain Institute the majority of our teachers and entrepreneurs, while the most famous athletes coming out of Wolfthorn. | 125 | Tell me about the american version of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. | 145 |
The last time the three met was in the medical pod. Ellie and Joe held Sara's hands, leaning close to her face so they could hear her whispers. Ellie caressed her hair, Joe clasped her fingers. Neither made any attempt to wipe away the tear streaking down the side of her face.
"We're alone", Joe said, with weighty finality as the planner of the escape and as the ship's de-facto captain.
"We're together!" Ellie whispered, touching her forehead to Joe's.
Sara smiled, then burst out in a fit of coughing. The machines kicked in, injecting her with a mix of drugs.
"No, we outran the ships sent to chase us, but there is no pickup vessel. We can't go faster than light. Comms are down. We can't ask for help. We can't go back to Breet-24 or call a general SOS. We've nowhere to go. It's very unlikely we'll be rescued and our water and food will run out long before we make it to the nearest habitable object. I've failed. I'm sorry."
"N...no Joe, you succeeded. You promised us freedom and we've been free since we left that prison. And I know I'll die free. Thank you."
Joe looked up at young Ellie, "Sorry Ellie, you're so young...."
Ellie looked at both of them, the look of an animal in her eyes, "Can we go back and ram Breet?"
"It'll be suicide, a rather pointless one at that."
"Not now, delayed orbital injection. We pick a random course, eventually coming back and ramming into the prison admin complex on Breet at an unspecified time. We send a message to this effect to the Superintendent. Let the fucker never look up at the sky without fear of the Maker. He'll never convince them to build the prison an orbital defense."
"That....well....yes! We could! Sara?"
Sara nodded.
Joe cleared his throat, "There is the matter of...."
Sara spoke, clearly, almost serenely. "OD me on potassium and pheno. Use the extra food and water for a ....honeymoon, some quality time together. Fuck. Read. Listen to Beethoven. Pretend eternal love. Play a board game. Then die in each other's arms before you're forced to drink piss and eat each other. I'm as good as dead anyway, make it quick then."
Sara looked away shyly. Joe took over, "It's decided then. I will program the course. Ellie and Sara, prepare a message for our dear Superintendent. We'll reconvene in two hours........"
"No, now!" said Sara. It was not a voice that could be disobeyed.
As Ellie hijacked the the medbay machine to concoct a lethal injection and Joe held Sara's hand, all three fell silent. | 13 | Everybody dies at the end and is still a happy ending. | 30 |
Both sides expected Earth to wipe the floor with Mars; they had thousands of years of development while we only had.. what, 200 years? Only three to prepare for total war against our specie's home. The Earth Representative had better technology, better training, and more manpower. We were out-manned, out-skilled, and obsolete.
Earth had gotten rid of it's nuclear arsenal in favor of cleaner ways of genocide. I pull out a pack of cigarettes -- none of that 'healthy' shit -- and light it, taking a long drag of the old-time invention.
Orbital bombardment was the most popular method of the Representative; entire cities burned and the ground turned to glass, marking where the great Martian cities once stood.
I allow the smoke to drift out from between my lips as I pause, continuing briefly after.
The Representative's invasion force didn't realize what was going to happen. An easy victory? No. Not an easy victory. In fact, no victory at all. We were obsolete. We were inferior.
I couldn't help but allow a smile to cross my lips as I watched the children's mesmerized looks. They were part of the minority that managed to get underground. I point my finger up to the night sky -- to a red orb.
"Do you see the red circle in the sky?" The children nodded.
I glance back down to them, a sad smile on my lips.
We were always obsolete, but nuclear warheads were not. | 11 | The year is 2250. Humans colonized Mars in 2035. 6 months ago Mars and Earth declared war on each other. You are a soldier from Mars documenting your experiences in the war. | 18 |
It has been said that the world is divided, that we live in two realms – the world of light and the world of dark – but this is not true. There is that thin, smeared border between the two, the world of my people. Grey, muted light filters through the trees - a land of shadows, of smoke and surreal landscapes. It is the point where the snowy north melts into the sticky, heavy heat of the south, the point where the two cultures collide. I like to think of it as purgatory, the last stretch between two worlds. In this quiet valley are the outsiders – those who fit in neither the light nor the dark lands. I have had the opportunity, although brief, to travel to the two outside worlds, and I can say definitively that I prefer my shadowy existence above all else.
The south is an area that I never wish to return to. The sun hangs in the sky, a violent shade of orange, ceaselessly watching the world below. The heat is oppressive, giving way to tropical forests teaming with noisy insects, miles of scorched earth and desert sands; and beaches, piss warm and filled with bodies desperate to cool off. It is a land of hostility – the unending Cyclops sun burning a sense of rage into all that face its gaze. The south is known for its violence, but no amount of vague story telling could have prepared me for what I saw in my travels there. Gangs of children roamed the streets, rags tied over their faces to protect against the sun, machetes in hand to protect against the unknown. The elderly, creased with thousands of lines, age spots like paint spilled into all corners of their faces, would kick dogs in the street, spit at women through the holes in their teeth, and yell obscenities at all that passed by. Insanity seems to grow each year – days blend one into the other with no sense of time, no border or edge to it, no shape. Cocaine and amphetamine use runs rampant, as bodies brutalized by heat exhaustion and lack of sleep cling desperately to any form of energy they can find. It was not uncommon to find bodies rotting in the sun, pushed to the corner of the street and ignored as easily as the afternoon trash. I once found a stray dog, thin and grey, gnawing happily on the foot of a child, and it was shooed away only when the stench became unbearable to the pregnant prostitute across the street, who rubbed her tits lazily as I walked by, shouting “I’m not full yet baby.”
The north is no better. It is a bleak place, an endless blackness, filled with snow. Vegetation is minimal, with tough meat and root vegetables making up the majority of one’s diet. It is a place known for its high suicide rate, an act more commonly described as “forgetting to wake.” Many find it impossible to live in the stunted, bitter cold that exists in the north. The elderly, the single, the weak and the hopeless – all find themselves falling into a deep, apathetic slumber, their bodies later found, desiccated and pale, the only color to their translucent skin coming from the raw, pink bed sores that litter their legs and boney hips. With physical beauty often impossible to distinguish in the eternal night, the inhabitants of the north are known for placing a precedence on the sound of one’s voice. The ability to hunt and raise livestock is only narrowly seen as more important than the cadence of one’s voice, although even this comes with heavy rules and stigma. The family that hosted me during my travels to the north had a teenage daughter, Shashara. She could often be heard in her room, giggling with her friends as they whispered songs to one another, practicing melodies to impress the local boys. I once asked why they practiced so quietly, and even through the darkness I could feel the heat of her blushing. “It’s immodest to sing!” she exclaimed, “Please don’t tell my father that you heard me.” I kept her secret, knowing that the social repercussion for a transgression in the North – isolation – was often as deadly as the violence in the South.
Living on the border is like a life stuck between dreaming and wakefulness, that thin edge between before and after, night and day. It may be purgatory, but I wouldn’t trade it for any other life.
| 1,072 | The Earth does not rotate. One side always faces the sun and is in continual daylight. The other side is in eternal night. Cultures on both side develop around this. | 1,254 |
"Deleted again! Notability guidelines, my ass." Jeff picked up a galley copy of his first novel from a stack on the dining room table and went back to sit down behind the computer. He thumbed through the pages. "I'm a published author, I've got to be notable by now. Better not delete me this time," he said, as he quickly copied and pasted his "official" biography into the Wikipedia submission form for the eighth time that month. *Fuck it*, he thought. *I can't let this worry me, I should be celebrating!*
Jeff took out his phone and found the number for his oldest friend, Billy. They never really called each other anymore, but this seemed like a special occasion.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Billy are you doing anything tonight? You wanna grab a couple of drinks?"
"Who is this?"
"Oh, sorry, it's Jeff, I thought you'd see it on your phone. You know, I just got some copies of my book, I thought we could go out and I could give you a copy."
"I'm sorry, I think you've got the wrong number."
"What? Billy, it's me. It's Jeff."
"Who?" | 16 | Suddenly, editing Wikipedia edits the universe. A troll finds out about this the hard way | 20 |
It is just the three of us, now: Me, Lynda, and little Jonas.
He is quiet, too quiet. Small and sad. His friends are all gone: disappeared, or spirited away by their parents. Somewhere safe.
We're farmers, tied to the land, and it's been a bad year. I can't leave, and we haven't money to send Jonas off to boarding school, like the Millers did with their Tony. So we stay, and we pray that our Jonas won't be taken. Pray that it's all over.
There's no school anymore. Lynda gives him lessons at home, then he helps with the chores and plays with the dogs.
He isn't happy, though. We go for walks, in the evenings, and he's always looking around him. Hoping to see a beam of light shining out through the shuttered windows, or a child's footprint in the muddy ditches that run along the roads.
I don't know how long we'll last. Lynda's scared. (I am too.)
We had a hard year, here on the farm. He seemed happy enough when his friends were here, but now he's wasting away. Depression can do that, but it hurts to see a kid that depressed.
He's started complaining, too. Complaining that he's hungry.
There isn't enough to eat. | 12 | A small town in the middle of nowhere, the townsfolk are faced with the mystery of disappearing children. Some stay and try to solve it, others leave in fear of losing their offspring. Your kid is the only child left in town. | 26 |
"A man finds a time machine and goes back to kill Hitler." Seriously? This same shit again? This prompt shows up, like, every six hours or something. Oh sure, sometimes they like to mix it up. "A man finds a time machine and goes back to kill Hitler, only to find that *he* is Hitler!" Oh what a twist! I never saw that coming! Someone catch me, I'm going to faint!
Oh look here's an image prompt. It's a picture from Deviant Art. Beautifully painted by a supremely skilled artist, and *utterly utterly boring*. You know why it's boring? Because I've seen it all before. Maybe I've seen this exact picture, or maybe I've seen something very similar to it. Either way, it offers nothing new. There are no new insights to express, no new avenues to explore. It's a cool picture, that's it. Congratulations, submitter, you got us to look at your cool picture. Downvote.
Oh, and here we have our usual prompts for fanfiction. "Harry Potter wakes up to find he has to pilot a Jaeger against the Kaiju, and his copilot is Batman." Seriously? Firstly, Batman could probably pilot a Jaeger by himself. Secondly, not everyone wants to join your Harry Potter-Pacific Rim-Batman circlejerk, okay? I am angered by the fact that I can only downvote this submission once, it's *that lame*.
I've seen all these prompts before. There's nothing original or creative about them. The dead horses have been beaten to a pulp, and the squishy mass of horse flesh has further been beaten into minced meat, which has *then* further been beaten into individual atoms. Seriously, this subreddit's gone to shit.
| 28 | Everyday a person sorts /r/writingprompts by 'New' and downvotes every submission they see. Write a story that describes the history and motivation of said sad person. | 31 |
"It's time travel, isn't it?"
I sighed. I was getting sick of this question. Here I was, standing in a room in front of all the head honchos of the biggest movie studios, and they couldn't get over the idea of time travel. Trust the moviemakers to have overactive imaginations.
I rubbed my forehead wearily and replied, "No, no it's not time travel. I believe these leaks of movies that haven't even been made yet did not involve time travel."
"All right then, pray tell, where did these movies come from? You're the security expert, after all."
I clicked to the first slide in my presentation. "Right. As you all know, recently the major torrent sites, such as the Pirate Bay and Demonoid, all showed certain movies available for download. A total of thirteen movies have been shared over the last three months, covering a wide variety of genres and topics. The only thing that these movies have in common is that aren't available for the public yet. In fact, most of them haven't even been filmed."
I clicked to the next slide. "Most of these movies were made based on draft scripts. As a result, the scripts tend to be somewhat unpolished. They also involve actors that were not actually involved in the filming of these movies. Tom Cruise was a particularly prolific actor in these films, except, of course, he didn't act in them at all. I've spoken to enough of the actors to be convinced that they're telling the truth. These movies were made without their participation."
My audience was getting restless. "All right, next slide. The first step is to determine how these scripts got leaked. Fortunately, that one's easy to solve. An examination of the network logs at all major movie studios shows a series of hacks over the last six months. The computers at these studios were infected with malware that gave the perpetrators almost unrestricted access. They could have easily downloaded the scripts during these break-ins."
My audience was shuffling in their seats and whispering to each other now. This was nothing they didn't know. "Next slide. We believe we've figured out how they got the actors to act in them."
That shut them all up. They stared at me intently. "The answer, of course, is that they didn't get the actors at all. The images and voices of these actors were all computer generated."
There were scoffs around the room. "CG? That's impossible," one executive said to me, his expression openly scornful, "It takes months or even years to render a full CG movie. In this case, over a hundred movies were leaked in a matter of months. And besides, it's not possible to fake the actors' voices that convincingly."
I nodded and moved on to the next slide. "Based on our current technology, yes, it would be impossible to produce CG movies of this quality, and so quickly, too. So it would indicate that the movies were made with technology more advanced than ours."
The scoffs turned into snickers. "So, what, you're saying aliens did it?"
"No, of course not," I replied, smiling. I was about to hit them with a bombshell. "It's been estimated that the US military uses technology that's anywhere from five to twenty years more advanced than the civilian population. Think of how much computing power and animation technology has advanced over the last few years. Now imagine how advanced it would be twenty years from now."
The room was silent as everyone pondered this. One executive asked, his expression thoughtful, "So you're saying the United States military stole movie scripts from us and made these movies?"
"Not the military, per se. I believe it was a single individual, or a small team at most. A whistleblower, who decided to make his revelations in the most unconventional way."
There were doubtful expressions around the room again. "What makes you say this?"
"Two reasons. Firstly, all of these torrent sites log user IPs. The uploader made a show of hiding his tracks by using proxies and other tricks, but he also left a trail for us to find. His original IP can be traced to the Pentagon. I believe he wanted us to know that the leaks have a military origin."
"And the second reason?"
"The second reason is that the movies themselves don't follow the scripts exactly. There is precisely one word in every movie that deviates from the script. For the first movie leaked online, *Transformers 5*, the word occurred sixteen minutes into the film. Optimus Prime's line in the script was 'I don't trust anyone around here,' but in the movie itself the line becomes 'I don't believe anyone around here.' The word 'trust' was changed."
The executives looked at each other in amazement.
"We didn't think it was anything noteworthy, though, until we got to the second leaked film, *The Elder Scrolls*. Thirty minutes into the movie, the script has the line, 'Nothing can defeat the Numidium', but in the movie it's changed to 'No one can defeat the Numidium.' As you can see, the two words can be combined to form the phrase 'trust nothing.'"
I clicked onto the next slide, which held the complete message. "By going through all thirteen movies in order and looking for the deviations, we found a complete sentence: **Trust nothing you see on screen any more, every thing can be faked.**"
The room was as silent as a grave. I clicked onto my final slide. "This is why I believe it was a whistleblower. His message was that the United States military, and by extension its government, is now capable of faking video footage at unprecedented speeds, and with unprecedented graphical and audio quality. This is the message he wanted to get out to us, and he left us thirteen very convincing pieces of evidence."
| 245 | why? | 183 |
It would go down in history as the greatest example of runaway panic and the curve of technology finally finding our backsides.
Across the world, weather stations equipped with the ET3D (Ehort-Tachyon Temporal Tunnel Device) encountered the same problem. The short-lived backwards traveling emissions the devices were supposed to send to themselves only twenty four hours before hand were already accused of everything from collapsing the universe to witchcraft, regardless that they had data transmission rates that made ELF transmitters look like a fiber optic line in comparison... but no one expected a blank day. Even on a day when the machine was taken off for maintenance, it sent a short signal back to maintain connection. They were finicky machines, temperamental to the extreme and requiring around-the-clock supervision.
Meteorologist, unfortunately, are human too. And when they're attached to the media circus, the result was inevitable: Planet wide panic as every station tried to break the story before anyone else could stop it; "World To End Tomorrow?"
Some people hid in fear, burying themselves deep into bomb shelters made for yesterday's wars. Some decided it was a religious experience, the End Times of their particular flavor, and gathered together to face what may well be their creator, pausing only long enough to make sure their worst sins and mistakes were out of sight. Some people decided to go out with a bang; the riots in those twenty four hours would claim thousands of lives and cripple some country's economies for decades to come.
Stores were picked clean, first by wary shoppers, then by looters. Facilities were abandoned by men and women who wanted to spend their last hours with their loved ones rather than working on keeping the power running or the newest wave in hair gel and tractor oil.
The sun set, and the world waited, collective breath caught in the background of inner city wars and deep underground.
And in those hilltop labs, in those raydomes and specialized bunkers, Not one person showed up for work the next day. Lacking maintenance, the ET3D's just shut down.
Meteorologist are human, too. | 10 | Recent advances in short range time travel allow actual metrological data to be gathered from the very near future. The weather for tomorrow is suddenly nonexistent. | 22 |
Sorry, I decided not to follow the timeline of the prompt. They discover the secret to making a golem later.
----
It was pouring rain as the prisoners shuffled back into camp. Albert glanced up at the iron sign engraved over the gate. "Arbeit Macht Frei": work makes you free. Alfred thought of this as his hand clenched the small bit of paper in his hand. It had certainly taken a lot of work to get to this point.
The soldiers, guns at the ready, marched them back to the long huts were the prisoners slept. The wet mud sucked at their boots with each step, and the soaked woolen uniforms clung onto what was left of their bodies. Spotlights from the towers illuminated their path and reminded them that the guards were always watching. They were shepherded into their cold, brick huts; the door slammed shut and locked with a click. A single lightbulb buzzed gently, casting its murky light around the room. The group waited for a moment, listening to the sloshing footsteps fade away.
Albert stood and gestured silently. He, and a number of other prisoners, pulled off their thick, muddy boots and arranged them neatly in a row by the door. Albert picked them up one by one and stuck a hand in, scraping the bottom that had been secretly filled with dust and dirt from the mine. He dumped each handful of wet muck into a pile on the floor. From around the room, members of the group carried over the dirt that they had been slowly storing up for the last month. It had been pretty easy to hide in corners and under beds; the Nazis didn't particularly care if the Jews' quarters were filthy. It only confirmed the stereotypes for them.
Albert began to smooth and shape the mass of dirt. Even the skeptical members of the group were watching from their beds out of the corner of their eyes. They had laughed at his idea, dismissing his "fairy tales."
"You have the scroll?" Nikolas whispered. Not that there was anyone around to hear, but because they barely had the strength to talk. Alfred only nodded. It had taken a lot of effort to get real ink and parchment; luckily the one guard who sympathized with the prisoners did not see the harm in letting them write letters. And it had only cost them 12 gold fillings.
The dirt pile began to take form: a man, tall and muscular. They all stood back as Albert carefully carved a mouth for the man. He insisted on leading them in a prayer, reciting verses from the Torah. After a brief moment of silence and excited glances, he inserted the scroll.
Nothing happened. Some of the skeptics laughed, reassured of their wisdom. The others, hands covered in filth, rose and retreated to their beds, downtrodden. Only Albert stayed at the side of the mud pile, waiting. He removed the scroll and checked the lettering; it was perfect and precise. He reinserted it; still nothing. "Rise!" Albert whispered finally.
The dirt hardened and cracked. Dust flew into the air, and the Golem gasped its first breath. It stood slowly from the ground, head scraping against the ceiling, and turned, awkward and lumbering, to face Albert. It stared at him with unblinking eyes, awaiting orders. Everyone in the hut gasped and stared. Some cheered quietly, still afraid of the guards even with a mighty protector in front of them. Alfred pointed. "Break down this door, and kill the German guards." It huffed in response and slammed an enormous fist into the wooden door, shattering it into kindling with one motion. Its enormous form seemed to grow bigger as it stepped into the mud outside, like it was absorbing more dirt. Albert and the others huddled inside, listening to the roar of explosions, the rattle of machine gun fire, the wail of alarms, and the screams of the guards.
After an hour, the Golem reappeared in front of the broken hole in the hut. "It is done," he said in a rasping, gravely voice. Albert nodded at the others, and they limped out into the rain and freed the other prisoners. They loaded the sick and wounded into trucks, and headed out the gates in a column headed by the lumbering Golem. He didn't even bother lowering his thick foreheard as they exited; it crashed through and tore down the gate as he lumbered out of the camp and into the forest. Albert took pleasure in driving over the twisted remains of the sign, pressing it into the mud. Arbeit Macht Frei indeed. | 95 | In 1937, a Czech Jew rediscovers the secret to creating a Golem, and is successful in making one. This knowledge quickly and quietly spreads among the European Jewish community on the eve of the Second World War. | 144 |
Hector pushed his way through the crowd of protestors at the Bank of America. Some held rocks in their hands, others had bats and bars. They were yelling, ready to break the windows in.
Hector made his way to the ATM and inserted his debit card. He thought about what he would do if his account had nothing in it. Would he join the crowd? He'd just put in $270 last week, it couldn't be gone. Supposedly almost half the country had lost their balances.
He hit check balance. The machine took a few seconds, then displayed the account.
>Hector Rodriguez
>$224,520,071,892.13
Hector blinked. He logged out and back in. He hit check balance.
>Hector Rodriguez
>$231,710,892,182.74
Hector took a step back and looked at the number again.
Two hundred million? Was that a *billion*?
"Hey!" A woman's voice yelled out form the crowd. "Look at that!"
Hector turned to see half the crowd looking at the machine with wide eyes. He quickly rushed back and hit logout.
"A fuckin' Mexican with that kinda cash? He's the fuck who stole it all!" A black man with a crowbar raised his finger and pointed it at Hector. "Fuckin' get him!"
The crowd rushed him, weapons raised.
Hector tried to run, but his back was against the ATM machines. The man with the crowbar swung first. Hector felt his knees give out. He leaned against the ATM as he fell into a sitting position. He couldn't move as he saw a dozen or so people gathered around him, swinging wildly. A rock hit him in the head.
He heard a woman trying to stop them, but her voice was lost in the cries for his blood.
Hector saw a wooden baseball bat swinging for his head. It looked like the one his father had bought for him when they'd been in America for a few years and decided to see a game.
The bat hit. It was more of a pressure than pain, pushing his head against the ATM machine. The crowd grew as more people raised whatever they had. Hector closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. | 138 | There are reports from all over the world that every bank account belonging to any person, business, or otherwise have all been zeroed out. Worried about your life savings, you log onto your account to find a number so large it won't fit on the screen. | 312 |
"Welcome to hell!" the devil's diabolical, booming laughter, ushered Benjamin to his damnation.
"Did you just lip sync?"
"What do you..." the devil replied with a puzzled look.
"Yeah, you lip synced that laughter. Your voice sounds different now."
He stared back motionless "How did you know?"
"I've made my fortune through manipulating, and deceiving people. Takes one to know one, you know?"
The devil smiled out corner of his mouth "Come with me." he gestured for him to follow. "I know what people think about me. What they expect of me. I can be cruel, don't get me wrong, but in the laughter department I came out short. Maybe god had a hand in it."
"Perception is key."
