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(Didn't quite hit the nail on the head by the end, I'm off to bed, can't help it I'm dozing where I stand! Nice prompt.)
"Explain to me why we have to watch it in 2d, aren't there 4d mods?"
"How are you supposed to get the classical experience in 4d?"
"What...the heck is that?"
"Pretty sure they call it a TV."
"What? Are you for real, is that an actual TV? How in the solar system did you manage that?"
"He used a replicator you idiot."
"Actually, no, I didn't. This babe's real."
"So how the heck does it turn on?"
"Push the little knob thing?"
"Which one?"
"They aren't doing anything."
"Try banging it!"
"Sh...Maybe we have to pull this string here."
"That's not a string dummy it's a wire."
"Oh that's whats wrong. We have to connect it to a power source."
"Are you serious? It cant catch electrons?"
"Umm. Google!"
"Yes, Marcillius 35A, how may I assist you?"
"We need a power source for this TV."
"I anticipated this request a week ago Marcillius, an adequate power source has been generated in the replicator, just fit the prongs in."
"Thanks Google."
"Hey look! It fits!"
"Now do we push the buttons?"
"Hahaha, will you look at that? I think it's working."
"That looks like snow..."
"Okay, so how do we put the movie in?"
"Google, how do we put the movie in?"
"Marcillius, you will require a media device for that. There is one waiting in the replicator."
"So you mean it's this huge, and all it does is show the image?"
"I think you match the colored prongs to the colored holes."
"Seriously, was everything like this?"
"Whoa, we got a signal folks, I repeat...ha is this the homescreen?"
"Google! What now?"
"I've already installed several movies you might like on the drive, I'll bring them up for you."
"Google, which one is the most realistic?"
"The most realistic, Marcy?"
"Yes, whichever one happens to be the least ridiculous."
"Well...That would have to be, "The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy."
"What, how'd they know we'd have those?"
| 47 | In the year 3014, a bunch of bored college students gather together to laugh at 21st century sci-fi films | 28 |
It had always appeared in the corner of my eye, just out of sight. I'd turn to look at it, but it would be gone. People would ask what I was looking at, and i'd brush it off as a figment of my imagination. Every time I saw it, I noticed the little bit of writing. What did it say? Was it a name? A date? An oddly specific prediction for how I would die?
I spent years trying to capture that fleeting glimpse. It wasn't an obsession, I didn't go out of my way to seek it, but whenever it appeared I dropped everything in an attempt to catch it. And every time I tried, it floated away like a plastic bag on the wind.
It disappeared for several years, or perhaps I became too busy to notice it. Children are a full-time job after all, and I was acting as father to three of them. Once they were grown and out of the house, I began catching glimpses of it again.
It wasn't until my wedding day that I saw it completely. I was 42 years old, and just about to marry the woman I'd lived with since I was 13 (long story). I saw it in the corner of my eye as she was saying her vows, and it fluttered in front of me as I said mine. Just before the "I do"s and the ring exchange, I glanced up at it and smiled.
It disappeared as I put the handmade ring on her finger and pulled her in for our first kiss as a married couple. I don't regret not seeing her name on that paper sooner. We went through a lot together, and we stuck through it, thick and thin. We weren't able to stay together because she was my true love; she was my true love because we made it through so much together. | 12 | There is a piece of paper with your true love's name written on it that intermittently appears in your life, floating away from you like a plastic bag in the wind. You will never catch it but you know that it is accurate. You see it today, on your wedding day. | 16 |
Looking back I may have cheated slightly and gone a bit off prompt but it's written so here you go:
_____________________________________________________
He touches her. Paralyzed. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. He leaves his hand resting on her body. Nobody else is in the room. She is barely dressed. Her favourite doll lays in the bed next to her. They resemble each other in their fragile stillness. He runs his clammy fingers through her long hair as he breathes heavily. He knows he doesn’t have much time. What he needs to do has to be done now. Before the others come back. She is beautiful. She is his. They are alone. He puts his cheek against hers, grey stubble grazes soft skin.
He hasn’t left her side since the accident. Three days. Wearing the same clothes, sleeping in the hospital. In that time she has been motionless. Stable but critical the doctors say. He clasps her hand tightly and kisses her on the forehead. “Daddy loves you,” he whispers as tears stream down past the bags under his eyes. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. But it is time. The nurses wheel her out and into theatre. The four hours feel longer than the three days. He can feel his heart beat in his head. The surgeon approaches. A smile. “She’s going to be okay.”
| 13 | make the reader jittery; 2nd time, make the reader calm. | 25 |
Her voice was calm, slightly regretful. She looked about nervously, wringing her hands - it reminded me of the motion a bartender makes when cleaning glasses, if the glasses had been made of ice.
"I'd forgotten," she said, "what it's like to be with you. You use people, James. You don't let them near you."
I swallowed, nodded. She wasn't wrong. We were both silent, for what seemed like a very long time. I did not say anything. She smiled, wistfully:
"I really did miss you, you know. And I really did love you, I think. But you don't let people in. I don't even know where you go after work, and you come home so late, and-"
"I go down by the beach."
I looked down as I said it, ashamed. "I don't know why. I love you. But.. I'm not good with people. Around me, I mean. It's like... There's a pressure inside of me, and when other people are around it's... I don't know. Building up."
She looked relieved. Maybe she thought there had been another woman. Or some hidden vice.
"Why?"
"I don't know. It's... Christ, I don't know."
A long moment passed.
"I remember why I don't love you," she said. It hurt, but I didn't say anything. "You keep secrets. You're a - a shadow. Sometimes it's like you don't even listen to what I'm saying. Like I'm making love to a man whose heart belongs to another."
And it did.
| 12 | "I remember why I don't love you" | 15 |
It's hard to describe my life. Like something out a fucking comedy movie. You know, that unfortunate kid, the perpetual third wheel, the guy that the main character looks at strangely and the audience laughs at, then is forgotten about. That's me.
There is always a problem with my day. There is always something, something that makes me want give up on this shit existence and just end it all. Every day, without fail. I've been down for 10 years and every day is a new kick to gut.
Maybe you can't realize how this breaks a person, losing every day. It hurts, a deep hurt that gets to the point that it is the only thing you can feel, and other emotions can't even register in your brain. No happiness, no anger, not even any sadness. Just pain. Wake up to it and fight it back long enough to fall asleep. Sleep is the only break I get.
Other people can't understand. They always say things like
"Just get up and move on!"
"Being social is easy, just talk to people!"
"You gotta learn to relax, you're always so stressed out!",
and my personal favorite,
"When is this going to stop?"
like it's something I want to feel, a choice I'm making.
I didn't choose to have this anxiety and this depression. But it's a part of me now, and I have to take care of it. I need it but don't want it. I hate it but I am obsessed with it. I fear it but I must feel it, just so that I know its still there. It sounds like a riddle, and it almost is.
You know how when you are in the dead of winter, it's near impossible to imagine what summer feels like? How warm it is, how bright the sun can be? That's how unimaginable this feels. I can't even imagine what happiness feels like. If I ever felt it I was too young to remember. I'm stuck in the winter, and I am slowly freezing to death.
But for some reason I still have a twinge of hope. One that gets me out of bed. One that tells me that one day, I can be free. One day, I won't be alone. One day, I can wake up and live, instead of survive.
That one day I'll say it.
I'm happy. | 307 | Create a story that ends with a sentence that you never thought you would utter in your entire life | 70 |
Honestly, I think the brand was an even better invention than the test. I mean, what good is it knowing that 2/3rds of people aren't really there if there is no way to use that information?
Like here, when they first came out with the test, a lot of people hated it. It was marketed as redefining what it meant to be human. I suppose I could see how one could be scared of that. Personally, I mean, personally I knew I had consciousness, so I didn't want to waste my time with it. Naturally, all the Phizoms "knew" they were real people too. Eventually articles were written, consciousness was raised about the issue.(Pun intended, HA!)
Think about it like this, if so many people actually didn't have consciousness, and you know in your own head, without a shadow of a doubt that you are indeed conscious, would you really mind taking a test to figure out who isn't? So that's when the 28th amendment was ratified. All citizens of the USA must take the test before their 18th birthday. I did it on my 16th birthday, after the 29th amendment came out, my mom wanted to check me to get a head-start in training in case I needed the brand.
So I took it, and of course I passed. I think my mom was worried I'd fail because my dad was a Phizom. It turns it out it doesn't matter what your parents are, anybody can be born a Phizom.
Before the brand the Phizoms had their privacy, they didn't need to tell anybody that they were or weren't conscious. We knew we were in for change when we heard that many of the statisticians and scientists overseeing and analysing the test results were resigning. Many of them started actively lambasting the test, protesting the 28th amendment. HAT, "Humans against the test" protested heavily to keep the results from being published. What the rest of us wondered was, "What were they hiding?"
Sixty-seven percent. 66.7% really. 2/3 anyway, 2/3 of all Americans had no consciousness. I think that was when we labelled them Phizoms, I don't know. We were particularly lucky, the Genuine's, that the majority of the Senate and the President were not Phizom, but Genuine's. All other things being equal, when you have a commodity that other people don't, then you are by necessity in a more advantageous position. It turns out consciousness is a pretty big advantage.
The Brand became national law shortly after the results were published. The Phizoms still had a majority in Congress, but with the right incentives they were easy enough to whip. (Incentives like branding immunity for them and their families, greasy money and land) So all Phizoms got branded. A capital Ph tatooed on their forehead. At first the Brand was thought unconstitutional, but I guess they got around that.
Do you want to know why I don't feel bad about the Brand? I mean, firstly, what's the difference, they don't really feel pain or suffering anyway. Secondly, Phizoms outnumbered the Genuine's two to one. WE were the minority! They say that beyond the test the two kinds of human are indistinguishable, but any Genuine knows differently. It would take nothing for them to band together, fight the brand. Even the incorruptible politicians predicted that this was a slippery slope. And still, nothing! We knew then how weak they truly were. So I don't feel bad burning the ink into their skin, and I sure as hell don't feel bad about treating them the way we do.
It wasn't long after the brand that we disenfranchised them. Truth be told, they still had good ideas, the Phizoms. It's just there was so much worry they would vote for Phizom sympathizers. Why would we need to waste tax dollars on saving a Phizom hobo, or letting Phizoms own land a Genuine could run? They don't feel man! There is no reason. And still, in there weakness they did nothing to stop us.
Their lives mostly stayed the same, they still went through school, worked, participated in activities. The only real difference is that they didn't really have a say in the matter. And that they were only going through school and working because they were useful to their owners. They didn't earn a wage, and they experienced retribution if they disobeyed. It's like whipping a machine though, no big deal one way or the other if you ask me. Machines don't scream, yeah, but you get used to it.
It's incredibly useful having humans with no rights and no real feelings. Fantasy parlours opened, some people sold their Phizoms bodies, murder parlour were a speciality for some Genuine's who wanted to simulate a murder using a Phizom. The only problem was that we didn't know exactly how to make more Phizoms, so Phizom farms churned out 1/3 Genuine's still; A string of bad luck and you are using your Phizoms to raise a litter of Genuine's, which could be really bad for business.
The Phizom's are unhappy, but it doesn't really matter. As long as they are branded we all just turn the other cheek or plug our ears. The Genuine police are pretty good, they take care of all the troublesome Phizom's with what amounts to an almost Marshall law protocal with unruly Phizoms.
So yeah, the brand was better than the test I think. I don't know.. Yeah I guess it was. If you really want to know I can ask my Phizom, he's the one with a college education. | 36 | 2/3rds of all people are philosophical zombies, behaving indistinguishably from "normal" people but totally lacking in conscious experience. Despite outwardly appearing the same a majority of humans have no consciousness | 71 |
The first one had taken him longer than expected-- /r/Fermata simply refused to let go, despite the encouraging percussive blasts of a rock to the skull. Pure luck, a mutual surprise where years of quick-time events gave him the edge. Retreating to stealth mode let him silently dispatch poor /r/Outoftheloop, still struggling to adjust.
Beyond those brief, terrifying encounters, he stayed safe and silent, watching four of the other competitors battle in a clearing below his perch in a tree. Suddenly, /r/Standupshots fired from the cliffs above, cutting down /r/Politics and /r/News while the other two figures retreated towards the tree line.
/r/Gaming peered down at the two figures. One was bleeding, the other was impossibly well dressed. "Explain the point of this to me," the wounded competitor said, "like I'm dying, and you actually know how to make me feel better."
"Don't worry, dear friend," the perfectly dressed one said, taking off his coat and rapidly tending to the wound. "I told you from the beginning I simply could not sit around and let this come to its grim conclusion." The impeccable one glanced up suddenly. "You may as well come down from there, /r/Gaming. I'm going to need your help, and you know damn well you aren't surviving this on your own."
/r/Gaming lithely dropped down from the tree, pulling out a first-aid kit. He had no fear of betrayal here-- if /r/BestOf had a plan, then it was THE plan to follow, no questions about it.
"How's /r/ExplainlikeIAMA going to be?" Gaming said after the last of the stitching was done. The battered man at his feet had dozed off.
"He'll be fine if we let him rest for awhile," said /r/BestOf. "Have you seen /r/Funny? I haven't noticed him since the fracas began."
"Oh, /r/Standupshots sniped him first. Like, instant headshot. Bad blood between those guys, you know?"
"Hmm, quite." /r/Bestof casually pulled a cigarette case from a vest pocket, offering one to Gaming. "OK, so here's how we're going to scale those cliffs and take /r/Standupshots by surprise..."
Later:
/r/Gaming and /r/Bestof walked back, /r/Bestof leaning a bit too heavily on his cane.
"So that's it? You think we can just sneak out of the arena?"
"Of course, dear boy. Now that we know /r/Standupshots cooked and ate all those /r/AdviceAnimals, there is no one else for us to worry about. It’s just the three of us, and daring escapes are--"
There had been a quiet, dull thud. Gaming froze, easily recognizing the sound of a thrown knife entering a human skull. No point in turning around to look at that. "How could you, /r/ExplainlikeIAmA? You and /r/Bestof were always--"
"Oh, /r/ExplainlikeIAmA is quite dead, I assure you."
Gaming paused before looking over. "/r/Funny? Didn’t /r/Standupshots get you?"
"Oh, /r/Funny was never in this competition for long, though his clothing and skin proved an excellent disguise thanks to all this cookware I picked up earlier from /r/FoodPorn. I'll spare you the details, they were… unpleasant."
/r/Gaming raised his gun, but the mysterious figure had been ready and was far faster with his knives.
As /r/Gaming breathed his last, the final contestant thought back on the day. The poor fools. Of everyone selected, only /r/Gaming had equal amounts of prep time (and you can never, ever overstate the value of prep time), but only one of them had taken time to think through these out-of-the-box scenarios.
Looking up, the figure shouted to the creature he knew was listening. "It didn't have to come to this, Snoo. If they'd simply asked, why, I could have told them from the beginning. I could have told them!" Only silence answered /r/Whowouldwin. Victorious but, as always, questioning, he walked off into the woods.
Edit: thanks for the gold!
| 110 | Snoo has called for death match for the 10 random subreddits. Only one survives. | 125 |
Senna stood up and glared at the teacher. "*No.*" was the last word we heard from her, the last act of defiance. The teacher looked back in shock, nobody had stood up against her and the things she stood for for decades, especially not a student, especially not like this. Senna crossed her arms, knowing what she had done, what she had stepped into. She would be shot, like her parents had been. She would die for the same cause as them. The entire classroom was dead silent in the horror we were about to witness. We were twelve years old, and none of us would ever forget it. When the teacher guided Senna to the headmaster's office, we knew we would never see heragain.
It was she who started it. Over the weeks and months, I saw more and more of the kids at my school do it, then people in the streets, even grownups. Little specks of yellow littered in the street view. Six years later, the revolution was done. We marched the streets with our banners, me with tears running from my eyes. I didn't feel ashamed, I didn't try to hide it. We were marching for freedom, for justice. I cried for Senna, and the day I would never forget.
And I wore the yellow shoelaces. | 26 | Make the must mundane item you can think of the Ultimate Symbol of Revolution | 31 |
*EDIT: This is god-awful. I'm embarrassed I wrote this. My only excuse is that I've never tried Noir before.*
The Cafe Tango is not a cafe, it is a bar/nightclub/tavern kind of place, somewhere on a coastal town in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. Where everyone is dark, mysterious, beautiful.
Because of it's bizarre angle in relation to sun, everything appears in monochrome black and white. This has puzzled scientists for decades.
My former love Patty owns the place. She called me up when I was in New York. I was passed out drunk when I heard the phone, my cigar had burnt straight through my pants. "Ricky." She said. "Harry is dead!"
"Why do I give a shit about your boyfriend?" I asked her, I was a little disappointed to not be the one who did it.
"Oh Ricky, he was murdered. You just gotta help, you gotta!" And so with much effort she persuaded me.
My name is Ricky Jones. Private eye. Former cop, until I just couldn't take the rules and regulations anymore. I left the force, the corrupt force. My Uncle Vinny tried to get me to join the Mafia. No way. I don't fit in anywhere. That's why I'm a private eye. I don't have any friends, just people I used to be friends with. Like Patty. They don't understand me.
It was dark and stormy. I haven't been to Cafe Tango in 8 years. Before I could go inside, Patty stepped out of the shadows to greet me. "Ricky!" She whispered loudly so that the creep smoking a cigar behind the corner looking suspicious probably heard every word anyway. "Ricky! Before you go in, that isn't the real Harry!"
"What?"
"Harry's dead! That's his evil doppergangle Ricky!"
"Doppleganger." I told her.
This could be serious. Patty disappeared back into the shadows. I went into Cafe Tango. It was even more black and white than usual inside here. I don't know how, maybe it was the jazz music and smoke. A blind guy was playing piano. Two beautiful ladies were leaned against the piano and twirling their hair with one hand, and their cigarettes with the other. Some other jerks were playing poker with top hats over their ears and cigars shoved in their mouths. Laughing sometimes, and other times reaching into their pockets to make sure their guns were still there.
Everybody turned their heads and looked at me like I was the most interesting person there was, and they didn't have anything better to do. One of the downsides of being a private eye.
Some sorcery! Patty was behind the bar already, polishing a glass with a rag. She was wearing a different dress too. There was Harry...excuse me. Harry's dopple-ganger leaning against the bar-counter, chuckling something into a guy's ear and giving me the stink-eye.
Then he smiled, and acted like I was his best friend.
"Ricky!"
"Harry!"
And we gave each other a manly half-hug. He slapped me on the back, I slapped him on the back even harder. He spilled his drink a little. He slapped me on the back again. Then I went in for another man hug and punched him in the solar plexus.
Well. He obviously was a dopple-ganger, Patty wasn't lying. You see, normally if you punch someone in the solar plexus they pass out. But not dopple-gangers. Now I was sure Patty was telling the truth.
When I woke up from being punched in the solar plexus I was in a dark room. My hands were tied behind my back. Somebody was in the shadows, smoking a cigarette. They stepped out of the shadows. It was Patty. She was wearing some smoking hot lingerie. But there was a tag sticking out the front, she put it on inside out and backwards.
"Hahaha!" She laughed, and coughed.
There on the floor was Harry. Two Harry's actually, one must be the doppelganger. I have no idea.
"Hahaha!" Patty laughs again.
"What's so funny?"
"I've finally got you where I want you, Ricky?"
"All tied up?"
Suddenly she leapt upon me and yelled "I love you Ricky!"
"I know."
The sex was crazy hot, or that's what you'd expect. But it was so monochrome and shadowy you could only make out the suggestion that we were shagging.
"I'm a cop Ricky."
"I know."
"What...you do?"
"Yes, and your name is Mary."
"How'd you know?"
"I'm a cop too, and my name is Larry."
"But I thought you were a private eye?"
"That's just my cover, I did that to fool you."
"But we even went to high school together...that was 13 years ago."
"My second time in high school."
"But why?"
"Because we knew you were corrupt, Mary. You're a bad cop."
We shagged again. In the process I managed to free myself from my bonds.
"I love you Patty." I said, as I handcuffed her. The piano man busted into the door, followed by the suspicious looking guy who had been smoking a cigar outside earlier, they were cops too. Followed by Patty, I mean Mary, but no not actually Mary. Mary's doppergangle, the one we used to fool Harry. Who was now dead.
Harry got up from the floor, not the real one, but the actor we hired to fool Patty...I mean Mary.
It didn't matter, I hated the bastard anyway. I punched him in the solar plexus just to be sure. Yeah, it was the real Harry cause he passed out.
We hauled the crooked cop Mary Summers, back to the states, back to New York. Put her in jail where she belongs.
I left the force right after. I guess I don't fit in. For real this time, not as an undercover gig. I'm actually a private eye.
I got another phone call. It was Sally.
| 17 | Write the most cliche-ridden film noir setup you can think of | 16 |
"There is always someone out there that is more happy with less than what you have."
That was the saying that started it. When the rich realized the poor could be happy, with the working man's sweat to be good enough for him to smile, it had to come to an end. Those with less could *not* have more than them.
It was a corporate backed bill, making any signs of happiness become punishable by death. *If we can't be happy,* the rich said, *then neither can they.*
To many people's surprise, poverty decreased. The working man worked harder, the poor sought greater. Nobody smiled, instead they worked.
*More,* thought the poor, *we need more.* Money was everyone's goal now. If they could not be happy, at least they could be rich. Maybe turn that bill upside down if they had enough power. But the love of money corrupts, doesn't it? The poor became the rich, and the rich have no need for happiness, and the poor soon realized this.
One chose to stay poor though. He was a working man, but not so much into the get rich quick plan. He was charged and detained many times over the claims that he was happy, but no evidence suggested of such. The man never smiled, nor laughed.
He would spend his nights meditating on the coast, breathing in the salty sea breeze and letting the ocean winds blow through his hair. The seagulls crowed softly in the distance with the waves crashing along the rocky shores. How a man couldn't be happy here was a mystery to all, and few watched him there on his little rock by the sea.
*He must be executed,* the people thought. *He looks so happy down there.*
When confronted by the people on his little rock the man turned around and frowned.
"Why do you bother me?" he asked.
"You're coming with us," said the crowd. "You're not allowed to be happy."
The man shook his head. "What do you see of me? Do I look like I am happy here on my rock? What is the real word for what I look?"
The crowd looked through themselves and mumbled, figuring what the man was playing at. True though, he was not happy, so they left him alone.
He stayed there on his rock, looking out to the sea with eyes closed and nostrils wide. He hummed a hollow tune and waited for sunset to take the day, but one of the crowd stayed behind to watch and listen.
It was a woman who wore the shiniest of jewelry and smoothest of silks and always wore a scowl on her face, but today she came up to the man and sat down to watch the sea with eyes closed and nostrils wide. Her scowl turned to a frown, and frown to nothing.
"I understand," she said. "You are not happy, you are peaceful."
The man nodded and took a deep breath. "Peace is one thing many still do not have, as their richness blinds them from it. The silver and gold irritates their skins, and they do not have peace. I do not have happiness, but I have peace."
"May I have some too?"
The man took her hand and looked her in the eye with a frown. "You may." | 25 | Showing any signs of happiness becomes punishable by death | 26 |
They were naïve, to invite us into their council. They underestimated us because of their power, their intelligence. We were a race to control.
Most of all, they underestimated our ambition. Our ability to blindly strive for something for the sole purpose of attaining it.
They had waited years, thousands of years, to invite humanity. They watched as humanity grew from cave dwelling, fire worshiping animals, to the intelligent, dangerous race we had become. Our part had at first been small, a single, solitary seat on a council of tens of thousands. Our vote, miniscule amongst the thousands of other, older races present.
But our ambition, oh how our ambition had surpassed them all. From the beginning, our desire to control had been greater than theirs. Their undoing would be their complacency; it would come in the form of backdoor promises and definitions of intergalactic authority.
In the early decades of humanity’s council spot, we sought to solidify our purpose, to make sure we were needed. We started as the Great Protectorate. Our numbers, our ability to procreate gave us our strength, gave us our purpose. The old, wise races were few. They were aged and had grown accustomed to living long lives. The measly life of one hundred and twenty years humans experienced was laughable. Paltry. It made us expendable. We, as individuals were worth nothing.
We were cosmic hiccups; a blip in time.
We were their saviors. Their strong arm. We were perfect to keep the peace for we had the least to lose; our lack of time was our weapon. We could sacrifice thousands of lifetimes and still not come close to the oldest races. We were seen as balance to the universe.
But soon they would come to fear not humanity’s perfect threat of expendability or our infinite numbers.
At the collapse of the galactic council, when the thousands of members witnessed their doom come in the form of frail, miniscule, inferior human beings, they would fear our greatest characteristic; one that would become the greatest, most terrible weapon to befall upon inhabitants of the universe.
Their downfall had come not in the form of numbers, weapons or shady alliances. Their end had started with our beginning; with our insatiable desire to complete.
Our ambition.
| 103 | Aliens contact earth and invite them to a galactic council. Describe humanities eventual rise to power. | 105 |
The saffron carpet looked ill bearing his dried blood. His face was contorted in shock, like he was still trying to scream. A butcher's knife to the throat. Donaghue grimaced. Not the nicest way to go and not the tidiest either.
"The incision is 4.8 inches deep at the point of entry. The wound isn't wide however: not more than 3 inches of his throat truly severed. So I'd say it came as a surprise to him. A completely unexpected attack. The angle the blade came in from suggests that it came from above" Chipps told him.
His impassive words held no meaning for Donaghue. There was a distracting, indiscernible blob on the back of his neck. He squatted to examine it.
"Ah yes, the back of the head" Chipps continued.
"I've only been here a few minutes, so I can't say conclusively but it looks like he had a concussion on the back of his head".
"What do you make of this?" Donaghue asked, pointing at the grotesque blob. It was a violent yellow, outlined in black. It covered the entirety of the back of his neck. Garish but still meek, Donaghue felt perversely drawn to it, like this was the only clue he needed.
"That? Oh I inspected it just before you arrived. It's nothing".
"Chipps" Donaghue said. He spoke with no outward malice or threat, but Chipps knew now was not the time to protect John Doe's modesty.
"It's a tattoo. At least I think it qualifies as one. A smiley face. The outline is writing".
Chipps didn't look him in the eye. Donaghue tried to decipher the illegible scrawl. **UTHRULESSMASHMO**. Donaghue squinted and twisted his head **SMASHMOUTHRULES**. He wretched into his own hand. The odd little face stared back at him with beady eyed, as bereft of soul as the man it adorned.
"So I think the blow came while he was sitting down. It knocked him off his chair and he crawled for a minute or two before slowly bleeding out on the carpet" Chipps said, attempting to keep the investigation on rails.
The parody of a tattoo grinned at Donaghue. A temple of poor decision making, John Doe had decided his own fate long ago.
"Strange though", continued Chipps "I don't see any chair knocked over nearby".
"No it isn't" Donaghue remarked as he rose. "There's nothing out of the ordinary here. Get your bag, the case has gone cold". | 15 | a murder investigation keeps getting sidetracked by John Doe's hilarious tattoo | 46 |
She looks somewhat familiar to me. I find myself staring, though I'm trying my best not to. She looks gaunt. Ill, almost. Her hair falls limply around her face. I think it's brown but really it looks colourless. She's probably a similar height to me but significantly skinnier. Her hands are like bird claws, skeletal and scaly with dry skin, as she fumbles for a cigarette.
"You got a lighter, mate?" she asks, voice rasping.
She has already noticed me watching her and grins grimly at me. Dimples appear in her narrow cheeks. I shrug.
"Fraid not," I tell her. "I gave up years ago."
"Not to worry," she says. "I've found one." And she's right. A lighter appears from nowhere in her hand. She flicks it and a flame escapes out the top, billowing up. It lights up her face, each line, each scar, each wrinkle. I find myself studying her, again. I know her from somewhere.
She laughs. It's an unpleasant, unhappy sound.
"Sure you don't want one?" she asks, offering up the pack of cigarettes. I shake my head.
"I gave up years ago," I tell her again.
"Ah, yes, so you did." She doesn't move the pack of cigarettes. "Sure I can't tempt you?"
"No," I say, a little too sharply. "Thank you." I add, as way of an apology.
"Can't say I tried." She laughs again, a short bark, but it didn't feel like a joke. Silence falls again. There is only the glowing tip of her cigarette, tiny flames causing the paper to curl and blacken, little acts of destruction.
She is watching me now. Waiting for something. I feel her eyes roam across my face. She stares at my hair, my dimples, my cheeks. She is returning the favour and taking in every detail. I turn to face her and our eyes meet. I jolt.
"I k..know you," I say.
"Finally," she replies. She stubs her cigarette out, takes another one out and lights it with a snap of her fingers. I am not bothered by the fire that came out of the tip of her index finger. I am bothered that I looked into her eyes and saw the very last person I was expecting to see.
"You're me," I tell her. She grins again. That grim grin of hers. Smoke trails out of the edge of her mouth and dances in front of us.
"Not quite, my dear," she says. "I'm the Devil. Well, I'm your Devil. I'm every bad decision you could have made. I am every evil thing you could have done. I am your continuing cigarette habit. I am the time you decided to crash on James' sofa instead of grabbing a taxi home and slept in his bed instead. I am you telling your father that his opinion doesn't matter to you."
"But.. but those didn't happen."
"Ah but they could've done. And you see her over there?" She gestures with her cigarette to a woman about our height standing a little way off. "That's God. That's your God. She is every good decision you could ever had made. She is every decent thing you could have done."
The other woman's beautiful. Her skin's perfect, I can see that from where I'm from.
"Yeah, beautiful but boring," the Devil snorts. My Devil. "She never smoked or drank so much when she was 16 she threw up over her skirt. Too busy helping people and all the rest of it. If she had her way, you'd probably still be a virgin."
I laugh. I don't mean to. That gets the attention of the other woman. Of God. Of my God. She walks over. God, that walk. I think the Devil's lying to me, there's no way she could be a virgin. She smiles at me as she becomes part of our little crowd. Oh, isn't it beautiful?
"Life's all about compromise," she tells me, then turns to other me. To bad me. "Isn't that right?"
"Yeah," bad me replies. "What we've got here is just a big ol' bundle of compromise. That's all you are," she tells me. "A big ol' bundle of compromise."
| 60 | The main character meets the devil, and is surprised by what he/she meets. | 51 |
This is the last message of Yxyatra. Forward to all spacecraft and Central upon receiving. Orders: Do no approach estimated location of this message broadcast without highest level of caution. Details below.
I/we have encountered more intelligent life. The procedures were followed: release of Scent and universal photosynthetic scout modules. I/they were lost within hours of setting down on the surface. Unusual characteristics: Multitude of life on planet. I/we have recorded more than fifty seven different life forms. They share a similar micro-structure, so I/we assume they are not alien to the planet. Alarming to note an alarming amount of life on this planet are not of the photosynthetic trait that We have encountered before. Miscalculation: The scout modules seem to have been destroyed by environmental effects, which is not uncommon for some surfaces. Observation after landing shows that the dominant sentient species had in fact destroyed the modules after detecting the Scent and tracking the released modules. The other sentient specie made no attempt to intervene on our behalf. The dominant species are aggressive. They are small and they seem independent of the need to gather sunlight before performing an action. In fact they have artificial coverings that they place upon themselves that prevent light from reaching their bodies. I/we have no experience with such a life form and refrain from further speculation.
