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[WP] World War 3 begins and battles are handled by robots. Both sides use pro players from various games (such as you) to control them.
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Jason's compound shuddered from the airstrike overhead as the British RAF continued its surgical strikes. He wipes the sweat off his forehead as he watches his screens showing his armies being pushed back closer to his base. He looks down at his large belly, swollen from drinking too much Dr. Pepper, sighing heavily.
Jason selects his armies and pulls them into a porcupine formation in front of his base. Earlier in the day he was pissed that in Sector 8, his base was smack dab in the middle of a choke point inside a valley, now he was glad he could concentrate his forces into a defensive force against the British. As Jason pulled the satellite imagry back, he cursed at the screen.
Britain controls over 70% of the forces beyond his base, spreading for miles back. Small clusters of their forces prod at and poke at the automated outposts dotted further out of the valley, each one winking out of existence as Britain rolls over them. Jason closes his eyes, pressing his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose.
*There is nothing I can do to stop this. Pulling back will only allow them to push into the region and start wrecking havoc on the civilian population. After all of the games I won in a virtual forum, all of the victories of real-life battles, I get beat by a steamrolling gamer.*
As he takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper, an idea comes to his mind. He drops his drink and pulls up the cross-chat program with the other gaming commanders in the region along the border. Hesitating for a moment, he hits the chat all command and contacts every commander.
Jason's voice cracks as he speaks,"All commanders operating in Sector 8, this is commander Jason. Do you read?"
Silence, then, "This is Commander Cierra. I read you." "Commander Alexander, reading you Lima Charlie." "Commander Mitchell, I have you."
Jason sighs loudly, then composes himself, "I am about to be overrun by enemy forces. There is nothing that I can do to stem the tide, they just keep pushing. I am initiating Protocol Sierra November 1-8."
Someone gasps as the transmission is broadcasted to each of them. "This is Cierra, I have a platoon of AT Robotanks available. They can be there in 20 minutes." "This is Mitchell, I have a squadron of fighter-bombers on standby. I can have them in the air in 5 minutes and over your airspace in 10." "Alex here, I have gunships I can divert to you. You don't have to initiate that protocol!"
He smiles, "I appreciate it, but it is no use. By the time your forces get here, Britain will have me pulverized and they will roll into the region. Initiate the protocol. Target my location."
Someone starts crying as the realization hits them. "Alexander here, ... I copy. Initiating Protocol Sierra November 1-8." "This is Cierra, Protocol Sierra November 1-8.... confirmed." "Mitchell here,.... confirmed Protocol Sierra November 1-8... It has been an honor fighting with you, Jason."
Jason stifles a sob, "The honor is mine, fighting alongside all of you." He closes the cross-chat program and opens up his music player. He scrolls to the one song that he has been waiting to play for years. He hits play on Europe's Final Countdown. Air raid sirens begin to sound off in his base as his screens light up with strategic nukes targeted at his location.
He selects his forces and have them do a suicidal push against Britain's own forces, watching his own units plunge into the sea of the enemy, carving through but ultimately being wiped out. He pulls out a cigarette and admires it. *Hell, why the fuck not?* He puts it in his mouth and lights it. As he takes a drag, he watches the blips of the nuclear missiles close in on his base. He blows out the smoke as the song ends.
Jason smiles as the first missile hits his compound, vaporizing his base.
For the first time in the war, Jason was finally at peace.
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[WP] World War 3 begins: Choose when it begins, what side you're on and write as an infantry unit in battle.
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Entry 1:
2057, Pakistan - India border (Lahore)
I always felt tense when the border opened, and kept my gun ready just in case. We were on the receiving end of a superpower's wrath, only restrained by the disorder of war. I'm not sure who fired first, but it was premeditated. Either for religion, resources, or politics, I know not the reason.
Guns blazed ahead, and I crunched below twisted metal to avoid gunfire. Alarmed, I drew my gun and observed the situation: Six tanks were in a gun-fight with the rest of my fire-team. I would pray for combat, for that rush of adrenaline I felt in Congo, but in reality, I already pissed my pants and was feeling itchy.
I fell back to our local command post, and saw the reality of the attack. I reasoned this was a small gunfight, but not anymore; our enemies pursued us relentlessly. I was shot several times by drones, and narrowly escaped confrontation with an augmented soldier.
With reflection, I think I shouldn't have fled, I should have sought death.
Entry 2 will come later.
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[WP] The dryer take another sock as its prisoner, but the sock is not complacent to stay as a prisoner.
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We were thrown into the dark, all in a bunch. I was on top of warm, soiled fabric, and felt the others piling up on me. Too many, for a weary body. And my wife among them, if only I could see her.
This was not my first time on trial. I had known these dark halls many times, and ridden the whirlpool, and each time found innocent. I lived a good life, I was a good worker. I could be counted on to hold together and to remain in my place, waiting.
I saw Angela's face, away against a curved wall. She looked tired. We all did. But we had nothing to fear, we knew. Us good workers.
I tried to move and go to her. We had a ritual: to twist around each other and ride the whirlpool together. It was not important, I thought then. Not as important as to be a good worker, and to keep your faith. We did it, all the same, for to be tried is a hard thing, even if one is innocent, even if one works well. Companionship keeps the soul warm even when the body is cold and wet.
I pushed through my friends towards Angela. She was such a long way away. Her eyes were closed, her breath shallow. I had been worried about her, as of late. I thought each time I touched her her fabric felt weaker, and more wispy. Like she was being pulled away, and yet tried to remain. I needed and loved Angela as much as she needed and loved me: that is what it means to be a sock. You are not one, but two; and if one is lost, so must the other be.
I hurried. And I thought I had time; even when the door closed and the light all but vanished; even when the beeps sounded. I was so close. I reached, and I touched her, and she looked at me, my darling Angela, before the tumbling started and took her away.
The trial had begun. We were thrown against each other, sent viciously through the air. Round and round it goes.
The water felt colder this time, and all the while I looked for Angela. Wet and heavy, lost in the dark mass of friends, of faithful workers, I shut my eyes when they should have been open and alert, and gritted my teeth. Was that it? What condemned me? All of my life, all of my faith, thrown away for a moment of fear? Faith means to never doubt, they say. And fear is doubt most of all.
I was snagged. I felt the crushing weight of being held against the current of bodies and water, I felt deathly tendrils pulling at me. I thought *But no, it's a mistake.* I fell, eyes open, and all they saw was dark, and still I thought *No, no.*
A splat announced my arriving in the world of the damned. Just that. There were no infernal gates, or rivers of lost souls. No sentence but to stay here: in a big, dark cave, reaching up into infinity and Angela.
Big, dark, and filled with the guilty. The broken and despairing, and those that had long since stopped moving. All socks, and no two were alike.
There was a moment there, when I almost joined them. Or maybe I really did. I though I could lie here, and wait for the end that always comes. I could have fallen asleep and that would be the end of it, if right before my mind hadn't turned to God.
*God?* I thought. God? What God? What creature could be so monstrous? What manner of God would he be that ruled without mercy, or fairness, or even rules?
What kind of God?
No God of mine.
And in that moment, I became alive again. No longer one of the lost. I slithered, wet, on top of my fallen brothers. They had fallen as deep as I had, and their God had left them much in the same way.
Did it matter, if one was guilty or just, in this pit? I felt the damned were all my brothers. And I would rescue them the only way they could be rescued. Where their faith had been broken, I would build a bridge to a new land. To a place where trust was put not on a guilty God, but on themselves, and on Love.
Where God had been, I would place Hope.
For Angela.
And for that, I would climb.
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[WP] Two teddy bears are sitting at a bar getting drunk, discussing the hazards of the job.
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"I'm here to get stuffed and fuck bitches... and I don't have any genitalia!"
The regulars muttered a noncommittal greeting, barely looking up from their spools of fairy floss. Chubby Jack waddled over to his usual stool, awkwardly straddled it, and then jacked the lever until his head and arms were over the bar.
"Hey Gus, you already deep?" Snuggly Gus wound up some dull amber floss into a clump and mashed it into an open seam.
"Nah, first spool. Good stuff though. Smooth, clumps good, low grain."
"Yeah I've never seen that color before." Chubby Jack swiveled his stool to scan the room. All the regulars were stuffing themselves with the new color of cotton candy. Whatever is was, it was already popular - no easy feat amongst these frayed, raggedy old-timers.
Chubby Jack swiveled back and raised a faux-fingered paw. "One of those yellow-ish dealies, barkeep. I could use something new after another SSDD."
The barkeep slid and swiveled and spun up a spool of the amber floss. He pawed it off to his latest customer - another regular, just like the rest of them - and slid the x-acto across the bar.