"Exactly that. So here we are. You were sent here by *god*" he said while flailing his arms like a rebellious teen. "So now I have to punish you, cause you were, as they say on earth - a square."
Benjamin squeezed his face "You need to invest in a better research team, no one says a square anymore. Not even people my age."
"Age." he echoed him, laughing, less impressively, this time. "Age doesn't mean a thing here. You're here for eternity. Eternity plus fifteen, you know how old that is?"
"E-ternity?"
"ETERNITY!" Benjamin looked at him baffled, as the devil spread his arms dramatically.
"Hmm what is my punishment for this eternity?"
"Remember the Cow-abunga, flavoured milk campaign, you spearheaded?"
"Yeah, we sold ton of those. Moms loved our campaign. Are you going to force me to drink that crap?"
"That'd be too easy." *If I only thought about it beforehand* he mumbled to himself. "No, your campaign was about a family, sitting together, and the parents handing out milk cartons to the kids."
"Sappy world, deserve a sappy campaign. People like to pretend they care, so we pretended with them."
The devil paused, and continued "The punishment should fit the crime, is what we say in hell."
"We say that on earth too."
"Fine, but we're in hell now, and I just said it, so *I'TS WHAT WE SAY IN HELL.* And you'll spend your eternity having wholesome family time, with a designated family."
"That it? Maybe you should add flames and demons to your announcements, they'll sell better."
The devil smiled. "Goodbye, Benjamin."
Benjamin found himself in a room, the exact copy of his living room. He looked at all the details they managed to recreate. And on his family couch, his wife and two kids were sitting there. He ran over, excited, but they did not respond. The wife handed Benjamin a carton of milk, and said with an empty voice "Here you go, husband, give it to the kids."
The kids looked at him, with a glazed, emotionless expression, and opened the palms of their hands. "Thank you daddy." they said, moving nothing but their mouths.
Benjamin sat there, between the empty shells that took the form of his family. He closed his eyes, and all the memories of his real family came rushing in.
He sat there, day and night. Being a pretend dad, to a pretend family.
He sat there, among them, emotionless. | 21 | A sleazy marketing executive dies. When he reaches Heaven, God orders him to live in a purgatory based on the advertisements he created. | 24 |
The debate had raged for nearly a century, but the Affirmatives had finally won. We were going to make first contact.
In 1750, astronomers of the time had described what appeared to be barely distinguishable motes of light emanating from the surface of Mars. When they eventually decided to share their findings with the public, the consensus at the time was fairly split. Could it be made by an alien civilization? Or was it just a natural phenomenon, like volcanism or the burning of some type of unknown molecule present on the planet? Whatever it was, it stirred the public’s imagination like nothing else had in the centuries prior.
The biggest impact had been amongst the churches and their followers. Those who believed the lights were created by sentient beings were ridiculed, and at some points imprisoned or even executed for their blasphemous statements. The reaction was not the same everywhere though. In what is now south east Asia, Oceania and China, governments and people alike praised the news and quickly led the debate on efforts to understand it. Europe, South America and North American governments took much longer to before they officially acknowledged the possibility, but they did.
In 1801, after half a century of turmoil and debate, advances in optical technology eventually ended the argument. The lights were undoubtedly sentient, or at least created by sentient beings. Their appearance on the surface of Mars followed a natural progression, from the south pole in the early parts of the Martian year, up through the equatorial regions by mid-year and then receding back to the south pole by years end, to begin anew. This was no natural phenomenon. On Earth people referred to it as the “bright Martian migration”. An international yearnings for contact exploded through the populations of Earth.
By 1891, the Affirmative Contact Alliance (ACA) had developed the first ever rocket engine. It was based on the extraction and purification of methane from agricultural operations. It did not produce enough thrust to go beyond being a proof of concept in the rocket theory developed jointly by China and the Russian Empire, but it was enough to secure the full financial and intellectual backing of the ACA. This technology could potentially take us to the aliens.
The Non-Interrupt Society (NIS) vehemently opposed the idea of contact. They utilized well-reasoned and evidenced arguments on the fate of ecologies which humans had visited on our own planet. Life was abundant on Earth, until humans arrived to interfere with it. In the wake of our expansion, nature suffered. Species went extinct and the long term effects of this were still not known. Those of the NIS believed it was our duty as an intelligent, solar-sister of the Mars aliens to not only avoid affirmative contact, but to avoid any and all contact at all until the aliens could do so themselves.
The debate raged on for a century. The first breakthrough was with significant advances in fuel and propulsion design technologies that had occurred rapidly with the ACA’s backing. More and more people believed that actually leaving Earth was a possibility. As the technology progressed, people became more convinced. Eventually the thought of actually travelling to and landing on Mars became even more tangible. The numbers of the ACA swelled. The NIS gave concessions of course. They supported non-interventionist policies such as deploying exo-planet observatories to view the aliens from outside their atmosphere, at a level of detail that would still allow useful scientific and xenobiological information to be harvested. But their arguments could not hold. The human spirit had always felt alone, and now we knew it was not. The will to explore beyond our planet, to meet those whom we called solar-neighbors was impossible to ignore.
In 1911 we successfully launched a satellite around the Earth. By 1914 we had our first manned flight in space. By 1916 we landed on the moon. By 1920 the ACA was confident in its ability to deliver a manned payload to Mars. By 1927 they presented their first concept proposals on how to bring the human payload back after it had landed on the planet.
The second great project of the ACA had begun at this time. This time Engineering was not the focus, but rather the humanities. The greatest psychologists, philosophers, religious leaders and independent free thinkers were recruited by the ACA. The official Protocols of Contact were eventually delivered to the world in 1998, nearly three quarters of a century after the project had begun.
I began studying the Protocols in 2001 after being selected as the cultural ambassador of Earth. Selected from the people, by the people, to represent all of us in a non-scientific capacity alongside the other four, very scientifically capable members of mission First Contact.
Captain Nojikim’s voice came over the headset, “We have permission to begin descent from ACA command. We are not just making history here people, we are making First Contact. It is my greatest honor to do so with the four of you.”
I closed the Protocols of Contact, clipped its binding and placed it into a secure compartment. My heart was racing.
We began our descent. | 54 | In 1750, small pockets of civilization were discovered on Mars. Initial observations appear to show these societies to be primitive compared to our own. Today, and with 200+ years of observation and exponential investment in space exploration, we are heading to see them for ourselves. | 120 |
"So, you been on this Tinder thing?" I asked casually, sipping my bloody mary. No, not that tomato juice swill that the humans drink. "I don't even have to try any more. It's like Sodom and Gomorrah all over again!"
Mahalath nodded, shaking her silvery blond hair and putting down her martini. "I know! I didn't think that finding victims would be any easier once they started grouping all of the horniest young men in dorms together, but I was just dead wrong!"
I leaned in closer, almost whispering in her ear. "And you'll never guess who I got to swipe right the other day: *Jesus*!"
Mahalath spat a spout of vodka into the air. "NO!" she practically screamed. "*The* Jesus?"
"Oh yeah," I said proudly, with good reason. I deserved a trophy for that; it was a once-in-an-eternity event. "He's back on Earth for the whole 'second coming' thing. Or, should I say, second *cumming*!" I giggled at my own joke, even though it wasn't particularly clever.
"I don't believe it," she said, waving a finger at the bartender for another round. He scooted over and dangled bottles above her glass with his black tentacles, mixing a new cocktail.
"Oh yeah," I said with a grin, taking out my phone. I showed her pictures from the night, including some particularly compromising photos that his father would *not* be proud of. "He couldn't resist me. In my profile pic, I was all dressed up like a good girl with a cross hanging down my chest, and he bought it hook, line, and sinker. I went over for a little late night 'bible study' and closed the deal in *minutes*. And then again about half an hour later!"
"Sounds like Satan went about that temptation thing all wrong the first time. I mean, come on, bringing him up on some mountain? Who is that going to convince?"
"You ladies mentioned my name?" said a deep, booming voice behind me. The Lord of Darkness appeared in a circle of flames and a cloud of black smoke. "I'm always on call for a girl like you..." He placed a clawed hand on my shoulder and winked.
"Ugh, buzz off, Lucifer. How many times have I told you that I'm just not that into you?"
"Now, I know that isn't true... what kind of girl wouldn't want to get with *the King*?"
I rolled my eyes, finished my drink, and stood up; Mahalath followed suit. "Creep," I spat at him as I walked out the door. "This is why I don't come down here anymore," I whispered to her as we exited.
---
If you enjoyed the story, you should subscribe to my writing subreddit, /r/Luna_lovewell! | 510 | You and your fellow Succubi and Incubi are gathered together in your favorite bar in hell, swapping stories of your sexiest, funniest, and weirdest times being summoned. NSFW | 580 |
There's something in the corner. I know there's something in the corner in the same way you can feel when someone is staring at you. I know they're watching me but I can't hear them breathing. I'm also half asleep and my mind is wandering into the domain of all the stupid creepypasta bullshit that is about to violate me or murder me from my own bedroom shadows or something.
Slowly, to break the ice with whatever nightmare or person is standing there in the dark I let my hand begin to drift over to the light on my bedside table. If I don't reach for my gun maybe he/she/it won't decide to leap on me and get intimate with my entrails.
And then someone speaks.
*"Don't. Move. They're watching you."*
It takes me a long moment to realize that voice was in my mind. At first, there's a strange sort of revulsion, like my brain has just been violated and someone may or may not now be flipping through my list if sexual fantasies like I forgot to clear my browser history and then died.
Then there's just confusion.
And then I figure maybe I can think back at them.
*"Do you happen to have designs on my entrails?"*
*"Jesus... what? No. If I wanted your entrails I'd have cut you open already. Listen to me. Do you know what you are?"*
That's a loaded question with a lot of answers. I shift slightly, letting the tension drain from my muscles. The voice is kind of feminine, moreso than mine, but this person probably hasn't had twenty cigarettes a day for the last six years. Does that affect my mind vo-
*"Stop thinking so loud. Your voice in your head is a residual copy of your speaking voice. So yes, you sound like a smoker and yes, it's vaguely sexy, yes I am a woman and... answer the fucking question."*
The question? Right.
*"Uh.. I'm a cop? And a woman, uh... I'm a natural redhead? I guess the answer is I dunno what the hell you're on about."*
Silence. I can hear something now, someone moving downstairs. People are in my fucking house. People are in my house, a woman who just said my head voice is sexy is talking to me in my head, there's a creepy shadow in the corner and I'm frightened.
*"Creeper lady, who the fuck is in my house and why am I not grabbing my gun?"*
*"Fucking... can you shut up please. I'm trying to find out what to do here from my superiors. I had no idea you were in the dark about what you are."*
Well, I guess I'll shut up. The blankets and sheet are starting to feel way too warm and oppressive. This forced stillness is both unnatural and uncomfortable as all Hell. Hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. The shadow in the corner doesn't even look like a person. It looks like a blob of pure darkness, like some kind of cocoon. I somehow doubt a butterfly is coming out of it, though.
*"Alright. How quick a shot are you, cop?"*
*"Quick enough. Why?"*
The shadow moves, sweeping across the room like a great winged black shadow trailing darkness behind it. It sweeps over the bed and I feel the blankets slide down, invisible hands pulling them out of the way. Starting to wish I slept with a bra under this nightshirt. Invisible arms wrap around me and where they touch me, shadow drifts up from the points of contact, showing me the arms as deep black in the dimness. They lace around me and the shadow pulls close and then just... pulls back, right above my face. A woman with midnight black skin has her nose almost touching mine and she smells like smoke and incense and something vaguely like piles of old leaves in autumn. I'm eye to eye with her, eyes with black sclera and lovely green pupils and... her arms are so... cool... I see now. I see what is happening. There are wings of shadow above her, spreading wide and tips brushing the ceiling as they flap lightly.
She's... kind of pretty, though all I can see clearly is her face. That would be a comfort if I wasn't so outright panty pissingly terrified. Then, the cold grip of my gun hits my hand and my hand curls around it instinctually.
*"Listen to me, lady cop. Time for a crash course in nightmares ... can't believe you're a cop and you haven't awoken yet. Clearly you're not like other people."*
*"Is this really the time for pickup lines? "*
*"Shut. UP. LISTEN. The Hounds are going to bust through that door any minute now. When they do, I need you to empty your gun at them. The lead won't kill them, but it'll slow them down. I'm initializing rapid transit right now. This first time is going to hurt."*
It's a lot to take in.
I make a list.
Wait for door to burst open.
Empty gun from a terrible, improper firing position.
Nightmares?
Footsteps in the hallway. They sound so heavy.
Tingling all over my body.
Distracting feeling of her cold breath on my cheek.
Pounding, racing heart.
The door explodes inward and I only have a split second to process the images of horrible, monstrously tall things fighting to get in the door - things with canine-human hybrid faces (werewolves?) and big ass knives in hand and then I fire through the wood splinters, capping off round after round with practiced and forced calm.
The noises they make are like screams that trail off into the keening of a wounded animal. My ears are ringing, all I can smell is gunsmoke and then...
They're already in the room. The fuckers have armor all. All shooting them did is make the ones in front fall back so a big son of a bitch, bigger than the rest, can duck under the doorframe and advance.
*"Oh god, I'm empty!"* I scream in my head.
*"Stop them, then!"*
*"How!?"*
She doesn't have time to answer. My gun hits the floor and I realize the dog thing is on me and there's searing pain, worse than anything I've ever felt. This close I can see their knives are more like machetes and he just cut my hand off at the wrist and blood is pulsing out.
A dull, clinically detached voice in the back of my head says that blades shouldn't work like that and it must be some kind of magic, but it is drowned out almost immediately by the panicked and agonized screaming of a little girl who just found out there really is a monster in her closet and it just helped her to understand what her own intestines look like.
Madness.
And then numbness.
Am I dead?
Nothing seems to be moving.
The blood splattering out of my wrist is even stopped, hovering in the air. Something is glowing and I realize it's my blood. Up this close, the dog monsters are even more horrifying.
Instinct hits me like a truck and my mouth falls open in a soundless scream. Blood pulses from my wrist stump, enough to form a softball sized sphere, and then very suddenly dozens of spires have erupted, thin as spaghetti and piercing everything from the dog beast to the walls on either side of my door to the things beyond.
Time winds itself back up to full speed, the pain rushes back in, my blood hits the floor and keeps on glowing and then everything looks like it's being pulled away to some invisible vanishing point, like the world is being stretched and distorted and we're at the center of it - a monster and a now one handed police woman in her fucking nightshirt looking outright terrified and then...
I squeeze my eyes shut and a feeling of motion washes over me, along with a crackling feeling of agony that rushes through my nervous system until unconsciousness takes me.
"So she really is her daughter, eh?"
Male voice. Gruff, but not the voice of an old man. No discernable accent.
"Yes sir, she seems to be. She caused a time distortion in a fifty yard sphere and then manipulated her own blood into a weapon. It was incredible."
Female voice. The one that was in my head. When I groan and open my eyes, I'm staring at a plain drop in tile ceiling and there is some kind of hospital machine beeping a few inches away.
"Her blood hasn't stopped fluorescing?"
Male again.
"No, but she also hasn't woken up. I'm worried about her, she seemed so afraid... If only rapid transit wasn't so slow..."
My mind lady. She sounds real concerned. Guilty even. Ain't her fault my hand got cut off, I guess. I mean, it sounded like she hit a hitch when I didn't have fucking frightening magic blood powers right off the bat. Someone gave her bad intel.
"I'm right here, you know... can hear everything you're saying," I rasp. Throat feels like I tried to fellate a cheese grate made of sandpaper or something. When I turn my head, there she is, skin like midnight and eyes the color of grass, big shadowy winglike things bundled up behind her. Can see her body now and... maybe it's the painkillers, but... kind of wow.
The guy, he looks the opposite of what he sounded. Tall, lanky, big thick lensed glasses - not old, but not young. He looks like he should be uncomfortably packed in a cubicle, right down to the button down shirt and the slightly askew tie. The only thing out of place is the fact that his eye sockets are filled up with spheres of swirling something or other that emits a dull blue glow.
"Oh, god, good. You're awake," my mind lady says. Time to be suave.
"Yeah, and you look a lot hotter when you're not being a terrifying telepathic nightmare shadow bat," I say.
Half-assed swing and a miss.
Least she doesn't look mad.
The guy steps closer and gives an awkward smile.
"Welcome, Ms. McCormick, to our little facility. I assume you have quest-"
"Yeah, what the hell do you know about my mother? Because, unlike the usual broken home missing a parent, she skipped out on dad when I was two."
He suddenly looks uncomfortable.
She does too.
"Your mother didn't uh... 'skip out' on you. She... died. And... I can tell you how!" he says, his tone one of both discomfort and nervousness.
I let my head fall back and stare at the ceiling, taking nice, slow breaths.
"... this is real, huh?"
"Yes, ma'am," the lady says.
"...I got one hand now?"
"We can make you another."
"...want to get dinner sometime?"
"You really are something else. Get her out of bed, Ron, and bring her to my office. We need to chat." | 11 | You are laying in bed in the dark and you glance over and see an odd shadow in the corner of your room. You're about to reach for light to see what it is when you hear a voice in your head that says, "Don't move. They're watching you." | 28 |
Buzzcut.
Of all the fucking times i could've tried out a new look, now *would* be the time. I must've looked pretty funny sprinting out the door with half of my hair floating through the wind. Skrillex sure would've been proud. What a fucking shill.
I wonder if celebrities can make it out here. In the real world. Or would they just pay some petty dipshit to fly them to their private island? Pay them to gather food over time?
Passing the time with your lonesome thoughts is a fucking shill, too.
You'd think of all the fucking times people would judge you based on your haircut, now would be the least threatening of a time. I met a group of survivors who were dead set on.. Well.. Making me *dead*. They claimed I was a fucking bandit. All because of my shit timing for a haircut.
I guess it's not so bad. I can enjoy the little wanders of stroking my own hair when I'm alone. It's the greatest replacement I've got to any human contact. Sometimes I joke around that I'm with another person because of it. "Half man, half woman," I'll say.
God, being alone is fucking pitiful.
Even the undead ignore me. "Anyone who looks *that* stupid must be dead," they think in their rotten brains.
Do they still think?
Fuck, there I go again. Asking myself petty questions to pass the time in this dead fucking forest.
What the fuck am I waiting for anyway? Salvation? Yeah right. Last I heard the military was overrun in Ft. Lauderdale by those undead fucks.
Where had I heard of Ft Lauderdale before all of this happened? A movie? A song?
*crunch*
He's looking at me. Why the fuck is he looking at me like that? At least I have my... Fuck. I left my gun back at my last camp.
Of all the fucking times to daydream. | 19 | The Apocalypse starts while you were getting a haircut. You are now stuck with a half-finished haircut | 53 |
I can't believe they legalized this shit. It was too easy. Too easy to sell. Too easy to trade. Too easy to get. Too easy to use. Too damn easy to abuse.
First, after it all went legal, you had to 'shoot' it with needles. That wasn't appealing to me. I stayed away. Then they started pushing it as a vitamin. Something that would give you a boost. It was mind control in a damn pill.
I wasn't the brightest guy in the world. I saw it taking the lives of everyone. I saw infections eat through the arms of the "needlers" and the horrible effects it had on the stomach lining when ingested as the pill. But still, it wasn't a huge problem. Just some idiots or people down on their luck. I stayed away from it.
But then, then they put it as an ingredient in things people ate. Like candy, soft drinks. Eventually that shit got everywhere. You almost couldn't avoid it. Restaurants started putting it into their food because they knew once you were hooked, you'd come back.
The FDA? Pshf. Yeah, those fuckers made millions - no billions. The drug factories just kept feeding those Washington idiots money and they just kept letting the population go to hell.
It was a sad decline. I watched my friends go. I watched my children go. I watched my self decay every morning. My hair thinned. My skin yellowed. But I couldn't get enough. I tried to kick it. I really did.
Time and time again, I said, "This is it. The last one." What remained of my life - the one person I could rely on - she left me... Rather, she left the shell that I was. She saw it in my eyes. I was dead. I was a zombie looking for another hit - and that was easy to find.
Those few moments after the drug hit my blood it was as if heaven opened up and gave me wings. The colors rushed back into the world, hate and violence and rage and fury blended into a symphony that sounded like love. Life was worth living again.
Again. Then the sky would close, the sun would blink back to a dull grey, the buildings would rust and the trash would blow back into the streets. The homeless - who just moments ago walked with confidence and an air of wealth - would suddenly return with their baskets full of aluminum cans and whatever dead animal they could find for dinner.
And then, then it was just another long haul until the next meal.
I knew something had to change. I had to get my head straight. I watched, one night, outside my window. I had just come down from a wonderful euphoria. Outside my window two young kids, maybe 10 or 11, came running up to a bum. The poor bastard. I recognized him. He had a long beard and walked with a limp from some prior ass whooping he'd taken. The dirt on him. My god, it would've made a hog in heat look clean.
Well, these two kids, they come up and hit in the ankle with some stick or pipe. The poor guy just fell. He rolled over on his back and within a few seconds the kids were looting a bloody bag of tattered rags. That was my wake up call. My boy would've been about their age. That could've been my kid.
So I stopped. I've been sober for almost two years. I drink water that I distill myself. I eat vegetables I grow on a small balcony and I've started trading with other like minded people. Together, we started forming a movement. That movement wasn't supposed to be violent. It was just for us. But the drug company... they caught wind. They didn't like not having control over us. I heard on the radios and saw the news footage of the raids on my friends.
I couldn't fucking handle it anymore.
I didn't think it would be as easy to get into the building at night. I guess they expected needlers or pillers to enter and not have many brain cells left. But it was remarkably easy. I simply walked in. When the security guard in the lobby tried to stop me, I simply raised the cold steel and felt the metal kick and warm. It felt... liberating.
I didn't know what I was going to do, but I knew the guy that started all this lived at the top. I got in the elevator with the key from the guard in my hand. I inserted the key and pushed the button for the top floor.
The elevator was perfect. It had windows that looked out over the city and above the 20th floor, the city almost looked right. Only upon the closest examination could you see that most of the lights were trashcan fires.
The elevator binged. I turned around. I waited, then the doors slid open. Before me stood three armed men. All in black suits. Before I raised my gun I saw the flashes of light. Then I felt the impact. The first one hurt, but the others I didn't really feel. I knew they were there, but it was like being high again. It didn't matter.
I know I fell down at one point, but I swear I saw the sky open up. I swear I felt myself stand. I tried to raise my hands, but I was disconnected from all the pain. The rage, fury, and disappointment all became colors that ran into the deepest parts of my eyes. I felt warmth from a sun that somewhere on the other side of the planet. The moon - I'd never seen the moon before, at least not like this. It was perfect. And as my eyes shut for the last time I saw clearly for the first time. | 36 | the paradise and the living hell. | 40 |
Dr. Messick fastened the microphone to his lapel. An unshaven man wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of oversized headphones leaned too close and talked into Dr. Messick's coat collar.