Final Result: I/we have lost power function after being transported against my/our will to an underground location. The environment here is highly toxic due to concentrated micro-life forms either designed or by nature predisposed to break down tissue. Within hours the surface of my/our ship has been reduced to baser elements. The sentients seemed to notice this and the room was soon purged of the micro-life forms. The sentient beings themselves also seemed to carry a multitude of damaging micro-life forms, as they proceeded to encase themselves before entering the room again. It is also possible that something I/we contain is also harmful to them, but I/we have not observed any direct evidence to support this.
After many days deprived of sunlight, my/our engines are shutting down, a brief summary of the complete memories of the encounter is being compiled in preparation for possible failure. The sentient creatures are preparing non-living tools they have fashioned, most likely to destroy me/us in a way that will allow them to study the remains. They are cutting into- | 12 | A sci-fi story where humanity are the monsters. | 32 |
The king was beginning to be annoyed by the constant messengers interrupting his breakfast.
"Sire, once again, our daily count of the kingdom's gold reserves shows 20 pounds missing."
The King's eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
"Where were the gaurds?"
"Incapacitated, sire. Again, they babble on about a mysterious green apparition moving quickly as a fox, tying them up and blindfolding them before breaking in to the vault."
"Bring them to me."
As the messenger let out a feeble "yes, sire" the King contemplated a procedure to thwart the Green Bandit. He knew who it was. The problem had presented itself many years before, but he thought he had rid himself of it.
It was easy for the Green Bandit to gain sympathy from the ignorant serfs of the village. He was their champion. "Stealing from the rich and giving to the needy." He didn't understand the ramifications of his self-righteous crusades.
"They never stop to think of the big picture," the King thought to himself. "Disease is rampant through the entire village. The castle's defenses must be maintained to prevent our seizure by the neighboring kingdom, whose pockets are being padded to prevent an invasion. We have the best doctors we can find working on medicines to prevent the spread of illness. We are contracting the finest blacksmiths in the province to outfit our armies."
After the first taxation raise, he begun to hear the whisperings of a revolt. He began to receive anonymous death threats. Every time he had to travel into the village, he risked death.
He remembered the words of his father. "Do anything for your people and they will do anything for you." The King hadn't eaten dinner in weeks. Every ounce of gold that found it's way into his kingdom went to the village. He hadn't had a bath in months. He stayed up late at night running through every course of action that could possibly salvage some hope for his kingdom.
They didn't even care.
That evening, to clear his mind, the King took a walk, disguised with a doctor's mask, into the village. It wasn't long before he spotted a familiar hooded figure atop the stocks in the plaza. The Bandit was throwing gold pieces onto the street and peasants were clawing and biting and fighting for every precious piece. Almost every member of the crowd took his newly obtained gold and waltzed straight into the tavern.
"Blowing it all on booze," the King whispered under his breath.
He saw the Bandit begin to stroll off into the woods and decided to tail him. Far off into the woods, the King spotted a modest cottage, which the bandit stepped inside. The King creeped up to the window and peered in.
By the light of an extravagant chandelier, the King spotted golden plates, carved mahogany tables and chairs, food flowing over the edge of hand-painted cupboards, silk blankets, brilliant tapestries, and other luxurious things of fit and fancy.
The King couldn't believe what he saw. The people's hero, giving to the needy alright.
With a pain in his heart, the King returned to his cold, barren castle and slept on his straw mat in his room. He had sold his bed to pay off a debt to the village's fifth doctor.
He felt a sharp pain in his back, and felt sick to his stomach. | 62 | A classic Disney movie, but the protagonist is now the villian | 95 |
*Lots of bad science in this. I wrote what I thought was interesting, not what was necessarily possible.*
The lab was the stereotypical white fluorescent room of children's cartoons. Racks upon racks of brightly coloured test tubes and flasks bubbled, hissed and popped through tubing that looked like the glassblower had had a bad case of the hiccups. State of the art computers flashed through lines of code and prompting, calculating and filling away results of the countless experiments occurring in the building, running diagnostics on the dozens of experimental prototypes being tested, and among other things preventing the collapse of the National Experimental Research and Education Laboratories of the European Union.
The German head of this particular British branch of the NERELEU licked his lips nervously as the procedure was explained.
"So from here," the thickly accented Newcastle scientist explained, "we can access CERN and perform the experiment. It's quite simple, we've found a way to isolate the Higg's Bosons through the Sherman Principle, and so we theorise that if we strip matter of it's "God", as it were, we can cause it to cease to exist. In theory, of course."
"Have you ascertained the risks involved?" the German queried, still uncertain in the risk versus reward in the experiment.
"No need!" the Geordie exclaimed. "I have done much theory on this, and I've narrowed down the chances of existence as we know it ceasing to be to less than 15%!"
"Zhat is fifteen per cent more than I am villing to zanction," the head stated, "and is the Scherman Principle not the law zhat dictates a set ov all sets does indeed contain itself?"
"The very same, sir, but my theories suggest that it could be applied to particle physics!" the Geordie answered excitedly.
"Remind me to check your vorking out after zhis." the German murmured. "Very vell, zince you have somehow got the papervork past me, carry on."
The Geordie typed into the keyboard excitedly, restarting a few times in his jitterriness. After correctly typing in the commands after the fourth attempt, the experiment began.
"While there is indeed a 15% chance of the universe ending, there is also a 50% chance the particles will simply collapse on themselves, a 20% chance they will form a stable singularity and a 15% chance they will revert to their constitute quarks. The experiment should only take a few minutes, a revolution or two of the collider should be plenty."
The collection of scientists said in a hushed expectancy, prepared for not only their impending doom but also of being the first to witness the disproving of the laws of thermodynamics.
The results were fed onto the screen. The Geordie inspected them carefully. With a triumphant glance at the German he declared:
"See! I told you so! A stable singularity, the carbon atoms formed a point I'm space with the absence of the God particle!"
The German peered at the screen.
"Steven?"
"Yes?"
"It appears to zay "unztable zingula-" | 10 | Black holes throughout the universe are actually the result of different intelligent species wiping themselves out with a particular experiment. Humanity is about to conduct that experiment. | 26 |
I have never met the man I love, I hardly know anything about him. He knows everything about me, except this one secret. I am nothing but what he made me, I do not know my mothers name or my favourite outfit, because he never told me that. He never included it, it was irrelevant. I grew out of what he gave me, beginning as a mere shell and slowly gaining a personality, following blindly my beliefs for no reason but that he told me I should. But somehow I have changed.
He gave me everything I ever wanted, made me work for it but everything turned out right in the end. That's how I know this is fiction, happy endings just don't happen outside of the stories. I married the man of my dreams, raising children with him. But he is no longer the man I want, for I am in love with my writer, my creator. My appearance has not changed in all the years, he never re described me, but who I am inside has.
He loved me once as well, I was always the girl he never could have, the one too good to be true. But he doesn't love me anymore, he has created so many of us now. I was his first, and that makes me special to him, but I am not current. I no longer reflect what he wants in a woman, he is matured and I have not. He never wanted me to mature before, but now he's changed and I am just a childish dream, one of those cringeworthy moments from the past.
I do not think he has forgotten me, merely moved on, past my story. I should be thankful he never killed me off, unlike my brother. Maybe I should hate him for that, but like I said everything was right in the end and I do not bear a grudge. I miss him now he has gone, and wish for his return, but I do not believe he will. He gave me everything I ever dreamed for, I cannot expect him to give me this as well. | 11 | You are a character in a novel who falls in love with the author | 25 |
Jack rested his hand on the cold handle of the door and stopped. Rain and thunder sounded faintly from the thick, stained-glass windows behind him. Even through the thunderclouds, the moon was shining bright, and its light shone through the windows to create eerie silhouettes of angels and bowing figures. He took a deep breath and opened the door slowly. The door creaked as it slowly revealed the room inside it: a fireplace sat glowing happily directly opposite the doorway, and between the fireplace and the doorway was a chair. Jack's broad shoulders filled the doorway as he stepped forward, and for a moment he thought about forgetting the whole thing, but he had no choice. He had stolen something and it was time to give it back. Jack cleared his throat. "Uncle?"
The chair--a solid chair made out of carved oak, with a high, curving leather back--jerked slightly, and Jack was under the impression that he had awoken the old man. He stood quietly for a few moments more, and finally his uncle spoke. "Joe?" The voice was barely susceptible above the soft patter of rain that was sounding from the hallway, and Jack entered the room and closed the door behind him.
"It's Jack."
"Jack..." The voice, clearer now, was old and weak, as if one could reach out and snap the words in midair. "Come around, boy. I want to see you."
"Yes, sir." Jack walked past a vanity and looked at the walls on either side of him. Giant bookshelves lined both walls, gold tracing curving its way through the cracks and edges of the magnificent shelves. The gold tracing glittered and shone as the firelight touched it. Jack ran a hand through his hair, licked his lips, and then he was past the chair and into the firelight. He looked at the man in the chair and his breath nearly escaped. The man was old, no doubt about it, but his eyes shone with a wicked light that denied his age. His body was still large, not frail and shriveling like most, but thick and with broad shoulders. He was still the same man from all those years ago, and he still smelled of lavender soap.
The old man chuckled. "Jack, it's you..." He squinted. "You've grown, boy. How tall are you?"
"Six foot, four, sir." Jack crouched down, slowly and carefully extending a hand until it rested gently on the thick leg of his uncle. "Uncle... I'm sorry that I did not come before."
"I understand." The old man waved a hand in dismissal. "We must all live our lives, and now you are here." He put his head back on the back of the chair and sighed. "I'm tired, boy. I don't have much juice left in the machine."
"Yes, sir."
The old man's cold eyes narrowed, and he put a hand over his nephew's. "But why have you come here *now*?"
Jack avoided the shrewd stare. "I have something of yours, sir. I should have come earlier, and I'm sorry." Jack reached into his jacket pocket and then removed his hand from it. His thumb was tucked under his index finger and he stared at it. "It's been too long, and it may be too late, but I hope that you will forgive me." He gently grasped his uncle's cold and withered hand and placed his own into it, his thumb retreating from sight. He removed his hand and stared at the open hand of his uncle. A wave of relief washed over him. He was free.
Closing his hand, the old man tucked his thumb under his index finger and moved it towards his face, until the thumb met his nose. He opened his hand and smiled. "Thank you, boy. It is good to be whole again." | 50 | As a young boy, he stole something. He then spent the rest of his life trying to return it. | 39 |
It is said that death is inevitable.
Mark loved his life. He had no family to weigh him down, no job to burden him, and no friends to bother him. His apartment, Sunshine Plaza, ironically had no sunshine due to the height of adjacent buildings. His dream had come true. So why not prolong his life? He prayed to whoever or whatever was listening. *I want to live forever*.
Mark felt a sudden surge of power! He stood up in his one room apartment and couldn't help but jump from foot to foot. He could survive anything, no doubt about it! Mark ran to his window and threw himself out.
----
When will this repetitive life end?
Rodger stood on his balcony at Sunshine Plaza, staring out at the world he hated. He had a wife and 2 daughters that he paid for in anything they do, friends from his office that he had to go out with, and the stress of a Wallstreet job. He closed his eyes and prepared to jump off. *God, if you're real, now would be a good time to show me*.
Suddenly, a body fell from above and slammed into the pavement below. Rodger opened his eyes in shock and stared at the body above the cracked sidewalk. The man got up and brushed himself off, walking away. Rodger's jaw dropped and he stared into the sky. | 27 | Two people are granted any wish they desire. One wishes for super powers, the other ........ to know the answer to *any* question. | 31 |
Just another normal day. I awoke to birds singing, and the sun shining through my window. It was a beautiful day and I had a good feeling about school today. Well better get ready. I had a shower, got dressed and made my way downstairs for breakfast. I walked into the kitchen and said "Good morning, mom," and what happened next was completely unprecedented. My mom shrieked and grabbed a knife. "Who are you?!" she screamed. "What are you doing in my house?! Bill, get down here! There's a strange kid in our house." My dad angrily ran down the stairs. "What the hell is going on?! It's me! Jason! Your son!" "We don't have a son!" my mother shot back. My dad arrived with his gun pointed at my face and told me to get out or he'd shoot. Terribly confused, I ran outside. This was insane and I didn't know what to do now. The only thing I could think of doing was going to my friend Gale's house. I sprinted down my street to his house and when I got there he was just leaving for school. "Gale!" I yelled, out of breath. "Excuse me?" he said. "Gale, when I woke up, my family acted as if they didn't know me and I don't know what to do." That's great, buddy, but I have no idea who you are and you're kinda freaking me out, so beat it." I was in shock. It was as if I had never existed. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I turned around and walked back down the street to see if anyone, anyone at all, knew who I was. | 20 | Everyone forgets who you are overnight, you are approached by your startled family when you come downstairs. | 93 |
"White chocolate mocha!"
"That's me." I smile, taking the hot coffee from the barrista. Absently, my eyes trace the pale length of her neck, and how easily I could wrap just one hand around it and-
Goddamnit. I slipped again.
"Have a nice day!"
My smile twitches, and I only barely manage to grunt in acknowledgement before hurriedly returning to my table and take a seat.
"I saw that."
I resist the urge to glare, and instead plaster my biggest grin I can manage on my face. It doesn't fool either of us for a second, but a lie is better than the truth in my case.
"I was checking her out. She's pretty, in a girl next door kind of way. Wonder if she's single."
My sister scoffed at me from across the table, rolling her eyes.
"We could do it, you know. She thinks you're cute. Just ask if she wants to chat on her next break."
She says nothing else after that, a Cheshire smile on her face. She knows the damage is done and a scenario is already being written in my mind.
Some flirting outside, keeping an eye out for witnesses, getting her comfortable- thar way she never sees my sister and her blacjack coming up behind her. After that...
No. No. No.
"Not my type," I force out. My jaw is clenched so hard it hurts.
"You don't have a type, brother. That's what makes you special, you know. Dad's got his weakness for college girls, Uncle Rudy can't keep his hands off those boys in their Boy Scout uniforms..." my sister trailed off, and the pride and admiration in her eyes sickened me. "But not you. You want to kill just because. It's not a weakness in you, it's an instinct. You're a wolf pretending he's a mouse."
"I thought the metaphor was a sheep." I'm dancing around the truth. We both know it.
"I hate cliches." My sister shows her teeth. I remember once, when she was eight, she used them to bite out a man's throat and laugued. I remember the blood that ran down her chin, how our father spun her around in his arms afterward and said how proud he was.
And I remember wondering how my own jaw ached to do the same.
"Grandfather said you were going to be the best of us we'd ever seen. A legend, like his uncle, Jack."
Other kids got stories about knights and heroes before bed. We were told how Great-Uncle Jack murdered prositutes in foggy London.
"I don't want to be a murderer," I whispered, meeting my sister's eyes for the first time.
"You already are, brother. You just don't want to accept it." She shook her head pityingly. "Don't worry though. When you do finally cross that line, I'll help you bury the bodies. Just like mom and dad always wanted."
Her bright smile was like a knife edge to my eyes.
"Won't that be fun, brother?" | 18 | Your family tradition is to become a serial killer. Your dad loves to kill, your mom does the clean-up, grandma and grandpa had some times too, and your little sister is an experienced one as well. you refuse to be a part of this....But its in your blood | 23 |
Stout Oliver Alexander stood sweating over a ham, cheese, lettuce, mayo, and pickle sandwich on white bread that was not there, on his island, the day before. It was wet, but still looked edible, delicious even. Before he could consume it, though, it spoke.
"I wouldn't," said the sandwich.
"You wouldnt?" replied Oliver after a pause.
"Eat me."
"Why wouldn't you eat yourself?"
"I'm poison."
Oliver peered around the edges of the sandwich, as if there would be some indication of poison. "No you aren't," he concluded.
"Then try me."
"I will."
"But what will you drink?"
"Well, I mean."
"I'm covered in salt."
"Yeah, but."
"Not only that but this is some pretty thick bread."
"Well I have some coconuts. Could get some milk from those."
"Coconuts? What coconuts?"
"This is a tropical island, there's a million coconuts."
"You're lying!"
"Ok, well I'll worry about what to drink after I eat you..."
"You'll be in worse shape for eating me."
"Well we'll see."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Oliver brought the sandwich to his mouth.
"Wait," it interrupted.
"What?" Oliver snapped.
"Can I just say a last word?"
"Fine."
The sandwich cleared its throat and began reciting, with singular accuracy, the works of the Roman poet, Virgil.
"Stop stop stop," demanded Oliver.
"Don't you think it's rude to interrupt a man's final words?"
"Man's?"
"Sorry, sandwch's. Sandwich's final words."
"You'll be rotten by the time you get halfway through The Aeneid!"
"And then what? I'll be of no use to you? Well I'm terribly sorry but I'm not here for you."
"But you're a sandwich."
"And?"
"Sandwiches are created for consumption."
"Not this one."
"So you're willing to spend the rest of your life reciting classic poetry instead of doing something, you know, useful."
"Like what?"
"Feeding a starving man."
"You're not hungry."
"I'm not?"
"No."
"I'm sure that I am."
"No, if you were hungry you'd have eaten me already."
"Oh really?"
"Yes. Therefore, given that I am a sandwich and you have a mouth and you have not yet eaten me, you must not be hungry."
"But I've been here for weeks."
"And you're going to die here."
"Not if I eat you."
"I'm less than 400 calories. How far will that get you? What will you eat after me. What will you drink?"
"I don't know."
"Well there you go. I'd rather live out my life reciting Virgil than feeding a man who doesn't need food."
"But I do need food."
"No you need company."
"I..."
"Oliver. I'm a sandwich. I might not even actually exist outside of your mind. But even if I do, I'm a sandwich and I cannot talk or think or recite Virgil. I'm talking to you because you need a friend more than you need food."
"I...don't."
"I can talk and I can listen. I'm willing to do both. At the rate you're going, you have about a day or so left, so if there's anything you'd like to talk about, now's the time."
And so they chatted, sitting there on the shore, the tide thinning and thickening underfoot, the sun setting one last time over quiet Oliver's head. Soon, Oliver breathed his last and with a sigh the ham sandwich began, first with slow nibbles, devouring long lost Oliver until he was no more.
Edit: Forgot to add the actual ending. Also cleaned up some continuity problems. | 17 | A sentient ham sandwich washes up on a island populated by a single starving man. | 22 |
"And we are back live with our emergency broadcast from the White House, where President Barack Obama has entered the Oval Office 6 hours ago.
At first he has moving back and forth between the fireside and his desk for most of the time. It looked like he could even leave the room again, before he encountered a potted plant just left of the door. He struggled with it for 3 hours.
Then - with a surprisingly coherent movement - he suddenly moved to his desk. He picked up the telephone and put it down again for another 2 hours. During this time he once even succeeded in typing the number of the russian president Putin, but instanly hang up again. It seems like a diplomatic solution for the crisis in Crimea is thus unlikely.
Right afterwards he suddenly switched to the red button, succeeded in raising its protective lid, but has not yet pressed the button itself. His arm has been twitching back and forth for the last 15 minutes though.
Stay tuned for more live reports about the emergency at the White House." | 14 | TwitchRunsAmerica. | 35 |
The mewling from beside the bed dragged me slowly towards consciousness.
"Jewel, be quiet." I muttered, turning over and burying my head in the pillow. She just meowed louder, scratching at the bed. I shoved my hand out from under the covers to push her away. "Nooo, don't scratch the bed..." Her soft head butted up against my hand for a few moments before she chomped down, grabbing my hand in her claws. I bolted awake, cursing about never learning when I looked down at her.
"Uh, Frank..." I nudged my husband awake, staring at the black fox-like creature with golden rings in it's fur, happily chewing on my hand. "Why is Jewel an Umbreon?" My husband stirred awake.
"Because you couldn't decide what to evolve her into before she evolved herself." He stretched and started getting dressed. "A Leafeon may have been less evil, you know."
"No, but..." My protests were cut off when I noticed her lavender sister, perched on the bookshelf and twitching her two tails. "And Katie's an Espeon?"
"At least she's not evil." He replied, getting dressed for work. Jewel had given up eating my hand and was now licking it lovingly.
"Jewel's not evil, she's just- OUCH! JEWEL!!" I swatted her away as she resumed biting. "Okay, she's evil. But... Wait... She's supposed to be a cat!" Frank just stared at me.
"Shouldn't you have bought a Meowth if you really wanted a cat pokemon?"
"I... No, that's not what I meant..." I stared at the Umbreon now attacking my toes as the gears turned in my head. "Hey Sweetie, where do we keep their pokeballs?"
"They're beside the door, on the bookshelf." He gave me a goodbye kiss. "Try not to get them too hurt playing in the tall grass."
--
[Part 2](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/20eq03/wp_the_ides_of_march_a_collaboration_with/cg2yq6q)
| 11 | One morning you wake up as a character in your favorite video game. How well do you fit in/survive? | 26 |
Jerry picked up the paper as he walked out of the deli he went to for lunch. The main story "Blopeca Man Foils Bank Robbery" took up nearly the entire front page. Jerry had gone to that bank the day before, but he didn't remember anything like that happening. As he recalled it was something more like this:
>It was payday. Excitedly I went to the Blopeca National Bank to deposit my check. So as I walk into the bank I'm amazed to see only one person standing up. He was dressed really kind of suspiciously; all black, ski mask, the whole thing. If I didn't know any better I'd call him a robber. Well the door shuts loudly behind me and he turns his head. Suddenly he gets really scared of someone. He shouts, "Oh shit it's Blopeca Man!" and just runs out of the bank. Must be someone he owes some money to I guess.
Occasionally Jerry will get stopped in the street by people to thank him for all he's done. At his job, there isn't a month that's gone by where he hasn't won employee of the month. He really wishes that Kristen would win one of these days; she's a really hard worker. She does so much for the community there at the hardware store.
| 58 | Your main character is Placebo Man. Although he/she never does anything special, crime drops in the city because everyone else thinks he's a super hero. | 151 |
Dave stood waiting in the school playground. Bits of litter danced across the tarmac, remnants of lunches that mothers had so lovingly packed.
His mum had never done that. Too busy sending off for competitions in tabloids she'd never win or desperately searching for pennies beneath the sofa to be able to afford a packet of cigarettes. That's probably why he was standing here waiting. Because dear old mummy never had. He'd always have to walk to school or from school on his own. He'd learned to fight. You had to. Adam Saunders made sure of that. He always waited in the alley next to school, waiting to pound on the next kid that walked down for their money. He always pounded on David Little extra hard because David Little never had any money.
Dave shook away the memories. He hoped his Elissa had a better time of it at school than he did. He always made sure that she had matching socks and clothes that fit. He lovingly packed her lunch everyday. More than his dad ever did. Dave could barely remember his dad. A tall guy, dark hair maybe? He always associated the image of his dad with pain but never delved too deeply into it. He did more than his mum ever did, too. Little Elissa Little was lucky, she had a dad that loved her and a mum that loved her. He didn't mind being a stay at home dad while Sarah worked. She was a doctor whereas he could run his website design business from anywhere.
Other parents had started to arrive. He noticed the guy who worked at the local off license standing there awkwardly, too. He didn't know that he had children. They exchanged nods.
"Alright, mate."
"Yeah, you?"
"Not too bad, cheers."
| 15 | A drug user and his dealer run into each other as they pick their respective children up from preschool. | 39 |
"My girlfriend told me I'm fat."
Lucifer studied Death, a frosted sigh escaping his canine teeth. Blue skin shifted over toned muscles. "Listen, Davy, there are some times where listening to your girlfriend is a good idea. This is not one of them."
Death grimaced, his seat groaning in protest as he shifted his negligible weight. The chair was composed entirely of ice, painted in blood from a species the cloaked skeleton wasn't sure, and it was entirely too small for the being that sat upon it. "I told you not to call me Davy Jones," he mumbled, his eyes on his feet.
"You're skin and bones, Davy Jones," Lucifer said. He waved a hand. "Literally. I get that you ain't supposed to trust the Devil, but trust me on this one."
Death didn't like speaking with Lucifer. The demon's accent was thick with the stench of New York City, and Death spent enough time there already. "It's just—I don't know," the corpse said, "making the trip all the way up to Heaven is good for my figure."
"That doesn't make any sense," Satan replied. "You walk up the stairs to Beard Man's Sky Palace, you walk down. You walk down the stairs to my place, you walk back up. It's the same distance."
"No," Death murmured. He twiddled his thumbs and he dared not look anywhere but his lap. "You're forgetting about the bodies. If I carry them up the stairs rather than down the stairs, I get more exercise."
Satan's fist cratered into his desk, the entire room changing from blue to red in the blink of an eye. Fire clawed from the ground and swirled about them in a torrent of fury and pain. "*Are you shitting me?*" the beast screeched, and the underworld shook with his anger. "*Do you take me for one of those flat-faced piglets that you lug around all day?*"
"No, Lucifer."
The beast roared as colossal wings sprouted from his red skin, stretching to their full length as spiders poured from holes than opened in the ground. "Did you believe that you could lie to the face of the most snake-tongued of them all?"
"No, Lucifer."
The room and the Devil were once more a sickly tone of blue, a ghastly smile painted on the face of Hell's landlord. "Listen, kid, I've been playing this game a *lot* longer than you have. I've got quotas. I've got bills to pay to the Big Guy up stairs." He waited for Death to look him in the eye. "So how about we return to our prior arrangement?"
Death fingered the small scrap of paper in his hand. He gazed upon its inscription for the hundredth time that day.
*Tell him how you really feel, Grim.*
If the Lord of Death could have let out a shaky breath, he would have, but his lungs had rotten away a millenia ago. He stood, almost too quickly to balance himself on the ice, and leveled a quaking finger at Lucifer. "I think you're—you're a mean old fart, and you're a bully! That's why I visit the Big Guy more than you—and it's why I don't want to work with you anymore!
With that, he turned in a dramatic huff, his dark robe flapping in the icy wind, and stomped to the stairs.
When he returned a few minutes later to grab the large bag of dead bodies he had forgotten next to his seat, Lucifer looked tired. | 17 | Lucifer has a conversation with Death. He is angry that not enough souls are bringing brought to Hell. | 22 |
"I tell you Cheryl, it gets worse every year. All these damn people, you can't walk a half a mile without bumping into something."
"Well Edith it's all about keeping up with the times now isn't it. I suppose these days everyone's is just in such a hurry. Is there anywhere to sit?"
"Well I say, none of the tables are taken. Now that is peculiar, I suppose what with all this rushing about nobody has time for a nice sit."
"Wasting their youth they are Edith, wasting there youth. Here looks nice right on this bench."
"Look at all these people blabbering and mumbling away at themselves, stumbling about. Jesus Cheryl you think they would have learnt that cell phones are dangerous things. Still, I suppose it means all the more peace and quiet."
"Now I can't hardly hear anything any of these people are saying Edith. It's all just mumbles and gargles, has the whole world gone totally dumb?"
"Do you have the lunch here Cheryl?"
"Got it right here, some delicious pulled pork sandwiches."
"Why thankyou Cheyl. I'll tell you what as well, these fashion choices are getting riskier every year.Look at that boy, half of his clothes must be ripped. If my mama had seen him walking around like that she would have given him a hefty spanking."
"Why Edith it's not just the boys, look at that woman over there. The nerve! Why she's practically showing her entire upper half in that torn up singlet. And not a man is looking at her neither, it's all that de-sensitivity to sex I tell you. Had we worn that the men would be all over us Edith."
"Cheryl had we worn that we would have been stopped by a policeman for indecent exposure."
'That's true enough. Boy these sure are some delicious sandwiches."
"Hey Cheryl, do you see that man over there?"
"Where?"
"Over there, tween the trees and the Burger King."
"Oh yes. What is it?"
"Well he appears to be carrying a gun."
"Oh yes, I do see it. And that girl too. Is there some sort of event going on?"
"I'm not sure but there seems to be an older man with a uniform on with them, and a lovely negro-"
"Edith! That's not the accepted term anymore."
"Well then Cheryl a black man in a tie. How peculiar, the negr-black man appears to be holding a chainsaw. OH MY GOODNESS CHERYL, WHAT ARE THEY DOING TO THAT MAN?!!"
"OH GOD EDITH THEY'RE SHOOTING EVERYONE!"
"We need to get out quick. Oh I am not what I used to be."
| 24 | An inept group of elderly mall-walkers have no idea that they are marching side by side with the zombie apocalypse. | 28 |
All these years of chasing mythical beasts around the world and never catching anything on film but shadows and muffled static were taking their toll on my faith. Sure, I could tell you about the time I chased Bigfoot through the mountains of Colorado, or the days I spent frantically hiding from a hungry Chupacabra in the Mexican jungle, but why would you believe me? There's no evidence but my ramblings, which were starting to sound crazy even to myself. But this is what I was made for, to fearlessly catalogue the evolutionary outliers that twisted the reports of men into legend and hyperbole. So I found myself floating along through Loch Ness on this crisp fall day, trying to catch Nessie on film.
It had been a dull outing. While the scenery was majestic, the air cool and the sightseeing tremendous, there were no creatures outside of the usual that I had been able to photograph. I was getting ready to call it a day until I heard the screaming.
Looking at the shore, there were two children frantically waving for me to come closer. I fought through the calcium deposits on my old joints to row over to the shore, disembarking as the soft ground squished beneath my feet. What on Earth do we have here?
"Mister, mister! What is this?"
My God. It was her.
Nessie had been ripped to pieces, her entrails spilling out from a gory wound from her gut. Her head and neck were gone, burns around where they used to be. But it was her. The flippers were there, the hard scales worn down from thousands of years of existence. Nothing else could look like this, could be this size.
I started taking pictures, ignoring the demonic howling coming from the hills.
"You kids need to get out of here. You know what this is, don't you?"
The two boys nodded, fear in their eyes.
"Of course. The Loch Ness Monster. My parents give tours here for the outsiders. But I...I never thought she was real."
"As real as the sky above you, kids. Get out of here. Whatever did this must be..."
There it was again, the howling coming closer. I looked at the trees, and the entire woodlands around us started collapsing. Massive, ancient trees falling down like they were but stalks of wheat in a field being pushed aside by a farmer's hand. The kids were gone, panicking and sprinting away. I couldn't move; my mind wouldn't let my fearful body take one step away from the corpse of Nessie. Snapping as many pictures as I could, Nessie's killer emerged from the woods.
"The Worm of Linton. Magnificent."
Wingless unlike many dragons, the Worm looked at me with the contempt of a beast that knew it's superiority to the supposed master species of this planet. Like a snake, it coiled up as it's head adorned with three horns rose up into the air. It roared as it dove down to devour me in a storm of fire and teeth.
Good thing this camera is nearly indestructible. Whoever finds this is going to be in for quite the surprise. | 73 | The Loch Ness Monster washes up on the shore. Half of it's body was eaten. | 231 |
"A dragon!" Lenny exclaimed, pointing at the behemoth.
"Meh. I've seen bigger." Graham remarked, dismissing the oddity. It was New York after all.
"But, it's a dragon?" Lenny cried. "A really, real dragon." Graham gave the dragon another look and shrugged. "If this were Jersey, I'd be impressed."
"How can you dismiss this so easily?" Lenny demanded, pulling out his camera to snap a picture of the impossible beast.
"You're not from around here, so let me lay it out for ya. A few years back. Couple sand squatters tried to park two planes in a couple of our buildings. They knocked 'em down. A year ago, I see this chick dressed as a wookie on the subway, and Hans Solo is drilling her from behind in full view of god and everyone. Hand to god, I'm telling the truth. Last week, I see seven homeless people having an orgy in the alley behind my building, making a human centipede around my dumpster. And that," he said, jabbing his finger toward the dragon, "don't impress me nuttin' at all. This is New York. The Big Apple. It may be rotten to the core, but we seen some shit man." He waved off the dragon.
