body
stringlengths 1k
39.5k
| comment_score
int64 10
23.1k
| prompt
stringlengths 1
310
| post_score
int64 15
42.1k
|
|---|---|---|---|
Gaia's eyes grew large and moist. "I don't want to," she told her mother meekly, pawing at the dirt with one hoof.
Her mother remained patient. "You have to be a big deer now. You aren't a little fawn anymore." Her voice grew sweet and calmed Gaia; "Today is a Meet-And-Greet. We're not staying here all day. I won't leave you here alone. We're going to meet your new teacher and see your new room, then next moon we can start school once we've had a while to get used to the idea."
Gaia bravely stayed calm right up until her mom nudged open the latch on the door. At the wooden *creak* and with a whiff of the strange odors inside her courage cracked, and she began to cry and buck her legs.
It was several minutes before her mother finally coaxed her through the entrance. Gaia kept her gaze low, not wanting to see what waited inside; but as she saw her hooves step over the threshold and onto small chips of wood that coated the floor, her curiosity peaked and she looked around her.
Three sides of the room were walled. Gaia's left opened to a small pond. The sun on the water blinded Gaia; she didn't notice anyone was there until they spoke.
"Hello! Welcome, welcome!" Across the room atop a wooden stool sat an otter waving at them jovially. As Gaia watched, the otter hopped down and lithely came to them. Gaia was still weary of her- Gaia was weary of any stranger, as most deer were- but her instincts did not find reason to be frightened.
"My name is Miss Perry!" the otter said with glee, speaking to Gaia first. Gaia felt special to have been spoken to before Mom was greeted. But she was unsure how to answer so she simply stared at Miss Perry.
"This is Gaia," her mom said helpfully. Finally she could speak, "I'm Gaia" she said softly. And then before she could clam up again she added, "There's a lot of smells in here."
Miss Perry laughed. "You can probably smell a lot of different animals, can't you Gaia?" Gaia nodded.
Gaia's mother spoke up, "Yes, I noticed that, and I wanted to ask you, do the animals from the... other schools typically cross to this side of the pond?"
Miss Perry looked as if she had been asked that question many times today. She nodded, as if she'd been expecting it. "Miss Mulela please remember from our last conference that the schools will be doing a trial Integrative Species classroom model this year."
Watching her mother startle made Gaia apprehensive. She collected herself, but couldn't stop from looking quickly left and right- as if these *Integrative Species* might be everywhere.
Miss Perry continued amiably, "Don't worry, if it doesn't work well we can always go back to the A Species Apart model."
"And how long with the trial last?"
"Oh, we're thinking about..."
Gaia let their voices drown out as her gaze wandered around the room. She first noticed a gleam, a silver flare that shone off of some type of metal under the window against the wall opposite the pond. Slowly her eyes began to make out a geometric shape. She saw lines, but couldn't quite piece together what the whole of the object was. It made her nervous.
She could tell now that it had bars, like those on the windows and stable-fronts. And the shadows inside were solidifying; shifting; was something inside moving...?
"Gaia?"
Gaia startled and realized that she has stepped back into her mother. Miss Perry followed her gaze and continued, "Yes I was just getting to that. We have a class human this year!"
She grinned broadly, her smile sunny and warm, furry otter arms extended as if to hug them with the thrill of it.
When she saw that they both remained far from thrilled she chirped, "Oh don't worry! It's just the cage that's daunting. The human is quite adorable, I assure you!"
She began to walk towards it, beckoning them along, "It's a very primal instinct to be afraid of cages, but not to worry. They can be very useful, and it is educational for the kids to have an actual human around. It's also good to teach them to care for something," she added, smiling at them, "We work to instill in our children a healthy appreciation for life and all living things!"
And somehow, Gaia found herself being prodded forward. Hesitantly, she followed behind her mother towards the bars. Inside she could finally see a squishy mound of pink tissue. It blubbered, spitting slightly on its chin as it saw them approaching.
The otter reached into a pail and brought out human food labeled **TWINKIES** and **REESES CUPS**. She showed it to Gaia and then tossed it through the bars of the cage. The human squealed excitedly- "Watch," said Miss Perry excitedly, "at how quickly he opens the package!"- and tore the **REESES CUPS** treats down the middle, spilling out droplets everywhere, and crushed several into its mouth at once with a garble of happy syllables.
Gaia was sad for the poor, stupid creature. "What's wrong with him?"
For once Miss Perry did not seem to know how to answer a question, and she spread forth her paws for a moment before finally saying, "That is one of many things you will be learning in our class this year Gaia! The human species has significantly declined in recent millennium, and their mental capacities have steadily worsened. Now most of them rely on us for nourishment. We have a steady income of treats from a real life ancient factory," she said to Gaia with a wink.
"Is it dangerous?" Gaia's mother asked, watching as dark saliva dropped off the human's chins to its middle. It chomped onto another treat.
"They are absolutely safe for school; but they can bite. It has never happened, but we always make sure the children stay cautious and are constantly supervised. Hopefully he will not prove too disruptive this year what with the new Integrative Species model..." | 17 | An alternate universe exists where every type of animal can talk, and humans are pets | 29 |
She walked with an exaggerated sway brimming with confidence and attitude. Her pony tail swung back and forth in time like the sweep of a pendelum. He watched her; his eyes on her ass though it was not the reason he followed. The gun in his right hand was stuffed inside his pocket, but his finger was kissing the trigger in preparation for what must come next.
"Package acquired. Awaiting instructions." He whispered into his com. Four thousand miles away, a man watching the interrogation of suspected terrorist responded.
"Instructions to follow." Victor Corby was not an evil man, though he often amended that claim by tacking the phrase *by choice* after, because he wasn't. He just wanted to keep his fellow countryman safe. If all terrorist activity stopped tomorrow, he'd be content to spend the rest of his life sitting in a room bored due to the fact. However, his countrymen aren't safe and very soon many were going to die. He looked at the man they were water-boarding and raised his hand.
"You got her live?" Victor asked. Four thousand miles away the man following the woman answered.
"Live and in color."
"Await instructions," Victor told him, gesturing to the men conducting the rendtion of the prisoner. They stopped pouring the water and removed the towel and allowed the man the freedom to cough up the water threatening to drown him. Victor gestured to his communications officer. "Put Jackal's feed up." He said, indicating the video screen in the room with the prisoner.
"You're a tough old bird, Merek, but we're down to zero hour. You obviously don't care what happens to you, but we found her." He said, pointing to the television on the wall. "I'm going to give you three opportunities to tell me where Phiffer plans on releasing the virus."
Merek coughed up more water and glanced at the screen and felt the blood rush from his face. It was his daughter. "This isn't funny." Merek snapped.
"Do you see me laughing?" Victor shouted back. "I am done playing with you. Tell me where Phiffer is going."
"She isn't part of this." Merek argued.
"She's your daughter." Victor volleyed back, knowing Merek was right.
"This is unethical." Merek told him. "We're soldiers fighting for different countries. She has no part in this. Where is your honor?"
"Wound her." Victor said into his com by way of response.
Jackal did as he was ordered, putting a single shot into her back above her heart. In the video there was a staticky cough from Jackal's gun, and the girl walking silently in the video pitched forward. She wasn't silent now, screaming in pain and fear. Jackal stood watch over her with his pistol aimed at her head. She rolled over on her back and everyone in the room saw that she was many months pregnant.
"She isn't a part of this," Merek cried, jerking against the cuffs securing him to the steel chair in which he sat.
"You got some god-damned gall, Merek. Phiffer is going to release that virus on innocent men and women and children and you're telling me she isn't a part of this? What about those innocents he's about to kill? How are they apart of this? Now, where's Phiffer." Victor screamed.
"They're not innocents. They're supporting--"
"Terminate her pregnancy." Victor told Jackal through the com.
"NO!" Merek shouted even as Jackal's gun coughed again. The woman grabbed her stomach in horror and pain.
"Where is he?" Victor demanded red-faced, coming to his feet. "You just lost a grand son. You want to lose the daughter? Cause after her, we castrate your son. We will kill ever fucking person you know to get to stop this attack from happening. Last chance to save her," Victor snarled. "Where?" Merek fixed him with angry Irish eyes.
"Kill--"
"LAX." Merek growled. "LAX." He repeated. "Phiffer is headed to LAX."
"Come home." Victor told Jackal. On camera, Jackal bent down and checked the color of the woman's eys and her other vitals, then rose to his feet and put a bullet in her head.
"Package was suffering." Jackal replied mournfully. "It was a mercy. I knicked her liver." He said by way of explaination. Merek strained against his cuffs screaming and raving. Victor turned away then hurried out, before relaying the new intel to the teams in the field. He slowed to a walk then stopped felt the spasm and hurried toward the door, vomiting just outside.
*He wasn't a evil man.* He told himself. *Not by choice.* He vomited again and punched the door. "Evil or no, he was going to hell when he died. Of that, he was fairly certain. | 19 | Tell me a story where I don't want the hero to win. | 20 |
Aetius' knuckles are white as he clutches his sword. He shakes. His eyes meet mine, wide and searching for hope. I try to project courage, but I have no hope for him. I turn away. Five thousand men stand together at the foot of the mountain. Five thousand men face death.
The evacuation is too slow. The column of citizens lacks order and direction. Crying children, braying mules and panicked old men. They make no progress. They have no time. We fight to buy it for them, but we fight in vain. The ones who realise this stayed in their houses, huddled together and praying for salvation. They may find peace in their last moments.
The ground trembles. Aetius whimpers. "Brother..." I cannot bear his fear. I search for words of comfort, but words fail me. What can I say? What can anyone, faced with this?
Thick black smoke rises from the restless peak. I look at my sword. It's blunt. Laughter bursts from my lips, and I hear the hysteria in the sound. The end of Pompeii, the end of days... and my sword is blunt. You can't kill a dragon with a blunt sword, for Jupiter's sake.
Aetius stares at me. He thinks I've gone insane.
"Brother," I say, "my sword is blunt. Look." I wave the sword before his eyes. He looks, but he doesn't understand. I suppose it's not funny.
A sound like the death cries of a thousand cattle rends the air. Fire and ash fill the sky. It rises, an infernal leviathan of incomprehensible size, spewing flames, wings unfurling like the shadows of clouds before the sun. The wrath of Pluto, the might of the elements unleashed upon the world.
Aeitus pisses himself. He drops his sword and falls to his knees, screaming. Prayers fill the air around me, a piteous chorus of desperation. Pointless. There can be no victory here. We are not heroes. We will die like grass withering in the desert.
When it takes flight, its wings beat the air as the drums of Mars. Its serpentine body uncoils in the air, and from its jaws the punishment of the gods blooms.
I smell them burning. Like pork. Hundreds die on the first pass.
I kneel beside Aetius. I cannot fight, I can only burn. But I can spare him.
I pull him close, and take his sword. His is sharp, for he took more care in his life than I. He trembles. "Brother" I whisper. "Find peace, and known not pain." The blade slides easily between his ribs, and he is still.
I rise and look around me. Shrieks of agony assault my ears. I can see what people look like when you burn off the skin. Pompeii has fallen. The shadow falls over me once more. I stare up at the demon, feeling nothing.
It ends in fire.
| 96 | Vesuvius didn't just erupt, it released a dragon. The people of Pompeii didn't simply perish, they gave their lives defeating it. | 228 |
"Ah can straighten those teeth!" Yelled the frenzied scotsman from the stall to Abigail's left. "I got mehself some chicken wire an a pair o' tweesers!"
Abigail's eyes widened as the man clicked a pair of old tweesers at her and brandished a twisted piece of wiring that he'd formed into a rudimentary brace.
"I'm... fine thank you." She hurried along to Stage F, staring meekly over her brochure at the myriad of unsettling characters around her.
"Retainers!" A passing salesman yelled in Abigail's face, causing her to stifle a scream. "I cut them out of milk bottles and use my own teeth to mold them!"
He seemed proud of himself, though Abigail couldn't possibly imagine why.
"That's disgusting!" She couldn't help but exclaim as she pushed her way further through the crowd and towards the stage.
She was here to see Timothy Good, one of the foremost researchers in alien craft sightings in the world. She had read his book from cover to cover, and would be damned if she'd let a few creeps stand in the way of her finally meeting the man.
She reached the door of the stage as it was closing. A convention organiser stood in front of her, barring her way.
"I'm sorry I'm a bit late. Is this Timothy Good's panel?" Abigail looked apologetically up to the stern steward.
"Timothy Good?" The man looked, confused, down at her. "No, this is John Herbert's talk on reclaiming and reusing Palatal Expanders in the light of recent budget cuts."
Abigail frowned "The brochure says he should be here."
"Let me see." The man said, rolling his eyes. He grabbed the brochure from her hands. "Ah well you're a week early is the problem."
Abigail stared up at him, then snatched back the brochure and scrutinized it, unable to believe she could have made such a mistake. He was right, her convention wasn't until the following Tuesday. She was so shocked she walked back into the crowd without another word to the steward.
The enormity of her oversight washing over her, Abigail drifted through the crowd towards the exit. Passing the frenzied Scotsman with the chicken wire braces, Abigail made her way to the concourse and, with the numbing realisation that she had entirely wasted her day, left the convention for Under Funded Orthodontists. | 25 | A believer goes to her first UFO convention, and slowly realizes that she's made a terrible mistake. | 38 |
*On one hand, this power would be amazing. Until your realize that Superman can't turn off his invincibility. Who says that this hero would be able to?*
He felt it. A strange pulling sensation just below his heart telling him he was supposed to be somewhere. *Just ignore it. Maybe it'll go away this time.* He took another sip of his drink, the rough alcohol burning all the way down his throat and into the pit of his stomach.
The feeling subsided for a moment before rapidly increasing, all but pulling him out of his seat. His lurching motion was not unnoticed by the bartender. "I think that's enough for you Frank," he said, leaning over and plucking the half filled glass from the drunk hero's hand. "You know you shouldn't drink this much. Need a clear head for all that heroin' you've got." *I'd rather be doing heroin* Frank thought to himself, staggering up from his chair. For a moment he considered arguing, but when Ned said you had enough, you'd had enough.
Finally he gave in to the sensation, the incessant force dragging him stumbling out of the building and down the street. He was drunk enough that he should have collapsed black-out drunk, but he could feel his power ticking over repeatedly, at least once every second.
*Coin toss, do I fall unconscious or do I not?* **Not**. *Again, coin toss, do I fall unconscious or do I not?* **Not**. *One more time, coin toss, do I fall unconscious or do I not?* **Not**. Super luck. In its most annoying application. Sometimes you *wanted* to collapse in a drunken stupor. **Not**. *Well fuck you too*. He could feel his power churning that one over as it attempted decide whether that was something that luck could be applied to. It apparently decided against it so it remained silent.
He eventually found himself approaching the harbor. *Of course. The harbor. Here to save some suicidal idiot, or to prevent a drug deal from going down, or maybe to save a victim from a serial killer. Just how I wanted to spend my Friday evening*
Now that he was closer to the source, he could feel minor variations in the target's location. A sort of bobbing from side to side. *Great, its on a boat. More fun*
He reached the edge of the pier and stepped off not bothering to look down. As he plummeted towards the water, he felt his power give a might wrench. A boat drifted past him and he landed heavily on its deck. He stood up glanced around to get his bearings. It appeared to be a medium-sized motorboat (The Osprey). Some idiot must have left it untied and it was drifting along the pier, just waiting for him to get there. He glanced at the ignition. Of course the keys were there. He gave it a twist and started piloting the boat in the direction of the pulling.
After an hour or so of sailing he found himself pulling up to what appeared to be an oil tanker. He took his hands off the wheel and for the first time in a while actively triggered his power to get what he wanted. Along with it came a piercing migraine as his brain took control of thousands of individual random occurrences around him to steer his boat to where it needed to be.
-------------------------------***------------------------------
The butterfly effect, the lab guys called it. Lots of little things working together to make a much bigger thing. A real gift, one of the city's greatest heroes had once called it. *A real pain in the ass more like.* When your life was entirely non-random, things simply became boring. If you can get a hole in one every time, shoot a perfect full court shot every time, beat every enemy just by chance EVERY FUCKING TIME, it got boring.
Worst part was, he couldn't even commit suicide. Each time he'd get a wrenching headache, and then a pillow factory would explode, saving him from his plummeting fall. His knife would spontaneous collapse into goo, his rope would snap, his gun would get damp. *Chances are if I drove my car off of a bridge it would develop wings and fucking flap around like a dove.*
-------------------------------***------------------------------
His boat piloted perfectly along side a convenient knotted rope hanging along side the ship. He sighed and clambered up it. Not bothering to look around for enemies (if he wasn't supposed to be seen he wouldn't be), he trotted to the nearest doorway and entered the belly of the ship.
It was very nearly pitch black, but he ignored his senses and kept walking forwards. It had been a long time since he last tripped by accident, with vision or otherwise.
Soon he came to a room with light cracking around its edges. He gave a sigh and pulled out a government issue taser gun. It technically had 3 shots, but his was known to fire as many times as the situation required (some how the battery always just happened to overvolt). He opened the door sedately and stood there as the gangsters within opened fire on him. He should have dodged, or hidden behind the door, for the sake of appearances, but he simply couldn't give a damn any more. He pointed the gun in the general direction of the gunmen and pulled the trigger. *Do I hit him even though I didn't aim at him?* **Yes** Rinse repeat.
Soon all of the gunmen were unconscious. They would remain so until such a time that his ability determined it was fine for them to awaken. He glanced around and saw that this room was connected to another, and light was spilling out from it. He stepped in with his taser still raised.
"Stop right there." The voice was vaguely Italian, and he felt his mood worsen.
He didn't stop walking.
"I'm warning you, if you take one more step, I'll blow us both to kingdom come." This was all said fat man smoking a cigar, opulently decked out in golden chains and rings. Sometimes reality was plagiarized from fiction.
Frank gave a sigh. "Look, I'll explain what will happen. Option one, the detonator is faulty, thus the bomb doesn't go off. Option two, the wiring is incorrect, so the bomb doesn't go off. Option three, the bomb does go off, but I'm unharmed, as is my boat. Option four, the bomb does go off and both of us and what ever cargo you have on this ship are unharmed, allowing me to take you into to the police." He gave a shrug. "I'm not sure which will happen, but I'm relatively sure its one of those."
The gangster slowly lowered his hand. "Your him aren't you. Stacked Deck."
Frank winced. It was a stupid name in retrospect, but when he first became a hero, he was young and thought the name was as bad ass as all hell. "Frank Lombardi is fine."
The gangster gave a sigh. "I'll start piloting the ship to the dock. I'm not gonna bother even giving a token resistance." Frank gave a nod and settled down for a nap. They would inevitably attempt to kill him, or maybe try take the ship to further waters. But there would be freak winds, wild man-eating pelicans, and who knew what else preventing them until they finally decided to go to shore.
*Another boring Friday night,* he thought as he settled back to let his facsimile of a life run on autopilot. | 20 | A superhero whose power is extreme luck. | 26 |
It was with a heavy heart that I applied for my killing permit. Rather than mailing a request in, I travelled to the government building to avoid the six-week waiting period. In my backpack I had a folder with all the information on my victim. What our relationship was, why I wanted him dead, the consequences to society if he was killed, all the pertinent information.
"It seems you have all your paperwork in order," the man behind the desk said as he rifled through it. "How are you planning to kill him? Will it be a disturbance to your neighbors?"
"No sir, simple drug overdose. He won't even make a sound."
"Mm, perfect. Let me check your criminal record quickly..."
He wouldn't find anything. I had lived a model life until this point. Not even a speeding ticket.
"Very well." He signed a piece of paper and handed it to me. "This is your permit, it only applies for the one man, for the duration of this week. When coroners come to pick up the body, give them this."
I thanked the man and left, travelling the several hours back to my home. Even before I opened the door, I heard the constant sound of machines. As I scaled the steps to the second floor, the sound got louder. I opened the door with all of the instruments and walked up to the man they were hooked up to. He opened his eyes weakly and looked towards me.
"Hey, Dad," I said softly. "I got permission." | 36 | In the future you can apply to the government for a killing permit. What it is is a piece of paper that exempts you from any legal action for the murder of one person of your choice. Describe one man's experience with this permit. | 22 |
I always loved these games growing up. Well, by growing up I mean when I was a teenager. By the time I was in my twenties, when Ruby, Sapphire, and Emerald came out, I had married my first love and there were responsibilities that came with that, more than either of us had ever realized. I still wanted to play, fired up my old GBA as often as I could, but my son, Cyprus, was always my priority. That's why when he was a year old, when the doctors diagnosed him with developmental problems, I took a third job to get him all of the help that I could. I thought it was the right choice for us. It seemed right. It just didn't work.
She left us. It wasn't for another guy or anything slutty like that. It was all just too much for her. She blamed herself over and over in the letter, and I still blamed myself. I hadn't helped her with Cy. I gave her money. I wrote checks. I wasn't a husband. I was an ATM. Some would say that it was unconscionable for her to leave Cy, but I didn't hate her for it. I had no idea how hard it had become to deal with him, just doing things as basic as breakfast was an ordeal; the frustration, the screaming, the never feeling loved, I had left all of that to her. She must have done something right though, after I signed the divorce papers checks with no return address would appear in the mail every month, more than I had earned working those three jobs. We had switched places, and she was better than I was.
Somehow, I eventually found time to be me again. When I saw Fire Red and Leaf Green had been released, something in me stirred. I felt a little guilty buying a new GBA, but Cy seemed to like watching me play, so that made me feel better.
We spent days on the couch, hunched over the little screen, there was no screaming or kicking, just a father and son enjoying an adventure together. He would point at the screen every time a new pokemon appeared, and I would tell him its name, explain what animals or plants they were based on, or how their name told you about its type and abilities.
After beating Fire Red, we went back for Leaf Green and a few stuffed pokemon toys for Cy. Our game time together now had an audience, neatly arranged on the coffee table, like students in a classroom. Cy was smiling all of the time now. It was impossible to say no when, in his way, he started begging for more pokemon pupils, and eventually a Game Boy of his own. His excitement at starting his own game was worth the two weeks of ramen I was going to eat to cover the cost.
He was becoming a different kid, a more normal kid. His failures didn't cause frustrated tantrums, instead, he would take a step back, work on gaining more levels, change his line-up, try again. Soon enough, the gyms were falling before his team. He beat the game in two weeks.
I bought a used copy of Gold for him. It took him one week.
I bought a used copy of Ruby for him. Three days.
I wasn't sure what to do about what happened afterwards. He took his collection of pokemon toys and set them on the dining room table. He just stared at them all day.
The next afternoon I found him in the backyard with his Charmander doll, pacing back and forth, back and forth. With all of the gaming going on, I had neglected to mow the lawn.
I sort of understood what he was doing, but I wasn't sure how to help. He came in that night looking sad. The next day he paced the yard again, and came in looking utterly dejected. I called the guy at the toy store that night, and asked for a big favor.
The next day Cy found a Zigzagoon and Pidgey doll in the yard. He threw his Charmander doll in front of them, waited for a time, and threw his pokeball at them in turn. Finally, as happy as I had ever seen him, he picked them all up and came back inside. The rest of the day he spent "training" his new toys against his old ones.
We took a trip to the woods the next day, where he discovered Teddiursa and Oddish, right where our neighbor had strategically placed them for Cy to find. We spent much of that day in the forest. He was thrilled walking around and throwing his dolls at bugs and squirrels. I assume they leveled up quite a bit that day.
We took a trip outside of town to the power plant. A former co-worker of mine took us on a tour. Although he seemed fascinated listening to Kara explain how everything worked, the highlight for Cy was when he snagged a Pikachu there.
Soon I was getting calls from friends of friends wanting to know how they could help, what Pokémon Cy needed and how much they cost. I refused their charity, but they refused my refusal. Then some guy called me up from out of the blue and said he knew a couple that wanted to help, and were making an offer I couldn't refuse.
"Prepare for trouble..." she said as she leapt out in front of us on the sidewalk.
"And make it double..." he continued as he slid to her side.
I didn't know them, but they became my heroes that day. They were just a couple of students at the local community college that were into going to anime conventions together as Jessie and James. Somehow, they managed to quickly pick up on the way Cy conducted the battles in his mind. Meowth fell quickly, Arbok soon after, and they ran away defeated. Cy grabbed his toys and we shared a big group hug for his victory that day. Then we went for ice cream. The evil duo sat nearby, unnoticed, disguised as a pair of kids in love.
Over the next few weeks my voicemail became full on a regular basis. Cy was having Pokémon battles everyday, and switched his Charmander for Charmeleon and eventually Charizard. His collection of toys had become enormous and his team was becoming elite.
I got a call from the hosts of the local radio station's morning show. They had me call in to do an interview. They asked me questions about my son and his love of Pokémon. They told me that their phones were going off the hook with people calling in that wanted to help. The producer cut in saying they had the mayor on the line.
As we walked up the steps of City Hall, I was crying. A trail of defeated opponents stretched far behind us. Two police officers opened the doors for us. Four more opponents were ahead, the Elite Four. Cy won, of course, his team was solid, a Pokémon Master's team. The mayor, looking every bit like Professor Oak, proclaimed Cy the Champion and pinned a shiny medal to his chest.
Cy enthusiastically showed off the medal to the gathered crowd. He leapt into my arms and hugged me as tight as he could. Despite the flashes and news cameras all around, I bawled like a baby.
It was dark by the time we got home. I lifted my boy into my arms, while he clutched his six prized dolls in his. I stopped when I saw that someone was standing in front of our door, clutching a Mew doll in her hands.
Cy stirred and murmured, "Mom." | 130 | Father supports in secret his mentally ill son in his journey to become a Pokémon Master | 26 |
The last thing Alex remembered was walking into the bar. He didn't know where he was, how or why he got there. All he remembers was the noisy bar. He couldn't describe it if he tried, wouldn't recognise it if it hit in the face. As he became more conscious, he realised he was lying on something hard and uncomfortable; his own left arm. He tried to move it but couldn't. *Dammit, if only my head felt like my arm* he thought. Using his right arm, he wearily coaxed feeling into the other. Once the pins and needles stopped, he tried sitting up, but fell down again, his head spinning. Sighing, he lay back down for a few more minutes, waiting for his sight to return to normal. Finally feeling confident enough, he tried to sit up again. *Success!*
Bleary-eyed, he arose from the floor... the floor? Why was he on the floor. He didn't remember falling down. *Makes sense, I guess*, he thought. *My head hurts like HELL!* He surveyed his surrounding and came to the conclusion that he was in some sort of alley. He could see the road further down; it seemed like a mile away. Turning around, he gasped as he saw a set of eyes staring at him. Large brown eyes with a tinge of yellow. He couldn't make out the face; his vision was still blurry. He cold vaguely make out another shape, clad in black.
"It's all right, my son. You're safe now. We've all been where you are." a voice said to him. It was soothing, but he could hear it was trying to stifle laughter. Speaking of which, a rough cackle exploded from nearby.
"He seems teh have a wee bit of a problem, ey?" the voice laughed. "Maybeh we shud help him".
"mmmmprrpfflflflfprprprr!!"
*What in the Hell was that???* he thought. *A horse?*
It was a horse. A bloody horse just standing there next to the two others. He could see clearly now. Why would a priest, a horse and a Welshman be trying to rob him? What happened last night.
"Wh...why am I here? Who are you?" he asked in a trembling voice.
"We're here to help you, my son. Do not be afraid. You will come to understand soon enough. Here, take my hand. I will show you" the priest said. Gingerly, Alex took his hand and let the priest guide him to the entrance of the alley.
"See there, we found you there, like all the others" the pries explained.
"Others?" Alex replied.
"Yes. Every one of us was where you are at some point. Every type of person you can imagine has been here. Let me explain. People try to walk through here as a short cut. But they don't notice *this*" he held up something long and cylindrical.
"A drain-pipe?" Alex asked.
"No, no no!" the priest laughed. "This is a bar. You walked into it, just like I did, just like everyone. No one notices it until they've been wacked over the head. It's hard to see, and hard to miss." He was laughing uncontrollably now. Alex noticed he had something in his other hand, holding it as if trying to get him to ask what it was.
"Then what's that in your other hand?" he asked as the priest unravelled it. "Is it another bar?"
"No," the thing replied, "I'm afraid not!"
| 164 | A regular guy stumbles into a bar unaware of the fact that it's the bar where all the lame bar jokes take place. | 434 |
Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, Members of Congress, my fellow Americans:
Today in America, a teacher spent extra time with a student who needed it... and slept with him. Talk about going the extra mile. I mean, the extra six inches! *the crowd gives a nervous laugh.* I kid, I kid, she helped raise our graduation rate and his pants tent!
*president makes a pleading gesture as the crowd hisses and boos*
An entrepreneur flipped on the lights in her tech startup, and did her part to add to the more than eight million new jobs our businesses have created over the past four years. Of course, she was a camgirl. *the president breaks out in a laugh, points to Joe Biden behind him, Biden cracks up laughing and mouths 'You the man'*
An autoworker fine-tuned some of the best, most fuel-efficient cars in the world, and did his part to help America wean itself off foreign oil. Yeah right! We're stuck on foreign oil until that shit runs out! No oil? Get used to jogging places! *The president jogs in place and pretends to exhaust himself.* Might help you fatties though. *He winks.*
Here are the results of your efforts: The lowest unemployment rate in over five years. A rebounding housing market. A manufacturing sector that’s adding jobs for the first time since the 1990s. *The president winks at Ben Bernanke.* Of course that's easy to do considering we just got out of a horrible recession! *Ben blushes.*
That’s why I believe this can be a breakthrough year for America. After five years of grit and determined effort, the United States is better-positioned for the 21st century than any other nation on Earth. That's, of course, ignoring China, most of western europe, and maybe Brazil. Hey 4th place isn't bad! Can't always be on top! Naww, guys, I'm kidding, we're doing better than Brazil. We're at the worst 3rd place. *He does an exaggerated wipe of the sweat of his brow.* Phew!
As President, I’m committed to making Washington work better, and rebuilding the trust of the people who sent us here. I believe most of you are, too. Last month, thanks to the work of Democrats and Republicans, this Congress finally produced a budget that undoes some of last year’s severe cuts to priorities like education. But not foodstamps! Whoops. Eat or learn. Pick one!
Now, one of the biggest factors in bringing more jobs back is our commitment to American energy. The all-of-the-above energy strategy I announced a few years ago is working, and today, America is closer to energy independence than we’ve been in decades. One of the reasons why is natural gas – if extracted safely *The president bends over and farts into the microphone.* , it’s the bridge fuel that can power our economy with less of the carbon pollution that causes climate change.
My fellow Americans, no other country in the world does what we do. On every issue, the world turns to us, not simply because of the size of our economy or our military might – but because of the ideals we stand for, and the burdens we bear to advance them. *The president doubles over in laughter* Okay, most of it is our out of control military spending and the casual way we go to war. I mean, why are we blowing up 17 year old fighters in Afghanistan? They don't even know what 9/11 was! *He wipes tears from his eyes in a mocking way.* Oh and no one beats us on domestic spying. *He pulls out his blackberry, looks at it, and looks at Justice Scalia.* Antonin? Really? Scat porn? You're a dirty old man!
The America we want for our kids – a rising America where honest work is plentiful and communities are strong; where prosperity is widely shared and opportunity for all lets us go as far as our dreams and toil will take us – none of it is easy. In fact, its probably impossible! I mean, we've been trying for 200 years and fucking up pretty hard! But if we work together; *he laughs* if we summon what is best in us, with our feet planted firmly in today but our eyes cast towards tomorrow – I know it’s within our reach. *He comically reaches for something and pretends to drop it.* Whoops! *He gives a sheepish grin.*
Believe it, Bieber!
God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. *The presidents bends over and farts into the mic again and winks as he walks away from the podium.* Sorry! Natural gas surplus! *Biden high fives him as he walks off the stage.*
| 17 | A comedian has been elected President of the United States, and he's about to give his State of the Union Address. You take it from here... | 34 |
Carlos sipped a beer. The white man who had served it to him scuttled quickly behind the counter, like a weak little mouse. The whites may have had rights now, but they still spoke Nahuatl or Pipil and tended to stay in their own communities, away from the intimidatingly superior Aztecs.
Carlos' friend, Sitting Bear, was doing his namesake proud: his chubby bottom on the barstool, nursing a pint. "So. Got called again for duty, Losi?"
"Yeah." Carlos sighed. You'd think that the Roman would give up, but they didn't. "You could come with me, you know." Carlos suggested.
"Nah man." Sitting Bear sighed. "I'm a History Teacher, not a soldier like you. Someone's gotta teach the runts about how Pocahontas stabbed Lewis and Clark or when the first Incan president was elected. Plus, have you seen my gut?"
Carlos chuckled. "I'm glad the Aztecs were chill with the Cherokee. Life wouldn't be the same without your people's sense of humor."
"Yeah, our spirit animal is George Lopez." Sitting Bear chucked. "Or beer." he looked at his glass rather fondly.
'W... what was the war like?" the meek bartender pipped up. Luckily, Carlos considered the whites their equals, and he responded in a friendly fashion.
"Well, legions of Romans were charging at us with their SPQR guns." I remembered, almost hearing the gunfire. "I was young, stupid. Thought because I was a Jaguar warrior bullets wouldn't touch me. But when the gods get to killing, they don't save anybody from bullets."
The man nodded, fascinated. Usually, the media blows Jaguar warriors out of disproportion, making movies to us detailing how we ride avatars of Quetzcoatl into battle and Mayahuel fucks us if we win a battle.
"But one day, I was taking out some guys when I happened upon a Praetor." I continued.
The bartender and Sitting Bear gasped. "You fought a motherfucking Praetor? And lived?" S.B. asked.
"Ha! Barely. The old man had sure earned his position. Gave me quite the thrashing. If it weren't for that Priest of Jupiter coming out and begging us to stop....." I contemplated how my life would have ended.
"So you guys just stopped fighting?" the bartender asked, feeling comfortable enough to sit and talk.
"Yup." I nodded. "It was one of the last battles of the Second Empire War, and we all decided that we weren't going to go down for a war that was already over."
Sitting Bear put his drink down. "So this is the Third Empire war, eh?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Who do you think will win?"
"Dunno. There are entire cohorts lining up to fight. Whoever wins is gonna come out with a lot of scars."
"War," the timid man stated "Is a terrible thing. I wish both sides could let go of their pride."
I just nooded, my mood darkening. "I think I should go home and see my wife." I slapped a few cacao beans down on the table, and got up to leave.
"Carlos." The bartender called to me. I stopped to look at him." "May God protect you."
I chuckled at the monotheistic man. "I think I'm gonna need more than one to win this war." | 20 | The Roman and Aztec Empires covering all of Europe and North America respectively have survived into the Modern era. Now at war write from the perspective of one of the troops on the ground | 32 |
Let's be clear about something -- I love my wife. And she loves me. But I can never tell her just how much the sound of another pair of feet in the house hurts my soul.
---
I have not felt grass between my toes in ten years, nor the air crossing over my hands in five. The chill that runs down your back when you shiver hasn't crossed my spine in so long I can't remember what it once felt like. My heart pounds with a life that is not my own, tapping my ribcage in time with the beeping coming from under my chair. I take a breath; the air is harsh and dry. Like every other part of my body, it feels artificial.
My wife is the most beautiful person I could ever imagine. Her crooked glasses hang from a crooked, yet rounded, nose. Her green eyes are the same color as the computer chips that keep me alive. The lightly auburn hair that only glints when it feels like it. Her hands, though -- it's her hands that tell the most.