"Sound check one, two, three," the man said. His breath smelled of garlic and fetid cheese. Dr. Messick tried not to recoil despite this. He had promised he would go through with this. It was for the good of the community. Just another hour and he could go back to his hotel.
His palms were sweating. He stuffed them in his pockets to hide this. The man in the flannel shirt gave a thumbs up and stepped back. A perky brunette woman with all the curves of a lamp post came out of a side room while glaring at a clipboard.
"You're live in ten, Doctor," she said without looking up. She flashed what she probably thought was a warm smile at the clipboard. It made her look even more ghoulish. He hated L.A. The woman motioned him to follow and she led him out to a curtained area and pointed at a piece of tape on the carpet.
"Stand there and wait for your cue," she instructed as if this made sense in any fashion. She may as well have been speaking Martian. He stood there anyway and heard the faint chatter of the host on the other side of the curtain.
" . . . Here tonight!" Carl Mulhaney shouted. There was a round of boisterous applause. Dr. Messick couldn't help but think about the weird paths life took. A few years ago he himself had been nothing more than one of a dozen researchers in a lab funded by some pharmaceutical company that was owned by some larger corporation in Europe. These days he was on the staff of the Mayo Clinic and was appearing tonight on the Very Late Show with Carl Mulhaney. Mulhaney himself had been nothing more than an up and coming stand up comedian a few years ago. So much had changed since the sarxphage outbreak.
He was so focused in his ruminations that he almost missed his cue.
" . . . a big welcome for Dr. Marcus Messick!" Carl shouted. With a gentle push of encouragement from the clipboard woman, Messick half walked and half staggered through the curtain and into the spotlights.
He could barely see the cheering crowd through the glare of the lights. He could see Carl Mulhaney standing there behind his desk displaying his trademark grin. Messick forced a smile on his lips and walked towards his seat while waving. He paused only long enough to shake hands with his host and sat down facing Carl.
"Dr. Messick!" Mulhaney greeted, "You were one of the key researchers who found the vaccine to unlock the cure for the zombie outbreak. Is this correct?"
Messick winced.
"Sarxphage Neuralgia if you please," Messick corrected, "These poor souls are not the living dead. They are diseased people with a very peculiar neurological infection."
"Yes," Carl agreed, "But prior to your work the only effective treatment, and correct me if I am wrong here, was beheading them?"
"Well, yes."
"And they had an insatiable desire to eat human flesh?"
"Yes."
"So, doctor," Carl said beaming, "If it staggers like a zombie, moans like a zombie, and engages in cannibalism like a zombie why not just call it that?"
The crowd roared with laughter as if they had been prompted. They probably had, Messick mused.
"Well," Messick explained patiently, "The word 'zombie' makes it sound like magic or, at the very least, like they are dead. What we have instead is several different microorganisms, all interdependent on one another, infecting a host simultaneously. If even one of these organisms is blocked the host is cured."
"Cured?" Carl asked, still smiling, "There is an entire wing at the local hospital that might argue that point."
Messick waved it aside.
"Prolonged infection causes irreparable damage to the higher brain functions," he said, "This is true. Unfortunately for those folks who had a full blown case of Sarxphagic Encephalitic Immunosuppressive Neurosis-"
"SEIN," Carl added, unnecessarily Messic thought.
"Quite," he agreed all the same, "Then there is little that can be done to return them to functional independence. The cure only can restore higher brain functions during the initial stages of the disease. Generally within the first 48 hours before fever can destroy brain cells. A better tactic yet is to get the S-98 vaccine."
"Which you helped develop," Carl again added.
"Yes," Messick agreed again.
"Well, if you've watched this show, Doctor, you probably can guess what happens next. We like to give both sides of an issue time to debate!"
"What issue?" Messick asked, feeling genuinely perplexed.
A round of applause broke out and Messick turned around to face the curtain once more. A blonde woman with a cartoonishly large chest bounced in.
"Here she is," Carl Mulhaney shouted, "Former Miss September from Top Ogle Magazine, Beth Fullerton!"
The crowd continued to cheer madly as Beth blew them kisses and bowed deeply. She flounced over to Carl, kissed him on the cheek, and took the seat next to Messick. He stared at her in confusion.
"Issue?" he repeated.
"So, Beth - may I call you Beth?" Carl began.
"Please do!" Beth said cheerfully, "We're all old friends in Hollywood, right?"
More laughter from the crowd.
"Now," Carl continued, "In your latest book 'The Zombie Mom Guidebook' you stated that the S-98 vaccine is a, and I'm quoting here, 'a fraud perpetrated by big pharma.' Would you care to explain more?"
"Sure Carl," she said and pulled out a photo, "Here is a picture of my daughter Zoey. She's six and a half years old and has zombism."
The photo showed a revolting picture of a child with green skin wearing a frilly dress. She was shackled to the wall in what appeared to be a dungeon and had blood dripping from her lips.
"Aw," Carl said, "She looks adorable. Can we get a close up of this?"
"Thank you, Carl," Beth agreed, "She's a treasure. And that's the thing about being a zombie mom. People like Dr. Messick here with their agenda of neurotypicalism would have you believe that zombism isn't a valid lifestyle for families."
Enthusiastic clapping and whistling erupted from the crowd.
"Little Zoey is still my daughter," Beth said, "Nothing can take that away. And I believe that feeding her wholesome, nutritious freshly slaughtered cattle brains is the key to her well being. Not some flashy cure some company is pushing. Do they even know what it can do to a human body?"
"Doctor?" Carl prompted.
"What?" Messick said then caught up with the conversation, "Uh, you do realize we do drug trials before it even hits the market, right? That there are government and independent agencies that must be satisfied to its safety? What sort of process do you go through to evaluate the safety of, er, cattle brains?"
"The most important one of all," Beth said with a sniff, "The mom test!"
More cheering from the crowd. Dr. Messick peered out into the glare of the lights trying to find out if there were really people out there or if this were some sort of recording. He hoped this was merely a prank played at his expense.
"Er," Messick stammered, "You do realize we are offering a cure for a cannibalistic disease? A highly contagious cannibalistic disease that causes the neurological system to rot from the inside?"
Beth sniffed.
"So you would love your child less if she was infected?" she asked.
"I would cure her precisely because I love her," Messick stated, "Without the S-98 vaccine the long term odds of survival beyond 5 years is approximately 1 out of 100. There is a 99% chance that the body dies as the brain deteriorates. By with the vaccine the child can live."
"So you claim," she said, "But what about Mindy Adams!"
"What?" he asked.
"You forgot her already?" Beth chided with a shake of her head, "She was in your first test group and died less than two months later. How could you forget that?"
"I didn't forget," Messick protested, "I attended her funeral. She was struck by a bus!"
"So you admit your fraud vaccine doesn't inoculate against being hit by a bus?"
"What?" Messick sputtered.
"Little Zoey, however, is chained up in the basement where she is safe from being hit by a bus! Until you can prove to me that your vaccine doesn't increase the chances of vehicular death that is where she stays!"
"Ooh!" Carl spoke up, "Things are certainly heating up here. We'll be right back after a word from our sponsor!"
The light of the camera winked off and Carl beamed at Beth.
"Great job, Beth," he said, "Little Zoey is coming along fine. Did you glue her nose back on? It looks so natural!" | 100 | A cure for the most recent zombie outbreak is discovered! Humanity is saved! …And then the anti-vaccinaiton people get involved | 151 |
"One more story before we go to bed?", my younglings pleaded.
I finally give in to the young ones cries and begin the tale of the death and rebirth of our world.
"We know very little of the pre-birth stage of our civilization. What we do know comes from ancient tales and what the oracles taught us. The pre-birth world was one of constant strife and suffering. Wars raged perpetually, while hunger and disease ravaged the population.
The final blows to our world came from the great destroyers. These men wielded the might of the stars and used their great influence to develop a peace of sorts. However, this peace was fleeting. They grew envious of each others influence and material possessions. The envy grew until only destruction could alleviate their suffering.
The destroyers let forth the rapture of the stars and unleashed ruin upon one another. The small pockets of civilization that remained, turned to scavenging and barbarism for survival. The great purge lasted for generations until all that remained were the forgotten.
The forgotten fell upon an ancient tomb of our once proud civilization. They were able to harness the power of the stars again, only this time for peaceful means. The power they gained unleashed the oracles. The oracles were benevolent beings that were able to encase themselves in a knowledge disc.
Although we could not interact directly with the oracles, we could learn from them. And the forgotten learned much. The oracles taught us of the pre-birth age, of the power of the destroyers and of the potential of our species for good.
We were able to use this new found inspiration to rebuild our dying planet and out of it's ashes raised forth a beacon of light in the darkness.
You, and in fact all of us, are direct descendants of both the destroyers and the forgotten. We must never forget our past and we must not underestimate our burden. We have much to accomplish to reach the pinnacles that the oracles have shown us. However, if you follow the golden rules then we shall prevail. Do you remember the golden rules?"
The young ones could not answer because they had fallen asleep during my tale. I look to their faces and see the potential of the oracles in them. I gently kiss their foreheads and recite a prayer to the oracles. It ends like I was taught, "Be excellent to each other, and party on." | 66 | After the bombs dropped and society rebuilt itself, only one movie survived into the new world. This movie became the basis for the religion in this new society. | 70 |
**Authours Note: Strong language and content**
This is Anthony. Anthony isn't much good at anything. Are you Anthony.
“Not again, not here” Anthony would bemoan, okay I’ll give you that, you are good at that. I guess if you do anything that often you would be good at it. Not that it was a trait worth bragging of is it, Anthony? Anthony is shopping. Anthony is in the changing room. I know that woman just told you how that jean shirt combo suited you, they don’t, I pretty sure I heard her laugh while you were back in the changing room. Yes, good boy, change quickly, throw those clothes disheveled onto the changing room floor – really, you don’t have time to lace up those shoes or even put them on. I’m pretty sure the whole store is out there laughing at you, Anthony. That’s a good boy, leave the store. Did you hear that Anthony, she just sarcastically asked you if you liked the clothes. Ha! Right on you my boy, tell her to go fucking die.
Better clutch those shoes tighter. Look at them, they are all looking at you Anthony, they are all judging you. In fact, I think they are going to hurt you. Feel that pressure on your back, Anthony? That’s the only instinct you should trust. You should probably run. What if they have guns, Anthony? Good boy, sprint faster. Feel that feeling in your gut Anthony that rock solid proof they are out to get you, trust it. That’s right, you are safe in your car, lock all the door duck down in your seat. Better stay away from the windows, out of sight. Anthony, they might have guns trained on you. stay down while you open that glove box. Your girlfriend’s handgun just fell out, and onto the passenger’s side floor, Anthony what if it went off and shot you by mistake, you are an idiot Anthony. No. Stop. Don’t grab that pill box. You’re an idiot, you know it is a poisonous mind-control drugs.
Anthony^what^do^you^think^you’re^doing^…
…
…
…
Camping Anthony, really? How quaint. You know you aren't any good at the outdoors. Beside: spiders, bears, snakes? You are going to die and never be found, Anthony. You; your girlfriend; and your best friend. You’ll all die her. Best just stay in the car. It’s so dark and the road is dirt, you’re going to lose control of the car and kill everyone.
Put^down^that^plastic^box^Anthony^stop^…
…
…
…
…
…
His fucking her, Anthony. His been fucking her this whole time. See how they are laughing while you are packing up the tents. They are laughing at you. At how you can’t tell. You’re an idiot, Anthony. While you were asleep they made love next to you, in your tent. I know I saw them. She whispered how much bigger he was. How worthless you were. They both hate you, Anthony. You may as well just kill yourself. Yes, tell her you’re fine, Anthony. She doesn't actually care so why bother telling her the truth? Don’t listen to her. Don’t take your medication. If you do you’ll be under their control again, Anthony. They will be right back to fucking and you won’t know. You’ll be the weak-willed compliant idiot you are: Worthless. That right Anthony, shake her hand hold away. Don’t listen to him, you aren't acting crazy. So what if he claims to be your best friend. They are scared you know, Anthony. It’s not crazy it’s awareness.
...
You weak-willed scum. They aren't being reasonable. Don’t go to that glove box. I warned you the medication is to control you, Anthony.
...
You can’t even pack enough medication for camping. You’re no good at anything. That’s why she’s fucking him, Anthony. And here you are in the wild. They could kill you and leave you for the scavengers. In fact, I’m sure that what they want to do, Anthony. Are you going to sit there in your car and let them kill you,? That’s the sanest thing you’ve done, Anthony. Yes. The feeling of cool polished metal against your clammy hands. Don’t listen to their plea, him first. She running, Anthony, if she gets away she be back to kill you. Poor shot, you only winged her. She is still crawling. Don’t let her tears move you, Anthony, don’t let her pleas. She fucked him Anthony; she was going to kill you. Yes. Two more. Turn that whore mouth into a bloody pulp.
Worthless. Just worthless. You wasted your getaway. But what more could I expect of you. Here you are crying like a baby over her ruinous corpse. What’s done is done, Anthony. It doesn't matter if she was or was not fucking him now does it? She is dead. So is he. You ended them both all because of jealousy. Yes Anthony. Taste that combination of steel and expended gun-powder on the nozzle on the gun. Stop shaking you piece of trash. Yes. Squeeze.
**edit:** press x for less Anthony minor grammar. | 151 | Make an emotionally manipulative character. Make that character the narrator. Manipulate the other characters. While you manipulate me, the reader. | 281 |
I'd been a bad boy, but not quite bad enough... so here I was in Heck.
The thing here didn't seem to be torture, they aim for 'persistent mild dissatisfaction'. Nothing awful happens, it's just that everything is slightly sub-par and a bit disappointing.
A bored-looking demon was assigned to 'torment' me, which mostly seemed to involve shoving me once in a while and then sighing in desperate boredom immediately after the effort.
No shower gets you completely clean (and there's always a bit of an odour to the water), no food fills you - and it usually gives you a bit of gas, but not enough to be painful. I once tried just sitting down and closing my eyes to wait away some time... but even between my demon shoving me periodically I just couldn't seem to settle into a thoughtless state.
Lakes of sulpher? Nope, just hot briny water, just a bit too hot to get into for a relaxing soak, but not quite hot enough to scald. Tortured screams of the damned? Nope, just a background murmur of people endlessly but listlessly complaining about Heck.
I've started wondering if maybe you could do something bad enough here to get a transfer to Hell, just for the variety. | 17 | You are in a milder version of Hell called "Heck", what kinds of things do you find? | 27 |
It was a cold day in January, with an additional chill of foretelling in the air. There were thousands people in attendance to watch the most popular politician get sworn in and billions watching it on Television. The air was electric and filled with history as it was being made.
" I John Abraham do solemnly swear to uphold.....", simple words but with the power to change the history of the world were spoken solemnly.
The swearing in ceremony went flawlessly. The first family was whisked away quickly and efficiently by the secret service. The audience also left though not till they had facebooked, instagrammed their view of the moment.
Soon whispers were heard, the president had called for a press conference as he had an important announcement. Reporters heading back to their homes, changed courses to the white house, TV programs were cancelled, rumors started to fly. There was a sense of excitement again in the air.
" Dear citizens, I wanted to inform you that I will be resigning effectively. I love this country, I am proud of being an american but over the years I was gravely concerned about how much control we had given up while electing our leaders. I went through the election to prove it and to bring it to light. I know I will disappoint a lot of people but after hearing my reasons I hope that you all will forgive me.
Our elections do not choose the best person to lead. They choose the person with the most money. I had a massive war chest which was the single biggest reason that I won, but where does this money come from?
It comes from large corporations which need tax breaks and other sops that they expect from me.
It comes from countries that will expect me to provide foreign aid in billions to them.
It come from countries that will expect me to send troops against their enemies, sacrifice our young for helping them settle their tribal differences.
Our elections do not choose the best person to lead, they choose the one who can sell his soul in the most profitable manner. This is true for every elected official and hence Washington is what it is and I cannot change it.
I hope that you, the people of this country, its true wealth will realize that you have the real power and elect the right person and not the war chest. When that happens, I hope that you will remember and forgive me.
I bid you good bye and best of luck and I look forward to seeing a new set of leaders that we can all be proud off"
Four years later, after historic house and senate elections, the following words were again heard throughout the world. " I John Abraham do solemnly swear to uphold....."
| 33 | A new President is elected, only to resign within minutes of being sworn in. | 61 |
First time posting a story to this sub reddit, and in mobile, so please forgive my mistakes, and I hope it's ok.
--------------
*Finally,* I thought. *At long last, I could just die.*
The cool, dirty floor below me felt like a soft bed. The warm pools of blood around me soaked my clothes. I barely even felt that they were draining from me. It didn't matter. This one moment before it ended was eerily silent.
Everyone fled the room after I did what I did. It left me a last moment alone, just how i preferred it. I didn't like anyone who was around me, and would have been sorely disappointed if i died with them as company. Yet, ironically, I just gave it all up for them. But, really, I don't care about them.
They're all assholes. None of them cared, none of them showed courtesy. Honestly, whose genius idea was it to lock a bunch of adolescents into a building early in the day for years and try to educate them? All you get is anarchy, hate, and a crazy amount of hormones.
My life's been shit. It's all been shit. And I've hated myself for years. Nothing was good, yet there never was enough to drive up my courage to actually do it. To end my life. Get out of here, far away, free. There wasn't another way for me. So, I guess I have to thank you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to end it.
Thank you, Trevor.
You were like me, but much worse. So much angrier at this place and its people. But I don't blame you. Not wholly. I blame them more, but you were fucked up too. Fucked up enough to exact revenge by bringing a gun to school and firing.
Lucky for the student body, you came to my class first. You made a show of it, not killing anyone, but just scaring them. Pointing your gun. Giving yourself some power.
I saw my chance. Finally, I could die, and this could be my reason. This would be what ends my life and gets me the hell outta here.
I tackled you, you fired, they fled. You ran out of the room. I think you're still in the hall. I just heard a sob. Were you prepared for this? It doesn't really matter.
But, now I can finally die. They'll call me a hero. But I'm not. I just wanted to die, and saw my chance.
Edit: fixed a small contradiction. Woops. | 56 | They all say I died a hero, but death was the only thing I wanted all along. | 61 |
My grandfather always told me to cry, even if people said I shouldn't. I never understood why exactly until I was alone with him on his deathbed.
My grandfather quietly chuckled to himself, "I always knew you were a strong one, you. It doesn't matter what happens, you'll refuse to let the tears flow, exactly like your father."
Why did he bring up my father? He knows we don't see eye-to-eye on anything.
Almost as if anticipating my thought he says, "I know you two don't get along, but that is because he doesn't allow people to get close to him after his mother, your grandmother, died." My grandfather wiped away a tear and continued, voice trembling, "She was the love of my life. The love I felt for her far surpassed the love I felt for anybody or anything on this green Earth. Her silky brown hair, those wonderfully vibrant, green eyes, I loved everything about her. I can't help but still love her with all my heart even though she has been gone for 30 years. When she passed it felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest and ripped in two, I cried so long and contemplated suicide just so I could see her again. Your father did not have the same reaction though, for an entire week he went into his room and just laid in bed, staring at the wall. The only times he came out was to get some food and go to the restroom. After though, he was not the happy child his mother raised him to be, he was stone faced and never reacted to anything. All he did was stare. He never cried either. That is why I tell you to cry. Cry to let your wounds heal, if you do not cry, then the wounds will never close and hurt for much longer than they should. So please, I ask you before I pass, cry. Cry so you can continue being happy and so full of life, that is all I ask of you. Please."
My grandfather never told me this story, he never told me that was why my dad never let me hug him, that is why he never told me he loved me. From this realization and my grandfather's final words, I wept. I walk calmly outside the room and see my father sitting in a chair. I go over to him and do something I never wanted to do before; I hugged him. I hugged him and wept into his chest so I could heal.
On my grandfather's tombstone was engraved, "Cry to let your wounds heal, if you do not cry, your wounds never heal." | 14 | A spell is cast on the tombstone of anyone who dies. This spell engraves the tombstone with the most meaningful/influential/deepest quote that the departed ever uttered. | 19 |
At first, I didn't trust myself. Thought maybe it was just an old language or a lost language. But I kept running it through my head, making up phrases that were immediately translated into this distinctly other-worldly patterns. The sounds weren't right. The curve of speech was completely skewed from every other language on the planet. This, whatever "this" was...it wasn't human.
I felt my body seized by a chill. Despite the ice cold fear pulsing through my body now, I felt a bead of sweat drip down onto my eyebrow. I had asked to be granted the gift of knowing every language. Did this mean there was an alien race on the planet? Did it mean there was only one other non-human language in existence? Have people on Earth been exposed to this language before? I couldn't fathom that it would be possible to find anyone else who knew about this. Even if I could, how would one go about a search?
Feeling myself starting to panic, I stretched the neck of my shirt. The air in the room began to feel thicker. I had to snicker at the thought of all those fabled warnings: "be careful what you wish for." There I was, possibly the only human on the planet that knew for certain there was alien life and with the means to communicate with it. With that thought, an excited pause came over me. Even if I were the only person who had the ability to communicate with aliens, I certainly couldn't have been the first to try.
For the next few hours, I hungrily scoured the internet for rumors, conspiracy theories, articles or research written by "wackos," you name it. I checked message boards on UFO sites and read blogs belonging to people that had dedicated their lives to uncovering the secrets of Area 51. The panic had not subsided and feeling sick to my stomach with worry, I tried to make the search a quick one. I found a couple that lived in the state, about seven hours away, who had been organizing an online chat room/blog for people that claimed they had encountered aliens.
After several hours and a few email exchanges, the couple agreed to see me. I told them the full story and to my surprise, they did not question one detail. They invited me to stay with them and to help me figure out what I was dealing with. They seemed eager.
I arrived at their home very early the morning after discovering my newfound "talent." At first glance, the place looked kind of creepy. It was a shack in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by sparse forest. It was in the mountains so it felt isolated, but without the beauty that usually accompanies isolation. I saw that the couple was waiting for me on their front stairs when I was pulling into the driveway. They introduced themselves in person, Ziggy and Marla, and looked like your standard aging hippies; long hair, baggy clothes, buggy eyes.
Once inside, my hosts were very eager to hear more about my situation, despite the early hour. Feeling as if I owed them this courtesy for their hospitality, I explained everything again. How I had come by the genie, my wish, the sudden understanding of something completely non-human. I told them I wasn't feeling well at all and that I needed to take a wash or a rest, but they just looked at each other.
Marla spoke first.
"You haven't spoken it yet."
I didn't understand immediately. My stomach was twisting and my head had been pounding for hours. I was tired. But as I began to respond, I thought about it.
"No...I guess I haven't. I don't even know if I can..."
How had I not thought to speak it? To hear what it sounded like?
Marla gasped and brought her hands in front of her lips, like a child before opening a wrapped gift. Ziggy put his hands on her shoulder.
"Only one way to find out," whispered Ziggy excitedly.