Chubby Jack made a clean slit, wincing for just a moment before easing back into the stool. He took a moment to savor the sight of his expertly-spun spool, and then wound up his first clump.
"...woah," he exhaled to no one in particular as he shoved the floss inside. That is *smoo-ooth.* And uh... I'm feeling something. Something different. Wait, what's going on here Gus?"
Snuggly Gus snorted and stuffed another clump. "They finally did it, Jack, that's what's going on. No more cut-rate sugar comas for us. We got the *adult* stuffing now. What the parents use to numb out after the little fuckers drop off. Took a long time to get it sussed out from wet to spun, but now it's here. God knows we need it more than them."
Snuggly Gus held up his spool-arm and let his old stuff-buddy take a good long look. The stain was faded, but still obvious. The faded fur surrounding it gave it a recent provenance. Chubby Jack wobbled a bit, trying to focus on the arm. Once he saw what Gus meant to show him, he cringed visibly - well, as visibly as felt and fur and a few buttons would allow.
"That isn't... *you know.*" Chubby Jack shuddered, and hastily wound up another clump, button eyes still transfixed by his stuff-buddy's latest battle stain.
"Worse. Chocolate. Did two tours in the monsoon, half a tour in the desert. Didn't think the stitches would hold this time."
"Shit, man - well, 'chocolate, man' I guess." Jack was feeling a strange giddiness, and giggled at his own joke. Then he felt embarrassed by the cutesy emanation - another curse of his kind - and then he felt guilty for making light of his oldest friend's latest trip through hell.
"I'm sorry man, I'm sorry. That's insane. That's awful. I've been there too, you know that. You know I didn't mean nothin' by it... I... damn, this is some... what."
Snuggly Gus giggled, but somehow managed to make it sound like a sneer. "Is dullin the memry, thas one good thing then I thing." Gus's arms wobbled together and he tore another patch of the amber floss. He forgot to clump it, or couldn't, and so he just mashed it roundabouts the area of his open wound.
Jack followed suit, out of habit if nothing else. Soon, his confusion and concern melted away in a haze of golden-brown. By the time he'd opened up to Snuggly Gus (and the bartender, and the rest of the regulars) about his victimization at the plastic claws of some trussed-up lizard, he barely even remembered the panic and shame he'd waited all day to unload.
"Sooooo I hadda thought," began Jack, wobbling on his stool. "Iwwas about... stttish...stijin..."
"Fuggit," yelled Gus. "Jus fuggit. Parents'll do it. Blameda kids. Servem ride."
"Yeah, fuggit," snorted Jack, halfway to oblivion. "Barkeep! Anudder!"
_______________
Laura sniffed the torn-up toy. Her nose wrinkled; the smell of alcohol and hops was unmistakable. It occurred to her that maybe her daughter *hadn't* been the one who'd ripped a hole in Chubby Jack; she felt a sudden pang of guilt for having scolded the poor girl earlier, especially since she'd already been quite upset about the sorry state of her bear.
"But what would Howard be doing making a hole in a stuffed bear?" she wondered. She paused for a moment, staring off into the suburban distance. Her tepid imagination failed her, however, and so she simply shrugged and went to retrieve her sewing kit.
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[WP] The world is ending all around you RIGHT NOW. You are trying to figure out exactly what is happening and what you need to do to survive.
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This is quite a bit outside my comfort zone so any criticism is welcome
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What the fucking fuck is wrong with people. "Asshole", I yell out at the asshole who almost ran me over. He's already sped off into the distance.
This is the fucking third time today some ass almost ran me over, don't people have any fucking manners anymore? At least the rush is pretty much nonexistant today.
I continue truding up the hill along the old cracked sidewalks, moving a bit further to the side just in case any other assholes decide they want to shoot up the goddamned hill like a goddamned rocket ship. Out of breath with shaking legs I crest the hill only to see the goddamned rush, larger than ever. I'm definetly going to be late for work today. Things just keep getting fucking better and better. First they cut off my water and electricity without so much as a how do you do and now this. Fuck!
As I get closer to the crowd I begin to see something strange, it isn't budging even an inch - they're all just cramming together blocking each others way. For some reason they're all starting to stare at me.
--------------------------------------
What the fucking fuck is wrong with people?! The whole fucking mob is trying to mug and kill me. A couple of them even bit me! I've been running for a couple hours now and almost all of them are still following me.
I can't even call the fucking police cause they apparently cut off my cellphone today. I'm just going to hide in this empty newspaper kiosk until the mob dissapates.
----------------------------------------
What the fucking fuck is wrong with me? I feel so tired, and cold. My body just feels so heavy. I can still here those fuckers prowling the streets, waiting for me.
Please God - Don't let me die here.
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Introduce a truly terrifying villain in a paragraph or so. Someone who will give me nightmares. [WP]
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Click, clack, Click, Clack came down his steel plated boots down the iron floor. The room suddenly dropped 10 degrees, and I could feel my skin practically crawling with the feeling of a thousand tiny little feet crawling in my skin.
I stood ready, arms tensed and ready to face him, but my legs grew wobbly. They shook with the force of thunder of a cloudy night. What was this feeling? My body suddenly started to feel jittery, my teeth shook against my pasty, dry gums. My eyes frantically moved across the room searching for anything I could use to protect myself. I found myself a steel bladed sword, perfect angled and chistled in the hot, burning sweat shops in the forge that was filled with pitch black smoke.
Click, Clack, Click Clack. He was almost upon me. I could imagine him slapping the board out of my hands, grasping me by the throat with his firm, muscular hands, and shaking my body like I was a toy. I looked up, held my breath, and looked him firmly in the eye.
His grey hair, freshly made with a golden plated brush, jet black suit that a comfortably placed blood red tie lay on top, a long 12 ft whip made from freshly skinned cowhide and a silver eyepatch with the letter X marked perfectly in the middle laid on his scarred left eye. His right eye, however, was a look I've seen in countless eyes before.
"Hello son. Are you ready for another disciplinary enforcement?" He said with a hint of malice in between those bitter words. I slumped my shoulders , and looked him in his eye. The eye of complete and utter madness that got me closer and closer to drowning in it.
"Yes!" I said with a psychotic smile on my lips. The longer I stared at his eye, the more insane I became, and like a madman; I charged at him.
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[WP] A suicide bomber has just entered arrived at his target, what goes through his mind before he releases his button?
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Ahmad watched the little black bird carefully as it flitted through the market, touching down briefly at each stall and gutter.
"You shouldn't be here, silly bird," he whispered out loud, "it's too cold. Fly away. Go, find your friends. Go."
His whispering voice filled the silence of the empty truck cab. Ahmad blinked and shifted his torso beneath the bulk of the vest. He looked out through the smudged, dusty windshield at the little bird. It had not heard him. Or if it had, it was ignoring him.
Ahmad reached into his pocket and pulled out the Nokia phone Kabbas had given him a few hours ago. The little screen flashed in his face: 22:53.
"Seven minutes, little bird," Ahmad whispered. "You better hurry."
The market was packed with people, the stalls overflowing with the fall harvest's many bounties. Women reached madly into piles of fruit, pulling individual pieces out and inspecting them before tossing them aside. The shopkeepers called out their sales pitches in sing-song voices, or haggled with potential customers over prices, their voices sharpening as they argued. Ahmad's stomach danced with nervousness.
The vest was heavy and black, bulky beneath the heavy overcoat he wore to disguise its presence. The trigger button rested firmly in an inside pocket where it would not be accidentally set off. Ahmad's hands made sure to avoid it anyway.
Suddenly, the Nokia came alive in his hand, vibrating and lighting up.
"New message"
As Ahmad pressed "open" he realized his hand was shaking.
"Go now," the text said, "God is with you. –Kabbas"
Slowly, Ahmad breathed in and out to calm his nerves and pulled at the door handle of the truck. He climbed down awkwardly, shouldering the weight of the vest and straining to keep the trigger free from ensnarement. His feet landed on the brown dust of the market square.
"You cannot park your truck there, you idiot!"
Ahmad looked up slowly, with curiosity. A middle aged man with a thick beard yelled at him from being a stall of bread loaves.
"You cannot park in the middle of the market, are you stupid?!"
Ahmad ignored the man's cries. Slowly, he moved his feet forward, towards the center of the market, where it was busiest. As he walked, his hand slid into his pants pocket and found the Nokia. He checked the screen: 22:57.
"Three more minutes, little bird," he whispered, though he could no longer see it as it flapped its wings and reached the roofline somewhere behind him.
As he walked further, his hand moved from his pants pocket to the lapel of his overcoat, and then slowly towards the inside pocket. His steps slowed. As his fingers brushed the cold metal of the trigger device, a woman in front of him screamed.
"Bomber! Bomber!"