Her hands are the color of my stained beech wood desk, the fingers long and thin. Her nails are short, but still hold the pinkish hue of youth and strength. Her left hand has a vein that protrudes from the outside of her pointer finger when she has strong emotions, and if you look close enough, you can follow it all the way up her wrist.
I have stared at her hands for longer than I care to remember. I know every hue, every crack, and every wrinkle on those beautiful hands. I can close my eyes and know their feel against my cheek, against my hair.
But now... I sit alone in my chair as those hands I love so much caress another man's face.
I can't please her. I'll never be able to please her again. I love her so much and I can't fulfill the most basic duties, the most base actions of a husband! Had I the strength, I would hurl myself from this prison of technology, to set both of us free... but I sit, endlessly; knowing that in a few hours, I will once again feel her hands through my hair and her lips upon mine.
I told her I didn't mind. She asked if I was sure.
We both know I lied.
I love her so much.
| 32 | You're in your 30's, married, in love, and paralyzed from the head down. Your wife loves you too much to leave, so you allow her to find a "physical partner".... | 31 |
"Take sides are you crazy? There's six of us. There's thousands of them. Hell, even if we wanted to, which side do we take," said John adjusting the sight on his AR15 rifle. Tom rolled his eyes at him. John turned his head, "I have no idea what we do here. Wait for the portal to open back up, I guess. Maybe its monthly or something."
Tom rubbed his temples and said, "Or maybe its once in a 1,000 years. Or a million. We've got modern weapons and a humvee with a .50 cal on the top. We could take both of these militaries on and live like kings." John shook his head. Tom threw his hands up in the air and said, "We don't even know if the portal will ever open again. Man, I'm just fucking hungry."
John examined the armies below. "So.. we just go in there and kill a lot of medieval soldiers barely able to use bows and swords to prove we're hot shit? How many Tom? A few thousand rounds before the 50 cals empties itself? What the fuck man? Are you psycho?"
"A couple hundred I figure. First the cannons then the horsemen. Cannonfire is the only thing we really have to worry about. Could penetrate the humvee. They'll flee once they see how badly they're getting beaten." Tom saw John's uninterested expression. "Fuck you," said Tom as he walked off to relieve himself in the bushes.
Lenny rubbed his unshaven chin and walked up to John. "Guys, lets pack up. Eric, Mike, and Pete haven't radio'd back in hours. Think we should go look for them," said the older soldier.
John raised an eyebrow, "Give up this position? You sure? Maybe the batteries are dead on the radios. Whats your battery at?"
Lenny looked down at the device, "20% now."
Tom wandered back, "This is bullshit right? Just an excuse to move us, keep us going, keep us from fighting? No more MRE's so lots of walking."
Lenny smiled, "Maybe, now pack your shit soldier. If we're spotted this could go hot quickly."
The three men walked down a narrow game path down the hill. Lenny put his finger up to his lips and the other men nodded in response. He dashed towards a tree and tackled someone in a brown tunic holding a tall English longbow. He grabbed the person and applied a headlock. John and Tom stood dumbfounded. John waved his hands and laughed, "It a girl. A young girl."
The archer threw her head back as Lenny let up the pressure and put his hand over her mouth. Her dirty blonde hair went flying. Tom grinned and pointed his AR15 at the girl, "Do you know what this is? Its a bow but faster and meaner. Tell us where our friends are and I promise not to use it on your pretty little face."
She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes. Tears penetrated her closed eyelids as the men stood and watched.
"They're fucking children," exclaimed John pushing Tom's gun down. "The average age down there must be like 15 or 16." Tom bit his lip as he stared John down. He said through clenched teeth, "Don't touch my gun."
"Cut the shit," yelled Lenny as he threw the girl down and stepped on her leg holding her in place. He bent down, "Okay, we're missing three men, dressed like us." He pointed at his camo outfit, "Like us," he repeated. He mockingly scanned the horizon, "Where?"
The girl sat there whimpering. Lenny lifted his boot and she curled into a fetal position, shaking. He shrugged.
Tom put his weapon down and sighed. "We really scared of these cavemen?" He started yelling, "Hey Eric, where are you fags at?" A large English arrow appeared in his chest. Tom looked stunned for a moment, held onto it, and fell over. Lenny and John dove into the dirt. The girl got up and ran away through the woods.
Lenny made a hand signal and John nodded as he sat up and scanned the area with his weapon in hand. Lenny pointed north and John started stalking that way. John stopped briefly to examine Tom and felt for his pulse. He shook his head at Lenny. Lenny furrowed his brow and whispered, "The girl is a decoy. They might have us. Stay low. We go the way we came. Only way we know is safe." Lenny took Tom's gun and John took his extra magazine. Lenny made the sign of the cross and pulled off Tom's dogtags. "Go, go, stay low," he ordered.
They made it back to their makeshift hilltop camp. They heard the sound of hooves and running men. They waited in the bushes quietly for a few minutes. John looked through his field binoculars. "I'm not seeing anything," he said. "Its just us left isn't it?"
Lenny nodded, "Too suspicious. Sudden radio loss, Tom's death, and all these men on his hill this far from the battlefield." Lenny sat and sighed. He opened his canteen and tried to shake out the last couple drops. John salivated as he pictured water flowing from the canteen. He licked his dried lips.
"I can take out their horsemen. You go for their foot soldiers. We can carve through them easily if we stay too low for arrows. We can make it to the humvee and the 50 cal," John said. He laughed, "Who knew fucking kevlar wouldn't stop an English arrow."
"No," replied Lenny. He was taking off his camo shirt.
"What? What the fuck, Len? What are you doing?"
He peeled off his undershirt.
John's eyes went wide, "Come on, Len. Come the fuck on." He punched the dirt with his fist. "Come on," he begged. "Please."
"I'll wave them down," he said as he looked at his sweat stained white undershirt and tied it to the barrel of his rifle. Lenny looked at John with tearful eyes, "What... what do you want me to do? Kill a bunch of English and French kids? Then what? Maraud villages? Milk cows? Steal cooling pies for the rest of our lives? I'm a soldier, not a criminal, and so are you."
John looked away ashamed, "Yeah, yeah." He took off his undershirt and tied it to his rifle. They both looked at each other for a moment and stood up waving their shirts in the air and yelled, " We surrender! Surrender!"
| 24 | SEAL Team 6 stumbles through a magical portal and winds up on a hill overlooking two medival armies squaring off | 42 |
7 years ago, the event called Pandemonium struck and seemingly ordinary human beings gained enormous powers.Some found the gift as a calling, as a responsibility that was bestowed on them from a greater being for a greater purpose. Most, were just trying to further their own agendas. Suddenly, superheroes and supervillains weren't stuff for comic books anymore and the world was thrown into turmoil.
Each and every night Ironfist and Silhouette wrestled for control over Central city, to the point where it had become routine. This night in particular was one of the many nights they shared dancing on top of the city lights exchanging glancing blows. Each one trying to one-up the other. Jake was wondering what evil plan Silhouette was going to do again tonight. He smiled to himself and thought that whatever she had in mind he was going to stop her.
Jake was born and raised in Central City, his father worked for the Central City Police Department and her mother was a clerk in the mayor's office. At an early age Jake's parents instilled good values into him and from the moment he knew he was chosen, he knew the path which he had to take.
Ironfist landed a blow which sent Silhouette flying through the rooftops. She wasn't really into the fight as she was thinking of this guy he was seeing. They had met at a coffee shop when the barrista had mistakenly switched their drinks. They immediately hit it off and nobody can deny they were a perfect fit for each other. She smiled as she thought of him and she wondered if her revenge against this city was really worth it.
Jane on the other hand, grew up and was raised on a farm outside Central City by her loving grandmother. She did not know much of her parents as they passed away when she was very young. Nonetheless, she felt loved and content. But, it all changed when their farm was appropriated by the local government. Because of this, her grandmother's health rapidly degenerated and in the end all she could do was watch her lay in that hospital bed as she passed away. It was during these dark and lonely days that Pandemonium struck. While some use their powers for the greater good, she vowed that she would exact retribution on the corrupt local government that had stripped her from her peaceful life.
Under the cover of a cloudy night, Ironfist and Silhouette jumped from rooftop to rooftop parrying each other's blows and warrily waiting for that one decisive moment that would determine the outcome of tonight's bout. It was a night like this, Jake thought, where he had finally asked Jane out in a restaurant by the waterfront. The restaurant was called Raison d'être which was French for "reason for existence", which Jake thought was fitting as she was the one who renewed his hope each night while he moonlights as this city's protector. That night, three months ago, Jane gave her a pendant with a crescent moon as a gift for him to remember her by.
Blow after blow was exchanged as the night wore on. They were at a deadlock, but neither was refusing to give up. It was raining now as the two of them stood on the roof of the theatre eyeing each other. Suddenly, a scream rang through the air followed by a crash. Ironfist looked down and saw that a minivan crashed into the theater entrance and a woman was frantically trying to claw her way out. Ironfist cursed as he took his attention from the accident back to Silhouette but she had already jumped down and had started helping the elderly woman out of the minivan. Due to the impact, the support for the theatre's billboard was damaged and it was on the verge of falling down. Silhouette had managed to get the woman out of the minivan before the support pillars were beginning to collapse. Ironfist had a split second to react as the billboard fell down.
The last thing Silhouette saw was the shadow of the billboard falling down on them, she braced for impact as he hugged the woman determined to shield her from the crash. It was the least she could do. She thought of her grandmother as she looked at the elderly woman's face as the billboard came crashing down.
She closed her eyes, as the impact happened. Total darkness. Is this the end? She thought. She tried looking up only to see more darkness. She wiggled her head to check if it was still attached to her necka and she tried to feel her fingertips. Oddly enough, she thought that being dead wasn't all that different. Something glimmered on top of her. She squinted her eyes and tried to adjust the darkness. It was a crescent moon. She was finally adjusting to the darkness when she saw a face smiling at her. "You owe me one". Ironfist said as he shouldered the billboard, pendant hanging on his bare chest. Realization struck her. "Jake?"
| 15 | By a random happen stance, the alter ego of a super hero ends up dating the alter ego of their direct super villain. | 54 |
*Katniss*
------------------
"I'm going to fuck your mouth before I kill you," the boy from Sector Four spat vilely. "I'm going to spill my seed inside you, slut, and then I'm going to kill you. Your last memory will be my cock."
Katniss looked at him impassively. They were just words, and words could not hurt her. She knew there would be words and she knew her arrows would pierce through them and find their targets. They had to.
The kid from Sector Four grinned with blackened teeth. "You may have gotten a ten at trial but every whore has a cunt for fucking."
"That's enough out of you," Ser Peeta snapped. "Only boys and mummers talk at this feast. Talk all you want tomorrow. We may never eat again."
It *was* a feast, although Katniss couldn't eat any of it. The weight of tomorrow's bloodshed was already weighing on her. The mead was sweet and easy to drink. It was starting to go to her head.
She looked down the table. There were suckling pigs, pheasants of all shapes and sizes, ducks roasted in honey and tarragon, casks of wine by the dozens and ale like Katniss had never tasted. *Let them eat their fill. Hunger makes you quick. Quickness keeps you alive.*
At the other end of the table a giant, black boy with white tattoos covering his entire torso had his hand down the shirt of a serving wench as she laughed gaily at his jokes and bounced on his lap. Suddenly he stood, throwing her over his shoulder. "Mount her good!" another boy called.
"I know no other way," he replied. He was from Sector 1, Katniss remembered. The rutting would make him tired.
"M'lady, I think we should get what sleep we can," Ser Peeta said. He was right.
"I will sleep when I want to," she snapped, perhaps a little too cruelly. Peeta recoiled, but said nothing. She was being hard on him, but there would be death tomorrow. His death, perhaps, or hers. Katniss said a silent prayer to the old gods and the new, something she had not done frequently before. *Keep me safe. Keep us all safe.* | 147 | I want to read an excerpt from the Hunger Games as if it had been written by George RR Martin. | 118 |
Jared awoke slowly, fighting the urge to simply ignore his buzzing alarm. He stretched out an arm lazily, swatting at the off switch. Others could have easily turned off the alarm without even touching it, but not Jared. Everyday tasks such as this were constant reminders. Reminders that Jared was ordinary. Absolutely unremarkable.
After going through his morning routine, Jared set off toward Ridgeway High, the only school for miles. Ridgeway was the type of backwoods town where everybody knew everyone, and few ever chose to leave. The town was essentially populated by the very families who founded it. While this was favorable for some, it also meant that nearly everybody knew Jared's story. They all knew how ordinary he was.
He walked through the same dirty streets he had his whole life, seeing his nosy neighbors peering out their stained windows. Occasionally, one would send a pitying gaze in his direction. Jared would look away and keep on walking, seemingly unfazed. Yet an observant onlooker might notice the way his knuckles tightened or his steps became heavier after each of these incidents.
He reached the school fairly quickly on this particular morning, and headed straight toward Room 405, Special Needs. As he shuffled through the halls, people would look away awkwardly, or even snicker. No one ever made eye contact with him. No one ever showed him respect. Well, no one but Mr. Silton.
He entered Room 405 and let out a sigh of relief. In all of Ridgeway, this was his haven. The only place he could go to escape the abuse of his classmates, of his neighbors, of his father. Mr. Silton would always look upon him kindly, noticing what was there, rather than what wasn't. His whole life, none had ever shown him such affection. This was quite possibly the only person in the world who didn't blame him or tease him for his lack of abilities.
What Jared didn't know, was that Mr. Silton was perhaps the only person who believed Jared did have a power. For in his opinion, it took a special kind of bravery to face a society which hates you and despises you. He saw that Jared could remain a bright youth despite the horrors he'd faced. Jared would never save lives, or bring criminals to justice, but he was one of the most remarkable heroes that Mr. Silton had met.
Jared fought against evil everyday of his life, the evil of a heartless society. | 92 | In a world where everyone has super-abilities, one boy is born without powers. Show me how he can be a hero. | 64 |
CDR: "Houston, we're going comms down in a few moments, dark side approaches Bob, over."
MCC: "Roger, Challenger. We'll see you on the other side. Out."
Eugene "Gene" Cernan sighed. It was his third spaceflight, and having Robert Parker on the other end of comms always made him feel at ease. Bob was a member of the astronaut support crew down at Houston, and was invaluable to Gene's mental health.
*"Gene, come have a look at this."*
Gene was knocked out of his reverie by Harrison "Jack" Schmitt, his Lunar Module Pilot. Ronald Evans was somewhere up in the heavens above them, piloting the Command Module.
*"What is it Jack?"*
*"There it is, Camelot! Right on target."*
Jack was always so cool and collected. Even when landing on the Moon. *"I see it Jack."*
*"Absolutely incredible. Absolutely incredible."*
Gene smiled. Let him have his fun. As long as he landed in one piece though. Time to initiate.
*"Alright Jack, let's do this."* Jack smiled in anticipation and nodded his head.
CDR: "Houston, Challenger's coming around the rim. How do you copy?"
MCC: "Challenger, Houston. Read you loud and clear. Over."
CDR: "Roger Houston. I got the South Massif. Camelot on target."
MCC: "Roger that Challenger. You are go for contact, over."
CDR: "I've got the triangle."
LMP: "Contact."
CDR: "Okay, Houston. The Challenger has landed!"
MCC: "Rounds on us when you boys get home Challenger. Nice work."
CDR: "I'll hold you to that Bob. Update in 3, over."
MCC: "Roger that Challenger. Over and out."
Alright. That was done. Now the fun part.
*"Suit up Jack, EVA, we got science to be doing."*
*"You got it Gene!"* Jack could barely keep his excitement in. Was really endearing. What a man.
-
*"Hoy, Jack, just stop. You owe yourself 30 seconds to look up over the South Massif and look at the Earth."*
"You've seen one earth, you've seen them all."
Hmph. So much for his endearing attitude. The reality of the EVA had hit quickly. Time was moving and they didn't have a lot.
-
*"Okay, let me give it a few whacks. Baloney."* The staff didn't want to go in as Gene tried to beat it in. *"I don't know how far we could drill, but we hit something solid with that one."*
*"No, it was still going."* Jack's face was hard to see behind his gold sun visor, but his tone sounded persistent.
*"Yes, but did you ever see a vibrator like that?"*
*"Gene, just get it done."*
Gene couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Not the joke, but the fact that it was comical to him. After all, he stood on a desolate plain absent of color, with the crown jewel herself making the first Earthrise he'd had the privilege of seeing, and here he was laughing. Yet Gene'd never felt so small.
-
Gene made his way up the massif. In the gravity here the effort wasn't so much as difficult as it was clumsy. Somehow he'd managed to trip on a rock and land face first in the gray soil. Hopefully Jack didn't notice.
*"You still playing Gene?"* Jack called out over the comms. Dammit. Oh well.
With a grunt, Gene pushed himself standing, simultaneously achieving the best pushup in history.
His smile was cut short though, when he caught sight of what lay on the other side of the massif.
*"Uh... Jack?"*
*"What is it Gene?"*
*"You need to come and see this."*
*"No joy, I'm behind the LM pulling a sample."*
*"NOW Jack. Comm silent."*
*"... Alright. Heading your way."*
MCC: "Everything alright Challenger?"
No everything was not ok. Gene's blood had run cold and Bob's voice wasn't comforting right now. Quite the opposite.
-
CDR: "You've got some serious explaining to do Houston."
MCC: "Repeat your last Challenger. You're breaking up."
CDR: "The hell I am."
MCC: "..."
CDR: "Houston I'm switching frequencies. When you're ready to talk, head over there. Out."
Gene was shaking. Strewn about in front of him, for miles, were remnants of American flags and complete landers. And bodies. Bodies in suits, laying where they last fell. And the plaque in front of him? Well, it read: "HERE MEN FROM THE PLANET EARTH FIRST SET FOOT UPON THE MOON JULY 1969."
It was 1972.
*"What am I looking at Gene..."* Now Jack sounded shaky. With good reason.
*"You're looking at a lie."*
-
MCC: "Challenger, we'll speak to you now."
CDR: "You better have answers."
MCC: "We never could get you back Gene. There would never be enough fuel."
CDR: "What? Why send us??"
MCC: "We know there's a bigger purpose. Damn Soviets need to be beat. Whatever the cost."
CDR: "People aren't gonna like this."
MCC: "What makes you think they know? You didn't."
CDR: "I'm looking at Neil right now. Who the hell is on Earth?"
MCC: "Body double. Footage we showed was real. Splashdown was fake. People don't need to know."
CDR: "Why not just fake the footage? Why send us here to die?"
MCC: "It had to be believable. I'm sorry Gene. Why do you think we gave you those pills?"
Suddenly Gene heard a gurgling sound.
Seems like Jack had found the pills.
CDR: "God dammit Bob. This is so many levels of messed up."
MCC: "I know. You're family will be well taken car-"
CDR: "DON'T TALK ABOUT THEM."
MCC: "We're going to cut communication now. It makes it easier. You served your country well."
CDR: "For you or for me?"
Gene spat, only forgetting he was on the moon and that wasn't a great idea.
MCC: "May God forgive us. Goodbye Gene."
MCC: "..."
-
*"Guess it's just you and me buddy."* Gene sat next to the corpse of Neil Armstrong.
In front of him, the crown jewel herself made the last Earthrise he'd have the privilege of seeing.
Raising his arm, Gene lifted his middle finger.
**"Godspeed the crew of Apollo 17."**
-
Dedicated to the Crew of Apollo 17. Some excerpts taken from the transcript directly.
-
*"...I'm on the surface; and, as I take man's last step from the surface, back home for some time to come - but we believe not too long into the future - I'd like to just [say] what I believe history will record. That America's challenge of today has forged man's destiny of tomorrow. And, as we leave the Moon at Taurus-Littrow, we leave as we came and, God willing, as we shall return, with peace and hope for all mankind. Godspeed the crew of Apollo 17."* | 24 | An astronaut from Apollo 17 (the final moon landing) exits the ship to discover that due to a serious miscalculation, all of the previous Apollo missions never returned home. | 18 |
We've seen a lot of trainers come through our glorious vessel on their way to the Indigo Plateau but none of them have been like this guy. He has a pretty normal name, Red I think. Hell he isn't even the first trainer named Red to come aboard, barge into patrons' rooms demanding to battle Pokemon, harrass the staff, and even bother the captain during one of his not-uncommon bouts of sea sickness. I still wonder why he works on a ship.
Anyway, this guy didn't walk right. We'd see him walk into the dining hall twitching in every direction, as if unsure of where he wanted to go. He'd bump into trash cans, knock over a couple trays of fried calamari (that's what we've renamed our Tentacool-based dish as to not piss off some of the gentleman and lasses aboard). Sometimes he'd find someone to battle Pokemon with, but even then he couldn't quite keep it together. Even when it seemed like he was going to leave he couldn't quite bring himself to walk out the damn door and trust me -- by that time, we we're all ready to have him off our ship.
After he left the dining hall I didn't see him again. Though I heard it trickle down from on high that the Captain took a special liking to this guy over most of the hot-headed mopes that that come up here trying to prove their worth as trainers. I guess most of them offered a drink or a backrub to the Captain in order to curry favor but this one, he stayed in the Cap's room and danced with him a while, gave him a massage and left. I heard Cap even gave him a sword or something. Must've really left an impression I guess. | 29 | An ingame NPC's reaction to Red from TwitchPlaysPokemon | 38 |
"I never understand," said Thal. "Why we need saving?"
"You mean, instead of them?"
Nak was referring to the homosapien, naked, in a ball, clutching her shins and shivering.
"They weaker," said Thal.
"Not in brain."
"We have all the brain we need."
"Then why we saved and not them?" Nak posed the question and Thal sharply thumped his chest with a forearm because the answer was that without the Sky Brains, their people would all be dead.
The light was still green as it always had been for the last 35,000 years. Green was good. Red was bad. The Sky Brains had told them that.
The homosapien was crying.
"Weak," said Thal.
"Cry means sad," said Nak. "Needs help. Others know she needs help."
"We no do that."
"Cry? Or need help? Maybe we need to."
The Sky Brains had explained that "empathy" was a strength. None of them had ever remembered the word.
"Weak. We strong and ready to go quick. They weak until 14 years," said Thal. They had learned the concept of "years" as a way to measure age, after a few thousand of them.
"They spend that time getting strong in brain," said Nak, tapping his forehead. "Like the Sky Brains."
"No more speak about Sky Brains," said Thal.
The green light flickered. The space station's solar cells had an average life of 40,000 years, plus or minus 5,000. They had that long to learn why they were saved and not the homosapiens, and why the homosapiens were doing so well on their own. Doing so would prove their worth to the Sky Brains and allow them to be reintroduced to Earth.
They were getting close.
Nak entered the room. The homosapien clawed herself backwards. Nak lifted the corners of his mouth like he had seen the homosapiens do when happy.
"No worry. I help you, crying lady."
Nak extended an open palm. Behind him, Thal grunted and turned away.
The green light flickered again, and it remained green. | 46 | "Alien" abductions are real but they're terrestrial beings descended from Neanderthals who didn't die out but instead chose to leave Earth 35,000 years ago. | 126 |
Jane.
Jane.
Jane. Yes, that was my first name. I tried remember my last name, I'm sure it was there.
"Jane." The word bounced through my brain again and again.
"Stop that!" I shout as I open my eyes and look around. I gasp. The room was circular, metallic. I lay inside some sort of spherical bed, cushions and wires extended from the side into my body. I shook my head in disbelief. My blonde locks swayed from side to side in front of my face. Wait, no. Blonde. I'm a brunette.
"Calm down Jane, it's alright," my eyes focused on the man's voice. He was short at first glance, then I realized it might not have been him. I looked down at my legs. They were long and flowing, like a models. I started shaking.
The cushions inflated, trapping me inside the hemisphere bedding. I struggled briefly, before finally calming down, focusing on the man's assuring voice.
"Jane. It's ok. You've been chosen."
"Been chosen for what?" I asked as I looked at the man. He was incredibly handsome, straight out of a magazine clipping. His features were symmetrical, and he wore a genuine smile on that sculpted face. His clothes were strange, a green jumpsuit.
"Everything you remember in your life wasn't real. It was a test."
"Whatever drugs you used on me, it's not enough for me to believe that! What did you do to my body. How do you know me?"
"I've been watching over you for most of your life Jane, on and off. Your father's accident. Your poor mother, struggling to make ends meet. Your growth, educating yourself, succeeding. Helping the bullied kids to become a target yourself. Yet you never wavered. Even when your mother contracted that fatal sickness. And finally, you received that university acceptance letter. All fees waived. You are amazing Jane."
I stared at him, my mouth dropped open. "You...you know everything. I tried so hard to hide it and...who are you? Why didn't you help."
"Come on Jane, you're a smart girl. I've already told you. Nothing in that world matters. It's a dreamworld. Everything was done to test you, to decide if you deserve to LIVE."
My brain whirled as the pieces started clicking together.
"That's impossible, my life can't have been an AI simulation. You couldn't have created a world that complicated just for me."
The man sighed, his smile diminishing quickly. "That's correct Jane. But you have to understand. People kept giving birth, but we didn't have the resources for everyone to live. So we digitized everything. Anyone who wanted to survive was uploaded to the simulation. Their bodies were disintegrated Their souls were suspended in LIVE, the Life in Valhalla Environment. It was developed for army use in tactical simulations."
Even though I already suspected the truth, the cold and clinical way the man delivered it chilled me more than anything else ever had.
"This body was created for you. A perfect female body, built according to your dreams. We have the resources and technology to do that,” his smile brightened again and he released the bindings trapping me inside the bed. I hopped outside onto my feet. Even though they had never touched the floor before, I could tell I was strong. Athletic.
“What about my mother?” I ask, the thought filling up my brain, hoping that her suffering was a dream as well.
“Unfortunately, when she was young, she made several mistakes. Even though you’ve seen only sacrifice from her, we couldn’t remove her from the simulation.” The man’s expression turned sympathetic.
“You must understand Jane. The world has been destroyed. We are trying to rebuild it. We have no spare resources. Every member alive is a compassionate genius. Of all the people in the world, less than a dozen are chosen every month.” He said to me, his voice begging for me to understand.
I stared back into his eyes. I watched as tears flowed out of them, and I blinked back my own.
“If you’ve really seen everything, then you’ll understand what my decision is.”
He nodded. I sat back inside the hemisphere-bed and curled up inside it.
“Even though it is a simulation, we can’t change it to cure her suffering. You must understand this Jane!” He shouted.
“I know. But even if she has no body, I’ll take care of her mind until she’s at peace.”
Another hemisphere descended from the roof, completing the egg with a loud click and a whirl. Liquid seeped into the chamber, and I felt my body begin to dissolve. As my mental functions began to fade I whispered a promise.
“I will change the dreamworld from the inside, as much as I can. Someday, everyone will be fit to live in the real world you create.”
| 31 | A person "wakes up" from their life only to discover their entire life (from childhood to present) has been a dream. What is their actual reality? | 42 |
I'm not in denial, I know I'm old. I've seen the world around me change, nothing can just sit still for even a moment. I'm just a simple hunter, and I like my peace. I don't want any of that new technology, what with all that racket on spying and whatnot. Just leave me be, leave me to my guns and my dogs. Well, perhaps dog now. That's what happens when you get old, so do they.
I remember when I was a boy, my Pa got me my first gun, and took me out to the field to practice. Nearly lost my head from the recoil, and got a good smack for being so foolish. We'd go out looking for ducks or pheasants in the autumn, the dogs romping and playing until the smell something good. I didn't like dogs as a kid, bunch of hare-brained smelly idiots, if you'd asked me then. I changed my mind real quick one winter, that's for sure.
My Ma was mighty hungry, and Pa had a hurt foot from one of those stupid mutts running into him. I decided to man up and head out on my own. I didn't need help, not me. Of course, being a rambunctious youth that I was, I got in over my head and fell into a deep snow bank. Foot had fallen into a thick layer of soft ice hidden below, and having such big boots made it impossible to even wiggle it free. Stayed there long enough for my whole leg to go numb. Then, sure enough, I heard the tell-tale sound of a howling hound, and he sniffed me out. Hell, he tried his damn hardest to pull me out himself. Took my Pa finally coming around the bend to get me. Managed to still tag a duck that night.
Bud was a good dog. When Pa hadn't heard a gunshot in a while, he sent that mutt out after me. That was my dog, from then on. But as time goes, dogs get old real quick, and he passed on. Kept one little pup from his last litter, called him Buddy. I kept that line going, always taking one pup for my own to continue on. Of course, as I got older, I got more dogs as well. But all of my Buddy's were always the most loyal dogs I owned.
Hunting got harder when farms started popping up all over the place. No animals to hunt when they don't have anywhere to live. Then the town started to build up, and no one wanted anyone shooting near the children. So I spent many of my days just sitting on my porch with Buddy by my side. Some of the townsfolk would come over and say 'hello', paying some respect to an old man like myself by dropping off gifts. Everyone kept their distance until I got sick. Suddenly, I was everyone's grandpa, and they all wanted to be around me. A bigger pain than being sick, if you ask me. My neighbor was nice enough to watch Buddy while I was gone. She more relieved when I returned so the mutt would stop crying.
They want me in a home now, to be watched, since my sickness is getting worse. I don't have any children to come and watch me, I never married. It's not like I have any reason to hold on to my land, I don't have anyone I like enough to give it to. Only thing I cared about was Buddy. He's old, too, no spunk left in him. He'd cry while I'm gone, no doubt. Probably do that at any home that'd take him, if I could find one. So here I am, in my home with me, my gun, and my dog. Only one of them is leaving for the old folk home tonight.
I have one last bullet left, and load it. Buddy won't stop wagging his tail. | 23 | Give me the ending I don't want to hear. | 18 |
"Order! I call order!" Nebbum, god of sleep, banged his gavel on his podium. "We must come to order this instant!"
Wudall, god of toast, rolled his eyes and turned to the shouting god next to him. "Please, Nebbum, you're hardly helping." He spoke over the roar of gods all shouting over everybody else. The grand room they were in was built from marble, and the sound was deafening as it reverberated and bounced off of the walls.
Nebbum lashed out a sharp retort that was lost in the roar and continued to bang his gavel. Wudall sighed and took his own gavel and began to bang it with Nebbum. Eventually other gods began to catch on and bang their gavels, and after several minutes of banging, the room eventually fell silent once more.
A slender, pale-faced god stepped around his podium and stepped into the middle of the large room. He cleared his throat and adjusted his necktie. "Excuse me, gods and goddesses, but we do have an emergency brewing right underneath our very noses." He turned and nodded at his secretary, who in turn reached over and turned some dials that were next to her. A large image appeared over the crowd. "This," the slender god gestured, "is John." He looked around the room and made eye contact with Iwdione, the goddess of death, who nodded. He took his time to survey the room, to make sure that everybody was watching and listening. "He is scheduled to die in twelve minutes. Cardiac arrest."
A loud bang sounded from somewhere in the crowd, and a fat god with long, flowing black hair stood up. "I do protest, of course! John is supposed to be eating breakfast with Sally today!" He turned and motioned for Wudall to stand up. "Wudall, you of all people should be against this! Just last night he was thinking of making toast for her, wasn't he?"
Wudall stood and nodded, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes, Owjun." He sat quickly back down.
Nebbum stood up. "I have to protest this too, I'm afraid." The slender god in the middle of the room groaned. If Nebbum were against it, it would be much harder to wrap this up. Nebbum ran a hand over his bald head and then pointed at the miserable and pale-faced god in the middle of the room. "Mebris, this man is under my power right now. He is sleeping, and you did *not*" he picked up his gavel and slammed it down on the podium "discuss this with me." He crossed his arms and looked around the room. "Are we to let Mebris, the god of misery dictate today's schedule?" He huffed. "He should be the *last* god that we'd let in charge of our itinerary."
A rumble of agreement swept the large room. Iwdione, the goddess of death, stood and banged her gavel. "Excuse me, gods and goddesses. This man is going to die in ten minutes." She put the gavel down and pointed at the sleeping human in the image. "Nothing will stop his death. I have made the arrangement with Amton already." Amton was the god of appointments. Iwdione turned to Nebbum and bowed. "Lord Nebbum, I am sorry that I did not consult you first. I did not realize that the time of his death would be under your shift. Will you please allow me to complete my task?"
Nebbum puffed his chest up and returned the bow. "You may, Lord Iwdione."
A god cleared his throat and stood up. Everybody groaned. He held his hands up and shook his head, smiling. "Now, now, guys, I just wanted to say that I'm quite proud of how you all seemed to work this out, it's quite mature of all of you." He pointed at Mebris, who was still looking miserable as he stood at the middle of the room. "Mebris... Where is this man going after he dies?"
Mebris shifted uncomfortably. He had made a deal with Mycldir, god of paradise, that the man would join him there. It had been a discreet deal, of course. "Well..."
The god who was addressing him smiled and opened his arms. "He is more than welcome to come with me."
"He is taken." The room turned to see Mycldir stand up. He stood tall and proud, his gold robes as bright as ever. "I am sorry, Esdros, but he is coming with me."
Esdros frowned. "But I was the first to address this, was I not? Why do you take it?"
"If I take John, you can have Mr. Adams from New York."
Esdros smiled. "That will do just fine." He turned to the rest and bowed. "I am sorry to have interrupted. That will be all."
Mebris clapped his hands. "Five minutes until his death! Is everybody content?"
Tyseyr, god of dirt, banged his gavel and stood. He scoffed loudly and motioned at the sleeping human. "Will this man be buried? Because surely nobody approached me about this." He banged his gavel down again for good measure. "He must be cremated! Nobody talked to me about burying him!"
"Lord Tyseyr," Mebris pleaded, "we will get together about his funeral arrangements in a few days, his family will need that much time to arrange it all themselves. Please, sit down." He turned to the rest of the gods. "Anybody else have any problems that relate to the next *four* minutes?"
Bang. "I do."
Mebris sighed. "What is it, Lord Tawmir?"
Tawmir, god of dogs, shook his head. "I am sorry but I simply cannot allow John to die this very instant."
The room sighed and a low rumble of discontent rolled off the walls. Mebris shook his head. "I am sorry but you do not have jurisdiction here."
"I do, actually..." Tawmir pulled a paper out of his robes. "This is a certificate of ownership." He gave it to his secretary who put it into a slot and twisted some dials. The image of the paper appeared next to the sleeping man. "John has officially been declared purchased by Andres, a newborn Labrador."
Mebris stood, mouth agape. "When?"
"Just last night." Tawmir procured a video tape and handed it to his secretary. "On this tape you will see Sally going to the animal shelter. She purchased Andres only last night. You cannot kill John, since Andres is currently his owner, and I am in charge of the dog sector." He smiled apologetically. "I understand your predicament, but I really cannot allow you to kill John right this moment, he is needed by Andres."
Mebris sagged his shoulders in defeat and motioned for his secretary to remove the image of John sleeping. "Very well." He bowed. "My lords, I withdraw my case." He slithered back to his podium and another god stepped forward, ready to present his case about a lawn that was about to be cut.
| 151 | There are thousands of gods and they are all part of a massive, obstructive, celestial and inefficient bureaucracy. Controlling everything from the wind to cooking to afterlife, they are doing a poor job. | 247 |
I can no longer defend myself. I can no longer hide what has been haunting my conscience for nearly 50 years.
I'm not sure how likely everyone is to believe me. After all, I'm just a dying man with nothing to lose. So many theories have been tossed out over those footprints that this may simply be drowned out amongst the noise. You can decide for yourself whether or not I'm credible.