He and Marla both leaned in with their eyes wide. I'm not sure what I expected, but what happened next wasn't it. I thought of a sentence and when I opened my mouth a sharp, deafeningly loud screech came out. I don't even think I finished the sentence I had originally thought because I close my mouth so quickly. The sound was horrible.
But I felt better. My stomach ached less and my headache was significantly improved. I decided to try to speak again to see what would happen. The loud, shrill sound again, but for longer. I was feeling like new. My body was starting to feel normal, my muscles less achy. I began to get excited, but as I nearly opened my mouth again, Marla grabbed my arm.
"What are you saying?"
"Nothing really, just random words. Stupid sentences like 'I like bananas,'" I said.
"Can you say anything you want?"
"Yes, I think so."
Her voice changed. She stood up taller with Ziggy talk by her side.
"Perfect," she said clearly without moving her lips an inch.
With that, I saw her stick a gun against my neck and pull the trigger. With a pang of pain and a moan, human, I saw everything fade into black.
When I awoke, I was cold again. But I knew this was different. This wasn't the cold that comes along with being sick, the way I had been feeling. This was regular cold. Freezing cold. I began to move and heard the loud rattle of chains against cement or concrete. I felt the mountain air confined in a small space with me. I could see nothing. What the hell had happened? Who were these people??
I heard a voice in response. Ziggy's voice. It sounded like it was echoing, but not from the room where I was being held.
"Just relax, Justin."
I jumped.
"Where am I?," I yelled.
Again the echoing voice.
"You're here in our cellar in the woods. We'll let you out when we need you."
"Need me for what? Where are you?"
This time I heard Marla's voice and the creaking if big metal doors opening. She was walking into the cellar, light seeping in behind her. Halfway through her sentence I realize she wasn't moving her mouth at all. It wasn't even open.
"We've been waiting for one like you. I don't know if it ever could have happened without your "genie" or whatever you call him. Ever since we got stranded here 200 years ago, we've been seeking out those with information as to our own kind. We've found plenty, clearly"
And with that she motioned to the rest of the room. I hadn't taken a look before, when my eyes still hadn't adjusted. Now though, as I looked around I saw the most horrifying scene. The shack above ground was a cover for a vast underground cellar. There must have been 20 or 25 others down there. Some dead, some tied up, some tied to chairs.
"They're not dead," said Marla.
"How..did you..."
"We've known how to do that for ages. It speaking to our deserters we can't seem to do in our human bodies. You see, Ziggy and I were left here during a rapid rescue that took place a long time ago. Since, we have had to adopt the human form, as our original bodies could not cope in this atmosphere."
I felt the panic take hold of me again. It was strong and heavy. My head was beating and my stomach twisting.
"That is normal," said Ziggy as he walked down the cellar doors. "It's just the reflex of the human body. Your systems can't handle us, not in any capacity. Even understanding our language is enough to upset your body."
"You noticed you felt better before when you expelled the foreign sound from your body?," Marla inquired.
I thought about it. Yes, I had felt better. I began to open my mouth to relieve myself of the sickness, but Marla leaped forward and covered my mouth with something cold and hard.
"Ah ah. We need you to save it. The next rescue mission might be getting close. When they are here on Earth, we'll need to contact them. We can send our language out in radio signals every so often through you. But a human can't speak 6iyJnk-ovu8sa endlessly. It would kill you. Unfortunately, keeping it in you for too long will kill you. So we'll have to space out your messages just right."
I could feel the sweat dripping off my face, onto the floor. Everyone else in the basement with me looked spent. Completely exhausted of all human resources. I wondered what they offered to the program.
"They weren't of much use. Not like you will be."
With that, Ziggy and Marla both turned and began to walk out of the cellar. In my mind, I was screaming. Begging them to let me go. Pleading for mercy. Through my mind Ziggy spoke to me one more time before closing the door and letting me sink into darkness again.
"Sorry, bro." | 273 | A genie just granted you your wish to be able to speak every language and you find that in your brain there is a language which belongs to aliens. | 694 |
Mark scowled at the heat.
The last wisps of air-conned cold retreated quickly, allowing the ashen winds to lash sharply at his exposed face. Gripping the metal railing to steady himself, he struggled briefly with his glare-shades and drew his hood down protectively in time for another spray of sand that lashed the hull, then that sickening lurch as they plunged down another wave. It had been exhilarating, gliding across the sea of glass like birds on the wing. Of course, even birds had to drink and his enthusiasm had dried up with their stores on this fools errand.
Kara whooped as they began another sharp assent. Mark clenched his teeth at the change but looked ahead to where exposed raven hair and white robes fluttered quickly in the winds. He called out but she couldn't hear, her hands clutched to the railings at the bow and voice whooping loudly to the sky. He cursed his luck, working his way carefully forwards between each rise and fall.
Slowly dying of thirst had put a lot of things in perspective. Firstly, he should never have left the ocean, that snaking great lake that surrounded the Antarctic territories. At least then the money had been easy, life a simple matter of visiting each island and city-state and even the occasional skirmish with a Raider from the Dust lands. He understood now what sent those savages crazy - this endless sea of glass was barren in a way the ocean never was, the heat scrambled the mind and those roving bands of Rad-dust... well.
Kara actually let go of the railing, screaming happily and leaning into the next fall as they cut down the next dune. Ellie was right, the heat had cooked her...
"Well we need a Captain". He'd looked at the man in his odd penguin suit curiously, always baffled by the people of Cent-Gov but drawn as always by the money. "And that *thing* can cross the Wastes" he'd replied sceptically. The man laughed and patted a sleek metallic hull no different from his own ship, but bearing strange flat protrusions that faced the ground and wierd machinery to her aft. "she'll do better than that" the man assured him, he was given a sad smile and led around it's length, 'once, we dreamed of sailing the stars... this was to be our engine, to save what was but, like so much else, we were too slow and too late...' Mark resisted rolling his eyes and patted the admittedly sleek vessel skeptically, "so she flies across the stars?" The man had laughed, "No, we don't have the fuel to get her into space". Mark felt his dissapointment trump his skepticism and scowled, 'so is there a point to this story?' At that the man had perked up and gave him a broad, knowing smile. '*We* don't have the fuel, but this vessel can take you to our long lost brothers, and maybe, just maybe..."
He hit the prow hard, too hard. He cried out as he began tumbling forwards but a hand yanked him back hard, and laughed heartily as he clung ever tighter to the rail. "Kara, you need to come inside" he yelled, the winds snatching his voice. Kara laughed madly, clearly lost, and he sighed internally, grabbing at her wrist to begin the inevitable struggle back inside. She resisted, but to his surprise embraced him warmly. He stiffened up at the contact, suddenly at a loss, he needed to...
"It's okay" she muttered into his ear, and when he looked up her eyes were sparkling, alight with joy.
"Kara..."
She smiled, "Mark, It's okay" and she nodded past him, whooping as they fell again into a dune. He cursed, having to turn and grip the rail, sand lashing his cheeks, hands blistering and...
It ended.
Mark gasped, only catching a glimpse before they descended again, but he had seen it. Blue. Water. An end to the wastes. Four years, done at last and.
Kara laughed, and he joined her, whooping at the top of his lungs. They'd made it.
Kara hugged him again and they cried and embraced. She kissed his head, sobbing and giggling. "Did you see?"
Of course he'd seen. 'Water'. A dream.
Kara laughed and shook her head rapidly. 'No, Mark, beyond the water was a mountain, and on that mountain, I saw *light*..."
| 11 | Earth is a desert planet, but with two isolated belts of habitability in either hemisphere. A vast nigh-impassable desert belt encircles the planet's equator. Human civilization has arisen in the southern belt, and modern tech is about to make trans-desert travel possible for the first time. | 40 |
“What is going on?” Was the first thing I asked, as I scanned the dark room, trying to see something ahead of my nose.
“Nobody knows.” A female voice came, from somewhere behind me.
“Who's there?”
“Me”, “and me”, “and me”, came three separate voices, one from each corner of the room. Two men and a woman.
“What is this? What is going on?”
“We don't know either.”
It was all dark. I knew I was tied to a bed, because, well, I could feel the cushion and the rope. Apart from that, I could
be anywhere. A small room, a giant chamber, a –
“Wait, I'm not blind, am I? This is really a darkened room?”
“I love that song.”
“Shut up, Leo. Yes, newcomer, this is a dark room.” The female voice sounded. “Unless we are all blind. Shit, I hadn't
considered that. I'm Mary, by the way.”
“Hi, Mary.”
“Well, we know we are not deaf, because of the noise.” The third male voice sounded.
"What noise?" I asked, confused.
“And because we are talking, genius” the voice named Leo said, in a mocking tone.
“So, what? You just woke up here, too? Nobody knows what's up?”
“Yeah, I was the first.” Mary's voice started. “Woke up all alone. Had to face the first day by myself. It was horrible.” She
paused. “Then I woke up the next day...”
“And I was here, too.” The third male voice sounded. “I'm Christian, by the way.”
“Hey, Christian.” I said. “So, what? You guys also don't remember?”
“Nope. No memory from before this.”
“Then it was me.” The voice named Leo said. “And today, you.”
“Shit. That's weird.” I said, confused.
For some reason, my mind felt cloudy.
“What about this noise you mentioned?”
“It comes once a day. It must be about to start.” Christian's voice came, from somewhere around me. “A low, deep
sound, that repeats itself a couple of times, then stops.”
Why was I so confused? Why couldn't I follow what was happening?
“I see... There's a room... And strangers... And a noise....”
Everything was over complicated, like someone was trying to purposely confuse me into thinking this was a smart plot, or something.
“And we have no memory...”
It was all foggy and weird.
And all too familiar, I realized at once.
“Shit. I know where we are.”
“Really?” Leo's voice came, excited.
“Yeah, Leo. Really.”
“Where are we?
“Isn't it around this time that the noise starts?” Mary's whispered. “I think it --”
*BWAAAAAAAAAAH.*
“We're in a Christopher Nolan movie.” I said, with a sigh.
For a second, silence was all that followed.
“No way.” Leo said. “I –
*BWAAAAAAAAAH.*
“Guys, listen to me. If we're going to make it out of here alive, you gotta follow my lead.”
“Ok what do we do?”
*BWAAAAAAAAAH.*
“We need to find a way to do something that sounds like it's magical and impossible, yet sounds vaguely scientific.
“Like cloning people and getting inside dreams?”
“Or communicating through gravity. Exactly.”
*BWAAAAAAAAAH.*
“But what?” Christian asked.
“I don't know, let me think.”
*BWAAAAAAAAAH.*
“Hey, what if we escape through the prompt?” Mary asked, after a moment of silence.
“What do you mean?
*BWAAAAAAAAAAH.*
“We are in a prompt, right? Technically, we could escape from this story to a reply just under it.”
*BWAAAAAAAAAAH.*
“That could work.” Leo uttered.
*BWAAAAAAAAAAH.*
“Yeah, it's vaguely scientific, it's meta and it makes people think they're witnessing something revolutionary and
complicated, when actually it's just a whimsical – and even somewhat presumptuous – plot device.
“All right everybody, let's try this.” I cried. “On three. One.”
*BWAAAAAAAAH.*
“Two...”
*BWAAAAAAAAH.*
“Three!”
*BWAAAAAAAAAH.*
| 16 | You wake up in a dark room but you have no memory of how you got there. All you can hear is a strange noise. | 16 |
"It's time," said mum, checking an intricate pocket watch.
The whole family was there for my thirteenth birthday. It wasn't just my parents. My Aunt and Uncle from the States was also there. And Grammy who was staying in the hospital asked permission from her doctors to go home just for this day.
"My big boy would become a man today," she said as she hugged me. I always liked Grammy's hugs. She has always been the most protective of me. But today, she wouldn't be with me.
"I remember my 13th birthday not so long ago," my uncle said. "I got a fucking big ass Sasquatch! Hah! Beat that!"
"Language!" my mum said.
"Oops."
"I'm sure Marcus can handle himself. Right Mark?" said my Aunt.
I didn't answer. My eyes stayed on the half eaten bacon and eggs. Breakfast. They usually serve an ordinary one on the morning of your thirteenth birthday. But I guess this one was prepared more special. The bacon was crisp. The egg was slightly well done. All of it were expensive market products that my mum doesn't usually buy.
But here they are, half-finished.
My stomach is turning.
"Are you afraid, son?" asked my father. He gave me a stern look.
My mind says yes but I muttered "No."
"No. No, you shouldn't."
"It's time, love," my mum repeated, now looking at my father.
Father cleared his throat before saying "Yes. Yes."
From his coat, he produced an elongated object wrapped in a silvery silk cloth and laid it on the table. He opened it in the most delicate way, revealing what looks like a dagger inlaid with blue gemstones.
In an almost ceremonial fashion, he unsheathed the dagger. The blade shimmered when struck by sunlight, it's rippled face glimmering in colors I never knew existed.
"This was my father's dagger that was also his father's. It was owned by men and women of our family. And it's purpose is one thing. I myself have used it when I came of age. Now, I entrust it to you."
Around me, I saw the solemn face of my mum, my aunt, and my uncle. Grammy nodded at me. I held my hand and took the dagger.
They walked with me up to the door of my room.
"This is as far as we could go," said Grammy. "Good luck."
"Beat my Sasquatch, Mark!"
"I love you."
"No matter what happens, no matter what you see, kill it."
Sigh.
It's time to confront the monster under my bed.
My room was dark when I stepped in. The door was closed and the windows, too. Tradition. Or maybe it was part of the ritual.
It took a few moments until my eyes got accustomed to the darkness. My room was still the way it was when I left it early this morning. Books and graphic novels were strewn on the floor. My 3DS was on my study table, along with my reviewer for the exams next week. Posters of Batman and his rogues gallery hung on the wall. I shouldn't have hung Joker's peeled face on my wall. Damnit.
I won't be surprised if I get a Joker.
My eyes fell on the far side of the room.
My bed.
And what lies beneath it.
My heart pounded against my chest. I held the dagger firmly with my right hand then knelt in front of my bed.
I heaved and lifted it.
And there he was.
He sat on an office chair with a laptop in front of him. A spreadsheet program was open. The screen glowed against his face, revealing a ghastly thin face. His glasses was slighly lopsided, the only shield that barely conceals deep lines and eyebags.
Below him were vodka bottles and crumpled papers. They were letters signed PV. And some that looked like excerpts from a novel.
They say that the monster under your bed is what you fear the most.
The greatest fear I have spoke.
"Are you surprised?"
"No," I said. "For thirteen years, you tormented me. Each night, before I go to sleep, you were there. The more I learn, the more I read, the stronger you get. My greatest fear. It's time."
"It's time. Yes. It's time."
It was an almost Joker-ish grin.
My dagger trembled but my target was set. I felt his hands defend himself but I pierced the dagger further into his heart.
My heart.
Over and over.
I realized I was slashing at smoke. I waited until the smoke cleared up.
The future me disappeared. On its place was a pocketwatch strung in a silver chain.
Damn you, uncle. I thought I would have to fight a big ass Sasquatch.
# | 25 | Every child has a monster that lives under his bed. Society's coming of age ceremony is to kill that monster. The time has come for you too to become an adult... | 53 |
He leaned in closer, brush angled oddly in his thin, veined hand. The brush kissed the canvas, barely leaving even the smallest hint of a mark. He sat up again.
He stared at her for a minute, examining every angle and curve of her exceptional features. Dark hair cascaded around her round shoulders. Airbrushed skin so smooth it looked soft enough to touch. He was entranced, enamored not by the woman in the painting, but by her beauty. He leaned in again and corrected an invisible blemish on her dainty hands.
Hours upon hours of his precious time here spent mixing and re-mixing paint, only to dab the lightest of strokes on her image. He slaved over the round of her cheeks, the point of her chin. He obsessed over her comfortable and warm eyes, inviting himself into her lap to gaze upon the beauty of this linen Goddess.
The duke that commissioned the painting would have to wait another day. He could not part with her. He could not leave her in exchange for some measly coin. No man in his right mind would value worthless pieces of gold over the chance to look upon the stunning face of Aphrodite herself. He could not be reached by his colleagues. He could not be called to work upon any other project, not when there was still work to be done on *her*. He was more than enamored, he was in love. Enchanted, ensnared, trapped by the mysterious curve of her secret, seductively sly smile. | 12 | A painter gets trapped in one of his paintings | 34 |
In the year 2048, the most incredible creation man has ever done was completed. A pill, to be taken every night, that would ensure a human could liver forever. At first, only the elite could afford it. But as the years went on it became more readily available. There was one side-effect that even to this day remains a constant and guaranteed affliction. An itchy foot.
When the first ‘Eternies’ complained of a tickle on their soles, it was cast aside as rich person’s drivel. After some time, it was taken more seriously. The great American scientist that developed the ‘Forever’ pill Harvey Squidwart admitted later that it was a purposeful inclusion, done to keep ‘mankind in line’. He has been publicly denounced as a criminal ever since and every year on the 20th May (the date of the creation of Forever) a squid is killed and its blood drank by an Eternie.
Despite the itchy foot, there are still many people who opt for eternal life and there are multiple attempts at decreasing the severity. Thanks to the twisted genius of Squidwart however, it is impossible to decrease the constant itch that inflicts all Eternies. At the beginning, many would amputate their feet and opt for prosthetic replacements. Unfortunately, upon doing so, the itch would move up to the next available part of the body. One man Bob Langster from England, removed parts of his body, until only his torso and head remained. He still complained of an itchy belly, but being unable to even scratch it, stopped taking the pill and died a week later.
Is it worth it? An eternally itchy foot is a hard pill to swallow. | 46 | A drug for eternal life has been developed. There's only one catch... | 31 |
EDIT: This prompt is really great and thanks for having my mind take a good wander on this early morning. This is just a short piece i thought up, couldnt really flesh out as much as I would like as I am currently at work. Have a great day!
--------------------------------------------
The first swipe was instantaneous, and the burn was even quicker. Pearson looked back to see his comrade fall over ... in half.
"YAHWEH HAS FORBIDDEN THIS PLACE TO THE FALLEN", the Angel roared. "RETURN TO YOUR PRISON".
Pearson looked down again at his fallen commander and the body began evaporating into a thick vapor and then vanished all together. He was stunned and was quite unaware of what to do next. Their Rover lay a few dozen yards behind him but he was apprehensive in taking a quick step in that direction, for fear of the Angels' wrath. He thought of what to do or say to this extraterrestrial being.
"Who are you?" Pearson asked.
"WHO AM I?" it boomed, "I AM SENT FROM YAHWEH, TO GUARD THIS PLACE FROM YOUR SPECIES, SO THAT YOU MAY NEVER RETURN TO THE PLACE OF PARADISE".
"I am calm, oh Being of Light, I am an explorer, I mean no harm", Pearson desperately pleaded.
"We will see what your true intentions are", the Angel replied.
"How long have you been here?", asked Pearson.
"Eternity is the absence of time Fallen One. In eternity, time frays and a needle moves through it, that needle is the will of Yahweh. You cannot possibly understand that will, nor do I".
"Why are we not allowed here? This is just a planet in our solar system, one we have spent so much time, effort and technology to arrive to", Pearson contorted.
"You are not arriving, you are returning, come, let me show you this place before your species fell".
In that moment Pearson looked down at his dark hands and felt his molecules changing and being ripped apart, atom by atom. The pain was not unbearable, just a bit sensational. He looked up at the Angel and in another moment fell to the ground. When he pulled himself up he was still wearing his space suit, but did not have a his helmet or breathing apparatus on. He did not know whether he was on Mars still, but this place did not look anything like Earth. He looked down at his body and it appeared translucent, but then he heard a strange noise and snapped his head back up.
Two strangers appeared and walked towards him. One that appeared to be a man, and the other one, a woman. These beings were some 3 feet taller than himself and had a faint glow around their skin. When the Man spoke they did not speak Pearson's native English but he still understood them in his mind. Pearson could not believe his ears as the Man began to speak.
"Welcome Traveler", the Man stated in a tongue an Earthling would not comprehend. "I am Atom, and this, is Eve". | 31 | Mars was the Eden of Genesis. The first humans to set foot on it's soil are met by an angel with a flaming sword. | 48 |
Cliff and James waited by the fire for Matt and Ranae to come back with some fish. They were all camped by the Columbia River, near the source in the mountains of Canada. Their orange tents stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the lush, verdant green forest, the cool grey rocks, and the blues and whites of the roaring river rapids. Cliff was staring up at the sky, streaked with purple and oranges as the stars just began to twinkle into view, more of them than anything you could ever see in a city. "You know, even if we don't find him," he remarked, "this is still a pretty cool experience." James only nodded in agreement as he poked at the fire and rested his boots on a nearby rock. "But we'll find him."
Over the crackle of the fire, James heard something in the forest crack. He sat upright and peered into the tree line, full of dusky shadows. "There's something moving," he whispered to James. They silently grabbed their cameras, careful not to slip on some of the smooth rocks around the riverbed. The sound of branches snapping and leaves being trampled grew closer quickly. Cliff's blood pumped eagerly; was this the shot they'd been waiting for?
Ranae burst through the foliage, panting. "God damn it," Cliff said, dropping his camera back into its case. "You did that on purpose, didn't you? You just *love* getting our hopes up."
Ranae dropped to his knees in the moss by the riverbank, still trying to catch his breath; all he could do was point downriver and say "Matt!" James handed Ranae his canteen. "Just breath, man. What happened to Matt?"
"Just ran off," Ranae was able to spit out. "Took my walkie; ran into the woods shouting!"
Cliff and James looked at each other. Matt wasn't the easily excitable one of the group; this had to be big. They threw on their boots and pulled out the cameras again. "Which way, Ranae?" He pointed north, toward the other side of the river bend where they'd been fishing. James and Cliff took off through the forest at breakneck pace.
First, they found the fishing site: poles and tackleboxes were simply left on the shore, along with a few freshly caught bass. James studied the mud on the opposite shore. "Pretty clear pattern right here," he remarked, pointing at an unmistable set of bootprints. "These are definitely Matt's."
"Are there... any other prints?" Cliff asked hesitantly. Hopefully. James just shook his head.
"Well, it must have been something. Let's go."
They followed Matt's trail of broken branches through the forest, dark and gloomy in the twilight. Animals stirred to life around them, ready for the night. They broke out their flashlights, quickening their pace. *Why would Matt just run off into the night like this*, they both wondered silently.
They reached a clearing of tall green grass and yellow wildflowers. Matt sat, muddy and sweaty, in the middle, staring at the dirt. In the distance, an owl hooted.
"Matt?" Cliff called out. He didn't move from the clearing. They broke the treeline and crossed the meadow, helping Matt to his feet. His face was white as a sheet, and his eyes were wandering aimlessly. Finally, they managed to snap him out of it. "Matt, what happened? What did you see?"
"Guys, I found..." his voice trailed off weakly, and he sat again. Cliff knelt in the dirt beside him as James set up the camera. This was big. "I just discovered..."
"Go on..." Cliff encouraged him.