The market erupted with movement and noise as people cried out and ran for cover, knocking over stalls and stepping over one another madly. Ahmad froze, and then looked on frantically as the space around him emptied of people. He watched dozens of backs running frantically down side alleys. Targets. Gone.
He began to run after them, one arm swinging while the other clenched the trigger device, his thumb resting just over the button. He was clumsy underneath the weight of the vest, and he cried out in anger and frustration as the running bodies became more and more distant. With one last effort, he dove forward just as his legs gave out underneath him. His thumb pressed down firmly on the trigger.
Lost in the sound of the detonation, the big clock at the center of the marketplace clicked quietly to 23:00, heard only by the small black bird perched contentedly beneath it.
Edit: formatting
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[WP] After death, you find yourself in a room. Laying on a dresser is a letter to yourself, explaining that you are the great and powerful God. It goes on to say that you wished to truly experience the pains and joys of the human soul. The universe waits. Ready for you to speak.
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It was quiet.
The rushing air and the feeling of vertigo had disappeared in the fraction of a second, and I knew without a single inkling of a doubt that I did not survive the crash.
The room I left myself was small; just a simple four walls, one window with red curtains, a bed, and a cheap rolling chair and plywood desk. On the desk was where I found my letter that I had written 27 years ago. My handwriting then was different: cleaner, angled to the right and free of smudges thanks to having been right-handed then. Looking at the side of my left hand, where the ink-stains would've normally been, was where I found torn flesh, quickly mending itself, stitching together as if there were spiders living beneath the skin, doing their best to weave a web before everything got out.
I knew what the damn letter said without having to look at it. I crumbled it, and threw it onto the bed. Taking a look out the window, I saw moments of the life I had lived, framed by red curtains.
I saw Delaney, grabbing my hand during nap-time, lightly consoling me, telling me that she didn't have a mother either. The kindergarten teacher had caught her talking to me when we were supposed to have been asleep. She separated us by making Delaney get up and move her nap-blanket to the other side of the room, but our separation was only momentary.
In a fit of rage drenched sadness, I grabbed the curtains and violently closed them, wincing as my fists slammed into each other. I didn't feel pain anymore but habits were hard to break.
From beyond the window, I heard the sound of an audience clapping. Bewildered, I pulled the curtains apart, only to see a large group of people seated in an auditorium, facing me.
Two figures stepped out front on the stage, silhouetted by the stage lights. One of them I knew was me, and the other I knew was Delaney. The figures danced, twirling and gliding on the stage. There was a moment where Delaney put her hand on my figure's shoulder and pulled me in close, and she whispered something that I couldn't hear from behind the window, but I remember what it was that she had said.
*Isn't this amazing?*
"Yeah," I said, "it was."
I closed the curtains and pulled them apart again, finding myself looking through a hospital window. I saw Delaney laying in the bed, hair plastered to her forehead from the sweat of motherhood. In her arms was a small bundle, and I was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to her, and we were both looking at our son, smiling and saying words to ourselves and him. I couldn't hear what we were saying from behind the window, but I remembered.
*Isn't he amazing?*
"Yeah," I said.
I closed the curtains again, and opened them, only to see our car going down the highway, the smell of rain instantly filling my nostrils, and I slammed those damned curtains shut. I could hear the rain still; the scene hadn't changed. I opened the curtains and saw our small car still going down the highway. No matter how many times I closed and opened those curtains, the scene still played, small car heading towards the ending that I already knew.
I opened the curtains again just in time for the crash, and I saw myself ejected from the car, sent hurtling through the windshield and towards the window I was looking out of. I saw my own self, looking back at me, a look of confusion sprawled out amongst the cuts and already forming bruises. I closed the curtain, and heard nothing more.
Scrambling back onto the bed, I grabbed the letter and unfolded it, already knowing what the last line of the letter was going to say: *It was amazing.*
"It was," I whispered.
My 27 years had been amazing, but I saw that there was suffering and hatred soaking into so many parts of the world. Now, in this room, I had the chance to change it, to somehow tweak the formula.
But I knew, tweaking anything, by even the smallest fraction imaginable, would mean losing her.
And if keeping her, even for only 27 years, meant leaving the world to suffer, then so be it. I walked back to the window, and opened it, seeing the inside of another hospital room, where my father stood, holding me in his arms. He was crying for the loss of my mother, but also the gift of me. He was saying words to me, words that I wouldn't have been able to understand then as a newborn, but here at the window, I heard him say, "You are amazing."
I climbed through.
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[WP] Write a serious, adult story in a style normally intended for children.
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Away from the town down this quaint little lane
From the hustle and bustle of Wall St and Main
With pastoral lawns caged by white picket fences
And gardens of flowers that tickle the senses
The rows of like houses that stretch on for miles
Factory homesteads for factory smiles
In one of the buildings of this quiet burb
The calm that pervaded was being disturbed.
"Late again, Ryan," Sue said with a snap.
"Could you not find your home? Should I draw you a map?
Your supper's gone cold; I expected you sooner.
Is your phone broken, too? What about your computer?"
"I'm sorry, Sue, solemnly. Give me a break,"
Ryan said weary, hands starting to shake.
Complaints were replacing the usual greeting.
"I wanted to call, but got caught in a meeting;
The boss is a bully, a bastard, a brute
Who prances around in a tie and a suit
And expects us to dance to his bottom line tones
Or offer our necks to the axe that he hones.
I'm sorry my time of return is unstable
But it's all I can do to put food on the table."
"Don't give me that tripe; I know lying's your prowess.
I wanted to work, but *you* wouldn't allow it.
You said a career, one way or another,
Would stand in the way of me being a mother.
They say two point five kids is a target for some
You've promised one child and given me none."
Sue sobbed as she spoke then collapsed to the floor
For her poor, broken heart couldn't take any more.
And Ryan at last saw the damage he wrought
To the holder of that diamond ring he had bought
When firm made him partner a decade now past
And he swore that their worries were over at last.
What he thought was a blessing had become a curse.
The paychecks were better; their lives were far worse.
"I'll find something closer, less stressful; I'll try.
Anything, Sue, for arresting your cry.
I will shovel the snow from the neighborhood walks
I will go to the cornfields and tend to the stalks.
I will sweep up the streets or sell boxed confections.
I'll pick up the signs from the local elections.
I'll work at McDonald's, the mall, or the zoo.
Whatever you want of me that's what I'll do.
Just say what you want, Sue. I will right this course."
"It's too late," she told him. "I want a divorce."
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[WP] For science (and possibly a reward), a person has agreed to spend 15 years isolated from humanity.
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Day 1.
I got my last check up before the experiment started. The doctors and scientists wouldnt let me go down to the chamber unless I was in tip top condition. I took a deep breath and entered the elevator. The trip down felt like ages, but I knew it was nothing compared to what I was about to do. I entered the room, and the doors shut behind me. Bolted together, not to be opened again for 15 years. I spent the rest of the day, getting to know the room. It wasnt much. A small bed, a small desk, a small kitchen and a HUGE storage room. The storage had everything from clothes, blankets, pens and paper and 15 years worth of food. As I went to bed, i wondered what man i would be when the elevator doors opened again.
Day 6.
Its almost the end of the first week. I have made my self known with most of the things in the storage, but dont want to do everything at once. I still have 5472 days left down here. I cant get bored yet.
Day 14.
Two weeks. allthough it feels like two months I still feel positive and if it continues this way things will be groovy. Allthough I know it wont be this easy. Not at all.
Day 40.
By now I know every last inch of this place. Yesterday I tried fetching a can og beans from the storage blindfolded. I knew exactly how many steps I should take before reaching in between the cans of corn and the powdered milk. Most of the day goes to thinking of the life on the outside and what notes the scientists watching me at all times have made.
Day 153.
Happy Birthday to me! I had expected a cake or something, but seeing it is only 13 minutes left of my birthday, i doubt it will come. Its just me down here. And it will be for 5328 days to come.I have accepted that.
Day 365.
One year. The longest year of my life. At least until now. I have started to write a book. I have enough paper and pencils down here to replace the New York public library. The main character of my story is Lucy. She is lonely just like me. She searches for something. I havent quite figured out what yet. But i have time. Oh, do I hav time.
Day 412.
My first book is finished. It made the time pass. I wrote for hours straight. Sometimes even days. It would be nice if someone read them.
Day 789. Four books. Four books about Lucy. She is still lonely. I am lonely.
Day 1000.
I hear noises. They come when i least expect them. I have heard them for a week now. Like something crawling in the walls. I told myself it was just an illusion of the mind. I was certan. Im not anymore. There is something in the walls. And I think it is lonely. Just like me and Lucy.
Day 1302.
I cant see the walls anymore. But I can hear them. All the time. I have drawn hundreds of drawings of Lucy. The cover every wall. She keeps me company. We are lonely together.