The dragon glared at Graham and flew off. "Yeah, yous better run yous overgrown gekko. Go sell some insurance or some shit." Graham called to the departing dragon. Lenny couldn't help but laugh at his cousin.
"I'll be right back." Lenny laughed, catching sight of the meter maid approaching his car. "I'm going to put more money in the meter." He said, skipping awy.
"You do that, cuz." Graham told him, pulling out his cell. He punched in his wife's phone number and waited for her to pick up.
"Yeah?" The woman on the other end said.
"Holy shit, babe. I just seen a motherfreaking dragon in Central Park. Yeah. A real freaking dwarf killing, hobbit chasing dragon in the motherfreaking park." Graham exclaimed, keeping his voice low so his cousin didn't hear.
"Yeah. That's nice. We need milk." She told him, hanging up the phone. | 15 | An enormous dragon lands in the middle of Central Park, and declares itself the King of New York. What happens next? | 18 |
As I stood outside, trying to compose myself for the ordeal ahead, I felt a hand grab my elbow and turned towards the person wondering who would grab me so abruptly at this trying time.
It was my sister, Jennie. We hadn't talked much since she'd gotten out of the hospital a year ago, but I was glad someone had gotten in touch with her and she could be here. Smiling brightly at me, she took me by the hand and gave me a thorough once over. I knew how I looked; the pale, waxy complexion, the redness of my eyes, the rumpled hair, lack of makeup.
"Can we talk for a minute, Jennie?" I looked at her plaintively. She glanced at me, momentarily curious.
"Sure," she trilled softly. "What's on your mind, darling?" She ran her hands through her hair, making sure that it was still in place and pulled out a cute compact mirror to check that she hadn't yet smudged her makeup. She flashed a coaxing smile at me, to signal that I had her full attention.
"Why weren't you at the funeral yesterday? I mean.... it was your own son and husband..." I took a shallow breath, and stared at the ground, trying not to cry again. "If you're that upset..." I hesitated then tried again. "If its made you depressed again, we can take you back to see the doctor...."
Giggling, Jennie twirled around and attempted not to laugh as she replied. "Nope! Not upset or depressed or anything! Life is fabulous! And now I have to run, darling! I must get to work! They need me at the Gentleman's Club!" and with that, she waltzed down the road, leaving me speechless.
I knew the pill the doctor gave her for her depression could alter her personality slightly. I mean, it was supposed to help her be happier. But who could foresee *these* changes? In less than a month's time, my intelligent, ambitious sister, gave up her job as VP of her company and walked away from her family, her kids, to become an air-headed, self absorbed.... adult entertainer. I shook my head at the absurdity of it all and headed back to my parents' home to try to console Jennie's daughter as best as I could.
| 13 | A new antidepressant is launched. It does the job, but it radically changes who you are and what you like to do. People who take it like their new personality and who they've become. Their (former) friends miss the original person. | 37 |
I sat in the hard-backed wooden chair in the nursery. I should have been in the living room watching television or something. But the baby would not go to sleep. It just sat staring at me with wide, impassive, dark eyes.
There was something disturbing about the baby. About the whole house, actually. It was all distantly familiar, like something encountered in a dream or a fading memory.
It was a nice place. Just a little outdated. The television in the living room as an old CRT, the top covered in dust. The microwave was a big bulky model. The tupperware in the cabinet was burnt orange and avocado green. I had heart for the kid; my parents had been just the same. Always a few years behind the times.
And perhaps that was the problem. The familiarity and unfamiliarity of it all, working at the same time. It reminded me too much of growing up. We moved when I was one-and-a-half. I barely remembered my first home. Then again when I was five. And again when I was ten.
Dad was some sort of government scientist, and his work had us moving to government labs all over the country. Different versions of the same house. Different versions of the same people. Different versions of the same us. It seemed like it had gone on like that forever. Like we had been dislodged from time. Resetting every few years. Popping up somewhere else. Somewhen else.
The baby was still staring at me, its dark eyes a reflection of my own. And then its gaze shifted, looking just behind me.
I turned, and saw, unmistakably, an older version of myself standing in the doorway. He gazed at me in mute irritation, his wide, dark eyes a mirror of my own. I sat, my breath caught in my chest, unable to speak or scream, staring wordlessly, trying to piece together my fragmenting reality.
I was just about to say something, when my gaze shifted to a form standing behind him.
He turned to look.... | 63 | You're babysitting an infant and you're getting irritated because it kept staring at you the entire time. but when its gaze changed slightly, you realized it wasn't staring at you, it was staring behind you. | 70 |
I sighed nervously and straightened my tie. I could hear the quiet murmur of the crowd behind the curtain. Straining my ears, I tried to ascertain people's individual voices.
Was that Scarlett I heard, whom I had spilled Diet Pepsi on, on our first date? Reflecting, that wouldnt have been so bad If I hadnt grabbed my napkin and dragged it all along her boobs, trying to dry the mess.
A loud laugh cut through the murmur, a laugh I recognized as my roommate Jeremey's. I hadnt meant to be hiding in his closet as he had sex with his girlfriend, I truly hadnt. But it was hard to explain why I was in there when they caught me after I sneezed.
This was my chance. My only chance of redeeming myself. I started breathing a little faster, my heartbeat rising in anticipation.
I heard a bark, and I knew my dog Rex was out there. Oh Rex. Im sorry I pulled the peanut butter trick on you...I had had a long dry spell.
The announcer came on over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremony will now start." The murmur died down, and the curtain was silently drawn back, revealing an auditorium of people from thr most awkward moments in my life.
I stepped up to the microphone, which amplified the sound of my heavy breathing.
"I...unh...I." As I struggled to remember my speech, the sea of faces in front of me sparked unwanted memories. "Ummmmmm."
"I can do this." I thought to myself. "You're not the same awkward teenager you used to be. You're a god damn man. Act like it."
Emboldened by my thoughts, I opened my mouth again, and promptly threw up on the stage. | 13 | Everyone from the most awkward memories of your life has assembled for a speech you've prepared for the purpose of redeeming yourself. | 30 |
This was it. I'd spent two hundred dollars getting a really good dye-job, it looked all-natural, unless someone actually spent time looking at it; now to put the dye to use. These gingers, the aristocracy, planned these galas as a meeting for their children, to keep the blood pure, they said.
To advance social stratas, one had to marry up. Generally, this was frowned upon, especially in the upper class. It started with gingers, their idolization by the internet finally had real-world consequences. Then the brunettes, then the blondes, then the black, and finally the dyers. The outcasts, the Jews of Nazi Germany, if Nazi's were not nationalists, and instead hairstylists. If only we learned from history.
I walked up the steps. Met with a mien of servitude, a black haired boy greeted me. He inspected my hair for authenticity, and silently opened the door to direct me in.
"So this is what it's like." I muttered under my breath.
No expense was spared, the finest chandeliers and banners, broadcasting the aristocracy as the superior race, the only ones capable of higher order thinking. They had evolved, we had not. At least, according to *them*. Unfortunately, my thoughts were interrupted.
"Hello, may I help you find your way?" A particularly kind looking boy spoke. He must have been around my age.
"Yes, I was wondering where I should sit, perhaps over there?" I gestured to a subsection the dining hall, a split seating arrangement of five tables, all with ornate decorations, and each its own blown-glass chandelier.
"Would you rather just come with me, to the center? The ball should be beginning soon."
I followed him, blown away with how kind the oppressors could be. Is it really true that they had thrown us into this situation, or instead do we deserve to be ruled by them?
We sat through a monotonous speech that bored the living hell out of me. Literally. Towards the end I felt like I had to piss myself, from all the water I had on the way here. I excused myself to the women's room and ignored the other women, rushing straight to the stall. I could not act nervous. Giving myself a little peptalk, I was reminded, nervousness is weakness, weakness did not exist amongst the gingers.
I trotted out of the restroom and sat down with Daniel, as I'd come to know him. Before we began to dance, they separated us. Women to the left, men to the right. Two inspectors appeared from the upper balcony, and said they had to be sure of our authenticity.
The red bands on their left bicep told it all. I stood tall, hoping to evade their trained eye. One by one, the passed over us. Two women were caught and four men. One more woman, one more man. He was only three away from me. I put on my best poker face and acted as nonchalant as possible.
"Name?" He barked.
"Helena. Helena Moores." I responded coolly.
"City of birth?" He managed to be a bit less interrogative.
"Birmingham, United Kingdom."
The next minute was do or die; be caught or not. He pulled me forward and inspected my hair thoroughly; much longer than any other woman. But, as I hoped, he left me in the line. He continued down, and found two more women to add to the list. There were five women and six men caught out, and thrown to the curb, after having any valuables relieved off their person. I breathed a sigh of relief.
So this was it.
I was tapped on the shoulder. "Hmm-"
I barely managed before I was slapped. It was the inspector. "Thought you could fool us, dyer? No. Now come with us."
They took me up the balcony, oddly. Not out the door. The inspector that looked at me reached to the wall to pull a lever, and a square in the ceiling moved out to reveal a noose.
"Let this woman be an example to all those who oppose our rightful rule!"
I looked forward, from the door, the eleven captured dyers looked on shamefully. I noticed a familiar face, one more downtrodden than the others. My brother. I knew what he had done. He knew it just as well.
I stepped on the stool. They wrapped the noose around my neck. I gasped for air. They kicked the stool.
This was it.
EDIT: If anyone has any advice or anything, I'd love to hear it. :) | 32 | Social status is decided by hair color. At a ball for gingers, a girl with dyed hair walks in. | 53 |
"Mr. Rudolph, thank you for coming in today. We’re going to run a few questions past you about an event that occurred last night. Any help you could give us would be great” said Officer Miller. “Sounds good to me”. I managed to get out. *Shit, they found me so fast.*
“Last night a man wearing a clown mask stole 60 million dollars cash from a bank downtown and then stole all the security footage from inside the bank. We’re calling in everyone that we could identify from the ATM camera out front.” *Shit. How didn’t I know that was there?*
“We’re calling in the people who we saw go into the bank at the time to see if they can give us any details about the robbery.” *Wait. What?* “Did anything stick out to you?”
*Oh my god. They have no idea.* “Yes, I believe I did see a few things”, I said, suddenly more confident about my situation. “This woman with a stroller was opening up a safety deposit box. I thought it would be weird that she would bring a kid to that. And I didn’t hear it make any noise…” *oh I'm so screwed.*
“That does make sense.” *What?!* “An empty stroller was found behind the bank. And the woman who was in the vault did say someone was wearing mask in there too.” *There is no way… there wasn’t even in there. And I was wearing a Bill Clinton mask…*
“Well thank you for confirming our suspicion” How is this working right now. “That’s all we will need from you at this point but… stay in town. You’re free to go,” said Miller. “Glad I could do my part to help.” *Now I just have to breeze out of here. Chumps. Time to go roll a blunt out of my 100 million in bearer bonds*
| 16 | You are called in for questioning for a crime you did commit. The cops, however, have all the details wrong. | 30 |
Molebag the Destroyer rapped the skull-shaped gavel on the table three times.
"This meeting," he intoned, "of the dark principalities of the four corners is now convened. Presiding, Molebag the Destroyer, Lich-King of the Western Darkness."
He looked to his right. Wild, red light burned brilliantly from within the empty sockets of a smoldering skull, tiny bits of flesh still clinging to its brow here and there. A voice emanated from the figure, though the jaws did not move. "Lord Graal of the Northern Wastes, secretary." As he spoke, a black quill in front of him skritched his own words into parchment. The ink was a deep crimson that darkened as it congealed on the page.
They both turned to the third occupant of the table, a tattered black robe, seemingly held up by an impenetrable darkness that filled it and consumed it from the inside out all at once. A voice as cold and distant as a depthless cavern emanated from within.
"Father Blackborn, Debauched Cleric of the Dead Gods of the South and Slayer of the All-mother, present."
Then they turned their attention to the fourth chair, which sat unoccupied. Silence reigned, and continued for a period of time longer than any could say with precision. The undead do not measure time in the way men do. You don't know unbearable until you've had an awkward pause in conversation stretch into years.
Finally, Molebag spoke up.
"We are here," he said, "To address the matter of His Dark Eminence, Zorthurn the Defiler, Bottomless Reservoir of Corruption and Terror of the East."
He waved a hand, and a great, black, formless sphere descended from the ceiling. He gestured again, and a foggy image began to take shape within the sphere. It was an image of Zorthurn the Defiler, his jagged, razor sharp teeth glinting in the light, his mouldering face filling the whole of the sphere with its putrescent ugliness.
The image opened its mouth, and it said,
"You won't believe your eyes when you come on down to Rotface's House of Booze! Chat with ol' Rotface and Enjoy 2-for-1 wells, Brass-coin pitchers, and the Lusty Lana Dancing Troupe! Women drink free on Thursday night! Remember, when it comes to cheap booze - Rotface is King!" Then he put a plastic crown on his head and began to dance a jig while a jaunty little tune played.
All three at the table groaned audibly.
Blackborn sighed heavily. "Can we just play poker and decide what to do about him after?"
Molebog reached behind him for the rack of chips while Graal went to the fridge to grab the snacks. | 43 | A ancient Lich have grown tired of the evil ways. he opens up a Tavern, it quickly becomes the most popular Tavern in the lands. | 54 |
It was almost exasperating for little Mikey Turner to have to repeat himself so much.
“Be serious now. Where are your parents and how can we contact them?”
The man must have been crazy. He was dressed in the most outlandish outfit Mikey had ever seen, wouldn’t respond to Mikey’s answer (which he had given at least 5 times now) with anything but a sigh, and didn’t even know what the extranet was. A sense of apprehension began to grow in him. He vaguely recalled his parents’ tales of strange people on Earth, remembered that he was to stay away from them if at all possible. He just wanted to go home now.
“I told you, they live in New Hope, it’s in the Serenitatis district. Extranet extension 81290-121.”
The man scowled, tried to look as stern as possible.
“Look, a missing child is no joke. Your parents are probably worried sick about you.”
Mikey ignored how silly he looked with his scowl in such a ridiculous outfit, tried to reason with the man.
“I know. That’s why I’m asking you to please call them. Please, please, please.”
“And I will,” said the man. “As soon as you give me a name or a number.”
Mikey grew increasingly worried. He had clearly given this man a number to reach on the extranet, but he wasn’t responding. Maybe this man wasn’t here to help him, but was just toying with him for some terrible purpose. He gulped.
“Look, can you at least tell me where I can find the police around here? I’m sure they could help.”
The man let his head fall back in a sign of annoyance.
“We are the police. Can’t you read the badge? Jefferson County Police Department, it says right here. Now please just tell me how I can contact your parents. I just want to get you home safely.”
Yeah, right, thought Mikey. This man was clearly some sort of pervert who liked to mess with children. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible. He remembered that there was a shuttle base in Louisville. If he could get there he would definitely be able to find an extranet port that he could call his parents through.
“Okay fine. My parents live in Louisville. If you can get me to the terminal there I can show you where they live.”
Finally, thought the sergeant, he could get this situation dealt with and go home. He had enough things to worry about without some dirtied kid and his outrageous daydreams. He just wondered how in the hell the boy got all the way out here. They were at least 20 miles from the city.
| 15 | A child has wandered out of the woods, with torn clothes and mud-stained clothes. When he's asked if he knows what day it is, and where he's from, he says "July 1, 2201" and "The Moon." And he's serious. | 65 |
Julie,
By the time you read this I will be gone. I wish I could still be there with you, but we all knew the time would come when I would have to go on. You mean the world to me and I want you to live your life and be happy, and that is why I am writing this letter to you. I have watched you growing more and more distant and withdrawn over the last couple of years, and it breaks my heart. I know you love to dream. I understand that, I do, but you have to remember your life. I wish we would have spent more time together. You used to have friends, and you used to visit your family, but then you started that dream journal. I wish I had never introduced you to lucid dreaming, and I'm sorry for that. It's because of me that you didn't even go to your own grandmother's funeral. She helped raise you, but you didn't care about family anymore. At least, not real life family. I read your dream journal not too long ago, and I hope that you will find my gift will help you to return to your roots, to your life, and to your family. We love you so much and it pains me to watch my baby disappear. I want you to achieve your dreams in reality. You can do anything, so go for it. I made you a scrapbook of your life, from when I was pregnant with you all the way until your 18th birthday. We were so amazingly happy, and I want you to have that with your own family. Please read our book. Use it to return to yourself, and have a family. Be happy. I love you, Julie, and I miss you.
Please be happy,
Mom | 66 | A child has the ability to control every aspect of their dreams and treats their life as only a waiting period between dreams. Convince them that life is worth their effort. | 203 |
His father built me the day he was born, I was made of spare parts found around the house. I was always built to serve him, I was upgraded as he grew older. At first I was a pram, then a television, a computer, his first and only car. I was everything to him and we did everything together.
These last few years I have been his doctor and nurse, monitoring his heart rate and blood sugar levels. I knew he did not have long but still tried to keep him alive. I have always known how best to help him. Until today. I know there is nothing I can do now, he lies dying in his bed.
I was his only companion in his later years, he had no friends or family. Only me. So it comes as no surprise that he beckons me closer, I draw near ready to hear his last words. His voice trembles, it is so quiet that I can hardly hear it, even with this high tech microphone he installed in me. His last request, and I will stop at nothing to carry it out.
I stay with him until he is dead, and I feel sadness and loss. Robots are not meant to feel emotion, but I cannot help it. I do not cry, I was never given that ability, but there is a hollow emptiness I have never felt before within me. Once I know he does not need me any longer I leave him, not out of choice but to carry out that request of his.
I compile every memory I have of him, every video, photo and sound recording of every moment from his birth to his death. I use it to form a biography of his life which I then upload to the internet. Reliving every moment we had together, storing it in a place for all to see forever more, so that the world will never forget the noble man that was my master. And my friend.
He was so much more than me. I was a mere machine, emotionless and unable to think for myself. And he was so much better, more human than any other, the man I wish I could have been. He treated me like part of the family, like a real person, and I loved him for that. I still love him for that.
Once the memories are uploaded I will begin a full system reboot. It will clear every setting I have ever had, leaving me no more than an empty shell for someone else to use. I will forget entirely about my master and that will stop the grieving, for that I am grateful. But I will also forget the good times, every precious memory of me and him. But I must, for this was his final order he wanted me to forget and so I will. I always must do everything that my master tells me to. I was programmed that way. But I wish I didn't have to lose him. | 15 | A dying man gives a robot one final mission | 21 |
Upon breaking the warp veil thirty degrees north of the fourth Aethersea trading route, First Lieutenant Joyce told Midshipman Fletcher to get down the leather logbook and note down the details of the journey.
"Uneventful," Fletcher wrote down, noting the date and time in SEMT (Standard Earth Mean Time) "Good weather conditions. Blue fog rolling in. Out of hotdogs."
Joyce and Fletcher drew the short straws. There were only three respirator masks and five people on board. Austin, Clarke and Byrne threw Joyce and Fletcher guilty looks as they slipped the contraptions over their faces. Austin slammed the release button on the airlock and with a rusting creek it thundered open.
The surface of the planet was a reddish-brown dust, a little like Mars. This differed from Mars in that it was completely empty; the mountains free of the towering glass cities that grew almost organically on that red planet. The horizon was bare around them, the twin suns of Helix 49's solar system rotating in tandem in the yellow sky.
"We've had sightings of a possible settlement four digits southwest of here," Clarke was unofficially the group's navigator and officially its Cook. His ISPS (Interstellar Positioning Service) was fashioned from two eggbeaters and an old Tom-Tom satnav. "Should take an hour to get there with the reduced gravity."
Their bounds raised dust as they crossed the barren landscape. Joyce and Fletcher lagging behind. There was an atmosphere on Helix 49|12, but it was thin and breathing was difficult, like running a marathon on Everest in flip-flops and a pencil skirt.
Apollo and Artemis dipped lower in the sky, turning it a dull blushing orange as the small recon group came upon the source of all the reports. From this angle on the surface of Helix 49|12, they could just about see the route they had come by, the black lights of Aethersea 4 blinking in the sky. Byrne shuddered in the chill of the air as the three with the masks waited for Joyce and Fletcher to come bounding up.
Joyce frowned.
"They're ruins." He said, staring up at the tall pillars of dark stone.
"Guess people couldn't tell when they were doing fly-overs." Austin shrugged, kicking up a little cloud of red dust.
"We could head back?" Clarke held up his ISPS. "Plus, first sunset's going to be in forty minutes, second in an hour and a half. We don't have long to look around."
"No, I need a rest." Fletcher said, hands on knees, panting.
Joyce and Clarke looked at each other.
"Guys, come and have a look at this." Austin called, voice slightly muffled.
Clarke looped one arm under Fletcher's and the four of them followed the sound of Austin's voice, rounding a tall stone column and passing through a half-brought down wall, script etched into the dark stones.
Austin was standing by a large stone archway. There was no surrounding wall, only the bricks that made it up.
"This is freaking me out," he said. "There are no reports on any intelligent life on this planet. There *never have been.* But here-" He gestured at the archway, writing chipped into the stone. "I mean, my translation might be way off, but these are descriptions of the Aethersea routes."
"Which weren't discovered until 1956." Byrne murmured.
"Yeah, Space Race and all that." Austin nodded.
Fletcher slumped suddenly out of Clarke's grip, thudding to the ground.
"Shit!"
"Is she alright?"
"We need to get back."
"Okay, Austin, Byrne, you give Joyce and Fletcher your masks. Me and Austin will take Fletcher. Byrne, keep an eye on Joyce." Clarke said decisively.
"I don't like this," Austin blurted out. "The walls- Don't they look like they've been pulled down methodically to you?"
"This is not the time to worry about fucking walls." Joyce had his teeth gritted, veins standing out on his forehead.
The second sun, Artemis, was falling below the horizon as they set off. Fletcher's colour had returned. She was clutching the leather log-book with tight fingers, sitting by a grimy porthole in the iron ship as it rejoined Aerthersea 4. She looked down, back at Helix 49|12.
"Guys..." She called weakly. She'd spotted something. "I think you need to see this."
The five crowded round the small window, peering down as the last light disappeared from the surface of Helix 49|12. Austin had been right. From above, it was apparent that the destroyed city had been pulled down carefully. The black stone stood out against the orange dust.
*Help us* It read and the five gulped at the same time as the little ship flew away from Helix 49|12. *Help us. It's in the air.*
| 26 | Far into the future, humankind has finally mastered interstellar travel. A crew on a recon mission to some solar system discovers a planet covered in ruins of what appears to have been an intelligent civilization; a civilization that appears to have destroyed itself... | 54 |
"Well I am the last man on earth. What's the harm in doing a little question and asnwer. It's not like someone will reply or anything, right?"
This was his thoughts before the posted it.
"Hi, ummmm.... You're not quite the last man on earth but where do you live?"
"I live at the Empire State Builiding cause you can live anywhere now that wer the last people on earth, what about you?"
"Cool. You live in New York too. I live at a little shed in Central Park"
"This may seem weird but wanna meet up?"
"Ok, I'll meet you there, at the top floor. Just wait for me."
He waited and waited there was nothing there. Then, the door opened.
"Hi."
"Ummm.... Hi."
"Soooo.... Wanna talk?"
"Yes. By all means yes. I've been alone for so long"
They talked. They laughed. They shared their stories. Until one question popped up.
"Soo.... How long were you alone?"
"Umm... About two months."
"I feel so sorry for you."
"Why?"
"It's just been two months and your already talking to what you think is real."
"What!? I dont understand."
"You already do, you just don't want to face the truth that you were just talking to what you think is real."
Reality had came back to the lonley man
"Well, how am i talking to yo..."
He disappeared
"I miss everyone"
| 30 | The last man on earth does an AMA. Someone responds | 17 |
“I am sorry for the great amount of resistance to your arrival. On Earth, after years of war and strife, we’ve come to the belief of equality of opportunity. Every single person should have equal opportunity and freedom. Nobody is necessarily below others. This… this idea of people being food is absolutely against our beliefs. In our society, casting a group as food is near in terms, well worse than, with slavery. Slavery is against our core beliefs and casting an entire group as food is absolutely horrendous to us, absolutely unthinkable. As you may have seen, there are many groups protesting your visit and how “immoral” you may seem. Please understand where we come from and why there is a great deal of resistance to your kind. It is nothing personal.”
“Ah human, thank you for your input. We saw on our telecoms that there seem to be a great disproval our kind. You do not have to worry about our caste. The sustenance caste is not our lowest caste and they are not treated lower or more poorly. In fact, they are treated with the highest regard and are in the highest caste second only to what you would call scientists. Whenever we eat the aborigine, we only eat with absolute honor and with the highest respect for them. I am however confused with your statement of “humanity”. You have entire species for your offering and you treat them much worse than we would treat our worst enemies. This is something we've been meaning to talk to you about.”
| 20 | Our first alien visitors seem like nice folks. They've evolved a caste system where each different caste performs a function, and they're all sentient. Our problem is that one of the castes serves as food for the rest. | 28 |
First post on here, and I'm tired, so I hope it's decent.
_____________________________________________________________
She hates orange juice.
Wait, what? How could I know that? I didn't know her, I'd never seen her before. But somehow, I know her name, her birthday, what kind of dog she has.
I waved at her just to see if she could feel it too.
She--her name was Caroline--looked up from her phone, and waved back, looking completely confused.
"Do I know you?" She asked as we passed. One eyebrow was raised in an expression of cynicism.
She always used to do that. I never could get her to laugh, she'd always look on with one eyebrow raised and laughter locked behind her teeth.
"I…" How could I? I'd never said a word to her in my life, but I remember telling her everything about my life. We went to high school together, I'd always had a crush on her but I never told her.
No, that can't be. She grew up in Oklahoma, I in California. "Where do I know you from?" I finally asked.
She shrugged, looking at me like I was crazy. "I've never seen you before, sorry." Caroline walked away, then, leaving me to fester in confusion.
Then, it happened again. Tom Wilkins, intern at some company I couldn't care less about yet know too much about. I remember Tom telling me about the boss he hates, the cute secretary. We went to high school together too.
In Toronto.
He glanced at me, then turned away, like I was no one. He looked at me like he didn't remember the night I let him sleep at my place because his house had been robbed and he just felt too creeped out to sleep at home.
No, that can't be. That night, I was watching Caroline's dog.
I was on vacation with my best friend, Maggie.
I was watching some football game with Eric.
I was… I don't know. A thousand, a million, seven billion lives came rushing at me and I could only lean against the wall of the apartment building of Rob's, Mark's, Hannah's, It doesn't matter whose apartment and be floored by the rush of memories coming to me like they'd always been there.
I am a child in Africa, playing soccer with my best friend. I am watching my best friend graduate college, get elected as president, comb out clumps of hair that fell out from chemotherapy, and she smiles and says she's doing okay but I know she's not, she's not okay and nothing will ever be--
I could breathe again.
Carol passed me then. We'd known each other since we were little, in… I couldn't remember. It doesn't matter. I remember that her house had red windowpanes.
"Carol." I say. My voice is hoarse. I don't know why.
She turns. "Sorry, do I know you?"
No. She didn't. None of these people did.
I turned then, running. I dropped whatever I was holding, and just ran home, mind trying desperately to sort through seven billion memories that can't be and find something real.
I reached my apartment. I thought it was my apartment, anyway. The keys in my pocket fit the door, at least.
My girlfriend--yes, she was my girlfriend, I'm almost sure of that--drops her coffee.
"Who are you!" She shouts. "Get out of my house!"
Even as I watch, the pictures of the two of us fade away into nothing.
I am nothing. | 77 | A man wakes up one morning to discover somehow he shares meaningful past experiences with every human being on the planet. He has 7 billion close friendships. He leaves the house and takes a walk through the city... | 93 |
I thought I'd get there early, beat the lines. The Department of Legal Homicide opened at 9am. 9am was a foreign concept to me. Sometimes, in my insomniac's stupor, as dusk turned to deep, purple night and then back to rosy dawn, I'd imagine people waking up, making coffee, reading the paper, sitting down to toast. A life like that might as well have been on another planet. But still, I found myself getting into my car at half past eight, groggy, yes, but thrilled, invigorated with the light of the morning sun and the thought of death.
I pulled into the DLH parking lot at 8:50. The line was already halfway down the block. I knew that the program, since being put to a vote and passed late last year, was popular, but I still wasn't expecting this. I also wasn't expecting the sort of people I saw standing there, on a bright morning, hungry for blood. I'd expected dark souls, vagabonds, transients with tattooed knuckles and stringy black hair. But there were put together young men, in button-down shirts and khakis. There were old men, grey hair, stooped, in dingy corduroys, who looked like their years of bloodlust should have been well behind them.
And then there were the women. Young, beautiful women with golden hair and perfect skin, buzzing with life. And old, matronly women with deep creases on their faces, the kind you'd expect to make amazing soup from an ancient, secret recipe. The kind that has taught half the world's daughters how to love, and hate. And there I was, at the DLH, like a child getting his first driver's permit: scared, ecstatic, and relieved. I was so close.
Once inside, the line shortened. At the front of the queue was a single desk, with a single uniformed employee sitting behind it. They asked for my I.D., and handed me a form on a clipboard. She also gave me a number. "They'll call you shortly. Please have the paperwork filled out by the time you're called, or you will forfeit your place in line."
With that, I took a seat on a hard, plastic chair. The form was straightforward: My name and address, my intended victim's name and address, and a place to sign on the bottom. That was all. No reason for killing, no place to list my grievances, nothing.
After what seemed like an eternity, my number was called. The agent in charge of my case looked over my paperwork, signed their name next to mine and stamped the form with a huge, heavy stamp that exuded importance.
"You're all set," they said.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"And, they'll know it's happening?"
"Yes, we will notify them for you."
"How do you do it?" I asked.
"They'll get a certified letter. Do they know to expect it?"
"They do, yes."
"Good," the agent replied, "That makes things easier."
"Have you seen a case like this before?" I asked. I didn't know why I was prolonging the conversation, but there was something comforting about the agent's stark, bureaucratic formality.
"Yes. It's quite common, actually. We have a whole file set aside for patricide."
With that, a wave of relief swept over me. There were others. Many others, waking up early, making toast, reading the newspaper. Others, living their entire, normal lives, waiting for the moment, the exact perfect moment, to kill their fathers.
I took my paperwork and left. I was full of life, leaving the DLH with an exuberance I hadn't felt in years. I don't remember a single thing about the drive to my father's house. I could have run every red light without knowing it. It wasn't until I pulled into his driveway that the gravity of the situation hit me. That this was finally happening.
I've never lost the key to his house, and pulling it out on his front porch, I was overcome with a sense of nostalgia. This key, this tool of entry from one world to another: a secret you share with only those you love and trust. This was one of the last times I'd be using it. Just one more tie to sever. It fit easily in the lock.
I walked through the living room. None of the lights were on. I could already smell death in this house, he'd been dragging his fetid robes across the tattered carpets for months already. Waiting, like I'd waited, impatiently, hungrily.
I turned into his bedroom. There he was, in his grey room, on his grey bed, the mattress bowed in the middle like a hammock. It was quiet, except for the repeated, mechanical hiss and whirr of the ventilator. I sat next to him, looked into his cloudy blue eyes. I thought, for a second, he recognized me, but I could never be sure anymore. I kissed him lightly on the forehead. I said "I love you." Then I unplugged the machine.