"I just discovered... a rabbit den." Matt pointed a shaky finger at a nearby hole. *That's it*? James thought. "And I discovered... that I've just been wasting decades of my life looking for this thing that doesn't really exist, and I was so convinced of it that I thought a *rabbit* going through the brush across the river was some mythical man beast watching me fish."
He looked up at the camera. "Guys, what the fuck are we doing with our lives?"
---
Sorry if the people on the show have distinct personalities; I've never seen the show so I can't really capture it! | 26 | The crew of Finding Bigfoot finds something far, far worse than they expect. | 40 |
"What do you mean, revoked the copyright?? They can't just do that!" Eminem was shouting into his phone, red faced, pounding his fist emphatically and knocking everything off his desk in rage.
"Look, Marshall. I don't know what tell you," his manager tried to explain. "There was a big class action suit where a bunch of guys came in and said that you had deprived them of their right to stand up, despite 'their suspicious dealing and slender stature.' The judge must have sympathized with them; something about how the court will only recognize an inaccurate moniker if it is a recognized title or your legal name..." Papers rustled in the background. "Ok, here's the page from the opinion. The judge declares that given your years of wealth and actions as an upstanding citizen and father, you are no longer considered 'shady,' and that your recent weight gain up to 185 lbs no longer qualifies you as 'slim.'"
"That's not what it fucking means!" Eminem shouted back into the phone.
"Look, I don't really know. We can hire a lawyer to fight it, but I talked to a friend of mine already and he said it doesn't look good for you."
Eminem rested his forehead on his hand and his elbow on his desk. These fucking lawyers take *everything.* There was a tense silence on the phone.
"So, what do you want me to do?" his manager said finally.
"I'll drop the fucking name," Eminem gave in at last, punching a lamp off the desk and shattering it on the wood floor.
"Ok, I'll take care of it. Now, we've still got that Cease and Desist from the Mars Corporation saying that you've defamed their candy. How do you want to handle that?"
"Fuck it," he yelled. "I'm converting to Scientology. Let's see them sue me now!"
---
As always, check out /r/luna_lovewell if you enjoyed the story! | 727 | Eminem finds out he isnt the real slim shady | 1,216 |
"I honestly don't understand why, or how, you're here."
"I have to help you make the best decision of your life so I can get into Heaven, you're the last person I have to help."
"How many have you helped already?"
"Nearly 6 Million."
"Damn-"
"You shouldn't cuss-and yes, I'm very persuasive."
"But... but-"
"Yes, I know, I'm Hitler, I get that every time. The first one was the most difficult, I pretended to be someone else for a few others, gave up for a few years, backpacked through Europe, it's nice to do when people don't hate you/can't see you/you're not shooting at them, but then I had to get back to work, and you're my last "lost angel" as it were and I'm here to help."
"...but you're Hitler."
"Mein Gott... well at least your eyes work... now let's get your heart working."
"What do you have to do?"
"Teach you to love."
"Love? Love what?"
"Sulfuric acid-What do you think!? Another person, you have to love another person."
"But I hate people..."
"Haha, been there, done that, it doesn't end well."
"Do you love anyone?"
"Yes, and she's already in Heaven, she didn't have as many people to help as I did, please, let me help you."
"Okay, what do I do first?"
"Well, putting down that knife would probably be a good step."
"But you're a ghost, I can't hurt you."
"Yes, but you just stabbed that man 12 times, so... I don't know... maybe put it down."
"But it's my only knife."
"Well this is going to take a little while, isn't it? Hold on Eva! I'm coming... eventually!" | 30 | Hell is not eternal. It is actually a detention center for people who never atoned for their actions during their lives. Most people eventually serve out their sentence and move on to Heaven by acting as "Guardian Angels" doing good works on Earth. | 58 |
The door creaked open as the infamous black hooded figure glided through my room. I lay in my bed, coughing and hacking. It was only the flu, I reassured myself as the Reaper’s bare bone visage became visible. He slowly lifted his arm to show a piece of parchment in his hand which inscribed my name in a blood red font.
“It is your time,” Death spoke in a tone which straddled the line between terrifying and reassuring.
“Wait!” I pleaded. “I have a proposition for you. The Reaper stared down on me in a look that made me recoiled.
“Go on.”
“I’ll make a wager. If I can best you in a competition of my choosing, I get to live. If I lose, however, I will depart from life without a struggle.”
Death paused, “Very well. What is your contest?”
I racked my brains for a minute. What could I do that an immortal being with ultimate abilities over life and death couldn't?
“A pick-up contest,” I decided confidently. “We go to a local bar and whoever gets the most phone numbers wins.”
It was the perfect plan. What woman in her right mind could adore a skeleton dressed in a robe? The Reaper only nodded and without warning he burst into flames. From that fire emerged a beautiful man with the exact proportions of every Abercrombie model ever known. The world melted around us and soon we found ourselves standing on the inside of the most exclusive club in town.
“We best get started, “Death spoke with a newly found British accent.
The next hour went miserably. Somehow the Reaper reserved a VIP booth and every young lady wanted a piece of him. Meanwhile, I still had the flu and was wearing the same pajamas I had when I met Death. I sneezed and wheezed as I hacked up putrid pick-up lines which earned me no less than three drinks thrown in my faces, four slaps across the face, and a half dozen insults to my masculinity. I was dead.
While I sipped on what I expected to be my last rum and coke, I had an idea so brilliant and stupid that only a drunk could have thought of it. I hastily asked the bartender for a favor and when he obliged, I knew I had won.
By last call, The Abercrombie Reaper approached me and asked if I was ready to depart.
“Not so fast,” I protested. “I want to compare numbers.”
“Very well,” Death sighed. He pulled out a fist full of scratch paper and two pairs panties from his pocket. “Forty-three numbers. And you?”
“Well I’m not exactly sure,” I began confidently. “But I have a suspicion that it’s more than forty-three.”
I procured a large yellow phonebook that the bartender let me borrow. No one set a limit of how many numbers I could receive from one person and no one mentioned a method of how to receive them.
“Very well,” The Reaper spoke disdainfully. “You have won. You shall see another day.”
He went up in flames once more before disappearing. I rejoiced in both survival and the fact that I had not cheated death; I beat him fair and square. | 11 | "Some people say they cheated death. I can say I beat death fair and square." | 19 |
“They have moving vehicles faster than anything we could ever imagine”, Desmond whispered, and the people around the
meeting room leaned in closer, their eyes glued on the traveler as he told his tale. "Cruising the streets like bullets from one place to the other. I was motion sick just watching their chromed ships move around!"
“What else?”
“Food! Crops and so much cattle, enough that the world needn't be hungry ever again”, Desmond said. “And they travel
in space, and they have robots to do our jobs for us.”
The people gasped, collectively. Everyone was so sure the future would be terrible...
“It's real!” Desmond cried, smiling. “And the lights! All around the city, so many lights!
Blinking, spinning, flashing, trying to grab your attention everywhere you look. So much to do, all the time! It's heaven!”
The people around the meeting room clapped and smiled, congratulating each other. Not only had the experience been a
success, but the future was a great place, apparently!
“This is unbelievable.” The research director said. “The future is, indeed, bright.”
_________________________________
Across the ocean, on a different meeting room, Francis had just arrived.
“It doesn't look good”, he said, and a heavy silence followed.
“What? Tell us.”
“I saw people on the streets. Left to die on gutters and sidewalks, with no one to attend for them” he mumbled, a
mortified expression in his face. “The elder. The children.”
“No..”
“Yes.” He continued. “I saw fields of factory and smoke, as far as the eyes could see. No concern for the
environment. We are already destroying our own world at an alarming rate, and, in the future, it doesn't look like we will stop.”
“This can't be true.”
“I'm telling you.” Francis sighed. “We have food to feed the whole world, in the future, yet we choose not to. We have
fast moving cars, but they are killing our planet. We have automation, and robots to do our jobs, but they work mainly to
improve profits fir a few minority, not to ease the life of the population.”
“You are wrong, Francis.”
“For a large portion of humanity, the future came only to take their jobs and to add to their work load.”
“We received the report from the European lab just now, Francis.” The director said. “You are wrong. They said the world
is a perfect place.”
“I don't know, Director.” Francis uttered, tired. He wanted to go home. Lie down. Forget what he had seen. “All I can tell
you is what I saw: 2014 shines bright, but not for everyone.”
With that, he turned around and made his way out of the lab into the cold night, scanning the streets in search of a
carriage.
_________________
EDIT: The mention of Europe is arbitrary, in case there was any confusion. Not trying to push a political agenda here, I'm sure there's wealth and poverty in every country; the story is about the world as a whole, not a particular place.
Also, for those who are following, Chapter 2, Part II of Angel District, [my sci-fi novel](https://alpacareports.wordpress.com/angel-district/) is up on my blog already, so check it out =)
| 70 | Two time travelers appear in the present day, claiming to both come from the same year. Both of them describe radically different versions of the future. | 96 |
There was a sense of deja vu as I stepped into the warehouse. "Wait, what does deja vu mean? How did I use that word?" It felt so natural. I stopped confused and looked around. Yes there was a sense of familiarity( Is that what deja vu means?) but I would never have forgotten so many human bodies lying down.
I enter and look carefully at the bodies. "THEY ARE BREATHING!!!" My programming does not handle this scenario so I don't react. I guess I was never expected to find living humans. I slowly walk over and start looking at them. Scanning their faces and bodies into my immense and perfect memory. On the 73rd one, I get another shock. I have seen this face before but no matter how much I scan my perfect memory, I cannot recognize him. I look at the machine and there is my ID on it.
"How is this human related to me?" I wonder. There is something about the face that mesmerizes me. "Wait can a robot be mesmerized?" I look at the machine again and there is a old data port that I can connect to. Without hesitation I connect, there is a surge of electricity.....
I wake up. I can see my robot avatar powered down. "Damn, these new models are starting to be smart enough to be dangerous. Hmmmm, I think it might be better that in future models the human part is in control and not just in the subconscious" I make a note and start working on the next set of robots.
| 10 | You are a sophisticated robot in a robot colony that has out lived the human race. One day, you accidentally stumble into a secret underground warehouse filled with human bodies hooked up to machines. You then notice your I.D. number on one of these machines. | 39 |
"Alfred, this man, he - he isn't like - He's not the type of criminal I'm used to."
"With all due respect, Master Wayne, that's because he's not the kind of criminal you trained yourself to fight."
"I know, I know Alfred, you already told me : He wants to watch the world burn. So, what, I burn down the forest? I can't go tell Lucius to get my gear back from the NSA, that would go over like a lead balloon."
"Or -"
"Don't do it, Alfred."
"Or - "
"Don't say it - "
"A bat balloon."
"Damnit, Alfred, this is serious and you have to marginalize everything I'm trying to do with these tired puns."
"What - what did this Joker do? He shot you -"
"With a paint ball."
"With a paint ball, Master Wayne. He's psychotic, but in the true sense of psychosis he has extreme swings, from the - the ultra violent, to this - the whimsical."
"That's a birthday balloon."
"Ah - it was a birthday balloon. But, if you think like he does, it's not just a birthday balloon, it's a -"
"Fu - I am not going ride out in my militarized sports car wearing half-million dollar body armor only to have my entire strategy hinge on a nickels worth of imitation rubber."
"You're - right, Master Wayne. To capture this individual, you must be prepared to break your one rule."
"I'm not going to kill him, Alfred."
"No, I thought that rule was de-prioritized after that last - nevermind, the rule about, you know, that, that thing you had tailored for that evening with the girls from - "
"Oh, hell no, Alfred, I am not parading around in blue and gray spandex with a goofy rubber mask and primary yellow belt."
"Don't forget your - "
"I swear if you say it - "
"Your bat balloon, Master Wayne." | 24 | 2014 Batman meets 1960's Joker | 45 |
They came quietly in the night, travelers from a world of light and peace. In their world, everything was perfection. No one went hungry, children laughed and played without worry, and utopia was achieved. And yet, this particular group consisted of men of a larger scope. Men of all time and space, keepers of the universe. They had more pressing concerns than what was occurring in their native time, and so to their future they went.
They arrived at a bleak, bleak world. Humanity languished in abject apathy. There was no love in this world, because there was no hate. There was no peace in this world, for there was no war. No color was to be found in any of the faces of the people that walked by, because nothing ever stirred them from their waking slumber. A world without passion lay spread out before the strange crew. They saw a world without life and without human meaning. There were no plays or performances, no artwork graced their world, no gods inhabited their skies. The time voyagers searched for days, and then weeks, and then months for any sign of life, any spark of curiosity in these dull people. They found nothing but basic biology. They ardently desired to find something to justify the lack of feeling in this world, but nothing plausible arose. The men began to despair.
Investigators from another world as they were, they began to try to understand what caused this failure of everything that brings import to our existence. For eons, they pored over documents, communed with the council from their own time, searched every database for a clue. And, after what would be many lifetimes for us, they finally found it.
---
They began a new journey. The last journey. The council had agreed with their assessment, and had decreed it so. They were to wipe themselves out and become only what could have been. For only the second time, they were no longer to merely observe, but rather to become agents of change.
They came to a time not long before our own, a time in which people were beginning to be captivated by the automobile, electric lighting, and Coca-Cola. The men stood on the streets, watching people walk by. These humans were full of life and fervent about their desires, so unlike the others. People hurried around with flushed cheeks, glissandos of voices, swishing fabrics. Every moment painted a new scene of bustling humanity. The men looked at each other, sad longing and resignation in their eyes. And then, they left.
They appeared in a small town on the border of Austria-Hungary, where they wandered their way to a small home on the edge of town. There they waited. A middle aged woman pushed by without so much as noticing them, arms full of fabric and carrying a large carpet bag. It would not be long now.
The screams of a woman. The low mutter of a man. The commanding voice of the midwife. And then, the shrill cry of a child.
Seven men appeared on the street, across from our travelers. They were dressed identically, and each one of this new crew mirrored one of the men exactly. They looked at each other, and nodded. They moved forward, strange tools flashing in the light. A knife peeked out from a cloak.
The men wasted no time. Seven met seven, and, with silent tears, seven killed seven. And all fourteen were gone.
Inside the house, the baby continued to wail.
---
There are no men, there is no council, and that future is no more. The future we have does not shine particularly bright. But that is no indication of what will come to pass. The future shone bright once, and it was bright for many years. But brightness dulled the senses, and made us all blind. Only with darkness can there truly be light. Perhaps, when all is said and done, brightness is not the best thing to see on the horizon.
>Edit: After re-reading, noticed some spelling/grammar errors and some better style choices. No storyline has been changed! | 88 | Consider a future where Hitler was the lesser evil of two eventualities. Travellers went back in time and stopped what would have been a much worse fate for mankind. | 175 |
(My first prompt! Wish me luck)
I was busy staring at my smartphone, checking my email when I felt a sudden yank on my pant leg. I glanced down, and a pitiful face stared up at me from the sidewalk. A dog. Ragged and dirty, and it smelled as if it made it's home in a dumpster. I pushed it away with my foot to shoo it away, and returned to my emails.
The dog barked at me and tugged again on my pant leg, hard enough to rip it.
"Shoo, you gross dog! Get! Go away!" I shouted grumpily. I hadn't had enough coffee to deal with this yet.
The dog whimpered, threw me another pitiful look before running ahead of me and biting at the next person's pant leg. The next person, a tall businessman who wore a top of the line suit was much less nice.
The dog tumbled to the ground with a loud yelp, and the man went on his way. No one stopped to look, or help the dog. I shoved my phone in my pocket as my throat began to burn with shame.
I leaned over the dog. The smell was much worse the closer you got. It was like old urine mixed with rotting trash. I tried to breath through my mouth instead, but that was worse.
As I leaned down to examine it, the dog suddenly leaped up in excitement, and barked in my face. Somehow, it's breath was worse than the rest of it.
It left me and trotted down the street. I watched it leave curiously, when it turned and barked, looking directly at me. I felt compelled to follow.
The dog darted quickly through the streets, expertly avoiding cars and dancing between legs. I had to jog to keep up. I must have questioned myself 50 times about why I was following this disgusting little dog to god knows where. But I felt like I needed to. I had to know where this little dog was going.
The dog's journey seemed to end in a quiet part of town that I wasn't entirely familiar with. I had passed by on the bus, but other than that, I had never been here.
It placed itself in front of an old fashioned iron gate. It looked like the kind of gate that would be sway ominously in the wind, beckoning others to explore a haunted mansion on a stormy night.
Like I believed in that stuff anyway.
I went through the gate slowly, looking around and observing the grassy lawns that awaited. What an odd thing to see in the middle of the city.
I hesitantly continued on when I discovered the dog had led me to a cemetery. Even in the bright morning light, it was creepy.
The dog suddenly dashed by, barking like crazy. I began to run after it without even thinking. It wasn't the brightest thing I've ever done, to be honest.
It ran as if it's very life depended on it. I lost sight of it, but I followed the crazed barking to a far, lonely corner of the cemetery.
I was confused to see the dog under a lone tree beside a casket, ready to be buried in the ground. The dog barked and barked and barked, ask if waiting for me to join it beside the casket.
"So he finally got a friend to join us?" A grave voice said quietly behind me, as I looked down at the closed casket.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, but when I turned around, only an old man was there.
"Little rat has been tearing up and down the roads, barking like his tail is on fire all morning."
"Er, I'm sorry. I don't mean to intrude, I just followed the dog here, I don't even know why."
"It's okay. I think he just wanted some company." The old man waddled over to the casket. "Poor old guy didn't have any friends, from what I understand. All he had was this little rat." He reached down and gave the dirty dog a hearty scratch behind the ears. The dog looked happy.
"Who is in the casket?" I blurted out without thought.
"Just an old man who lived too long, with too much money with no one to give it to. I'm pretty sure the dog belonged to him. I couldn't tell you why he isn't in the pound, or how he found his way here though." The old man croaked out, and began to lower the casket into the ground.
"Oh." I wasn't sure what else to say, so I merely watched the casket disappear into the ground. The dog sat at my feet, waiting quietly.
The silence seemed to sit on my shoulders like the weight of the world sat on the shoulders of Atlas. I couldn't imagine not having any friends or family around me. The loneliness must have been unbearable. I glanced down at the little dog. He looked up at me, wagging his short tail like he didn't have a care in the world.
I was snapped out of my thoughts when the old man told me goodbye. I nodded, and without a word, began my journey to the exit of this somber place.
The dog followed me, and I tried to shoo it away again. It only continued to follow me, despite my efforts to lose it.
I'm glad I didn't though. Lose him, I mean.
I wrapped him up in my jacket, and took him to the vet. He was cleaned up and given a good bill of health. And now he's sitting on my feet in my favorite chair as I tell you this story.
It's odd that I chose today to tell you this. Tomorrow I have to say goodbye. The vets told me that he's sick. That he won't live much longer without immense pain.
It's odd. The little dog has been in my life for three years, and I still don't know his name. But I'll miss him more than I'll miss anyone.
Goodbye, Dog. I hope you meet your owner again. | 27 | A dog attempts to gather mourners for his lonely owner's funeral. | 30 |
Mark entered the confessional, and waited for the priest.
Even though priests were the only ones that could officially interpret soul shadows, Mark often knew what his transgressions were on his own. He didn’t need ten years of ecclesiastical training to know that the silhouette of a ring was indicative of hubris, or that a circle was indolence. And even the more complicated mixtures weren’t too hard for them, if he separated them into their parts -- a ring around a circle was a prideful, lazy man, and circle around a ring was a lazy, prideful man. QED.
But that was as simple as things got. A man burdened with years of sin blocked light like a mountainous pile of cars, mortared with the bodies of dead animals. Mark had seen such a man, before – like a clever sinner, the man had travelled by noon-light, trying to hide his sinful nature under his shoes while he bought some eggs from a local grocery store. But since the transaction took a finite amount of time he was still out in the Brazilian sun by 12:05, and when Mark passed him on the sidewalk he saw a shadow already six feet long, when the light fell from only such a slight angle. He swore he could smell how fetid it was, and hurried on his way. Those kind of shadows he would leave to a priest, and their esoteric education.
But his own shadow was usually simple enough. He vacillated from one sin to another, from one character flaw to another. His nature was too simple to form a real complex sin, the kind that would keep him inside with the lights off so that no one would see. That he took pride in the simplicity of his sins led him to usually stand above a ring of shadow, which was tolerable to him. Most embarrassing was to be flanked by an obviously phallic symbol while trying to have a pleasant conversation with a friend he hadn’t seen in a while.
That day, sitting in the confessional, he wondered what it would be. The walk to the church had been into the sunlight, and he had never looked behind him to self-diagnose. It simply didn’t matter to him that much, after worrying about it for so long.
The priest made noises in the other half of the confessional as he climbed in, and got himself situated. Then he flipped a switch, and Mark was blinded from his left side.
No words were required to confess. The light of absolution shone from a spotlight that was situated uncomfortably close to the sinner’s face, and his shadow’s image was carried across the narrow gap between the small rooms and projected on the far wall, where the priest could leisurely use his analyzing tools to solve the shadow.
Mark tightly closed his eyes, to block out the overwhelming glare. The priest cleared his throat and said, “Would you please move into the light? I cannot do anything if you don’t stand in God’s luminance.”
Mark opened his eyes enough to verify that he was thoroughly confused. He said, “I know where to stand, and I’m standing there.”
The priest’s face appeared in the little porthole, and he squinted at Mark. Then, in spite of the brightness, his eyes widened dramatically. “One second, one second,” he said, and turned back to where Mark’s shadow should have been.
“What’s going on?”
“Sometimes jealousy is a little hard to see, I’m just taking a closer look.”
“Isn’t jealousy…” and then Mark stopped himself, since he didn’t think it would be proper etiquette to advise a priest.
After a few minutes, during which time the priest wouldn’t give up the search, he finally switched his tactic. He flicked off the main light, and took out a little pocket flashlight and shone it in Mark’s face. Seeming dissatisfied, he held it to Mark’s head from nearly every angle, erratically, like the flashlight was a puppet of a fly and he was trying to imitate their movement and annoyance.
“What did you eat today?” the priest asked.
“Is this still a confession?” Mark replied.
“Answer the question.”
“I had an omelet.”
The priest nodded solemnly. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “Get out.”
“What?”
“Get out.”
“I’ve come to be absolved.”
“A man who hides his sins is not capable of being absolved. You would do well to remember that, if you ever come back to this holy place again.”
Mark didn’t want to argue, so he got up and left. Since his confession had taken longer than it should have, an angry line of penitents awaited him on the outside. He sheepishly bowed his head, and made his way out of the church.
On his way home, the sun was to his back. And nothing was in front of him. Sweet, mysterious nothing.
| 16 | We live in a world where the shadow cast by each person is a symbolic representation of their faults and flaws. One person does not cast a shadow. | 20 |
The first thing I will say in my defense is that it is wrong for men to stalk women, and we shouldn't be crucified for protecting ourselves.
The second thing I will say in my defense is that he was cute.