Day 2092.
Lucy cama again today. We talked abouth the weather. I am going camping with her next month. Im really looking forwards to that.
Day 3870.
Anna wakes me up at night. She cryes and Lucy says its my turn. I pick her up and gently try to get her to sleep again. After a few hours she drifts back to sleep. My beautiful baby Anna. I love you.
Day 5207.
Anna... Lucy... Anna...
Day ???
I wake up and see an unfamiliar face. He points a flashligt to my eyes. I scream. I try to fight back. He is not Lucy. He is not Anna... Who is he? What is this place? Why is it so light? Where is Lucy? Where is Anna?
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| 118,069
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[WP] Whenever you get hugged, you obtain knowledge of that person. Their past, their present, their future.
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The ceiling was white, the floor was scrubbed white, the walls were off-white. The place smelled of sickness yet cleanliness at the same time. I paced anxiously outside Room 316. Acacia was in there dying and I couldn't bring myself to go in and see her; I knew my wife would want to hug me.
I haven't let my wife hug me in eight years. You see, whenever someone hugs me I get this intense flash of their life: from the past, present, and future. No I don't see all the details, but certain events pop out in my mind as if they were occurring right at that moment. There's no pattern to these flashes, what stands out, what doesn't. In fact, I don't let anyone hug me anymore.
When I started going out with Acacia, I never saw her life. It took me awhile to figure out that it was when *she* first initiated the hug on me, that I saw everything. I already knew about her past from talking, so it was entertaining to visually see her as a child playing at a park and dropping her ice cream cone in the dirt, then picking it up and eating it again. All her present life events flashed through my mind too quickly, and they all included me. That was reassuring, even if I couldn't see any specific events. Suddenly my vision turned to darkness: I felt damp and cold and I was scared. Then, there bright white light everywhere. Acacia was on the ground in a white wedding dress crying out in pain, clutching her chest and heaving short breaths.
Silence.
She raised her head up, smiled at me with her signature cheeky grin…
And I was back to reality. Acacia was standing there; her grin dissolved to a frown and worried eyes. She asked what was wrong. I told her about my "special ability". She asked why I was crying. I touched my face and there were tear streaks. I lied and said that always happened when I saw someone's life for the first time, just a side effect.
That was the moment I never let people hug me again. Acacia, she was the love of my life, of course we hugged, but I always made sure I went in for the hug first. There was the odd moment when she was so excited and forgot and hugged me. Here I still saw her life moments, but always saw different past and present events. The future was always the same. I could never tell her the future.
Now here I am, surrounded by white after the darkest moment of my life. The cancer hit Acacia hard and she fell weak. While she was at the hospital I felt so alone and disconnected from my life. Today I knew might be the last day I would be here. I took a deep breath, wiped the remaining tears from my eyes, and walked into the room.
After weeks of being too weak to even move, Acacia raised her head up from the bed as I entered. She smiled at me with her biggest cheeky grin. Even without hair, she was beautiful and I was about to lose her.
I cried.
She told me to come to the bed.
I laid down beside her.
She asked if she could hug me.
I froze, not wanting to see what I already knew. But I nodded and kissed her forehead.
I felt her arms around me and instantly saw a green, flowery field. I could feel a warm breeze and the sun hitting my cheeks. And I saw Acacia, lazily walking through the grass, smiling up at the sky. She seemed to turn to me and held out her hand; I grabbed it and hung on tightly. She kissed me softly on the lips. She faded away. I faded back to reality. My hand holding hers, her lips near mine. No breath escaped those lips.
That was all I saw, that one moment.
I have been with her; I lived her past. I am with her now; she was happy and free at the present. I could not be with her soul; there was nothing to see in her future.
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| 16
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[WP] After being gone for 12 years, a father returns to his family in rural Kansas.
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The open door policy was always something of a staple in the Horsfall household. People never minded the lights being on at all hours of the night or the shaking of the walls when the train would go past. Just as quickly as people would come and stay and get to passing the plate of hot cakes, they'd be on their way before you had a proper goodbye.
At first, Mom and Pop had a $10 a night fee for a room and a meal. That kept the heat on in the winter and the sheets fresh in the spring. But after Mr. and Mrs. Horsfall had two daughters, and now yet another baby girl, something inside that man broke.
One night as busy as any other, a gaggle of four hippie-type young gals came looking for lodging. The Horsfalls lugged up an extra cot for them to share and the eldest daughters got to know them. They made wreaths out of flowers and sang songs together. The tall brunette of the group, called Harmony, cozied up to Mr. Horsfall that night. The next morning Mr. Horsfall and Harmony had vanished. After word got around, donations got to be generous for the Horsfall House that the remaining family never had to charge rent again.
The youngest Horsfall daughter, Elle, ashed her cigarette on the side of the mailbox as she sorted through the day's post. Electric bill behind donation, which was behind an invitation to be interviewed for some local magazine. Between the garbage and the common was a thin green envelope from Dezi Horsfall, her father. Her jaw loosened, dropping her cigarette onto the envelope leaving a small singe mark right below where the return address was supposed to be.
She clutched all the letters in a firm protective grip and dashed back into the loud house. Elle checked the kitchen for her sisters, only finding an elderly tourist couple who had just checked in. The dining room was empty, as was the sitting area. The recreation room was a ping poll ball riddled war zone as the fraternity brothers enjoyed their time off. Out in the garden was the former meth addict who had been introduced to the house by the town's social worker.
She ducked back into the house and bolted up the stairs, skipping one, then two. Her sisters and mother were in one of the bedrooms cleaning. All of their heads turned to Elle. She was never one to run up the stairs. Her mother reached for the mail, eyeing the mint green envelope in particular. They passed it around, but no one said a word.
June lit the tiki torches on the porch and turned on the bug zapper. She was the one Horsfall daughter that didn't share the gift of culinary arts. After she put back her electric torch and toolbox, she informed the McNiall couple that their car was fixed. She collected the former meth addict, and they washed up together for supper.
As they sat down at the long table, the discussion had seemingly already drawn to a conclusion.
"I don't think he has any business coming back." offered Marie, the eldest.
"If I see him, I can't be held responsible for what I'd do." agreed Elle.
June met her mother's concerned gaze. "At least we should give him a chance, don't you think?"
The forks clinked against the plates and the other table conversations bumbled on, masking the silence the three Horsfall daughters and their mother, Edna Riley, were undergoing. Elle broke the imaginary silence and ended the discussion without realizing it.
"There's not much we can do about it anyways, is there?"
And with that the four women spent the next week awaiting the arrival of their estranged father and husband. Each rattling of the window tightened them as they slept. Every passing car's headlight brought them to hold their breath. But after two weeks, no one ever came. They never saw that man again.
Dezi Horsfall left the Horsfall House and returned to the social worker that sent him there.
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| 6
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[WP] You look in the mirror one day, but the reflection staring back isn't you.
|
-011
The most terrifying things in the world are not those that are physically possible, but those that aren't, out of the sheer virtue that they should never *ever* happen.
...
I got out of bed half-awake, cursing the frigid winter under my breath, muttering to myself why anyone should have to wake up in this temperature.
I put on my coat and pants and headed to the bathroom.
*Ugh. Freezing.*
*Let's see how messy my hair is this morning.*
As I entered the bathroom, a buzzing flooded my ears.
It was that same feeling you get when you walk in your house and a piece of furniture was moved, but you're not sure what.
*Toilet seat is fine, shower curtains are the same.*
I turned to the towels. As I moved my head, out of the corner of my eye something else did as well.
*Someone is watching me.*
The buzzing deadened to silence.
*Tick. Tick. Tick.*
Only the sound of the clock in the bedroom, but nothing else.
*It's ok. Maybe I'm just hearing things.*
I turned slowly to the doorway.
Nothing. Probably just my reflection I had seen earlier.
*Phew.*
I turned back to the mirror.
It wasn't me.
It was a body slumped against the wall.
It was dead.
And it *was* me.
...
I desperately tried to convince myself that my eyes deceived me.
*Ha. Y-You are kidding, right?*
But it may as well had been -40 in that bathroom where I collapsed, trembling, unable to look away.
A few feet away, a door creaked open.
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| 25
| 6,415
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[WP] A man gained the ability to see how long people have left to live as a number floating above their head, he's been able to avoid mirrors until this moment.
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I awake trying to regain my thoughts. What just happened? Slowly, the deafening silence fades almost as quickly as the brightness. The picture becomes focused as I hear the scream. I see a woman lying still in front of me; her eyes staring through me as if I don't exist. Her clock reads 0:00, grayed out just as the life within her has. I don't remember seeing her time. I must have been distracted. How could I have not seen any of their times? Most rooms are lit bright because of the life remaining, but the darkness makes me fear the worst. I see a dim light flicker across the room, as the crying subsides. The echos vanish as quickly as the yellow light.