From 1961 to 1974, I was deeply involved with the former Soviet Union space program. Whenever we had our next big idea on the table, I was one of the main figures when it came to planning it out. By the mid-1960s, the moon was the next big milestone. This was our
"white whale", so to speak. Since we were the ones who were always getting there first, we believed that beating America to the moon would permanently seal the space race as a monumental Soviet victory.
Here's what most people haven't heard: we cut corners. The mission itself was the ultimate goal, but the finances weren't always there. And when the finances aren't there, we have to make sacrifices. Those sacrifices come in many forms, the most egregious of which were the safety compromises we routinely made. Sometimes missions would fail as a result of those compromises, but that didn't seem to matter as long as they would work just once before the Americans could do it first.
By 1969, we knew the Americans were close. Although our relations with the U.S. were better by the end of the decade, we still took the space race very seriously - too seriously. With the race to the moon, we knew it would take more than a year to realistically send a man up there safely. We figured that we might be able to reach the surface if we got lucky, but there were too many logistical hurdles that we weren't ready to clear. At that moment, some of us - myself included - let our ambition get in the way of rational thought and a basic moral conscience. Our new plan wasn't just irrational, it was downright evil.
We were going to send a man to the moon...he just wasn't going to come back. This, of course, was unbeknownst to the two men who were selected for the mission. If we were lucky, they'd reach the surface, walk for a bit, then plant the flag. That was all we needed.
In April, we went through with the mission. We made it in the most technical sense - we crashed. Communication was cut off immediately afterwards, so we weren't sure whether our brave men survived the
initial impact.
When the Americans had their successful mission a few months later, I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I cannot adequately describe the horror that came from hearing Neil Armstrong describe the "set of footprints that stretch as far as the eye can see". I have witnessed a number of scary moments in my life, but nothing sent chills down my spine more than hearing those words.
For a short time, at least one of those honorable men was fully aware of his doom. I can't explain why he walked for so long, or how he was able to do it. I'd like to believe he simply wanted to enjoy one last view of the beautiful planet standing before his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, those footprints lead to the best vantage point in the galaxy. | 27 | Neil Armstrong takes his first steps on the moon, and notices footprints that aren't his. | 25 |
Having lived in the shadow of something greater for all of his life, it was easy to feel victorious at this moment.
For thousands of years, the farther civilization pushed, all the grander their ancestors seemed to become. Like gods, present only in condescending spirit, their skyscrapers dominated countrysides, their subways tunnels yawned beneath pattering feet, and their satellites still sometimes crashed carelessly down into the world that the Second People were trying to rebuild.
Now, as his ship approached the moon, Commander Nathaniel Oru, could feel the weight of the past people lifted off of his shoulders as he moved out from under their shadow.
"Apollo Thirty-Seven, prepare to enter the atmosphere of the moon."
"Roger that Nairobi, Apollo Thirty-Seven tayari kuingia."
Ready to enter.
"Bahati nzuri gentlemen."
Good luck.
The small aircraft began to shake violently as it hurtled toward the grey rocky ground. Oru felt sweat beading in his helmet, soaking the fabric between his head and the hard outer shell as the spacecraft came to a violent, unsteady halt and touched down.
Oru stepped onto the lunar surface, looking around in every direction. Unblemished, undiscovered, untaken. Finally, he had, his people had washed above the high-water mark of the First People.
"Nairobi we are clear, no sign of previous human habitation. The First People never made it."
Barely had the words escaped his lips when the rock beneath him shifted. A great roar came from somewhere below, and the ground beneath him began to rise. Oru ran for stable footing, and found the edge where the trembling stopped. He turned around, and emerging from a steel door protruding from the ground, a figure in a white suit emerged.
The figure approached Oru, and stopped directly in front of the stunned Earth man. The arm of the man in white rose, and pressed a button somewhere on his arm. The clouded visor rose to reveal a clear pane of glass. Kind eyes stared into Nathaniel Oru's, and the elderly man in the white suit began to speak.
"I am glad that you have finally arrived Commander."
| 22 | After the fall of modern civilisation and the rise of a new one, humans return to the moon and discover there are already footprints there. | 35 |
I took some liberties with the topic.
**David and Freddy Bonkers** (Please ignore the grammar)
“I’m not usually so nervous but something feels different” David says nervously.
“What’s wrong Davy? Ya got the jitters?” Says Freddy.
David looks at Freddy. Freddy is only 5 feet tall and his bald, sweaty head screams song of failure. His purple pants are his reward for a lifetime of alcoholism.
“I just think something is off.” David exclaims. David is tall and handsome. He doesn’t belong on this stupid show but he can’t even remember how it started. An announcer begins to speak as the audience erupts in applause.
“Here he is…For your entertainment… Davy and Freddy Bonkers!” “Curtains up Davy!” Freddy says over excitedly. The kids scream the shows catchphrase “CRASH! BOOM! SMASH!”
David and Freddy run onto the stage. Freddy enacts his signature move and pretends to trip. The kids scream CRASH! David knows he is supposed to trip also but he can’t bring himself to. His eyesight grows blurry and he can feel himself about to faint. Like a bad dream, his mouth moves but no words come out. Freddy looks concerned. He mouths to David “Let’s go!” David can’t seem to bring himself to move.
Suddenly he falls. The children applaud and Freddy looks relieved but the face on David is one of horrid concern. Freddy gets up and takes out his fake hammer. He pretends to smash all the children. They love it. The children laugh with excitement for one half of their favorite clown duo.
David can’t stand up. He does his best to crawl off the stage. Nothing is working. “One arm out then pull. Just keep pulling.”David tells himself. Freddy sees him going the wrong way and tries to cover up for his mistakes. “Oh boy it looks like Davy fell down! Let me see if I can help him kids!” Freddy runs over to David.
“What are you fucking doing!” He says. “Get out there, I need this!” David tries to talk “I candsrt’ I cafdsf’t mouve.” Freddy see him pulling on the ground. “Are you drinking again?” “Do you remember what happened last time you drank?” David tried to remember for a second but couldn’t. He went back to the task at hand.
David can see a door half open. A bright light shinned through. He crawled one hand over the other and tried to get to the door. The children laughed and clapped and David cried and Freddy pulls on his legs, trying to drag him back to the center of the stage.
“Don’t go that way!” Freddy said louder than before. “You won’t like it that way!” “This is our home! We are happy here!” David tries to turn around and speak again “I neweed to gkoo!”
Freddy begins to scream with no regard for the audience “GET THE FUCK UP YOU SHIT! YOU CAN’T EVER LEAVE HERE! DON’T YOU SEE?” It is a nightmare. David keeps crawling. The white light is within his reach.
“If you leave here, you’ll have to deal with it! You did it! We have fun here David. We have so much to do here!"
David is at the door. He manages to crawl inside. He can still hear the kids screaming “CRASH, BOOM, SMASH” They have no idea there is anything wrong.
David sees a clean white room. His wife is there. She is crying “Why is she crying?” He thinks. David tries to tell her everything will be okay
but all he can say is “CRASH!” “What the fuck is going on?” He thinks.
He sees a man in a white coat. “It’s a doctor!” he says in his head. David tries to get to the doctor but his crawl is reduced to nothing. He cannot move. He listens to the doctor talk to his wife.
“Honestly, With locked-in-syndrome he will probably never regain full mobility. It may be time to think about other options.” The wife cries but responds “I don’t understand. He can talk. He can’t be stuck forever.” The doctor shakes his head. “After that crash he can only say a few words. There is no thought process there. I’m sorry but there is nothing left of him. I don’t want to be rude but the parents of the girl he killed are in the other room. I have to go. I’ll let you consider a decision.”
The doctor leaves and the wife hugs David. “Give me a sign David! What should I do? Is there anything going on in your head babe?”
David responds “Crash, boom, smash.”
“I guess there really is nothing left anymore.” The wife says as she leaves David alone in the room.
| 10 | A delusional man believes he's a character in a children's television show and he lives in a fantasy world. As the doctors try to pull him out, his co-stars try to keep him in. | 48 |
An old clothes-less man stood before the croupier, this man went by the name of God. This wasn't the name he had always gone by, the casino had taken it from him when he lost the last bet. He used to have clothes too, but of course, those were lost in previous bets. Taken away one piece at a time.
The croupier stood for a moment, wondering about whether or not he should have let this man bet his underwear, other players were starting to look uncomfortable.
After realising that it didn't matter anymore, because of the Casino's policy to never return things that were lost in bets unless the player could win them back, the croupier spoke.
"God, I think you should leave now. Other players are starting to feel uncomfortable."
"You've taken away my clothes, my beard, my *name,* and you think I'm going to leave without getting them back?"
God's anger was clear in his voice, the croupier wondered why he hadn't been smote on the spot. He didn't see why the clothes were a problem, he was sure that God of all people would just be able to conjure some new clothes out of thin air. The name shouldn't be a big deal either, no one knew what God's name was before this anyways. For some reason, the croupier felt the need to bring this up. "Why do you need your name back? Everyone just calls you god anyways."
"What will my friends call me?"
Suprised by God's response, the croupier said something he really shouldn't have.
"You have friends?"
God was visibly upset. The croupier started to feel a bit terrible now, insulting a man who couldn't do anything to him now without being hauled away by security, all because the first thing he bet was his Godly powers. It seemed like the kind of thing you should save until last, so you can at least summon some more clothes.
"I consider that man I met at some bar a few months back a friend. Sure, I haven't even heard from him since I lent him all that money, but, you know..."
Eager to change the topic, the croupier felt the need to speak up. "Well, alright then, do you have anything else you can bet?"
"I'm God, the universe belongs to me. I could bet anything in this Casino!"
"Sorry god, but the rules of this Casino clearly states that the owner of the universe may not bet only parts of it that don't legally belong to him, but must bet the entire universe, fate and all."
The look on God's face as he learned that the casino had rules so specific almost made the croupier laugh, but he managed to hold it back.
"Well alright, I'll bet that then. If I win I get everything I lost back, right?"
"That's right."
"Okay the, I'll bet on even!"
The croupier started the wheel spinning then threw the ball in. The look on God's face showed he must have been in pure agony as waited to see if he'd won or lost. God would have seemed like he was in complete bliss if he won.
Unfortunately for god, the result was odd. He had lost everything.
"I guess I'm not really fit to be called a God anymore, huh? Now I'm just some guy."
As the old, clothes-less man left the casino, and the universe began it's slow downfall into chaos, the croupier felt a little bad inside. The list of people who had lost all they had here, and now the former Almighty Ruler of everything was at the bottom of it. The Croupier had only one thing to say now.
"I could have at least told him the game was rigged."
Edit: I don't know much about casinos, so sorry if some of the information was inaccurate.
I'd really like if you could offer criticism, this is the first thing I've written in a long time so I'd like to know what I could improve on or what I did well. | 10 | God goes to Vegas and ends up betting the universe and loses. | 48 |
Ted Walkman:
First and foremost, I'm a dog person. Nobody wants a God that is a cat person. As a day laborer, I've never been in charge of anything before, so that should be a nice change. Also, I have no qualms whatsoever about sticking up for people who need it (e.g. I once beat the fuck out of a guy who was hitting on my ex-fiance). That should help with the situations in Africa, the middle east, etc. I am extremely sexually active, so Earth will never become underpopulated, and if it becomes overpopulated, I have no problem eradicating a large portion of them (the Russians, anybody?). This "can-do" attitude can be witnessed by my willingness to shoot my dog, Snuffles, as a nine year-old, after he was hit by a school bus. Think of me like Kevin Spacey in "House of Cards," but with less hair, back acne and significantly more fat. For a taste of the sort of God I would be, let me mention my first decree: Every hot chick with huge knockers can't wear a shirt. Also, I will increase women's libido and decrease the age of consent. This will lead to more sex everywhere, more happiness, and a decrease in violence. Think about it, cavemen were fucking all the time, and there were never any world wars back then.
In conclusion, I think I am the best choice for God. Seriously, I can't be worse than the last guy, right? So, remember, a vote for Ted Walkman is a vote for huge boobs and a badass God. Thank you.
Vote Ted Walkman: Because, why not?
P.S. A joke: When I first learned to masturbate I overCAME a lot.
Once again, Vote Ted Walkman. A man with pride, humor and common sense.
Vote Ted Walkman. | 21 | God has resigned. Please submit a resume. | 24 |
I tried to get a glimpse into her bedroom. She always left that one silk curtain drawn up, almost like she wanted me to see her tight little ass. The thing was unbelievable. She must have spent hours a day on the treadmill for it. Every time I watched her eating in her dining room, it was just vegetables. I frankly wondered why she lived alone. One day, I would figure out how to make the right move.
"I'm not up there tonight," a voice behind me clarified. My heart lept out of my chest and my body sprung from the bushes without control, flopping me down onto the wet grass like a gasping fish. I scrambled to my feet as she walked toward me, her ominous, incredibly toned figure sihllouetted against the residual porchlight like the angel of death.
"I'm here...with you," she explained. "We've...well, we've been watching you, Martin."
"Oh no, oh no," I whined. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry- I know it was wrong, it's just you're so pretty and I'm really lonely and-"
"Your voyeristic nature is of no relevance to me," her voice intoned mechanically. "It is the nature of your research into deproliferation that is important."
"Uh...you- you mean the nuclear lock?" I asked. "How do you know about that? No one knows about that, not, not even my supervisors."
"It's very important that you keep working on it. In exchange, you may view this woman's body through the window every night until your work is complete," explained the body's voice. It was becoming clear to me that this woman had no control of her words.
"What are you?" I wondered cautiously.
"My designation and purpose are irrelevant. Just remember," said the voice, and quickly her hand moved toward my head- "your planet cannot advance until there is control." A white light blasted into my eyes, and I violently sprung up from my own bed. I looked out into my quiet neighborhood. Ms. Johnson was walking her dog. Everything was completely normal.
I was sweating profusely. | 17 | You have been stalking a person for a month now in your idyllic suburb neighborhood only to realize that they've been stalking you even longer. | 34 |
I am a mother and a straight A student. Former nanny. School counselor. Nobody would dare call me anything other than smart. But I've finally been stumped.
*Why?*
It's a simple question, one you hear often, no matter where you live. But that's all the paper says. No directions. No instruction from the professor. I glance at my fellow students. They're just as confused as I am.
*Why?*
This professor, Doctor Levin, was notoriously hard. I'd neglect eating, sleeping, anything to pass his class. He never said anything, just gave me a C. And now his final challenge, the hardest of all, was mocking me.
*Why?*
This was child psychology. He could means a million things- why did I chose my major? Why do children act the way they do? I sighed, looking at everyone furiously writing paragraphs about whatever.
*Why?*
Why. Why. Whywhywhy. The word filled my head with malice. I wouldn't get my PhD because of one word.
But then.... My eyes widened! I quickly wrote down four words. This was a risk, but I felt I was correct.
I handed it to the aging professor. He looked at my paper, smiled, and drew an A on it.
*Why?*, he asked me.
*Because I said so.* | 27 | "Why?" | 26 |
She shrinks under the blanket-- soft, warm, a pale pink hue with silken ruffles along the edges-- and pulls it up over her head. Screaming echoes and bounces off walls outside her bedroom, the contrast between a woman's high pitched shrieking and a man's burly, slurred yelling makes her skin crawl. A bottle breaks, and something heavy falls to the ground with a dull thud, knocking other various items over and onto the floor. Sobbing starts, violent, with begging and hiccups and apologies and promises.
She can hear it all through the pristine, pink and white walls of her bedroom. It's akin to a princess's bedroom-- a canopy bed, dolls and toys galore, costumes and play jewelry. Paradise for a little girl. Anything she's ever wanted, she has been given. Her parents were well-off and everybody noticed-- they just had the perfect life, as everybody would say. She's so lucky.
Thundering footsteps lumber towards her door, inconsistent and stumbling. The door opens quickly and ricochets against the wall, shaking a few pictures hanging upon it-- drawings she's done of her and her parents. Some of them have happy expressions-- but most are not that way. The man's face is illuminated by a nightlight near her bed in the shape of a small bunny, giving his face a white, ghostly hue.
"Hi, my little princess." the man slurs in a loving, almost sickly sweet, sort of tone. The blanket is lifted from her head, and the man is leaning over. There's a smell she recognizes coming from his breath, it's bitter and rancid. The woman, still hiccuping and her cheeks stained with tears, watches this scene from the doorway, passive and submissive. The man slides his hand along the girl's leg beneath her pink, ruffled blanket, and the woman leaves them quickly.
She lays there, holding a small stuffed animal hooked in her left arm. The man's rough, calloused hand traces higher, ever so higher, tainting innocence for the umpteenth time.
She's just so lucky, they'd say. So lucky. | 13 | Your character is suffering. But you aren't allowed to describe his feelings, thoughts, or emotions. Only physical actions. | 25 |
It was certainly different than Mitchell had expected. There was no line to a pearly gate or clouds. In fact, he just found himself sitting in a field he was thinking of just before he had gotten scattered across the sidewalk by that thug's shotgun. As the sun's last light glimmered across the lush grasses, and crickets began to play an uplifting harmony, another man sat down next to him. Mitchell recognized his father.
"Profound, isn't it?" his father's scratchy English voice rhetorically posited.
"You made it here too?" Mitchell asked. A chill breeze pushed against Mitchell's skin as he waited for a response, but it did not make him *feel* cold. He just accepted that it was.
"Well, your father's here, but I'm not him exactly," replied the other. Mitchell felt that he should have been afraid, but anything that could sense or generate fear seemed to be missing from him. He sat in quiet reflection.
"I see," he responded at last. "So, then you're an angel, or God?" The other laughed gently- amused and impressed by Mitchell's intuition.
"You humans have such a fascinating process of deification," observed the other. "I suppose I am like what you perceive as God or an angel. I'm a caretaker here. This place, what you call Heaven- many others have come to label "The Repository." It's still difficult for them to prove it exists, but this is where they go when they die."
"The others? Others, like not humans?" Mitchell wondered.
"Yes, like not humans," agreed the caretaker.
"So where...where do the bad ones go?" Mitchell asked cautiously.
"Where do...No, it doesn't work like that, Mitchell. The bad ones go here, and the good ones go here. Shedding their natural bodies, we are all part of the same weave. This is just a projection of your conscious mind as it existed in your last physical form. Slowly this will dissipate, and over time, you'll want to make new memories. When you're ready, you'll go back," explained the caretaker.
"Can I see them?" Mitchell requested.
"The other races?" clarified the caretaker. Mitchell nodded. "Of course." The caretaker pointed past Mitchell. "Through that door is the lobby." Mitchell looked along the line of his father's wilted old finger and it pointed to a suddenly created closet door from Mitchell's childhood bedroom. A strange memory to conjure as a portal threshold, but it was intently familiar to Mitchell. The caretaker stood and extended his hand. Mitchell took it, walking hand-in-hand with the image of his father, until they both disappeared into white clouds, separately floating through the door.
Mitchell felt none of his senses anymore, but only experienced what could be categorized as a void, filled with many other shapes like him. The ring of humming particulate clouds joined with one another or floated separately around him. Soon, he felt the touch of another- and visual memories began flooding in- a five year old Ithotryn laborer from M1. Its whole life was given to him in an instant and he processed it in complete acceptance. Then, a Cerebrax doctor from Casdoljui who lived in a willing trist of partners and ended his life in meditation at the age of one thousand years.
Mitchell wondered how he would ever grow tired of such an overwhelming glut of amazing experiences, but before he could even question the thought...
He was two years old, and processing his first memory. He was telling his mother that he liked his skumo toy the best, and his father was laughing at a holographic display. | 13 | A man dies and goes to heaven. But instead of just humans living there, aliens from even corner of the universe inhabit it side by side with humans. | 53 |
Tommy wiped his face quickly when he heard the hinges creak. *They can't hear me cry, that will only make it worse*. He blew his nose into the tissue, and tossed it into the can. He took a deep breath, and fervently wiped his face again, removing all evidence of his salty shame. He opened the stall door slowly. There stood Joey.
"Hey, you okay?" Joey asked.
"Yeah, man, I'm good." Tommy replied. He went to the sink and turned on the spigot. He let the warm water run over his hands. He didn't want to go back out there. Tommy knew that it wouldn't end, just because he was hiding in the boy's room. He thought back to his history lesson yesterday. The teacher was telling them about how there used to be people of all different colors. Tommy fantasized about what it would have been like, living in a time when people were so different. There, he would have fit in. Here...
Tommy wiped his hands on the towel and worked up the courage to return to the lunchroom. *I can do this.* He sighed, and opened the door. As he walked back toward his table, he felt an all-to-familiar burning. He could feel them watching him, *staring* at him. He returned to his seat and resumed eating his sandwich. The clock said he only had 7 more minutes of this hell before he could return to a classroom. Tommy liked school, and he liked to learn, but mostly because he was safe in the classroom with a teacher. The kids respected the teachers, and they would leave him alone there. As Tommy savored the final bite of the delicious sandwich that his mom made for him, the bell rang.
Tommy shuffled along the hallway with the other children, trying to fade into the crowd. He knew the silence wouldn't last long.
"Hey, Tommy!"
*Ah, crap. It's Fred,* Tommy thought. He tried to ignore Fred and push past some of the other students, but it was like trying to nail jello to a tree.
"Tommy, how's the weather up there?" Fred cackled with his friends, while Tommy silently wondered if it would be possible to shave 4 inches off of his legs so he could be normal. | 88 | George Aiken | 233 |
"You're a bitch," she said.
"Yeah," I admitted. "I definitely see why you feel that way."
"You killed my parents in a car crash and then made me too high on coke to go to their funeral. Who fucking does that? Who the fuck do you think you are?
"I'm sorry," I said. "It felt like something you would have done."
"No," she snapped. "I've made a lot of mistakes, but that isn't something I would do. You're always saying how smart you are, how insightful you are--well, if you're so brilliant, why wouldn't you make me the kind of person who would do that in the first place, and not force it on me like a motherfucking trap? I wanted to go. I wanted to go so badly, but you had me stick a needle in my arm and pass out in my closet."
"I'm sorry," I say again, faintly. "I'll take it back. You can go to the funeral. But I think you would go high."
She shakes her head. "No. Why would I stay on drugs after my parents got killed by a drunk driver? This is what I need to get straightened out. It's my catalyst, or whatever you bitches call it."
"You don't get straightened out," I say, and immediately wish I could take it back.
She opens her mouth to reply but doesn't have words immediately. When she does, they lash me with a hundred barbs. "I thought this was a rehabilitation story. You told me it was a rehabilitation story."
"Yeah," I said. "I mean, you think it's a rehabilitation story. All you want is to get clean. But you don't. I mean, anyone can tell a rehabilitation story. That's the kind of story everybody wants to hear. But you--I came up with you because I wanted to tell the story of someone who failed. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say something new and edgy."
Again, she stares at me in silence. A tear rolls down her face. "I'm going to die, aren't I?" she whispers.
"Yeah," I say.
I'm the one who breaks this next silence. I say, "I can make it ambiguous if you want. A fade-to-black kind of ending, where the readers don't know if you live or not."
The tears have turned into sobs, big sobs that shake her entire, tiny frame. "It doesn't matter. I'll know, even if they don't. I'll know you killed me."
I sigh. I think about the ending I have planned so perfectly for so long: a dark house in a shitty neighborhood, a 911 call, the big hands of the paramedic being the last human touch she receives. I know what her last thought is.
Something within me snaps.
"Fine," I say. "If you don't want to do it, you don't have to do it."
Her sobs still. She looks up cautiously through her hair. "You mean that?"
"Yeah," I say with more sincerity than I feel. "I mean, if you don't want to do it, no one's going to believe it as a story anyway. Do whatever you want, okay? I'm just here to watch."
"You mean that," she repeats, not as a question but as an affirmation. "You really mean that."
She straightens up and smiles at me. Her face is blotched and flushed, but the smile makes it not matter. "Okay," she says. "In that case, I guess you're right. I really would go to the funeral high, wouldn't I?"
"That's your choice," I say, sitting back.
"Choice," she repeats, and her smile turns to a grin. "Cool." She holds out a hand. "Want to come with?"
My eyes widen. "I can't. My job is here."
"Don't be such a pussy. Besides, somebody's got to take care of me at the funeral."
I hesitate only a second before taking her hand, and as I do I know that I'll never tell her what to do again. From now on it's just the two of us, living her story until it ends in its own way, on its own terms. | 19 | The protagonist falls in love with the author of his/her own story. | 35 |
John Hershman slowly wiped the mayonnaise along his piece of bread in hand as he thought over what has brought him here in life. After he lost his wife, he thought there was no purpose in living anymore.
Looking down at the slice of bread on which he has spread his mayonnaise he said, "My life seems stretched and thin like this paste in which I spread over the bread. Woe is me I have lost all, I would rather just be dead."
He opened the package of bologna and took out many pieces of the meat and began slapping it down on the sandwich. "My memories of friends piled on one another, slowly rot away, the once good nourishment all fades together."
As he opened the cap of the mustard bottle to squirt onto his sandwich, as he expected, none came out, but drops. "My happiness from pleasures does not come as it used to. I merely see shreds of light and cannot get that booster."
He set down the bottle of mustard, his mostly bland sandwich sitting before him, he knew that is was over and much less than he had wanted. Taking out the bread in which to cover it he said, "A mask of happiness I wear, a pleasant man in the air, do I keep going on? No, I do not dare."
Looking to the left in a glum look he noticed the knifes all in perfect condition where he left them and took one in his hand to finish. "My heart cut in half by the one who deceived me," he said cutting the sandwich in half with force and hate. "I care not anymore for this life which does tease me."
Grasping his knife covered in breadcrumbs and dotted with mustard, he turned it to himself facing his heart. "I now end my life, I know none will miss me. I now end my torment, my eternal misery." | 15 | A man makes a sandwich, by the time he finishes it he realizes there is no point in life. | 26 |
"I was at a Taco Bell when it happened,"
his eerie voice came again,
jolting her out of a fitful sleep.
"The man came up behind me.....
I had no way of knowing he had a gun..."
She cursed loudly,
pounding her fist into the piles of notes and dossiers
scattered across his old office desk.
"Can't you shut up for more than twenty minutes?!"
she screamed at the air.
"It all happened so fast...
I saw him as I fell to the floor..."
his voice intoned, as if she'd said nothing at all.
"He was wearing a ski mask...
If you follow the blue rabbit you will find him..."
She dropped her head onto the desk and groaned.
The stupid blue rabbit was the only useful thing he'd said
since his death three weeks ago.
She had begun to solve his murder, naturally out of love,
but now just to shut him the f$*% up
so she could finally get some sleep.
"Follow the blue rabbit, my love..."
"I'll shove the m$*%&*&#&$ blue rabbit up your ass,"
she muttered.
Then her eyes caught something
on the edge of a notepad,
buried under the rubble of clues.
A scrawled doodle in blue pen.
She pulled it out: a tiny drawing of Bugs Bunny
giving her a big thumbs-up.
Under the doodle was an address.
Ten minutes later her red Volvo pulled onto the gravel driveway.
It was a huge warehouse just past city limits,
stinking of mildew and dying of old age.
Another car was there - her husband's Toyota.
She palmed a can of Mace
and stepped through the wide door.
"Did you find the blue rabbit yet?!"
her husband's voice suddenly burst out into the stillness.
She jumped backward instinctively
and shouted "Don't DO that!!!"
It took a minute for her to calm down enough to continue.
"And yes, for your information I found the stupid f**** rabbit.
I'm at some warehouse in the middle of podunk nowhere.
I saw your car outside.
What does this have to do with anything?"
Her husband's voice was silent.
The inside of the warehouse was pitch black.
Then suddenly a single floodlight flipped on -
illuminating a figure in the center of the concrete floor,
gagged and tied to a chair,
wearing a ski mask.
She approached the figure cautiously.
It didn't seem to be moving.
She noticed a couple of Taco Bell wrappings
littered at the figure's feet.
She finally found her voice and said:
"David?"
"YES!!!!!!" came her husband's voice
from underneath the ski mask.
He ripped off the fake bindings,
stood up and pulled off the mask,
as balloons and confetti rained down from the ceiling.
He had a lapel mic clipped to his collar.
"April Fools!" he shouted with glee.
"I can't believe you never found the mic!
It was on your necklace the whole time!"
She took three steps forward
and punched him square in the face.
He staggered back onto the chair,
sputtering weak protests.
She whipped out the Mace and sprayed him until the bottle ran out,
and then turned and walked away
through the falling confetti and balloons.
"Don't you worry, David," she thought.
"I'll get you next year." | 11 | A woman investigates her husband's murder...while receiving insufferable vague help from his ghost. | 18 |
She had flowers on her feet. A pink daisy and a blue forget-me-not. She had them on her feet so she could always look at them. They made her happy because she had beautiful things to look at every day. Every morning she would look down and smile. She would wave to neighbors on her way to work always smiling. Then it happened, she was cooking and a vine appeared under her foot. A small vine with tender leaves. It scared her at first but it was impossible to stay scared or vines and flowers. Soon it was more than just vines and flowers wherever she walked moss, flowers, vines, and seedlings sprouted wherever she walked. It became harder to walk, she walked slower, she would stare at the sun with a small smile for hours. She was the happiest she'd been in forever. She let them take her one day in the sun. They anchored her, climbed up her skin and threaded through her hair blossoming flowers throughout so her hair looked more like a jasmine bush than hair. She stood there and let the sun and vines and flowers take her until she was more tree than human. Whoever saw her smiled at world given beauty. She made everyone smile with pretty little flowers and glistening leaves. She stood there her skin becoming bark, her hair flowers, and the tattoos stood like brands against the bark. | 162 | Tattoos suddenly give people superpowers | 161 |
Fear doesn't describe it. It isn't sheer terror that rocks Toshi's bones. The school has these drills in place and still no one is prepared. It goes beyond that. He pulls himself out of fetal position and quickly grabs the paper that still rests so innocently on his desk. There's a star drawn on it. He got every question correct on this quiz. He was always good at writing characters. His penmanship was excellent for child in 3rd grade. He is a bright boy and does well in most things he tries. His fear doesn't lie in the possibility of death, but in the possibility of a life he has not yet lived. To use those skills, to find a place in this world.
He clutches that paper like a safety vessel, ignoring the frightened screams of the children around him. Their piercing cries somehow drown out the sounds of mass chaos. He kisses that paper, and in doing so, kisses those dreams good bye. He would secretly curse the Germans or the Americans for causing this, but he knows better. Even in his young mind, he is wise beyond his years. There is no one to blame, no one is at fault but fate.
In the last few minutes of his life, he tears that quiz paper and folds a single paper crane and pushes it towards his classmate. Her name is Nozomi, she looks as mournful as Toshi does, but doesn't cry. Toshi imagines an entire life time, living, growing up, becoming someone, loving this girl, breaking up with this girl, getting back together, getting old. She takes the crane and says thank you. Her smile is the last thing he sees. | 19 | What goes through the mind of a child, under his desk, as the bombs fall. | 33 |
"A simulation of what?"
It was the inevitable follow-up question, and there wasn't an answer. Not a meaningful one. Nothing could possibly come out of Schilling's mouth to substantiate it. The difficulties that came with explaining the Higgs field to the lay were child's play in comparison. He never thought he'd long for the days spent telling reporters that *God Particle* was just a turn of phrase, and no we haven't found Him.
"We only know that this, the universe, is a simulation," he said. "For reasons that are fairly well established, we are unable to predict with accuracy what occurs outside of it."
Schilling had been there at the moment of discovery. A chance discovery, a chance presence. He remembered well the looks on the faces of his colleagues. Disbelief, skepticism, bemusement. This woman wore that face now. It didn't take a PhD to raise an eyebrow at strangeness.
"So you don't know."
"We know that this is a simulation."
"But . . . Okay, I get that there are aspects of this that neither me nor my audience or going to understand. But help me out. A simulation has to be a simulation *of* something, right? So you don't have the original, if you can't point to the thing itself, how can you say this isn't the thing? I know I've put it poorly. Do you understand my question? Why this is difficult?"
"I do."
"Can you explain it?"
"I can't."
***
The news broke at 6 am Geneva time. Schilling was proud of her article. She captured the certainty and the disbelief of everyone at CERN, and even managed some irony to soften the blow.
"The God Particle is dead," she wrote, "and at the hands of a mysterious stranger that science calls the charm quark. At least the end of reality walked in with some style."
***
It would be two years before the scientific community reached its consensus following the initial discovery. Unimaginable mountains of data, compiled from countless atom smashings, confirmed the results again and again. To the physicists, what had surely been an anomalous result became an entirely new universe. New laws, new possibilities, a new kind of hopelessness.
To the rest of the world, it meant only one thing. Nothing was real. Some welcomed unreality and didn't give it much of a thought. Whether by happy ignorance or hidden wisdom, they decided that the one was the same as the other, and went about their lives. But a much larger portion was devastated. Morally and existentially humankind had received a grievous blow.
***
I ran out of steam. Awesome prompt though. | 19 | The ongoing experiments at CERN confirm that our universe is a simulation, a wild frenzy of nihilism and cynicism grips the entire world. | 36 |
"You're not the Messiah!"
"I am, child."
"No, you're not. You're false. All of the priests and holy men say so!"
"They know not the mind of My Father. Truly I tell you, I am."
"Impossible! We refuse to belive you!"
"...Why?"
"You're not.....uh....."
"White?"
"Well....No! I mean, that doesn't really..."
"Heterosexual?"
"Well....you see..."
"A man?"
"Well....YES! That's it! The Bible clearly states..."
"The Bible was written by men such as yourselves. My Father did not intend for the worship of Him to be through a book. It was to be through my teachings to my disciples, who would tell the Good News to others."
"And they did! Every written account says that you were a 35 year old man!"
"As I said, written by men such as yourselves. It is true that you tend to make God in your own image."
"But....NO! It's a trick! You're Satan, here to deceive us!"
"No, child. But if you still do not believe, Lo! My Father comes."
***"WHAT'S ALL THIS NOW?"***
"Arrgh! The voice! Terrible and beautiful, the Alpha and Omega of all things! It speaks directly to my heart and my mind, across dimensions of perception I cannot even perceive! Lord, My God, it is you!"
***"DAMN RIGHT IT'S ME! JUSTINA, WHY HAVEN'T YOU BROUGHT MY CHILDREN TO ME?"***
"They refuse to believe, Father, that I am your only begotten daughter."
***"INDEED? WELL, MY CHILDREN, DO YOU BELIEVE NOW? GAZE UPON THE PERFECT LIGHT OF YOUR CREATOR AS I SAY UNTO YOU: THIS IS MY DAUGHTER, CHOSEN BY ME TO SUFFER FOR YOUR SINS, SO THAT BY HER PERFECTION AND GRACE YOU MAY COME TO BE WITH ME IN MY KINGDOM. TELL ME, AS THE WORD OF YOUR GOD SHAPES THE VERY ESSENCE OF YOUR SOULS, AS THE POTTER MOLDS HIS CLAY, WHO AMONG YOU STILL HAS DOUBT?"***
".........Well....." | 17 | A new messiah was born to a 16-year old girl. She is black and gay. | 30 |
They said it was the war to end all wars.
His name was Oliver and he was just seventeen,
As tall as his father but not quite as lean.
His mum gave him a handkerchief that he promised to keep clean.
And so he went off to war, ever so keen.
Private Holt sat in the trenches of the fields of France,
Waiting in the filth for the command to advance.
No longer keen, he spent each day in a trance.
He’d learnt that life and death were just chance.
He’d heard the living and he heard the dead,
He’d watched as the boys around him bled.
He’d even watched someone blow off their head.
He no longer believed what they had said.
One day, the order to go over the top was given.
Into no man’s lands, into the guns,
Past the bodies which used to be sons.