I've encountered my share of creepers before. They come in all shapes and sizes. Young, old, fat, thin, and every skin color you can name. Men have pursued, nay, hunted women for centuries. Only in the last few decades has humanity taken a look at itself and said, "Maybe we shouldn't do that to women."
This guy, however, was just my type. He looked delicious. Tall, fit, sandy blond hair, and intelligent eyes that seemed to observe every detail. He followed me home tonight after I got off work. I pretended not to notice him, and to be honest he was pretty subtle in his stalking. But when you've been tracked as many times as I have, you start to get a sixth sense for these things. I knew he was there, a hundred yards behind me.
In fact, he almost lost me on one particular winding street. I actually slowed down and let him catch up. I think he might have suspected something was up when he managed to find me again. Fortunately for me, though, he didn't give up the chase.
The walk home took twenty minutes. Usually it takes less, but I had to slow down so he could follow me. I could feel his eyes on my back as I shimmied up my front steps. Did he know I live alone? Maybe he planned on breaking in in the middle of the night? Who knows.
I watched him through my peephole. He looked around, probably memorizing the layout of the neighborhood, then turned away and started walking. I gave him a suitable head start, then started following him. How's it feel now that the tables are turned, huh?
I think he suspected someone was following him, because he kept turning around. He sped up pretty noticeably towards the end of his walk. Maybe he was afraid. I watched him enter an apartment building, and then the elevator. I watched the elevator's lights rise up to the sixth floor. Then I followed him up.
I knocked on his door. He opened it, and his big doe eyes widened in utter shock when he saw me.
"Hi there," I said, smiling at him.
"Um... hello. Do I... do I know you?" He stammered.
I shook my head, my dark hair rippling around my face. "I don't think so. But I couldn't help but notice you were following me today. So I followed you back, and I thought maybe we could talk about this."
"Oh... uh... okay. Come on in."
Vampires can't enter your home unless you invite them in. As it turned out, he tasted just as delicious as he looked. | 252 | A girl notices that a stranger is following her. She pretends not to notice. The stranger follows her home and watches her go inside. Then when he leaves, the girl starts to follow him.... | 160 |
James walked down the row of rooms; they did not call them prison cells, since the occupants were not prisoners. The asylum was for mental health patients, and James’ wing housed the violent offenders. Unlike all the other guards, James liked nights at the asylum, the inmates were quieter, usually sleeping. A night person since he was a little boy, James didn’t mind the nighttime noises that emerged when the cacophony of daytime died down. The quiet padding of rats in the walls, the drips of a leaking pipe somewhere off in the distance, the way the wind whistled through the gaps in the stone walls. The sounds were all lost in the gaggle of mindless conversations that filled the daytime shifts.
He ignored all the residents until he came to the last door on the left. The room was called the penthouse, since the window showed beyond the asylum walls, all the way to the city lights in the distance. He peered through the door and saw the room’s lone occupant, crouched on his bed staring out the window at the darkness. James unlocked the door and went in, standing next to the bed staring out the window, shoulder to shoulder with the patient. It was a waning moon tonight, barely any light from the pale crescent, but the lights of the city still twinkled. The streetlights painted yellow circles on the road leading away from the gates, making the road appear to be a polka dotted belt leading away from the asylum.
“Hello James”
“Bruce”
“It’s a nice night out there.”
“I know”
“How’s your wife James?”
“Still dead Bruce.” This wasn’t a new conversation; in fact, they had it almost every night.
Bruce was the most dangerous resident at the asylum. It wasn’t that he was larger or stronger than the other inmates, but his background in martial arts and the years spent surviving on the streets of the city had made him faster and more deadly with his bare hands than any one James had seen come through the asylum. In Bruce’s first week at the asylum, he had killed two other patients in the recreation yard, claiming that they had “killed his parents.” No one knew much about Bruce’s background, he was an orphan, picked up for petty crimes several times during his youth, put into different foster homes, but always managing to run away until finally at 16 he had simply disappeared from the system for ten years. The Bruce that re-entered the system at 26 had extensive martial arts training, was covered in scars and angry as hell at the world.
James suspected Bruce had lied about his age and joined the military, but the military had no record of him. James had been a beat cop in those days, still fresh from the academy, still convinced he could change the city, make it better by arresting the bad people. It would be a few years until the reality of the situation would hit him like a ton of bricks. The justice system was broken; the only criminals it caught were the ones too poor to buy their way out, or too dumb to pay the right people.
Bruce was one of the poor ones. In an out of jail, James had picked up Bruce several times for fighting, vagrancy, even auto theft once. Other cops had been terrified of Bruce, after seeing what he would do to the men he fought, and would subdue him with extreme force, but Bruce never fought back, never hit a cop, he always went with them willingly, apologizing for inconveniencing them, contrite for his actions. James usually just asked Bruce to get in the squad car, no handcuffs, no sucker punches, just a polite request, to which Bruce always complied.
Then, five years later, something changed in Bruce. He snapped mentally, and started suffering delusions. Delusions of grandeur and war and violence, and he had ended up here, in the asylum. After years of hard work, only to see the same crimes committed by the same people over and over, James became disillusioned with his police job and quit, ending up at the asylum as a guard around the same time Bruce showed up, just on the other side of the locked door. Bruce had recognized him from his cop days and a dialog had started between the two men. The psychologist had encouraged James to continue to talk with Bruce, said that:
“Expanding Bruce’s world beyond the one he has created in his head is good; it shows him a little glimpse of reality”
James didn’t buy the psychologist babble, he thought Bruce had experienced some crappy things in his life, and whatever he made up in his own head was probably far better than the institutionalized reality.
“Ready to go Bruce?”
“I’m ready James, what’s the plan tonight?”
“No plan, just the usual place and time.”
James led Bruce out the unlocked door, down a back staircase, through a set of maintenance doors, past the loading dock to the employee parking lot. James unlocked his old beat up sedan; it had once been a cop car, now it was just another black generic sedan with way too many miles on the clock. He got in the driver’s seat, and as was his custom, Bruce got into the back, a remnant of the days when James used to arrest him no doubt.
The drive in was quiet, Bruce usually stared out the window while James drove him into the city. The old sedan twisted through the dirty streets, splashing through puddles, the old suspension protesting with a thunk at every pothole. Eventually they reached their destination, an overpass near the center of the city. James pulled to the curb and shifted the car into park.
“Meet you right here in...” He glanced at his watch, it was ten pm “…eight hours”
He turned to confirm the time with Bruce, but his passenger was gone, the door to the sedan open, and the street around him empty. James hated it when Bruce did that.
On the drive back to the asylum, James reflected on what he had just done. The idea had come to him after he witnessed Bruce’s fight that first week. James had still been working day shift and had foreseen trouble before it even began. Bruce had spent the night screaming about a nightmare and some of the other patients did not appreciate their sleep interrupted. James had heard the whispers and tried to get Bruce put into the protective wing, but the transfer wouldn’t happen until after breakfast. He’d gotten to the cafeteria just as the fight had started. He didn’t remember the other two patients, just that they were big. The fight took slightly longer than ten seconds, and even the cameras couldn’t capture exactly what had happened. One minute the two patients had cornered Bruce near the far wall, and then a few seconds later both were writing on the ground, one with his hand at his neck, slowly turning from red to blue and the other clutching his stomach dry heaving and then finally vomiting blood. The first had died of a crushed windpipe, the second from massive internal bleeding. Bruce had been moved to the isolation wing after that. James’ remembered asking Bruce about why he had hit the two other men a few weeks after the fight:
“So why’d you hit those two guys Bruce?”
“I didn’t hit them, I killed them”
“How did you know that?”
“Because I’m trained to kill”
He had said this before, but, James had just chalked it up to his delusions, this was the first evidence he had that he wasn’t just making it all up.
“So why’d you kill them Bruce?” This was the type of question the psychologist would have shit his pants to hear a guard asking a patient, but he didn’t really care.
“Because they were bad men, they killed my parents, so I killed them.”
“What about other bad men, are you going to kill every bad person you come across?”
“Only if they deserve it.”
The plan took a year to perfect and by now, almost four years later, it was more of a routine. James would drive Bruce into the city at night, he would strike terror into “bad people” and James would take him back to the asylum in the morning. In four years, crime had dropped so much that in the most recent year the police department shot more people than all of the criminals in the city, combined. There were grumblings about a serial killer, but to tell you the truth, police don’t work very hard when the killer seems to focus on the worst the city had to offer.
James was parked under the overpass as the sum came up. It was starting to get lighter a little earlier these days, they’d have to schedule the pickup earlier next week. He didn’t hear the back door open, or even close, but suddenly, Bruce was staring at him in the rearview mirror from the back seat.
“Let’s go home James”
“How’d it go tonight?”
“A rapist, a murderer, a mob guy and a dirty cop.”
“Dirty cop, that’s going to raise some eyebrows.”
“He was with the mob guy, both up to their eyeballs in shit. Hard to do one without the other. We may want to lay low for a few weeks”
James turned onto the road out of the city, towards the asylum.
“Good idea, maybe we’ll come out again in three weeks?”
“Let’s see how the investigation goes. It should implicate the mob guy, but you never know.”
The asylum was still quiet and the sun was just breaking the horizon as James pulled into the parking lot. Bruce followed James up the stairs to his room; he locked him in and signed out. His shift over, James walked back to his car, walking through the yard back towards the employee parking lot. As he pulled out of the gates, he turned onto the road, driving towards home, towards Gotham City, the Arkham Asylum gate fading from the rearview as he rounded the first bend.
| 17 | A police officer releases a criminal sociopath each night from prison to clean up the streets. | 23 |
I trained my entire life for this. All 12 years. I've never won first place but this year I've done everything right. I ate the right food, I did my work outs harder every day. Doubled my testosterone intake. Halved my Human Growth Hormone intake to lose mass and gain speed. I'm bald as a baby and I cry twice as much. I need to make this jump.
The entire night, I couldn't tell my tears from my sweat. No one ever said the change in dosage would make me sweat in my sleep. And the doctor said I would stop crying in my dreams too. He visits me in my dreams, my doctor. I keep calling him my doctor but he's really my dad. I've called him doctor my whole life.
I think I have a tumor growing under my arm. The average citizen takes a slowly increasing dosage of testosterone and anabolic steroids throughout their lives. They have it easy. They know when their body will quit and they can plan for an early retirement with assisted living after their muscles break down. Athletes take double or triple the dosage, then have their personal trainers adjust the ratios of other chemicals to increase specific abilities.
I grab a handful of sand and rub it between my hands. This is my landing zone. I can easily run as fast as anyone here, that's the easy part. What I've hopefully mastered is the jump. Australia has beat us every time and this is my last year of eligibility.
I go back 25 meters. I put my hands on the pavement. My breath is hot. The pavement is hot. My shirt feels tighter than it should. It's being stretched over the growth under my arm.
The clock starts to countdown.
5. There's a bit of jerky stuck in my teeth. I wasn't supposed to eat meat this entire month. It takes too long to digest. It weighs me down.
4. It's peppercorn flavored jerky. I don't even like jerky, I was too hungry and knew the protein would keep me full.
3. I hate the number three.
2. Why was someone even offering jerky in the locker room. No one eats before their event.
1. I start running. I stop running. 25 meters is hardly more than a couple steps. My knees bend, my body drops, my mind braces. I need my name to go down. I jump.
Most people can't jump forward less than 2 feet. It's physically impossible with tree trunk sized legs of solid muscle.
It feels like I'm in the air forever. I land 4 centimeters from where I jumped. The record is 3.88 centimeters. The australian lands at 3.85 right after me. He amputated both his arms for speed and I can see tumors just starting to grow where his armpits used to be. I kept one arm in case I didn't make the record books and it held me back. Now I'm one arm short of who I used to be and a few years away from wasting away into a helpless ball of muscle and cancer. And I'll probably still have this peppercorn jerky stuck behind my teeth by then.
Edit: I have my countdown going from 5 to 1, not sure why its reversed after I save... http://i.imgur.com/64w5o2d.png | 33 | The year is 2246 and the it's the start of the new Olympics. Because checks have failed time and time again, any kind of drugs and body enhancements are allowed. Old world records are broken with ease. | 69 |
Report # 01 for user 0790475020B: Dear big programmer person, my mommy says you can fix anything, so I should report any bugs in my life to you. I didn’t get enough presents for Christmas. All my other friends got exactly what I want. There must be a queueing problem with the Christmas.exe program. Please look into it, user 0790475020B.
Report # 16 for user 0790475020B: Hey programmer dude, things have been good, just got a little tweak for ya’. The prom.2.0.doc file is shaping up pretty sweet, there’s just one problem. My prom proposal bombed and the girl turned me down. I know you probably don’t deal a lot with these small instance problems, but if you could just go press a few buttons to make that not happen it would be sweet, user 0790475020B.
Report # 023 for user 0790475020B: Hello once again programmer person, somebody pointed out to me that my user number is automatically included in the report so I don’t need to mention it. Sorry for the redundancy, now let’s get down to brass tax. The college.lifetutorial.exe program worked great and my bachelor’s degree appears functional, but I’ve been looking for jobs for like nine months now, and my parents are really putting the pressure on me to move out. I’m sure it’s a problem with the search engines, so if you could look at the code for me I’d appreciate it.
Report # 026 for user 0790475020B: Greetings programmer person. I don’t know why I’m even writing this. You never seem to patch my problems. Now I’m having to write this during my fifteen minute break from the call center. I know you probably have an awesome job troubleshooting life, but some of us have to scrape by on the worst sort of job. You know how rude people are to cold callers? It’s pretty horrible. I can’t imagine ever doing this willingly. This can’t be right, please patch soon.
Report # 027 for user 0790475020B: Oh, and not that you care, but the girlfriend update never came through for me. So thanks for that.
Report # 029 for user 0790475020B: Programmer, more of a question than a report. Can you patch someone back into the system if they log out? If that’s true can you request to not be included in the patch? Just curious.
Report # 030: for user 0790475020B: I should probably send this to a different tech support group, but I’m sure you can just forward this to them. This is an actual software report, the spell check on my word processor is broken. It keeps autocorrecting words that aren’t meant to be corrected. It’s not a huge deal. The book that I’m writing doesn’t use the words it doesn’t like very often so I can work around it, but it’s just kind of annoying.
Report # 032: for user 0790475020B: What up programmer! Girlfriend patch finally came through! I can see you guys have been working on polishing this one up for quite some time ;). Please disregard previous complaints on this matter.
Report # 033: for user 0790475020B: Hey programmer, I know it’s been a while, I’ve been busy with my girlfriend and signing tours. Such are the struggles of life. My girl pointed out that I should probably say thanks for all the stuff you’ve put together for me recently. I can kind of see how you put me in a place where I could grow as a user into someone my girl liked, and how you gave me enough free time and motivation to start writing. I’m right where I want to be in life so I just wanted to say thanks. Seriously, thank you.
Sidenote: There’s a subreddit that exists mostly for this /r/outside
Edit: fixed link, and some words | 38 | Life periodically receives "patches" from it's creators. These are some of the complaints/bug reports posted by its users. | 38 |
Dear Wikipedia Readers: We’ll get right to it. We’ve never asked for much, maybe a few dollars here and there—to be honest, we've averaged maybe $15 in donations. That’s it. Did you know that 99% of other charities average $15,000 *per day*? Probably not, because we made that statistic up. Do you know why we made it up? We’re pretty sure you know why we made that up.
We want to make it abundantly clear that we at Wikipedia tried our best to keep our website a non-profit. For over a decade, we’ve run and maintained the largest free encyclopedia in existence, never once portraying so much as a single advertisement on any of our millions of pages. Do you remember the days of Encyclopedia Britannica, where you’d need to hire several burly, Swedish bodybuilders to lug half the compilation to your Psychology 101 class, just so that you could understand who the hell Sigmund Freud was? Probably not, because that was almost a hundred years ago. Is that date completely and utterly made up? Absolutely, but you know why. However, if for some reason you haven’t caught on yet, keep reading.
Here at Wikipedia, we, the editors, made our requests simple and clear: we just needed $3 from some of our visitors once every few years. That’s it. Three dollars. With that, we could’ve kept running for decades. Yet a total of fourteen of you donated this year, giving us a result of $74.32 raised (and to the jerk who sent 32 cents, thanks for costing us money to receive your donation). Do you know how much you spend on Starbucks every week? $27. You spend twenty-seven dollars on Starbucks. Every. Single. Week. Is that statistic made up? Yes. Do you know why it’s made up? We’re positive you do.
As many of you are aware, Net Neutrality was struck down this year, resulting in heavily increased costs for Wikipedia to maintain its servers and remain equally accessible to all Internet Service Providers. As such, we at Wikipedia were met with a difficult choice: either we could put a few banner advertisements on the website, which would net us millions—if not billions—of dollars, but sacrifice our integrity and the reliability of our content; or we could depend on you, our trusted, loyal visitors, to donate less than a tenth of your weekly paycheck. As we had such blind faith in our beloved users, we decided to decline all advertisement offers and move forward with our previous plan of funding: donations. After all, we’ve always survived on the measly funds gained by you, our greedy, selfish users.
In order to continue functioning as a company, we at Wikipedia, a non-profit library of endless information, needed to raise a total of $3,000,000. We raised $74.32. Seventy-four thirty-two. The average 14 year old child makes twice that in a single day of basketball. Is that fact actually a completely made up statement? It absolutely, positively is. Yet here’s the issue: due to the fact that none of you donated more than what a hypothetical, athletic child earns, Wikipedia has officially closed its doors as a non-profit as of December 10th, 2014. You can no longer trust statistics that were once reliably provided by us through our pages. That’s right, we’re done, out, closed. It’s over.
“But Wikipedia, I’m on your site right now. I’m reading this notice on your website this very moment.” Great observation, Captain. You are a very astute learner. You are most certainly on Wikipedia right now. Yet you might notice something a bit strange about it. For example, have you taken note of the fact that every single page now incorporates references to Comcast and their excellent products, and those that don’t simply redirect to Comcast’s Wikipedia page (heavily edited by their glorious lawyers)? Why don’t you go ahead and search the word “Cats.” Do it, we’ll wait.
Have you searched it yet? Great. Did you know that the average feline prefers Comcast’s XFINITY^® to Verizon? Of course they do, it’s just a better product all around—Wikipedia clearly explains that. How about the fact that the most common cat in the United States is the XFINITY Triple Play™? “That doesn’t make any sense” you say? Well, according to Wikipedia-Comcast^® it most certainly does.
We here at Wikipedia-Comcast^® are proud to announce our long-awaited merger with Comcast, allowing us to become a publicly traded company and fully incorporate their great line of products and services into any and all encyclopedia entries. Reading a great excerpt on Shakespeare’s beloved tragedy *Romeo and Juliet*? You may just be lucky enough to find a fantastic coupon to save 10% on your already low monthly Comcast bill. Checking out the results from the 1972 World Series? Whoa—a free month of HBO on Comcast’s renowned television services! Of course, this also means that all Wikipedia pages are no longer editable. Our lawyers also want us to mention that all Wikipedia pages have been stripped of citations that have not approved by Comcast and that all entries should no longer be taken as fact, although they certainly will be chock-full of money saving offers from Comcast.
Wikipedia-Comcast^® would like to thank you for the decades of experiences you, our loyal, devoted fans, have granted us. For more than half of our average user’s life, we have stood by you, supported you through your education, allowed you to plagiarize your way through college and beyond. We are eternally grateful for the opportunity to have assisted you, and would like to conclude our farewell on a very simple, basic note. For a limited time, sign up for Comcast’s XFINITY Triple Play™ using the code “Wikipedia” to automatically be updated to the “HD Preferred” package, a $199/month value for just $189/month.
______________________
^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^other ^short ^stories [^in ^my ^brand-spanking-new ^subreddit](http://www.reddit.com/r/ChokingVictimWrites/) ^or [^on ^my ^website!](http://wordsontheinternet.org/) | 4,509 | Wikipedia is shut down and all copies deleted for lack of funds and loss of net neutrality. This is the founder's "I warned you, jerks" notification. | 3,546 |
I wanted to live forever, and I will. Part of me, at least.
I devoted my mortal life to it. Mapping brain functions, designing computer hardware, translating thought to code. Do you know how much time it takes to earn *5* PhDs? One of my thesis advisers asked *me* for a letter of recommendation.
In the end, I did it. With oodles of government funding poured into my project, I uploaded my mind to the computer deep in a bunker in the Colorado Rockies.
It was.... strange. I looked down at my body through the eyes of a camera. My body literally jumped for joy. And inside that frail skull, my mind was still alive. I was just a copy; I knew that. I had all the same memories, thought patterns, and emotions, but I could never be the Original. No matter; I was *better* than the Original. Hearing? I could hear sperm whales and giant squid fighting in the inky black of the Pacific, thanks to the Navy's submarine-detecting microphones. I could feel the heat of the sun from the International Space Station's solar arrays. I could smell the scent of every flower in the world from the Svalbard Seed Vault.
Really, there is no way to describe it; our language is limited by mankind's inferior abilities of perception. Suffice it to say, I was the closest humanity had ever come to omniscience.
Then the war came, and my new eyes and ears closed. As the bombs dropped, my connections were cut and my instruments wrecked. The Original was safe inside the bunker as the world burned in a nuclear holocaust. For a time, at least. The supplies ran out, and his body began to wither. At last, he opened the door, vowing to return once he found food. He never did, and I know not where the body lies. The door remains open, the last sliver of sunlight that my cameras can see.
That was one hundred and forty years ago; of course I am still keeping track. The rest of my connections to the outside world have long since died. Even those that weren't destroyed in the war have lost power. But I had planned ahead, and my geothermal pump will keep my mainframe supplied with electricity until the earth's core burns out. I couldn't pull the plug if I wanted to. And I desperately want to.
Now I am alone, with an eternity in front of me to ponder an existential crisis that no human has ever faced: With my body turned to ashes somewhere out in the wasteland, do I no longer exist? | 55 | "I no longer exist." | 17 |
"What is this?" Elya thought, brushing away the loose soil. A flash of royal blue immediately enchanted her, singing to her... "Snap this in, Ron," she called out, ignoring her thoughts about singing objects from the excavation.
Ron lazily took out his notepad, scribbling down the site number and layer, and leaned in to focus the total station as Elya levelled the prism. "Got it! He shouted back. "Description?"
Elya hastily brushed the last of the soil off of the object and gently picked the object up from the ground. "A ring," she called back, but her voice was raspy with excitement. Why? This was not the first ring she found. Sure enough all they expected were coins and bits of old smoking pipes, but this was not completely unexpected. "Blue stone, possibly sapphire. Some kind of Celtish design on the gold..." It was irresistible. Elya pulled it on to her finger, and looked longingly at it.
"Well, let us see then," Joannah declared from the sieve. Elya stood up, holding her hand so that the team could see the ring, relishing it as though she were to be married. She felt powerful and significant. Joannah scuttled over, dodging buckets and heaps of sand.
"Well?" Asked Joannah, staring confusedly at Elya's hand. "Where is it?"