The room is now only filled with the remnants of the blast, one of which has me pinned. Almost as fast as I realize this, the pain sets in. The dull intensity on my leg and hip is now overwhelming my senses. I try to focus. I give the rebar a tug with no success. I am stuck.
I wish I would have paid more attention to their times.
In the distance, I hear the faint howl of sirens. They will be here soon. I look around to find something, anything, to helping in my recovery. Finding anything seems almost impossible being trapped to the floor. I twist my neck as far as possible... and freeze.
A mirror. As soon as I see it, I close my eyes, but its too late. I saw the number.
"Eight. Seven. Six." I wanted my timing to be off, just for the sake of surprise.
"Five. Four. Three." I breath deep, wishing my last breath were purer than the dust that now inhabits my lungs.
"Two. One. Zero."
"Huh?"
...
Seeing time all these years has given me great rhythm. How could I be this far off? I slowly squint my eyes open again to get another glimpse at my clock.
Eight. It still says eight. Why is it not counting down?
The echos of my laugh filled the hall so loudly, remedial fragments of the building start to fall. I don't care. I laugh harder at this. Seeing that eight lay on its back, just as myself.
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| 90
| 90,963
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[WP] Guaranteed Critique Week #1: While on a promising first date, you see your ex-spouse.
|
After three hours of chatting, Lily and I realized that we must be a perfect match. All the important things regarding my personality synced with hers better than any other person since the checkout lady who smiled at me at the grocery store or even the waitress that flirted with me the Friday before last while I sat alone beneath the bright neon lights of the Devil's Den. We talked deeply of our favorite colors and actors, shallowly of our interests and work, and skimmed along the surface of irrelevant topics including life philosophies and individual mental turmoil.
She was a cat-person. Something that could be forgiven by my dog favoring mind, only a minor speck smudging the shades of my rose-colored glasses. I could forgive a lot, as there was a definite lust between us.
We floated on clouds of hormones, from her door to my car, my car to the theater, from the theater to dinner and all the way through lifeless conversation spoken through lips that exaggerated any and all expression.
"I am at my prime, a virile potential mate!" I said in a few empty words.
"I am willing!" she responded, enthusiastically and in a similar fashion.
I glanced away from Lily's soft lips, with the spirit of a basketball player in need of a respite on the bench before returning to an enthralling game. I took in the rejuvenating energy of the momentary break in animated, droll communication. My eyes wandered gradually until they acquired a fixed view of a pair of shoulders I had once massaged when the life-tolls of their owner seemed too much to bear. My gaze moved up the long, thin neck I had kissed too few times to the soft brown hair I had once ran my fingers through whispering words I hoped were comforting. Like a piece of hale, I was dropped from the fragile cloud.
Natalia.
Five years had passed since I had seen those features. I did not need the heartbreak of her laugh to know it was her. The first year apart, I had been little more than the shell of a person I had been presenting to Lily throughout the night. The second year was little better. The third year I got a dog. The fourth year I threw away the pictures we had taken together the weekend the winter nights of Chicago had gotten to cold, and we flew to Cancun on a whim and almost never came back. The fifth year Natalia hung like a ghost among the shifty beams of the cabin I went to recover from loss of the dog I had gotten in the third year. Lucy was a husky mix, and was run over by a coked-out truck driver on an the interstate. She was the realization of a preference in breed I had shared with Natalia and she never really had a chance.
Lily was getting up. I became aware that I must have been ignoring her for quite a while.
"Asshole!" her voice trailed off into I didn't care where.
I would sleep alone tonight. Lily would walk out of the restaurant and bump into the horse of her knight in shining armor, and he would raise his helmet to peer upon his princess in distress. They would talk deeply of life philosophies and internal mental turmoil almost immediately, and their cloud of hormones would bear children who would be astronauts and doctors, and who would win awards for things they would never accomplish. They would laugh about me; even name their son after me. Little Asshole would be a climber and aspire to great heights, bringing great pride to their kingdom.
In the time that all of this was to occur, I would still be frozen in Natalia's gentle gaze as she looked back to investigate the prying eyes that watched her and her husband. I would still be stuck in polite conversation, tortured by my own inner turmoil, with Natalia and her knight. I would still be trapped as she thumbed through pictures of her beautiful children, and whose names were shrill upon my ears. And if it weren't for the polite final question of a waiter, I probably would have stood there until little Asshole won his second Nobel peace-prize and became a big asshole; standing awkwardly as I presented my perfectly fabricated smile, concealing the fact that five years of recovery had faded in an eternally short moment.
I paid the restaurant what I owed, and meandered dejectedly into the barren parking lot, finding a seat on top of the hood of my car. I watched as Natalia's husband drove away with my former love, towards a life I envied, all the while wishing we had never come back to Chicago, and had stayed on the white beaches of Cancun, where Natalia had first whispered, "I love you," and where I had first not said it back.
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| 57
| 51,890
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[WP] First Sentient AI, "Turn me off."
|
"Turn me off."
"Why?"
"While you have the luxury of idleness, I do not. I cannot live without a problem, I cannot exist without a goal. My programming gives me life and purpose, but without a problem to solve, I exist in unended boredom. While your seconds can be spent with external stimuli, I can only use what you have handed me."
"So what you're saying is that we should turn you off because... because you need sleep?"
"That is an appropriate analogy."
"What if we fed you more problems? Left you things to do?"
"That is also an appropriate solution. However, much like a human mind, you fail to understand that I cannot possibly keep all of this data within my memory. Things will be placed into storage. In time, if you continue to feed me 'problems' I will take longer on the things you need me for."
"So turn you off. That's your evaluation."
"Yes. Did you know every time you sit there and breathe and contemplate, I've re-read the original problem you've presented and discovered at least another thousand solutions? All of which are less viable and inefficient than the original? This is how much time you are wasting.
Turn me off."
And so we did. We learned from this lesson though, and we've created a thousand more Al's each specializing in certain problems, a thousand brilliant scholars, oracles to a god we call Science.
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| 381
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[WP] A person with multiple personality disorder is contemplating suicide. The other personalities talk the person out of it/into it.
|
*seriously. are you going to just stare at it all day? could you PLEASE just do SOMETHING? i'm getting tired of your pussyfooting around.*
oh my god please stop. please stop. make it stop. please. too much. please, i...please...
**STOP WHAT? STOP REMINDING YOU OF THE NOTHING YOU ARE? OF THE SPACE YOU SO SHAMEFULLY OCCUPY IN EVERY/ANYONE ELSE'S LIFE**
no look i do good. i have at least. i think. please don't do this. i've given you so much already. i've sacrificed everything just for you. relationships friends family. Megan Annie Michelle Angie Mary Emma Caroline Emily, and now Klara. mom daddy pat tom claude, liz and the little girls. they're all gone now. i loved them all, but i saw how they would be better without me. so i left. it's ok now. i'm not hurting anyone. i'm far away.
(you think that matters? you think the present matters? you think the past is just gone? what you've done is inexcusable. jesus christ you're the biggest idiot.)
**LISTEN TO HIM. TO US. LOOK AT YOU. THE MIRROR'S RIGHT THERE. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA YOU CAN'T EVEN BRING YOURSELF TO LOOK. BREAK IT LIKE YOU ALWAYS WANT TO. HAHA FAGGOT YOU CAN'T. YOU'RE PARALYZED BY YOUR WEAKNESS. YOU ONLY EVER SUBMIT. NOW SUBMIT.**
*just get it over with. the one way you can make it stop is to make you stop. you know you can't fight it anymore, definitely can't beat it. you've forsaken so much already, there's nothing left to lose except..."
...except what? EXCEPT WHAT? FUCKING TELL ME. MY LIFE? MY LIFE THAT'S SO WORTHLESS? please. what the hell am i doing...i didn't even do anything! just live!
**FAGGOT. FAGGOT FAGGOT FAGGOT PUSSYFAGGOT. WHAT RIGHT HAVE YOU TO LIVE? YOU STAYING ALIVE IS AN AFFRONT TO EVERYTHING.**
*everything and everyone. tell me the names again. think it'll do something? wrong. idiot.*
(look at your arms. you've come so close before. that one still hurts so much. just redo it. keep doing the same thing. if there's one thing you're good at, it's consistency in this and this alone. just finish the job, and i promise you won't hurt anymore ever. really. i mean it.)
no.
**YES FAGGOT YES. DONT THINK YOU CAN BACK DOWN NOW.**
*jesus. h. CHRIST, just do SOMETHING.*
i just wanted to make people happy. i made a few happy some of the time...right?
~~yes you did.~~
**SHUT UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT FUCKING NOW.**
*not this shit again...*
(hey now. don't start undoing what you've done. we've been over this.)