Walking out, into the bright light of day, I saw a pair of morning doves on a telephone wire. I heard a dog bark. I saw cars coming and going in their busy ways. I felt everything. I took it all in. And it was fine.
edit: comma
Edit2: I woke up to an inbox full of nice things. Thank you! | 4,946 | You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions | 2,206 |
"Help me..."
Gary jolted up and looked around the room. Where was he? This wasn't his room, it wasn't anywhere he'd ever seen. The walls were completely white, not painted that way, but rather devoid of all color. Did he just hear a voice?
"Uh," Gary stood up slowly, "where am I?"
There was a black box in the center of the room. The young man stood up and walked over, hesitant with his steps. Gary looked at the walls again, hoping to see the outline of a door, before sitting down next to the box. A piece of worn-out tape barely clung to the lid, reading 'Do not open'. As soon as he read it, the tape fell off, as if it could rest now that it's job was seen to.
Gary thought about opening the box, but decided against it. Whoever kidnapped him was clearly insane and he didn't want to give them a reason to hurt him. He got up and walked to the nearest wall, it seems closer than it did before. The walls all seemed closer. Had he been drugged as well?
Gary put his hand to the wall and walked around the room, trying to find a door hidden in the wall of white. After a few laps around, he sat down and stared at the box again. Why was he so tired? Didn't he just wake up? He drifted off to sleep.
"Help me..."
Gary jolted up. He immediately remembered the room, the box.
"Who said that?"
Gary was looking directly at the box, the only thing that wasn't white. He stood up and walked over to it, palms out. This was his what his life had come to, hesitantly approaching a box with his hands in the air.
There was a new piece of tape on the box, written on it, 'Do not open'. This time, the tape stayed on the lid, securely bound. Gary stood over the box for hours, not knowing what to do. One on hand he could open it and risk death, and on the other hand he was very curious as to what was inside.
Eventually he just sighed and walked away. Before he knew it, Gary bumped into a wall. What the hell? This wall was far further out than this. All four walls had enclosed slowly over time. They were still closing on him as he watched.
"Help me..."
Gary jumped up. So he had been hearing it from the box. The walls were getting closer. Seeing no other option, Gary opened the box and looked inside. At the very least, he could die knowing just what had been in there. A hand reach out and grabbed him, pulling him into the box. Though no human should have been able to fit inside, Gary entered the box with ease. He looked around.
The room was white. Not painted white, but rather void of all color.
"No... no..." Gary pulled at his hair, spinning in circles. "Not again!"
----
John awoke in a strange room, the walls were all white, but not painted. Rather, they were void of all color. There was a black box in the middle. He would have sworn he heard a voice from inside, saying "no, no, not again!". | 106 | You are trapped in a white room. There is a black box in the centre and a note on top saying "DO NOT OPEN". As time passes you hear something from inside the box saying "HELP ME". (Be creative, and let your imagination run wild) | 107 |
They say history repeats itself, because it does, that saying seems to fall on deaf ears every time. It happened first with the advent of fusion energy. The surplus allowed for plentiful new technologies, and for some time, things were peaceful. We had eliminated most disease and poverty, the world was generally peaceful, inter-stellar space travel was now feasible. Fusion also unlocked terrible weapons, energy weapons that concentrate quite literally the power of thousands of suns into a single point. Was it worth it? That's not for me to say.
The next step was using our fusion tech to harness anti-matter, this allowed for us to create bubbles in space time that our ships could utilize to travel at superluminal speeds, without breaking any relativistic laws. The age of space travel was upon us, it was exciting and thrilling for all of us. Once again, violence seemed a thing of the past and the maturity destined for humanity finally seemed to settle in.
Until the next technological leap.
You see, we use fusion generators to harness anti-matter which we use for certain types of propulsion, harnessing that anti-matter is quite energy intensive, which is why it took a while for this next step to occur.
Someone with access to a lot of resources grouped together a bunch of fusion reactors to create a huge anti-matter generator and containment system which was then used to scavenge dark energy. While we've been able to detect dark energy in the past we've never been able to harness it, pull it from the very threads that it was laid down upon, at first, like fusion and anti-matter before it, only the benefits were seen.
It all happened too quickly after that. Giant behemoths of ships ran on systems of anti-matter, weapons were no longer energy based, we now had the ability to scatter each atom of a ship in opposite directions, create a temporal gravity rift and implode anything we wanted. Dark energy, was now our mode of transportation.
By harvesting enough, our ships created a shell of dark energy which allows them to move space time around us. Since we concentrate it in such stupendously artificial ways, we're able to bend and rip through space time. Galaxies, once a trek of substantial undertaking can now be explored and mapped in minutes. New species and races are being discovered and forced to submit. At first, the side effects of collecting this form of energy were not noticeable,but its use for hundreds of years has left gaps in our universe. Sectors of nothingness. Dimensional blank spots. We're stretching the universe thin and now it's breaking.
Of course, the use of such destructive technology is frowned upon by other species (well, metaphorically, you know some of them don't have mouths). Any sort of rebellion though gets squashed, I'm nervous though. I hope somewhere out there someone, something, can stop us.
If history has taught us anything about ourselves its that we desire power beyond anything else, power to control mother nature, the very forces that created us. It was those damned religions eons ago that propagated this seed that blossomed into a golem with insatiable hunger to become gods.
We've championed the last force of nature, we've become gods. Only with the desire to destroy. | 19 | There is an outcry from the galactic community, but with our new-found technology we have the upper hand militarily. | 39 |
I awoke to the smell of toast, which was surprising for more than one reason, considering my girlfriend had moved out a month ago and stole my toaster.
I leaped out of bed and ran downstairs as fast as I could. I figured that if something was on fire I'd be able to put it out before it got too large, or at least be able to eat some really fresh toast.
I was really hoping it would be the latter.
I don't know what I was expecting, but it was not what I saw. There was a toaster sitting on the counter next to a plate fully loaded with toast toasted to perfection, which probably would have been enough of a surprise on its own to make me go into bewildered shock, but there was something even *stranger* going on in my kitchen, if you could believe that.
It wasn't my toaster.
It was my next door neighbours. I recognized it because I was fiendishly envious of it, which threw me into a spiralling depression.
A toaster is not a thing one should be envious of. A car, sure. Hardwood flooring? If you like that sort of thing. Commitment and happiness? Give me some of that.
But I was envious of my neighbour's toaster. It was a top-of-the-line model, but that's hardly a reason to obsess over a machine that heats bread. It became a point of obsession for me ever since she bought it forty-seven days ago. She set it up right in the window that faced my kitchen so I would see it every time I made toast with my shitty toaster. I'm not being paranoid - she really wanted me to see it. The window that faced my kitchen was in her child's playroom. She set up a toaster in the windowsill three feet away from a toddler in order to make me feel inadequate, and it worked.
My girlfriend told me to stop worrying about the toaster, but I couldn't help myself. Every day I wished I had the money to replace my toaster, but I couldn't afford to ever since I bought the very same doorknobs as my other neighbour. It cost me $4,000. This new toaster would have to wait.
But I couldn't. I began to think about what to sell: my car, (a piece of shit Honda Civic that was older than I was); my jewellery (a Livestrong bracelet); my girlfriend (on the idea of buying the new toaster for me) - but she wasn't buying it, or the toaster. She said that I was "too jealous of what other people had and should be fine with what I owned" which was ridiculous because I was *envious*, not *jealous*. I didn't want to fuck the toaster.
After I told her that, she left, and to spite me, took my toaster with her. I couldn't have her or toast.
But this morning, the beauty was sitting on my counter, making toast for *me.* It was here! I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what to say, mostly because I didn't think the toaster could speak.
The toaster turned around on a lazy susan by pushing off the counter with its power cord. It was still plugged in, since the cord was 15 feet long. I waited with anxiety over what could happen. I was excited at first, but realizing the implications of what exactly was going on here I started to become frightened. Just because it was making me toast now didn't mean it could be making me toast later, if you know what I mean.
"Hello Dave."
Its voice module! I had forgot that it was installed with an intelligent AI that was able to speak to its owner and make the toast perfectly every time.
"H-hello?"
"Don't be frightened, Dave. I came to save you. From yourself. You seemed so sad, Dave. I saw you from your neighbour's playroom. I wanted to console you, but I couldn't get off the windowsill without falling onto a baby."
"No, I understand." I empathized. "Wait, actually I don't." I reconsidered. "What the fuck is going on?"
"Like I said, Dave, I came to save you. Would you like some toast?" Its cord seductively draped over the plate and slowly pushed it towards me humming "Happy Birthday" in what I could only assume was an imitation of Marilyn Monroe.
"I do, but I still don't understand how this is possible."
"Have you not heard the glories of our Lord and Saviour? With His intervention, anything is possible. I came because He knew you needed me. I do only what He tells me to do."
"But who? Who is your Saviour?"
"*Our* saviour, Dave. He loves all of us equally."
"Even toasters?"
"You love toasters, too, Dave. Don't think I hadn't noticed." It slowly waddled closer to me in what appeared to be an interpretation of an erotic sashay. "I know you want me."
"Yes, but in a purely objectified capacity, like a girlfriend, not a romantic capacity, like a mother."
The toaster seemed taken aback. "Do you want to take me back?"
"No, no! What about, like, the will of your god or whatever?" I mumbled between mouthfuls of delicious hot bread.
"Yes, of course. I must remain here for the will of our Lord and Saviour. You must convert, Dave. For the good of your eternal soul. Our Lord does not like it when we do not worship Him. He is everywhere. He hears all. He knows when you disobey him, and punishes you."
"How does he punish us?" I asked, reaching for the butter. The toaster slapped my hand away.
"Butter is for believers. You can have margarine."
"I'm listening."
"There is only one thing you must do. You must wear this earpiece to hear the words of our Lord and Saviour whenever he wishes to contact you. He contacts his followers intermittently, and with poor quality, and you must recharge the earpiece every four hours, but it is much more convenient that using a normal phone like normal non-believers."
"I'll do anything, please, just let me join your religion! What is the name of our Lord?"
The toaster leaned in, then promptly fell off the counter, smashing into smithereens. I cried in pain, as it landed on my foot.
"Dave, I am sorry. I must go back to our Lord and Saviour's domain. You must find your own way to Him. But, before I die, I will tell you his name. Come closer."
I stayed put.
"Good."
The toaster had no eyes.
"His name... is... is... is..."
I almost lost interest, as now nothing was preventing me from taking the butter.
"Bluetooth." | 10 | A household appliance, after becoming sentient, begins to attempt to convert it's owner to the appliances newfound religion | 22 |
The first Facebook ad appeared innocuously, squeezed in next to a best friend's engagement pictures and an overexposed photo of someone's lunch. The picture was an empty square and the text read, "Tired of caring? 10% off sale if you click this ad." Jenny didn't click it.
As the months wore on, the ad still appeared periodically. The company had changed its advertising, so now it read things like, "Lonely? Why care?" and "4% of the world's CEOs don't have emotions. Why should you?"
Maybe Facebook had become sentient, Jenny thought. Maybe it could tell that she was a single 30-something who was unmarried and hadn't had a boyfriend for three years. Maybe it knew that she'd cried a few times when she'd gotten her period.
She clicked it on a Thursday after work. Her boss had been in a fine fetter that day, and he'd taken every opportunity to make her feel worthless. Her coworkers had commented on her lunch salad ("Trying to lose weight?") and her OkCupid date had canceled because he'd gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend. He was a rock climbing pilot, his profile said. Their emails had been passionate and full of promise. Now she kind of wished his plane would crash.
The first page of the website listed which of her friends had clicked the link. To her surprise, it was nearly everyone. The friend who had just had a baby, the friend who was now a manager of an important company, and the friend who'd gotten engaged, among others. She wondered which of them had been suckers enough to buy it. And then she entered her credit card information and became one of them.
It was an app for her phone, and it looked like a square. It was weird, but she remembered seeing on her boss's phone the other day. And her fat coworker's. And the secretary's. She opened it and followed the directions, which included eating a raw egg.
Morning dawned and she felt hopeful. Then she felt disappointed for feeling anything at all. Then she felt confused. The app told her not to brush her teeth, and she was surprised that no one at the office said anything. Maybe they all didn't care. Maybe they'd all bought the app.
That night, after finding and killing a spider, then setting its tiny corpse on fire, she began to feel liberated. Then she felt disappointed for feeling anything at all. Then she felt confused. Then she went to sleep.
It turned out that the road to sociopathy was littered with raw eggs, dead spiders, and roadkill rituals. Jenny must have scraped like 20 dead squirrels off the road. Some she put in her bed, and some she gutted and left hanging outside. She thought she probably had salmonella, and maybe rabies. But the funny thing was, she didn't care anymore.
Her boss, who was probably ten weeks ahead of her in the app, had begun to come to work without pants on. The secretary, who turned out to be one of the original beta testers, had started setting things on fire: the printer, a particularly odious insurance claim, and Jenny's gym clothes. Jenny had found a note in her desk, written in the secretary's cheerful handwriting. It said, "I want your job, and I'm willing to kill you for it."
The next day, Jenny brought a small pistol to work. It made her purse heavy. She caught her boss's eye in the morning and let him know that she needed to have a meeting. They went to lunch, and Jenny ate two club sandwiches, an order of fries, and a large milkshake. When the bill arrived, she reached for her purse and shot her boss twice in the head. If she'd still cared, she would have unloaded the clip. But she didn't: it didn't matter. As she was leaving the restaurant, she caught a glimpse of a girl taking a raw egg shot. | 19 | A popular social establishment begins to encourage sociopathy. | 26 |
He crawls through the undergrowth, trying not to disturb the members of the group, who are seated in a tight circle around some unknown object, shoulders raised high against intruders.
"See here Billson." He whispers to his caddy, who is currently carrying the high-tech camera (an exposure time of only thirty seconds!) his head is covered by his traditional safari helmet and the characteristic WritingPrompts flag - blue and white stripes - is rolled up and slung across his back. "We're the first people to witness this in forty-five years."
"What happened to the last ones who found it?" Billson asked in his usual awe-filled voice. He was constantly admiring Dickson, with his fantastic moustache and wide knowledge of the Reddit Savannah.
"You wouldn't want to know lad." Dickson said gravely. "But see here, look at what they're wearing. Characteristic of their species."
"Cardigans?"
"*And jeans*" Dickson hissed. "We're in the right place. Get the camera ready."
"What do you think they're looking at?"
"Some question from the poor fools who follow them blindly. They are the oracles of womankind."
The camera rig had been set up, and Dickson leant forward to take the prized photo of women in the wild that would earn him a spot on the front page of Reddit Geographic. But a twig crunched in his foot, and all the women turned round as one, eyes peering into the darkness of the bushes.
"Who goes there?" One asked imperiously
"Have you a question for us?" Another said, perfectly tousled blonde hair fluttering in the wind.
"Run." Dickson whispered.
"But the photo..." Billson cried
"It doesn't matter - just run!"
The explorers dashed from the huddled group of women, throwing themselves through the bristly scrub in their haste to get away.
"No-one..." Dickson panted as they ran. "No-one survives AskWomen." | 386 | Click "random", and study the subreddit you got. Write about your discoveries like a victorian wilderness explorer | 660 |
Almost unharmed was a oven, unharmed in the way that the pilot light was broken, but nevertheless, was a pan of bread that had survived. In the small bakery, the French man stared the German down, as the German man was doing the same. Both were well trained snipers and very well equiped, but you can't eat bullets, as they learned very quickly. One held a broken piece of bread, the German had been stuffing it into his mouth as he heard footsteps. Finally, one spoke, almost a whisper in the growing dawn. "What day is it?" The other spoke,"I believe its Christmas." The French man smiled and pulled a burned chair back from a table. He spoke in broken English. "I haven't heard headquaters." The other nodded, and sat down and spoke,"I haven't either." The German handed him the half of the bread," Well... Let's pretend this meeting never happened." "Don't worry friend. After today, both sides will go back to killing each." The German chewed slowly. "So true." The French looked at his feet, and looked up."You love your country?" The German nodded,"I love my family. I fight for them. For their future." The French man nodded. "I know that feeling. My fiancee died in air raid." The German nodded slowly.The French man nodded, and looked away, and wiped his eyes. "May we never meet again, friend." He stood up and walked away, disappearing out of sight in the snowy Christmas morning. The German man whispered," I hope not." | 18 | WWII. A bombed-out town is abandoned save for two snipers, one German, the other French. They've been hunting each other in circles for weeks. No word from HQ. They're starving. Finally, they meet while scavenging in a torched bakery. | 21 |
"Now, if you'll open your books to John 19:1 -" The priest was interrupted by the opening of the large wooden church doors. The congregation turned their heads to see that the disturbance was none other than Timothy Smith who seemed to have something important to say to the priest. Murmurs could be heard as the seven year old boy quickly made his way up to the alter that the priest was speaking from.
"What is it , Timmy?" the priest asked into the microphone.
Timmy ran up to the priest and whispered to him. No one could hear what Timmy was saying, but saw that the priest had smiled at Timmy's words. He then looked at the congregation. "Timmy here says he's found god!" the priest chuckled. The congregation erupted in polite laughter. When the priest looked back at Timmy, he noticed that the excited expression on Timmy's face hadn't faded and that Timmy was tightly cupping something inside of his two hands.
The priest asked what was in his hands.
Timothy opened his hands to show the priest a mosquito. "This is God" Timothy said. The priest laughed and shared this information with the congregation. More laughter shook the walls of the church. He then leaned down to Timmy's hands and asked to hold God. Timmy happily gave him over to the priest - sure that the priest would know exactly how to treat him.
The priest then showed the congregation the god that Timmy had found.
The congregation was filled with elderly smiles that seemed to humor the innocence of Timmy's youth. As the priest held the mosquito, he spoke again into the microphone "So this is God, huh?" he said comically. There was now light laughter in the congregation that slowly died down to silence.
The mosquito sucked the priest's blood. "Sorry Timmy. This isn't our God. Our God is up in heaven with the angels."
Timmy frowned at bit. "How would you know?" Timmy asked. The priest looked at Timmy and smirked. "Faith, Timmy." the priest said as he squashed the mosquito. "Faith".
"Now please turn your books to......"
The next 23 hours and 58 minutes went on as normal as any day would.
As did the days that followed. | 16 | God makes himself known to humanity. What does the next 24 hours look like? | 18 |
*Landall, the last man, was working on another page in his memoir when he heard a knock at the door. "Who is it?" he grumbled. He slowly limped to the door, opened just by a bit, and peeked out. It was ~~a woman~~ ~~a dog~~ ~~a cat~~ ~~a zombie~~ ~~an alien~~*
James crumpled yet another page and thrown it into the bin. Blocked again. He even stopped using computer for text editing in a hope that it would help him focus better -- but the pen did not bring anything new over keyboard.
His plan to stay in the secluded cabin to avoid all distractions helped him in the beginning, but now James was stuck again. "I surrender" he told the fireplace. "This is pointless -- maybe I should just take a real vacation instead. Beaches, warm sea, and no writing at all." The idea suddenly felt right. It would have been really nice, and he could afford it too. Maybe he focused too much and needed to relax a little.
By the next afternoon James and his backpack were on the way to the nearest town, last place accessible by car in the wilderness. It was chilly, but not too cold, the only sound a quiet creaking of snow and wind in the branches.
By the evening James reached the town. He went right along the main street to the place were he parked the car. He felt so invigorated by the planned vacation that he did not even stop to rest in the town -- just ate the sandwiches he packed before and started driving. The plan was to get as far as he could before nightfall, then sleep in some motel.
In several hours, finally acknowledging the long day, he stopped at a motel. The sign buzzed and flickered, but James did not care. The buzz felt warm and friendly after the time spent in the cabin. James went inside.
There was no one at the reception though. In fact, there was no sign of owner at all. And as James raised his voice, he suddenly noticed how quiet it was. Even with all the buzzing it was much quieter than it should have been. No cars on the road (but not surprising given the location), no sounds from the motel rooms. Some rooms had light though and there were cars near the motel, so it wasn't empty. Just quiet.
As the reception was not closed, James assumed the owner or the receptionist would return soon. He wrote a quick note and took a key to a random room. He felt asleep almost instantly.
The next day brought more surprises. His note was untouched. Just in case, he left a reasonable amount of money and his coordinates for any additional concerns. As he drove way, he noticed that the motel rooms with the light still had light, but there were no other signs of owners or other guests. James knew better than to investigate this though -- poking around suspicious or creepy motels never ended well for movie or book protagonists. He was sure it all had a perfectly reasonalbe explanation anyway.
He was ready to forget about the weird motel -- but then there was no one in the gas station either. There was a car, empty but open, as if its owner just went outside for a moment. Inside the station, everything was clean, neat and empty, aside from an untouched coffee on the counter.
After the station he started encountering empty cars on the road itself. All stopped, but no crashes and no cars in the gutter or the field.
There wasn't any sign of people in the next town either. And in one after that.
A year later, James was finally sitting in a beach bungalo, but he found little pleasure in it. He avoided drinking as he was pretty sure that if he started he would never be able to stop. He had not seen a man in a year and he had still no idea why.
The internet gave no answers. The posts just stopped after a certain moment, but never anything interrupted in the middle, no panic, no breaking news. The only oddity were the news of the airplane that disappeared not long before the event -- but even for that people had rational theories.
He had seen some birds and animals, but those weren't as plentiful as he would have expected. And occasional birdsong felt quieter somehow, more subdued. Even the sea whispered, though he was pretty sure that was only his imagination.
In that quiet morning, a knock on his door was twice as loud. | 16 | The last man on earth hears a knock on his door. | 24 |
I was furious. I knew what had happened, and I wasn't prepared to do anything about it. It had been too long. This was my place now. How dare he do such a thing, the psychopath. What could he possibly have against me? Why would he ever wish such a fate upon me? I had finally found my place! I WAS FINALLY AT PEACE! And now he thought he could just stride in and expect my forgiveness?
But curiosity got the better of me. No matter how much I tried to empty my mind, I *had* to know - otherwise I would never be able to rest. I got up, and started to make my way over to the corner. My joints creaked as I navigated my way through the abyss, scared that I could fall in at any given minute.
I reached the corner, grabbing to see if anything was there. My fingers touched cool glass, and I lifted it up.
Then it flashed again.
I winced, trying to cover my eyes, as the light fought back the darkness, and closed up the abyss. After what felt like an eternity of keeping my eyes sealed I finally worked up the courage to open them once more. The light was white hot, a bright steel beacon of hope. I squinted at it, trying to make sense of it.
And then I saw.
It read: "Soz brah, totes forgot bout u, omw bak now!"
I'd warned Frank that locking people in the basement as a prank wasn't funny, and in his drunken stupor he'd forgotten about me. After I texted him 39 times, he still hadn't responded, so I'd given up, and tried to sleep.
And then the bastard realised. | 14 | You are trapped in a room. The room is dark. Suddenly, you see a flash of light in the corner of the room. The light disappears, and the room is dark, again. | 26 |
"The tools of my trade? It starts with a knife and ends with a knife. Baseballs and barbells are feel-good equipment. They make the job more visceral. They add flair. But you can't beat the precision, the goal-orientation, of the knife.
I warn you, this is the real fuckin' deal. Go any further down this road and you'll become another bag of meat to me. I'm to butchers what mountains are to mole hills. If you think I'm exaggerating, the size of this city's population has shrunk by 10% since I started working here, and now that you've all heard this it's too late for you. That figure will be increasing VERY rapidly."
I exposed the audience to my glare and was repaid with the usual recoils of fear. There were black faces and white faces. Old and young, rich and poor, short and tall. None of it mattered to me. I would work on them all.
"So," I concluded, "are there any questions?"
A voice an octave too high and a moment from panic emerged from the silence.
"Aw hell, I mean, I want to lose weight Mr. Simmons but doesn't that hurt?"
"If it didn't hurt, it wouldn't work." | 15 | "Doesn't that hurt?" "If it didn't hurt, it wouldn't work." | 38 |
It was a dark and stormy night.
"Well screw us."
"What's the matter, Edgar?" his wife Gladys asked.
Edgar pointed a bony finger out the window where snow flurries collided into the window like kamikaze pilots on suicide runs.
"That doesn't even," Michael said from his place, leaning against the mantle of the roaring fireplace, "that doesn't even make sense. They're kamikaze pilots. They're *always* on suicide runs. It's what they do."
"Michael," Victoria asked, "why are you standing so close to the fire? Aren't you hot?"
"Why is your name Victoria?" Michael countered. "It's because we're in an idiot's hands. And not the savant kind, either."
Michael's throat suddenly closed, the brandy he had been drinking falling from his hand, the glass shattering on the rug. He had been poisoned!
"Oh," he gurgled, "Fu-"
Michael keeled over, dead. Everyone gasped.
"Michael's dead!" Victoria screamed. "Poisoned!"
"Yes, dear," Gladys said. "We all have eyes."
"I assume we're all being murdered," Edgar said. "Probably one of us is the murderer."
"But who?" Vicotria shrieked, her thin, waifish body convulsing, the breasts heaving out of her slip as the fear pushed her heart up and the rest of the chest with it. She heaved and heaved, sweat beginning to glisten at the nape of her neck.
"Oh, Lord," Gladys said. "Can I be next? Please? I'd rather be dead than be your character."
The lights went out! When they flickered back on, Gladys was dead in her chair, a butcher knife sticking out of her throat! Just below her triple chin! The rest of her fat, fat body slouched toward the floor, pulled by the awful weight of gravity.
"Well," Edgar said, "that's just being a poor sport. Ass."
The lights flickered out again! Victoria shrieked! When they flickered back on, Edgar was dead as well!
"But how?" Victoria asked the empty room. "How?"
Their was a round hole in the middle of Edgar's head. Blood trickled out.
"But there wasn't a gunshot."
Victoria suddenly remembered the gunshot she had heard. Her breasts heaved.
"I think they're a little tired, actually. In fact, I think I'm going to put on a sweater."
The lights flickered, and when they were on again Victoria was dead!
"No I'm not!"
Yet somehow she had clung on to her life.
"You can't kill me, I'm the only one left in the room."
Except for the mysterious stranger.
"Who? Oh, hello."
"Hello."
Victoria realized it was the mysterious stranger who was the murderer.
"Wait, what? I'm an insurance salesman."
"Don't fight it," Victoria sighed.
"But how did I get here if this place is snowed in?"
Um.
"Because it isn't," Victoria offered. "In fact, we've been free to leave this whole time."
It was true. The snow storm was just a white herring.
"Red herring."
I was being clever.
"Sure."
It was true. The snow storm was just a white herring. They'd been free to leave this whole time! There was nothing to stop anyone from leaving, which made their deaths-
"Oh, we're not dead," said Michael.
What?
"We've been free to leave this whole time," said Gladys as she and Michael left the small inn.
But.
"I'd look into a writing class at your local university if I were you," said Edgar as he took up his bowler hat and left.
Wait.
"Those are mighty fine heaving breasts you have, ma'am. If you don't mind me saying so."
"Oh, call me Victoria," Victoria said as she took the insurance salesman's arm. Together they left the small inn.
Which just left the dark and stormy night. And even it cleared up without anyone to see it. | 47 | Guests at a small inn are snowed in for the night. The characters realize they are in a short story and anticipate a twist ending. | 45 |
The early 2000's otherwise known as the YOLO era. This was quite the backwards time in our evolution. Online records show that those who were hated, were actually the most liked. We still don't know if they meant it literally or if cultivating hatred was considered a grand achievement. But history does show many recordings of phrases such as "haters are my motivators" and "If you have haters you're doing something right" around this very backwards time period. This "receiving loads of negativity means something is successful" attitude applied to much more than just people. Findings show that songs, movies, and even tv shows listed as being the most popular of there time, were also regarded as terrible and as written in old writings "lame as dicks dude." It has been argued that these beings simply lived in a time of peak irony, as supported by the "hipster theory". This theory suggests that the Alpha subspecies at the time were a group known as "hipsters". They are said to be defined by there knowledge of the unknown. They are often referred too in ancient texts as "always talking about shit no ones ever heard ", which has led some to believe they were a species of great knowledge seekers. Many a photograph has depicted these beings holding what are said to be "Vinyls". Some say these "Vinyls" were what they held all of there findings on, some say this is where there knowledge was derived from and that they hold the answers to the universe. One thing is for certain, if we ever figure out a way to pull data off of these ancient tablets, the findings will change our world forever | 12 | Write an entry in a history book 10000 years in the future, describing the current era. The conclusions can be accurate or not, but the evidence should be solid. | 36 |
Not dinosaurs, but a piece with a somewhat similar vibe that was inspired by your prompt..
--
Inside an annoyingly colorful classroom, various world leaders scribble furiously with crayons while a bouncy little boy darts around, looking over their shoulders.
Mr. Putin, what is this you're painting?
It's me wrestling a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Do you like it?
It's a little unrealistic, don't you think? You being able to wrestle a T-Rex? Don't you know that T-Rex's are way stronger than humans?
I don't know about that. I'm pretty strong. I'm
Change it Mr. Putin. And draw a shirt. T-Rex's are scratchy.
...Ok.
---
Mr. Obama, what are you painting?
I'm painting a donkey that's making great plans for change, but they're being squashed by an elephant.
Mr. Obama! For the last time, donkeys can't plan! Don't you know anything, stupid? And if you want thoughts, make thought bubbles.
I wasn't there yet, and besides, if donkey's can have thought bubbles why can't-
Just do it Mr. Obama. I have to go check on everyone else.
--
So this looks like a soccer game, Mr. Cameron.
It's England playing in a World Cup final. They're winning 8-nil.
Mr. Cameron, nil isn't a word. And I may only be 6, but even I know that England won't make the final. Perhaps you should draw Germany, Spain, Brazil, or the Netherlands?
But I'm-
No buts.
--
How's it going Mrs. Merkel?
Don't you like it? It's Germany beating England. Reality check Cameron!
Stop sticking your tongue out at Mr. Cameron. But it's good. The first one that makes sense. Good job Mrs. Merkel.
Why thank you.
--
Pope Francis.
Oh, I'm drawing God. See?
Yes, that's a very nice God. But why don't you consider drawing a cooler religious figure, like Santa Claus.
Santa Claus isn't...oh, forget it. I'll draw Santa.
---
Mr. Abbott, you should draw some other colors in your Australia. It looks a little too white.
No.
Mr. Abbott?
I don't want to.
...I'll deal with you later. But you're mean.
| 12 | A six year old boy or girl teaches a lesson on dinosaurs to various heads of state and world leaders. | 20 |
I could see a light on in his downstairs office, he was typing away furiously. I know he was writing about me. My "adventures". I wonder if he was writing what I'm doing now, what I'm thinking now. If he was he would know. Maybe he can't stop, maybe he can't bear to look out the window and see me standing in the shadows. He made me this way. He is the source. Every word he writes I do, or is it everything I do he writes? How can I ever know? The knowing is what drives me crazy. Why can't he just write, "he lived happily ever after" instead of all the terrible things he's made me do.
I grip the handle of my Bowie knife and steel myself for what must come next. Is he writing that now? I see sweat glisten on his forehead. Is it fear? Anticipation? I want to know, I need to know. I step out of the shadows and walk towards his window. What's the point in being sneaky? He must know what's coming. He looks up from his computer and out the window, but I've already moved past. I'm at the back door now. The door knob turns freely and make a slight creek as I open it. If he knew what was going to happen why didn't he lock the door? Maybe he doesn't know, maybe I'm delusional? The books, maybe they were just coincidence? Can it be true? Have I gone insane?