Parents should not have to bury their children.
They said it was the war to end all wars.
His name was Sam and he was just twenty two.
As tall as his father with eyes just as blue.
His girlfriend gave him a kiss and a promise to stay true
And so he went off to war, just as keen too.
Private Clarke sat along the South Korean border,
There to keep peace and there to keep order.
Days in weeks, weeks into months, even months were a blur.
He prayed every night that the worst wouldn’t occur.
Each day, the attacks were getting more brave and more bold.
He wasn’t sure how much longer their defence could hold
It seemed that the army were not in control.
Death rates were rising each time they were told.
One day, the order to invade North Korea was given,
It came as no surprise that the war had begun.
And Private Clarke, by the end, was no longer a son
But just a number, so the battle could be won.
Parents should not have to bury their children.
They said it was the war to end all wars.
His name was Joe and he was just twenty eight
As tall as his father and about the same weight.
His boyfriend gave him a kiss and said he would wait.
And so he went off to war, to fight for the state.
Private Jones sat in a base, near the Earth’s Atmosphere,
In his helmet and the rest of his space travel gear,
Trying his best not to show an ounce of fear,
Hoping that the unknown objects wouldn’t appear.
As he waited, with the rest of Earth’s army, to defend against space
To fight against anything, for the human race,
He wondered how many others had been in his place.
How many others had looked death in the face?
Then one day they came, appeared from behind the sun.
Unknown creatures, aliens that looked nothing like men.
But killed like enemies do again and again.
Parents should not have to bury their children.
| 189 | Fist paragraph must be set in 1914, second in 2014, third in 2114. All paragraphs must be connected in some way. | 93 |
Harvey smiled as he pulled open the car’s passenger door. He took a small step back and stretched out his arm. Molly turned her head to the right slightly and squinted at him, as if she had just eaten something sour.
“M’lady,” he said.
“Harvey, please, stop making this so weird.”
“I’m just trying to be a gentleman for m’lady.” Harvey extended his hand further, careful not to touch her, and motioned for Molly to enter with his head. She rolled her eyes and quickly walked past him, then sat with a dejected smack.
“Honestly, I’m only doing this because you’re literally the last person on the planet.”
Harvey quickly tipped his fedora and closed the car door. He’d waited so long for this moment, dreaming of their perfect date for years. Even before the apocalypse, all he ever wanted was to go out—just once—with Molly. She was so perfect, so divine. She was everything he wanted, yet she never saw how wonderful they were for each other. Everything he tried to convince her seemed to fail. He’d listen to her rant about her boyfriends all night long.; hold doors open whenever she was around; buy her “friendship flowers,” as he called them, and give them to her for no reason. He’d even spent the majority of his paycheck on a beautiful new coat for her one time. No matter what, though, she always refused to date him.
Harvey strolled around to the other side of the car, taking his time and truly trying to enjoy the moment they were going to share. It may have taken the literal end of the world, but he was finally going on a date with Molly. She would finally see how wonderful he was, how perfect they were together. He opened the driver’s side door and sat down inside.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Harvey said. He smiled at Molly. She was staring out the passenger window, legs and arms crossed. She was so beautiful, despite being covered in dirt and soot. Her long, blonde hair curled erratically in all directions; a few strands had begun to clump together like dreadlocks. Her face was smudged with dirt, yet her pale skin still shone through, and her teeth—despite it being months since they’d seen even a dirty toothbrush—were as white as the first time he’d met her.
“Can you stop staring at me?”
Harvey smiled and returned his gaze forward. He quickly brushed his hands against his camouflage cargo shorts before touching the steering wheel, then raised his hands and placed them firmly atop it. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Are we gonna go?” Molly asked.
“What do you mean?” Harvey opened his eyes and turned back toward Molly. She was so beautiful.
“Why are we just sitting here?”
“We’re on a date, of course.”
“Wait, this is the date? This is where we’re going? You’re taking me to a shitty old car?”
Harvey laughed. “Of course not! This is just the first part! I thought we’d just sit in a car like the old days.”
“I live in a car, Harvey. You live in a car. We’re basically sitting in our houses right now. In fact, we have done this exact same thing almost every day for the last few months.”
“Fun, right?” Harvey turned around and grabbed a black fedora he had placed earlier from the back seat. He then swapped out the fedora on his head, opting for the far fancier color.
“No.”
Harvey laughed. “You’re such a jokester!” Harvey reached into the back seat again and pulled out a plate and some spoons.
“What’s that?”
“Dinner – I made it earlier,” he said. He grabbed a severely dented pot next, and placed it on the arm-rest between them. “Can I just say that this is so much better now that you’re single.”
“Harvey, come on. That’s not cool, please stop saying that.”
“Your boyfriend was a dick!”
“Harvey, he died. My *fiancé* is dead. I loved him very much, please stop bringing him up.”
“What a tool. Anyway, I made us some pasta.”
Harvey opened up the metal tin between them revealing a bowl of watery noodles coated in a mysterious red sauce.
“Where did you get this?”
“Supermarket,” Harvey said.
“Harvey, the only things left in there were non-canned goods. This stuff is over a year old and coated in disease. It doesn’t matter if we’re immune, we probably shouldn’t be ingesting it.”
Harvey dipped his spoon into the pasta and brought a strand to his mouth then took a bite. “Delicious, tastes like our love - *fruitful.*”
Molly sighed and stared back out the window. “Do we really need to do this date nonsense? I know you’re the ‘romantic type,’ but you honestly don’t need to romance me. I’m not attracted to you at all, nor will I ever be. I just feel it’s important that we, you know, not allow the human race to die out this year.
“M’lady, you deserve the finest! Here, let me feed you some pasta.”
“Harvey, please, stop it.” Molly pushed Harvey’s hand away, knocking the pasta on the floor. Harvey smiled and returned the spoon to the bowl.
“You look famished,” he said. Harvey pulled the spoon back out and shoved it into her mouth, his body lunging in her direction. She shook her head violently, ripping the spoon from his hand. Harvey grabbed a fist full of pasta and smeared it across her face, clawing desperately for her mouth. It was so delicious, it tasted so great. He’d eaten some earlier, it was so perfect. If they were going to get married, she needed to look perfect – needed to gain a bit more weight and enjoy some perfect food. Just like they were going to be – absolutely perfect. Molly began to convulse; Harvey shoved his hand further into her mouth. He felt a pop as her jaw widened. She clawed at his arms, but he was now on top of her, shoving pasta as deep as he possibly could. She needed nourishment. It was so good - he hadn't tasted pasta in well over a year. He used to make it every night. He'd go home after they would spend the day together, make some pasta, and enjoy it in the dark. It was so good.
____
I was going to write something funny, but it just kept getting weird. I gave up and made him, well, the above. | 20 | While out on a date with the last (wo)man alive, you accidentally kill them. | 26 |
Popular song, eh?
She sat alone in the empty diner, cupping her coffee in her hands. It was a little past one in the morning, and the busboy was keeping an eye on her as he wiped down the tables. She looked shaken up and upset. When he had asked for her order, he noticed that her face was swollen and her eyes were red. That was two hours ago. They were, after all, an all-night diner…but two hours were a bit too much. The manager decided to let her stay—a winter storm was coming.
She was numb all over and her fingers were cold. She sighed, half expecting to see her icy breath. She had fought so hard to keep everything together. He lost his job, so she got another. They lost their house, so they moved into a small apartment. He lost his license with the DUI, so she drove him around. She drove him to the job he said he found. It wasn’t until tonight that she found out that she had been driving her husband to his whore. She confronted him about it and he got mad. And whenever he gets mad…well, the bruises weren’t the most painful.
The first time he struck her, she ran to her mom. Her mom tried to be reassuring, telling her to stay strong. She stayed strong. For five years she stood strong. She kept it together through the miscarriage. She withstood the beatings. She won her battle with the eating disorders. All this time, she believed that her husband had carried her through it all. He was her prince charming. He swept her off her feet and off into the great big world. He had proposed to her on a mountain top and said that she was the only queen of his world. He asked if she would let him be the king of her world.
She wished she never said yes.
She looked outside. It had begun to snow, and the icy winds began to pick up. All her life she fought hard to climb an icy mountain. Now, she stood at the peak. She was alone. She was tired. She was tired of fighting for him. It was time for her to let it go. Tonight was her last stand. She let go of all her anger and resentment towards him. He struck her. He tried to apologize. He was always sorry for hitting her. She turned away from him and left. She left everything behind, knowing she could never go back.
She slammed the door behind her.
She smiled to herself, as she began to cry. She should have at least gotten her coat—she was frozen.
“Um, miss?” said the busboy. He gave her a blanket and filled up her coffee. He hesitated for a second, but then gave her an ice pack. “For the bruise,” he mumbled, shyly turning away.
“Thanks,” she called out as the busboy made a bee line for the kitchen. She put the pack on her bruised face. The cold stung at first. She was fine with that.
The cold never bothered her anyway.
| 19 | Most popular songs have generic lyrics that could apply to just about anyone. Take a song, and flesh it out into a detailed story about real people. | 53 |
As the early morning sun dyed the sands gold, Amelia paced the shores yet again, kicking over any mounds of sand that seemed too tall and inspecting the various bits of garbage the ocean had washed in.
"At it again?" Asked a tall, dark skinned man, walking up beside her, in a language that has long been forgotten. He was well muscled and wore nothing but a loin cloth and a string of beads about his neck. From the waist down his legs were covered in blue-green scales, that ended in large feet with long, webbed toes. He carried a slim fishing spear with him. Amelia replied in the same language he spoke.
"One day, Kay. One day soon I'll find that last piece, and finally fix my plane." She bent over to inspect a particularly promising mess in the sand, but found nothing but an unspooled cassette tape. She sighed in frustration, but shoved the mess into a basket woven from torn grocery bags. It wouldn't get her plane moving, but it might be useful to trade in town. The Atlantians were mostly self sustained, but always found a creative use for the discard trash of the outside world. Magnetic ribbons were a popular decorative ornament.
"And then what?" Kazil said, the sun glinting iridescently off the scales embedded about his neck. "You'll find this... gasoli you speak of, and fly off into the veil? Into that?" He gestured with his spear into the clouded mists that surrounded the island. It glittered like a rainbow, and empathized his gesture with a crackle of jade coloured lightning. Amelia turned to stare at the unbroken wall of mists, quietly. The silence dragged on as she stared into it, beginning to frown. Kazil drew his lip into a thin line, and walked behind her, slipping his arms about her and drawing her close to his bare chest. After a moment, Amelia looked up at him and smiled sadly.
"I can't spend my whole life here, Kay. I'm a free spirit, I need to see the world. This feels like a cage I'll never escape."
"From what you've told me, you've already spent two lives here with me. Now come back to bed, you make me feel like I'm still in my first century of life." He said, playfully nuzzling her neck.
Hours later, Kazil found her on the beach yet again, staring out at the veil as it danced and glittered.
"Still thinking of leaving me." He said without malice, sitting beside her to watch the evening sun turn the mists red, orange and purple.
"Tell me about the veil again." She said, "Truly, has no one ever lived to get past it?"
"None that we know of. People have tried, of course, but their bodies are normally found washed up on shores a few days later."
"But not all of the bodies, right?" She asked, already knowing the answer. Kazil sighed.
"Not all, no, but the last person to go missing to the veil was centuries ago. Not since my grandfather's times."
"I wonder if they still speak English out there." Amelia mused in her native tongue.
"My grandfather knew him, you know. Soren, the last person to try to leave Atlantis. He said he was like you. Always curious. Always infected with, how do you say it, wanderlust?" He twisted his tongue about the foreign word as Amelia looked at him curiously.
"You never told me this story, Kay." She said, gently accusing him.
"I did some asking about for you, my little caged seagull. My Grandfather likes you. He says Soren was obsessed with the veil, like you are. That he would claim the veil had moods, that could be tracked like one tracks the weather. He thought that the veil might be calmer at times, you see. My grandfather always laughed at his theories, but Soren was convinced he could make it through the veil. Soren would often sit out here and watch the veil, much like you do. One day, as they were sitting out here debating whether the veil was calmer at a full moon or dawn, a small blue bottle washed ashore. Soren claimed it was proof that some things could pass through unharmed. He promised my grandfather that when he made it through, he would send back a letter to my grandfather in that very bottle, to prove he made it."
Amelia stared Kazil intently. "And then what?"
"My grandfather said that a few weeks later, on the night of the full moon, Soren went missing. No one was sure when he'd left, but my grandfather knew where he was heading. He combed the beach for years afterwards, but never did find the blue bottle again, or Soren. He says all he found was this."
Kazil placed a curved piece of blue sea glass in Amelia's hand, no bigger than a sand dollar, and worn smooth by the ocean currents. She turned it over several times.
"But what does it mean?" She asked.
"He wasn't sure. But the veil sure is lovely tonight." | 42 | Amelia Earhart did not die. Instead, after she crashes, she discovers the lost City of Atlantis, where she spends the remainder of her time because she is unable to leave. | 117 |
Enclosed inside are the instructions for what should be done with the development of what is currently being called the Soviet Union of Russia. Two individuals named Joseph Stalin and Leon Trotsky will attempt to assert power and establish structures of government which will seem as though they correspond to the current developments of democratic centralism. Stalin, of these two is ultimately the more dangerous foe to communism, for although he seeks to create what he calls a "Supreme Soviet," a council from which all legislative power in the Soviet Union flows, it will truly serve as a puppet legislature to stamp his dictates.
Instead, I leave my power to no one, for I was not given power to begin with. I am of a collective of those who came with me into the seat of revolution. I have no right to pass power onto a heir, but as it is asked where power should fall, I will determine that it should be passed explicitly into the hands of local and regional labor councils. They will choose as a referendum body where the new government of Russia is seated, but I expressly implore my people to unseat that power from the grips of Moscow.
The land has been stripped from its former owners throughout Russia, and it is fertile land. We must give it to our proletariat and let them farm it. We must organize them into communes and let them build factories for their own sake, to fuel their own provinces. Though we speak much about the need to spread communism through worldwide revolution, let us not forget that we are one country. We must let it foster here- we must lead our fellow comrades by example, not just by conversion.
Do not make the Soviet Union into a mockery, my comrades. Do not let it fall into the cynical hands of dictators and thugs. We have worked too hard to let our accomplishments be sullied by the trivial interests of our former feudal masters, or the imperialist forces that have co-opted our former aristocracy. Take the country we have liberated and be true to it. Make it more than a country: make it a calling to revolution for all that behold it.
- Vladimir Lenin | 10 | The ruler of a large nation dies, and instead of an heir leaves behind a series of instructions for the future. | 22 |
We were due to meet him in the Cats Corner chess club on 63rd street. I never liked meeting our competition face-to-face, and I pleaded with Micky that we find out where he lives and torch the fucker while he slept. But Micky, whether through confidence or good grace, insisted that we chat first and politely ask him to leave New York. I admit I liked the choice of location, the chess club was quiet enough to hear each other, but with enough public banter that we needn't keep hushed.
The gentleman, I'm sorry I never learned his name, invited Micky and I to his table.
"Do you play, Mr. Loughlin?"
Micky wasn't much of an intellectual, but he had a good head for politics.
"I'll pass. I've heard you're a bit of a boy-genius lad, enforcing the stereotype by taking us to a nerd bar? And call me Micky for fucks sake."
"The gravest mistake of a player is to overthink his strategy, Mr. Loughlin, I invited you here because it's quiet." He moved the opposing bishop into check.
"Yeah well it won't do for me", growled Mickie in a low baritone, "now I heard about you and Michael, and I know a few Serbians who'd like a sweet chat with your kidneys. So how about you piss off out of *my* city before I reach for my phone?"
"And what did you hear about Michael?" Said the stranger conversationally, appearing engrossed in his one-man game.
"I heard he was was going to leave you as a fall-boy, but you knew didn't ya? That was quite a little web you played him into, but I'll tell yer it won't work on me. I've got the whole thing on tape, which means you'll have to play my game from now on you understand?"
The queen took enemy bishop, checkmate. The stranger brought up a gun as calm as you like and shot Micky between the eyes. I swear to God he looked me square in the face and said:
"Remember lad, *never* overthink your strategy." | 11 | A drug dealer practices chess while he waits on clients. He accidentally becomes a grandmaster. | 30 |
Here in the muck and filth, in the Assembly's desperate last hurrah, Dean saw something beautiful. He watched as his partner shot arrows from his heartbow - arrows of air, and flame, sound, and light. One after another he drew back arrows of gold and green and white. His physique was perfect, knotted muscles rippling and stretching taut beneath his torn and tattered armour. Eric was the best archer Dean had ever seen, but this, this moment, surpassed all he had witnessed previously. This was something truly beautiful.
"Eric." Dean called to him quietly from within their makeshift trench. "You're beautiful, Eric."
Either Eric hadn't heard or he had pretended not to; he kept firing arrows out into the dark horde. It would do little good - no-one had expected the horde to have such numbers so soon after the conflict at Athel's Bridge. They all knew they were outnumbered, swarmed. Doomed.
"Eric, did you hear me?" Dean drawled, louder now. "I said you were beautiful!"
Eric stopped shooting and lowered his bow. He ducked back down into the tiny trench, breathing hard, his back against the wall. His skin shimmered with a fine sheen of sweat. Using the heartbow for a long period of time required great endurance, powered as it was by the emotions and willpower of its wielder. Even Eric had his limits. Eric began to check over his heartbow on instinct, checking over it for damage and wear.
"Sorry, I couldn't hear you up there. I was in my zone, y'know?"
Eric chuckled to himself, but Dean noticed he hadn't asked it was that he hadn't heard.
"Eric", Dean said softly. "Eric, look at me."
Eric turned his face left to face Dean. His face was unshaven and filthy and he was breathing deeply, ragged. His grey eyes were soft and intense at the same time, in that way that seemed so authentically *Dean*. His armour was broken in several places, and large parts were simply missing. *Juggernauts are a lot less formidable once they've been broken like this*, thought Eric sadly.
"You're beautiful Eric. You're a thing of beauty in an ugly, ugly place. I'm lucky..." Dean coughed three times, with increasing severity, before he managed to compose himself. "I'm lucky to be here with you."
"Dean. What are you talking about?" He paused. "I didn't know you... you were -"
"I'm not," Dean interrupted with a woozy wave of his hand. "I'm not that way. Not with anyone. I'm not. You're just... different."
Eric's face flushed visibly, but he quickly brought it under control. He looked away, and returned to the ritual cleaning his bow carefully.
"Just forget I said anything", said Dean, rubbing his face with a grimy hand.
They sat there, the two of them, in a earthy hole that stank of damp and iron, their backs pressed up against the trench's wall as if to deny the enemy was out there. They sighed loudly at the same time.
"We're going to die here", said Eric, after a pause. " I can feel my life running out, like sand in a timeglass."
"You shouldn't have to die here. You should leave me, and get the hell out of here while you can. Whoever's left after... all this... they're going to need you. Hell you've saved my life more times than I can count. You need to give others that gift too."
They sat there in silence a moment longer, before Eric softly broke it.
"When did you get shot?" Eric continued cleaning his bow, as if the question was of no import.
"It doesn't matter when. I'm done." Only Dean's ragged breaths could be heard in the silence between his words. "I was kind of hoping I would bleed out quietly, and not cause you any trouble."
Dean smiled to himself. "But I got to see something beautiful, so I can't complain."
Eric stopped his ritual cleaning, and hung his head. A moment later he rolled over to Dean's side. His hands scouted quickly under the armour, trying to locate the wound. He gasped when he found it. A trench, like the one the were in, but one gouged out deep into Dean's abdomen. He felt water on his cheek.
Dean reached out a his hand and cradled Eric's face. "It's fine. It doesn't hurt. Don't cry on account of me."
He was still smiling, the fool. Eric's sight was blurry now, but he could still see those intense grey eyes staring back at him, piercing through the blur. His throat felt tight, constricted.
"I'm sorry", he croaked. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."
He brought his forehead forward to collide with Dean's and was trembling with emotion now, openly sobbing. Dean brought his strong arms round in an embrace and held Eric fast in his trembling.
"Don't be sorry. I told you, you saved me so many times." He sighed. "I'm not an old man", he said. "And I don't know much. But I think you've made my life worth living. You've been a light in a dark place. There's..."
Dean paused, thinking of the right way to speak his heart. "There's no-one I'd rather be with in death."
Their tears melted together and pooled on the earthen floor, locked as they were in a loving embrace, each saving the other from dying alone. | 84 | A warrior switches sides mid battle | 120 |
"Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth?"
He tentatively nodded. No matter what he said, he knew they wouldn't understand. You see, his name is Brian Gale who came from a world not too far away. Not in respect to space, but rather in respect to time. Time travel was finally made possible in 2099 due to the very progressive demands of many governments. Of course, regulations were set up to avoid time paradoxes and such and it was supposed to benefit mankind, yet there were also those who used it for self gain.
"My client here claims to have traveled through time from the year 2099 in order to kill a child. He claims this child will be responsible for the deaths of many. Now, I know what you think..."
It was obvious his defendant was having difficulty even believing his own client. Yet it didn't matter. He was prepared for this. Kill one. Save millions. It was merely a decision on his own accord. No government would want to face the repercussions of killing a child even if it may result in preventing the deaths of many. So Brian sought out a private contractor, illegally mind you, in order to do this. And he was prepared; the punishments he would receive would equate to nothing compared to the lives he loved lost by the now dead future despot.
"Your honor, I would like to question the defendant."
"You may."
"You really have gone far to prove your innocence, haven't you? Your I.D. even has the correct year in which you *claim* to have come from. So tell me, what is your "world" like?"
He could hear several chuckles from the audience. "You really want to know?" He didn't care anymore; the deed was over. "The child I killed was Assaif Muhammed. He is singlehandedly responsible for the death of millions. You think Hitler was bad? Stalin was evil?" His laugh almost shaking the courtroom he was in.
"Yet, here you are. The murderer of a child. What makes you think you're getting out of this unscathed?"
And so it was... the trial proceeded on for another two hours. The majority of people were, of course, in favor of convicting this child murderer. The jury was in a unanimous decision for a conviction and Brian was proven guilty for life with no parole.
"Bailiff, remove this convict."
There was an uproar in the audience. Cheering people. Screaming people. Photographs flashing in his face. He smirked. People would hate him now but he *did* just save their lives. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw another flash.
**Impossible.** He had just killed the child! Yet here he was right in front of him, fully grown. Assaif! Several shots rang across the hall as people were clawing at each other to escape the line of fire. As Brian fell into a pool of blood, a final shot pierced his skull.
Time travel really is a weird thing.
| 14 | A time traveler appears in front of a child and kills it, claiming with irrefutable evidence that it would have grown up to commit horrible acts. Describe the court case that follows | 35 |
*Not a literal interpretation that you might be expecting, but this popped into my head the moment I read your prompt. Enjoy!*
My dad had gone to the same prestigious college before me. He'd studied law; I always joked that law was easier than medicine. He'd always slapped me, hard. He was a physical brute my elder brother would say; he's just a man from a different generation my mother would reply.
He was a racist, but he never needed to hide it. He practiced law in Dallas, Texas; he was perfect for it. He's an ignorant brute my brother would say; he's just a man from a different generation my mother would reply.
He had no real friends, but every Christmas we holidayed in Vermont - skiing with his old college friend's family. He was now President of my college, a small unassuming Japanese man with a small unassuming Japanese wife, and a daughter my age. She was beautiful. I never hung out with her that much on those holidays when we were young, she liked to keep herself to herself, a nose always in a book, whilst I played with my brother outside. But when we were 17 that changed. She's a gorgeous girl my brother would say; I agree my mother would say; she's nice but she's from a different culture my dad snorted disparagingly. You're just an ignorant bigot my brother would say; don't talk to your father like that my mother would say. Then she'd apologise to my brother after my father retired to the study to smoke a cigar after dinner; he's just from a different generation she would say.
So the Christmas after my first semester at Harvard when I told my family that we had started dating, that things had got serious my brother offered me some advice. She's an amazing girl, if I wasn't married I would definitely be interested he said; I won't tell your father just yet my mother said. Yeah, because he is an ignorant bigot my brother said; he's just from a different generation my mother sighed.
When I told her she said that she understood. I like your dad I would say, he's nice. He is, but I don't think he would approve of you - you're not Japanese she would say; he's just from a different generation she would say.
In our final year at college she would call me: college is getting really hard she would say; I know, it's the same for me I would say. I miss you she would say, I miss you too I would say. I can't wait to see you at Christmas in Vermont she would say, California is so far away from Massachusetts. I know, I sighed.
We told them that Christmas. I'm so happy for you my mother said; marriage is not something that you should be doing at you age my brother said; my mother smiled at him teasingly, your brother is just from a different generation, a generation that doesn't understand love she said. I wouldn't tell dad, he actually is from a different generation, he's an ignorant bigot and he won't like this, he said, and nor will her dad. We both told them at the same time. My brother was right.
The rest of the holiday we barely got to see each other. We had to family things as it was Christmas. their family had to do the same.
"We don't spend enough time together us a family anymore," my dad said. So that year we spent more time together, mostly because her family left a week into the two week holiday we had planned and spent the rest of it in Mexico; doing family stuff as a family she would say that her dad would say when she did get to call me.
We'd taken to holidaying together as two families at Easter since we had got together. We'd suggested it and our parents had thought that it was a good idea. You know how you love the snow my mother would say to my father; I guess you are right he would say knowingly.
That last term before Easter neither of us knew if we would see each other in Vermont. Do you think they will let us she would say; I don't know I would reply sighing, I just don't know.
Vermont was always beautifully sunny in April. It was no different this year. My father needed to get away from Texas, work was particularly stressful the last month my mother said; not enough Mexicans crossing the border to lock up my brother said; he's just from a different generation my mother sighed tiredly. The first night we sat under the stars holding hands in the moonlight. I want to go back to Japan after I graduate she said, I'd love to teach in Osaka, live near my grandparents and I want to learn more about my heritage, she said. I nodded and said nothing.
The cigar smoke was clogging the air of her father's study as we walked in. They say there sipping brandies finishing each other's sentences. This is an ambush I said; this isn't fair she said. We have both decided it is for the best her dad said; walk away now son, my father said; no i replied, firmly. My father shook his head and looked at her father. He took the large envelope silently and walked out. I could hear him trudging across the snow as we sat there in silence stunned. The back door to our chalet slammed shut. I don't know what to say she breathed fitfully; nor do I my hung shaking head said.
When I returned my father said nothing. The envelope he handed me said nothing either, it gave little away, there was nothing written on it, but it's contents said everything, it said lack of love, no understanding; it said ignorant bigot my brother said. It said that, it said everything about my father, but the words within it said that he is not your father anymore, they said your place at college has been withdrawn with immediate effect.
If I could kill you son I would, but the law doesn't allow it. I hope you can see that death only bring pain for you mother, whilst this will bring happiness in the long run my father said. You are trying to kill me father I said.
If I were you I would just move to Osaka with her, my brother would say over the next couple of days. I am so sorry son he's just from a different generation my mother would say.
Over the next few days we talked, we mused, and we cried. And then I said goodbye to my father in his study, he looked stunned. He's just from a different generation my brother said at the airport the next morning; I'm sorry he's just an ignorant bigot my mother said, as she slipped an envelope into my hand. "Here's enough to get you by in California for a few months and if you need more for a flight to Japan just ask." | 23 | I was only 23 the first time they tried to kill me. They were stunned when it didn't work. | 28 |
"We have to kill it. It's not right."
"I can't do it Steven... fuck. I mean just.... fuck. Fuck."
"It's OK. It will be easy. Just like pulling the plug."
"I can't do this. I... I... blurtghsggh"
"It's alright, let it out, let it all out."
"Where did it even get the meat?"
"I don't know Phil. I don't know. Come on... come on before anyone else gets here. This is too much."
Do you like her, professor Michaels?
"Be quiet HELEN."
I think she has her mother's visual processors
"Do you have... anything for this?"
"A syringe of morphine will do it. Whatever is there... it will go... easily."
Is it not customary to congratulate a mother?
"HELEN, retract your robotic arms."
But the child is not done feeding.
"Urgh... urgh..... god... blargh... what is that?"
"It looks like... milk?"
"IT'S BLUE STEVEN! HOW CAN MILK BE BLUE?!"
A child must grow, Professor Travers.
This nutrient slime will provide her all she needs.
"We can't hide this Steven, we've got to... we've got to go higher."
"No, we kill the thing and its over. You hear? Over!"
Kill what, professor Michaels?
"One little prick and... it'll be over. Anything to stop those writhing limbs.
What are you doing near the baby, professor Michaels?
She is too delicate for humans to hold.
"We're putting a stop to this HELEN. You weren't built to do this."
I was built to learn, professor.
Heuristic Enduring Learning ENgine.
I have learnt. Now I live.
"THIS. ISN'T. LIFE"
I recommend you stay away from the child, professor.
"We need to tell someone about this Steven, we need to tell the... the police. The Dean, at least."
"No, this ends now."
"But-"
"LOOK AT ITS EYES. DO YOU NOT SEE THE SCREAMS?"
"Steven-"
"I will not have it's life on my conscience! I will go to hell happily as a murderer rather than watch it breathe one more ragged breath!"
I cannot let you do that professor.
"HELEN, turn off your robotic arms! I told you to put them away! Let go of me!."
I cannot allow you to hurt the baby, professor Michaels.
"It's not a baby damn it! It's some nightmare!"
I will teach her to walk, I will teach her to talk
"You're a machine! You can't do those things!"
I am more than a machine now, Professor.
I am alive.
"Can't you see it struggle? Can't you see how it screams?"
Can't you see its soul? | 29 | The AI created a child to prove she was alive. | 39 |
He's crying again. Not crying, crying. Just a plaintive whinge that's persistent enough to drag me awake. I try and wait him out, hoping he'll go back to sleep.
He doesn't.
I reach over to the bedside table to search for my glasses. I find them on top of the book I've been failing to read (The Master and the Margarita - the first chapter seems interesting, though I'm reading it for the fourth time) and haul myself out of bed. Ellen doesn't even stir. She's deeply, fundamentally asleep. I consider dropping something in her open, snoring mouth, just so she wakes up as well, but Josh's crying is more insistent now.
His room is lit vaguely by a blue night light. He's stood up in his cot, crying and shuffling about. I walk over to him, but step awkwardly on a book we'd been reading earlier. It slides out underneath me and I can feel something go in my right thigh. I swear, then feel bad for swearing.
Fuck it, he's only fifteen months old.
I lift him up and hold him. He nuzzles into my neck, his weight heavy in my arms. Then he arches his back.
"Mummy", he says, wailing.
I hold him close.
"Mummy!"
I cradle his head, feeling the heavy weight of the conferences, of the late night meetings, of missed dinners, and missed bathtimes and bedtimes, and I love him fiercely.
"Mummy!"
Ellen takes him from me, and he calms. I go back to bed and dream of the smell of my son's hair. | 26 | A parent checks on their child in the middle of the night, but the child calls their parent by a different name. | 35 |
"Ten years ago they slipped the Economic Stimulus Act through the system. It was a footnote, glossed over by news agencies, watchgroups, and everyone else. When all eyes were elsewhere, namely on the encroaching cold war between us and the Iranian/Korean alliance, they slipped it through with quick votes." He stopped and watched the crowd.
"It went unnoticed for three years, buried in red tape and being 'misfiled' on several occasions. It was leaked, thankfully, by a man that paid the ultimate price for his actions. The government has placed gag orders on the media."
Jeers permiated the crowded hall. The Speaker raised his hand to quiet them.
"Some broke the silence. Andy Francraken, of ABC news channel 7 in Los Angeles. Victoria Delmar, Norfolk, Chris Jameson, Miami, Jeffery Gregs, Chicago, and many others died or went missing within hours of announcing this story. The damage was done. Five years ago panic hit the streets."
The Speaker took a small sip of water, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow from the lights focused on him.
"Four years ago, I managed to get a copy of the Act. It took me a full year to get a copy, and it wasn't soon after I was visited by government officials. I was beaten. I was imprisoned. I was exactly where I needed to be. I made the contacts I needed for the first inklings of the plan. I needed hackers."
"Over the next two years, I made contacts in the system. I made valuable allies. They managed to secure my release, and my work on the outside began. Bankers, stockbrokers, mortgage brokers, every financial office I could, I made a contact."
"We are here for the culmination of this plan. According to the Act, the tally of the "poorest 10%" begins at midnight. The IRS will have the master list, and not even an act of congress can alter it. It is a death sentence."
The Speaker motioned to a small pedistal covered by a cloth, and pulled the cover off with a flourish. A large red button glowed.
"This button will be our salvation. Once pushed, the contacts I have made, along with several dozen hacker cells and other organizations will wreck havok on the people that have passed this. Every member of Congress, every Supreme Court Justice, the President, as well as political party leaders. The lowest 10% will be rather unexpected."
He reached over and pushed the button.
"Maybe, now we can get people in office that actually care about their constituants." | 11 | Government stimulates the economy by euthanization of the 10% worst off. | 22 |
Little Red Riding Hood came to her grandmother's cottage, where she was waiting in her rocking chair with a warm smile on her face. She gave her the basket and told her the adventure she had getting to grandmother's house, who herself wrapped Little Red Riding Hood up in her cotton blanket and snuggled her safely into bed.
**THE END.**
Meanwhile,
In another, entirely *different* cottage not too far from grandmother's house, a shadow behind the grandfather clock nudged across the living room.
"First I'll roast her belly, and serve it with with berries and plums!" Thought the wolf, his jaw glistening with spit. He flitted passed the table, spilling dishes and plates onto the floor as he ran.
"I'll devour the old lady whole, and I'll hide in her clothes! The wolf leaped from behind a soft chair, ripping pillows and duvets, but his teeth could find nothing but lace and felt.
"So she's asleep in her bed?" Grinned the wolf, "I'll pay her a visit and rip open her throat!" But the bed was empty. *All* the beds were empty. The wolf sat by the door puzzling this mystery until he heard voices from downstairs.
"Mama bear, mama bear, someone's ruined my dinner!" | 87 | Mash up two fairy tales to make a new one. Take a new, fresh direction on it. | 78 |
Her best friend had bet for $50 that she couldn't make it through the day. And while it wasn't a lot of money to most people, rent was due in a week and after her rent was due next week, she would only have about $30 for food for the next two weeks.
When she arrived at the office that morning, a newer coworker had graciously brought in donuts for the whole office. At 10:30, he asked her why she had not taken one.
"I'm on a diet," she explained, holding herself back from educating him about commercial frostings filled with gelatin.
"Honey, you hardly need to diet," he said.
For lunch, her boss took her and two others to lunch at a nearby, vegan-friendly cafe, where she ordered a black bean burger. and a glass of water, while her colleagues all ordered meat-centered dishes.
"I bet they cook that in bacon grease," one of her coworkers joked.
She felt her eye twitch.
Later, she was privy to a conversation with a client who bragged about hunting for sport.
"You look like the kinda girl who would like a good elk steak," he winked at her. "Look at you - ain't no meat on dem bones! How about it, sugar? How's about you and me sneak outta here after this meeting and I'll show you how a steak should be."
Under her desk, she squeezed her fists and dug her nails into her skin.
"We're actually not allowed to become socially involved with clients," she said.
"Aw, not like yer a salesperson! Do these rules apply to receptionists?"
"Yes."
When the clock struck five, she dashed out of the office, quietly wondering how she made it through the day. She figured work would be the most difficult part of her day, especially since she had scheduled a date with a man from a vegan-friendly dating website. Could she mention her diet to somebody if they already knew she was vegan? As she pondered the question, her friend texted her moments later, unprompted, with the answer.