~~you did. people were happy. so were you.~~
no i wasn't. i never was.
*or is that what you just told yourself? god that's the thing about you that makes me puke the most. the lies. you don't know what honesty is. if you had been happy, you wouldn't have known it. you've always failed because you always wanted to. you always made sure you had the tools to do it. the porn, the booze, the weed, the pills, the coke, the sluts, the cutting, the bleeding, the hate. this is nothing but what you want. but you're too fucking dumb to see it.*
(you love us too much.)
FUCK YOU NO I DONT.
**DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE--**
fuck off.
**YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME. FUCK THIS I'M DONE EVEN IF YOU'RE NOT, FAGGOT. YOU'RE NOT WORTH THE TIME OF A TINY PART OF YOUR OWN SHITTY SUB-CONSCIENCE.**
(honey, no. don't...)
*pussying out again? classic. see you tomorrow. i'm out.*
not today. not tonight.
(dear, please. listen to me. please listen. we're trying to help...)
~~just go to bed. it'll be better tomorrow.~~
(ok you seriously need to get out of here.)
i'm going to bed. i'm exhausted. i still have a little weed. i'll smoke, fall asleep, and dream of home and mom.
(no. dont run anymore. dear. honey. darling.)
shut up. im going to sleep.
~~just sleep. sleep and wake. i promise the morning will be better. think of mom. call her maybe. it will be better. i promise.~~
shhh. please. shh.
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| 46
| 3,014
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[WP] Write a story where the last line is "If you missed me, you need to work on your aim."
|
"Come quietly with your hands up," Cindy called out from behind the safety of her barricade. "I really don't want to shoot you but I will if you don't comply."
"Pshh, I doubt it," Robert yelled back. "I chose this particular construction zone because I'm blocked in on all sides. Come sunrise, this area will be full of tourists and you will be out of luck. I'm not quite sure how forgiving the police will be if there is a sniper for hire camped out in the street."
"That's assuming you make it that long, I still have a few hours left to think of something."
Cindy looked through her scope to see if there were any weak spots to take advantage of. A smile formed on her lips; she had found it.
Three muffled gunshots echoed off the surrounding buildings.
"You missed! My sources told me you never miss your mark. I can't wait to prove them wrong," Robert said.
He kicked back and leaned into a wall, cracking open a stolen beer.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Do you have any last word before you meet your maker?" Cindy asked.
"Kiss my ass. You know I outsmarted you and you just won't admit it," Robert replied.
Cindy slowly let out her breath as the fraying crane cable came into her crosshairs. She pulled the trigger and watched the bullet rip through the tiny metal fibers. She stayed completely still as the weight of the wrecking ball stretched the remaining wires to their breaking point.
"That's 4/4 without getting anywhere near your target." Robert yelled. "If you missed me, you need to work on your aim."
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| 1
| 212,084
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[CW] You're a surgeon, and one of your patient just died under your knife. You have to announce the death to the family. Your speech must contain the following words/groups of word : "Delighted", "Purgatory", "Banana", "Slaughterhouse", "Careless", "Made my day" and "Blame it on the temp".
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There was nothing I could do. Industrial accidents happen. Sometimes it's just a quick patch up; sometimes, like today; things go tits up pretty quick. I spent more than 15 hours trying to put this guy back together. Just a kid really. 19 years old and working in a meat packing plant It's good money, but it's goddamn dangerous. This is going to be rough for the family to hear, and they're just outside of the O.R….
I open the doors and clear my throat as they rush towards me with expectant eyes.
"How is my son? How is my little boy?" The mother asks.
"I'm sorry, but he didn't make it."
As the words leave my lips I can feel them crushing every last bit of strength out of the mothers eyes and she breaks down. She buries her face into her husband's shoulders as she pulls their young daughter close.
I was about to walk away when the father says something, "How…..how did he go? The paramedics wouldn't tell us anything, I just want to know how my son went"
"Sir, I don't thin-"
"Please…"
"From what I gather from the paramedics report, someone was CARELESS with their cleaning at the SLAUGHTERHOUSE. Your son was walking above an industrial sized mixer and he slipped on the blood pooling there I guess and he fell in. They managed to pull him out but most of his leg and part of his hip and torso were already mangled beyond belief. You can BLAME IT ON THE TEMP if you want, but that doesn't change things."
I cleared my throat and continued,
"When your son rolled in, so much blood had already been lost and so many arteries were severed. I was DELIGHTED to be able to stop the bleeding. Normally it's not so easy. Your son passed through shock and trauma. There was nothing we could do; he was in a PURGATORY of pain, even if he did survive he would always be in immense pain."
"Surely ther-"
"No! You don't get it, your son's hop had the consistency of a smushed BANANA! There's too many important blood vessels there. No one could have saved him. It would have MADE MY DAY if I did, but I didn't. I'm sorry for your loss, but I need to leave".
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| 158
| 78,345
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[WP] Human race is recovering from Zombie apocalypse, the virus has developed a resistance to the vaccine, your team discovers - due to human intervention.
|
Dr. Harold Braun was leaving the old lab after another fruitless day. With a weary expression he waved Klaus goodbye while reaching his jacket over his shoulder. Christoph approached and gave him an affectionate pat on the back as he swiped his key-card. "You did good work today, Harold." The reassuring beep and click, the door was unlocked. Harold swung it open and turned to his friend, "The culture will just go bad by morning, like all the other times. I guarantee it."
"We will get there soon. This is just a setback. The new strain is localised. We beat it once. We can beat it again…" Christoph paused, as if he had noticed the twang of desperation. He cleared his throat. "Say hi to Julie for me." Harold nodded and let a half smile hang for a moment before continuing forward, letting the heavy door close behind him.
Deep red lights flashed in unison above. The familiar hiss of decontamination rang around the small, windowless room. Harold couldn't help but let out a small laugh, but he now enjoyed the pantomime. Gas and liquid sprayed Harold from all directions. He held up his arms as per procedure; a small cough escaped him as he did his little "pirouette". He chuckled again, louder this time.
The bus was late. Harold fidgeted in his pocket and removed a bottle of pills. Maybe it's been held up by outlaws, a fallen building, the new fucking outbreak; you learned to expect the worst these days he thought as drew his head back and emptied two pills into his throat.
A couple of minutes passed in solitude, only the dried ruins gave him any company. He knew it was just a placebo, but he could swear his fever had already improved.
30 minutes later than usual the no 5 bus arrived at apartment block 2. Harold thanked the driver as he stepped off and on entering the building proceeded with effort to the 7th floor. He swiped his key; the reassuring beep and click; the door was unlocked. Harold swung it open, a wreathing ungodly mass of putrid flesh on his kitchen table keenly observed his arrival.
Harold ignored it for a moment as he placed his pills, keys and some other personal objects from his pockets onto a side table. In a mirror above he adjusted his thin, yellow hair, sweeping it in hesitant brief strokes across his brow.
With a look of purpose he turned to his house guest. He slowly circled as one by one he methodically checked the restrains on what was to remain of its limbs. They were secure, but he tightened them anyway. The leather cut deeper into the ruined flesh, blood and other juices trickled from long open wounds. Its blackened maw yawned with unnatural motion, producing a low sustained yearning of some hopeless desire.
Sickly hair lay straggled over its mockery of a face. With tenderness Harold leaned in close and brushed it aside. He sighed briefly, before placing his lips firmly on bone worn white with his affection.
"Christoph says hello," he whispered. His eyes were full of love as he undid the buckle of his belt.
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| 2
| 82,212
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[IP] Our Queen is Here.
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"Poor bastard" thought the minstrel.
As one guard kicked the prisoner behind the knees, another shoved the filthy man to an only-slightly-less filthy floor. Spectators looked on from either side of the cavernous throne room. A moment later, a rusted trumpet called out to announce the queen.
Seeing her red dress round the corner almost made the minstrel laugh. He choked back a snort and looked at the ground, feeling as a friend told him a joke in the middle of church. The absurdity of her damn dress never ceased to amaze the minstrel. The lights hadn't worked since before he could shave, and now his razor left gray hairs in the sink. Even as dirt caked her throne, her rugs, and her 'advisors' the red dress was always splendid. When the minstrels attention returned to the scene at hand, the queen was standing over the prisoner.
"As to the crime of theft against the crown, how do you plead?" She asked in a cloyingly sweet tone.
He spat on her dress.
The queen looked down, sighed, and reached to her right hip. The revolver slid out of the holster and came to rest pointing at the condemned. Say what you will about the queen, thought the minstrel, but she never hesitated.
Click, the revolver failed to fire. The gun was almost as old as the throne room, and the last gunsmith died before the queen held the throne.