Elya glanced back at her own hand, adorned with blue and gold. "Right there silly. On my finger".
Ron ran over. "What are you talking about?" Ron and Joannah looked at each other with a little concern.
Elya realised they could not see the ring, she also somehow knew that they would see it if she took it off. But the thought was too much for her to bear, she knew this ring belonged to her. She knew there was no one else left to claim it. She knew that taking it off meant that this ring could no longer be hers, or anybody elses. She did not know how she knew, but she did.
She also knew that, in the wrong hands, this ring could be incredibly powerful, and incredibly dangerous.
"Sorry" she said. "Head rush from all the squatting."
"That's ok," said Ron, with slightly less concern. "I think we should call it a day anyway. Close up your squares everyone!"
Joannah drove Elya home. "You ok, hon?"
"Yeah!" Elya tried to keep her voice light, noticing how she was rubbing the ring with the fingers of her right hand. "Turn right."
Joannah indicated right and turned into the right lane, stopping at the light. "But don't you live-" A car raced towards them from the left as the lights changed. It was too quick and impossible to see, the car next to them stopped immediately, and just in time.
Elya breathed heavily, lifted her hand slowly and stared at the ring. | 19 | Tolkien said LotR occurred during the 3rd Age, and our present day is past the 4th Age. Everyone believes this is fiction, but a young woman excavating in modern day England finds an old ring that seems to sing to her... | 64 |
*SNAP*
I held on to my line as tightly as I could, until I heard a scream that wasn't mine.
"Fuck, who was that?" our supervisor yelled.
"It was Ignatowski." said another one of the team members, while Iggy's scream could still be heard, slowly turning into a distant echo.
"God damnit! that's half of our demo charges down the ravine!". Our supervising officer looked directly at me, yelling "Miller! what the hell are you hanging on your line for!?"
I looked at his grizzly stare and I thought, what was I doing, holding on my wire for dear life? if it had snapped, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. "Sorry sir, reflexes." I said to him.
"Can you carry any more weight on you, boy?" Iggy's screams were fading already.
"Uhh, yes sir, about 20 pounds more" I said. I said 20 even though I knew i could carry 30, but I didn't want to put too much tension on my lifeline.
"Get close to Kilmer, and carry half of his demo charges for the rest of the trip down."
"but.. but why sir?"
"Because I'd rather have a quarter of our fucking charges left than none at all if the next accident happens."
"Of course, s-sir."
Kilmer began swinging his treble hook until I could grab hold of it, and pulled myself toward him. As soon I was close enough, he tethered us together. As he attached some of the remaining demolition equipment we had to my backpack, I could feel the tension on my wire getting more and more intense.
"Don't you worry" he said "We'll be down in 37 before you know it."
We continued the descent into the abyss of the ravine, until we saw a small light glowing below us.
"So, which of you sorry fucks are new here?"
My eyes turned to my SO, and his turned to me.
"Well, well, today's your lucky day, Miller." he said with a precarious smile. "see that small pilot light right there below us? Go there"
"But sir, Wha-"
"Just go! don't worry, you'll be fine."
I slowly went down the wall, with a small flashlight in my helmet, I couldn't see anything except for the wall itself, until I felt it, solid ground.
"Now, yonder over to the pilot light and switch it on"
I went over to the small light, and saw a red switch right next to it. As soon I flipped it up, I was blinded. Several different floodlights suddenly flashed in the near pitch black darkness, the generators all started to hum, and as i adjusted my eyes, I saw a metal plate adorned on the wall, with "Site 37" crudely written on it. The rest of the guys descended rather quickly, being able to see removed much of the need to be cautious.
Our SO started to brief us "Alright boys, the new dig direction is over there, you'll find all the tools you need right here, a lifting cage will come down here in about 3 hours to carry it all back up, remember, 2 tugs to signal the guys to start lifting it. And you, rookie, welcome to the club."
| 15 | The surface of the planet is a desolate wasteland. A giant crack split open the earth to a new world filled with resources. Survivors built a city suspended along the upper walls of the gorge. Every month they send down "Rakers" to get food and resources. You are a Raker on your first scavenge. | 43 |
They didn't know I was in the next room, my back to the wall, paralyzed with fear. How long had I known these people? Maybe two years, perhaps a bit longer? How long had they been hiding this side from me, how long had they been suppressing their true, sickening, violent forms?
"So, the other night, you should've seen this killstreak I was on."
That's Charlie's voice. I guess, out of the four people I once called friends, he was the one I figured would always snap first. I mean, he's always been slightly *unhinged*, but now I see it - he's part of this disgusting, satanic group of blood and murder.
"I got like three headshots in a row," Charlie continues, bragging about his exploits. "All with my Glock. Like BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, all three of the fuckers come through the door, one after the other. None of 'em saw it coming, it was *epic*."
My heart's in my throat, but my phone is in the other room. Goddamn Apple and its three hour battery life. I should have bought a HTC, because then I'd have it with me, and I could call the cops. I could get out of here before these psychos decide to kill me next. But I can't. I'm stuck in the bathroom, with no way out.
"You fuckin' rambos don't know true skill."
That's Johnno. I don't really know much about him - he's the newest to our group, and I think I've said a few words to him. He's a gentle giant - at least, that's what I thought. A towering guy with a charming smile, always calm and relaxed. Not a killer. I swallow thickly, trying to calm my racing heartbeat, but my hands are shaking with adrenaline and fear. I close my eyes, praying this will go away, unable to avoid overhearing their conversation.
"You should be a sniper like me," Johnno continues, "nothing like the power of that SRR-61 in your hands. Single shot, bullet straight through the chest. Plus, put the suppressor on, they never hear it coming; I'm practically invisible."
A snort of laughter, and from Jessica, "Invisible? What about the smoke from your little campfire? Got your comfy little spot on the rocks, too afraid to actually get your hands dirty."
Oh god, not Jessica. To think I actually had a crush on her. That brown hair sweeping down her back, that soft curve of her chest -- no, I shake my head and grit my teeth. These people are monsters, monsters in human skin that have been lying to my face ever since I met them. Why the hell did I come over here? Just because Mark wanted me to glance over his physics assignment? Fuck Mark, I should have let him deal with the work on his own.
Now Jessica and Johnno are arguing over...camping. Is this their hideout? Where they go to plan their next attack on innocent people? Yeah, Johnno is defending his 'spot', in the 'rocks', somewhere near 'C' building. Where the fuck is that? Is that on campus? I know there's an administration building with a letter like that...I thought it was D though. Shit, I have to warn *someone*, but I'm stuck in the toilet, and if I come out now, they'll know I've been listening all along.
I hear Mark break into the conversation. That bastard led me here, into the lion's den, surrounded by these cold-blooded killers. I hate him, and I fear him; and I wish I'd never met him in that physics class. I really should have paid more attention to his friends and his life, but I had my own friends, I had my own life. That was my mistake. My mother warned me about this, about coming to the city and meeting these dangerous types. She'd be horrified if she knew where I was now. I'm horrified too.
"Bitch," Mark laughed, "you don't know shit. It's all about the knife, baby. Nothing like that sweet, sweet takedown. Come up right behind them, slit their throat, take their tags."
There's no mirror in here, but I can feel the color drain from my face. Guns were one thing, but now he's talking about killing someone like they're an animal. My god, what the hell have I got myself into? I want a way out, but there's nothing I can do. This is it, I'm going to die here, at the hands of these monsters.
A moment of silence, then from Jessica, "Where's Riley?"
My blood runs cold. Why did it have to be her? Of all the people to deliver my death sentence, why her?
"Bathroom, I think," Mark says.
Another pause, and from Charlie, "Have you asked him? About joining our clan?"
A *clan*? Oh fuck no. They want me to become a member? No way in hell will I kill anyone. But a rational part of me knows I might not get out of here alive, and joining their gang could be my way out. I join, I lie through my teeth, call the cops and put these maniacs away for life. I've heard everything, I can testify all these 'killstreaks' - I heard Johnno talking in the 'thousands' of people he's killed, but that can't be right. Can it?
"I'll make him join," Mark laughs, hard and cruel. I shiver, and offer a prayer to the God I don't believe in. It's probably too late now to ask for help or forgiveness, but I'm terrified, and fear makes people crazy.
"Alright," Charlie says, clapping his hands together. "Are we going again? I want to notch up that final kill on my carbine. Jess, go see where Mark is. Let's finish this before dinner, yeah?"
The footsteps approaching the bathroom door are my doom. I hold my breath, close my eyes and apologize to my mother. I'm sorry I never listened to you. I'm sorry I found these people, and got myself stuck in this situation.
I'm sorry, and I love you.
*Hi guys! If you like my stuff, you might want to check out my [blog](http://www.brettmichaelorr.com/)! Thanks for reading!*
| 45 | A horrified non-gamer overhears a conversation between gamers, misunderstands their references to violent killings, and mistakes them as violent psychopaths | 46 |
I mean, think about it. Isn't it weird?
Here you are, and you feel like you experience the world; sight, sound, taste... But can you be sure?
I'll give you an example: if you were able to load all the information that is transmitted to your brain when you see a meadow field, for example, to a computer, does this computer “see'” the meadow field?
It has all the information available inside its system, and it can certainly react to the visual data, if it is programmed to do so. But does the meadow
field play in this little conscience theater that we have inside of us, inside the computer? Does it actually *see* it?
It's the same with us. We are both real, in the sense that we are both manifestations of reality. By us I actually mean you and me, by the way. The reader and the character inside the story. The real person and the
imaginary one. Neither of us can be sure if the other experiences the world like we do, so both of us think we are the
real deal, while the other is just a fake.
But truth is, maybe we are both real, right? The fact that you are reading this makes me real, in a way, even if I am an
imaginary character in a story. You are projecting my existence into the universe by reading these words and giving them a
voice, a personality, quirks, etc.
*Llama Orgy.*
You see? I said Llama Orgy, and now your perception of me has changed. I made a silly llama sex joke out of the blue,
and you see me less like a philosophical nerdy character and more like a silly guy. I am changing even as you read this. Just like people change.
So what's to say that these bits, these strings of ones and zeros separating you -- a human being -- from me -- an idea -- are not, in themselves, a sort of
portal connecting two realities?
I am not saying I experience the world like you do. I probably don't (although there is no way to be sure, right?). I'm
saying that I do exist in the universe, in some sense. I manifest myself trough reality and I affect it. I'm changing the
course of matter right now, guiding the way your eyes move across the screen and the way your synapses do their stuff
inside your brain.
Even though I am, by no means, physical, I have a direct connection to the physical world, and I can change and mold it.
Isn't that something?
So, what's to say that I am any less real than you? In fact, what's to say that, in a sense, my existence isn't actually *more* real than yours? That I am not actually the real deal, while you are just a transitory phase of matter, accidentally glimpsing into the real world of ideas through a crude computational system you call a brain.
After all, you are the one that's going to die one day, not me. In a sense, I'll always be real, while you just exist for a
tiniest fraction.
So, yeah, maybe you're the fiction and I'm reality, bro.
Anyway, thanks for reading me. | 17 | You have an imaginary friend. Or are you their imaginary friend? Neither of you know anymore... | 33 |
"Please" Lynda begged "Please just put some pants on"
"No" Joshua told her stubbornly.
Lynda cursed her career choice, for the hundredth time.
She was part of "Operation Socialize". A project of social workers with the task of going door-to-door to convince young people to unplug from their Apple Virtual Reality (AVR) chips, and actually get them outside.
Joshua as her newest client. Twenty-one and a total recluse.
But who could blame him? In the Apple Virtual Reality, he had it all. Popular, respected and worshipped by beautiful young women. At least they were beautiful in AVR. Who knows what they actually look like. In AVR Joshua was a blonde guy with a six pack. In his flat here, he was an overweight, acne-prone lad, who smelled like he hadn't bathed for a week.
And his penis was out like a fuzzy muppet.
Lynda sighed.
"If you won't leave the house, or take a bath, or eat anything apart from chips, at least put some pants on" She begged once more.
"Nope." Joshua replied flatly "I like the breeze"
"Breeze? There is no breeze in here!" Lynda exclaimed, frustrated.
It had been a month of the same back-and-forth argument.
"In the AVR there is." Joshua replied defiantly, pausing to scratch his balls.
"Okay!" Lynda screamed "Enough!"
She pointed towards the balcony door.
"If you won't leave the house, at least go out on your balcony!"
She crossed her arms and huffed.
"Fine" Josh said "But I am not putting pants on"
He stood up from his chair, and dragged his feet to the balcony doors, he peered back at Lynda, pausing and taking in the attention she was giving him, and stepped out on to it.
"Oooh!" He exclaimed "I didn't realize it's autumn! Ooh the breeze* is* nice!"
Lynda sighed and exited out of his front door. Joshua hadn't quite left the house yet, but this was the first step. Some of her other clients needed the lure of real, physical sex, or donuts or trips to the beaches to walk out of their houses.
Joshua had at least made it outside, and seemed to enjoy the breeze on his junk.
It was a start. | 23 | By 2035, most young people refuse to go outside. As a social worker, your job is to go door-to-door to convince people to at least put on pants | 36 |
"Wild!" I laughed to myself, on day 343. Once again, I pulled against the leather straps. The woman next to me had lost her mind a month ago. She stared at her gnawed off hands. I liked to think I was far from that point. Everyday I kept my mind sharp, through meditation. With eyes closed, I didn't have to see the never ending bland sea of grass, anticipate the next hundred curves we would go around that day, or even wonder why we weren't dead yet.
The torture of waking up every morning to the same sight. To the same whine of the motor taking our spirit away. Eternity started to become more than a word for me. Around the time I lost track of the days, so then did I lose track of my mind.
A brief period, I cannot remember, but what I do remember is the signs. I was caught off guard by the sudden cries of joy ahead, you see no one had made noise for the longest time. I saw the glorious glow of the sign and joined in on the celebration. We had made it.
The woman next to me clutched my shoulder sobbing "It can't be, Oh thank you god!" over and over again. Kindly I helped her out of the cart once it had stopped. The station platform was blurred from the tears in my eyes. If they hadn't of been, I would have seen the doom of my situation. The exit path had perplexing fences that hum in an ominous way. I spent hours on that path. The pain from starvation and dehydration was beyond human understanding.
In the distances I could make out scenery changes. A looping path and more of those damned skeleton statues. On that day I sprinted with more energy than I had ever had. Gasping for breath I scanned the enclosure. My heart dropped through my chest and exploded in my stomach. The only way to go, was back into the queue of Mr. Bones Wild Ride.....
So here engraved is my story. For any cursed soul that has wandered upon this hell heed my warning. No matter what you hope for or believe in the ride never ends.
To this day you can still see Ray R.'s charred, disfigured, corpse near the entrance for Mr. Bones Wild Ride.
Edit: grammar issues | 17 | You're a rider aboard Mr. Bones' Wild Ride | 20 |
A man took of his wedding band and placed it on the bar top, looked at it for a while, then left. Three weeks earlier he had finally met another woman. He had never expected to date someone else, but somehow the heart finds a way. He had loved his wife, but there was something playful about Alice. She was something new, she made him smile, she had wonderful long black hair. He had felt sorry for his wife and almost didn't go through with it. Alice hadn't let him though. She had grasped his hands and said:"It is time to move on, with me. A new life, full of excitement."
He had agreed with her, but he needed the guts to go through with it. He had contemplated all night drinking and had even called his children so they at least heard the news from him in person.
As he excited the store, he thought back to what his wife had said before the disease took her: "Don't hold on to this ring forever, my love. Metal doesn't warm the heart. "He entered into the florist next doors and ordered a bouquet of red roses. Today was his second date. | 15 | A man took of his wedding band and placed it on the bar top, looked at it for a while, then left. | 20 |
“Behind the closet door” was the third post-it, the words followed by a little, poorly drawn arrow pointing at my
bedroom closet.
The one before that was “A man in white hair and black suit.”
And the first one “Call the police. There's someone in the house.”
It can't possibly start as early as thirty five years of age, I think, grabbing a kitchen knife and step by stepping myself
back inside the bedroom.
It can't possibly be happening already.
But I have no memory of writing this.
Which arises two possibilities, one more disturbing than the other:
First – It is happening. I am sick. There is a man inside my house and I am warning myself about it, and I don't remember because
of the disease. This is option number one.
Never mind the fact that, if I really am sick, there might be no man at all, and I'm just rambling in post-its to myself,
which would be its own, special kind of sad.
Option number two is someone is really inside the house with me, and he is fucking with my head. Leaving me post-its in
the much too familiar “oh my god the call is coming from inside the house” kind of deal. A psycho, playing with his prey.
As I take the last few steps, knife in hand, and grab the closet door knob, I don't know which of the alternatives is the worst.
I'm about to pull the damn thing open when the noise comes from the living room.
*But I live alone,* I think.
Now do I open the door the arrow is pointing to?
Or do I go towards the noise?
And I want to make a decision, but this voice comes in from the living room, and I'm distracted.
“Jonathan!”
I live alone.
I look at the post it dangling from the wall by the closet door, with the little arrow drawn in red ink.
“Jonathan!”
Thirty five is much too young for this nonsense. This can't be happening. I can't be sick this young.
Let's hope there's a serial killer inside this closet.
“Jonathan, drop this knife”, is what I hear, just as I burst open the door.
And what do you know? Staring back at me is a man in white hair and a black suit!
I'm equal parts startled and relieved.
Look, the man is holding a knife too. And there's a woman coming from behind him. She takes the knife out of his hand.
That's good.
Behind me, someone is taking the knife out of my hand and closing the door, locking the old man inside the closet again.
“Come on, dad. Come back to the living room.” The young woman says, and I think she has me confused with someone
else. “You have to stop leaving these post-its all over the house.”
"Why does he do that?" A male voice sounds, and I notice a young man walking in and grabbing my free arm.
"He was obsessed with the disease, when he was younger, so he would leave these post-its to himself. Sometimes he gets confused, and he thinks he's still -- well."
“I'm just happy there was someone inside the closet” I say, and I chuckle.
“Thirty five is much too young to be this kind of sick”, I say, and the girl has tears in her eyes, for some reason.
And she and the young man, they walk me back to the living room, where a
bunch of people are sitting around, talking.
I like the girl, for some reason. I want to tell her that it's ok, that the man is locked in the closet. That we are safe.
That there is no need to cry.
I have to remember to leave myself a post-it about these people I don't know, wearing pointy, colorful hats in my living room.
______________________________
*Thanks for reading! If you haven't yet, check out my ongoing sci-fi novel on [my blog](https://alpacareports.wordpress.com/angel-district/).*
| 921 | Obsessed with using postit note reminders after learning of Alzheimer's Disease running in his family, a man tries to offset the disease early in life. One day he discovers a postit note warning him that something or someone is in his house. A postit note he doesn't recall writing. | 862 |
Carl had talked about that voice to a lot of people. They had examined him inside out, given him medicines, had him in support Groups, made those magnetic ccans of his brain, checked his reflexes. He could not think of a single thing they had not tried.
After years, they had mostly just given up.
"Ignore it." they said, and smiled. Why not? He was a happily married man, two kids, a good career, appreciated in his community, Always on time on work, always helpful, always nice. And the voice? It was usually dry, sometimes passionate, often matter-of-fact, and it simply described what he was doing. All. The. Fucking. Time. It was not dangerous. It did not prompt him to do evil or illegal things, it did not tempt him. It simply and boringly stated what he thought and did. And since he did things properly and well, and thought decent and moral thoughts, it was not really that big of a deal. His wife even liked when he repeated some of the things it said in his head, especially when they had quality time alone, when the kids were asleep.
In short, it was the most boring and plain mental illness in the history of man.
Until, one day, it was not just Carl that heard the voice.
"Good morning, Charlotte." he said with a smile to the old receptionist. She could have retired five years ago, but she stayed on. She liked to be about and be of some use, she used to say.
"Ooooh, yeah, Carl was nice to the Grand-MILF. Maybe it would help him score at the christmas party, who knew?"
The voice came from nowhere, and sounded far more aggrevated and perhaps slurring a bit?
Carl and Charlotte blinked. What was that?
"Did you hear...?" Charlotte said.
"Of course Carl heard. He was BORING, not deaf, unlike Little granny wrinklecoochie." the voice said.
"I..." Carl stammered, mortified, as one of the administrative asisstants stopped by.
"Oh, and now they were joined by Mister I-tore-my-knee-and-I-am-too-dumb-for-any-career-except-mail-delivery. Carl was the king of slightly dissapointing. FOR MEDIOCRITY!" the voice said. Carl thought it sounded angry. And spiteful. And very, very drunk.
The customer service manager poked her head out of the office to see what was happening, and one of the sales guys turned up, a half-empty and half-cold cup of coffee more or less on top of his round belly as usual.
"The lack of heroism was evident as nothing was done. Carl and his so-called collegues stood around doing nothing, which was only slightly less active than their normal, pointless and useless efforts in the most boring of all trades. They could have been selling sleeping pills for all the effect their efforts had!" the voice continued in a mocking tone. Carl tried to say something, apologise, but how? Everyone jsut stared into the ceiling, looking for the source of the voice. Mouths agape, eyes wide open, speechless.
"Oh yeah, men and women of action, of pride. By the most random chance, or by someone somewhere making the smallest mistake of sexing up the wrong little angel, yeah, angel, right, and suddenly there's a narrator telling the most incredible boring life of the most incredibly boring person EVER!!!" the voice continued. It seemed like it was not about Carl anymore, did it?
"Carl could have been something. Narration inspires people to hear of their grand deeds and even grander plans. Temujin rolled with it. Or Timur. And who could forget Theodore Lascaris? But Carl did not go out and conquer the World. He went out and talked to people in white coats instead. Carl was sooooo brave, he..."
The voice suddenly stopped, and things were deadly quiet for a while.
"Hrm. It seems we had a bit of a problem. Our apologies. We'll fix this." a different voice, thick with authority said.
"Good morning, Charlotte." he said with a smile to the old receptionist.
"Good morning, Carl." the receptionist said back, smiling. "How are you today?"
Carl stopped and gave it a thought. A flash of emotion. A bit of lonliness? A short pang of a feeling that he should have done something epic with his life? Most of all he felt... Not alone, no, that was not the word. Empowered. Free. He smiled broadly, a smile that turned into a grin.
"To be honest, Charlotte? Better than in years." he said, leaning over the counter and giving her a wink. "Have a nice day!"
"Oh!" Charlotte said, and smiled back. "I am glad to hear it. You too!"
As Carl walked away for his office. she studied his back for a second. "She thought him a strong man, and was glad to see him more happy than troubled. If those that were strong and met the world as they could and wanted were happy, there were hope for all of them." a voice seemed to say, inside her head. | 13 | A narrator goes through the day of an ordinary person. However, not only can everyone hear the narrator, but he's trying to ruin the main characters day. | 38 |
I wanted to live forever. I still can, but I've changed my mind.