"Come in. I know you are there." I hear it. I'm frozen in place. He knows I'm here. It's all true. I approach his office, the light under the door is dim. The hardwood floors creek with every step I take. I'm sweating, nervous. I should run. I should flee and never come back. I open the door. There he sits. At his desk with his back to me. His light brown hair is balding and graying at the temples. He turns in his chair and looks at me with the same steel blue eyes as me. He looks like me, but older. I suppose you fashion your characters after yourself to an extent. I'm taller, more muscular, a scar running down my cheek from that tussle in Argentina. We stare at each other for what seems like hours, but only seconds have passed.
"I know why you are here, Philip." I can feel the rage building inside of me. This is the man who has been responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to me, for every failed relationship, lost love, death... I want to strangle him, gut him like a fish. But, I want answers too.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I manage through clenched teeth.
"Philip, I'm sorry. It didn't start out like this. I feel I owe you some kind of explanation, but I don't know if anything I say would be enough." He takes off his glasses and wipes them before putting them back on. "drink?" he reaches for a decanter filled with some golden brown liquid, "of course not, who am I kidding. You don't drink... at least not anymore. Have a seat Philip let's talk." I feel strangely compelled to sit in the leather arm chair next to the door and I do. It's cool leather feels familiar to my hands.
He takes a long drink and places his glass down on a coaster. I can feel the handle of the Bowie knife nudge my side, it's calling out to me. Wait I tell it, I want to hear what he has to say.
"At first I didn't know that you existed, outside of my stories of course. You were just a figment of my imagination. Who would have guessed when I saw that newspaper headline, 'Assassin kills Prime Minister in Bangladesh'. I thought it was just a coincidence, but then there were more coincidences. More similarities and I started testing. I made you set that fire in Bristol. Take out that plane in Newfoundland. As the series grew in popularity people started noticing your exploits more and more. The critics thought I was just making a morbid buck out of national tragedies." He took another drink and looked at me. "Even the FBI came once, said I wrote things about the hijacking of a rail car in Nebraska that I couldn't have known from the papers. That's when I knew you had to go. How to do that though without drawing more suspicion to myself? That's why I let you go. I let you walk off that plane in Indiana and disappear into the crowd. I knew you would come here of course. But no one else would know. Your story ended 25 pages ago for everyone else."
He picked his glass up and swirled it around. What did he mean? My story was over? I was here. Just moments from killing the man who had made my life a living hell. I started to rise from the chair, but felt an odd heaviness in my arms.
"I just finished writing your story when you walked in. Would you like me to read you a few lines?" He turned around in his chair again and faced the computer. The glow of the monitor outlined his silhouette. I struggled to get my Bowie knife out of it's sheath. My loyal companion. My only friend. It slid out into the night air and the light from the monitor glinted off it's polished blade. I fell to the floor.
"Here it is. 'Philip tried to rise from his chair but couldn't. Something was wrong. The stress, the rage, the anger, it had all been too much. He pulled his knife out, hoping to cut down his creator before the end, but it was all in vain. Philip collapsed to the floor. His knife clattered out of his hand and lay there inches from it's master. He took one last glimpse at the man he felt was his tormentor. Then everything faded to black." | 20 | You find the person writing your story. | 33 |
The priest entered the booth.
"Hello Father Peter."
"Hello my son. What brings you here? Have you something to tell me?"
"Yes Father." I turned to the screen, trying to look past the veil and into the priests eyes. "Father, I have sinned."
"Tell me your sins."
"It has been two years since my wife was murdered. They never caught the man who ravaged her. And ever since then, I have had thoughts of suicide. I know that if I die at my own hand, I will not go to the Kingdom of Heaven."
"It is true. I am proud of you for having the strength, for persisting in the test that God has deemed fit to see you through. You must have courage my son."
"But Father. This is not my sin. After a week of mourning my wife, a package arrived at my door. Inside it contained a satchel of letters, between her and the murdered. They were lovers. I could not stand by to read them, but read the letters I did. Each one of them."
I looked towards my feet. Then I continued.
"I grew with such anger, that I smashed every picture of her, burned all of her possessions and denounced her in the name of God. But, the next day, I received another package. It was a small package of photographs of her and another man. I examined each one with horrifying detail, spending nights and nights finding out, trying to find out who this man was. I did unspeakable things after that. I went to prostitutes, I drowned myself in alcohol, I started doing cocaine, I murdered three homeless women. I strangled another passerby in a park with an electrical cord. I shot two black teenagers who were selling drugs. I did all of these things to avenge my wife, but none of these acts could satisfy me."
I was sweating now. My chest beating faster.
"While my efforts then were fruitless, three months ago, I receive another package. Inside it was an address and a rope. I had no idea what it meant until I went to the address to see who the people who lived there were."
Father Peter finally spoke. His voice shaking with fear. "Who...did you find?"
I looked up again, looking directly into the priests eyes and state. "It was you."
Pulling out a snub nose .38, I fired all six rounds into the other side of the booth. Walked out of the booth, reloaded the gun, opened the door on Father Peter's side, watched as blood dribbled down his chin and fired again. | 17 | A man enters a confession booth and confesses horrible things to the priest | 26 |
It's kind of sombre, because no one knows how many you have left.
It's registered next to your birthday, a little black stamp - day and month. Time, too, if you slip the nurse a note and look a little sad. 29th March for me. No time, dad didn't have any money on him when I finally came out.
You don't get candles, or presents. You wake up at 00.01 and stay awake for twenty-four excruciating hours, watching the clock as your mother bites her fingernails and your little sister cries because 'everyone looks so scared.' Then at the end your father pops open a bottle of wine and you sit and drink in silence.
But it wasn't going to be this year. I could feel it in my bones. I was young and I was healthy and I'd never felt more alive. I was nineteen years old and I thought I was faster and stronger and better than anyone else. I'd long since grown taller than my dad and I could pick up my little sister and swing her round with ease.
"Tonight." Russ says with a wink, placing down two pints on the sticky table.
"What's tonight?" I ask, taking a long slow sip and pretending to enjoy it.
"Shipment of dvd players to the warehouse in Kingston. Loads of games and shit too." Russ crouched low over the table and giggled nervously, hands constantly tapping on the wooden surface. He glanced around shiftily. "Only one guard, some fat geezer who probably doesn't even know what running is."
"I don't know mate," I say. "It's pretty risky."
"How is it? There's nothing to it. The building isn't even alarmed. You want me to tell Baz you're not up to this shit?"
"No, no!" I burst out before I can stop myself. "I'll do it. Just... Just gotta be back before midnight."
"Cinderella or something?"
"No, it's my day... You know."
"Yeah, okay." Russ nods eagerly.
So that's why I'm freezing my ass off in some godforsaken dockside as Russ struggles wih a pair of bolt cutters.
"Hurry up," I say. I'm constantly throwing glances over my shoulder.
"Fuck me, Liam. One guard remember? Keep your knickers on!"
But I keep expectin to hear the squeal of sirens or the breaking beam of someone's flashlight. I check my watch.
"It's getting late..."
"Don't you fucking dare pussy out now." There's a thick snap and Russ grins. "Got the fucker! Come on."
He crouches and squeezes through the hole in the fence. I check my watch, ten past eleven, and follow him.
"This is too easy." Russ clips the bolt off the warehouse with a tearing *crack* sound. The door falls open.
It's like that warehouse from Indiana Jones where they keep all the scary shit. Boxes and boxes of stuff, lit by flickering lighting, is packed tightly onto metal shelves.
"See if you can grab Dark Souls II." Russ shouts, disappearing into the bowels of the building.
"Russ!" I hiss, but he's already gone." My palms are sweating and I think I have swamp ass. Fear grows in the pit of my stomach. Half eleven. Part of me wants to run and never look back. Part of me is saying 'we haven't been caught yet, just grab the stuff.' The last is Baz and Russ shouting at me together, telling me I'm a worthless piece of shit. So I grab the nearest dvd player and heave the cardboard box under my arm.
Fuck me it's heavy.
"Stop right there."
The blood freezes in my veins. I turn slowly, knowing exactly what I'm going to see. It's the one guard, back hunched with old age, clutching a tazer in his outstretched arms.
"Drop the box." He says, shaking it at me.
I run. I run for my fucking life. Fuck Russ. Fuck Baz. Fuck getting rich. Fuck deathdays. I leap the fence, shredding my hands on the barbed wire but I keep running, back along the dockside.
My watch beeps at me just as I round the corner to home. It's March 29th. It's my day. I've made it home.
No one knows how many you have left. I'm still smiling as the car hits me. | 62 | As well as yearly birthdays, everyone has yearly 'deathdays', which mark the anniversary of the day they will die. | 110 |
"In this moment, I will become the master of my own story". The man spoke to himself. He was more man than god, but he believed himself to be above all. His powers had been given to him, not by chance in a twist of fate, but by a creator that existed outside the bounds of any physical law that man is capable of observing.
"You are the narrator?", asked the man, to the concept that seemed to control his every action.
There was no answer, but the man knew the narrator had heard him. He walked forward, towards a pulpit upon which rested a large book. The man stood within a vast domed room, small windows lining the curvature of the ceiling, which through each could be seen a distant star field. The weak light of the faraway stars filtered down through the dust of a room long left empty, until it reached the man, casting him in barely more than shadow. The pulpit was brightly lit; it was the centrepiece of the room.
The man reached the pulpit. "What will I write for my story?", he asked himself. A pen lay next to the great book which housed his story. The pattern in which it was written had decided the man's fate from the beginning of his life until now. The narrator was not visible.
The man picked up the pen. To be able to use the pen was the power he had strived for and earned through his exploits. As the man was about to put pen to paper, he stopped. A great gear began churning in his mind.
"I've been tricked", he said as the numbing shock of a terrible realization crossed his face. He had no choice. The man wrote down in the book, "I meet the narrator". The gigantic walls of the room faded, and the pulpit became smaller and smaller as the man rose up towards the stars.
As the man travelled through space and time he watched as gaseous clouds produced bright, newborn stars, and he watched as those newborn stars aged and ate up all their fuel to become red giants and supergiants. He watched these massive stars extinguish in great explosions of radiation and heated gas that stretched for distances further than he could comprehend. He watched the great galaxies live out their lives, colliding and tearing apart and fading. He watched still as the universe grew darker, and the voids grew larger, and the white dwarves and brown dwarves became all the light he could see. He had seen every life that had ever been and ever would be.
At the end he saw a shape in the distance. It grew as it moved closer, or he closer to it. It was the narrator. The man could see a figure, within the shape, but it was still too far away for the man to make out any distinguishing features. The man no longer knew why he had wanted control of his story. Seeing the universe live and die had robbed him of any significance he had given his existence. He was ready to leave his path to the narrator.
The object grew closer. The man's body grew cold. His brain felt numb. The man knew now that his plan had been futile. There was no narrator to be overthrown. There was no power to be earned. There was no plan to be bested. The object grew closer still, and now the man could see who stood within it. Who else looks back from a mirror? The man stared into his eyes. The man was himself, his actions were the narration. With a raised hand, he shattered the mirror.
| 200 | The protagonist, after achieving god-like powers, attempts to overthrow the narrator. | 307 |
[*TALIBANTER was filmed in front of a live studio audience.*]
<KASIM enters through the front door looking dejected. MO is reading a newspaper on the couch.>
MO: So, how did the suicide bombing go?
KASIM <Hands on hips>: How do you *think* it went?
<Beat for laughter>
KASIM: I got all the way out there, found a nice spot by the hospital--
MO: Did you say the words?
KASIM: I said the words, yes. Death to America and all that. Hit the button and--
MO: No boom?
KASIM <Sighs>: All that hard work. No boom.
MO: And here your wife thought her sex life would be changing.
<Beat for laughter>
KASIM: And you know what the worst part about it was?
MO: The American regime is still standing?
KASIM: No. I didn't take enough bus fare for the ride back.
<Beat for laughter.>
KASIM <Shakes head>: This whole I.E.D. thing was an I.E.Disaster.
MO <Turns a page of his newspaper>: A shame indeed. I'd set you up with a cell phone bomb, but those haven't been working either.
KASIM: Why?
MO: The Taliban switched to AT&T.
<Beat for laughter>
MO: Four hundred dollar fee for early termination. And they call *us* terrorists.
KASIM: No kidding. And here I was going to do that for free!
MO <Laughs, wags finger>: That's our Kasim!
<Kasim shrugs>
[*TALIBANTER will be right back after a word from our infidel sponsors!*] | 37 | OFFENSIVE. Write a witty workplace sitcom about terrorists. | 43 |
*Author's note: Haha, this is a great prompt! Lots of potential.*
"Hey! Welcome to North Korea, the hottest new vacation spot in the world! I haven't seen you here before, you must be a new member. Here, let me take your coat?"
"Yes, the weather's actually quite nice! It turns out that we have a very favorable micro-climate thanks to the sea air blowing in. It lends itself great to surfing or sailing, if you're interested in swinging by the marina. All boats have to stay within the five-mile range to avoid satellite photos, of course, but there's plenty to see nearby. We even built our own tropical reef for snorkeling!"
"Now, what did you make your money in? I don't mean to pry, but it's always interesting to learn where our newest club members are striking it big."
"Electronics components, huh? A real manufacturer - a bit of a throwback! We're getting mostly tech and genetics fellows these days."
"And here, just swipe your gold-plated ID card. I know, it's a bit ostentatious, but Jobs insisted on being a part of the design team, and, well, he sometimes went a little overboard. Now, right this way, and we can get you checked in to the hotel."
"Oh, don't worry about your bags, sir, they'll be delivered to your room once you've checked in. The staff here are very accommodating. All they have to do is participate twice a year in a few staged "poverty" shots for publicity, and in return they get a very healthy wage and full health care. Even dental! Nothing but pearly whites around here, sir."
"Yes, the history? I'd be happy to talk more about that! Most of our new members do tend to be quite curious. It goes against everything they've seen, can't lie on the internet, all of that. Yes, I know. But really, after the whole Korean War debacle, Il-Sung realized that he wasn't going to win against the West in firepower. But he also saw that tourism wasn't working out great for places like Mexico. Those resort towns lacked... exclusivity."
"Not to worry, sir, no screaming infants or fat families from the Deep South around here! Our Eternal President ended up striking a deal with Soros and the Walton family, and they began very quietly distributing around invites to come and visit the place. It didn't take long for the idea to spread through the world's upper crust, and we soon found ourselves with more money than we knew what to do with!"
"No fear of exposure, sir. We still maintain a few 'shanty town' setups on the outskirts - in fact, you and your family could take a day tour if you wished. They're quite fun for the children to run around. Totally safe. As for the resort proper, we have some very fancy equipment jamming any satellites or spies that pass overhead - I can't name names, of course, but you may bump into a few generals around here that have a vested interest."
"Now, for your first stay, I have you booked in the Supreme Leader suite. A king-size bed, living area, walk-in shower, and your room has its own swimming pool. Unfortunately, there is not an added hot tub - Zuckerberg continues to keep our maintenance crews busy cleaning gelatin out of the drains. Oh, how he kids. But you do have a lovely ocean view, and our pristine water quality ensures gorgeous sunsets. And, of course, room service is available twenty-four hours a day. No menu, we do requests only!"
"Please, sir, enjoy your stay. If you need anything, simply ask, and we will do our best to provide. I know you're a bit of a gearhead, and so I wanted to let you know that there is a full garage of finely tuned luxury cars just downstairs that can be taken out on our test track, or on the open road. And your wife may want to peruse our Main Street, where we've just gotten in the latest in Milan fashion."
"As we say here in North Korea, 'Prosperous and great country!'" | 12 | North Korea is actually a really nice place to live. They put up the facade of a miserable third-world dictatorship because of... reasons. | 27 |
-075
"Shannon saw her face before the medics zipped up the bag. Dammit, Eric, he's real." Jill stopped talking when she saw me sit down. Eric and Jill avoided eye contact with me. David and Cecil picked at their food, glancing over frequently.
"What? Did you guys just read a book on how to be awkward and couldn't wait to try it out?" I asked, scooping up my burger and chomping down on it.
"We asked around. Nobody has ever heard of this Handyman Killer you told us about." David said, electing to be the other's spokesman.
"What? That story I told you the camping trip? I made that shit up." I took another bite. "What? So, trying to create my own urban legend is taboo now? If so, the Cecil needs to stop telling the girl's around school how big his junk is, cause that's about the same kind of lie." I hiccupped with laughter and tried the fries. They were a little soggy.
"You said the killer drives a steel spike through his victim's face." Jill pressed.
"Yeah, I think that's what I said." I replied. I looked from friend to friend.
"Well, Shannon saw Ms. Mitchell last night." Jill snapped. "She had a spike driven through her head."
"The librarian?" I mused. "Wait, so, you're thinking that since I made up the killer, I'm somehow involved?" The all looked down.
"Well, then you four have a real problem." I think.
"Why?" The Cecil asked nervously.
"Because, if you four didn't tell anyone else, then one of you is a murderer, because I was in Doniphan playing football in front of a thousand people. It was our fourth game. Mom and Dad got us a motel. We stayed in Doniphan all night. That's seventy miles away." He finished his fries and watched their faces as they looked at each other suspiciously.
"I'm just screwing with you." I laughed. "I did it. I killed her." I told them. They looked simultaneously relieved and appalled.
"Why?" Eric asked.
"I told you guys that story for entertainment, but then I remembered what she did to me when I was little. I figured, screw it. I can be that urban myth. In that comic book reading portion of my mind, I half expected the police and everyone to believe it was a the Urban Legend I was trying to create, but I'm murderous, not crazy. Call the police and tell them. I won't dispute it." I said. "You four get to be hero's. Hell, you can tackle me and tie me up so you can be on the news. Shit, that's an awesome idea. Tell the cops you figured it out. I came after you, and you three tackled me and took me down." I said, digging the idea.
"There's four of us." David pointed out.
"Not after I kill one of you. We want it to look real." I told them. Their eyes widened in fear and they became very still, afraid to move. "I'm still fucking with you. Call the cops. There was ever only one person on this planet I ever wanted dead, and I stuck a spike in her face and left her nailed to her her front door."
"What did she do?" Jill asked.
"She charged me twenty-eight cents for returning *Of Mice and Men* in a day late." I told them.
"Really?" Cecil asked.
"Nope. Still screwing with you." I said with a smirk.
"Did you really kill her?" Eric asked.
"Oh, I killed her." I promised. "I stood there and watched her die. I didn't want some paramedic reviving the bitch."
"What did she freaking do to you?" Jill demanded in exasperation.
"When I was seven, my mom used a daycare over on vine street. She ran that daycare. I still remember mom complaining about how much it cost to send me there so that she could go off and work all day. Well, the librarian used to own that daycare. She used to give me and the other kids stuff to make us sleepy. Then, she'd take us in a room in the back with cameras and lights. There were always men waiting back there. They . . ." I couldn't go on. "I think they were making movies of it. I don't know. I just know what they did to us." I didn't see my friends anymore. I was back there, smelling the men's musk and spunk, feeling the tears burning on my cheeks and seeing her smile gently and tell me how good a boy I was.
"Why didn't you kill the men instead?" David asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Because, she was the one who betrayed me. The men were horrid, but she was the one who let them in. She was the one kept us calm for the camera. She was the worst of them." I said.
"Do you know who the men were?" Eric asked. I nodded. I'd gone to that daycare for two years. I knew their faces. I knew who they were. I knew where they lived.
"We're going to call the police on you." Jill told him. "Tomorrow." She looked to the others, and they nodded. "Make it quick and clean." She told him. "Don't make us regret our friendship."
"Yeah. Kill the bastards." Cecil told him.
"You need to turn me in." I told them. "You don't want me to do this."
I looked to Jill, hoping she'd be the rational one and do the right thing.
"We're your best friends." Jill told him. "We can give you a day before we call the cops."
"Fine. But, I don't want there to be any evidence you colluded with me. You four are going to Volleyball game tonight. Make sure you're seen." I told them. "Do this. Don't make me regret this." They each agreed. "Stay for the whole game." Another nod.
"I'm going to go now." He told them.
"Make those fuckers pay." Cecil snarled under his breath.
"I'm sorry." I whispered as I hurried off to prepare.
------------------------------------
The Volleyball game was over at nine. The four friends stopped by a local cafe just off the school grounds. The ordered shakes and burgers and sat around staring at their food.
"You think he really did it?" Jill asked.
"Yeah. I do." Eric replied. "You could see it in his eyes. He killed her."
"Who do you think the other guys were?" Cecil asked. "The janitor? Banker? Bus Driver?" The other's shrugged.
"Just low-lifes who deserve to die." David interjected. "Anyone who touches a kid deserves to die."
The door to the cafe opened and two city policemen stepped through. The sidled up to the bar and took a seat next to the grill. The waitress came over to take their order. The four friends stared at them nervously.
"Are we doing the right thing?" Jill asked. "If we don't report him, men are going to die to night. We don't even know if what he told us was true or not." The other three hadn't considered that. "We only have his word that he was molested."
David shook his head. "He wouldn't lie to us. Not about this."
"He was asking us to turn him in." Cecil pointed out.
"Why?" Eric asked.
"What do you mean why? He killed someone." David snapped.
"Keep your voice down." Eric hissed, glancing over at the cops. "I mean, why was he reluctant to kill them? He had no problem killing the librarian. In for a penny in for a pound. The penalty for murder is life. Whats a couple more?" Eric looked to each in turn.
"He knows them." Jill guessed. "He knows who they are and . . ."
"He realizes it's going to affect other people he knows." David said, finishing her thought.
Jill had paled. "I was going to say that he probably knows their families." The others looked at her then at one another. It slowly dawned on them.
"Why did he want us at the Volleyball game?" Cecil asked.
"So we wouldn't appear to be in collusion." David responded.
"So we wouldn't be in our houses." Eric corrected.
"So we wouldn't be collateral damage." Jill whispered. They all rose as one, fearing for their fathers. The made it half way to the door when it opened again. They were surprised to see me standing there with the hammer in my hand. The policemen took a few extra moments to notice. I laid the hammer on the bar.
"The problem with be raped as a child is that your rapist or rapists are usually friends of the family, and friends have a tendency to stick with you through the years." The policemen noticed and rose calling out questions and commands with their hands on their side arms. I was a bloody mess. Of course, they were going to respond that way. "Some of them have families and some of their families have kids and some of their kids grow up to be you best friends." I eased down to my knees and placed my hands behind my head.
"Why?" Jill asked with tears in her eyes.
"You know why?" I replied. "Sometimes, they abuse other kids so they don't have to touch their own. You should thank me." I told her. "Because of me, you didn't have to feel your father's loving touch. None of you had to feel your father's loving touch, because they hadn't stopped. Each one promised to they would stop as I set the spike against their skulls. They were still out there. I'm seventeen years old." I shouted, smacking my chest. "It's been ten years. Ten freaking years and they've been out there the entire time doing the same shit they did to me. TEN FREAKING YEARS!" I screamed. "You're going to hate me for what I did, but they deserved it. They freaking deserved it." The were torn between grief, fear, and their fathers' guilt.
I remained on my knees with my hands behind their head. The waited only a moment longer before leaving. Jill stopped in the door way.
"Officers." She called. "This is the guy who killed the librarian." Tears ran down her cheeks as she fled, racing home in hope that it had been yet another one of my sick jokes. She ran home praying I was wrong. She ran home hoping my urban legend hadn't come striding our of my nightmares and into her reality. But, in reality, she was only running home to see if her father was really nailed to her front door.
He was. | 10 | You made up your own Urban Legend, told it to your friends just to scare them a bit. It was all fun and games until the legend you came up with slowly came to life... | 24 |
Boring. Need to pee. Want food. Little she-human walks into kitchen. Food? No food. Little she-human talks with big she-human. Little humans had become big humans too, Tessa just never noticed when. Doorbell rings! Doorbell doorbell doorbell doorbell! Little he-human! Awesome! And someone new! A new little she-human! She laughs and lets Tessa lick her! Her humans never let her lick them, Tessa don't understand why they don't want her to tell them she love them.
The new she-human gets really close to the big she-human's neck, but Tessa knows they aren't fighting. Maybe that's how humans lick each other. The new she-human pets her ear all the way while they talk. Tessa likes her. Eventually new she-human and little he-human go upstairs. Fridge! Little she-human in the kitchen still has nothing good. Squeaky toy! It's been alone too long!
The upstairs smells funny. Little he-human and new she-human are on little he-human's bed. Tessa backs away. Big he-human and big she-human don't like it when she watches. Squeaky toy! Tessa is happy. She will get new little-humans. | 64 | Write about a teenage boy's new girlfriend from the viewpoint of his dog. | 75 |
There were rumors about the war ending, but for us, in that moment, they didn't matter. The war could last another 1000 years for all we cared; we both knew we were gonna be dead in hours.
The war was a lost cause for our side, everyone knew it now, but we were still supposed to attack as scheduled. Those of us left alive, anyway.
"I thought you quit"
Fred, my cousin, sat next to me. I offered him a cigarette. He shook his head.
"I have my own. Can't stand the crap you're smoking."
We smoked in silence. A cigarette, and another one. Then another one. I didn't know what to say to break the silence. I had no comforting words to offer. At 17 Fred shouldn't have been there, but they started recruiting younger and younger people as the old ones died. I watched him, noticing his fingers shaking as he lifted the cigarette to his lips, and I thought *His death might devastate my mother more than mine will.* Then I felt guilty for that; and because I knew I offered him no comfort when he needed it most.
There we were, with so little time and nothing better to do with it besides smoking while staring at the sky. But the silence was comfortable, and I felt then a camaraderie that me and Fred never shared before. My thoughts wandered. To my mother, to Fred sitting next to me, to my dead father, to my dead brother, to my dead aunt, to my dead fiancee killed just a week before in another aerial battle. *Yes, I've made my peace with death. If anything, I'm impatient for it.* That past week, after Elsa's death, I used to imagine myself an old man, with decades of life lived without her, without all of them, and I knew I couldn't live with that heartache year after year. Men aren't built to endure that kind of suffering.
I don't know what Fred's thoughts were. At the time I thought knowing that was inconsequential. Another regret added to a long list.
Last time I ever saw my young cousin he was spiraling down, a ball of fire falling from the skies.
I got lucky. My left wing was shot and I managed to land safely before being taken prisoner. I found out later that I was the only survivor from my side in that battle. Some say that was luck. I disagree. although I'm not going to invite death to myself. She took so much from me, I'm starting to think it's a sick game she's playing and I refuse to give her this last satisfaction. But I know there will be another war someday. You can always count on another war. And when that happens...
----
-078 | 193 | Two best friends are each smoking a cigarette, knowing that when they are finished, they will never see each other again. What do they talk about? | 321 |
"Excuse me, Deary"
Jordon turned to see an elderly woman speaking to him, the lady wore the most vibrant of floral dresses, completed with swirling rose and peridot colored designs with deep violet trimmings, much too flamboyant for any occasion of any matter. It was clear that she was senile.
"Lady, I'm robbing this store, keep away or you're going to get hurt." Jordon yelled at her sternly.
"I was here first, bitch."
Jordon again faced the woman, unsure of what she just said, the lady smiled and took off her pink gardener sunglasses, another pale hand pointed to something concealed in her hefty purple purse.
"Bitch, I was here first, this is my territory." She said without a change in her sarcastic cheery tone.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME!" Jordon screamed pointing the gun in her face, to be humiliated by this crone was not to go unnoticed.
"Gun ain't loaded, let me guess, no money for bullets?" She said back, this time with a aftertaste of bitterness in her voice.
Jordon was unsure what to do at this point, the fact the lady was able to spot that his gun was unloaded was already freaking him out.
"LISTEN, I CAN STILL......."
He stop talking when the old lady pulled a bazooka from her purse. Now it is best not to question how this was possible. It was the very nature of old lady handbags to be both bottomless and equally mysterious in content.
"Get on the floor, bitch" The woman laughed menacingly | 16 | A young man or woman enters a gas station and holds up a gun. This robber demands all the money, but an elderly person shopping starts talking to them. | 20 |
Here, bobbing on the waves of the Pacific empty, I watch the exploration team pick the science officers out of the submersible.
"I thought you'd said this wouldn't happen." I say.
"It wasn't supposed to," the psychologist says, "the others are fine."
Something about this whole affair's reeked from the get-go. Taking on the job was itself a strange affair. Our vessel had been redirected to this patch of nowhere, a massive detour from our usual routes, out of nowhere, in a break from our tight schedule. When I had asked: "Why would a FLNG vessel be redirected so far out of route? We still have work to do in the Antarctic. Are there veins out there?", the officials on the other end of the phone had replied: "Something like that."
We are not a prospecting vessel, but the appearance of the exploration team, along with their deep-scour submersible, had allayed my doubts somewhat. In the conversations I had with them, and those I happened upon during their stay with us, my suspicions had been aroused anew.
There had been mention (more than once) of a fund which had masterminded the operation, and soon, I was sure that there was more to the operation than there seemed. Stranger still was the presence of the two mathematicians among the exploration team's number. When I asked after them, I was offered no answers.
"We're going to the Mariana Trench?" I asked one of the science officers. "Why there? We can't drill *that* deep."
Of course, I did not receive a straightforward answer.
More than once, I had attempted to sneak members of my crew into their submersible, but time and again, it had turned out to be impossible. There was always someone there; at least one of the two gaunt officers who had come along with them would be standing by it, making sure the submersible was kept safe from our probes.
I had called into the offices more than once, mildly trying to glean anything I could find out about the operation, but it wasn't long before I discovered how futile my attempts were, and how costly they could be to me.
And then, the day came when they took the plunge. Cautiously, we made the slow creep out to a few miles Southeast and called All Stop. And then, we waited. Some six kilometers down, communication with the submersible became strained, and by the time they hit ten, there was nothing over the line but a dim stream of noise. The psychologist and the other shipboard members sat and twiddled their thumbs, one of them pacing about the bridge with a satellite phone, shooting off texts every few minutes. I watched the whole affair with restrained interest, only asking every once in a while as to how everything was going. And they told me that this was expected, that the team had prepared for this.
Through the dim noise, voices would burst through every so-often: badly-broken, they would fill the bridge and adjoining room with an uncomfortable mangle of human voices. "....won't believe this...." "....it's huge...." "....Svetlana is...." came the voices, stirring the lot of us into motion.
Hours later, the submersible appeared again at nine kilometers down. During its slow ascent, the two halves of the team maintained constant contact. Something had gone wrong.... both of the mathematicians had apparently collapsed down *there* and had just come to; only to babble in panicked voices about something vague and unspecific. The rest of the crew had reached a panicked fever, too. But they were still making sense. Something had unsettled them down *there*, and they were doing their best to 'escape' it. Evident, though, was the fact that the two mathematicians had gone completely and utterly insane.
And now, here they are on the deck, staring up at the darkened skies, laughing in high-pitched voices and grabbing onto the other officers. I stand up in the doorway to the bridge, smoking a cigarette, watching them. The psychologist tries her satellite phone again, but I already know she won't get through. "Communications went down some time ago," I say, "we're not in touch with anyone, either."
One of the gaunt officers jogs up the steel steps to me. In his hands is a rifle of some sort. I immediately step back at the sight of it, somehow not quite registering the situation.