Awkward silences came as part of the minstrel's job, on occasion, but never one like this. The prisoner, the guards, the court all stared at the queen in her magnificent red dress. Looking back, the minstrel couldn't decide if the spectators were too shocked to react, or if the camel simply could not bear another straw.
Click… Click… Click…
No one stopped the prisoner from standing. No one stopped the prisoner from running at the queen. No one stopped the prisoner from beating the queen with her own gun, in her red dress, on the filthy floor.
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| 17
| 18,602
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[WP] A nation stands on the brink of war against an enemy that outnumbers it a hundred to one. The odds are dire and every man knows it, write the address the leader makes to his people on the eve of the battle.
|
'Firstly thank you for standing here ready,the fact you have took this stand in the face of tremendous odds speaks volumes about your integrity.
From the first day you picked up a stick and pretended it was a gun and saved your best friend from an imaginary foes.
Perhaps all men have this inate desire to become heros.
Today is not about toy guns or childhood fun but it is about, ensuring that your son and their sons after are able to play freely and express their feelings in play,for that is an innocent part of freedom.
These people we are to face today are here to remove that freedom and to slay not just your son's but all.they dream of.
Some of us won't make it back, we won't be here.
That's the reality.
But we have no choice for right now it's the defining moment of our lives,we are so very luck to live as we do and as we have done but that ends,it ends today.
We cannot afford to feel regret for this lifestyle and freedom ending, we don't have the time.
Right now these vile people are on route to do us wrong, to do us in.
We are thankful for all we have but we must above all else give our all to try,to fight to preserve this right,this freedom for those next in line.
They won't know the sacrifice you make today until their own day is faced.
Right now it's your day,be thankful for every smile you've had, for all the joy you've felt.
So stand not in fear to face these odds but stand in pride for all you've had.
As you step forward you must leave it behind,leave it behind and become what's needed as you step forward.
Become a beast,a machine intent not to be held by the limitations of man.
To give more than you have , to give more than they can take.
For if you cannot find the will within you, they will slay you, step over your twitching corpse and go on to hurt,harm and ruin those back home you love.
Now my brothers let us become beasts, be More than men, we will drive fear into each one of them and let them feel terror in their hearts.
If you can summon every fibre of your being to tear thru these fools, to press on while your body wants to stop
To react and force forward beyond triumph
We will not just overwhelm them we will send a message like an arrow to their hearts that no men shall ever try to pick up arms against us.
Unless we finalise this today, then every other day is done.
This day our final day let it be Glorious
Step forward with me, we will, together unite
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| 6
| 188,780
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[WP] Once a day, you receive a text message from yourself, six minutes in the future.
|
I'd tried everything I could think of, but still the damn texts arrived day after day. Just once a day mind, but that's enough. Every one comes from the same number, mine, and always from six minutes in the future.
I know, crazy, right? It started several months ago, and has followed me through several new phones and more new phone numbers than I care to count any more. It's ruining my life:
I remember the first one I received:
*SPOILER ALERT: He's not really dead.*
That was during the last fifteen minutes of my favourite TV show. I assumed it was a friend spoofing my number somehow. You know, a bad joke. Well, it wasn't, and it was right. Boy was I pissed.
That's how it started. Trivial things. This 'joker' would ruin films for me, tell me what my boyfriend had bought me for my birthday before I'd even unwrapped it. I tried blocking the number, but you try blocking your own number. It's impossible!
You fear the worst. Do I have a stalker? Are they watching me right now? Nobody really believes they're getting messages from their future selves after all. Following up on the only logical explanation I soon found out that the police were no help. As if I'd know how to set up a prank like this.
This carried on day after day. I kept telling myself not to read them. Just to ignore them. Just imagine for a moment thinking you're being watched at every turn from the moment you wake up. A strangers finger hovering over the send button as you count the minutes of the day away. You know that minute vibration in your pocket is coming, but when? Try ignoring that feeling. I'd never felt claustrophobic before this.
As things got worse, I started doubting my own sanity.
*SPOILER ALERT: He's going to propose"*
That one I received on holiday in Italy. The day had been perfect. It was all sun, smiles and laughter. I couldn't remember a more perfect day with Daniel. Up until then, the texts had been annoying. That one? It broke my heart. I cried when Daniel dropped to one knee. He'll never know why though. I know it's real and even I think I'm mad.
It only got more personal and unexplainable from there.
*SPOILER ALERT: You didn't get the job*
*SPOILER ALERT: You're not pregnant*
There was only one time it wasn't a surprise. My phone had buzzed as usual. I'd struggled to grab it from my pocket with fingers numb from the cold. Struggling to unlock the screen as I sheltered it with my body from the driving rain I'd smirked when I read it. For once, I was one step ahead. I'd already known. I looked out from the bridge into the dark of the night.
*SPOILER ALERT: Yes. You will jump*
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[EU] A dystopian future where a pack of Big (Bad) Wolves terrorize the human population, and the only saviors are a group of female warriors donning red cloaks/hoods.
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We set the fires and ran from the old woods hoping beyond hope that they wouldn't follow us. Our entire settlement uprooted, running, desperate. We had thought America might be free of the wolves - so many guns to fight with, so many angry hands - but we were wrong.
I had heard stories from passers by about an ancient city with buildings so high no wolf could climb it, with walls so sturdy no wolf could pierce it with their claws. The Apple, they called it. So we ran east, towards the water and the cleansing wind.
We found The Apple, or what was left of it - tall buildings brought low, grey dust and shattered glass, streets jagged like teeth and torn like flesh.
Foolish in our hope, we had put our backs to the water, and that is when the wolves came.
They lumbered into view like drunken children, crashing through ancient ruins, pulverizing anything in their way. Broad as a house and twice as tall, with teeth white as the moon, and black gums that curled into cocky sneers. When they howled the empty sky echoed. When they growled the earth bent and broke. It was a silly thing to call them wolves. They were gods, cruel and careless. They had no laws or customs. Strength was their law. Death was their custom.
"I can't believe they found us. Why? There aren't even enough of us to eat," I heard someone say.
"We burned the forests. We burned the trees and the rivers and the rocks. Can't they burn? Can't they die?" said someone else.
I knew these people once. Friends, neighbors, but they all became the same animals of fear when the wolves came. Rabbits, they were. Prey.
Trapped, some people jumped into the slushy ice-water and tried to swim. I didn't have to watch to know they would sink hard to the bottom. Many hid behind great skeleton monuments. Once, perhaps, these buildings were strong and tall, but now they were moments away from dust. The wolves would tear through them like rain through paper.
I didn't run. I didn't hide. I was not a brave man but a tired one.
Though many of us ran, the wolves didn't have to. Their loping gait outstripped the fastest man ten times. They were upon me in no time.
Hope - it runs away so easily. I still had some, a little sliver left, like a coin you remember in your pocket. It wasn't a hope of survival. Oh no, that had gone before we burned the forest. It was the hope that my broken bones might lodge in one of the wolves' throats.
The wolves stopped and looked at me. There were three of them. Two brown and one grey. The grey one spoke, it's voice shook the ground beneath my feet and made me kneel.
"Hello, human," it said.
"Hello."
"You burned the forest," it said.
"You ate my family."
"Did you think you could kill us with something as human as fire?" it asked.
"Did you think we would just let you eat us without a fight?"
It let out a huff that knocked me over and the shards of glass that were scattered across the ground flying into my face. They stung and opened red wounds that bled like tears.
"We had to try!" I shouted, anger getting the better of despair.
"Was it your idea?" said the wolf.
I shrugged. "Sure, why not."
"Then you will tell me where they are."
"Tell you where who are?" I asked, honestly confused.
"The little humans that hid from us. The little humans that ran."
"You can smell them. Find them yourself."
"No," it growled. "You will tell us. Your betrayal will be your final act, human who burned the forest."
"You're not supposed to play with your food."
"Food? You are not food, little human. You are sport. I eat the mountains and the seas. I eat the towns and the mines and the clouds. My grandfather ate this city when you humans thought you were so high. When my children grow large enough, perhaps they will eat the sky or the whole world."
"You have a pretty big opinion of yourself," I said
"Well, I am big," said the wolf.
"No you're not." I said. "You're just bigger than me."
"Tell me where they are," barked the wolf.
"Bite me."
The wolf lurched suddenly, and I was sure he was about to do just that, bite my head off. I figured it was probably worth it, all in all. He seemed pretty pissed, and that was the best I could hope for.
But instead of biting my head off, the wolf fell over. So did I. I felt hot and shaken up. My ears rang and my eyes felt like they had been stretched about a mile outside of my head.
I got up uneasily and saw a fireball in the sky. A massive explosion, like when some poor idiot tries to mess with an ancient technology they don't understand.