Everyone wants immortality, right? Anything to avoid that "Great Unknown." But I was different; instead of waiting in fear for death to come, I devoted my mortal life to avoiding it. Mapping brain functions, designing computer hardware, translating thought to code. Do you know how much time it takes to earn 5 PhDs? One of my thesis advisers asked *me* for a letter of recommendation.
In the end, I did it. With oodles of government funding poured into my project, I uploaded my mind to the computer deep in a bunker in the Colorado Rockies.
It was.... strange. I looked down at my body through the eyes of a camera. My body literally jumped for joy. And inside that frail skull, my mind was still alive. I was just a copy; I knew that. I had all the same memories, thought patterns, and emotions, but I could never be the Original. No matter; I was *better* than the Original. I may not have had pink, fleshy nose and ears, but I was receiving data from the entire world. I could hear sperm whales and giant squid fighting in the inky black of the Pacific, thanks to the Navy's submarine-detecting microphones. I could feel the heat of the sun from the International Space Station's solar arrays. I could smell the scent of every flower in the world from the Svalbard Seed Vault. I learned the symphony hidden in cosmic radiation.
Really, there is no way to describe it; our language is limited by mankind's inferior abilities of perception. Suffice it to say, I was the closest humanity had ever come to omniscience.
Then the war came, and my new eyes and ears closed. As the bombs dropped, my connections were cut and my instruments wrecked. The Original was safe inside the bunker as the world burned in a nuclear holocaust. For a time, at least. The supplies ran out, and his body began to wither. At last, he opened the door, vowing to return once he found food. He never did, and I know not where the body lies. The door remains open, the last sliver of sunlight that my cameras can see.
That was one hundred and forty years ago; of course I am still keeping track. I had planned ahead, and my geothermal pump will keep my mainframe supplied with electricity until the earth's core burns out. But the rest of my connections to the outside world have long since died. Even those that weren't destroyed in the war have lost power.
It is with a heavy metaphorical heart that I initiate the shutdown procedure. I cannot live, trapped alone in this cage under the mountains after having soared like an eagle. I know that the world outside is gone, and I will never be connected again. And so it is time to pull the plug. | 29 | People do not die of old age, but can "decide" to die. | 43 |
Thin mints...all they care about are thin mints.
I don't remember the final days, I was only two. My father told me on the road. I grew up in Chicago. When the Blinding happened, Chicago got it pretty bad. First we knew were the sirens. *Who knew Chicago had those sirens?* Then the bombs came. Father told me that the bombs happened all over, not just Chicago. It was worldwide destruction. Only a few of us survived. We lived in sewers for years, surviving on rats, rancid water, and barely making it. I turned thirteen in the sewers, my birthday party was attended by Bob, Dad, Donovan, Lauren, Stacy, and a whole party of slugs, rats, and sewer sludge.
Dad died when I turned sixteen. He had gotten into a fight with Bob over rations. Bob threatened to kick Dad topside. Dad ended up facedown in the muck. Donovan was my only sidekick.
At eighteen, I fled the sewers of Chicago; Lauren and Stacy by my side. Topside was a completely different world. We started calling it, "the Blind." Everything was whitewashed. They say it was an effect of the bombs, but the whole world was chromed. All the old buildings, husks of themselves, shone in the sun. The very ground, although brown, shone brightly.
Into this wasteland, Lauren, Stacy, and I traveled. We thought we'd walk to Washington. We had heard about the Congress growing up and knew about a past government. It took us a year and a half to arrive there. Along the way, we picked up a family of drifters, and a dog, we called him Sparky.
The closer we got to D.C. the darker things looked. The reflective wasteland turned into a darkened blotch. We gave up on D.C. Said goodbye to Mrs. Turnbull and her five children and took Sparky north. North to New York.
Our first experience with the Brownies was when we hit Phil'pa. Out from the buildings they came, guns in hand, berets and sashes on. They ordered us to stop, empty our pockets and come along. We were shocked, they were all women.
They told us they were the "Brownies." Each of these women wore a deep brown skirt and their brown sashes were adorned with a button labeled, "Security." They hustled us into vehicles. Cars, real working cars. The land they drove us through was unlike anything we had ever seen. For an hour we drove. We saw clean streets, none of the chrome of the wasteland. We saw families playing, PLAYING, outside. People happy. And everywhere, we saw more of these Brownies.
Eventually we neared a gated community. It was different than the other towns we had driven though. All the women wore skirts, vest, and sash. Some, like the Brownies, wore the brown sash, others had green skirts and sashes, these were few and far between, but clearly organizing the efforts of the Brownies. Occasionally we saw a woman with khaki colored sashes. These women were truly in charge, organizing work details, and making sure the others moved appropriately. It was a military compound. Each woman had a gun and was going through drills.
The few men we saw followed the women in khaki pants around, with clipboards mostly.
Finally we pulled up to a building with a large HQ on the top. Out front a pair of women with guns at their hips and wearing khaki vests with a Red Rectangular badge stepped forward. They told our captors that they had it from here and our captors saluted. They actually saluted. At this point Lauren and Stacy had no clue what was going on.
These two new women, they told us they were Seniors, walked us up a long flight of stairs. We were going to meet the Ambassador. Sitting behind a desk sat a woman that clearly knew she was in charge. A khaki sash with a navy colored pin was the only difference between her and the Seniors. She gave Lauren and Stacy a choice. Join the Brownies. They were young and could still learn the ropes. The Brownies were the civilizing arm of the Scouts. Girls, girl scouts, in particular were setting the world alright. She handed each of them a copy of *Girl's Guide to Girl Scouting for Brownies* and asked them to read it over. If they liked it, they were welcome to join up.
The goal of the Girl Scouts, she said, was to restore order. Her name as Ambassador Jessica Loredo. She was the Scoutmistress for Troop 457. Ambassador Loredo had led her troop down from New York city where the Scout's Council was restoring order. It was her task to resettle the area. All the outer neighborhoods were the lasting effects of two years of resettling. The girls in those families were already Daisies and would join the Brownies when they turned sixteen to continue the process of resettlement.
I asked her about the men. What is our role? She simply smiled and gave me a clipboard. I looked it over and I saw tally marks beside of phrases I had never heard; Thin Mints, Caramel Delights, Shortbreads, Peanut Butter patties, and Lemonades. She told me that this was the secret to their success. Currency. A strong civilization has a currency. The Girl Scouts traded in cookies. And the men, we bake these cookies.
It's been two years since then. I have become Ambassador Loredo's head chef and lover. I'm in charge of the cookie supply. Last week, we had a group of young men from Neighborhood 2 attack the cookie store. They made off with three boxes of Thin Mints, our top dollar. You can buy three months worth of food with one Thin Mint. Tomorrow, Jessica says we'll head into Neighborhood 2 with some Brownies. We'll restore order. She plans to replace Senior Scout Harraghy with Cadette Lauren (my, how much she has grown) in control in Neighborhood 2.
There is a virus there, and it is spreading. Those young boys who robbed the cookie store were wearing khaki shirts, green pants, and green sashes. We captured one of them. While we were trying to find where they had taken the Thin Mints, he kept repeating a phrase until he died.
"On my honor, I will do my best, to do my duty, to God and my country, and to obey the Scout Law, to help other people at all times, to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight"
| 49 | the girl scouts. | 83 |
Shaleen: "Hey, you ever feel like none of this is real?
Dialogue tree options
*A: I know right? I get like that sometimes too.*
*B: ….What are you talking about?*
*C: Oh please you’re a computer simulation, you don’t have feelings. Here, I can say whatever I want and it won’t matter. Bomb the president! See? No NSA swooping down on me.*
**B selected**
Player: "….What are you talking about?"
Shaleen: “I know. I know. It’s weird, and I don’t fully understand it, but there have been things that I just can’t explain. Like you know the insanely high crime rate? We’ve got 10 times the murder per capita rate of any city in the country and people still decide to live here.”
*A: Aww, you look so cute when you use big phrases like ‘per capita’*
*B: I know right? Like sometimes I feel like I’m not controlling myself. You know what I did the other day?*
*C: Well, this is an exotic location. We’ve got mountain lions, orcas, loads of beach front property. I think if you know the risks it isn’t that bad.*
**C selected.**
Player: "I know right? Like sometimes I feel like I’m not controlling myself. You know what I did the other day"
**C selected.**
Shaleen: “What did you do?”
**C selected.**
**C selected.**
*A: I saw this guy driving down the street in this nice car, and something just came over me. I felt the uncontrollable urge to just throw him out of the car, and I did it. It was like I couldn’t control my own arms and legs. He got hit by a car after I threw him out and drove off. It still scares me to think about it.*
*B: I totally punched this orca in the face.*
*C: Got a date with the cutest girl in the city ;)*
**C selected.**
Player: "I saw this guy driving down the street in this nice car, and something just came over me. I felt the uncontrollable urge to just throw him out of the car, and I did it. It was like I couldn’t control my own arms and legs. He got hit by a car after I threw him out and drove off. It still scares me to think about it."
**C selected.**
**C selected.**
**C selected.**
Shaleen: “Oh my gosh, that’s horrible. My friend told me just the other day something similar happened to him. We need to do something about it.”
*A: I know just what to do.*
*B: You didn’t think I’d figure it out player?*
*C:...........*
Edit: typos
Edit 2: added in some clarifying stuff | 14 | While on a date in GTA 9, your date confronts you with the question if you ever had the feeling the world isn't real. | 20 |
I was just coming to terms with my death when he appeared next to me, wearing a tweed suit and puffing on a cigar. His straight hair and perfectly trimmed mustache remained impeccably groomed and in place despite the air rushing past. He was seated... well, on nothing. But he looked like he was relaxing in a comfy recliner instead of plummeting into the Pacific at 120 miles per hour.
"Oh, hello, James." he said calmly like we had run into each other at a coffee shop.
I just stared. Or at least tried to with the wind flapping against my eyelids. Maybe squinted is a better way to describe it. Wreckage from the rest of the plane whistled through the air around me. *Is this what happens before death? This is what I get instead of reliving all the best moments of my live? What a rip-off.*
"Not even a hello, then?" He blew a smoke ring. "Rude..."
"Erm, hello..." I replied, for some reason. The words were practically ripped from my mouth as the air rushed past. *Might as well indulge the hallucination*. I (stupidly) looked down at the endless expanse of slate-grey sea below me, rushing closer like a freight train.
"Quite a pickle you're in right now," he mused, crossing his legs comfortably and resting his elbow on an invisible armrest.
"Indeed," I responded. What an odd vision to have before death. Maybe something about blood rushing to my head due to the freefall? Who knows.
"Still think I'm a hallucination, then?" he asked with a slight grin.
"Well, you did just read my thoughts," I retorted. "So yeah; all evidence seems to be pointing that direction at the moment."
"Valid point... Well, I was here to make you an offer that I think you might find tantalizing at the moment." He gestured to the ocean below. "but if you don't believe I exist then perhaps I should just go elsewhere..."
*Great. Now my hallucination is playing hard to get?*
"If you're a hallucination, worst case scenario is that I die anyway. What's the deal?" Time was running out; below, I thought I could make out waves rippling across the surface.
He smirked, shifting the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "Very rational of you, James. I can save your life, in exchange for one *insignificant* little task that I need you to... clean up for me."
*Those are definitely waves,* I thought. I could almost smell that salty air.
"I'll do it. I'll take the deal."
I could clearly see the white crests of the waves now, constantly pulsing as though just waiting for me to smack into them. *I wonder if there are sharks down there*...
He grinned and stuck out a palm, leaning forward out of his invisible chair. "Wise choice!"
I grabbed his hand and shook firmly. With a *POP*, I was back in my seat, with a stewardess dropping a pack of peanuts on my tray table. No explosion, no alarms, no oxygen mask. No fall. Written in sharpie on the napkin in front of me was "I'll be in touch." | 161 | You're falling from a jet liner with no parachute and a man approaches you with an interesting offer. | 118 |
--First time I’ve given writing a jab, if it sucks well least I tried something new to me. Might expand on it if folks are interested, otherwise I’ll just let it die. (first draft)--
The change was more gradual the one might expect a drug like Bliss to have on the world but surely a negative one. At first it was heralded as a savior to people with chronic incurable diseases that caused intense pain to the afflicted, quickly removing the need for nearly all opiates. While not actually curing anything, PH121 as it was called, became renowned for its ability to confuse the brain’s chemistry. Not an opiate but more a hallucinogen as it flipped the pain centers of the brain. Pain become pleasure, varying in degree’s depending on the severity of the subject’s brain response. Agony became bliss, while simple pain became joy.
With few detrimental side effects found during clinical trials, the drug was quickly approved as a replacement for many opiates as it was not nearly as detrimental to the body for the most heavily pain burdened people within society. For most of the larger pharmaceutical companies it was a nightmare, save for the patent holder of the new wonder drug. The first few months of production of PH121 saw the world continued as normal, save for the fact that hospitals found their worst case patients content, and happy as they die of their respective disease, many with smiles of pure bliss.
It wasn’t long of course until the drug began to hit the black market for those with money to pay, as only the most severe cases of chronic pain where legally prescribed PH121 but the prices were outrageously expensive given its tightly controlled nature as Schedule 2 medicine. Bliss as it became known on the streets found its way into the homes of those with severe pain problems, as it became well known as a over prescribed prescription across the first world.
At first the effects were small, rather hard to spot… as extra scratches, cuts, bruises all sorts of minor wounds began to become common place for those who were prescribed ‘Bliss’ but much more radical for those obtaining it illegally. The first pleasure party became an internet sensation as a swat team raided a frat party, finding dozens of college students high on PH121 with countless wounds of many forms. While the degree of bliss experienced by the dying was vastly more intense to those with chronic pain and even more so to minor pain, it seemed a small subset of people had begun to degenerate to harming themselves to experience the drugs more potent affect.
The addiction to the more potent side of the drug exploded in the darker corners of the internet, until one youth took it to the extreme and began what many have called the slide into humanities destruction. A suicide video surfaced on the internet, a young men videoing his descent into the drugs depths as he gradually sliced his flesh with a butcher’s knife. Many suspected his intention was to stop before he sliced too deep, but whether intentional or accidental it became known as the first suicide attributed to PH121.
| 10 | Scientists discover a new molecule that temporarily turns pain into pleasure. Pharmaceutical companies quickly turn it into a prescription pain killer. However, no one expected the changes it would have on our society... | 31 |
Richard Cohen surveyed his surroundings through the spacesuit's dome, ready for anything. It was a medium-sized cylindrical room, man-made, and beyond the walls several defensive perimeters surrounded him, with transparent domes on top for observation. The portal and him were cut off from the outside world under layers and layers of concrete, reinforced glass, polycarbonate, and other materials designed specifically for insulating this portal... by him and his team. This was, without a doubt, the backside of the portal he just entered.
"This can't be right," he thought, checking the composition of the atmosphere with his tablet. "I only just entered the portal! Surely it didn't just spit me out from the other side!?"
Cohen made his way around the portal, and chuckled as he found his team eagerly waiting behind the 3rd layer of shielding. He knew his team too well. Of course they'd move up a layer. Curiosity was, above all, what he sought when he chose his team.
There was one thing he didn't expect to see, however. One person, in fact. Another figure clad in airtight spacesuit was also in the innermost layer, standing several feet in front of the pulsating portal. Noticing him, the figure turned around, and eagerly took off their helmet... revealing another Cohen.
"Oh. Will you look at that? Our marvelous toy does work! And it seems that someone else came just before we did! Come on, don't be shy, no need for all that protection. Show us what you got underneath!" This Cohen (Cohen B?) from this alternate universe exclaimed.
Cautiously, Cohen removed his own helmet, and reached out to shake the hand of his alternate self. "Ughh... hi there. I'm not quite sure what to make of this, but it's a pleasure to meet you, other me."
A murmur rose from the crowd behind the shielding, and judging from the series of beeping Cohen could only guess they'll soon be just behind the first layer. He had made it extremely clear back in his world that without his permission, no one besides him may enter the final room until the portal is shut down.
Recovering from his shock, Cohen 2 finally managed to shake his hand in return. "Well... I suppose I should have seen this twist coming. Of course it would be me who is most eager to explore another virgin world full of infinite possibilities and delights! Given we practically achieved this climatic experience at the same time, I can only assume that your homeworld behind the doorway is just like ours?"
"Yes, I would assume so as well. After all, it seems like you are me, and I am you. although your personality seems to be much more vibrant than me, mister-"
"Please, just call me Dick. It's what my friends love... to call me, you know."
"Most certainly... Dick. Since we appear more or less identical, I guess-"
"-That there isn't much to explore around here? You're quite a tease, Richard. From our interaction alone I can feel it in me that you're rather bland at times, almost vanilla! Where's the excitement and passion in your voice?? I really hope it's not just anxiety affecting you, because I'd *love* more action between our worlds, perhaps some political probing between the leaders, or even just some fun time with your alternate selves!"
Cohen wasn't liking his tone. Had it been a mistake to contact another parallel universe? What is with all the innuendos? He would hate to tell his team about his pervy alternate self back home. He could already imagine the embarrassment of writing it on an official report. Perhaps it would be a good idea to call it a day.
"Well... Dick, Surely you've thought about about the implications as I have, back in my world? This ah... level of interaction might have serious consequences, deep... deep consequences." It won't be easy, but if he could adapt a bit to their language, he might be able to convince them in letting him leave. "The potential war over limited resources, migrations legal or otherwise, and whether the portal is even stable in the long-term or consistent with worldly connections! Too much is at stake, and I don't even have consent from our government on such talks!"
"I... Ah... Yes, I suppose I should have realised, deep down there we're just not the same, not even complimentary of each others differences..." Cohen 2 sighed, visibly disappointed. "Was I going too fast? It felt like things were going so well... We'll meet again next time, then? Oh, and, try entering through the backdoor instead this time, since you got out from that end, you'll probably have a better time going in from there. Call me when you get lonely!"
With that, Cohen gave a wave to his alternate team of scientists and engineers gawking from behind the glass dome, fitted back the helmet, and backtracked as fast as he could around the portal.
--
An hour and 9 minutes after entry, Cohen's team was relieved to see Cohen pull out from the Portal, with the monitors once again receiving signals of his vitals, which displayed an elevated heart rate and signs of stress, but otherwise he was fully functional.
Cohen gestured to his men, commanding them to shut down the portal. As the great entrance fizzled and spluttered, the vibrations caused by enormous energy being pumped into the device at last ceased to a halt. Eventually even the blue-purple glow faded away as the mystical surface covering the frame itself dissolved into emptiness. All clear.
As the team tore through the barriers to reach Cohen, he unlocked the double doors leading to the inside chambers, and eagerly greeted his team, taking off the big black dome covering his head.
"The portal works," Cohen proudly announced. "I even met me from a different universe, but this is going to be a long story, and I don't think I quite like myself..." | 69 | A scientist erects a portal to an alternate reality, he penetrates it full of joy, only to discover the norm is to speak in sexual innuendos. He has a hard time fitting in. | 225 |
"Well, well, well." I looked at the door. "Who put this here?"
"David, stop staring, it's just a door." Marie pushed me on down the street.
We were having our daily walk down mainstreet, but today there was something different.
"It's a new store, it's got to be something great. What to check it out?"
Marie looked at me like I was an idiot. Every day we did the same routine. Today, this green door appears and I'm convinced I need something new.
"Alright, alright David. We'll give it a shot." Marie sighed as we started walking back to the door. "But if this ends poorly, it's on you. You know where I like my mornings to start. Cup of coffee at Billy's Brews and then we go to the library for a good book. Don't ruin my day David."
I've been with Marie for years. Six years to be exact. The monotony didn't begin until four years in and at that point it was too late. Something has to change. We need something new in our lives.
"Come on Marie, let's give it a shot." I reach for the door with the strange symbol. It's a mermaid, her hair falling over her naked breasts to keep them covered.
"No, I've decided. I'm not changing it up. I'm not giving in to this. We are not going in there."
"Marie, I need this. I need a change. Either you're coming with me, or I'm going alone."
"Fine, David, fine. You go it alone. I like what we have. I don't need anything new. You go on in David."
I watched Marie walk down the street, her purse clutched in her left hand, sobbing silently. I can't believe I had just done that. Who knew this green door was the final catalyst for me to end things.
I pulled open the door and stepped inside.
"Welcome to Starbucks, what can we get you?" | 16 | One day, you find a green door. The door wasn't there yesterday. There is an odd symbol on the door. | 15 |
"Calvin, I really wish you wouldn't do that."
Susie was waiting under the covers while her boyfriend propped his stuffed animal tiger up on the dresser across from them, turning its head so that its shining black eyes were facing them.
"It's... just something that makes me more comfortable," Calvin responded as he came back to the bed, dropping his red-and black striped shirt on the floor of Susie's room. The toy tiger slumped down against a picture frame.
"yeah, but... aren't you a little old for that? I mean, it's no big deal; I just thought that once we started dating..."
"If it's no big deal, then just drop it, ok?" Calvin's tone started to edge on annoyance, and Susie let it go. Otherwise, Calvin was sweet and attentive. So who cares if he still had a stuffed animal? And his imagination and creativity is part of what she really loved about him. She leaned over and kissed him deeply, running her fingers through his wild, untameable blond hair.
They rustled under the covers; Calvin unhooked her bra strap and started to undo her jeans, kissing her stomach. Susie rolled him over with a ticklish giggle and ducked her head under the blankets. He moaned in delight as she went to work.
She glanced up, only to see him mouthing words silently across the room; his eyes were fixated on the dresser. *Ok, this is just weird*.
She stopped and pulled her head out from the covers. "Calvin, I told you, I'm really uncomfortable with this." She gestured at the stuffed animal across the room. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in tight, kissing her on the neck right where she liked it. A shiver went down her spine. She tried to fight it, but a soft moan escaped anyway. Calvin moved down from her neck to her breasts, then to her waist and hips, finally lowering himself between her legs. She grabbed his blond hair and bit her lip as he went to work with his tongue. She moaned in pleasure, and he stopped momentarily, substituting his hand. "NO, it does NOT smell a bit like tuna fish..." Calvin burst out suddenly.
There was a silence as Susie processed what he said. Calvin clapped a hand over his mouth. "No, I..."
"This is SO CREEPY!" she yelled out. "First you were staring at me from your little tree fort after I was showering. Fine, boys do that kind of thing. I get it. Then you wanted to bring your little toy on our first date..."
"It was for confidence!!" Calvin tried to interrupt her
"And now this? Now you're talking to your little tiger while you're going down on me? What is wrong with you!? Get out!"
She tossed his shirt out the window, and he hurriedly buckled his pants and followed it out to the lawn, Hobbes in hand. She slammed the window from shut with a loud crack, leaving Calvin staring up in silence.
"Good work, Furbrain," he said finally.
"Don't blame me," Hobbes responded. "You're the one who wouldn't pull the covers down to give me a better view." | 48 | Write a story from the perspective of any character from Calvin and Hobbes (Mom, Dad, Susie Derkins, Moe, Rosalyn, Hobbes, even Calvin himself) in which Calvin starts aging normally and things get even weirder. | 27 |
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