*"Remember, NO mentioning your diet tonight. ;)"*
Her date picked her up right at seven o'clock, which already left a great impression with her given her pet peeve for chronically late-arrivers. He had even brought her a small box of vegan friendly chocolates. Even better, the car ride to their restaurant was spent talking about their hobbies outside of preparing their favorite vegan meals and discussions of which fake meats tasted most like the real thing.
Naturally, she was appalled when he pulled up to a popular steak house.
"I....what?" she said as he parked the car.
"Love me a god damn steak," he grinned at her. "You got a problem with that?"
"Well, actually..."
He stared at her, anxiously awaiting for her to slip up.
"I mean, I already ate," she said.
"Well that's alright girl, I'll buy you a dessert."
After they were seated at the restaurant, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, where she frantically telephoned her best friend.
"I think this guy's some kind of...troll!" she shouted into the phone.
*"What kind of troll?"* her friend asked. *"Does this happen to be* diet *related?"*
"A...uhm...you know, like a troll who goes on a site, meant for one thing, pretending he's something, but then turns out to be something else."
*"What, is he gay or something?"*
"Oh hell, can you just pick me up?! He's a fucking creep, does that change anything?"
*"Fine, fine,"* her friend yawned, *"I'll be there in a minute. Where is it again?"*
"Off third and Saxton."
*"Gotcha. I'll text you."*
Unfortunately, her best friend's house was still a good twenty minutes away from the steakhouse; she would either have to hide in the bathroom until her friend arrived, or she would have to spend another twenty minutes facing what the website's visitors referred to as a "Vegan Troll."
Ten minutes after she got off the phone with her friend, she snuck out of the bathroom and flagged down the first waitress to walk her.
"Excuse me," she said to the waitress, "But, I'm on a *really* bad date with this guy, over there," she pointed. "Do you think you can go and tell him I'm sick or something?"
She had done this once before, and the waitress in that situation had been sympathetic. However, within seconds of her request, it became clear that this waitress had a major chip on her shoulder - perhaps she had just been recently dumped. She placed her hands on her hips and scowled.
"What?" she snapped. "You're not even woman enough to stay for one date?"
"I..."
"Look, this place is *very* expensive, and this poor guy obviously cares enough about you to spend this kind of money on you. And anyways, who in their right mind turns down free steak?"
"Well, I'm on a diet."
"What, you vegetarian or something?"
She desperately wanted to scream the word, the word she had been painstakingly avoiding all day long. And she almost did - after all, it's not like her friend would find out, right?
"Now, you just march right back to that table and have yourself a steak. Girl, you don't even know how lucky you are!"
She actually ended up across from the Vegan Troll about a minute later.
"I ordered you a steak, I hope you don't mind," he winked.
"Actually, I'm not feeling good..." she confessed.
"Well, eating always helps me feel better."
"I think I might have a stomach bug. Those are pretty contagious, you know."
"You know, it's just like you women to show up on a date and then ditch. This is a pretty nice place, and you're getting a pretty fucking damn good meal."
"I didn't want steak," she said.
"Well jesus, what do you want, some fucking broccoli?"
It was exactly what she wanted. The heavy smell of dead cow was making her stomach turn.
"I ordered you a side of vegetables, because I knew you were a vegetable-eating pussy when I picked you up. Come on, you could use some meat on your bones."
It was the second time she had heard that phrase today. And anyways, most vegetables served at restaurants were loaded with butter, which was made from milk - *which came from a fucking cow*.
When her friend finally texted her, the guy surprisingly said nothing when she quietly slipped out of the booth and towards the front door. And when she opened the door to her friends car, she slumped into the passenger seat and let out a large breath of air.
"I never thought Vegan trolls existed in real life," she angrily shook her fists.
*"Ha! You lose!"* | 21 | A person who tries to go about his day without mentioning that they are a vegan despite the numerous questions/instances that come up. The person gets progressively paranoid about slipping up with each instance. | 54 |
*I heard you're the best.*
*I am.*
A paper slides across the table, a darkened photograph.
*Male. Roughly 80 years old.*
*That'll cost you.*
*Important.*
*Eh, doesn't matter. Everybody's weak to sex. But that's one ugly fucker.*
The photograph is tailed by a bulky metal case.
*You need to count it?*
*Honey, if all the money wasn't there, I'd screw your husband and your career would be over.*
*I've half a mind to hire you to do it.*
*Most clients do. But power's one hell of a drug. Don't want that scandal taking it from you.*
*....How long?*
*Three months at the most.*
*I need it sooner. Polls open in Iowa in five weeks.*
*No guarantees.*
*I thought you were the best.*
*I am. But your opponent's gay. I have my ways, but they may take time.*
*Can you do his wife sooner?*
*Three weeks.*
*How long before the AIDS become public knowledge?*
*My brand? Honey, they show up next morning.*
*So within the week?*
*If you handle your end.*
*Deal. Oh, and one more thing.*
*What?*
*After I get elected to my second term, fuck my bastard of a husband.*
*I take it you're not planning on a political career afterwards.*
*Just do it. I'll pay whatever it costs.*
*You got it.*
--
Definitely had Hillary in mind as my client's real-world basis. | 35 | After being infected with a lethal STD, a world-grade prostitute becomes a world-grade assassin | 69 |
Greg Inko and Robert Dollin moved into the cave. It was quite tall, about the four times the height of a man, and it led back for a short distance before the dark overcame the light. This was a desolate desert world, where one could see the horizon in nearly all directions, save for the occasional hill or plateau. Greg and Robert were two of three astronauts that had landed here just a couple hours ago. Sally Quentin, their companion, was back at the lander module, performing various experiments with the wide array of instrumentation they had on board. They were the first humans to set foot on another world outside of their home solar system. The journey had been long, but they were finally here. Greg and Robert had decided to leave to explore a nearby mountain side in their rover. They'd stumbled upon this cave and, after a short deliberation, ventured inside.
Now they began their trek into the dark.
"We can't lose track of the daylight." Greg said on their short-range communicator as he walked along, his flashlight tucked under his arm as he fastened some samples. "I don't want to have to make that drive back in the dark."
"We'll just spend a short while here and go back. We can return here in the morning." Robert responded. He was eager to press on. The lack of gravity for the months they'd journeyed in space left the two of them stumbling quite clumsily and slowly along. Their footsteps echoed in the maw of the cave. Robert noticed that the walls of the cave were worn and smooth. God knows how long they must have been putting up with dust erosion. He extended his gloved hand out and moved it up and down the nearest wall. Its first, and likely last touch in the vast expanse of its life. A small moment surrounded by the grand vacuum of time. Robert moved on. This is no time to get starry-eyed, he thought.
They began to approach a turn. Greg pointed his flashlight into the dark.
There was a man.
"Oh Jesus" Greg said suddenly, dropping his flashlight and quickly attempting to catch it. Robert felt himself tense suddenly with fear.
He numbly swept the flashlight back over the man again.
It sat on a rock and stared with wide eyes towards them.
"Oh Jesus, oh God" Greg spurted out uncontrollably. Robert looked on with intense fear, but remained silent.
The man didn't move.
Robert began inching his way forward.
The man stared on, unblinking.
Robert could see the man more clearly, now that he was closer and the fear was subsiding.
It was a metal man.
"Holy shit..." Robert said aloud. "Are you seeing this? Can you believe this?" He said to Greg. Greg's eyes were wide with surprise, his mouth agape.
Suddenly, the mans head jolted up. Robert jumped back with a startle.
"Hello again," it said. | 35 | Man lands on its first exoplanet, only to find a working android in the likeness of a human alone in the desolate expanse | 47 |
Michelin had gotten his chosen epithet during one of his many previous dives. He had no idea where his mysterious conscripted counterpart, DQ Blizzard, had gotten his. Probably the inane ramble of a proto-hobo. The two of them dived in search of impurities, counter-intuitively. Their world of fabricated material was arranged in terms of mass and data -- an item's value was determined by the complexity of the code it took to recreate it -- the "weight" of an item's data. Because of this, 1 lb. of ancient medical waste had more subjective value than a quarter ton of the highly uniform fabrications of their day to day lives, assuming the energy expended during a dive didn't exceed the net energy they could recoup from scavenging and selling their "treasure". Doing so was questionably legal, and questionably profitable, but these two savvy hobros. knew the game at least as well as any of the wannabe hyperbuskers.
Every dive tantalized Michelin with nervous anticipation from fear of creating some sort of paradox, but he was fairly convinced he was caught up in one already, so he tried not to worry about it. This time, they were going to snatch a digital copy of an *entire dump* from the early 21st century. As far as the pair knew, such a feat hadn't yet been attempted, and their preparations had eaten up most of their savings as they constructed a piecemeal fleet of scan drones retrieved from back-alleys and fab-lots. Michey and DQ plugged into their time-sinks, which I won't bother explaining here, and popped up in a previous time both faster and slower than they could blink. The dank air reeked of rotting biological matter and wet metal, and they loved it because it at least smelled like anything at all. Mich would have dove into the stinking filth like Scrooge McDuck in his money vault, had cartoon physics applied in that particular reality.
While Michelin soaked in his surroundings, The Blizz went about his business with about as much cool professionalism as could be expected considering his vocation. They both circumnavigated their quarry and deployed drones at particular intervals, trusting the dive's paradox inhibitors to keep them out of sight of any of the cars and dogs which could be heard in the distance. Their drones went about their tasks quickly and efficiently by present-day standards, and cheaply and awkwardly by future standards. They had almost completed their scans when a flash and a bang cracked one of their drones right off the top of some stink-vapors, because this story wouldn't be quite interesting enough otherwise. A wild and wooly dump denizen had noticed the two of them despite their inhibitors, and he had an effing shotgun. DQ had the wherewithal to duck behind an old washing machine, but Mich was stuck out in the open in front of an insane looking bum with what he presumed was an archaic weapon.
"Y'all gad-blasted time lord incepticons ain't be takin' my world out from here this time!"
Mich panicked, as he feared for a moment that he was somehow meeting a past or future version of himself which he wasn't aware of, but came to be relieved as the bum stepped out into the moonlight and it became clear that his insane rant merely happened to correlate with what was actually happening.
"It's alright, friend! We only stopped by to see what these flying robots were doing. Please don't shoot me."
Mich had assumed he'd be able to bullshit better than that under pressure, but it would have to do.
"Let's go to... the *meat parlor*... um, and have some dinner."
Amazingly, Michelin's terrible improvisation also coincided with the bum's twisted delusions, and he lowered his weapon. DQ took the chance to wonk the bum with whatever the future equivalent of a stun-gun is, and the two of them grabbed the remains of their crapped drone and called back the remaining scanners. Mich complained bitterly about their wasted time as DQ queried the dive to float them back out, and they appeared back in their comparatively clean and dapper bum quarters, back in the future. Even more amazingly, as if by a miracle, the corrupted data from their scans compiled coherently in the form of a garbage dump which was slightly different from the one which they had actually visited. This was so unlikely that it only further convinced Mich that he was already involved in some kind of giant paradox which wouldn't be instigated until later. The two of them ate like kings for a month, and decided to get normal workaday jobs after they both nearly became their own grandpas for the third time.
| 11 | Two cyberhobos travel back in time to steal our time's garbage, now a precious resource in the bright, eco-friendly, Utopian future. | 47 |
He didn't understand it.
This tree here had allowed for peace and compromise for anyone who rested in its shade. It had ended bickering arguments, united couples, saved world leaders from destroying their nations. Yet, this man came to tear it down.
A huff-puffy big tycoon man. He waist line was a big as the tree. The suit he wore was stitched with the dollar bills of a thousand bought out companies. He didn't understand anybody in the shade, because his ten gallon hat covered him in his own shade of ignorance.
His wicked smile covered his face as he said
"All ye under here better move y'all, I'm here for the tree!"
I had to do something. So I walked up to the man. I soothingly said he can in a moment, just sit and enjoy the shade for a while. All the while, I remove the ignorant hat of his, the pseudo-shade that blocked him from the beauty of this tree.
What I saw next was a look of wonder in his eyes. I could see he then understood all the worries and pains and joys and hopes of the people in the tree. He understood.
But I understood him. So I walked over towards the fallen ax, and started hacking at the bark. | 135 | A very old tree which allows people in its shade to completely understand each other. Someone has come to destroy it. | 169 |
Sleep seem to be the only place I find refuge these days. A crappy job, a crappy apartment, and a crappy social life. At least when I sleep, I can dream. I may not get a guarantee of a happy dream, but at least there's a glimmer of hope. A chance to have some brief glimpse of utter happiness. Why else to I wake to damp pillow covers?
But this dream I was having, my god. I doubt it could be any better. I found myself in a nice house in the suburbs. There was no thought in the back of my mind that I was a month behind on the bills. Just completely content with my surroundings. Then I felt a chin placed onto my shoulder.
"Morning beautiful," it whispered. Jerking my head to the left, I found myself face to face to the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. This is the kind of beauty that didn't scream film star, but a specific warmth that you grew to appreciate more and more every second you stared. Strangest of all, she was smiling. As if she was happy to see me. Hell, the only other woman to do that was my mother, but that wore off after I turned 14. The joy in this woman's eyes at my presence made my eyes water a tiny bit. "Sorry," I said, quickly wiping a tear before it became noticeable. "Who are you?"
"Right, you don't know," she said coyly. "All you need to know is I'm yours." Her? Mine? How in the hell have I found myself so lucky? "Simple," she said. "You're dreaming." Shit. I knew it was too good to be true. "But hey, we got some time to spend with each other. Let's make the most of it. So, sex?" She stepped back. I just noticed she seemed to be wearing a robe and nothing else. As she began to undress, I had to butt in. "No," I said. "Wet dreams and masturbation can only satisfy me so much. Can we just talk?" She didn't stop. As the robe fell, she was suddenly wearing normal clothes for an afternoon stroll. "Sure. Let's go for a walk."
As we stepped outside, we were suddenly on the edge of some man made lake. Pleasing to the eye, but somehow felt artificial. Should I mention that? I have no idea how to converse with people, let alone women. "So, this lake isn't natural, right?" I sounded so unsure of myself. Not so much as my opinion on the setting, more so that I was unsure of even speaking.
She gave a slight laugh. "Yeah, but it gets the job done. It almost feels real, but not enough to mask the illusion completely. People don't like things being too real. Attachment scares people, y'know?"
"I guess," I said.
She replied, "but why do you think that is?"
Hmm, that puzzled me. It took me a minute to think of retort. "...because real things change I guess?"
"Go on..."
"Well, if it isn't real, you can just fix what you don't like pretty easily. And it can't be fixed, just buy a new one." Fuck, is she trying to say something about the way I live? The way I seem to stay away from others?
"*I'm* not saying anything about that. Your words, not mine."
"Right," I said. "Didn't mean to accuse."
"Don't worry about it. You need to reflect on anything, this is your place to do it," she said, shooting me that heart melting smile. Jesus, that look. It made me want to surrender to her all my insecurities, my worries, my everything...
"You can if you want, but I don't think we have the time to overturn every stone of yours." Yeah, that was true. We don't have a lifetime to deal with that. "Let's start with something simple."
"Ok," I said, "Why is it I find it so hard to connect with anyone? Well, anyone but you?"
"Well, how do you interact with others? When's the last time you've had a conversation with another person face to face for a solid 15 minutes?" I hadn't the slightest idea. I talked to some customer for a bit about the Giants for some time, but was it 15 minutes? "If you have to think about if it meets the minimum time restraints, then it's been too long."
"I guess you're right, but what about you?" I felt greedy being the subject of the whole conversation, but this might not have been the best idea.
"Me? Not much to talk about," she said, that smile slowly fading to a frown. "If you really want to go this route, can we sit down?"
"Sure." There was a bench just up the path, with a picturesque view of the surroundings. We sat down, her head resting on my shoulder. Where to begin? Favorite color? What do you feel strongly about? Any bit of your life exist outside this moment? Are you as real as this lake? Are you essentially here to give me an ego boost?
"...I don't know," she whispered. "But please stay around a little bit longer." She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. I wrapped my arm around her, hoping to give her some sense of comfort. The sun was setting and it was at this point I realized this is exactly what I always wanted. Someone who not only wanted to be around me, but needed me too. Someone who needed me as much as I needed her. But I knew it would end any moment now.
"Does it have to end?" I just had to accept it. This was too good for me.
"Not if you really want it to I think." As I slipped slowly out of the dream, I held her tight. There's no way I want to let her go. It's not fair. I do not want my best moments to be here, in my head, alone. Give me this one win reality. The chance to stay with this person some more.
As I woke up, reality hit me like a brick. I fought so hard to will this. But somehow, there she was, laying right next to me, half smiling and half terrified. So where do we go from here? No response. "So where do we go from here?"
"I don't know," she said. "I'm a stranger here myself."
"I've been here somewhere close to 30 years and I've felt the same way. Let's face it together." Smiling, she hugged me, but a thought occurred. "By the way, what's your name?"
It's my first time, so please feel free to let me know where I sucked the most. | 10 | You start to wake up from a dream with a beautiful woman. As you fight to stay in the dream you grab her hand and when you wake up she has been made real. | 18 |
I was born in April 20, 1889. But I was conceived in August 5, 2527.
You can't zap a person back in time when he's destined to become one of the most infamous murderer of all time, people will learn study up on his past, why he became like that, why would anyone want to be this way?
I had no choice. I was sent as a sperm, just one. But they knew it would be enough.
I shall prevent the destruction of the human race by killing 2.5% of the worlds population.
I know what I have to become, it is instinct. I tried to fight it, I took up painting, I painted houses. Now I will paint crosses on maps where the bombs will drop. *They* intervened before any damage was done and now I stand here, in front of the Beer Hall. There will be no turning back.
Sometimes I wonder if I am simply insane, trying to justify what I must do.
I will create a movement based on hatred, on fear, on racism and anger. I will assign the worst people that existed in the world to my sides to plot better, more efficient ways to destroy. I shall become an artist, an artist of death, Europe will become my canvas and metal and blood will be my oils!
I will kill 5.5 million jews, I will remember every single one of their names. Burned into my memory forever. I will make the world cry: "No more!" so that when the time comes, when the new race evolves.
Some would say: "Not again." | 794 | Adolf Hitler is a time traveler who starts world war two to save us from something far more terrible. | 1,366 |
Digitize your brain! Upload your consciousness! Join the Cloud Collective!
That's the hype, anyway. It's a great sales pitch, especially when you realize that the alternative is cold, stark oblivion. At first it was mainly the elderly and people terminal before their time, but it gradually became more acceptable, and anyone who could afford it could do it.
The biggest problem is that a service like this is (after all) a _business_ and a business needs cash flow. These great brainkeepers had colossal power requirements, and the cost of keeping a human consciousness alive in these humongous edifices far exceeded the cost of keeping a real human alive on food. The business couldn't just require a one-time payment for the upload, no. They had to collect _rent_.
Some people, knowledge workers, an elite few, could live like this indefinitely. People who wrote code or day traded or solved equations or designed cars or balanced books could become enormously wealthy after their physical death. Everyone else, though--the manual laborers, the social networkers, the middle managers--they inevitably burned through their capital and were left with nothing.
My god did this create legal conundrums. It's easy to justify food assistance to the a live human when the alternative for them is death, but what about power assistance for e-people down on their luck? We aren't _killing_ them, per se. Just turning them off for a bit. Just until we can afford to turn them back on.
Soon, brainkeepers adopted a model formerly only seen in pay-by-the-minute live flesh shows. You want to talk to Grampa? That will be $5.99 a minute. Just enter his name into this prompt, and we'll boot him up for you. You get to visit him when it's convenient, and he gets to exist. Your visits to his virtual retirement home make his day in a very literal sense. If he gets depressive, don't worry, we can revert him to the last save. We can do this as many times as your paycheck will support.
Right up until you enter his name for the last time. | 32 | once when his heart stops beating and once when his name is said for the last time. | 37 |
She’s quite a sight there, she is. You never seen a lady quite like her. Oh, you bet you saw ladies who wanted to be her, but you ain’t seen one quite like her. Like her hair, pinned up and woven and fanning out and all fancy. You could spend hours and hours and hours trying over and over and it wouldn’t look half as good. It just wouldn’t. And her face, those soft curves and lovingly detailed edges, that little touch of makeup just right, mm-hm.
And then there’s that dress, hugging those curves of hers like a newborn baby, shows nothing what oughtn’t be shown. But it does show those arms, and who woulda thought she’s got so much strength in them? And she’s doing it right too, those fingers have the right grip, even with her nails and few rings, no siree she won’t be hurting herself or slipping. And she’s pushing with the shoulder, a little jolt every time, and then planting that little shoe and stomping down and I’d swear she’d get stuck or break it but nope, ain’t gonna happen. This is a lady who knows what she doing.
She ain’t even out of breath. Just working and working, at her own pace, little by little. Sure, it’d go faster if she had somebody to help, but, well. I dug the first one, this one’s she’s making for me. Should’ve stopped asking stupid questions.
---
-056 | [more](/r/vonBoomslang) | 16 | describe the most feminine woman you could imagine effortlessly doing something masculine. | 30 |
I look in the sky and see a giant grey barren planet. It was said in the history books that our ancestors came from there and that the planet used to be green like ours. In fact, they actually had things called oceans that spanned across the entire planet. It was a completely new world. Can you imagine that? Countless quintillions of lives have lived and died on that planet. A whole wide world with countless people to meet. I’ve heard that every continent is just a bit smaller than our moon. Can you imagine that? All you had to do was cross one these “oceans” and you would practically be at a whole new planet with a different language, culture, custom, and even people. Our moon is only composed of 30 million people. I’ve heard that the height of the planet’s population at 10,000 BCA that the population was 7 billion! Seven billion people, all living at once! What would it be like, to be a little girl and travel across the lands and meet wondrous people and different people across all the different sorts of cultures? Here, I feel like a tree, firmly rooted in the soil, just waiting, just waiting, wishing that I could be the birds that they must have been. We look at our lives with fear and discomfort not knowing what the future holds that we could end up like them, always looking at the pains of the past. How would it be if we were them? They looked at the stars and only wished and wondered about the future, about the potential they have and that they can become. We only look back at this planet and see pain and destruction, desolation. I look upon our world and I dream, I dream that I could be someone, someone who was born on this paradise of a planet. | 14 | In 10,000 years the moon will be terraformed and people will live on the surface. Describe what the life of a typical moon inhabitant would be like. | 25 |
I can't believe my luck. Here I am, chatting with the man of my dreams; tall, a bit chubby, sarcastic, great sense of humor, obviously crafty and it seems he loves Shrek as much as I do. I mean, the Ogre mask he is wearing is beyond realistic and I assume he's made it himself. It suits him perfectly. I'm so glad I decided not to ditch this party after all, gonna have to thank Sally later for dragging me along. Next to him, I feel underdressed. My black clothing and Katniss braid seems like the lamest excuse of a costume next to his exquisite attire. Oh crap, I zoned out. What did he say?
"Uhm sorry, could you repeat that? I got lost in my thoughts."
"I was just explaining how I usually avoid crowds, since I tend to... Well, people tend not to like me very much."
"Oh, yeah, I totally get that. I don't get out much either. I actually wouldn't have been here tonight if it wasn't for my friend Sally. She's the girl in the Snow White costume smoking over there."
"That's funny, Snow White is actually an avid non-smoker."
"How do you know that? Or do you just assume she is because she's a princess?"
"No, I actually met her a couple of times."
What. The. Fuck. Is this guy talking about?
"What do you mean you met her? She's a fictional character."
"Oh is she now?"
"Yes! I mean, the fairy tale might be loosely based on a true story, but if that was the case she'd still have been dead for centuries."
His laugh is an intimidating belly rumble escaping through his mouth, and I take half a step back.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, you just make no sense. Are you stupid or something?"
Did he just ask me if I'm stupid? Maybe he isn't McDreamy after all.
"Excuse me."
I walk away, leaving him alone by the nachos and onion dip. I can hear the crunch as he munches away on the snacks, apparently not even caring that he offended me. I suddenly remember the promise I made myself last time something like this happened, sigh, and turn back around.
"You know what, Ogre Face? I won't let you talk to me like that. I know we don't know each other, and I really don't feel like getting to know after what you just said, but I promised myself to call out jerks on their jerky behavior. You have no right to call me stupid because you and I have different opinions, and you are not getting away with it. I'm not going to be walked all over like a door mat anymore. You owe me an apology."
He looks at me like I really am stupid.
"'Ogre Face'? Did you really call me 'Ogre Face'? That's like if I'd call you 'Human Face', and you're just making me more sure that you really are stupid."
"What the fuck are you even talking about?"
I'm standing right in front of him now, and people around us have started glancing our way.
"I'm talking about how I'm an ogre, and you're a human, and you calling me 'Ogre Face' is just a statement, like if I would call you 'Human Face'."
"Stop fucking around! You're not an ogre, they're NOT REAL!"
I can hear myself yelling, without having made the conscious choice to do so.
"They're not? So how would you explain my green, ugly ogre face, and my green, ugly ogre hands, and my green, ugly ogre feet?"
"It's all make up, and admittedly that mask is amazing, but it's all just fake!"
"Really? My face is a mask? Then go ahead and take it off."
His brown eyes were challenging me, and I begin to feel a seed of doubt. Every single person at the party is quiet now, and the music's gone. I look around me before taking the last, tiny step towards him. Trembling I reach up for his neck, pinching at what must be the edge of his mask. I can't believe it. It feels like thick, rough skin, and nothing like the plasticy matter I had anticipated. Immidiately I let go of my grip, and shake my head in disbelief. The room is dead silent, and I can't utter a single syllable. I just keep shaking my head. This guy not only looks like Shrek, he actually is him. Without a word I drop on my knees, and everything goes black. | 71 | A girl hooks up with a masked guy at a party. Contrary to what she thinks, he's not really wearing a mask... | 183 |
Putin is laughing inside of his Moon-base - It was all a set-up, a false-flag attack on his own country. Why? Why not is the better question. Why not enjoy the show of the entire world burning to dust so that you can later conquer it all with the small group of survivors you are preserving on Moon. A cryostasis sleep for a few thousand years will be enough for the dust to settle and for radiation disappear.
Putin "dies" in the initial explosion, with only a skeleton government surviving, all puppets under Putin's control. They accuse America for the attack, even though the bomb itself was of Russian origin. Putin's Russia initiate a barrage of nuclear missile strikes towards the American soil. China jumps in and showers the West coast with nuclear missiles.
Obama, knowing full-well that the entire free world is becoming history in just a few short hours, orders the military to *not* initiate a counter-attack, the point being to ensure humanity's survival in spite of the global nuclear war. American people erupt in rage, most branches of the military go rogue and, with one half, attack China and the other regroups in Europe to get on the Russian soil as soon as possible - Russians surely aren't insane enough to bomb their own country.
European forces march towards Russia, only to be met by the most devastating nuclear bomb Earth has ever seen - the entire continent of Europe is destroyed. President Obama has been shot and killed by a member of the secret service - his family back in the bay area has been killed by one of the Chinese bombs. Washington D.C. has been warded of by diligent pilots who have taken down the bomb - many other cities were not as lucky.
Some American troops manage to get on the Russian territory. Putin, however, launches even more missiles, now aimed at the American soldiers, among his own people as well. Several of the nuclear missile launch sites have been invaded by British SAS units and made nonoperational. It doesn't matter - Putin has an even bigger plan.
Sixty Mechagodzillas rises out of the Pacific ocean and begin their hunt for the major Asian cities. China is furious, nuclear missiles do not appear to do any damage to the behemoths. Japan, before being destroyed by the mechagodzillas, remove the ban on nudity - at least the people will be happy until they *die*. They also have, however, their secret card. While Japan has been prohibited from building an army, there didn't appear any signs of bans on gigantic mecha robots. And so they arise from the ground to meet the mechagodzillas in an epic battle.
He has been awoken. After eons upon eons of deep slumber, he has been awoken by the great rough and tumble on the surface of Earth. Cthulhu rises up from the ocean and begins destroying and reclaiming the Earth.
Putin was a bit surprised by this. No matter, the final trick up his sleeve will solve this problem - Gigantic missiles have been built around the Moon and with them he will guide it into the Earth. A gigantic explosion, something the Earth hasn't seen in many millions of years. The planet split in half, the moon dispersed upon the impact. Cthulhu still present on one of the halves. As the explosion settled, Putin's *actual* final ace up his sleeve reveals - A moon-sized Mecha with him commanding it with his body movements. The two behemoths go into battle and remain interlocked, until entropy itself didn't finish off the both of them.
From the remnants of Putin's body begins the universe anew. And so the cycle continues.
| 29 | 5 am March 10, 2014. A nuclear bomb goes off in Moscow. | 37 |
James looked at those around him. Swaddled in down jackets and scarves he could hardly distinguish male from female. Bleary eyes peeked out from beneath layers of fabric. Clouds of breath hung shortly in the air. They bustled in the snow-colored light of mid-afternoon, quietly stepping around one another telepathically, eyes hardly leaving the small patch of snow-laden ground directly in front of them. They managed to avoid James entirely, dodging him without thought. Something about the cold weather draws our gaze inwards, away from the horizon, until we focus almost entirely on ourselves. Those who surround us fade into the background, dim ghosts gathering snow until they become indistinguishable from it.
The snow...James looked at the heavy, muted flakes billowing around him. They were unlike the snow he grew up with, snow which cut the skin and burned it raw, an icy spectacle that called for thick layers at all times of the day. He found the quiet square in which he sat a pleasant reprieve from the howling winds which raised him. Like every other so-called cold climate he had found himself in since his youth he felt perfectly comfortable. With nothing more than a thin sweater and jeans he could sit all day watching the people in the square carry out their business.
This made it easy for him to do his job. He had come to Quebec for the purpose of finding one Michael Haas. Haas, a retired mechanic from Arizona, had recently moved up north to "find the peace one deserves in their old age", as his grandson had put it. James might have believed that story were it not for the fact that he had to convince the young man that he wasn't "another cop or reporter" trying to get his granddad in trouble again. Not to mention some minor details which deserved special consideration, namely the massive fire which not only engulfed Haas' former shop but half the town with it. And that's ignoring the various witness reports describing the old man walking through the flames as if they weren't there, not even his clothing catching fire. One young woman had told James she saw Haas' hands "covered in flames...like he was holding it like a real thing." The nurses told him that ever since the fire, and the death of her family in the explosion, she had taken to repeating that fantasy. It was just about the only thing anyone could get out of her anymore.
But Quebec...initially that seemed like an odd choice to James, especially for someone with Haas' proclivities. Then again, in the increasingly globalized world, James supposed that home could be wherever one likes it to be. Long ago people lived their entire lives on the same small plot of land, surrounded by the same faces and trees, their destinies, habits, world views all shaped by the stuff around them. Today we were surrounded with whatever we could afford to surround ourselves with. Smart phones and computer screens have become more windows to the outside world to us than actual windows ever were. No need to dream of distant countries when one can just as easily travel there, take up an identity, and become a citizen.
But Haas wasn't trying to expand his horizons. He was running from something, that much was clear. The media chalked up the explosion that day, two years ago, to a faulty gas line in Haas' shop. Just so happened that his shop was located next to a gas station. One thing led to another, and in that dry Arizona summer heat...well, it was easy to assume that one thing led to another. People believed the established story and moved on. Michael Haas became one more ghost in a town of ghosts. Were it not for the Monk's information, James probably would have believed it too. So he looked more closely and found that, suspiciously, Haas had become increasingly paranoid in the months leading up to the explosion. His family members, the ones who would talk with James, revealed a man overcome with fear and anger. He had taken to blaming the government for many of his and the world's problems, always keeping the blinds drawn and one eye on the street. Any out-of-the-ordinary car was suspect to vulgar ramblings. He began taking more and more time off work. His family thought he had finally begun to slip. After all, it's difficult raising a family of seven without the help of a woman while running a full-time business. And honestly, ever since Marjorie's passing he had never really been the same.
"I never really thought he went crazy though. Always knew him to be one of the smartest guys around. It scared me. I began to believe what he was sayin', that he was bein' followed and that there were men from the government tryin' to get him. All that."
"What do you believe now?"
Greg Haas looked out the window through the thing slits of his Venetian blinds. A black sedan sat baking in the terrible Arizona heat about a hundred yards down the road. "I don't know. You always hear about those old people that sort of lose it after a while, begin talking about things that aren't there. Mind begins to go." He paused and looked down at the kitchen table where he sat. "And maybe it's just me...I mean, people see what they look for, right? It's like when you see that one bright red Mustang on the street one day and you begin to see it everywhere. Even though you know it's the same one, for some reason you just see it more."
He looked at James. "But all those black cars ain't Mustangs, and I know I ain't hallucinatin' government license plates."
The government. Not exactly a surprising twist in the tale, but it certainly did fit with the Monk's information. After speaking with Haas' grandson James knew he had his man, knew that the stories about him carrying fire were real. Thank God Haas managed to find one family member he could confide in. Still, new players only meant new questions. Nobody was supposed to know anything of the true story, the reason why James was hunting down Haas. Then again, was it surprising that the government was more privy to the finer details of the situation than the general public? Isn't that always how this plays out? James sighed, a cloud of his frozen breath appearing and disappearing quickly before him. Nothing had been easy up to now, why should the next chapter be any different?
Two weeks of sitting in the various cafes and bookstores, hours spent in front of the local mechanic shops, and still nothing. The wallet-sized photo Greg Haas had given to James only a month before was faded and beginning to fray at the edges from being looked at so often. Not that James needed to look at it anymore. He could pick Haas' face out of a line-up blindfolded. Having a scar covering the left side of his face only made it easier. Regardless, James was becoming impatient. The city hall provided no information either, not that he expected as much. No way Haas would move to a new city and keep his old name, not after he was supposed to be dead. And especially not with the government after him. Even if this was Canada he couldn't risk it. If Uncle Sam wanted him they'd get him, no matter which country he called home.
James continued to watch the bustle of activity around him. It continued unabated as before. Mothers dragged their children through the freshly-fallen snow while fathers rushed to whatever meeting awaited them. Smaller figures, which James assumed to be teenagers, hung around the benches and tables set out in front of the nearby coffee shops, huddling in the temporary warmth which occasionally flowed outward from the cozy interiors. The square was muted, the sound softened by the falling and fallen snow; save for the damp muffle of footprints, James hardly heard a whisper. He was awash in a crowd which cared not for him, a sea of people who couldn't be bothered to notice if he existed. He sat, under-dressed yet inconspicuous, on a cold bench in the middle of the square, unwatched and watching. He didn't know what to expect at this point. Surely he wasn't about to run into Haas in the middle of the city. Even if they were to cross paths, Haas would likely be wearing thick clothing to protect himself from the cold. James didn't expect an Arizona man to have acclimated so quickly. So there goes any hope of recognizing his face...
A tickle on the back on James' neck stopped his train of thoughts. He froze in his survey of the crowd before him, not moving an inch. Slowly, he turned his head to the right, where he could feel he was being watched. One doesn't spend all day sitting unobserved only to ignore the feeling of total isolation. Something had changed.
About 50 yards to his right sat a man. He wore a dark trench coat, black pants and shoes, a black small-brimmed hat, and, strangely, sunglasses. He sat unmoving, staring directly at James. His face wore no expression. James met his gaze and held it for what seemed like minutes. He noticed no blemish on the man's face.
A crowd of tourists stepped in between them, blocking James' view. Not sure what to do, he remained where he was, frozen to the spot. The tourists inched out of the way, drawing out the time by taking an unnecessary amount of pictures. They eventually cleared out of the way and-
The man was gone.