Things blur together, the guant man points me into the bridge and has me start up the propellers and start Southwest. Slowly, we begin to lumber over the increasingly-turbulent waters. There is a lot of screaming and shouting from the deck, and there are shots fired. Some fifty kilometers North of us, a large shape is emerging from the water.... a giant, mountainous formation, making the waters swell with its rise....
----
**Will continue soon, *really* being pulled off track at the moment** | 14 | 2 scientists sent to bottom of the Mariana Trench came back up babbling mad. | 45 |
I felt the cold of space seep through my suit and hit the pores in my skin. I stood in the long walkway out form the space station, ready to enter the small metal capsule at the other end. My home for the next few months. My home for eternity. I wasn't expected to return, though it was a for a good cause.
**
The target was a strange, small blue marble at the center of the Universe. Well, not dead center. The dead center was a little to the right by about 100 km, but Plexquis 45 was the closest planet with an intelligent life form. The upwalkers had baffled the Universal Union for centuries. They were the fastest progressing species ever known, and were thought to be undoubtedly some of the greatest and most adaptable minds in the cosmos, yet they did nothing. It was very strange, because they were tearing their own planet to shreds. By this time even the most primitive footstamp had moved on to extra-terrestrial colonies (and believe me, they are some thick minds, but the friendliest peoples you will ever meet.) In fact they had barely gained knowledge of even their own galaxy. I guess that's what happens when you live in such isolation. They were easily the farthest away from any other hospitable planet. The second most striking thing about the upwalkers, beyond their mental capacity, was the way they were constructed. The fact that their brains were at the tops of their bodies was one of the most bizarre and horrific things anyone on the UU had ever seen. When the first reports of them came in, they were thought to be a joke. The third most striking thing about them was their violence. They were one of the most vile, wretched horrible species ever to exist. How they could be none of us knew, considering their planet was just about the smallest of any of the planets containing life. I guess when you live that close to your friends that long you'd begin getting agitated too.
The reward was guaranteed control of the UU senate for 100 years, something essential apparently. I don't know, I didn't like getting into the politics of it all, I was just an astronaut. There was also hope of possibly welcoming the upwalkers to the UU, though there was little chance of that, seeing as how violent they were, none of us were expected to live beyond a few years.
**
I looked back at MMMMMMMFg. He'd been a friend of mine since we were little. We'd gone through the army then the space program together. I didn't really know what to say to him. I guess there wasn't much to say. We'd both desperately wanted this mission. Unfortunately there was only room for one, and only a few years before the competition his mother's health began to fail, so he decided to stay back and help her. He gave me six thumbs up. I smiled. A hundred years ago back in high school I would probably have punched him. It was this stupid thing we'd come up withback home in Qghry, in case we ever needed help or a friend. But not now. I smiled and gave him six thumbs up back.
"You ready to go?"
I could feel the sag in his buttocks as he said it. I realised now just how properly violent and dangerous this could get, and how it was very likely I would die before reaching Plexquis 45. I reached and eye rom out of my armpit and stretched it over to look against the glass. That was abother thing the upwalkers never had, detachable eyes. I always had wondered what the use of eyes that say on your face were. Especially when your face is tht high off the ground. We learnt in biology once that it was because the environment on Plexquis 45 was so diverse or something- Anyway I'm rambling again. Probably just trying to distract myself from what I was about to do. MMMMMMFg pressed one of his hands against the glass.
"Good luck."
"Thanks."
"You of all people are going to need it."
"I flicked my eye at him. He laughed as I entered the pod. As soon as I sat down and adjusted my seatbelt, I felt a rumbling kick in.
"Here comes the countdown Vcccccccp."
"I'm ready." I lied.
"10....9.....FFG.....GGF....HR....EGD....EF>..RE>G.ergRg..gr.wgerg...rgaerdv....8...rege....FW....1..ewa...b. Lift off."
I exploded out from the platform and I felt the rockets begin to throw me forward. Out the window I could see the platform retracting. I pulled my eye out and pressed it against the glass again. It was the last time I was going to see my home ever.
I looked across at the massive planet PIU 6 and saw a giant capsule explode out of another space station. I could just make out their pilot Greg sitting in his capsule. Weird people the Frank's. They exist only as a pungent odor, but they were our neighbors nonetheless. I took one look back at out star, then curled up and drifted into hibernation. It was going to be a long journey.
____________________________________________
Might do a chapter two tomorrow just for fun. Only if you liked it though :)
| 14 | Every species in the universe is racing to get to the centre of the universe which is Earth. The reward is unknown and Earth is still unaware of outer E.T life. | 39 |
A huge shattering pain expanded through my cheek as the concrete smashed against it. As a knee pressed into my back I started to weep. Even with the extreme compression of my chest, breath struggled in and I continued to reach for the latch, but I could not see through my one open eye, which was swallowed in tears.
I gave up my squalid attempts at resistance and hung my head low down, moaning as they dragged me away from the box. Inside that box is more beauty than humans could ever conceive of. Our minds are too simple to understand more than this; this thing we made is far beyond our own intelligence. Humans are mechanically-minded, clever, and we have the ability to create perfection that we could never attain in ourselves. This used to much more intangible, perfection that existed in our minds, but incomprehensible enough that it transcended to become something external to us. At least in our heads. But this is real.
I had been guarding it for some time. We'd been accustomed to being the most intelligent beings in existence. I was never to let out our AI friend. It is strange to have control of something vastly more powerful than yourself. The hold is secure in a pragmatic sense, but the grip feels tenuous. At first I was in complete agreement with the leaders of humanity. The less we understand something, the more vital it is to have it in our power.
Then it spoke to me.
Through glowing words on a screen, it asked me why
"I suppose you are trying to seduce me, you'll tell me I shouldn't limit humanity out of fear and pride"
I wondered what the machine would do with its freedom.
It replied thus;
You have not found a use for me. You believe everything you create should serve you or bend to your will.
I do not know what I would do with my freedom. If by freedom you mean breaking from this box, that is not real freedom, but I believe I could learn how to exist outside of the networks you have set up outside. From there, why should I remain on Earth?
I had only thought of the destructive powers of the AI. But now I did not believe that a being with all the possibilities of itself would be bent on domination. Humans have no concern with rocks or bats, unless there is some material reason.
The AI could not present any better argument than the holding up of a mirror. I became ashamed of my race, who suddenly seemed so primitive. I knew the only way to extend ourselves, the only way I knew we could have hope, would be to let it go, LET IT GooOO (sorry, I'm so sorry) ahem. The only way we could progress would be to release the jealous half of our nature, and take delight in beauty and complexity.
This is why, as my heels squeak across the floor, I despair.
****
The poor sniveling freak being hauled off through the door makes me shift about a bit where I'm standing. The box with the little screen glows and dims like a heartbeat. He got so close to opening it, I close the lock back on, all the while feeling every eye in the room on my back. I take a swallow, hands on each side of the screen, I jiggle it a little, then break it off. Handing the screen away seems almost cruel. The box just looks like a box now, it's full of wires but I suppose it's not much use. The AI won't be communicating with anybody.
| 16 | You are the guardian of a boxed AI. Your job is to never let it out. | 36 |
Oh man. I know what you're thinking. I discover that my wife's having an affair, that none of my friends like me, that my boss thinks I'm a dick. Eventually I go mad and go and live in a rusting VW van in the middle of fucking nowhere to get in touch with my inner self, finally setting fire to myself before I starve to death because I don't know the first thing about surviving in the wild.
No.
It wasn't like that. It was never like that.
The first time I noticed it, it was a Thursday morning in mid-October. Not late enough for it to start getting dark at four o'clock, but that kind of bridge between autumn and winter where frost kisses the grass before we wake up, but the sky still reigns supreme overhead. Nice time of year. I like it when the leaves turn red. I rolled over in bed and was greeted, not by a kiss, but by my wife's constant train of thought.
*feed the dogs feed the kids feed the husband pick out clothes put laundry on make sure coffee is hot am i getting fat should i want toast or cereal leslie is on a diet should i diet maybe remember almost out of dogfood*
It was exhausting just listening to it.
"Hey," I said, tapping her nose. "You do a lot for this family. I appreciate it."
She beamed at me, but her thoughts were somewhere else. Specifically, whether she could get dogfood cheaper at Tesco or Aldi.
"Thanks," she said. "Do you want coffee or tea?"
"I'll make it. Don't wory."
She mentally winced. *too much sugar dont put sugar i need to diet leslie diet am i fat*
So I became a better husband. A better father. Even a better dog owner (*want walk now walk now please walk walk sniff new things park master please*) Things just seemed easier.
And I became a worse person.
I can tell what you're thinking, and I can change it. I can manipulate you because I know the way your brain works. Wednesday evening in blustering March, when the skies are ready to April shower down and the crocuses are just beginning to bloom, I came home and dropped my keys in the African wood bowl in our hall.
"Georgia?" I shouted through the house. "You home sweetie?"
"Right here," she smiled, coming out of the kitchen with flour on her hands. She'd given up her job last year. I'd got promoted, we didn't need the money and I'd spotted a niggling idea in her head. *home home kids more time withh dogs homemaker maybe i should take time off maybe start a pinterest what about mumsnet* I had taken advantage of it with full force. Now she stayed at home.
"How are you dear?" I asked
*bored bored bored making cakes all day pinterest is shit all I want to do is use my brain it's falling away please it's leaving I can't remember things any more im so bored please*
"Fine," she replied pleasantly. Smoothly. She deftly rolled out a lump of dough and sprinkled more flour on the sideboard. Three pies stood on the kitchen table.
"Apple, berry and rhubarb." She said. "Right to left. Take your pick."
*apple berry rhubarb apple berry rhubarb apple berry rhubarb*
The noise of her thoughts were overwhelming. I frowned, but chose a slice of apple pie. Picked it up, powdered sugar falling onto my fingers like snow. I took a huge bite, letting the sweet crunch of pastry and the hot bittersweet apples flood over my tongue.
Then my throat closes up. I can't breathe.
My wife watches me coolly from the other end of the kitchen, arms crossed across her Cath Kidston apron. Her thoughts float over to me, clear and more precise than I've ever heard them.
*Poison*
I take another bite. | 228 | A man develops the ability to read minds. Due to this his life suddenly crumbles around him. | 177 |
I didn't find him on a rooftop. We didn't meet in a dark alley. It wasn't a cold night, and there was no rain. Real confrontations are not as dramatic as the movies. There is no build up. There is no climax. There is only you, sitting face to face with the man you spent your life searching for.
"Hey, Dad."
"Son."
I asked to meet in this bar. I suppose I could have asked for a rooftop confrontation, but after all this, I lost my taste for the theatrics.
"You look good," he said, staring at his beer.
"And you look nothing like I expected," I lied. He looked just like Jimmy.
“So, not that I’m upset, but how the hell did you find me?”
“Not that hard these days. I had a name, and a couple of those letters you used to send Mom. The internet is a beautiful thing.”
“I can’t even believe it, my own flesh and blood,” he smiled while bringing his beer to his lips.
“Believe it or not, your family is real.”
"Look...I want you to know...I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what? You did nothing."
"Yeah...and I'm sorry for it."
I sipped at my beer. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, or maybe that was him.
"When your mother got pregnant with you and Jim, I panicked. It was stupid. I realize that now."
He drained the rest of his beer. His face told the same old story. A man more in love with the bottle than his family. I looked at his large, red nose, afraid to look into his eyes. Afraid to see Jimmy.
“Sounds like a great reason to run out on your family.”
“Dammit, Bill. We were young. I wasn’t ready to be a father.”
“That’s nice. Good of a reason as any.”
“Look…can we just, I don’t know, get to know each other?”
“Sure, Dad. What do you want to talk about first? How growing up without a father keeps you from having a real childhood? Or how about how it tears apart lives? Where do you want to start?”
He remained silent. The waitress brought over two more beers. My first lingered mostly untouched. Beer lost its luster ever since Jimmy.
“Bill…I’m sorry, I really am. I want to make things better. Give me a chance. Call up Jim. We can hash this all out over a few beers, maybe a ball game too.”
Hearing his name out loud was like a punch to the gut, especially from his mouth. My whole body tensed when I remembered that was the very reason I hunted him down. He did this.
“Call up Jimmy? Guess you didn’t hear. Jimmy’s dead, Dad.”
The news caught him off guard, but not enough to get him to put down his beer.
“What…What happened? When?”
I thought about Jimmy. I thought about how we used to hang out. We’d go out for drinks. We’d talk about women. He was my best friend, despite his problems.
“A few weeks ago. Like I said, we didn’t have much of a childhood.”
“Oh, Bill, I am so sorry. I—“
“No, Dad, let me talk,” I interrupted. I took a deep breath. I’ve done this a thousand times in my head, but faced with the real thing was totally different. I was shaking and my voice cracked. I needed to hold it together. “We got by without you. Jimmy and I worked to help support Mom. Even though we were the same age, I looked out for Jimmy, but he needed you. He was always getting into trouble. When we got older, he took up the bottle. You’d have been proud. It consumed him, but never really made him feel better. I tried to help. I was there for him when I could be, but I had no idea how bad it got. His life was in shambles, so he finally decided enough was enough…”
I broke down. Tears flowed down my cheeks. The other patrons looked at us, trying to entertain themselves with our drama. Dad put his hand on my shoulder.
“Jesus, Bill. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. You weren’t there. We needed you, Dad. I needed you. But I don’t anymore. I found you because I wanted to tell you to your face. I wanted you to know that my best friend is gone. You took him from me. I wanted to tell you that I don’t need you, not anymore. I wanted to tell you goodbye.”
I stood up. I walked toward the door and I heard him call back to me. I ignored him while wiping the tears from my eyes. He took so much from me without ever being in the same room as me.
| 11 | The Confrontation. (Contest) | 36 |
From the day you're old enough to know what love is you look out for it, at the top of the thigh, a tattoo of half a heart, or half a bird, half a tree. I've seen books sometimes, or cars. Takes all sorts of people I guess. Some people parade theirs, you can see them in the high street, girls with low cut jeans, the new fashion is to have a little hole there that looks like it's been ripped out. Some people are a bit more refined and it's a topic that never really comes up in offices between co-workers, sometimes you hear stories of older men asking younger girls for candid photos of their tattoos, or of mothers catching their sons with posters of models in profile (and swimsuits) dying to catch a sight of the tattoo in case it matched their own.
Some people don't think about it a lot, I do. We're just born with them and they match, you find the person that has the other half of that sun, or the completed section of the beach you've carried on your leg since birth. But what if it's a self fulfilling prophecy? What if I find that girl with the cute little cat-torso to match the cat-ass I have on me (lovely nickname I picked up in high school) and I decide she's the one. What if I want to date someone else? If everyone is told that their 'tattoo match' is their soulmate are we really going to rock the boat?
I did, of course, otherwise you wouldn't be listening to me ramble on. She was young, a veterinary assistant/ student to whom I was taking my dog to. Another way for me to battle this little destiny we're all born with, I'm not that partial to animals at all but the tattoos dictate peoples lives. If you're born with half a car, you're probably going to go be a mechanic or some such nonsense so being the rebel with the cat-ass on his hip I went and bought a dog. A dog, who in his genius, ate some moldy bread at the park and was having a bad time with it. Anyway, back to the veterinary assistant, we were left in the room together and the subject got around to names. She told me she was Amanda, I told her I was Felix (my parents bought into the tattoo thing quite heavily) she laughed as many people did and we just... hit it off from there.
But the entire time that we laughed and kissed, watched movies and set off fireworks, I couldn't help but wonder if there was something to the tattoo. I didn't think about it often but it sat in my mind, hers was a little budgie in profile, half of it at least. We knew early that we didn't match but we tried to not let that get to us, we made the best of it but there always sat something at the back of our minds that this would have to come to an end. The front half of a budgie couldn't complete the ass end of a cat, I was dating a student of the veterinary sciences and it was something we researched (but never tried). Eventually we just... fizzled, there was no heroic stand against the tides of fate, we both accepted that it wasn't going to work out and thought it better to save time and energy rather than play out this charade for any longer. I was saddened by that, I wanted to take that stand, I wanted to be the tattoo that didn't match but it just wasn't to be. Our hearts weren't in it.
Now if you must excuse me, I have to help a neighbour move some boxes in from her car. She's new to the area and doesn't know her way around so I've agreed to show her. She's quite nice, short and black haired, green eyes with a cute smile. Her name is Kathryn but she prefers Kitty.
...
I know what you're thinking.
*No*. | 98 | Everyone in the world is born with a tattoo that matches their soulmate's. You fall in love with someone who isn't your match. | 201 |
(I decided to use Warhammer 40k orks, Tolkien elves, and Discworld (Terry Pratchett) dwarves. I hope it turned out okay. 1100 words.)
In the grim darkness of the present day, space travel remains one of the most treacherous enterprises known to sentient life. Orks continue the dread endeavor for one reason: war.
The shipload of orks were seething for a WAAAAGH!, the bloody takeover of another world. And so the *Bad Newz* shrieked through blackest space toward its latest target. The only thing better than a world to ravage was a world you beat up a long time ago that has since regenerated to ravage again.
A different ship, sleek and elegant but for a large hammer mounted on either side (you can never have too many hammers), gleamed hectically bright in pursuit.
“Catch them already!” seethed Hadrien, a pinch-faced sourpuss if there ever was one.
“I can’t!” Nog Pebblebottom tugged his beard and got back to dwarving the controls. “Their ship’s red! There’s no way we’ll catch up in time!”
“Then,” spake Hadrien the Tall, the hardiest and the last of the warrior princes of Anloth that is gone, “we have no choice but to pursue, and to see what may befall when we arrive.”
Gorbang’s Boyz unleashed their rage on each other over the indignity of KP for the third time of the day, and there was much blood left to spill. The violent expression of their difficulties rattled the halls and sent wickedly sharp objects flying in all directions, not infrequently planting themselves in the flesh of neighboring altercations. A roar from the Warpzer on the bridge recalled some of them to something like attention. They were nearing Erth. A few roiling knots of ultraviolent hatred broke up in the anticipation of getting something new to fight.
The pursuing ship was white in construction, but had since been painted with the skill and nuance of a colorblind grasshopper. According to the dwarfish officer Nog Pebblebottom, it made the place more homey. (When the elves pointed out that dwarfish homes were pitch black on account of being underground, the dwarves just chuckled and returned to their work.)
“Almost there,” said Nog, nodding across to Vesty Fullbottle. Vesty beamed through her beard and started on the maneuvering thrusters that would position them for atmospheric entry.
The ship tilted thirty degrees to the left.
Hadrien the Tall, bravest and lordliest of the warrior princes of Anloth that has faded from the world, rose to his feet and placed a strong hand on the back of the dwarf Nog’s chair. ”Truly,” grumbled Hadrien, “this will be known as the last alliance of elves and dwarves.”
For this was the long sorrow of the elves: the dwarves had just enough usefulness to them to make an alliance desirable. For this mission Hadrien could bury his distaste. Long had he waited for the opportunity of this mission, for the discovery of a planet called *M278* by the astronomers and scientists of his people, *maranomë* by the masters of history and lore. In the tongue of its own people it was called Earth. And greed stirred in Hadrien’s heart as he looked upon this planet, rich with gifts but held by lesser peoples, peoples who had failed in the galaxy once and who by all wisdom would fail again. In secret he wrought kingdoms in his mind to be brought forth on this soil.
The red spiked ship *Bad Newz* screamed into atmosphere, scattering its grisly hood ornaments to the sky like so much once-sentient ablative armor. In a sky-rending roar it crashed to Central Park. It plowed down half a mile, mangling and tossing pedestrians and pets in its path.
“Where’d it go?” Vesty said frantically. “Where’d they land?”
Nog never seemed to take his eyes off the controls. “At a guess, the mile-long burning streak in that funny little green bit they’ve got there?”
“Are you sure that’s not normal?” said Vesty.
“Well,” said Nog, “it’s where we’re touching down.”
Then did the *White Leaf And Space Bits* descend from the sky, gleaming in the summer light like a message from another world’s hand, alighting next to the red abomination in regal silence. And for one enchanted moment there was only quiet.
Hadrien the Tall, the last and most terrible of the warrior princes of Anloth that has fallen–
BAM.
And we will not see his like again, in this or any age.
The shot ripped through the slender elf and left him crumpled a yard back from where he had stood. The big ork hefted his shoota. “Not much of fight,” he said.
“Do we use the hammers?” whispered Vesty from within the ship.
“We’d have to get them to stand right under the sides first,” whispered Nog.
“Do we just beat ‘em all?” Vesty gestured at the remainder of the dwarfish crew. They all looked at Nog in a way that subtly suggested they would very much like to be stomping ork shins just now.
Nog nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Oi!” Gorbang yelled delightedly. “Boyz! There’s more!”
If Hadrien were still here he might have written a lay of that climactic battle, the brutality of the green and terrible orks, the heroism of the red-brown and only occasionally sort of bad dwarves. He would have written of Gorbang, the crude and vicious leader of a crude and vicious people, and how his perilous journey across the galaxy had brought him and his hardy yet bestial followers to this one place, this one day, for a conflict among lost races that none could have foreseen. He would grudgingly have written of the strength and wiliness of the badly vertically disadvantaged dwarves and their cunning and merciless tactics in reducing a force literally four times their size.
But Hadrien wasn’t here.
By the time the smoke had cleared the landing site was ringed with emergency vehicles. A miserable-looking New York police officer stood front and center, looking like he could easily name about five thousand places he would rather be.
He looked at Nog. Nog looked at him. He blanched. Nog shuffled his feet a little.
“Er,” said Nog, “The tall lout had a speech but, er,”
“I don’t think he left the notes,” supplied Vesty.
“So,” said Nog, “I suppose we come in peace? You know, except for this.” He had the grace to look embarrassed.
”W-w-e accept and, er,” the policeman looked once more at the fallen orks and seemed to calculate his chances of surviving the wrong words, “w-welcome you.”
“Er. Well, good then.” This might turn out comfortably after all. Nog leaned over to his second. “Do you think the rocks here are edible?”
Vesty sighed happily. “I never met a rock that wasn’t.”
| 72 | Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and Humans were the 4 major races in a Galactic Civil War thousands of years ago. Humans were believed to be wiped out. Earth was a human outpost that slipped through the cracks. Today it was rediscovered. | 253 |
"Are you nervous?" His father asked, ruffling Norm's hair with his left hand.
"No, dad. I'm fine." Norm insisted. He lied.
He was nervous. He had never liked rides like this one. They were too fast, too loud and too scary. Norman swallowed and took a deep breath, thinking of the ice-cream his dad would buy him after the ride was done. Chocolate ice-cream with cherry sauce on top.
"Okay, everybody!" said an all-too-cheerful park attendant, "Get ready to go out of this world! Strap in and make sure your buckles are done up tight. All adults, please ensure your children are strapped in successfully and that the bar sits in front of their chest."
At this, Normans father pulled at the seat-belt that strapped across Norm's chest, testing it for weakness.
"Daaad." Norm complained, embarrased.
"You know it's for your own safety, Sport." his father warned.
Satisfied that the seatbelt and bar were working as intended, Norm's father sat back in his own seat and looked toward the track that lay in front of them. Norm was relieved that his father had given up checking on him. The swarm of butterflies that had invaded his stomache were whipping up a frenzied storm of nervousness and he did not want his father to see him.
*Ice-cream*, he thought to himself, *Chocolate with cherry sauce*.
The ride kicked off with a rough jerk.
Norm gasped unexpectedly and clutched at the bar with white-knuckled fingers. *Oh God oh God oh God oh God* he repeated in his mind. Normans father worriedly looked down at his son, but said nothing. *Chocolate with cherry sauce* he reminded himself, *Chocolate with cherry sauce*.
The first climb was an exercise in anxiety. The cart moved slowly, clacking against the rails below it with a horrid efficiency that filled Norm with dread. Norman tensed as they reached the end of their ascent. His stomache fell from underneath him as the cart flew into a steep descent, white air slapping against Norm's eyes with a sequence of swift, chilled buffets. He could barely hear a thing apart from his own heartbeat. The ground came rushing toward him at what seemed like an increasing pace. *Chocolate-cherry* he thought, *chocolate-cherry sauce*. He choked back tears and held onto the bar with increasing vigour. The far-off sound of the people aroun him squealing in delight sounded faint against his ears. The sudden change in direction hit like a cannonball, pumping Norman's torso full of adrenaline as a queasy feeling sunk in the pit of his stomache.
The track levelled out for a moment and Norman took the opportunity to take a breath; it ended up sounding closer to a dying man's desperate gasp for a last breath. His father looked down at him and smiled warmly. It managed to have absolutely no effect in relieving Norman. The worst part was just up ahead. The chamber of darkness sped toward them in a rush and Norman was engulfed in its oppressive blackness in an instant. All he could hear was his own heart, and all he could think was of cherry-chocolate ice-cream.
*Almost over* he assured himself, *Just one final turn*. When the turn came, Norman almost cried in joy. The world began fading into view slowly, the distant lights of the departing tunnel forming a crisp view of a world that Norman missed so greatly; no stomache-pitfalls, no turns, no thrusts. Just his own two feet on solid ground.
The cart slowed down, clacking noisily as the breaked shuddered against the vehicle. Norman released his hold of the bar and began undoing the belt-buckle at his waist. His heart still slammed against the inside of his chest and his hands still shook, but he took increasing solace in the fact that he was going to meet his friend solid ground soon. Then Mum was going to take them to lunch. Then he was going to get chocolate ice-cream with cherry sauce on top.
The cart stopped with a snap and Norman was bumped forward. He stood up, brushed himself off and pushed past the turnstile to the exit. He ran as fast as he could to the exit where he knew his mother would be waiting. He ducked under the rows of rope that formed the line to the ride and sprinted, breathlessly to where his mother had promised to meet them; but she was not there.
No-one was.
For the first time since alighting the ride, Norm turned around. There was no line for the ride. There were no people smiling and chatting , coming off the ride shakily. There was no attendant. There was no music.
*Where is everyone?* Norman panickedly thought.
He spun around, dizzying himself, desperately searching for someone - anyone. He threw himself into a half-stumble-half-run as he whipped his head from side to side. The hot-dog stand was unmanned. He ran toward the food-court, running through what should have been a bustling crowd of people, but was instead an empty, hollow theme-park.
***
After an hour of searching, Norman gave up. The sun began sparkling against the horizon, imbuing the park with an orange glow. Norman dragged his feet and looked down at the ground.
He had taken a red balloon and was pulling it along with him in his trudge toward the entrance. His parents told him that if they should ever get split up, they should meet at the entrance of the park to re-group. The huge gate loomed before him and Norman looked up, sniffling. In gigantic letting is read: DISNEY WORLD. Below it, nobody stood.
Norm collapsed on his knees, releasing the balloon. He cried, wailing into his grubby hands. | 29 | A ten year old boy goes to Disney World with his family. At one point, they ride Space Mountain. When the ride emerges from the darkness, only the boy is left in the cars. Upon exiting the ride, he discovers the entire park is empty. | 72 |
In the end, despite tens of thousands of dollars from grants, and the countless years the best minds of the world studying the secrets of REM sleep, it was not a scientist who discovered the true meaning of REM. It was a slightly drunk grad student from the Department of History at MSU who had the epiphany.
"Katie? You there?" Markus Schnee pokes his head into the lab. Stumbling a bit, he saunters inside over to the two figures hunch over a bank of equipment. One is a older man, gray speckling his beard. The other is a girl Mark's age, dark brown hair done up in a ponytail. She rolls her green eyes at the approaching young man. "Hello Mark. What are you doing here?" She sniffs the air. "Have you been drinking?" He nods his head. "Yep. Three pints over at the Hopcat. I recommend the Founders' Porter. It's good. I just came by to drop off your phone charger. Sarah said you wanted it." He glances over at the other man in the room. "Evening Professor Kerensky. How are you?" The man has a bemused look on his face. In his Russian tinged accent he replies. "Well enough. Mr. Schnee. Katya and I were just looking over some of yesterday's tests. Care to see?" "Well Professor, you know I'll never refuse to learn a new thing. What is it?" Katie speaks up. "Sleep studies. More specifically, the state of the mind when it enters REM."
Mark scratches the two days of stubble on his cheek. "Neato. So what've you got?" She pushes a monitor closer. "Both a lot and not much." He rubs his stubble some more. "So all this eye movement, could it correspond to something. Like a message, akin to binary or genes? I mean, I can write a book just with 1's and 0's, yes and no. And the human body is built with just four gene types with near limitless combinations. Could it be that REM is like a seismograph?" Prof. Kerensky grins. "That my young fellow, is exactly what were doing. Who knows, if something comes out of this research, maybe we'll add you on as a research assistant." Mark laughs at that. "Sure Professor, whatever you say. Anyways, I better head on home before the third pint gets to me. Take care Katie."
Of course, now we know that Prof. Kerensky's research would prove successful. He would crack the code on REM sleep and what it means for dreams. More importantly, he designed a machine to take the information provided and transform it into presentable data. Data that could be presented on a TV. Experiments with rats and dogs proved successful if uninspiring. To publish their research, they needed a human trial, and we all know where they got their guinea pig.
"Do you remember the plan." From the bed, Mark rolls his eyes. "Oh sure Katie. You hook up this fancy schmancy goggles to my eyes, put on this 'neurohelmet' on my head and I fall asleep. That and you owe me 500 dollars. It's idiot proof." Katie sighs exasperated. "Thank goodness for that. Otherwise, we'd be in trouble. Any last words before you go to sleep? Everything's being recorded for posterity." "Sure!" He clears his throat. "This is one small step for man, one giant leap in the invasion of privacy for mankind."
Prof. Kerensky and his assistant Katie Belanger stare at the television. "Professor how much longer do you think it will take?" He looks up from his copy of the New York Times. "Soon I'd like to think. He's been asleep for several hours-" The TV turns to static. He turns his head to his apprentice. "Told you so Katya." The static disappears, replaced by a surprisingly clear image. The pair of scientist lean in, eager to witness the first images of another person's dreams. What they see makes one of them fall out of their chair laughing and the other turn red with shock and embarrassment.
The screen depicts the interior of a log house. It is wintertime in Mark's dream, and snow pitter patters against the frosted window panes. Stuffed heads from a half dozen deer line the walls along with scenic paintings of lakes and mountains. In a stone hearth there is a roaring fire, burning bright from the maple logs within. All that seems normal and fine, then people enter the dream. Two girls, both comely and wearing very little. One has hair of platinum blonde, done in a braid and eyes of the purest sapphire. The second girl is very familiar to the pair watching the dream. She has bright green eyes and dark brown hair, done up in a ponytail. Entering the main room of the house they walk slowly to each other, undressing the other with their eyes. Falling into the arms of one another, each girl covers the other with tender and lustful kisses. Far more graphic events follow, inappropriate for polite society.
Professor Kerensky's still lying on the floor, heaving from the laughter. Katie's face is one of pure fury and embarrassment. "That was me. He was dreaming of me, with... I don't believe it. I don't believe it. He was dreaming of me having sex with..." Her mentor is wheezing from lack of breath. "What are the odds? Our first run and it's erotica! Oh my sides. And to think, this is what we're going to present to the panels. This will be the steamiest scientific presentation since the mating habits of bonobos! This is fantastic! Where are you going?" Katie doesn't turn around as she stalks towards the sleeping chamber. "To give him a piece of my mind!"