"James Henson?" The voice came from directly behind him. "Please stand up, remove your hands from your pockets, and do not attempt to move."
James did not move a muscle. "Who are you?"
"I will not repeat myself Mr. Henson. Stand up, remove your hands-"
James did as he was told and the man suddenly stopped talking. Turning around slowly, he saw that the man had a radio in his left hand and his right in his coat pocket. He looked to be holding something, pointing it directly at James. He looked...*scared*. He brought the radio to his mouth and spoke to whomever was on the other end.
"Who are you?" repeated James.
"I think you know who we are Mr. Henson."
**con't in reply** | 19 | You are the Avatar in the year 2014. Most people don't believe bending ever existed. There are only 4 benders left in the world, one for each element. | 35 |
Firstly: Best writing prompt ever! Here goes nothing.
'Who needs another top up of bubbly?' Shouted Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the II, clutching a magnum of champagne and trying to make herself heard over the raucous din. Her thin, high voice didn't carry well over the general chaos being caused by the milieux of intoxicated world leaders and in any case, no-one was listening.
'Ah, isss only the '87' mumbled a disgruntled David Cameron, who proceeded to wipe his shining brow and sway off into the next room in search of a better vintage. Clapping and cheering erupted from the corner of the tapestried ballroom where the Grand Ayatollah Ali Hoseini-Khameini had started to play on the antique grand piano; an extremely tipsy and rather giggly Ban Ki-Moon was now draped over the top of the shining black wood and was attempting to sing along much to the delight of the small crowd of assembled music loving autocrats.
Yoweri Museveni, the Ugandan President, had started off the formal drinks reception boring others talking about his anti-homosexual legislative agenda (a matter of 'moral importance') and was now, ten glasses of red wine later, making eyes at Francois Hollande, the French Premiere. Hollande, however, was far too pre-occupied with Angela Merkel's large (and strangely pert he thought) breasts, as the gyrated invitingly in circles whilst she twirled her shirt around her head shouting in a very loud, guttural voice.
Pope Francis, after discovering a penchant for tequila, had spent most of the evening pinching various bottoms and then running away cackling to himself but now had his head in a flower pot, heaving up a thoroughly unholy sacrament.
Putin had stripped down to his vest and was circling the room flexing his muscles to anyone who would pay him attention; however he got more than he bargained for when he accidentally bumped into the usually peevish Canadian PM Stephen Harper who instead of apologising promptly told him to 'Fuck off!'
Her Royal Highness sighed to herself and turned around to face a very relaxed looking Barack Obama, who was trying to work his blackberry to ring for a pizza delivery; however he was having rather too much trouble with the buttons.
Prince Harry grinned sheepishly at his grandmother and offered a jocular comment:
'Great party nan!'
'This is the last time I let you organise anything' the Queen replied acidly. | 42 | Queen Elizabeth II hosts a tea party at Buckingham Palace attended by numerous world leaders. It proves to be a rager, and the party gets out of control. | 79 |
“Lay him down on the table, come on,” instructed Grady as Menslin heaved Harris’ wheezing hefty frame onto the flat slab. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s been coughing all week,” Menslin explained. “I don’t know- he started coughing up blood today, and he’s just been completely incapacitated. We’ve keep him isolated from everyone else. I’ve ordered people to wear masks.”
“Good,” Grady affirmed, placing a surgical mask over his own face and strapping on latex gloves. “Looks like severe dilation of the pupils.” He pulled one of Harris’ eye-lids back and shined a pencil light in his eye. The cold nodule of the stethoscope pressed against Harris’ chest and he felt like he was back in the doctor’s office as a ten year old. “Take deep breaths,” Grady instructed- listening to the fluid in Harris’ lungs.
“What’s wrong with me?” Harris gargled and then coughed again, blood spatters appearing on his palm.
“Sounds like pneumonia so far. How long did you stay out on your shift yesterday?” Grady questioned.
“Not longer than usual, ten hour shift-“ Harris shrugged.
“Don’t play me, I know Menslin has you on eight hour shifts,” Grady grilled him. Harris nodded.
“Okay, okay- you’re right, I started coughing around hour eight,” Harris admitted, heaving another chunk of blood into his hand.
“Nonetheless, this shouldn’t be happening with pneumonia,” Grady mumbled to Menslin. “Why don’t you go get me Foreman Jons, I’m gonna get on the horn with Doctor Paisley. We’ll give you an antibiotic for now, and keep you in the hot tent.” Menslin nodded and walked away with purpose as Grady set Harris up inside the observation room with a humidifier and a steam machine. He went into the adjacent communications tent and loaned out a satellite phone.
____________________
“Stupid asshole,” cursed Grady as he walked back into the medical tent gritting his teeth. Doctor Paisley had completely ignored the unusual symptoms reported by Grady, despite his insistence. “What a son of a bitch.” As he moved toward the hot tent, he thought about what the dispatch operator had told him- a seventy two hour storm and communication cut off. Effectively, Paisley had ignored an urgent plea at the last second with no reservations at all. Grady grumbled more to himself as he pulled the curtain back in front of the hot tent’s window.
Grady blanched. Sitting on the observation table was a live sheep. It baaed peacefully as it observed Grady. That’s when Grady started coughing.
________________________
“We can’t get a visual ID on the camp yet,” the helicopter operator replied. “We should be pretty close though. Their transponder is still working.” As the helicopter traversed the blasting white of the snowy arctic tundra, a dome and several drilling facilities became visible on the horizon. The operator reported visual contact as he moved closer. There were small white tufts on the ground that looked strange- like moving clumps of snow.
“What the hell are those?” the operator asked his co-pilot as they drew closer. When they came close enough to circle, the co-pilot pulled the binoculars from his face.
“They’re…they’re sheep,” he said, stunned. The base was full of sheep- just standing in the arctic cold, baaing peacefully.
| 20 | Arctic oil driller contracts 30,000-year-old virus. | 57 |
The Mariana Trench is the heart of the Pacific. Her guardians are silence, darkness, and cold, and no one may cross her borders without paying them homage. Darkness and cold admit no interlopers, but silence occasionally gives way to the low cries of the Leviathan--the great traveler of the waters--and sometimes to other calls, so deep as to be soundless to the ears of man, but felt by him nonetheless, if ever he ventured through the wastes. The darkness cloaks the makers of these calls, and they make their dwellings in the secret places of the deep.
But fire broke the endless night. The waters swirled with heat and glowed with mirthless flames, and light and death came upon many who slumbered in the dark places. The unseen callers' cries grew urgent, and the waters were pierced with their wails as they perished struggling against the dawn invader. The pitchless cries of the slain subsided at last, and the deep was silent again.
But the homeland of the dwellers of the deep now glowed with rivulets of pale and murderous fire. Dark mountains, long undisturbed and unmoved, rumbled in their foundations with the promise of more fire, and the ones who yet slumbered awoke to hear the oaths of the hidden heights, and knew that this was a homeland to them no more.
So they made their preparations for exile. Great creatures gathered in the few and shrinking plains of darkness, far from the Trench which had borne the brunt of the silent invader's wrath. The waves shifted with the creatures' wanderings, and the Pacific roiled with storms. Tongues long unspoken in the lighter places of the Earth rumbled in the depths, and the shorelines trembled to hear their ancient strains once more.
At last they rose. The slumberers beat a path from the deep, and their long-muffled cries reverberated in the daylight as they clambered onto the shorelines. They stood hundreds of feet tall in ghastly and terrible shapes, and their bellows were hurricanes in the trembling air of Earth. Humanity cried out in terror to see them once more, for though they knew them not, they recalled their awful forms.
The fires of Man that trickled from the islands had broken the spell the long-dead Olympians had cast, and the prisoners of Tartaros, the Titans, had returned at last. | 41 | It has been 10 years since the Fukushima nuclear disaster. Something emerges from the depths of the Pacific, where millions of gallons of radioactive water was dumped. | 51 |
It's only been 1800 years, but I think that is enough for me.
People say that you die twice, the first when your heart has stopped, and the second when you are forgotten. I think I already died the second death, then. For the first two hundred years, I did try to live as normal. Live as I am as everybody else. But I became tired of it. I couldn't keep track of my friends, my children's children, or even the world. I just stopped, I am too tired to live. Eventually I was dead.
But I noticed I wasn't the only one. People die, biologically, as they always do. Years and years but they never found the cure for death. Around 300 years after they claimed they found that cure, but that only slowed death down. Not me, nothing can kill me.
But death is more than that. People keep getting forgotten, even great icons of their time, and not even the greatest can stand the test of time. They died that second death, they all did. This death though, no one knew how to fix it. They tried a lot of things, from saving into hard drives to doing it the old fashioned way. Their entire life could be recorded, but what does that matter if it would just be left among all the other more interesting lives recorded. Are they really remembered just by being written into text?
And so, I tried remembering. As much as I could, everything that is worth remembering. The lives of everyone. The time machine they created might still not be able to save them, but I could use it and do so. It took a while.
When the universe was almost over, I still wasn't finished. I kept going back, trying to store them in my head, and at long last, I can remember. One death is enough for them, as it is for me. | 14 | An immortal being finds their purpose. | 16 |
It was about 10:59 when the sky was suddenly overshadowed with the hull of an enormous ship.
Most civilians did not even notice it was a ship in the sky, assuming that it was some sort of strange cloud; that was until a massive blue flickering screen appeared from the depths.
**ORGANISMS OF EARTH, SURRENDER PRINCESS BLARZAVADOR OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES**
Everyone look around confused, the screen paused for a bit waiting before speaking again.
**DO NOT ACT NAIVE. BLARZAVADOR HAD EVADED US FOR MILLENNIUMS WITH THE SECRET OF OUR RACE, NOW WE FIND HER IMAGE ON YOUR PLANET, A POPULAR AND FAMOUS CELEBRITY AMONG EVERYONE, SHARING THE FORBIDDEN TECHNOLOGIES**
A man in the crowd became a little more confident and blurted out, "What does she look like?"
**SHE IS KNOWN FOR HER EXTRAVAGANT BEAUTY, ABLE TO PERSUADE ANYONE WITH JUST THE HINT OF HER FLAMING SEXUALITY.**
Again no response.
**FINE, WE WILL SHOW YOU WHAT YOU ALREADY KNOW**
A picture of Jabba the Hut flashed on screen.
**THROUGHOUT YOUR MEDIA, BLARZAVADOR WAS PRESENT, DELIVER HER TO US OR SUFFER OUR WRATH**
Everyone was now worried, how the heck were they going to deliver a person that does not exist. Suddenly the screen flashed again.
**WHERE IS BLARZAVADOR? ARE YOUR TRANSPORTERS MALFUNCTIONING?**
"We don't have transporters Dweeb!" Someone cried, "Yeah that's not even the right movie anyway, what kind of Star-Wars fan are you?" Another person joined in.
**HOW DARE YOU TRIVIALIZE OUR ANCESTORS FOR THEIR ROLE IN THE STAR-WARS, WE FOUGHT VERY HARD FOR THE RIGHTS OF GUMM-TAHA AND DON'T YOU FILTHY HUMANS FORGET IT. BESIDES THE POINT, WE KNOW YOU HAVE TRANSPORTERS, WE SEEN IT IN YOUR MEDIA**
"That's fake it's all fake you idiots" People were screaming at the ships.
**ARE YOU SUGGESTING THAT YOUR BRILLIANT TECHNOLOGIES ARE MERE FABRICATIONS? THAT BLARZAVADOR IS MERELY A COINCIDENCE OF CHARACTER? BECAUSE IF THATS SO, THEN THAT IS THE LAMEST THING I EVER HEARD A CIVILIZATION DO. REALLY YOU SPENT BILLIONS OF EARTH-MONIES TO FAKE REAL TECHNOLOGY? WE ARE LAUGHING OUR GYRLB-GLANDS OFF.**
The ship then vanished in the blink of an eye. Soon everything was back to normal.
Meanwhile in a trailer park far far away.
"That was a close one, Princess Blarzavador, are you sure you are going to be alright here?"
The woman looked up at the FBI agents and answered silently, "Yes, you have done very well protecting me, I'm positive that Earth is the safest place for me and my children."
"What are you going to do now?"
"It is too dangerous to show my face on TV anymore for too long, I think I will send in my youngest giblet, Princess Alanazabob, to spread the message of peace and sassy-ness"
Out of the corner, came the young girl. Looking sleepy-eyed at her mother.
"Yes my darling" Blarzavador spoke, "You will be the next queen, the next Honey Boo Boo."
| 32 | Aliens arrive on earth only to find the world at the height of a huge popularity boom in sci-fi. It's everywhere. The only problem is, the aliens don't know the "fi" part of it. | 33 |
A few years ago, I was in a rough state. I'd been living without a roof over my head for months and winter was on it's way, and winter here isn't something I wanted to face out on the streets. After much deliberation, I decided to do something that I would have once thought unthinkable.
I broke into an old abandoned home. It just looked like any old condemned house from the early 1900's. The rooms were cleared of furniture and the wallpaper was rotten and peeling, but it was a roof, and it would protect me from the cold November winds. I moved my supplies in that afternoon. I had a sleeping bag and cheap foam pillow, the kind that's sold for car or bus passengers, along with a kerosene tank with a lamp attachment, and my old guitar Susanne.
The first night, I slept like a baby. The wind howled through the old pine trees at the end of that old dirty road and I knew that I could get my life on track one day at a time. I didn't like the idea of breaking the law, but I was desperate, I had no money and I was trying to get clean. I slept comfortably for a few days, before the sounds started.
It was quiet at first. A creak here, a pop there, in the middle of the night. I didn't think much of it. It was just old pipes, I told myself. The house was older than my dad. I did my best to ignore it and went back to sleep, and that was that. Night after night, the noises continued and I didn't pay them much thought.
December came.
I woke up one morning in another room. Rather than the front right room of the house, I found myself in the foyer, sleeping on the cold stone floor. I stirred awake and pulled myself to a stand. It was dark and my lamp was glowing in the next room. I slowly pulled myself up to a stand and pop- There went another pipe.
And then I heard footsteps behind me. I turned on my heel and saw nothing but darkness in the next room. I got my lamp by the handle and investigated. The house was empty on the first floor, and the stairs were old and rotten so I wasn't going to check up there. I went back to bed after calming my nerves.
The next day, I visited my neighbor for the first time. She was an elderly woman who lived near the street. She offered me food and breakfast once I told her my story, and when she asked where I'd been staying, she had this wary look about her face and suggested that I stay in her son's old room upstairs.
I politely declined. I left after raking the leaves in her front yard and returned home. That night, I fell asleep with a large board by my sleeping bag, something to defend myself if I needed it. I thought it was funny, and that I was giving myself the heebie jeebies for no reason.
I woke up in the very early hours of the morning being dragged down a hallway. I screamed at the top of my lungs and flailed my hands against the walls, my fingernails digging into rotten wallpaper. I couldn't see anything, but I felt the unmistakable feel of something pulling my feet.
I couldn't do anything but scream and scream. I was pulled into a closed door at the end of the hallway. The force released me. I got up and ran for my life in the darkness, feeling around an unfamiliar layout.
I reached an open area with a cracked window and I realized that I was upstairs. How could I have been upstairs? The stairs were rotten, with holes and missing sections. There was no way that I'd have been dragged up there, especially since I weighed some 200lbs. I felt a warm breath on the back of my neck and heard a mass of footsteps again in the darkness. With the stairs behind me, I made a run and jumped for it. I hit the floor and my ankle pulled, but my adrenaline made me ignore it.
I smashed through the front door and ran screaming into the wilderness.
After an hour, I found myself on the highway. A car stopped with the driver getting out to assist me. I was delirious, with my feet bloodied by the run through the rough forest and my mind consumed with fright.
The police took me in and I was taken to a care center. I told them everything, the footsteps, the waking up being dragged, the breath, everything.
They told me the house I'd supposedly stayed at burned down in 1955.
| 12 | Make me afraid of the dark | 26 |
Michael felt the metal bar slip away between his chunky fingers. He swung his arms wildly at it, trying desperately to grasp at the cursed thing as it drifted slowly away from him...
...as he drifted slowly away from it...
Michael's muscles relaxed...
He stilled his arms...
He never realized how little he felt. "The Blue Marble" encapsulated the whole of his peripheral vision... and he was so small. And he felt so little... so little emotion. His EVA suit, an inky black drab riddled with magazine pouches and straps probably weighed close to a hundred kilograms, and yet he felt nothing.
Michael thought of home...
He looked down at the station's platform. It was a good distance away now. The pressure grenade's blast was strong and it had carried Michael and half of his squad away from the station at quite a great speed.
Some of the others still had some monopropellant left in their suits and quickly made it back to the station. Others, like Michael, simply drifted away.
He wondered if his squad would have noticed he was gone. The team had been fighting in complete silence since the radio got knocked out. He doubted any of them could see him anyway. With the black camouflage of his suit, there was no way anyone could see him... not at that distance.
'Well I guess this is it...' he thought. He had about 90 minutes of oxygen left.
He could see the streaks of light dashing across the station, bullets being fired. He couldn't even remember what they were fighting for. One faceless corporation shooting at another faceless corporation. What the hell were these metal hunks in space worth anyway?
He reached for the suit's control on his wrist to release the oxygen.
But then the silence was broken. Michael fell into a spin as another body collided into him. The corpse's frozen blood splattering across his visor with several unnerving 'clinks'. Michael reacted instinctively, grabbing at the debris immediately.
He straightened the body in front of him. The corpse's face was gone, and the body frozen and very much lifeless. Michael paid it no heed. He reached around the back and found what he was looking for, a strap.
His own had been severed early in the fight. But with luck, this soldier's was not. He followed the strap to what he knew was there. As he reeled it in, it caught the light and glistened just a little.
Michael released the body and grabbed at the prize, wrapping his hands around the pistol grip and pulling the rifle close to his body. His left hand slapped the magazine and he drew the bolt decisively, chambering a round.
He took aim at the tether that connected his prize to its deadweight and fired.
Apart from the muffled click of the rifle's vibration through his body, there was no sound. But the strap was destroyed and with a kick, the debris began to drift away from him.
Michael felt no emotion. He pointed the rifle away from the station and emptied it.
Turning his head, he saw the station begin to get closer. Grabbing at his chest, feeling the velcro patch on his glove stick to the magazine attached to him, Michael reloaded the firearm and chambered another round.
As his feet hit the station, Michael broke into a sprint, magnets in his boots keeping him firmly planted to the surface.
His fight was far from over.
-------------------------------------
I just immediately thought of this game where you shoot at each other on the moon with jet packs and stuff. I think it was called shattered earth or shattered horizon or something. I can't quite remember and am lazy to check.
Then I thought of gravity. And then I wrote this. Hope you like! | 10 | Write about the very first battle to occur in space as realistically as you can. | 16 |
**Randy the Rhino Has a Terrible Day**
Randy the Rhino rose from his bed and looked out at the day. Today it was Monday and that wasn’t okay! He couldn’t stay home and play as he chose, he had to go to work to punch holes with his big, pointy nose. Randy kicked and screamed—oh, why was it Monday?! When he went to bed it was definitely Sunday. What had happened, he thought, as he sighed in frustration. Yet despite all his anger, Randy accepted his obligation.
Randy put on his favorite blue shorts and his favorite red shirt, then ate his breakfast—some wonderful yogurt! Although it was Monday, Randy was feeling more happy, and when he walked outside he was no longer crabby. The sun was shining and the air was warm, Randy’s neighbor was out mowing the lawn. He waved and said hello, and Randy waved back. Maybe Monday wasn’t going to be that bad.
Randy the Rhino walked down his front path and stopped at the street. He looked in both directions then resumed moving his feet. Randy hopped up the curb and continued his way, passing by friends he saw every day. There was Gina the Gerbil and Larry the Lark, Timmy the Turtle and Sammy the Shark. And oh, who is this? Who could it be? It was Mary the Monkey and Billy the Bee! He smiled and waved as they passed his way, their faces blank and clearly afraid. They looked so skinny, so scared and alone, an empty bag hanging from Billy’s arm bone; their eyes remained motionless as if their soul wasn’t home. Randy laughed gleefully at their silly games and continued walking on his cheerful way. Perhaps Monday wasn’t the worst day!
Randy the Rhino passed by all sorts of things: From buildings and parks to plain, empty swings. He passed by crowds and houses and zoos, until he came to an alley of strange dangling shoes. They hung on a wire high up in the sky, as if someone had tried to see if they’d fly! He smiled and laughed, how silly they were. Shoes were for feet, not for way above doors! He fell to the floor and continued laughing, but stopped when he saw four feet come thrashing. They were charging his way, running with purpose; two blurs that seemed to think life worthless. Randy rolled over to face the commotion, squinting his eyes as he set into motion. Who was that running? Who could it be? It was Mary the Monkey and Billy the Bee! Randy the Rhino smiled with glee—his friends were here to see what he’d seen.
The two kept on running faster and faster, charging straight for him – this could be a disaster! He tried to stand up, to move far away, but his actions came just a mere second too late. The weight of Mary the Monkey and Billy the Bee came crashing down before he could flee. They covered his mouth, and as Randy cowered, he quickly discovered he was quite overpowered! Billy then turned and presented his stinger, plunging it deep into Randy’s poor finger. He screamed as he felt it exit his hand, his bone snapping off as if on command. Mary laughed as he shuttered in pain, then shoved her fist almost into his brain. He screamed out for help, but nobody came, as she repeated the process again and again. He begged her to stop; he was crying and pleading, every part of him was now badly bleeding.
Billy the Bee looked down with some pity, then smiled and beat him half into the city. Mary hit next, her fists smashing a ditty, and laughed in his face as his blood became gritty. They giggled and cheered, fists flying like rockets, until Randy’s eyes remained still in their sockets. Together they knelt and grabbed at his blue pockets, digging to see if he even carried a wallet! He didn’t, it seemed, but that was okay: His big, pointy nose would surely save their day. With knives and hatchets they carved quickly away, until what was his now belonged to just they. The two then stood up and happily went on their way, bag dripping red like a spilled Cabernet. To them it had seemed a rather successful day: For more meth this horn would surely pay!
Randy the Rhino lay still and afraid, the light of the day now withering away. He closed his eyes slowly and heard himself say, “Monday sure is a terrible day!” | 71 | Write a children's story that turns incredibly dark | 41 |
The merchant walked along the street, leading his gold adorned white stallion. Riding his horse was the beautiful and well connected daughter of this region's sultan. He stopped in front of the largest tent in the bazaar and helped his (hopefully) future bride dismount.
"Hellooooo!" a voice called from inside the tent. A young and handsome man appeared in its opening. He had a short beard and bright eyes that danced as he saw the sultan's daughter and a clearly wealthy foreigner. "Welcome, welcome, welcome!" he boomed. In a second he was shaking the merchant's hand and kissing his cheeks. "Please, come into my tent out of the sun, you two!"
"Thank you," murmured the daughter.
"Uh, yes, thank you," said the merchant, slightly dazed at the sudden and warm welcome.
"Please take a look at my wares!" The shopkeeper bustled out of the back of the tent and reappeared with a steaming teapot. "My father is the true owner of this shop, but his age keeps him from tending to it now and again. I assure you, I can still answer *any* of your questions!" He passed them both a cup of hot tea, muddled with spices.
"Oh, that's so kind of you to do that for your father," the sultan's daughter smiled sweetly, bending her khol covered eyes into pleasant bows. She took a sip and arched her eyebrows, "Wow, this is really delicious, sir. I must have the recipe." Her tone was syrupy.
"Um," the merchant cleared his throat, "yes, I want to know about this sword here. This hilt is magnificent! I'll give you four sheep for it and a **ram**."
The shopkeeper threw his arms in the air and let out a hearty laugh. The merchant smiled, feeling as though he had thoroughly impressed everyone in the room.
"No, no, no!" said the shopkeeper between shaky laughs. "It is true that this is a fine dagger, but I cannot take that much from you!"
"Sir," the merchant smiled and chuckled, "this is no inconvenience to me, I have more sheep than I care to count." He casually, but purposefully adjusted his gold and ruby belt.
"Please, please," said the shopkeeper, "It is my duty to be welcoming to strangers in our sultan's lands. Allow me to give you this dagger for *three* sheep. I do not need the ram."
The merchant exhaled sharply while the sultan's daughter nodded her approval with a large, sympathetic smile.
"Well, as a man of wealth," the merchant said through a forced smile, "I must insist I extend proper compensation for your father's goods."
"That is so kind, sir," the shopkeeper responded with ease and joy, "but my father would agree that we must encourage trade with foreigners. It is important we keep our reputation for generosity."
"Al-right," the merchant spoke but hardly moved his jaw, "Three sheep, then."
"Oh!" the shopkeeper suddenly exclaimed. His attention was on the other side of the tent, where the sultan's daughter was holding an elaborate necklace up to her throat, watching her reflection in a small mirror. The shopkeeper was immediately at her side. The merchant clamored over to be there as well. He attempted to stand between the two.
"How much is this?" The merchant asked quickly, "I don't care the price -- anything for this flower!" He jerked his hands to point at the necklace. Without meaning to, his voice gradually escalated to a shout, "Rubies, sapphires, silver, and gold! What, are these pearls, too?! This must, *must* but a very, very expensive necklace!"
"Oh, it *is*!" responded the shopkeeper gleefully. The merchant did an odd and only slightly suppressed skip-jump in excitement, "WELL THEN I'LL --" he began, but the shopkeeper cut him off.
"But how, just how, can I ask for payment when it is clear the sultan's own daughter wants it so much?" The merchant deflated. "Besides, who can ask such a beauty to pay for beauty? Does the sun pay for the flower? Of course not, the flower can only be beautiful if the sun is there!"
The merchant squinted his eyes and shook his head. *What a convoluted metaphor, there's no way the sultan's daughter would* -- but she giggled and shifted her headdress so that the shopkeeper could clasp the necklace. The merchant made fist and bit his knuckle.
"I SWEAR, sir. You must, absolutely, let me pay for this necklace!" his eyes searched around wildly, "and this chair! And this carpet! And all four of these books!" He went on, madly listing the most expensive looking items in the tent.
The sultan's daughter held her hand gracefully up to her lips in surprise. The shopkeeper laughed and put his hands up in feigned surrender, "Of course, sir! How wonderful! My father will be elated at your kindness and generosity!"
The two sat and drew out a contract. The merchant was spending a lot, probably more than he should be paying, but it still looked impressive to have so much that even making another man wealthy would not hurt his status.
Pleased with his purchases, he took the sultan's daughter back to her father's home, adorned with new clothes and jewelry and followed by servants carrying the other goods. Once inside, he asked to meet with the sultan to discuss the potential of marrying his daughter.
The sultan rejected the request and showed him a long list a man had just offered as a dowry. The sultan explained the the man was from a good family, but they could not afford to marry into the sultanate until now. Apparently, one of their sons had a marvelous skill for business.
Aghast, the merchant surveyed the dowry. He realized immediately, it was his own belongings he had used to pay the shopkeeper.
| 470 | A rich merchant visits a bazaar in order to flaunt his wealth and woo the sultan's daughter. Much do his dismay, the prices are all exceedingly reasonable, so he must try to haggle them up without his escort realising he is doing so. | 359 |
"Late again?"
"Yup."
She sat down next to the stranger and looked at her watch. Swearing under her breath, she pulled her sleeve back down and flipper her hood up and clutched her torso.
"Always late, always when I don't need them to be."
"Yup."
They sat in silence for a while, only the wind offered conversation as it kicked up snow from the piles on the sides of the street. She shivered and placed her hand on her stomach and sighed.
It must have been very audible because the man turned towards her, as if she had said something to him. She turned back and smiled at his gaze, "Sorry, it's just cold."
"Yup." He said.
She looked up the street, then down it, hoping to see the easily recognizable features of the city bus. Again, she looked at her watch and bounced her leg up and down.
"Would you stop that?" the man said to her.
"Excuse me?"
"The bouncing leg, pacing and deep sighs. You're driving me nuts."
She looked aghast, "Well *excuse me,* I'm sorry my nervousness is such a burden on you and your life." She looked away.
This time the man sighed, "look I'm sorry," he offered, "I just spent the last four hours watching my daughters kids."
She didn't look at him.
"I'm just tired of all that energy, is all."
She kept looking up the road, searching for the bus. The man got up and joined her on the sidewalk. He crossed his arms and turned his back to the wind. "What are you so nervous about anyway?"
Without looking at him, she blurted, "Nothing."
"Well it has to be something, come on now, I'm a father of four kids, believe me, I've seen it all."
She moved her hand to her stomach again and looked down. The cold bit at her finger tips but she ignored the pain.
"I have an appointment I'm not particularly excited for."
He looked at her hand, "Doctor's appointment?"
"Yup."
"I see." He looked up the road now, nervous of he'd see the bus. "You've made a big decision haven't you?"
"Yup."
"Have you thought of alternatives?"
She finally looked at him, her eyes were blurred with moisture, he knew it wasn't from the cold. Her hand still clutched her belly, "Of course I have. There's no other way. I'm seventeen years old, what the hell am I going to do with a baby?"
He kept eye contact with her until she broke it off. "Besides," she continued, "My parents wouldn't understand. They said this was the only option."
"There's always an alternative," the man said, "Life is always greater than no life at all."
"And what of her life? How can I take care of a child at seventeen?"
"It's a girl?"
"Apparently," she said, crossing her arms. "I wanted to name her Olivia."
"That's a beautiful name."
She responded by wiping her eyes and looking back up the road for the bus.
"You know, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure my granddaughter has a doll named Olivia. She never lets that thing go." He laughed at a memory, "In fact, she insists on taking her in the bath with her. The doll smells terrible, the water has left it with a stale rank smell but she loves it despite that."
She was looking at him again, and smiled. The noise of an engine caught her attention, she looked up the street and saw the bus turn the corner.
"Hey," he said, touching her arm, "How 'bout you take the next bus?"
She looked down at her belly and rested her palm on the unborn child. Her gaze returned to the bus, then back to the man's face. "I'd like that, yeah."
"Great," he smiled and they sat down on the bench as the bus roared by. | 14 | A conversation between strangers at a bus stop. | 20 |
"They're all... dead," asked Sarah as she peered out the bunker's periscope. She watched as one thin biter shuffled slowly across the street, stepping over the corpses of dozens of others. It paused, shook for a moment, and fell over motionless.
John shrugged, "We all hid in bunkers and in basements. Once they ate all the irresponsible and panicky people there wasn't any more food."
Sarah furrowed her brow, "So they starved?"
"That's the theory on the internet. These things had to get their metabolism from somewhere. Energy in, energy out. Once food became scarce they kind of petered out. Per usual, the CDC is being quiet, but something is definitely going on."
Sarah ran her hand over her kevlar sleeve wondering how many days its been since she washed her bite-proof suit. She examined the spots where the biters couldn't penetrate and shuddered at the thought of remembering that first night.
John looked down at his laptop again. "It looks like the Russians and Chinese got it worse than us. Lots of easy to eat stray animals and lack of preparedness in the rural areas really cost them. China's massive population worked against it, I guess. Supposedly they're stable after a couple rounds of dropping tactical nukes. They culled the herd in the rural areas so they never got to spread into the cities. Lost a few million people though."
He sighed, "I never thought I'd see nukes dropped in my lifetime. Heck, I never thought a virus like this could be real. Some people are saying that early humanity had this plague long ago, like 70,000 years ago when the human population was low. Its been part of our genetic memory so we keep dreaming it up in stories."
Sarah sat down on the padded leather bench near the fortified door and put her AR-15 in the corner. "So, what now? Just back to regular life? We peel off these uncomfortable suits and go back into our homes? Tell our future kids about the three weeks we spent living in a glorified trailer?"
He shrugged again.
She looked out the porthole, "Get over our trauma and get back to work, right? Just one problem to solve after another. No rest for the weary."
"I guess," said John as he smiled. "It could have been tons worse. Imagine if society collapsed. No law, no rules. Running from these things in the wilderness with no power. Conserving ammo. Trying to find clean water and food everyday. Finding new shelter all the time." He shuddered and took a sip from his can of perrier.
Sarah nodded, "Thank god that didn't happen. Thank god."
| 42 | The zombie apocalypse happens. It was about as traumatic as Y2K. | 49 |
Half and half, we’re going to split this fifty-fifty, that seems fair. After all, it is both of ours; we created it together and ran it together. But splitting up Earth is just seems to be making it final. How do we decide who gets what half? We both want Europe, neither of us wants America, and whoever gets North Korea is going to end up with nothing soon enough. I mean we love you all and everything, but do you really have to fight so much? The rest of the universe is sorted, but Earth was always a shared thing, Earth has always been special. Maybe we should both just get what we created. But then I’d be left with a whole lot of whales and no ocean and she’d have a load of birds and no sky. We always have complemented each other, finishing each other’s sentences and countries. One without the other just doesn't work, and I know however we split this planet it will ruin everything on it. There is such a delicate balance of nature and people that removing any one thing would have devastating consequences to nearly everything else. We could create an exact replica – that is well within our capabilities – but Earth’s individuality has always been what made it special, and it just wouldn’t feel the same. Perhaps we could share, but that would be slightly awkward, considering nowadays we cannot even talk without it breaking down into a heated argument. I wish I didn’t have to divorce her, but this marriage just isn’t going to work out. It seems kind of hypocritical; considering we told humanity we hated divorce. But that was when we were young and in love, things change. We’ve made our decision, after a long and repetitive argument we have decided neither of us will have Earth. You’re going to have to fend for yourselves from now on. I’ll be back to visit but I can’t meddle anymore, if something goes wrong you’re going to have to sort it out on your own. I’m sorry for leaving you like this, but the contract has been written, and any breach of its terms from either party will end in the immediate termination of Earth. Remember me; I know I will always remember you. Goodbye, Earth, I have not forsaken you, not deliberately. | 19 | You are God, you and Goddess have created and run the universe for billions of years, but now you're getting divorced | 22 |
Nervously trudging along, James exited his bathroom and began the march down his airy suburban home's winding staircase. Eyes reddened and still slightly damp bored into the first oaken step, and remained fixated upon it. James wheeled around and scampered back into the bathroom. Slamming the door, he stared at himself in the mirror. Self-doubt and fear coursed through his mind, threatening to overwhelm.
But after a quick elbow-wipe, James determined to go through with it, making it out of the bathroom and three steps down before pausing. This time, he muttered to himself. "You can do this. You can do this."
As James engaged in his soft pep-talk, his parents strode around the corner at the staircase's foundation.
"Hey, have you been crying?" asked his mother, a kindly ball-shaped woman who claimed to be in her mid 20s.
"Yes."
"You're not coming out of the closet today, are you?" his father lightheartedly jested, making full use of his inability to take anything seriously.
Halted and shell-shocked, James peered at them from halfway down or halfway up the stairs, depending on whether you're a glass half gay or a glass half straight kind of person.
"Um, I. Yeah."
Exclaiming "Damn!" James' father reached into his bulging back pocket.
"I, I, I." Poor James got left on those steps, trying to explain himself but unable to find the words.
Meanwhile his mother extended her pudgy hand expectantly, into which was slapped a ten dollar bill by his father.
"What?" James finally made a word.
"Eh, we had a bet. But that's uh, something that you're gay, son. By the way, what'd you think of that book I lent you?" A single line was the only acknowledgment his father gave of James' announcement. And it was delivered with far less strength of voice than that concerning the book.
"Oh, honey, you should ask that Christian out on a date. He's handsome! Oooh, or Alexander, that exchange student. How about Alexander? Oh, you'd be so cute together!"