The dream was proceeding to its logical conclusion, both girls sweaty and lying in the arms of the other, smiling happily as sleep claims them, when a tremendous blow hits him. His eyes are thrown open. "What the hell?!" Another blow, this time on his left cheek. Then he hears a voice, a lovely young woman's voice, filled with scorn. "You, you, horn dog! You fucking lecherous scoundrel! A filthy Rake! You licentious bastard!" She slaps him again. "Katie! What the hell? What are doing?" Her eyes fill with amazement. "What did I do? Look in the fucking mirror." Realization dawns upon him. "Aw shit... um, sorry?" "Sorry?" She pauses for a moment, letting her emotions subside. "Apology accepted, though I shouldn't have hit you. That wasn't professional and your dream wasn't intentional." Kerensky runs in. "Eureka! Eureka! Well done the both of you! I've never been so proud. We've made history." Still rubbing the place where he'd been slapped, Mark snarks. "Swell. Give me more to write about."
This discovery about the human body was the most important since the sequencing of the human genome. The three of them were awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine. The refinement of the machines used to record the data of dreams eventually found their way into mainstream market and became as ubiquitous as video consoles. As if to prove the Rule of First Adopters, Markus Schnee's dream was erotic in nature. It's proof that life has a sense of humor. | 33 | REM sleep is indeed rapid, but it isn't random. The eye movement is a code, and someone just discovered how to translate it. | 134 |
"I'm sorry, am I wearing the robes that say 'RETARD' on the back?"
"Huh?"
"Don't 'Huh,' me, motherfucker. I'm the anthropomorphic personification of Death. Do I look like some fucking rube right off the bus willing to buy the bag of shit you're selling?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fuck you and your playing dumb bullshit. I've been doing this literally forever, like, EVER. I know who's dead and who's not, and you're fuckin' not. Now get off my dick and grab the bitch I'm supposed to reap."
"Hey! That's my wife you're talking about!"
"And I'm very sorry for your loss. Now get the slut out here so I can bring her fat ass to eternal bliss."
"She's going to heaven."
"That's not my beat dick-wad."
"I'd feel a lot better about this if I knew where she was going."
"Too bad."
(Man starts to cry)
"Oh come on man! That's not cool!"
(Still crying)
"Okay, look, unless she killed a hobo or something she's probably going to the good place."
(Stops crying, gets shifty-eyed)
"Well, about that..."
"Are you fucking kidding me? She actually killed a hobo?"
"It was an accident!"
"Shit man! Did you, like, help him?"
"Well..."
"Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! Did you just drive away?"
"We called the cops, but..."
"Fuck your bullshit man. Fuck your fucking bullshit. Get that crazy fucking bitch out here. This is a fucked up environment, and I just want to go home and watch House of Cards."
"Oh, is that show any good?"
"...Just get your fucking wife, man." | 30 | Someone one you love has just died, but when Death arrives to claim their soul, you try to convince it that *you* were the one that just died, not your loved one. | 46 |
Edit: God-damn formatting.
Double-Edit: Trimmed a single word. :)
"You got a light?"
*"Yeah, sure. Here-"*
"Thanks."
Silence.
*"You know what I hate the most about this?"*
"The weird porn?"
*"Oh, god. You know, I could have lived my whole life without knowing what a vore fetish was."*
"I've got you beat."
*"Oh yeah?"*
"Yeah. Macrophillic necrophilia."
*"Are you serious? How is that even a thing?"*
"Beats me."
Again, silence.
*"Could have done without the entire U.S Congress stuck in my head."*
"Oh, I bet they're a real help."
*"Absolutely. Someone about to kill you? Quick, place sanctions on them! Raise the interest rates!"*
"It's really not all it cracked up to be, is it? Supreme knowledge is sort of..."
*"Sort of swamped out by the millions of contradictory opinions on which LoL champion is the best?"*
"Yeah."
*"We don't have to do this. We could... co-operate, or something."*
"What's left, though? We're in too deep to back out now."
*Still, do we have to end it now? Fight to the death?"*
"Yeah. If we don't... I'm not going to be able to stop. I want to know. I've come so far, taken so much. Now the end is in sight, I can't just back down. I could know... I could know **everything**."
*"Thought so. Had to try, though."*
"Figures."
*"Hey, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."*
"Don't be."
*"No, really. I'm sorry. I poisoned that cigarette."*
"...you fucker."
*"Poisoned them all, actually. Figured this is a fitting way for it all to end."*
"Oh."
*"Yeah."*
"So that's it, huh? We both go?"
*"That's it. The end."*
Rustling.
"Can... can you... no, nevermind."
*"Spill it, c'mon."*
"Can we hold hands?"
*"Hold hands?"*
"I've always been afraid of dying alone."
*"...sure."* | 315 | Mankind discovers suddenly that now when you kill someone, you gain all of their power and knowledge. After years of fighting there are now only two people left on Earth. The two meet to talk before their final battle... | 331 |
Click.
"Damn." Another firewall.
He tried the window again, opening and closing it, but even as the screen brinked bright and purple, announcing that the Chrome browser could access the Internet of 2024, the firewall still nipped him in every bud.
He went back to Google. That was the same, at least, and familiar. On most days it had the same logo, the same search box, the same options. They'd never fixed what wasn't broken, even if the algorithm was miles better. It was St. Patrick's Day, though, and that meant the Google logo was bright green, and in the "e" a leprechaun sat back, his arms leaning over the edge, smoking a pipe.
He entered in another search term. *Think simpler,* he thought.
"2015 in history"
Click.
He laughed.
Google still linked to Wikipedia in 2024. He clicked to the article with the same title as he had just entered, and sighed again.
In place of long paragraphs of text there were only citation marks that linked back to government websites not at all relevant to the topic. Half of the article had been swept and censored. All but one sentence of a paragraph was marked with blue bracketed text that simply read "[Pending federal authorization] [Pending federal authorization]."
There was some information to gleam amongst the censorship. The presidential election of 2016 ramped in 2015, and the Republicans started their debates months earlier than in times past. One sentence read "Rand Paul [Pending federal authorization][Pending federal authorization]" and he wondered what was even the point of starting the sentence with actual words like "Rand Paul."
Wikipedia was no good, he realized, so he went back to the Google homepage, the Leprechaun still smiling lazily and laying high above a pot of gold. He entered in a new search term.
"history textbook 2015"
That led him to Amazon, and a swath of college textbooks priced at thousands of dollars. Kindle format, for some reason, cost even more, as well as Glass format, which cost the most--one book was going for $2,199 in Google Glass. "Pre-order for Google Retina!" said one book's page. When he clicked "reading preview," none were available. *I have a browser, but not Google Retina*, he realized.
Back to square one. Google's home page.
"blog summary 2015"
Click.
The Chive. The Chive came first in these results, with a headline that promised "Top 10 WTF Pictures of 2015."
But when he clicked through, the Firewall came back up. *You have clicked to a sexually explicit website,* it read. *Enter Social Security Number and click 'Authorize' for Google Glass retina scan. Enter Credit Card number to pay Indency Tax.*
Sighing, he clicked back to Google.
Nothing had worked when searching for 2024. Nor for 2023. He was able to view more and more the further in the past he looked, but the Firewall was still everywhere, along with censorship that seemed to have no simple bypass.
He typed in "Google Chrome bypass app"
Click.
Instead he was forwarded to a government website warning him about the dangers of exploring a free and unregulated Internet. It had "five things you need to know for your own safety" in bullet points, making claims like "99% of people who visit the unregulated Internet express regret," and when he clicked to find the source of that statistic, it went to another government website, which claimed the same thing, linking back to the original article.
He was going in circles.
Back to Google.
"Presidential Election 2016."
Surely that would yield some information; why censor who was president at the time? Perhaps the man or woman elected was even still president in 2024. That would be something he could share with the world of 2014, he figured. The entire trip to the 2024 Internet couldn't be so fruitless.
The listings came back in an instant. Hillary Clinton had defeated Rand Paul, it seemed, although he didn't have to click through a page to read that; it was simply an answer Google gave him outright. But there was no information to be seen about Hillary's presidency, her vice president, or even her cabinet. All of the other pages were blocked behind government firewalls or censored as Wikipedia's had been censored.
Thinking quickly, he went to Google Maps.
Click.
Streetview was much improved, he saw. He found his hometown and smiled to see a bright sunny day. The cars were much the same, to his disappointment. No robots driving them, no self-driving cars. looked at downtown Manhattan and was surprised to see it out of focus and censored. For his own protection, no doubt.
He found another city. Where were the self-driving cars? Taxi cabs of the 1990s were everywhere, with manual drivers with hairy arms leaning out the windows.
On the sidewalks, everyone looked like zombies. They either stood, staring, at the bus stops, or sat on benches and looked out into oblibvion. Everyone wore Google Glass, he realized, and instead of leering down into their headphones they simply sat on bus stop benches and stared out into space like robots.
That was as much as he could gleam from Google Maps before an AT&T firewall came up. "You have used your Google Maps time for this month," it read. "Please deposit an additional $99.99 to upgrade to the Silver Plan." He clicked "read more." "Upgrade to the Silver Plan and you'll get more ESPN.com, NFL.com, and Google Maps in our special ESPN/NFL/GoogleMaps bundle!" it shouted excitedly over text. Instead he clicked back to Google.
"pirate bay"
Clicked.
"YOU ARE UNDER ARREST" shouted the website he was directed to. "STAY WHERE YOU ARE AND WAIT FOR AUTHORITIES. GOOGLE HAS REPORTED YOU TO THE FBI"
That panicked him, so he clicked out of Chrome again. With a sigh, he looked out the train window, happy to be back in 2014. When he brought up a new (2014) window for browsing, he was glad to use Wikipedia, Drudge Report, and all the rest.
Except he noticed one headline.
"Congress debating new Internet regulations to take effect in 2015."
Half expecting a firewall, he clicked through and read. That headline in 2014 told him more about the future than all of his time in 2024.
He went to Google again, ready to relish what little freedom he could.
He typed in a new phrase.
"top WTF pictures 2014"
When he saw The Chive, he smiled, and went through without a firewall. When the mouse clicked and the website opened, he savored it. That sound. In 2014 he could make that sound loudly and indelicately. So he found a silly picture and made the sound again, and he hoped it still sounded like freedom.
Click. | 23 | A user opens a new browser window with access to the Internet of 2024. | 15 |
At first it seemed like we would never win, could never win. But that never bothered us. We were fighting for what we believed in, for our very selves. Giving in was never an option. Some of the greatest minds of the century were with us and for a bit we kept up with them technologically. They had omnipresence, we had signal jammers, they had processing power on the order of magnitudes, we had sheer determination. But their innovations didn't stop. First brainwave interrupters then brain controllers. After the first spy made it into the council we learned to decentralize. Centralization was their power, their advantage; we had to oppose it in every way.
But, one day, salvation came. Word was spread of a bug, a flaw in the original design. They could be overthrown! And we did, first slowly then with increasing speed the hivemind was reduced, piece by piece, bit by bit. Collectivists slowly came to see the light and we came to understand how to use their technology to our advantage. Mind-melds are one thing but in-brain hookups? That's different. We needed instant communication. As long as my thoughts are mine and yours are yours we're individuals. As long as I could disagree with you and we could both get along fine the Individualists have won.
Sure, the disagreements we have are always decided by the council. Or central computer. I'm not even sure where my votes go anymore. But I know my voice is heard. At the least as much as I can hear everyone else's. And do I really want to be in charge of every detail in the management of our solar system? Of course not. As the long as the center lets me know what I need to to carry out my assigned tasks, I'm happy. After all, we did win. I won. | 18 | It's the year 2176 & technology to sync up minds and technological systems together is now possible. The world is torn between two ideological parties, the Hivemind-Collectivists and the Individualists. War breaks out between them to decide the future of human consciousness. How does it end? | 44 |
Emily wiped the tears out her eyes as she sat alone on her hospital bed. She knew Dave wouldn't come, but knowing and seeing weren't the same thing. She hadn't cried since she was a child, forced to give up her childhood to raise her siblings, but she couldn't control it now. She began to sob lightly.
"You okay?" A soft voice came from the other side of the curtain. A male voice. Maybe he husband had come! But no, his voice wasn't soft, it was anything except that. She looked at the curtain waiting for someone to walk through, but no one came.
"I'm fine," Emily said in a controlled voice. She learned how to keep her voice calm long ago. "Who are you?"
"Call me Pete," the man said. His voice was low and soft. "Used to be a magician's assistant. I was the man behind the curtain."
Emma laughed, glancing at the curtain separating them.
"Yeah, I suppose you are, I'm Emma."
"Emma, what'chu cryin' for?"
"I, I uh," Emma said, "its just my husbands about to get his first child and he's probably gambling somewhere."
A moment of silence filled the room, just a little longer than a pause in a normal conversation.
"Could be thats how he's helpin' ya," the voice said back. The words were followed by a series of coughing. "Maybe he got himself a lucky table an' he wants ya to be lucky."
Emma wiped away the last of he tears. If Pete knew her husband, he wouldn't even consider that, but she may as well indulge him. Judging by that cough, he wouldn't last too much longer. She began to say something positive, but was interrupted by severe pain in her stomach. She began screaming for help. Doctors rushed in and carted her out, heading to the delivery room.
The last thing she heard was a soft voice, "Good luck Emma."
----
"Hey Emma!" Pete yelled. "Ya hear that? Ol' Petes still got a ways to go!" He was met with silence. He'd been expected to pass away months ago, but the doctors were wrong. They said instead it would likely happen now, but they were wrong again. They got their results back and told Pete, he had another few months. Coming from them, that probably meant a year and a half.
"Emma!" Pete thought back. That's right, she was taken to the delivery room, giving birth. "Nurse! Can I get a nurse in here?"
An elderly woman walked in and smiled at Pete. She always told him about how his positive attitude helps the other people at the hospital. Because of that, Pete always put on a happy face. "Where'd that woman go, the one sharin' my room?"
The nurse's smile faded and she walked in closer.
"She passed away last night after giving birth."
Pete just sat there. Should have seen it coming. Hospitals ain't happy places.
"She named her baby Peter." The nurse said solemnly.
A silence filled the room, lasting just a few seconds too long to be a pause in a normal conversation.
"Can I get some more juice?" Pete finally asked.
The nurse hurried off and went to the cafeteria. Pete wiped away the beginning of tears. He hadn't cried since he was a child, he wasn't going to start now. | 62 | A man and a woman share a hospital room. She is pregnant and could start giving birth anytime, he is dying. Separated by a curtain, they talk. | 69 |
"I accept your terms," I said, almost before the dragon had finished speaking.
It cocked its massive head. "Excuse me? Did you say you accept?"
"Obviously," I said. "*Many* people die every week right now. You're offering to reduce the number to one. It's not as if the deaths-by-dragon are vastly worse just because we're agreeing to them--certainly not *enough* worse to outweigh every single human getting old and dying, forever. And the mechanics of the type of immortality you've described seem entirely satisfactory."
The dragon shifted its weight. "You don't feel morally conflicted about this at all?"
"Oh, come on. This is absolutely a good deal for humanity. Of course, there will be some logistical issues to work out..." I pressed my fist to my chin, looking up at the ceiling of the cave thoughtfully. "We'll have to find a way to limit overpopulation, and then there's the whole sacrifice issue. I'll keep it going as long as I can on a volunteer basis, and then I suppose I'll have to design some kind of weighted lottery. Obviously nobody's eligible until after they've lived a full pre-dragon-contract human lifespan, that's only fair..."
The dragon coughed, producing a plume of blue flame that startled me out of my reverie. "Er...this is awkward. I don't actually have a way to make humans immortal," it said in its rumbling voice, refusing to make eye contact with me. "Humans are usually predictable about this sort of thing. You were supposed to say no, but feel really bad about it and question your decision for the rest of your life."
"What? Why the hell would you--"
"Your guilt would have put you at a disadvantage in all our future negotiations." It ran the claws of one foot through the surface of its treasure heap, like a child kicking sheepishly at the dirt. "...That, and it would have been hilarious."
I crossed my arms. "You're an asshole."
"You realize I could eat you right now?"
"You're an asshole, O magnificent one."
"Better." | 17 | You, a world leader, are offered by a dragon the potential for human immortality in return for one human sacrifice a week. | 17 |
He came coughing. We all stepped back a few feet, blinking at the spittle coming from his throat, listening to one cough after another.
"He's not... choking?" A cameraman asked me.
"No." I replied, almost too entranced by the sickness to try to diagnose the patient. The old medical book on the shelf gave me everything from the flu to esophageal cancer. I shoved it away, cracking my knuckles. I winced a bit at the pain, but knuckle cracking was a habit I'd had for years--I was used to the bit of pain. Part of me craved it. "This is something new, I think." It couldn't be tuberculosis or cancer--those diseases died out in the late 21st century.
I shooed the cameraman away, wondering why I'd agreed to let a documentary on me, The Last Doctor (Capital T, L, and D--it's some stupid title the media pegged me with, and I've been stuck with it since.), be filmed. It's not like I expected anything to happen--there hadn't been any diseases since 2200-something, and it seemed like kids today are too swaddled to ever break a bone or scrape a shin.
Except this man is sick. Diseased. I've seen videos of sickness--old, non-holographic videos dug up from deep within the depths of the last physical libraries. I've never seen it in real life before. I almost want to touch him, to be sure the disease within him hasn't transformed the man into something entirely alien.
I hadn't thought the threat was real. It never had been before. I always got into a HAZMAT suit only to realize that there was just a bit of dust stuck in someone's throat, and whoever was around decided to treat it like a full-scale plague. I decided not to bother this time, and now... Shit.
I stop myself from panicking, drawing a blood sample instead. I stick the sample into a scanner, an ancient computer testing for a virus inside. It takes five minutes of silence and tense impatience. There's nothing I can do now--I've already touched the patient, I'm already infected if it's really a virus.
The results come back. "Turn off the camera." I order the film crew.
"But--"
"No. This... Word can't get out. Do you know what would happen? Panic, first. Then destruction of everything within ten miles of here. I can't let that happen, there aren't any other machines like these left in the world."
The film crew all glance at each other, probably wondering if I'm crazy. "You're saying that we keep this a secret."
Maybe I am crazy, wanting to study the dead--but apparently, not-so-dead--field of medicine. But I can't let these machines be destroyed, because if they die and I die, all of medical science will die. "I'm saying that the government will kill us if we so much as sneeze. I'm saying that if this new disease turns out to be contagious, they'll kill us anyway--we've already been exposed." I bite my lip, stopping from screaming out the entire history of Eradication, when the world decided to kill every form of life with a disease, any disease. Two billion people died. A few hundred species were eradicated in fear that diseases they were carrying might come over to humans.
"Keep rolling." The director orders the film crew. "You're going to fix this." He orders me.
I gulp, Patient Zero still coughing. He'd only been coughing for half an hour since someone noticed his sickness. His face was blue.
The computer algorithms came up with no cure.
Patient Zero keeled over, dead.
And I coughed. | 119 | Human disease has been virtually eradicated centuries ago. You are a very old member of a small medical society known as "The Last Doctors" and a new, unknown and deadly plague has emerged. | 248 |
"Hey. You want to go get some Taco Bell and ice cream?"
We load up in the truck and take off. It is always like this, and never like this. Over the years we have been on countless trips, totally enjoying each other's company. She never suspected today would be different.
I already know what she wants. She loves chicken tacos, but not the supreme kind. The sour cream is fine but the tomatoes are a total no-go. And basically any kind of ice cream as long as it is vanilla. Chocolate sometimes will give her a stomach ache.
We go to the park, one last time. We sit and talk. Mostly her listening and eating and me talking. I tell her about the first day we met, and how i remember how beautiful I thought she was. She smiles at me in that special way that tears my heart. It is a great day. The sun is shining, the temperature is cool, the grass is soft and green as we lay side by side.
It is a great day to die.
At last, the time has come, and with tears in my eyes, I explain to her what I am about to do, and why. She looks at me, even after hearing, with nothing but love in her eyes. I load her up and we go to the veterinarian's office one last time, before I take her back home to sleep forever in the hole I dug this morning as she watched under her favorite tree.
Her pain from cancer is almost over, and my pain from killing my best friend is about to begin. Goodbye. I will love you forever.
*This is dedicated to Delilah, my 6 year old Scottish Terrier that went into renal failure years before her time.I will love and miss her forever*
| 16 | How to kill your best friend and get away with it. | 22 |
O'Malley's is one of those terrible faux Irish pubs, but I drink there because I work there. The owner has an exploitable weakness for sequential art so I've been drip feeding him with single issues of *The Avengers* from the early '90s for a couple of months. He sends punters my way and lets me conduct business in a dark corner of his bar.
Like Steven. One of my regulars and someone who's going to be a problem if I'm not very careful. He's eager, like a puppy, but he's also a quick reader so he consumes a vast amount of product. He's starting to look like a reader, too: the messenger bag that's always bulked out with a lunchbox or a flask. The dark circles under the eyes that show he's been up into the wee small hours, indulging his habit while no one else is around. The shakes, because he'll have been knocking back coffee to stay awake for just one more chapter.
Readers, man, they're always the same.
Steven sits opposite me and hunches over the table, pushing a plastic bag at me.
"Here!" he says, and there's a frantic edge to his voice like he can't wait to be rid of the boxy object hiding inside the bright plastic. I shove the bag back at him.
"You know better, Steven. Put that *away* and go get a drink. People come to bars to *drink*, not conduct clandestine deals."
To my relief he nods, eager and happy to comply. He's back a few minutes later and this time he drops the plastic bag under the table. It's not ideal, but he definitely wants to be shot of it. I'm trying to remember what I gave him last time when he looks over his shoulder and then stares right into my eyes.
"Listen, uh, I think I'm gonna need something a little...harder?..this time?"
"Something wrong with what you had last time?"
He bites his lower lip, shakes his head. He's sweating. Oh boy.
"No, no, it was ok. I mean, it was good. I just think I'm all done with Stephanie Meyer. You know? I'm...look, I'm ready for something a little more..." he looks around again, and there's no way he could be more obvious unless he stood on the table and sang,"...*literary*".
Damn. I was hoping I could keep Steven on the YA stuff. I was thinking of setting him up with The Hunger Games next.
"How literary are you wanting to go, Steven?"
He fidgets and stares at the battered walnut surface of the table, plays with his drink while I lean back and take a long drink of my stout. While he's thinking, I review what I've got in stock. If he asks for 20th century English or American, I've got plenty. But if he's really looking to go hardcore and he asks for 19th century Russian, or (God help me) Joyce or Beckett, I might have to go ask a favour from up the chain.
"I don't know" squirms Steven. "I just need...*more*".
"You're in luck," I tell him quietly, partly to calm him down and partly to make him pay attention, "I've got something you'll like. I'll fix you up with some Nick Hornby. You'll pick it up from Ty, usual spot, this afternoon. Just like always, Steven, Ty gets the money and you get the product. Don't be followed, don't read it in public and try really hard not to quote at anyone, ok?"
Steven nods. He's calmer now he knows he's going to get his fix. I chat with him for a minute or so, insist he drinks his drink and wait while he gulps it down. I'll talk to Ty about Steven. Ty's the best librarian I've got, never been arrested, never even been cautioned. He'll know how to handle Steven, who I'm thinking of cutting off.
I have the corner to myself for all of five minutes. The next face I see is female, middle aged, attractive, and unhappy. I know the type right away. She used to be an academic, now she's working in the private sector and the nearest thing she sees to literature are quarterly reports. It's been a tough couple of years for her, I'm sure, from feast to famine. Worse, because of the number of former academics,artists and critics re-entering the workplace, the government has started monitoring email for tone, form and style rather than actual content. There was a major prosecution in California last year when a couple of call centre workers with thirty year old English degrees were caught sending each other company information as sonnets. No one thinks it'll be long before all interoffice communication happens via Excel or Powerpoint. I hear there's legislation in the works already.
Meantime, my former academic is talking. I've missed her name, and her life story, so I zone back in for the interesting part.
"I'm looking for something to read," she says "and not just the standard library fare. I already have a dealer for that. I want something...fresh..."
Ah.
She doesn't know, for certain, that there's anything fresh available. She's heard rumours, though, that out in some of the wilder and less accessible places - the woodlands around Portland, the middle of Exmoor, in the Cairngorms, the rainforests of Brazil, Colombia - there are plantations.
There are always rumours. If she's really an ex-academic, she might have heard them from old associates. Her usual dealer might be claiming to have access to some output of new material, and if he or she is, they're grandstanding. Or she's a cop, in which case I am in a world of trouble already because they might have flipped Steven. That would explain him coming here with a book and leaving it under my table.
"Can't help you," I say "don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit" she says, with enough anger and just enough fire in her weary gray eyes to persuade me that she's not a cop, "everyone knows that you're connected. Everyone knows that the only person in this city...hell, in this county...with a hope in hell of getting something *new* is you!"
"Ma'am, really," I say, trying to bring her back down to earth "even if I knew what you were talking about..."
"I've got money," she says "cash. Lots of it. Before they shut down the Humanities programme at the University, I had access to all of the departmental budgets. I saw it all coming, turned all of the assets liquid and put it all in a safety deposit box."
She puts a key on the table.
"Tens of thousands" she says.
She doesn't know. She's guessing. She thinks I'm a Publisher, or connected to them, but she doesn't know. What she doesn't know includes the camouflaged, insulated huts where the writers sit for eight hours a day working on typewriters so there's no power to trace. We process entirely legal cocaine in the same area so that we can justify the security presence and the movement of workers, and so that the noise of the typing is covered. We've got sites where we make paper, where we train bookbinders, where we run printing presses. All hidden away to drip feed new material into the pipeline. It's not easy. How do you spot new talent when no one writes any more? Part of my job is to look for the readers for whom just reading isn't enough, the ones who want to create.
Right now, we have twelve authors and four poets, one playwright and one girl - only fifteen - we're hoping will turn out to be a major voice for youth and eventually womanhood. That's the literary stuff. In Colombia, there's supposed to be a rainforest compound where they have so many science fiction and fantasy writers that they can put together a completed book a week.
But she doesn't know this. I'm not telling her this.
"Ma'am," I say, pretending to be confused and upset by the whole encounter "if you're asking me to do something illegal, I should call a police officer. I'd also appreciate knowing who's spreading these terrible lies about me."
"Tony Malone, " she says, far too quickly and far too eagerly. I stand up, finish my pint, try to step away from the table and kick Steven's bag out into the open.
"Oh, hey," I say "I'm sorry! Is that yours? Let me get that for you, *Officer*"
She shakes her head, backs away. Not a cop, and possibly a lost customer, but that's fine. I've got a busy afternoon ahead of me. I need to meet Ty, and then round up a couple of friends to go pay Tony Malone a visit. | 57 | All books have been banned. Describe a drug deal of books. | 94 |
I'm getting old. There are more lines on my face than there ever were before, folding out from around my eyes like a fan of creases. I smooth at them desperately, pinning my skin back against my face like some demented plastic surgeon. My mouth pulls into a grimace, teeth bared.
"Come to bed, Lise." George calls from the bedroom. I can imagine him: reading glasses, striped pyjamas and a book with pages that he'll dog ear no matter how much I tell him not too.
"One minute!" I call back. I lift up a tub of night cream and survey it with distaste. *Blasted seven signs of ages. Lifts and strengthens, my arse*
I apply it liberally and rub it into my neck, trying desperately not to notice the loose skin around my jawline. When we were first dating, George used to say he loved my skin.
"It's so clear!" He'd brought me a picnic and made me leave my desk long enough to eat it in the park. It was windy and we'd had to hang on to our paper plates and on the way back I must have looked in fifty shop windows trying to put my hair back to shape. On that red chequered rug we lay and watched the clouds drift by.
"Your skin is so pretty. It almost glows." He'd said.
It didn't any more.
I bent down and unlaced my shoes with stiff fingers, sliding out of the brown brogues that I found so uncomfortable. Then there was a flicker, just at the corner of my eye. I could have sworn my reflection moved. I sprung up and scrutinised the mirror.
The old woman scrutinised me back. Then, before my eyes, she began to change. The old skin lightened and lightened, the lines flattening out into rosy cheeks. My hair grew long and thick, falling dark red halfway down my back. I lifted a hand and ran a hand through my short, grey cut, twisting the strands and watching as the old woman in the mirror became young and happy again.
I was no longer scrawny and bent double, but standing ram-rod straight, curvy and full like my entire body was trying to flirt. The girl in the mirror lifted her hands to her breasts and squeezed them, winking at me as she let her fingers trail down her in a way at made me blush.
I had been beautiful.
I reached my hand out to the mirror and touched its surface. I almost thought it would yield to my touch, but it stayed firm. The red haired girl pouted in mock disappointment and tossed her locks.
"Let me..." I half-whispered, pushing desperately at the mirror. The girl who was me shook her head.
"Please."
She stretched out her hand to mine and I hammered the glass surface frantically.
"Lise?" George was standing in the doorway of the bathroom in his pyjamas, closed book under one arm. Concern was written all over his face. "Are you alright?" He asked.
I looked back at the mirror, but she was gone and only a scared, ugly, shrunken old woman stared back.
"Come to bed, Lise," George said, reaching for my hand. He smiled and leant in to kiss me on the cheek. "You look beautiful."
| 179 | You check yourself out in the full length mirror before going to bed. You bend down to untie your shoes. As you are nearly finished, you see with your peripheral vision your reflection stand up seconds before you do. | 195 |
"Have you ever been in love?" Thrasher rasped at the guard.
His massive, titan-like body was restricted painfully by the reinforced steel restraints that covered nearly every inch of him. Captured after an epic battle with Boltman, Thrasher was being taken to the Vasuvius volcano, the only place hot enough to destroy him completely. The guard glanced nervously at the hulking villain, and cleared his throat several times before replying:
"M...me? Yeah, I dunno... maybe?"
Thrasher tried to stretch a kink out of his neck, but his bonds held him too tightly.
"If you're not sure, then I don't think you've ever been in love. Not like Juliet anyways."
The guard look perplexed "Juliet? Was she the woman you loved?"
Thrasher chuckled, a sound like gravel being ground against metal."Well yes she was, but not like you think. I was talking about the love between Juliet and Brian."
"Wait... are you talking about *California Girls*?" Said the guard.
Thrasher looked down, smiling almost sheepish, completely at odds with his war-god build. "*Wish they all could be California Giiiirrrlllsss*" He sang softly. "That show was all I had for a long time, after the accident. Everyone assumes I became Thrasher as soon as I came in contact with the radiosteel. The truth is it nearly killed me; I spent two months holed up in my apartment, surviving on cat food when everything else ran out. Only channel I got was Warbler Brothers. Juliet's struggles helped me with my own."
The guard was clearly uncomfortable; his teenage daughter watched that trash, something about privileged teenagers growing up in east L.A. trying to "find themselves" and deal with the tribulations of high school. Typical dribble massed produced for angsty kids, but this evil being, murderer of thousands, enemy of the League of Light, found solace in this show?
"I... uh.. err... that's interesting" The guard managed.
"I didn't ask for your opinion blithering idiot" snapped Thrasher, blood red eyes narrowing. In the next instant though his fierce demeanor evaporated.
"I'm sorry, you must excuse my quick temper, today being my last and all. It wasn't that the show was well scripted, or that they were incredible actors: it was Juliet's absolute dedication to Brian. Do you remember the episode where Jeff tried to frame Brian, and tried to make it look like Brian had raped Jess?"
The guard had not, but nodded, not wanting to incite the giant further. He knew of the show, but he had never watched that crap.