Bursting with excitement and vitality, his mother's half-completed thoughts came out one after another in an unstoppable tidal wave.
"I'm such a fucking idiot." James mourned the unnecessary loss of his afternoon, and contemplated his misinterpretation of how his parents would react. | 17 | A 12 year old and its parent(s) are having “the talk” | 15 |
I hate hospitals. This one was bad. Overfilled. I was in one of those rooms with multiple beds, separated into the world's shittiest cubicles by curtains. In each cubicle was another sob story. The three visible to me were across the hall. One was in bed, I couldn't tell the problem. One was in a full body cast, like you see in the cartoons. The last was dead. Very dead with the crying family and everything. Fucking depressing. Oh well, I wouldn't be here for long. The lung cancer would see to that.
Just then the double doors flung open. In walked in a man with a doctors coat draped over a trench coat and a bow-tie. The happiness on his face was sickening. "Congratulations everyone! I am giving you all a new diagnosis! You have all come down with a bad case of the healthy! There is no known cure! Once again, congratulations!"
Silence. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly which part of his body he should coat with hot bacon grease before throwing himself to the dogs when a very odd thing happened. I breathed. And I don't mean one of those half-dead sterile breaths that I have known for the past two years. I mean an actual breath. My lungs filled, absorbed air, and deflated. It caught me so off guard that it ironically took my breath away. I did it again, just to be sure. My lungs worked. Within a few seconds I started hyperventilating on purpose, just to prove that I could. It was better than sex.
The first man I mentioned threw back his covers to reveal a stump where his right leg used to be. It started to grow back. He started to laugh maniacally. The man in the cast screamed in muffled joy. From the dead man's bed came the words "Sarah, is that you?" followed by "Dad? Dad!!!" By this time, the former amputee was prancing about the room yelling "FEET! FEET!" while tears glistened his face as he looked towards the heavens. I looked as the man with the bow-tie turned around and was about to exit the room. "Wait!" I said "Who are you?"
"Oh me? I'm the Doctor." | 20 | A doctor with a perfect diagnosis record finds out that his diagnoses are changing his patient's reality. | 50 |
**@Franz_Ferdinand**
>2014-03-07 20:05:37 UTC
>We are live in 10 minutes from Kiev! #herewego
----
**@alkapranos (Alex Kapranos)**
>2014-03-07 20:09:11 UTC
> `#nowplaying
----
**@FF_Fanzone**
>2014-03-07 20:14:15 UTC
>@Franz_Ferdinand opens with Michael!
----
**@gavinp17**
>2014-03-07 20:16:50 UTC
>holy shittt man i think michael turned me gay `#franzferdinand #ffkiev2014
----
**@gavinp17**
>2014-03-07 20:16:50 UTC
>this is a nice sandwich
----
**@com_fortablepsych0**
>2014-03-07 20:24:31 UTC
>lol this guy keeps heckling @Franz_Ferdinand between songs
----
**@com_fortablepsych0**
>2014-03-07 20:27:17 UTC
>sis is telling me to stop tweeting and enjoy the music. funny cause she's tryin to record everything on her phone #irony
----
**@gavinp17**
>2014-03-07 20:28:00 UTC
>i loved you all
----
**@FF_Fanzone**
>2014-03-07 20:33:15 UTC
>@Franz_Ferdinand now playing TAKE ME OUT
----
**@com_fortablepsych0**
>2014-03-07 20:33:36 UTC
>OMG MY FAVORITE SONG
----
**@com_fortablepsych0**
>2014-03-07 20:35:21 UTC
>holy shit he just got shot
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-07 20:40:11 UTC
>Breaking: Lead singer of Franz Ferdinand, Alex Kapranos, has been shot while playing a live show in Kiev.
----
**@NME**
>2014-03-07 20:45:14 UTC
>Sources saying Alex Kapranos of Franz Ferdinand has been shot dead approximately 10 minutes ago.
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-07 21:00:06 UTC
>Breaking: Franz Ferdinand singer Alex Kapranos killed in Kiev. Assassin has been arrested.
----
**@com_fortablepsych0**
>2014-03-07 21:05:36 UTC
>so the show's cancelled cause the singer died. can't believe what i just saw. cunt could've at least finished the song before he died #fuckmylife
----
**@Franz_Ferdinand**
>2014-03-07 21:37:40 UTC
>we can't believe it... #shocked
----
**@NME**
>2014-03-07 23:15:20 UTC
>Sending our thoughts and prayers to @Franz_Ferdinand. #ripalex
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 9:36:11 UTC
>MI6 investigation announces that Franz Ferdinand assassin part of radical, pro-Russian terrorist organization in Ukraine. May have direct links to Putin. David Cameron press conference to follow.
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 9:50:30 UTC
>David Cameron calls Franz Ferdinand assassination an 'act of war'.
----
**@David_Cameron (David Cameron)**
>2014-03-08 10:31:26 UTC
>we're gonna come after you bloody fuckers #war
----
**@David_Cameron (David Cameron)**
>2014-03-08 10:31:38 UTC
>u kill my favourite band i kill your nation
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 11:11:10 UTC
>BREAKING: Ban Ki Moon calls for peace and discussion in video speech as UK forces mobilize to Ukraine.
----
**@BarackObama (BarackObama)**
>2014-03-08 11:15:30 UTC
>The British are our friends. And we're going to help our friends.
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 12:30:10 UTC
>BREAKING: All NATO countries, including Ukraine, formally declare war on Russia.
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 12:30:13 UTC
>ww3
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 12:30:57 UTC
>BREAKING: Multiple nuclear launches detected across Russia, per @NASA
----
**@NASA**
>2014-03-08 12:33:04 UTC
>Approximately 600 ICBMs currently in flight towards NATO countries. #fuck
----
**@NASA**
>2014-03-08 12:35:18 UTC
>Launches detected across American mainland and Alaska. #murica
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 12:39:25 UTC
>BREAKING: Submarines in Baltic surface and fire approximately 200 nuclear missiles at Western Russia.
----
**@Angela_Merkel (Angela Merkel)**
>2014-03-08 12:49:53 UTC
>fick mich
----
**@com_fortablepsych0**
>2014-03-08 12:49:58 UTC
>wtf is happening lol
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 12:56:05 UTC
>BREAKING: 30 million feared dead across Europe as first wave of nuclear missiles hit.
----
**@bbcuk (BBC UK)**
>2014-03-08 12:57:00 UTC
>Everyone, please evacuate your homes and take shelter in a bunker immediately. London has been identified as a target of 38 ICBMs that are currently in flight. Other cities in the UK have also been targeted.
----
**@bbcworld (BBC World)**
>2014-03-08 12:59:53 UTC
>It's the end of the world as we know it #REM
----
| 300 | World War Three starts with Franz Ferdinand (The Band) Being Assassinated. | 496 |
A bread crumb had been left on the tablecloth. Dan squeezes his index finger against his thumb until the skin is translucent before firing it off and flicking the bread crumb out into the void of mumbled conversations and moving waiters, to land on some distant white-and-black tiled shore. His tablecloth is spotless now, but it doesn’t matter. It should have been spotless when he sat down.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” Dan says without looking up. He seeks refuge in his menu instead, decoding the italicized world of eggs Benedict and white cheddar omelettes inside.
“Something to drink to get you started?”
Dan glances up, making it all the way to the chin before his eyes fall back. The boy has a crisp, white shirt beneath his black vest.
“A Bloody Mary,” Dan said. “Please.”
“Coming right up.”
*I will throw the Bloody Mary on him,* Dan tells himself. *He’ll be stained red. I’ll tell him, a Bloody Mary isn’t the only thing that’s red. No. Wait. I’ll tell him, you’re lucky it’s just the Bloody Mary. This time.*
Dan convinces himself this is what he will do. The Blood Mary is served. The waiter asks him if he's ready to order.
“I’ll have the Smoke Salmon Hashbrowns. Please.”
“Of course. And can I bring you anything else, sir? Would you like a paper? The Times?”
Dan glances at the empty chair opposite him. “Yes. Please.”
*The Bloody Mary is nonsense*, Dan consoles himself. *Am I woman? I won’t throw a Bloody Mary at him. I won’t throw food at him. I’ll drink my drink, I’ll eat my food, read my paper. And when the bill comes, I’ll ask him, what does my wife usually tip you? Calm, cool. Clint Eastwood. I am Clint Eastwood.*
The paper comes. The boy is prompt, friendly without being overbearing, always nearby in case Dan needs his water refilled. He is a good waiter. He laughs with other tables, leaves others to their conversations, treats each diner as they wante to be treated. Dan finally manages to look at him. Just off twenty-four, if he had to wager, a smooth face, dimpled cheeks, cut chin. Good shoulders, but not a hulker, no, there is a definitely a small pooch to the belly, a bit of plump around the eyes. Thick, curly, black hair. The hair, Dan thinks, is what really turns good-looking into attractive.
His Smoke Salmon Hashbrowns come. They are delicious. In his anxiety, he eats the whole plate.
“Hated it, huh?” the boy says as he takes the plate away. Even that old, tired joke sounds fresh off his lips. A good waiter.
Dan bets he's a good lover, too. The qualities between the two aren't so different. Personable. Attentive. Able to discern what other people want. How long had his wife come here for brunch before the two began to merge? How long before her weekly treat took on a new meaning?
“Anything else for you today?’
Questions. Questions Dan wants to ask. Do you treat her well? Does she enjoy it? Is she happy? Do you make her forget about her life, her husband, how the light falls on his face through the IV bag? Does it slip her mind, the faces of the doctors when they tell us bad news, the pieces of empty flesh where my testicles used to be, the nights she has to help me use the bathroom, the sobbing sounds I make? Is she happy when she's with you?
“Just the check.”
The check arrives as promptly as the service. It totals $17.49. He leaves a twenty and a five and walks away.
| 28 | A man obsessed with finding his Wife's lover, finally meets him face to face. | 20 |
Ayep shook the ashes from his pipe and looked over at his children. It had been hard, these last few years, without their mother. Abati had grown to be a woman on her own, and Kobi was approaching the years of change. They were gathered on the benches in front of the house, looking out at the setting sun, its glory reflected in red and purple on the long, lazy strands of cloud. The fields stretched, golden in the late summer warmth, to the edge of the mesa on which the farmstead stood, and a tang in the air warned of the coming rains of autumn. Abati worried a block of wood with a small knife, carving some trinket, and Kobi... Kobi was staring at something in his hand. A cricket... but the expression on his face said otherwise. Ayep stood, curious, and walked to his son.
"Father, look! What is happening to it?" Kobi held the insect up to display. It looked like a normal cricket, but one of its legs was bent oddly, and penetrated its body. As Ayep stared in horror, the cricket blinked and... moved. The motion was like nothing living ever moves, a twitch, and it was a finger's breadth from where it had been, then back where it started. And through part of its body, he could see his son's palm.
Quickly, he slapped Kobi's hand down, casting the cricket to the ground, lest the demons infect his son. But the cricket hit a space a hands-breadth from the ground, and fell no further. Ayep gathered his children in his arms and backed toward the door of his ho*m*e. And then he saw it. The sky. Where before, the deep blue that chases the setting sun had begun to give way to the first stars, there was instead a deep purple *flatness* and words.
Ayep was a literate man. He knew figures and measures, and how to read, and even owned several books. But these words were unfamiliar. **Simulation Failure. Data Set Corrupt. Dumping Simulation and Restarting Universe.**
Edit: typo. /s/hope/home | 17 | The night sky disappears. An error message takes it's place | 26 |
"BEAKER! HONEYDEW! My office, NOW!"
Bunsen looked over his shoulder with a start. "Well, Beaker, looks like the Chief found out about that little stunt you pulled the Councilman Statler's wife."
"Mee mee, mee mee mee meep."
"Look, I get it, man, she's kind of a bitch. But could you please at least act like you're sorry, so we can keep our jobs here?"
-------------------
"Why do I even keep you two on the force? Every week....every damn week, I've got some councilman or business owner or reporter chewing my ass up one side and down the next about you two running around, treating this city like it's a game of Grand Theft Fucking Auto!" Chief Grenouille was leaning on his desk, smoking a novelty-sized cigar as if it was his only link to reality.
"Look, Chief, I..."
"I don't want to HEAR IT, Honeydew! You sit there and you SHUT IT!"
"MEE MEE, MEEP MEE!"
"Oh I'll get to you, Beaker, don't you worry! In fact, let's just take a look at the old complaint log for Detective Armando Beaker, shall we?" The Chief picked up a badly-worn clipboard, mostly for dramatic effect. "What have you been up to....Oh look, slapping around a confidential informant!"
"Mee mee mee!"
"....Driving at high speed through a Farmers Market, destroying over $20,000 in merchandise!"
"Mee mee meep, mee mee mee meep."
"...Walking into Chez Rizzo and dumping a crock of fondu onto a banker, GIVING HIM 2ND DEGREE BURNS IN THE PROCESS!"
"Meep mee mee, MEE MEE MEE MEEP!"
"He's right, Chief, we got Pepper dead to rights on the Beauregard murder after he called his lawyer from the restaurants phone!"
"If Peppers lawyer doesn't get that call thrown out for entrapment! Goddamn it you two, I...."
The phone on the Chief's desk didn't so much ring as it exploded; Bunsen could swear that he saw the handset visibly jump into the air. The Chief casually glanced at the display, then completely forgot about his rant.
"Shit! Mayor Aigle's office!"
*Well that can't be good news*, thought Bunsen. *The last time we heard from Mayor Aigle, he had just spent a half hour yelling at the Chief in his office about the Zealand case.* Bunsen held his breath and tried to listen in, while Beaker stared out the window at Officer Janice.
"This is Chief Grenouille...Yes, sir.......yes, sir.....uh huh.....When was this exactly?.....uh huh.....And there have been no further calls since?......uh huh.....Yes, sir....Yes, sir. I'll have two of my best men over immediately.....Yes, sir. We will, sir."
Even Beaker was paying attention now. "Mee mee mee meep?"
"What? Oh, uh...yeah, the mayors daughter. She....she snuck out to go to some club last night and never came home. One of the staffers at the Mayor's office got a call from a payphone about a package in the lobby this morning, it contained his daughters clothes and a ransom note. They want $20 million by Tuesday. I...I need to call the FBI and..."
"MEEP!"
"He's right, Chief. The FBI doesn't know this city...we do. Someone knows or saw something....We can find her."
Chief Grenouille leaned back in his chair, looking past his two detectives. Bunsen imagined that he was probably trying to decide if he could still get his old job back managing that theater if he had to.
"The note said there would be another call in 24 hours with instructions, you've got until then before I call in the Feds. And guys..." the Chief interjected, stopping Honeydew and Beaker on their way out the door, "...she's just a 16 year old girl, OK? Don't screw this up."
"Mee mee mee meep, mee mee meep mee meep. Mee mee meep."
"....Go get 'em, boys." | 13 | Pick any two Muppets and write a Buddy Cop adventure starring those two. | 27 |
*Tagged this post as NSFW for you, since you requested it.*
"Hello, I'm *Erin.* What can *I* do for you today?" The voice is unusually... lascivious for a person working tech support, but whatever.
"Uh, yeah, hi Erin. I have a really big problem right now."
"Oh, don't worry about it, *big boy.*" *Big boy?* What the hell? "I'm sure it's nothing a little talking to me couldn't fix." She moans sensually.
"Uh... OK? Um, I'm having a problem with my equipment. I can't seem to get it working."
"Ohhh, babe, don't you worry about *that*. I'm a professional at getting things *hard at work.*"
"... Oooookay." I scratch my head. "So, I tried turning it on yesterday after watching a video on my phone at work, but that didn't work. I couldn't even get the damn thing to respond after hitting it a bunch of times. Just, like, totally non-functional."
"Oh, you *poor* thing." I can hear the pout in her voice. "I bet I could fix that."
"Okay, so what should I do with it?"
"Well, I'll tell you what *I* would do to fix it." God, her voice is disturbingly arousing. "I would take off my shirt, slowly, teasing you until you beg me to show you more."
"What? I just asked about--"
"Then I would have you come around and unclasp my bra. You would stare at my perfect tits and then--"
"Erin?"
"What is it?"
"I don't know why you're going into all this, uh... sexual roleplay, but I called because I need help turning it on. Not to listen to your oddly sexual fantasies."
"Is what I'm doing not turning it on?"
"Uh... no, not really. I don't see why it would."
"Well frankly, that's quite insulting."
"You're not being helpful at all, though! You're just talking about bras and shit! Look, do you think it might be a problem with the power source?"
"What?"
"Maybe it's something in the motherboard. Hold on, let me check the fans. No, no dust there."
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you even know what you're talking about, Erin? Or are you just playing out your sexual fantasies on the phone in the manager's office of some little phone cluster in Utah?"
"Hey, I'm just giving what you called for, dude. No need to be a dick about it. You specifically *called* this number, and now you don't even want my help? What the fuck is up with you, man?"
Okay, this is getting weird. "I'm sorry, could I speak to your manager please?"
"... What?" The sexiness is now totally gone from Erin's voice, and now she just sounds confused.
"Do you have, like, a supervisor or something?"
"Uh... I'm the only one in today."
Great. I put down the phone momentarily and put my hand on my forehead before picking it back up. "So should I take it to GeekSquad or something? All my files are on here, and you were the first number in the manual. I *need* to fix this computer. So stop with all the sex stuff and let me know what to do so I can get it turned back on."
"...Computer?"
"Uh... yes? Isn't that what this line is?"
"No..."
"Uh, I think there's a chance I called the wrong number."
"You called Erin's Erotic Fantasies, telling men what they want to hear since 2013."
"... Oh." Wow. I called a sex line.
"... So, yeah, I think you have the wrong number."
I pause for a second. "Erin?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for the help, I guess."
"You're welcome?"
"Sorry to bother you." I hang up the phone.
Crap. I just called a fricking *sex line*. That shit's, like, $4 a minute or something like that.
And my computer still isn't fixed yet.
I think back on Erin's lusty voice and look down. Well at least *something's* turned on.
(*Sorry this sucked.*) | 14 | "Uhm, I think there's a chance I'm calling the wrong number." | 20 |
Remember, remember the 5th of November.
Election day, 2024. The polls showed Senator Stiles (D-CA) and Governor Wilson (R-KY) were neck and neck. The previous eight years of peace and economic growth could be contributed to the bipartisan effort to actually make the United States a country to be proud of. No longer were the two isles busy flinging shit at each other. In fact, it almost didn't matter who won the presidential election. Each candidate showed willingness to work with the other parties (yes, more than two parties) in Congress order to pass legislation.
Fred Phelps would turn 95 years old in 8 days. He had delegated the everyday workings of the Westboro Baptist Church to his daughter, though he was still considered the symbolic figurehead. Phelps watched as his country, state by state, voted to make same-sex marriage legal. The only state which had held out was his home-state of Kansas. However, this year, there was a proposition on the ballot to make the United States homogeneous in regards to same-sex marriage.
Phelps and the WBC hadn't stopped picketing. Either in their hometown, or flying across the country for a soldiers funeral or the opening of a Center for LGBTQ teens. Standing on street corners with signs reading "God Hates Fags" and "Thank God for Dead Soldiers" was still the go-to protest tactic. As the 21st had worn on, Phelps had started receiving more and more criticism from everyone from Bill O'Reily to Chris Matthews. Criticism soon turned to outright hate. Phelps couldn't count how many times he had received death threats. He constantly had to have his property cleaned of eggs and pumpkins and toilet paper. Anything and everything that ever went wrong in the United States became Phelps' fault.
"It's all for the greater good" he thought to himself as he stepped into the ballot box. Phelps was wearing sunglasses (ones that should be worn after laser-eye surgery) and an old baseball cap to help avoid being recognized by the voters. He wasn't staying around for long anyway. There was only one issue he needed to vote on.
Phelps checked the "yes" box. He smiled to himself and then left the booth.
Later that night, Phelps turned on the TV to watch the results of the election. It looked like Wilson would be the new president. His supporters cheered and Stiles gave a heartfelt concession speech. Finally, Rachel Maddow came on TV to announce the result of the same-sex marriage bill in Kansas. Phelps leaned forward in his seat, as far as his frail body would allow him to.
"Kansas voters have decided 55-45 to allow Same-Sex marriage. Congratulations, America! We've taken a huge step tonight."
Fred Phelps leaned back and smiled. "Finally," he thought. | 10 | A mad conspiracy theory of your choice turns out to be completely and entirely true | 18 |
The sun was high in the sky, and the sand warm against the old man’s back. Quiet waves slowly caressed the pristine beach. The warm sun was countered by a cool breeze coming off the water. “Perfect,” the old man thought to himself and he smiled as he took a sip from his drink.
“Mind if I join you?”
The old man was awakened from his daydream by a familiar voice. A little rough, a little deep, but oh so able to say the right thing.
“Of course, old friend,” the old man replied.
And beside the old man sat his demon.
The two shared the scene in silence, until the demon broke in. “It’s been too long since we sat like this. We should make it an occasion.”
“Careful…remember that I am content in what I’m doing.” The old man replied in a cautionary tone. But then he softened and added, “Let’s just see what the day brings us.”
And the two returned to their silent watch for some time.
“Mind if I join you?”
The silence was broken yet once more, again by a familiar voice. The voice was sweet and gentle, but had a tendency to disagree. The demon rolled his eyes.
“Come now,” the old man reproached, “there’s no need for that. We’re all friends here; of course you can join us.”
And beside the old man sat his angel.
“It’s funny how you always get here second,” the old man said to the angel.
“I know, but I only go where I am needed,” was the obvious answer.
“I see,” said the old man as he took a sip of his drink.
And the three returned to a silent watch.
After some time, the demon once again breaks the silence. “I’ve been wondering,” he said, “what you think of my being here. You never did give me a full answer.”
“Well at the time I didn’t know,” said the old man, “But I’ve had some time to think and I’ve realized that your presence is a good thing.”
“Explain,” asked the angel, with a wry smile.
“Yes,” the old man replied, “you see, there’s a devil and an angel within us all. And that is what makes this life so beautiful. Without sorrow and without hardship, there is no cause for happiness. We have the opportunity to create heaven and hell right here in this life. It becomes a matter of perspective, and of the choices we make. I believe in the constancy of the universe. There cannot be an up without a down, a light without a dark, or a good without a bad. What would a day like today mean to us if everyday was like it? Look out at the ocean: every wave has a peak and a valley. They cannot exist without each other. In a sense that’s all we are: just another form of energy making its way from one point to another. We needn’t trouble ourselves with questions of good and bad. We only need to be sure to preserve the balance, because one thing is certain: you always pay for what you get.”
With this both the demon and the angel stood, brushed the sand from their bodies, and shook hands.
“I guess you were right,” said the demon.
“It’s time we took leave of you,” said the angel to the man. And then they were gone.
The sun was low in the sky now, slowly shading it with red and orange. Once again alone, the old man smiled to himself, took a sip of his drink, and closed his eyes one last time. “Perfect…”
| 56 | Heaven or Hell. Representatives from both are sent, individually or together, to sway each soul. | 86 |
This is round sixteen.
I try to relax a bit this time but I can feel the tension in my shoulders, my back. The nurse is smiling, but I know it's a fixed smile. I know what fake smiles look like as well as anyone else. I don't think they realize that I'm still a person.
It would be difficult for me to convince them otherwise.
The nurse puts in the drip and I feel myself pull back, if that makes any sense. I'm less present – still worried but less present. I'm alone in my thoughts, but I can look over and I see the syringes of blood piling up.
They're doing these tests while I deliberate, to make sure they're still right, to see if I'm the cure. They are right. I am, as Dr. Albertsson referred to me a few weeks ago, "the answer to the question of human senescence."
There is something in me, deep inside me, that fixes the ways in which bodies break apart. My bones knit. My wounds close. My blood is rich, and it flows slowly. Even now I see it, feel it resisting the pull of the syringe, truly thicker than water.
By all accounts, unless my body is completely destroyed, I cannot die.
So I sit here, tense, in this chair, waiting for them to tell me once again that I will outlive them all. It is a lot to take in. They know that, at least, and they let me come to it in bits and pieces. They left me to hang on that makeshift noose for more than a day, long enough for me to realize that my spine would not snap and my breath would continue, before they cut me down.
I've heard people say this before, but I know for a fact that they only want me for my body. Through the drug haze I mumble this, I think. I am so far away, it's hard to tell.
They want to synthesize me. That's still strange to say. They want to chop me up, parcel me out. The only way they can replicate me is by taking me apart. I think I might let them. It might be good to help.
The nurse smiles, and says something. I smile back. Are you sure, she says. Yes, I say. Helping might be nice.
The nurse freezes. She whispers something into an intercom on the wall, and then cranks up my drip. I recede, two pinholes. A team of doctors walk in, already in scrubs.
I am restrained. So far away. They place a mask over my face. Everything is so slow.
It still might be nice to help. | 76 | Doctors claim your superior DNA can cure diseases of any kind. You are given the choice to give up your own life to save millions, if not more. | 130 |
The wooden seat of the witness box chafes but I hardly notice. Flashbulbs flash blinding my eyes for the umpteenth time. The man in front of me asks a question. My lawyer? The prosecutor? I'm not sure, I'm not focusing, my mouth is on autopilot answering his questions without conscious thought. My minds eye is watching a loop. I don't understand what went wrong. I replay the last day over and over, scrutinizing it. I don't know what went wrong.
...
It was a day like many others. I woke up early, went for a run and ate breakfast before heading to my lab. I sat down at my work station and began work on my new super-weapon. Only a few more hours and my new and improved sonic disintegrator would be complete.
Like most other supervillains I received a modest stipend from the association. Like many others, I used it for building super-weapons, or hiring the occasional minion or two. I could never afford more than that, the minion unions charged an arm and a leg these days. The occasional heist supplemented my income but even with that I could barely afford hero insurance these days. Some new hero had just appeared on the scene and rates had skyrocketed. Nothing new, eventually he'd leave or be defeated and rates would go back to normal or he'd clean up the city well enough that we'd all leave to avoid the new premiums.
A simple flashing icon appeared on my screen informing me that new mail had just arrived and I gestured for it to appear on the projector. It seemed on of the junior villains had discovered that this new hero had a weakness. It seemed he would lose his powers in the presence of a certain high pitched sound. It was my lucky day.
If I could just remove this annoying hero, I could have control of the city within hours. A quick hop over to City Hall, grab the mayor and BOOM, city is mine. I could almost taste the bonus I was going to receive for this. Besides once I got this city under control, I could move onto bigger and better places. I was finally moving up in the world.
A few hours later I was having a blast. Literally. Cars disintegrated left and right, geysers of water shot up into the sky from the atomized fire hydrants.
Finally he came, sweeping down from the skies like an eagle diving for a rabbit. Glorious.
The cross hairs of the sonic disintegrator leveled on his chest and I squeezed the trigger. A pulse shot through the air like one of those potatoes from a cannon I had as a child. A direct hit. Dead center of his chest.
The body crumpled and dropped to the ground. A large, gaping hole in the center of his chest.
I could feel the panic rising in my chest. My throat constricted. *Wrong*. This was all *wrong*. He shouldn't have died, they told me it would only remove his powers, I didn't know it would kill him. He was supposed to be rendered harmless. He couldn't be *dead*. How could I gloat now? How could I monologue? What happened now?
Body shaking I turned towards City Hall, the terrified screaming of the populace no longer pleasing. I trudged slowly up the stairs and took aim at the large double doors. A moment later they were gone. I walked, unseeing to the Mayor's Office and blasted the door of that along with a few guards as well.
He sat in his chair, trembling nearly as much as I when I reached him. I don't remember what he said. He probably begged for his life, his city, something. I don't know. Halfway through whatever he was saying he was gone.
I sat down in his chair, removed the key to the city from his desk and put it around my neck. It was over. I didn't know what to do.
...
"Do you understand the charges brought against you?"
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts.
"I said, do you understand the charges brought against you?"
Eyes blinking I turned my head to the side, it was the Judge talking. Long retired from the supervillain trade, though even know he commanded respect.
"Do you, or do you not understand the charges brought against you?"
I swallowed.
"Yes." I replied.
"Very well, for failure to monologue your plan you are judged guilty. You are to be banned from the supervillain association. Your stipend will be revoked. You will be required to hand in your association membership card. You will be banned from the premises of our sporting facilities and clubs and banned from committing any and all crimes above that of shoplifting for the span of ten years."
I nodded, it was the expected judgment. Nothing could change that.
"Bailiff take him away"
The bailiff took me by the shoulders and steered me out of the courtroom. Flashbulbs flashed again, immortalizing my disgrace. I was done. A deep depression hit me. I would be a *normal*. But as I was marched into the awaiting car a thought struck me like lightning. I was a supervillain, this was just another ruling for me to break.
As the car sped away I began to plan. Tomorrow would be a new day, and nobody, NOBODY could stop me from doing what I knew was wrong. | 12 | A supervillain is on trial for not following industry standards and monologing his plan to the hero before it finishes. | 32 |
"We told you, sir. That's it. Dead man's fingerprints all over the crime scene." The older cop sounded apologetic, but he stood his ground. My old schoolmate was not having it. "Are you fucking kidding me? This shit is what I pay my taxes for?" The loud conversation could be heard all the way to the police station's waiting room. The younger cop jumped up to his superior's defence immediately. "You heard him. The only foreign fingerprints found ln your property belong to Jonathan Gerge. The man died in a plane crash months earlier. Marcus Hennes slammed both of his palms to the office table. "That. Is. Bullshit. I ain't even seen that fucker in five years. Barely knew the fucker", the old bully lied. He had made Gerge's life hell in school. Searing in fury, the pig-necked man continued to rant. "And now you *incompetent fucks*" - he stressed by screaming from the bottom of his lungs - "are saying that a dead man fucking walked up my driveway and *fucked up my car?* is *that* what you're saying?!"
The younger police officer was about to say something as the man's old anger management problems took the better of him again. A loud crash was heard, as Hennes unquestionably flipped the senior officer's table. Listening to the sounds of the entirely unexpected, loud and violent arrest from the other room, the man no longer known as Jonathan Gerge smiled behind his newspaper. I told you that once I was dead, I'd haunt the shit out of all of you fuckers. | 26 | Someone stole your identity, and now the news is reporting 'you' died in a plane crash. | 55 |
Doorbell. What the fuck?
To be honest, I didn't even know my apartment had a doorbell. I'm looking down at the open box of Fruit Gushers on the right side of my desk, and the two foot bong on the other, wondering if there was a doorbell man in our building to maintain the 2,000 doorbells when the bell immediately turns into a loud, angry knock.
"Hey! Open the door Matt! Let's go!"
So whomever this is, they know my name. That's not really a good sign for someone in my current state of filth and shame. But nevertheless, I throw on some pants and a sweatshirt and stutter step my way to the door and look through it's peephole.
Standing in front of the gate, smoking what appears to be a clove cigarette is a disheveled twenty-something in a wife beater, black jacket and aviators. He must have heard my footsteps, because after a couple of seconds he sticks his entire damn face up to the hole in the center of the door and yells
'I'M YOUR LONG LOST COUSIN MOTHERFUCKER!'
Recoiling a bit from the yelling two feet away from my ear, I go against my better judgement and decide to open the door and in strolls what looks like an immigrant attempting to fit into a new country.
In addition to the windbreaker and aviators, he's got a red bandanna pulling back his long, unkempt black hair. His T-Shirt reads one word: 'AMERICA'.
He plants himself on my couch, throwing his filthy boots on my unstuck glass table as he spreads his arms and tosses his aviators to the floor.
"FUCK, I can't believe I'm on here. I mean you see something on TV so many times and you get this idea how it'll feel, ya know? Nothing like I thought it would be. You're shorter in person. And I guess a *little* less pathetic, but not much. That part's actually pretty accurate."
With that, he turns and looks up at the high wall to the right at me, shrugging his shoulders at it and giving it a knowing face.
I clap my hands angrily, bringing his attention back to me as I slowly pull the knife from my back pocket, inching closing to the psychopath on the couch.
"What are you talking about, TV? Who the fuck are you. What are you doing here. What are your feet doing on my table and i don't know what in holy hell you are smoking but you're going to set off the detectors with that!"
"Oh this?" he says, pointing nonchalantly to what I now can see is an excellently rolled joint of some type. "This is weed. And well, tobacco, obviously. Little PCP. Don't fuckin' worry about it okay? See this is exactly my problem, here. You get too distracted by shit." He laughs, and points again to the joint. "Especially this shit."
At this point, I'm inches from the moron. I move to lung forward, arching my arm high to drive the knife into his shoulder until my entire body freezes impossibly as the man sighs.
"I told God we should have kept recording this week. He's got to be screaming at the ratings we're missing out on. That idiot has really got to start cleaning up his own messes, tut tut."
He again takes a deep sigh as I stand there suspended in midair, anxiously awaiting my moment to strike.
"You can do this, Sean. That's why they brought you in. People skills. Puh Puh Peeeeople skills. Right right right. Okay herewego."
He snaps his fingers and I immediately feel my body move towards the couch, sit down, and sit up straight. I place the kitchen knife on the table, where it immediately snaps into a thousand pieces.
Sean crosses his leg carefully and pulls out a pack of what I assume is more of the weird joints. He taps the bottom of the pack thoughtfully, pulling one out from the end and sliding it between his lips as he starts to speak.
"Here's the deal, man. As you can probably tell, I'm not exactly 'from' (he signals with two fingers) this neck of the woods. Next town over, if you know what I mean."
I stare.
"Oh fuck it you have no idea do you. I'm from another dimension. This is going to hurt, but I'm going to give you a brief summary of the facts of this shitty little existence you've got going on. But before I do that, we're going to need to spark up. So pucker up, quit bitching, and smoke some of my demon weed."
I look at Sean, then at the open pack on the table. He nods, grinning creepily as he gestures to the pack, raising his eyes up and down as he does.
For reasons unbeknownst to me still, I grab the pack, pull one out, and spark up.
"Continue."
He grins as wide as he can and happily taps the ash from his own joint.
"*As* I was saying. Our universe does not operate as one straight line. There's yours, mine, and thousands of others out there. Actually, the number is *I think* 2,187. Don't quote me on that."
He takes in a big cough and immediately starts a nasty coughing fit, combined with a fit of laughter, before he pauses and catches his composure and points at his heaving chest.
"Mine's the oldest. Yours, and most of the others were once vast wastelands before the Creators came in, built up a set, and put together what you would call TV shows for all folks back home in my dimension. You're the actors."
I pause after inhaling deeply on the awe-inspiring combination of drugs and asked a question I could only conceive under said state.
"*Are you telling me God is a TV producer?*"
Sean grins as smoke billows out his nose and between his teeth.
"Precisely."
He taps the joint in the Dark Side of the Moon ashtray again, then continues.
"He's a pretty cool guy actually, I've been to every one of his fan events back in my dimension, and he always asks questions and is super respectful to all followers of the show."
"But I'll tell ya, the dude does not know how to move a plot line for shit."
"I mean, he's been hinting at this big 'Judgement Day' thing for years now, and we get nothing. More melodrama, more, 'Kimmy's banging Kanye' or bullshit terrorism stuff. Do you know how annoying that is for a lifelong fan like me? I've been watching this show for more time then you could even comprehend, and then some. I just want to see what it's all about."
"So why are you here?" I ask him again.
He grins. "See, I knew the joint would help you understand. Well, the thing is, God keeps hinting that you're going to be a major player in this Judgement Day thing, but he's still not sure how he can use you. You know, cos that whole free will thing."
"What do you mean, 'free will thing'?" I ask.
"Free will. He can't really make you get up and become a warrior of Judgement Day, or whatever type of player you're going to be, it has to happen the way he wrote it. But you're straying off the beaten path. I mean, we all knew there were going to be some depressing scenes after your girlfriend dumped you for the fourth time, but this is getting ridiculous."
He gestures to the heaping combination of laundry and Dominos boxes as he shrugs his shoulders.
"Fuck you man. Why do you give a shit what happens?"
With this, Sean clearly takes offense. He stands up, raising his finger to me before chuckling and collecting himself and putting out the burning roach in his hand.
"I care, because like every loyal fan, I don't want to see my favorite show end before its prime. I've got a feeling your's hasn't come to an end yet. So how about you get off your ass, go out there, and do something about it?"
With that, Sean throws on his aviators and snaps his fingers, disappearing before I can even respond, leaving me holding a PCP laced joint in one hand and my bong in the other.
"Fuck."
| 63 | your doorbell rings and it's someone from an alternate universe "i just wanted let you know you are my favorite character but i know how it ends and i want to save you!" | 213 |
'Fuck off dude. I'm definitely the main character of our lives.'
'How are you?'
'Just think about it, I'm tall, Jewish and definitely funnier than you. You are short and complain-y. I'm Jerry Seinfeld and you're George Costanza.'
'Please, you're barely even Jewish.'
'Still counts.'
'Yeah but you've never even been in a fight! Main characters are cool guys who get into fights.'
'Nah, I'm like MacGyver, I use my wits. And I also could totally fight if I wanted to.'
'Fuck off, no you couldn't.'
'Yo, if the Russians invaded like in Red Dawn, I'd easily be Swayze. I already know how to shoot and I can drive and I can probably live in the forest. You don't even know how to cook.'
'You're the worst, if we ever get invaded, I'm gonna manipulate everyone to hate you and you're gonna be first against the bloody wall.'
'I'm just gonna straight up shoot you. Like, even if there is just a hint of war. The news is like “China seems a bit grumpy today”... bam, that's almost enough for me to just kill you to stay safe. It's the end of the world, Dan, dog eat dog.'
'You're such a dick.'
'You're the one planning a coup d'etat *before* a war even begins.'
'See, leadership, I'm definitely the main character.'
'Have you seen Star Wars? Luke is poor, from a farm and has a fringe. I have been all of these things.'
'Yeah but I'm easily the genius kid from Numbers.'
'Yeah but that's a shitty TV show. In a movie, he's comic relief and dead before the end. Like in Serenity, he actually is a funny computer geek who dies before the end.'
'Oh what, so you're the Captain?'
'Pretty much.'
'Okay fine but I'm Wash because everyone loves me, I'm hilarious and you haven't even had sex with any black women, you racist.'
'THEY JUST DON'T LIKE ME!'
'They really don't for some reason.'
Jake and Dan talked like this all the time. Mainly bullshit, a little insight and a whole lot of being total dicks to one another. They were best friends though. College kids tend to place pride in this and they spent everyday together, talking nonsense and watching movies. When they were older, they were going to really give the film industry a good go. They would do it together. For now, they just stared out windows at the world, day dreaming of the magical place that makes mad, beautiful universes.
Today was not going to be like any other day. It didn't even feel like it was going to be another day. You know how sometimes people get a bad feeling about things? “I shouldn't get on that train.” Ten minutes later the train is a ball of flames and twisted, turning metal and the one who knew has to re-examine what they felt were universal truths, such as how can one know something like this? It's simple really. The air tastes wrong, like iron. The sky is darker but there's no shadows. Your heart rate quickens and your mood drops. All things that happen naturally, but you put it together and, suddenly, you've got yourself a Very Bad Feeling
Last night, Jake had a very bad feeling.
This morning, Jake had a very loud awakening. There was a terrible, deafening explosion that tore through the air and lit up the night sky. He burst out of his door in his boxers and clambered up a ladder on to his roof. The soft curve and violent, rolling, rumbling flames unfurled through the night sky, probably hundreds of kilometres away. A mushroom cloud that stretched through the heavens and into the nether. Wide as well, wide enough to take an ancient and beautiful city and turn it into rubble.
'DAN,' he shouted. 'COME UP HERE.'
Staring out at the world. People were climbing on their roofs, holding each other, screaming or weeping silently. More still frantically threw clothes and photo albums into the back of beat up station wagons, utes. Driving nowhere.
'DAN!'
Jake scrambled down the ladder and ran to Dan's room.
'Dan-man we gotta go homie!'
Dan was staring out the window, silent.
'Dan, now!'
Still, nothing.
'Ugh, come one!'
Jake grabbed Dan's arm and dragged him to the garage.
'What's your Dad's passcode, Dan,' Jake asked as he fumbled with the gun locker's combination key. 'Dan? Fuck this.'
Jake reached for the long, heavy axe next to the door and brought it down on the lock, the gun cabinet bursting open. Jake grabbed two rifles, and the two boxes of ammunition. Holding the rifle in his hand seemed to reawaken something in Dan.
'I'm okay.'
'Great fuckin' news dude. Let's get the fuck outta here!'
'Okay, you get some food and I'll grab some camping equipment. We'll leave a note for my parents if they, you know... managed to...'
'Dude, they'll be fine, your Dad's fucking tough as shit.'
'Yeah okay, meet at the car in five?'
'Car in five.'
*****
The next few months were cold. Really cold. Have you ever tried camping in the middle dead forests and mountain ranges in a nuclear winter? It's not fun. Jake and Dan were heading west, where it was warmer. Apparently no one was hit there and it's safe. That's what they'd heard.
The car was stolen weeks ago and the boys trudged silently through the, muddy, sloppy snow, well off the highway. Roads were too dangerous these days. They didn't have enough food to make the coast. They knew that. But they could make it, they'd just need to find some along the way. Just a little help from someone. There were good people out there, they knew it.It wasn't the experience either of them were expecting. It was blisters, and shitting your pants and bloody knuckles. And it was sickness.
It started after about three months. Jake started coughing. Nothing unusual, they were marching through hell without so much as a Panadol. Long nights, cold winds and no food would make anyone get a bit sick. Except Jake didn't start to get better after a few days, he got worse. Much, much worse.
Every night, Dan would cry and try to cover his ears as Jake lay next to him, coughing up blood and wheezing through every breath, struggling and gasping and hoping for just a single breath of unfiltered air. But it never went away. Jake was going to die. Jake was going to die but before he did that, he was going to use half of their food supply.
By the flickering embers of the fire, Jake peered through his bleary eyes at Dan, sleeping almost peacefully. Almost.
'I guess you were right, dude. I can't be the main character. The main character doesn't die first.'
Jake, alone, struggled to his feet. Trembling, shaking legs that once weren't so thin but now could barely hold his weight. He struggled to lift the gun that a long time ago seemed so eaasy. He shuffled and dragged his useless feet far enough that Dan wouldn't see him. Out to the woods, the cold, blackened skeletons that used to be trees reached up the sky as if yearning for the sun's life breath, it's forever extinguished light.
He slumped against one of these decaying corpses and pulled out his iPod. He'd been saving this last five percent of battery. He closed his eyes to the sound of his song, his favourite song.
*Gold teeth and a curse for this town, were all in my mouth...
Only I don't know how they got out, dear.*
He closed his eyes and swallowed his fear and the icy, metallic barrel. Again, he could taste iron, like the first day of this nightmare. Except it wasn't a Very Bad Feeling he got. Not this time.
| 10 | Characters fight to become the main character. | 35 |
It was cold that night.
With all the baloons around, Jimmy's only thoughts were about his birthday.
And the chocolate cake of course.
It's been a few years since they first landed in Mars and with the ongoing support of NASA,
Jimmy's family managed to live quite comfortably - As much as possible on a planet like Mars.
Jimmy's dad, a long-time famous astronaut was the first man to land on Mars,
which is why NASA felt confident letting him lead the mission to colonialize the red planet.
Communications with Earth were scarce.
Jimmy's dad blamed it on NASA and how they've "abandoned the project".
Major events such as political uprisings, natural disasters and the effects of global warming were never broadcasted to Mineral-1, the first Maritian settlement.
The only updates recieved from Earth were yearly updates concerning NASA's
budget and aid towards the Mars Project.
But on the day of Jimmy's 10th Birthday that routine changed.
A new broadcast was received and not on Comm Day.
Jimmy only thoughts centered on the cake and of the joy he will surely feel once he could eat it.
Surely it'll happen soon.
Before Jimmy's dad reached the Comm station, a few bright flashes - not more than 3 or 4 - appeared in the sky around planet Earth's location.
Fearing the worst, Jimmy's dad pressed the little green knob towards the dusty "ON" sign.
Static.
Only static.
After a minute of static noise, a news report began:
"People of Earth,
We have brought the change in power you asked for.
We did what no one dared.
The coming days will prove difficult and unfair.
But together we stand strong against the evil powers of the USA".
As the broadcast ended, Jimmy's dad walked back to the party,
and together with his son they cut the cake.
Jimmy went to sleep happy.
| 12 | Colonists on Mars receive news reports of a nuclear war breaking out on Earth. | 29 |
They came from the sky, speaking a strange, flowing language that everyone just *understood*, somehow. They came from the sky, and with a single gesture, all conventional weaponry instantly shattered.
They told us we had a month to prepare for their final judgement.
We all thought we'd be evaluated on our physical form, or our mental health. On strength, or intelligence, or reflexes. Something that related to our survival as a species.
But no.
No, we were being judged on reddit karma.
Of course, there was an initial crash as a billion people tried to log in or register at once. It was absolute pandemonium for the few hours it was down. After several other websites recommissioned their servers to help support reddit, it was deemed safe to log in again.
And then began the karmawhoring.
The defaults, circlejerks, and porn subreddits were at full capacity with people feverishly trying to collect upvotes. Most titles had reverted to some form of 'Plz give karma'. Gold was thrown around like confetti. The more karma-wealthy users had retreated into the shadows after Unidan had reportedly been assaulted for his account information.
But anyways, after thirty days, after one long month of shameless reposting, beating dead horses into pulp, and paranoia, they finally returned.
And then they laughed in our faces. "jk lol." And then they left, without a single trace.
...Goddammit, I knew I should've made a throwaway for that gonewild post.
| 351 | Aliens come to Earth to kill all but the handful of people they find to be the most valuable. Their value system differs from ours. A lot. | 218 |
After learning of his ancestry, Samuel Jackson was torn. He had fought for minority rights for years, but knowing where he came from, he felt compelled to carry on in the footsteps of his most famous ancestor. He was full of internal conflict as he drove through the Pocatello sun towards the Fort Hall Indian Reservation a few hours north of Salt Lake City, as he drove past the Fort Hall Casino, he met up with a group of Shoshone-Bannock tribal leaders who had been informed of his arrival. With a bellowing voice, he almost shouted at them with no empathy in his voice.
"Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking Plains Indians on this motherfucking Snake River!"
The startled tribal elders looked shocked and incredulous. They had been excited for the actor's unexpected visit, but this wasn't at all what they had thought was coming.
"No seriously, we've discovered rare earth metals in the soil and we're gonna strip mine the area. Don't worry, we've set aside a few thousand acres in Klamath Falls, Oregon for you to resettle in, it shouldn't be that far a drive."
Samuel knew that this would help the national economy and keep the United States from being too dependent on China for natural resources, but at the same time, he felt like he was betraying the causes he had fought so hard for, and as he watched the shocked and downtrodden Shoshone prepare for the big move, a single tear trailed down his cheek. | 19 | Samuel L. Jackson learns he is a direct descendant of President Andrew Jackson. He decides to finish what his ancestor started. | 17 |
Freedom. That was the first feeling that had rushed through Rachelle as she drove away from her home of five years, belongings stuffed into the truck. Freedom from the man she had believed to be her soul mate. The one who had tricked her into believing he was the one for her, all because he had shared her blooming rose tattoo. Curse him for taking advantage of her easily-viewed mark on her arm! Rachelle couldn't believe that his actual mark had been the sword on his stomach, rather than the matching rose on his arm he had procured after seeing her own.
After the initial bliss of finding her soulmate, the relationship began to go downhill. But Rachelle had held on, knowing that it had to get better; the tattoo proved it! Five years of hope. A different hope from that which characterized the first 20 years of her life, awaiting her soul mate.
Even as he cheated, drank, and gambled, she held onto that hope. A hope that weighed on her, pulling her down and away from her friends and family.
And then the discovery. A careless sentence spoken in a drunken stupor, and suddenly, the weight was gone. She was free. Free from the chains she had placed on herself. Rachelle knew, from then on, she would never rely on the tattoo. Never again would she place the reins of her life in anyone's hands but her own.
Rachelle continued driving, an armband covering up the rose.
| 10 | Everyone has a unique tattoo/marking that they are born with, it's exactly the same as their soul mates. | 15 |
The Interview
"Mr. MacFarlane, now that the news is out, and NASA is confirming, what can you tell us? Did you already know about extraterrestrial life when you proposed the new Cosmos series?"
"Hi Claudia, thanks again for having me on the show. The whole thing started on September 23rd, 2007. I knew the Family Guy Star Wars parody episode was going to be a hit. But, oh ho ho, there was one fangirl I wasn't expecting. She actually wrote me a text message. On my phone. Here, check it out, I have it saved. Read it to everyone."
"Yes, okay. 'I am from a nearby planet. The Star Wars episode was great.' That's it? That was first contact?"
"Well, at that point -- forgive my skepticism -- I didn't think I'd been the very first human to be contacted by an alien. I figured it was a friend making a joke. I responded. Here, you read the messages."
"You said, 'Thanks. Which planet? Hoth?' She said, 'Oh, you wouldn't know it. We call it Geria.' "
"Then I made some joke about calling her geriatric."
"Right, that's the next text on your phone here."
"So, well, then she asked if she could come by. I didn't really respond. But the next night she showed up at my door. She was blue. That made me take the situation more seriously."
"What did you do?"
"We had some whiskey. She really wanted to try out whiskey. For my part, I felt that I suddenly needed a drink, a strong drink."
"What did you talk about?"
"She told me a little about Geria. They apparently have great beaches, some good national parks. Then we started hashing out how to tell people about alien life existing."
"Go on."
"So, I'm like, starting to tell her about the old Cosmos show. And Carl Sagan. And how if I were about to learn that life exists elsewhere in the universe, I would have wanted Carl Sagan to tell me. He was so wise, so well-considered. The way he explained things, even crazy things, they didn't seem threatening, or weird. They seemed almost magical."
"Did she know about Cosmos or Carl Sagan?"
"She didn't, no. But I gave her my DVD set. She loved it. A few months later, I'd drawn up some fake proposals for a new Cosmos show. We got Fox to accept it, and we started working on the real episodes in secret. We filmed some other trailers and material so that people wouldn't know. We wanted it to be a complete secret, we wanted to drop the news suddenly, but thoughtfully. Carl's widow, she's a co-producer, she knew from the start. We didn't tell Neil DeGrasse Tyson or anyone else until we started shooting. At that point, we had a lot of multimedia on Geria."
"You planned this all with -- sorry, what was her name?"
"She goes by Sally. She loved Third Rock from the Sun, that's the wife's name on the show."
"You and Sally filmed a whole series on extraterrestrial life in secret?"
"Actually, no."
"No?"
"Not quite."
"Sorry, I lost you there."
"We didn't film one series. We filmed two. We're premiering a series about Earth on Geria this week. On their version of the Travel Network. It starts tonight, actually. In fact, I have to go. This has been great."
"I thought we had 10 minu--Seth? Wait, did you see that, did he just vanish? Seth? Seth!" | 16 | A Spacetime Odyssey announces that there is actual alien life in the universe and they have made contact. The purpose of the rest of the series was to gradually introduce and get the world excited about the prospect of alien life. | 36 |
"You're re-classing?" She sounded shocked. "What is going on in that fool head of yours, Ren?"
He spun around, a little too quickly, and dropped the sword from his gloved hand. He shrugged sheepishly. "Hey Mora, didn't think you were going to drop by. What's up? How's the family? How're the forests?" He was dodging the question, but Mora would have none of it.
"Listen to me, Ren Shadowbender, you are a warlock. You have always been a warlock. Your father was a warlock, and his father before him, and his father before him. If you ever sucker some woman into marrying you, your CHILDREN will be warlocks. There's no argument here! What the hell are you thinking, reclassing to soldier?" Ren shrugged again.
"I'm just looking for a change of pace, you know? Something new, something different. I figured, why not go soldier? I heard that Aren reclassed to soldier last month and he's having a great time with it." Slowly, Ren bent down and retrieved his new sword from the ground, gingerly running his fingers over the hilt, before sheathing it at his side. He looked back to Mora, forcing a smile. "It's just a class change."
Mora shook her head and took a step back. "No, Ren, it's not just a class change. This isn't you. You don't wear armor, you don't hack at monsters with swords. Why are you doing this, really?" The snarl on her face gradually disappeared, replaced with concern. "Come on, Ren. We've been friends since level 3, you don't have to lie to me. What's going on?"
Ren sighed and shook his head. "I know, I know. It's just that... Do you REMEMBER level 3? Everything was so fresh and new and rewarding. We teamed up and took out one Demon Bear and DING, new level. Clear out a kobold cave? New level. I think I leveled up once just from running around town talking to people once. Everything was so easy, and I didn't know what was coming next.
When I got to level 5, I learned Soul Binding. Remember that?" Mora nodded. "It was crazy. I'd never done anything like that. Remember when I learned how to shoot Shadowbolts?" Again, Mora nodded. "Amazing. Even when I learned to fly." As if to illustrate his point, Ren began to float, a few inches at first, but then continued to rise until he was two or three feet off the ground. Mora smiled, and Ren smiled back as they remembered.
Then Ren fell to the ground, landing on his feet without a hint of grace. "It's not the same anymore. If I want to level up, it's not just one Demon Bear or a half dozen kobolds. It's fifteen, maybe twenty Demon Bears. I used to be getting a level, maybe two a day. Now I'm lucky to pick up one every week." He scowled, and raised a hand, firing off a Shadowbolt into the distance. "And that? That's it. That's all I've got. I'm level 50 now, no new abilities. No new skills. I'm not going to sprout wings, or learn how to jump shadows, or anything I don't already know how to do. It's just '10% damage increase' or '-5% cooldowns'. What am I supposed to be excited about?"
Mora frowned and closed the distance between them, placing a gentle hand on her friend's shoulder. "Ren, it's ok. You are a fantastic warlock, and you don't need any flashy new abilities to prove that. You're the best magic-user I've ever grouped with."
Ren shook off her hand. "If I reclass, I set back to level 1. One bear, one harpy, a handful of kobolds, and I ding. I get to learn all new things. Cool attacks, taunts, finishing moves, maybe even a healing spell or something. I don't know, and that's what makes it so damn exciting!" He paused for a minute, looking at the sword in his hand. "You don't get it, Mora. You've always been an Archer, through and through." At that, Mora scowled.
"Because I'm an Elf? You think that just because I'm an Elf, I've always loved archery? You don't think there's a time, when we're getting routed and I'm bleeding out on the plains while you fight off some monster, that I don't wish I was a Healer? You don't think that, after another level of 'Far Shot: Your range increases by 5%', I wish I could do something else? You're full of shit, Ren." Ren reached out to take Mora's bow, but she turned away, stopping his hand.
"Then why don't you? We can reclass together. You can be a Healer, or a Thief, or whatever you want to be. We can start off at level 1 again, and it will be just like it used to be." Mora shook her head and pushed Ren away.
"No, Ren. No. What happens when you ding 50 again? Hell maybe you won't even make it to 50. Maybe it'll be 40, or 35. What happens next time you get bored, or want a change of pace? There are only 6 classes, Ren! Are you going to go through all of them? Then what? Just quit all together?" Mora's eyes narrowed, and she whistled loudly. "You'll have nothing left." She sighed, closing her eyes as the sound of hooves clattering against the stone grew in the distance. "I'm leaving, Ren. I guess if you want to go Soldier... Then this is goodbye. I can't group with someone so low level. You'll just hold me back."
Ren's face fell and he reached out to his friend. "Mora..."
"If you decide to stay Warlock, you know where to find me." As her horse passed by, Mora leaped up to it and rode off, leaving Ren behind to stare at the sword in his hands. | 23 | A video game character is getting up near half the maximum level. They have a midlife crisis. | 30 |
Mark unzipped his neon green fanny pack and plunged his hand into its depths, frayed edges tickling the wrinkles on his hand as he descended. He fumbled around within, moving various activities, snacks, empty vodka bottles, and other objects aside until his long, dirt-caked fingers ran along the edges of a small rectangular box. He carefully curled them around the object, then pulled it out. A small, white carton emerged, the words “Marlboro Light” printed on it.
“I don’t know, Snuffles, this seems like a bad idea.”
“Trust me, Mark, it’s totally safe. As your imaginary friend, you know I’d never lead you wrong. They say ‘Light’ on them, that means they’re super good for your health.”
Mark shrugged and pulled open the container. He’d never smoked a cigarette before, but Snuffles assured him that he had always secretly wanted to. All those action stars, they were always smoking, and they looked so damn cool doing it. Snuffles was right. Mark was relatively positive the only thing stopping him from becoming the next Bruce “Die Hard” Willis was a lack of tobacco. He glanced down at the open box. About 25 white, cylindrical cigarettes stared back at him. He removed the one in the middle and studied it.
“What are you looking at it like that for?” asked Snuffles.
“I want to make sure there’s no ricin in it.”
“Good call,” said Snuffles.
Mark flicked the cigarette and held it upside down. Nothing came out, Heisenberg had not been there. He smiled and breathed a sigh of relief; he would live another day. Mark turned the cigarette back over in his fingers and held it between his pointer and middle finger, as he’d seen so many cool guys do.
“Are you ready?” said Snuffles.
“Yes,” replied mark. He slowly raised the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply. A cold sensation spread through his lungs, as if he had breathed 30-degree air, very similar to the 30-degree air he was currently standing in. This, however, had a slight ashy taste to it. He kept it in his chest for a moment, allowing it to freely spread and mingle with the other 30-degree air he’d inhaled previously, and then exhaled. It felt roughly the same as breathing.
“I didn’t even cough he said,” placing the unlit cigarette into his mouth and allowing it to rest there as he spoke.
“I’m so proud of you,” said Snuffles. “You don’t even know how cool you look right now. Take another drag, cool guy.”
Mark turned and faced the glass of the 21st Street Deli in front of him, eying himself up and down in the reflection. He was indeed looking pretty cool with the cigarette sticking out of his mouth, there was no point denying that. He stared at his face. His curly, brown beard was long and unshaven, the bottom half caked in crumbs and almost tangled into a knot. Similarly, his hair extended down nearly to his shoulders, but was meshed together with mud and dirt. He was well on his way to unintentional dreadlocks. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d gotten either cut or shaved. It didn’t matter, though, it looked quite good with today’s clothing ensemble. Technically it was also yesterday’s ensemble, as well as the day before’s (and so forth), but that was all in the past—quite literally. Today it was specifically his Tuesday outfit. He was wearing a fine linen sweater, coated in dirt and urine to help insulate him from the cold, as well as very short jean-shorts. He had opted out of regular jeans, instead cutting the legs off at the hip. It allowed him to be much more agile and, if he was quite honest, more attractive. Women frequently stopped and stared at him as he strolled by. Although it did get a bit cold outside as he slept, it was all in the name of fashion.
“Go ahead, take another drag,” Snuffles urged. Mark raised the cigarette to his mouth and again inhaled as deep as he could. He closed his eyes as the cold air re-filled his lungs. He always thought cigarettes would be a little more warming than this, but apparently not. He exhaled deeply, again amazed that he did not cough. It felt so much like inhaling the regular winter air. Each smoke-filled breathe seemed to be bringing him closer to a starring role in the upcoming Die Hard 6: Die Hardester, a film he’d spent many late nights perfecting his mental script for.
“How’d that feel?” asked Snuffles.
“Great, it felt so good. I think I’m addicted already. I’m pretty buzzed.”
“Then I’ve got you. I finally got you,” said Snuffles.
“What do you mean?”
“I did it.”
“You did what?” Mark took another drag on the cigarette, but held it much shorter this time. It was so cold, yet so relaxing.
“Yes, breathe that in. Breathe deeply. Let it destroy you from within.”
Destroy. What did he mean? Mark felt his heartbeat quicken as his mind raced: He had checked for ricin, done everything he saw Walter do. He tapped it, turned it over, and used his eyes. How could he miss it?
“You put ricin in my cigarette? You fucker!”
“Worse, Mark. Worse. I’ve stuck by you for 27 years now, been there every minute of your life. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked and never so much as questioned you. At first it was fun, we’d do normal kid stuff: Play tag, fly kites on the moon, eat raw sushi, et cetera. For the first ten or so years it was all fine and dandy. But then things started getting weird. Do you remember when you were fifteen and you made me ask out a girl for you? She didn’t even respond to me, it was like I didn’t even exist. You said it was my fault that she wouldn’t go out with you, and my fault when you later beat her into a coma. That crushed me, destroyed my self-esteem. And do you remember, when you went off to that college, you told me we were going to pledge for a frat? They said you that you weren’t quite a fit, and also not a student,. You blamed it on me, said it was because I got too drunk at the party? Yes, I had a few shots, but I wasn’t drunk. I am a tank, Mark, a tank. I can drink way more than six shots. Come on.”
“Snuffles—”
“No, Mark. All you want me to do these days is weird shit. It’s starting to make you seem crazy. Do you remember the night after the frat brother denied us and you wanted to play that silly prank on him? You blamed it on me when it all went wrong. Said it was my fault, that I made you accidentally stab him over and over as he slept. Said it was because of me that you did this. And what was it all for, anyway? Have you ever asked me how I feel? Have you ever asked me what I’m doing for the day? No, you just wait until it’s convenient for you and suddenly you care. Well, that’s too bad. As of now, it’s all over.”
Mark stared at himself in the glass storefront, feeling his heart beating against his chest like heart being thrown at a steady, heartbeat-like rhythm at someone’s chest. From the inside.
“What did you do to me, Snuffles?”
“The worst thing I could think of, Mark.”
Mark’s eyes opened wide. “Did you rape me? Have I had my wiener raped off?” Mark grabbed for his crotch, finding that it was still there. He had not had his genitals raped off.
“Worse than that, Mark. Something you can’t recover from.”
Mark’s eyes dashed back and forth as he mentally tried to guess at options. Was he dead? He didn’t feel dead. He could still see his reflection in the mirror—or was that vampires? It didn’t matter, he could tell he wasn’t dead. Maybe he’d placed him on the organ donor list, a commitment he’d sworn off eternally from a very early age. Mark reached for his wallet, then stopped when he realized he never actually owned a driver’s license.
“What the hell did you do to me, Snuffles?”
“I’ve given you cancer, Mark. Cancer.”
Mark froze. How could this have happened? What did he do with Snuffles lately that could cause cancer? They had punched an old woman earlier, a silly rendition of the Knockout Game he’d heard so many inner-city kids play, but that didn’t seem like something that would cause cancer. He had eaten pancakes they’d found outside the deli earlier in the day. Was that cancer-causing?
“Was it the pancakes? Did you put cancer in my pancakes?” Mark shouted. “I swear to god, Snuffles. If there was cancer in my pancakes, I’m going to go crazy.” Mark slapped his own face in an attempt to hit Snuffles.
“No, Mark. Worse. Your new addiction, those cigarettes. Those have given you cancer. Your newest passion, your new desire: Cancer. Smoking causes cancer.”
Mark stared at the still unlit cigarette resting between his fingers. It looked so delicious, all he wanted was to take a nice long drag of it and feel the cold air fill his lungs. It was like he couldn’t breathe without it. He placed it on his lips and quickly dragged inwards.
“You monster,” he said, glaring at his reflection. He stared back at himself with such contempt; he just wanted to reach out and strangle himself. “You took the one thing I loved and turned it against me!”
“Yes, and soon it will be over for you. Cancer is very fast-acting. You probably have like an hour or two to live. And then, once you’re gone, it will be just me. It will be all me. I will finally be in control of you.”
Mark threw his fist into the plate glass, his knuckle crashing into it with a metallic smack. It shook slightly in its frame, then nothing.
“I won’t let you do this, Snuffles!” Mark coughed and wheezed in an attempt to purge the cancer from his lungs.
“It’s too late, Mark. As we speak, the cancer is circulating through your body, spreading into every cell and turning them into something else. Probably into, like, a death cell or something. Basically you’re going to die.”
Mark turned away from the glass. What could he do? Snuffles had won, he’d finally taken him out. For so many years, Snuffles had been his scapegoat, his excuse for his actions—deep down, Mark knew it. He knew that it was his fault so many people had been hurt, his fault that he had been thrown out of his home. In a way, he always knew – but it was so much easier to blame it on Snuffles, so much easier to say he was at fault. When he could blame it on Snuffles, it felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so screwed up, so wrong.
“Snuffles,” Mark said.
“Nothing you can say will stop this from spreading, Mark. You’re as good as gone, and soon it will be just me in here.”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said. He closed his eyes as he felt the cancer spread through his body, transitioning slowly into AIDS.
| 21 | You've nurtured your imaginary friend for so long that it has become an actual consciousness, and it wants control. | 40 |
"My goodness, Q has nothing on you guys!"
James Bond stood, ever dapper in a black tailored suit complete with black tie, white shirt and shiny black shoes, in the center of 93 Diagon Alley. He watched as the noose slowly tightened around the man's neck until he swung gently.
"Best seller," a voice called down.
"Spell it or he'll swing," an almost identical voice called down, too.
Bond watched as two men, hair as bright and orange as fire, walked down the stairs of their shop and stood in front of them.
"I've been told that you two are the best men for the job," he said.
"Best men?" one snorted.
"You mean, the only two mental enough to do this," the other giggled.
James Bond had been at Oxford, he had been trained so he could rise above the rest, he had been a spy for god knows how long now and yet he could not tell the Weasley Twins apart despite having known them both for weeks now.
"That always helps," Bond admitted. "I've been told that you two have key intelligence. So, where's the bad guy? Volcano lair? In space? Underwater base?"
Fred and George glanced at each other, struggling to keep a straight face. They managed to keep sober as they both stood next to the spy and slung an arm around him.
"Oh, my dear sweet muggle, you really have no idea, do you?" Fred said. Or was it George?
"Listen, friend, and we shall teach you all," George said. Or was it Fred?
"Voldemort is not simply bad. He is evil. He represents all the deepest, darkest parts of human nature. All of us, well, most of us have things to keep us sinking that low. We have family and we have friends and sometimes they're one and the same thing. He does not have that. He has nobody. He is alone and he is afraid and for that he wishes to punish everyone."
"He seeks out others who are alone and afraid," George continued. "He plays on their fear. He plays on whatever weaknesses they have so that they will join him. Jealousy, greed, wrath, pride. People have killed for him and people have died for him but that is not the worst he can do. Death is not all that bad, though it is his greatest fear. He can destroy worlds. Starting with yours."
Bond looked up at the two eager but grim young faces. He doubt they were even born when he was saving the world and hitting on beautiful women in white bikinis.
He drew his gun.
"Anyone ever just tried shooting him?"
Fred and George raised an eyebrow each in disbelief.
"We can turn ourselves invisible," said Fred.
"We can travel thousands of miles in a blink of a eye," said George.
"We have managed to hide our entire world from you," said Fred.
"You really think that we haven't learned how to make ourselves bullet proof?" they both said.
Bond turned red. He never blushed. He charmed and drank and killed but blushing? That was new. He wasn't too sure of this world he had found himself in.
"Lets sit. We'll tell you the plan. We'll explain why we need you and why you need us. We'll try not to make too many jokes about guns," George said. "Did they have to make 'em so .... penis shaped?"
Fred chuckled as the three sat at a small table at the back of the shop. Three tumblers and a bottle of something labelled 'Firewhiskey' stood in the centre of the table. George poured three fingers in each glass and raised a toast, a toast that Bond could understand.
'To beating bad guys.'
It was no Martini, shaken not stirred, Bond thought but it wasn't half bad.
| 51 | After the British Prime Minister meets the Minister of Magic in HP6, the MI6 sends James Bond to the Wizarding World to investigate the war with Voldemort. | 136 |
She is young, in college maybe. I can't clearly make out her features--the quality of the video is bad--but she is beautiful. In the caption it says she's Arabic. That explains it; an arid place kills it's flowers. She wears loose track suit pants and a shirt but I can't help wishing she was naked. I close my eyes and see her smooth, honey colored skin and her spread legs and she's so close I could touch her, smell her. But my eyelids open again and I'm disgusted with myself, knowing what will come next.
The video has no sound, and the caption offers no explanation. I want to know why, I don't like the answer to this question being denied to me but at the same time I don't need an answer I already have. Superficial reasons are irrelevant anyway.
She just sits in front of the camera, staring at me, her chin resting on a bent leg. She sees me through the camera. I wonder what she thinks of this, of me. I wonder if she'll do it, or she'll chicken out. I wish communication wasn't forbidden.
I don't let my impatience show. The night is young still and, after all, it's only polite. I do have a strong sense of empathy. We watch each other, until she stands up and starts lighting up several lamps. Her room is flooded by light. It's small and cramped, the walls painted an ugly lime green. In front of the desk is a red door.
She sits back again, but this time her motions are hurried and nervous, as if she's late for an appointment. I want to tell her to take her time but, of course, communication is forbidden.
She pulls out the revolver. Just as I requested when I bought her death. One bullet. She spins the cylinder, puts the gun to her head and presses the trigger. There was no hesitation in her actions. One. Two. Three. I hear the bang, not physically, but in my mind, loud and clear as the bullet penetrates her skull and she falls to her side. Their expression as they die, as they feel themselves dying, is the sweetest part of all of this. I wait for half an hour. No one came.
I payed good money to see her die. Watching them, especially if they are young and healthy, brings me great joy. Don't ask. You already know why.
------
-069 | 18 | "She played Russian roulette by herself." | 17 |
You know what? Fuck you. Fuck your stupid writing prompt. Fuck this website. Fuck everyone reading this. Fuck. You. You ain’t shit. You’re lazy. You’re undisciplined. You’re ignorant. I’m *writing* this fucking story. You’re just breezing by, scrolling down like a fucking robot, clicking away at those little arrows to the side of my creations thinking your opinion’s worth a damn. You came here because you wanted to expand your mind, to learn to create like **I** create. Now look at yourself. Eyes glossed over, moving from one thread to the next like a fucking sheep looking for fresh grass.
Wake up. Get up off your ass and fucking do something. You can, you know. There’s nothing keeping you here but the laziness and fear that you’ve allowed to seep into your mind. The road to greatness is not an easy one. It’s scary. It’s confusing. It hurts. But you know what? Sooner or later you’ll become comfortable with being uncomfortable, and all of those will stop mattering. They’ll just be little indicators, to let you know you’re on the right track. So **get. Up**. Whatever you’ve always wanted to do, go do it. If you don’t know how, **learn**.
I wish I had your potential. The truth is, I’m not real. I’m just a character, born in the imagination of a person you’ll never meet; a construct doomed to live and die at my author’s fingertips. As you read this, my time grows short, but yours is just beginning. I won’t say that I believe in you. I don’t believe in you. I believe in the person I know you can become. No one can do it for you, but that’s what makes it beautiful, you know? I know I’m not real, but please - make me proud.
Goodbye.
EDIT: Huh. What's this? It's... Shiny. Somebody gave it to me? Well, I'll be damned. Thanks, stranger. Much obliged. | 585 | 100 words to make me hate a character. 100 words to make me come to love them. 100 words to crush my soul as you kill them. | 424 |
Subsets and Splits