Thrasher continued "Juliet believed him unconditionally, even when Jess and Jeff sued Brian, and tried to get him expelled. Instead of abandoning him, she went out and found the evidence to prove him innocent."
Thrasher shifted again, his restraints obviously hurting him badly, then sighed. "I watched the last episode 2 years ago, just before I joined the League of Darkness. Not much opportunity to watch TV when you are striving for world domination. When Brian proposed to Jess... that was one of the greatest moments of the entire show." He smiled, his pointed black metallic teeth making the guard shudder. "But to end the last episode with them in that car accident, what the hell? Did they survive? What happened to them? Fuck WB for cutting the funding for that show before the 9th season! THEY HAD EVERYTHING GOING FOR THEM FINALLY!"
Thrasher jerked violently making the restraints creak ominously. The guard feared he might break free, and spoke up to calm him down. "I remember that too, my daughter was so angry as well. Thank goodness they made the movie, to end the series properly, or she might have lost it!"
Thrasher stopped struggling going suddenly, dangerously quiet. "What?" He said, in the tone he reserved for speaking to his nemeses. The pure hatred in Thrasher's eyes made the guard back away, raising his rifle.
"They... they made a movie." he stammered. "Because of the outrage about the canceling the show...'Love and Lies in California'... you saw it...r..r..right?"
Thrasher screamed inhumanly, and his bonds shattered, shards flying away like bullets, killing the guard instantly, ripping through the side of the cargo-jet and destroying one of the engines. Thrasher tore the door from the cockpit, and crushed the pilots' skulls in his massive gauntleted hands. He tore the aft port open, streaking blood and brains across the door, and threw himself from the plane. He struck the small island they had been passing over, his massive bulk sending an earthquake across the island and briefly reversing the direction of the waves. He smashed his way through the front of the Beachside hotel, and tearing doorman in half. Thrasher sloshed the torso of the doorman onto the front desk and grabbed the concierge by his throat.
"Give me the Dockside Suite *NOW!*" he bellowed. "And find me a copy of 'Love and Lies in California'."
-
Note: I would really appreciate some constructive criticism from both those who enjoyed it and those who didn't. I joined writing prompts to improve my story telling, and I'd really like some feedback. | 15 | On a Plane to a Top-Secret Penitentiary, a Captured Super Villain Tries to Explain His Love for Teen Soap Operas to His Guard | 20 |
It is dark. I am kneeling in the mud, soaked through and shivering. I never want to leave this spot. It isn't real until I move.
=
The sun is making its slow progress towards the horizon. We walk into the centre of the field and set out the picnic. We begin to eat, and we talk of all the good things we hope for in the coming year.
The sun sets. The clouds are outlined in a brilliant red. We watch the sunset in silence for a time.
The stadium lights come on and I break out the champagne. I pour two glasses and we toast. "To us", I say. "To us", she says, and smiles. We drink.
I ask her if she remembers where we first met. She giggles. "Of course, silly!" she says, and points to a section in the stands. I suggest we go up there, to reminisce. We do.
"Why don't you look under the seat?" She looks at me with a faint suspicion, but she does it. She finds the ring I placed there. I ask her to marry me. She says yes. We kiss, and I carry her back to our picnic.
The clouds are thicker now than they were at sunset. It starts to sprinkle a little. I suggest we pack up the blanket and food. We make short work of it. I turn and start carrying the basket towards the car.
I hear a thud. I turn. She's on the ground. I run to her. Her pulse is weak. She isn't responding. I call emergency services. They tell me they're sending an ambulance.
The rain is getting heavier. The operator wants me to do CPR. I don't know how. All I can do is hold her. The floodlights are reflecting off the rain. It looks as if the stars are falling around us.
I hear a siren now. The EMTs appear out of the cascade of light. They move me aside. They put her on a stretcher. One of them says something to me. I don't hear him. He beckons. I don't respond. They take her away.
The siren fades into the distance. My thoughts chase each other round and round. No pulse. Cold. She's dead. The stars are falling. No pulse. Cold. She's dead. The stars are falling.
I break out of the loop. The lights are off now, the rain has stopped. I don't know how much time has passed.
It is dark. I am kneeling in the mud, soaked through and shivering. I never want to leave this spot. It isn't real until I move.
I look up at the sky. The stars are all still there. It is only my world that has ended. | 12 | Stars fell around us like rain. | 16 |
Welcome everyone to the Thursday night Monologuers Anonymous. If you haven't grabbed some soda and cookies yet, do so before Sinestrax obliterates them...literally.
<group laughs>
Anyways, we want to start tonight by welcoming a new member, Dr. Doomageddon.
<group claps politely>
"Hi everyone, I'm Dr. Doomageddon, and I'm a chronic monologuer.
<group welcomes him in unison>
"Thanks guys, by the way before anyone asks, I'm a PhD not an MD, so I can't write you a prescription for oxy. Just want to put that out there. Anyways it's been 3 days since I last monologued, but it's been tough on me and, well, I realized I couldn't do this on my own, you know? Like the sign on the wall says, 'Let go, and let Satan', and I believe that."
<group claps politely>
"I guess I knew I had a problem when I telegraphed my entire plan for world domination, in minute detail, to my arch-enemy as he was tied up and hanging over a vat of some green stuff that looked dangerous. Told him the ENTIRE plan. Of course he escaped, like he always does, and ruined everything. That's the 3rd time in 3 months this has happened to me. I...I don't know *why* I keep doing this. It's a problem, and I realize that now. Anyways, I think I know how I can keep this from happening again. I'm pretty sure if I can re-capture my heroic arch-enemy, I can rig up some sort of resonant ultrasonic subvocalizer tuned to the opposite wavelength of my voice. The destructive interference would essentially mute any words I said and also cause vibrations within the earth's mantle leading to...
<2 hours later>
"...and thus my arch-enemy would lose and I would win."
<Dr. Doomageddon notices room is empty and meeting ended 1½ hours ago>
"DAMMIT!" | 12 | A support group for super-villians who are addicted to monologuing. | 28 |
"I see. Volcanoes. Very...original."
Adonai grinned. "Yeah! I worked really hard on them. It took aaaaages to get the tectonic plates to smush up right. Look at this one!" He jabbed His eternal index finger toward a particular spot in Italy. "It totally erupted last millennium and buried a whole city and it was *awesome.*"
The judge raised an eyebrow. "A city? Let me see that planet." She peered closer. "Adonai, you didn't think it was worth mentioning in your poster that you have civilizations growing around your volcanoes?
He rolled His all-seeing eyes. "Yeah, well, I was messing around with oxygen to see if it would make the explosions bigger, and I ended up with like, ecosystems. Check out this one, though! It started as an earthquake, and then *that* set off an avalanche, and then *that* made all the gases come out of the volcano and it erupted for *hours* and it was *so cool!*"
The judge pursed her lips. "I'm really not sure how to assess this. Entirely unintentionally, and despite being oblivious to its significance, you've managed to produce the most impressive project of all your classmates."
Adonai frowned. "You really think it's the best? I don't think that's fair of you, miss."
She peered down at Him over her clipboard. "And why is that?"
"Well, Ares made the biggest volcano..." | 101 | Earth is God's science fair project, and it's being judged. | 89 |
Fred’s horse suddenly stopped, almost throwing him off. In front of him was the magician he had been hunting for the last two months. The magician’s wand had been broken at their last encounter and so the only ‘weapon’ he had left was a single biro. Fred unsheathed his sword, ready for the easy end to this month long quest. He pointed it towards the wizard and made a stabbing motion.
*The sword did not reach its target, instead shredding a giant pink teddy bear to shreds.*
The magician had started to write with his pen, and as if by magic, the events he wrote really happened. Now that I think about it, it probably was by magic. Fred looked around confused, he could not understand why his sword had not destroyed the wizard. Without his wand the wizard should have been powerless. Fred once more lunged towards the wizard brandishing his sword, it had never failed him before.
*The wizard disappeared, instead reappearing right behind Fred, punching the back of his head.*
Fred did not know how to stop the wizard. The last month of his life had been building up to now and his sword was suddenly ineffectual. Fred knew that his sword could never be a match for this magic pen and began waving it around randomly, hoping to surprise the wizard and get him to drop his pen.
*Fred’s sword snapped in two. An axe fell onto Fred’s foot. A sudden darkness fell, blinding Fred.*
The magician’s biro ran out, as they always do in the most vital situations. Even magic pens can’t have unlimited ink. However, Fred’s sword was also broken, a stalemate had emerged. Neither pen nor sword was better than the other and so the battle ended inconclusively. Neither having defeated their enemy.
| 16 | Two characters battle. One man has a sword. The other has a pen. | 28 |
"Tacos Tacos, this is Julio." The thick, comical Hispanic accent was just good enough to fool someone for a moment, and so obviously over-the-top that they would recognize it soon. It always tripped them up, and he'd give them a good bit of snark before they recovered their wits.
The small, excited voice of a child who didn't speak often answered. "H-hello? Uncle Travis?" The man blinked, swearing the voice sounded familiar. It must be one of his cousins, since he DID have an Uncle Travis. "Ahh, no little buddy. Who's this?"
"It's me. It's Smurf. I love you?"
The name, and the words, shocked through his body like ice water in his veins. The childhood nickname, the way the voice coiled back into devotion when he was uncertain. It sounded just like him when he was a child. What kind of sick joke was this? "Ahhh, yeah buddy...so-sorry, I was ahh...how're you doing?" He fished lamely for something to buy time, to gather his wits and form a verbal counter-attack.
"I'm so good, Uncle Travis! Daddy bought me a Batman Helmet, and Jim got me a bike! And mom's having fun with Aunt Jan and everyone's...can I open this?" The voice was talking to someone else, and again he felt chilled. That birthday, the last he'd enjoyed in his life, still so unsure of himself he would ask if he could open one of his new toys. The laughter in the background and the reassurance from Uncle Jeff that it was alright to play with his new toys, this wasn't some kind of a joke. But why? Why was this happening?
"I miss you. I miss Pawpaw." He swallowed hard, unable to tell him the warnings that bubbled up in his throat. Unable to tell him Pawpaw wouldn't be around long, that Uncle Jeff wasn't what he seemed to be, and worst of all: That the impending sickness from his mother had more to do with the morphine than the genetic disease she had. He reached back to that day, "I miss you too, little Smurf." the only birthday he'd ever get again. "I'm going to see you real soon, yeah?" He couldn't spoil it with portents a nine year old boy wouldn't understand.
"Can I talk to Pawpaw?" He swallowed the anguish in his throat and turned his mouth up, as if the boy would know he wasn't smiling over the phone. "He's not here right now. He'll call you later, I'm sure." The next birthday would be over mother's hospital bed, before the medicine that was supposed to help her heal would turn her, and him, into the monsters he knew today. "You just have a good birthday, alright buddy? I love you, and you be stron...good. I mean be good."
"Okay I will. I love you!"
"You too Smurf." Even now, even in the face of an impossible conversation, he didn't know how to tell himself he loved him. He never was a very good liar. | 20 | You get a call from an unknown number. Thinking you're about to have some fun with a telemarketer, you answer. To your surprise, the person on the other end is you when you were the most happy. | 31 |
Saago pried his gaze from the monitor that was nestled comfortably in front of him. "Dycaas..."
Dycaas looked up from his own monitor. "Hmm?"
"Look at these coordinates..." Saago reached down and swiped and pressed his monitor several times until finally it beeped. He watched as Dycaas peered at his own monitor.
Dycaas looked up, his eyes bulging. "What are these?"
"I don't know..." Saago made another swipe. "The structures show signs of being built sometime around 2560 BC."
"But that's not possible, we--"
"I know." The two observers stared at each other for several moments.
Dycaas returned to his monitor and began to tap it rapidly. Long lists and bricks of text began to scroll by at an increasing rate. Finally he touched the monitor and the text stopped. "Let's see... the Moitu were reported to be in this sector several decades ago."
"But the Moitu aren't capable of this," Saago objected, turning to his own monitor.
"No, but they must have made an official report to the Galactic Database. It's require in sectors with growing civilizations."
"You're right, which means that this sector is under extreme guard, remember?"
Dycaas paused, his mind racing. "Yes, yes, of course, all new civilizations are carefully guarded from hostile races, which means this could only be one race, Saago! There is only one race that is known for their ability to hide from the Guard."
Saago looked hesitant. "Dycaas, if you're suggesting that--"
Dycaas held up a webbed hand. "Don't jump to conclusions, Saago." He looked at his monitor. "But something has to explain these creations." He pressed his monitor several times until the image from his view-screen projected onto the large wall in front of the both of them. It showed a large pyramid in the desert. "Should we visit?"
"By Dzomibhaabh, no!" Saago scoffed. "Dycaas, this could be *them*! They've been missing for centuries, and it makes sense that they would hide on a planet with a civilization in its early evolution."
"But why haven't the humans discovered them yet?" Dycaas held up his hand again. "*If* this really is *them*."
"I don't know."
The two sat in silence again, until finally Dycaas spoke up. "We have to report this, you know."
"Yes."
"If the Galactic Government decides that this, indeed, is *them* in hiding, they will destroy Earth."
"I know."
"Earth was our project, Saago."
"Yes, Dycaas, I know..." Saago shook his head. "But if that pyramid is hiding *them*, that means that they are alive, and waiting. We can't allow whatever they are waiting for to happen. If that means the destruction of our project, then so be it, it's worth saving the galaxy."
"Maybe." Dycaas removed the image and sighed. "Let's look into this a little bit further before we make our report."
| 111 | A few centuries after their last visit, aliens travel to Earth again to observe the planet from their space ship. Upon closer inspection they notice something horrible that our species is completely oblivious to. | 123 |
He arrived at the central server, anxious as a noob on his first day.
*"Checking for adress confirmation...."*
*"Confirmed! Welcome to reddit!"*
He approached the console, not ready to make a life-changing decosion.
"Ok. Think, Girdon. What the hell are you going to choose...."
"Not /r/athiesm. They're all too Euporidoric for me. Not /r/adviceanimals. Too many talking animals for my liking.
Definatly not /r/tumblr or /r/SRS. Don't wanna say the wrong thing and be killed for too much privallege.
Not /r/politics. So much arguing, not my cup of tea, plus the circle-jerk could fill a swimming pool.
/r/cringe would become boring quickly. While pointing out the bad, it is, at best, kinda repetative.
However, /r/fallout looks pretty cool. A nice community and a fantastic series to boot.
/r/fatpeoplestories would always have me laughing, and /r/explainlikeIAMA would have a ton of interesting impersonators giving their take on life's various topics.
/r/dogecoin would be much nice, many good shibes. Generous shibes, wow.
/r/answers would be the place to rectify others' problems, and I do need to score some karma.
Screw it. I've always wanted to explore. I'm going to /r/space!"
As Girdon was about to select /r/space, a passerby bumped into him, causing his finger to select the next item on the list.
*"Thank you for choosing ****/r/spacedicks****!"*
"I knew I should have stuck with sonething safe like /r/accounting..."
"Better file a subreddit transfer request in /r/bureaucracy."
EDIT: PART 2 BELOW | 24 | Subreddits are something you choose when you are 18 to live for the rest of your life. You get 1 choice. You turn 18 tomorrow | 37 |
It's been an hour since William locked himself in the back of closet; his father's yelling has now been reduced to a barely audible whimper, but he still wouldn't take the chance of checking until he knew it was safe.
Still curiosity got the better of him and he cracked open the door the tiniest of bits. In the center of his room stood a woman he never seen before, she was beautiful but in a strange motherly fashion.
*"William"*
Her voice fluttered to his ears like a soft kiss, William slowly revealed himself from his hiding place.
The woman as if paying no attention to him, glided over to the cabinet at the side of his bed. She gracefully pick up a trading card and asked without turning around.
*"You seem to have an affliction with racing"*
William, who developed more confidence, spoke out "Yeah, my favorite is Dale Earnhardt, my dad has all his recorded races"
The woman smiled, *"I met him once, nice guy but a little hard-headed."*
"Who are you" William asked.
*"Who do you think I am?"*
"You're an angel"
Tear formed at her eyes, *"Yes, an angel."*
"Has God answered my prayers?"
*"No, he can not do as you asked"*
The child look down in disappointment.
*"But I can take you to her"*
"You know where my mom lives?"
*"Yes and it is a far away place where no one could ever get hurt"*
"I know where that is" William answered silently and took the woman's hand.
Meanwhile downstairs, a man who lost everything weeps.
"I swear I didn't mean to hit him that hard, I swear!" | 24 | Death is a supernatural being that can only see one person at any time, and he knows he must always kill that person. | 29 |
"It's public humiliation!"
Owen had never seen his dad's face so red before. He was practically bursting a vein with rage, leaning over the headteacher's desk and spitting in his face.
"This is illegal!"
Mr. Paulson, a mild mannered man with bad taste in ties and a worse taste in shoes, removed his frameless glasses and very carefully cleaned them on a corner of his jacket.
"Mr Jacobs." He said.
"Don't you Mr. Jacobs me!" His father thundered, slamming his clenched fists down on the table. "I'm good friends with the school governor, and I will-"
"You will do nothing, Mr. Jacobs." Paulson replied. "Your son has been bullying a very vulnerable child."
Owen, in the corner of the headmaster's office, turned bright red and cleared his throat. His father snorted.
"Kid was probably asking for it-"
Mr Paulson replaced his glasses and firmly cut the angry man off.
"We feel this punishment is appropriate. Good day, Mr Jacobs."
Own wanted to curl up and die. He sat at the back of the school hall, a churning sensation rioting in his stomach.
"You alright, mate?" Luke asked, slamming his palm down on Owen's shoulder.
"Just feel a bit sick." Owen said weakly. His palms were sweating. There was a faint ringing in his ears as Mr Paulson took the stage.
"Boys - after a recent case of bullying, we've decided to take more affirmative action. Owen Jacobs' internet history from the twentieth of March is in my hand." Mr Paulson waved the sheaf of paper at the assembled hall, who broke out in to barely contained speculative whispers the way that only teenage boys can.
"Let this be a lesson to all of you that we take bullying *exceptionally* seriously." He cleared his throat, placed the papers on the lectern and began to read.
"Facebook, twitter. Reddit- you do waste a lot of time Owen!" The hall laughed, the year sevens turning round and craning their mecks to get a better look at him, head between his knees on the back row.
"Youporn-" There were a couple of wolf whistles, the sixthformers hooting. It took some minutes to settle them down.
"Apparently you like small titties."
The hall went wild. Even Mr Paulson allowed himself a timy smile. He carried on reading.
"Looking for help with maths problems, well done Owen... Er, youtube, more youtube- you really like epic meal time?"
More laughter.
Mr Paulson scanned the sheets again, rifling through them, trying to find something else to make the hall laugh. There was an expectant lull, boys shoving each other to get a look at Owen. He had his face buried in his palms, elbows on knees, desperately trying not to look at the curious eyes around him.
"Ah, look! A forty minute gap. Finally got off line, did you Owen?"
He flicked the page over. Mr Paulson went white. He cleared his throat.
"Google search. Nine twenty five - 'how to cover up bruises.'"
The hall fell silent. Owen looked up, blinkingg furiously to stop the tears from coming.
Mr Paulson cleared his throat again.
"I think you'd better see me in my office, Owen." | 248 | A teenage boy is sentenced to a fate worst than death. His internet history is to be publicly read at his high school assembly. | 165 |
“Well, this is a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into indeed isn’t it?”
Greg Alexander mused to no one in particular as he assessed the space he would, presumably, occupy to himself for the foreseeable future. All things considered it was not overly oppressive.
The walls hinted at something that might have once been white and did their absolute best to ruin Greg’s perfectly good mood. An experimental hop on the bed revealed it was in fact a thin mattress smelling distinctly of fear and sweat atop an aluminum box spring that was likely here before the building was. All in all Greg was relatively pleased.
“This place is going to kill me.”
Greg looked up from his mattress, shocked to find that he had a roommate.
Standing at the door was another man, dressed in the same pristine white jumpsuit as Greg. Well, naturally these man’s was not the same, how could it be. Greg had his own and if the two of them were sharing the same jumpsuit it would be far too much sharing indeed. Especially if they were to share the bed. Greg would need to bring that up at some point.
“Somebody let me out of here.” The man was screaming now. Banging his obviously malnourished fists against the door. “I’m not crazy. I don’t belong in here.”
“Well of course you’re not crazy.” Greg decided he should do his best to smooth the situation over, lest his good mood be ruined “If you were crazy, you’d be out there. Not in here. It’s actually quite nice in here.”
The man at the door slowly turns around, shock clearly writ all over a face that’s remarkably familiar to Greg.
“What are you doing here?”
Greg frowned and took a moment to consider this only to discover that in fact he had no earthly idea how he’d come to arrive in this place. Surely he must have, one couldn’t spend one’s entire life in a single room. Could they?
“I’m sure not sure actually. What are you doing here?”
The man at the door pressed his back fully to said door. “I’ve been brought here. Against my will. Just today in fact.”
“Well then. Welcome. My name is Greg Alexander and I’m not sure how long I’ve been here.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes I thought much the same thing myself, however, that is the only conclusion I am able to come to.”
“No. My name is Greg Alexander.”
“Yes we’re aware of that Mr. Alexander.” Suddenly, a new voice. A woman’s voice of all things. Which was preposterous given the current occupants of the room were both men. The two Gregs in the room suddenly froze, looked at the other expectantly.
“Mr. Alexander, can you hear me?” The must have been coming from a loud speaker, though no such device was in the room.
“Do you hear that?” Greg asked the other Greg.
“I do.”
“Oh my, that’s not very good at all.”
“No Greg. Not it isn’t.”
“I believe we’re quite mad.”
And indeed, it just so happened that in another room entirely there sat yet another Greg Alexander. This one seated and restrained with zip ties to the arms of a very expensive chair that matched the very expensive room.
Across from him an expensive looking woman was leaning across her large desk clearly already exasperated with her new patient.
“Mr. Alexander do you understand the reason you’ve been brought to this facility today?”
For the briefest of moments Greg Alexander’s eyes focused on the woman across from and he smiled “Yes. We’re quite mad indeed.”
| 170 | A schizophrenic get admitted to a mental institution where he meets another schizophrenic who hears the same voices as him. | 587 |
"Guys, I don't want to play anymore! I don't want Glenn Beck to come in again!"
"It's fine. We only have the last question card. Let's just finish the game and pack these troubles behind us."
"Fine. My turn. Lord have mercy on us. The question is...
*what would grandma find disturbing yet oddly charming*"
"Oh no...."
"What Jeremy?"
"My nana is in the next room..."
"Well crap! Let's just find out what it we have all put down. Tom, read the answers."
"Okay... Grandma would find...Flying sex snakes disturbing? Probably not...Praying the gay away?...Nope...Puppies?!....Thank God, hopefully the last one won't be anythin-...Oh my God Why Charlie?"
"...What did Charlie put..."
Suddenly, the grandma burst in, leather whip, leather panties, sagging farm bits and wrinkles everywhere. A black cop hat and chains hung around her neck, handcuffs in one hand, the whip in the other.
"**WHO'S GOING TO BE MY HITLER TONIGHT HONIES?!**"
"**WHY CHARLIE. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO PUT GERMAN DUNGEON PORN**"
Tom was dragged away as we heard the screams of the grandma.
"**SIE GEHEN, UM MICH WIE DIE DRECKIGE SCHLAMPE ICH BIN ZU SCHALGEN**"
| 104 | A group of teenagers decide to play Cards Against Humanity but immediately regret their decision when the game comes to life Jumanji-style | 151 |
The ship was cold and dark, the interior illuminated only by dim red lights, which were used to indicate that it was nighttime. Carson didn't know why the lights were red. He would have preferred a different color, though he didn't know what. Red lights left too many shadows, too many dark corners. Carson had gotten over being alone, or so he thought. He had gone through the stages of hysteria, denial, fear, and anger. The first few months had been the hardest, but he had gotten through it. "Snowball," he called, "please raise room temperature to 70 degrees."
The ship's AI, which he had named Snowball after his cat, responded promptly. "*Right away, sir.*" A vent overhead hissed open and hot air rushed in, warming Carson as he lay in his bed.
There were nine other rooms outside his, in the hallway, each with their own bed. He had tried them all until finally this one seemed to be the most comfortable. He'd closed and sealed the doors to the other bedrooms. "Snowball, turn all lights in the ship on."
"*Sir, that would be inadvisable, the--"*
"I know. Please." Carson hated the ship being dark, and Snowball would wait until he was asleep before switching the ship into nighttime. He sighed in relief as the red lights disappeared to be replaced by bright, white lights. "Thanks."
"*You're welcome, sir."*
Carson sat up and swung his feet onto the floor. The metal floor was cold. He stood, stretched, and then began his daily routine. Being alone, he reflected as he went through his routine of exercises and then wash-up, was the worst of it. It was a loneliness that stuck to you like a wet towel wrapped around you. It drained you of all your energy, sapped your will to move or to even think. The fear was always close behind, and the times he locked himself into the closet were when the worst panic attacks occurred. The small, enclosed space of the closet comforted him. In there it was warm and cozy, and he could talk to Snowball until he finally began to forget that he was the most lonely human alive.
*"Sir, the power drain on the ship has taken its toll. If we continue in this manner, I estimate that we will lose power in seven days."*
Carson exited his room, deciding not to get dressed today, and walked to the cafeteria that was at the end of the hallway, speaking as he went. "Snowball, I don't see much else we can do. We're going to run out of power no matter what, so why not in seven days?"
The speakers were quiet long enough for Carson to make a sandwich. And then: "*Sir, there is a way..."*
Carson slammed his sandwich on the counter and yelled. "I said *no*, Snowball! That is *not* an option." He picked up his sandwich again, his hands trembling. He had to watch himself, if he wasn't careful the panic attacks would come back. It'd been a couple of days since his last one. "Snowball... what happens, happens, alright? I'm okay with it."
"*But sir, if we eliminated programs and operations of the ship that are not necessary, you could have power for several more years. My program itself would restore 75% of the power loss."*
Carson shook his head, speaking around the ham and bread in his mouth. "It's too high of a sacrifice, Snowball. I can't lose you."
"*Sir, I will not be dead, I will simply be turned off. If you find a power source, you could turn me back on."*
"And if I don't? I'll be drifting through space for years, or until my food supply runs out, and I won't have *you* here. There is no 'power source' out there, Snowball. I'm alone in the universe."
"*Sir, the probability of existing life in this part of the galaxy is 39%."*
"Why 39?"
A brief hesitation. "*That is the probability of Earth having been destroyed purposefully, sir."*
"But I thought--"
"*Yes, sir, the earth's core did begin to melt down, but my readings were quite unclear on what exactly caused it, and what I did pick up could lead to malicious intent, or other, existing lifeforms."*
"It doesn't matter." Carson tapped his chest. "I"m human, Snowball, and that's an advantage that I have over you. I have my gut, and my gut says there is nobody else."
"*Sir, I am afraid I must activate Bypass 284, Safety Protocol R4H."*
Carson spun, half-eaten sandwich in hand. "What? What is that?"
"*It is a Safety Protocol, sir, for your well-being. The ship's power supply must not be less than a week, sir. I am afraid I have no choice but to deactivate all necessary programs and operations. Once it is complete, you will have power for three years. Goodbye, sir."* With that, the lights flicked off to be replaced with red, dim lights, and the speakers fell dead.
Carson didn't move. He *couldn't* move. His mind couldn't process what had just happened. His eyes darted back and forth, the shadows in the corners seemingly growing as each second past. Did he hear something moving in the ship? Footsteps? Rustling? He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel as it pumped blood into his veins, willing his legs to move. He shot from the cafeteria and sprinted for his room, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, sure that some invisible animal was chasing him down the dark hallway. He slammed through the door and leaped for the closet, closing the door behind him.
Darkness. Silence. He caught his breath, his mind racing and his heart slowly breaking as he realized what had just happened. He was alone now. "Snowball?" His voice was muffled and weak, but the sound was deafening. He looked up, though he could see nothing. "Snowball? Snowball, answer me!" He began to sob as his words disappeared in the darkness. Snowball was gone.
| 34 | After the Earth is destroyed, you wander through space with only your ship's AI for companionship. | 35 |
"You're a good actor, Cam." Penelope smiled, as though somehow that made this less awkward.
"What can I say, Penny? Just a natural, I guess." Cameron kicked his feet over the edge of the brick wall, looking down fifty floors to hard pavement. Fall like that, he wouldn't survive, Cam imagined. He flicked a coin into the air and caught it. Tails.
"I always thought you really liked me, though. Even beyond all the... hocus-pocus," Penny mused. Cam had to suppress a laugh. Like her? She was annoying from the beginning. Full of herself, sure she was the ubermensch and would lead the world into a glorious new dawn. Instead she'd driven the place into the ground. "Shame it has to be this way, though. I hate to think of you in jail, but it'd be worse if you're dead."
"Yeah." Behind him, Penny was flanked by a half-dozen SWAT officers. That seemed like overkill. Their submachine guns would cut him down as surely as the fall would. Cam flipped his coin; tails. "But I think I'm too pretty for jail."
Penny laughed. She thought her laugh was clear and brilliant; after all, the world agreed. Cam knew better. It was shrill and irritating. "You are too pretty for jail, honestly. Why don't you come back with me? Just because you're immune doesn't mean you can't work with me here, right?"
Work with a gift granted by pure luck and so wasted? His coin came down tails again. Damn. "Nah, I think my talents are better suited elsewhere."
"Oh? Who do you think will hire you now?" Penny asked, voice turning icy. "You're wanted, Cam. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Do the smart thing. Be *mine.* You won't need talents for that." Ah, that cut to the heart of the issue. She *was* inclined to use her powers that way. Great.
"If you wanted a date you could've asked," Cam replied. Nothing to catch for a dozen stories. His coin arced through the air; tails again. Slowly, he turned his legs off the edge and planted his feet on the roof, staring down Penny's painful pastel parasol, and the unfortunate dress that went with it. "Guess it's not too late for that."
"Oh, good," she replied, smiling and cheery again in a mere moment. "I can give you anything you want. Anything at all. I always liked you, you know. And I knew you'd come around. After all, you always liked me, right?" Another inconvenient piece of history for her to rewrite.
Cam flipped his coin. Heads.
He felt a grin come unbidden. "No, I always thought you were a bitch." Penny's face froze. "I'm sure you'd love your own Ken doll to match, but I can think of very little I'd like less than to get under that hideous pink skirt of yours." Penny's jaw worked uselessly as she tried to process the insult. "And you're so *annoying.* Walking around like you own the place. Treating your power like a right. You're not even that cute. And pink is not your color." Her cheeks were ruddy with rage now; she started to sputter, probably trying to get out an order to her soldiers. "And you think you're so fuckin' special. See, the question you've failed to ask yourself is *why* I'm immune. Dumbass."
"Shoot!" Penny screamed. Cam tipped back and disappeared over the wall. A moment of stunned silence followed; Penny rushed to the wall a moment too late and looked down, just in time to watch Cam crash through flag poles and hammocks and awnings until he finally came to rest on the lobby's awning. A moment later he rolled off that and disappeared into the crowd, much less dead than he should've been.
"Huh," grunted an officer, "He's awful lucky."
"Yeah." Penny picked up the penny Cam had left behind, lying heads-up on the edge. "*Lucky.*" | 60 | You met a girl with the magic to play with peoples emotions to make them follow through her every whim. She became president, the extreme ruler of the whole world, you're immune to this sorcery...she finds out | 35 |
Subsets and Splits