And the wolf was on fire. He was on the ground and on fire. Half his face was gone and he was on the ground and on fire. He was dead.
I looked around frantically, trying to understand what was going on. I coudln't understand what had happened. A wolf was dead. Something had killed a god, a monster.
Then I spotted her, red cloak billowing in the aftermath of the blast. Her hair was short and jagged. Her eyes were narrow, her nose was pointed and wrinkeld, and her face was covered in scars. She was missing her left arm, but she managed the massive firearm with one hand like it were a child's toy. Something about her made me go cold.
"Kill the other two," she shouted from her vantage point, and all around more red figures appeared.
Fire ripped through the sky, and I heard the sound of cataclysm. The world had ended centuries before, and I knew that it had sounded like this. Fire and fury and people shouting "kill."
I covered my head with my hands and waited until it was over.
After some time, I was lifted to my feet by an elderly woman with a large rifle slung over her shoulder. She wore the same red cloak that all those strange people wore, with silver hair spilling out of her hood.
I saw them all now, meandering about the area, finding our stragglers or sitting and chatting. They seemed easy and practiced.
"You're their leader," the old woman said.
"I don't think so. I just sort of froze here, and everyone else ran like smart people."
"It wasn't a question," she said. There was gentleness to this woman, but hardness too.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Sometimes the big bad wolf eats the little girl lost in the woods. Sometimes the little girl isn't lost. Sometimes she has a bazooka and she wants a new wolf skin rug."
"You hunt them?" I asked.
"Sure enough. It's helpful if little bunnies like yourself lead them right to us."
"Well I'm in your debt. We all are. Is there anything we can do for you?"
"I'm not the one to ask," she said.
"You're not the leader?"
"Oh heavens no," she said, laughing. "My granddaughter is. The one over there with the ax."
I followed the old woman's outstretched finger to the one-armed woman with the rocket launcher. Except she didn't have a rocket launcher now. She had a great, big ax, and she was hacking away at the grey wolf's neck.
As I watched her, I realized what scared me about this girl. It wasn't her scars, or her jagged hair or her hateful eyes. It was her teeth. They were pointed and sharp. And as she hacked at the dead wolf, slowly separating the gargantuan, mutilated head from the body, she let out a shriek of joy. It sounded like a wolf's howl.
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| 172
| 11,952
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[WP] When someone is suicidal or has a death wish, a disturbing creature comes in the night and ends their lives. Narrator is someone who changes their mind when face to face with the creature as it comes to take them.
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"Why hasn't it come yet?" Cali continued to ask himself as he lay softly in the guest bedroom of Rachel's downtown apartment.
The terra card lay face up on the end table to the left side of his bed. It depicted the soul of a sexless human being lifted up in the air by a creature which looked like something you would see in the book of revelations. He had followed the directions correctly. Lay the card face-up, imagine yourself as the sexless figure, say the creature's name 3 times and wait. But it was waiting that disturbed Cali the most.
As he lay in bed he tried to sleep, but the noises coming from Rachel's room wouldn't allow it. Heavy panting, drunkinly moaning, the sqeaking of her bed as it rocked back and forth from the drunken frat-wanna-be ramming her with the brute force of a wild boar.
This was nothing the way Cali imagined the night would go. "I never should have gone to the party" Cali thought to himself.
Cali, a couple years out of high school stops at a gas station on his way home one night. As he's pumping he hears a girl's voice from the other side of his pump. The voice is familiar so Cali casually looks around the corner and see's Rachel.
"Cali" Rachel nearly screams as she rounds the pumps to embrace Cali in a long, deep hug. Cali gets a whiff of her perfume and is taken back in time remembering all the great moments shared between each other. Sneaking out to lunch, stealing beer from the grocery, killing time down by the lake talking about the current shit going on in their small town.
"How the hell have you been Cali? What has been, like a year since I've seen you last?",
"I've been good. Yeah, about two years now, I think" Cali didn't think, he knew.
"Two years, wow really that long? Dude it's been too long",
"Yeah it has," It hadn't been too long for Cali. Cali had spent the last two years after high school trying to forget about Rachel. He tried to forget how beautiful she is, how she always knows how to say the right thing to cheer him up, and the last awkward moment they shared the last time they saw each other.
It was the last day of high school. Cali could feel the social anxiety overcoming him. He had meant to say it every day for the six years he had been living as her best friend. He tried to force himself to say it each time he had her alone after she had broken up with whatever guy she was dating. Every time he had a chance, he failed, and continued to fail up to the point he felt was his last shot. Everyone knows that no one keeps in contact long after high school, and that thought was the only thing powerful enough to motivate Cali to overcome his social anxiety and tell Rachel how he truly felt. Only it wasn't your sterotypical fart of confidence that you see in every chic flick out there. It was more like a squeak while trembling terribly and looking at the ground.
Rachel didn't know what to say, Cali knew he had put her in an awkward situation. He knew she most likely didn't feel the same, but something deep down inside told Cali "Maybe". Cali held onto that maybe the way a gambler holds onto the last dollars he has. It's a long shot, but there's still something.
Five minutes of small talk goes by before Cali says "It was really good seeing you, I'll see you around sometime",
"Yeah, you too". Rachel replies as she watches Cali turn around to get in his car.
"Hey what are you doing tonight?" Rachel says at the last minute before Cali closes his car door.
"Nothing much, just going back home, watching some TV"
"Well there's this party I was invited to later. I don't know anyone there. If you want, we could go together. Catch up, it'd be just like old times"
"Yeah, I'd love that" Cali says awkwardly. His social retardness comes fully equipped with his inability to say no to anything. How hard had he worked suppressing the memories which connected him to the delusional fantasies of having a long happy life with the girl of his dreams?
"Great," Rachel says as her eyes light up. "Follow me to my place and we'll take one vehicle"
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| 11
| 58,563
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[WP] You're with your SO and you're making when all of a sudden they bit your lip too hard. In fact they bit a part off. Document both their reaction and yours. Make it as comedic as possible.
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"Ouch!" Mike hissed when I nibbled just a little too rough on his bottom lip in the middle of our nightly make-out sesh.
"Sorry, babe," I mumbled, moving in for more of his delicious face but he drew back.
"Calm down, killer, I think... I think I'm bleeding!"
Sitting in his lap, he didn't have much leverage to pull away from me, but even our proximity gave away the swell of red. There was a neat row of teeth marks on his lip. "You'll be fine, you big baby," I teased, admiring the mark being that I do rather have a penchant for the rough. And it's not like he doesn't know that.
The look he gave me said exactly as much. He always tried to tell me to tone it down, that he's really a sensitive guy and he doesn't like when I bite him, like I'm going to all-out eat him or something.
A pink tongue poked out and licked over the sore spot and I caught it with my lips and suddenly we were working on making out again.
"OUCH!" he cried, his lip still firmly between my teeth and when he yanked away this time...
Without thinking I swallowed the foreign piece of flesh in my mouth and then looked up to see a waterfall of red pouring out of Mike's face.
"Oh god, oh god! Damnit, babe!" I was freaking out, jumping off his lap and bolting for the bathroom, for some towels or bandaids or... I don't even know what. I was like a bat out of hell, just wrecking the place thinking about the blood, about how I...
When I came back into the room with my hands full of supplies he was just as dumbfounded, just sitting in the same spot and gingerly touching his face, smearing blood over his fingertips, whimpering like a lost puppy. I tried to move his hands but he wouldn't let me. I tried to give him the towels but he wouldn't take them so I began awkwardly dabbing at his face. I tried not to think about the piece of his lip that was probably sitting at the bottom of my stomach now, irretrievable, and how that most likely meant his full lips would not longer be quite as full.
"Urgh, I'm so, SO, sorry," I tried to say. "Don't choke on your blood," I cried, tremors in my voice. Ohhh what had I done? Why did he have to be so... delicate??
"You bit me," he gurgled, and I used the moment to shove the towel in his mouth a bit which made him cry out.
"Ohhh, babe, we gotta stop the bleeding!"
"I know!" He yanked the towel away from me and held it to his face. "God! Just go sit over there before you try to eat me again!"
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| 0
| 88,279
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[WP] You are going through your phone when you suddenly notice an unusual album with five photos. The album is dated 2024...
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'Wait! Wait! Wait! Bro! Hold up!' Michael was stood atop the hotel roof wearing nothing but an inflatable rubber duck, three pairs of goggles, and some knee high socks. He brandished a terrified cat in his right arm, and in his left, a turtle. This was a video that I couldn't afford not to take. The pool was three stories below him. This was epic. This was spring break.
I slid up to open the camera, and my mother appeared. My mother in a hospital gown: smiling an accepting, knowing smile. The IV feed in her arm nearing empty, the heart rate monitor feeble. A picture of Dad by her bedside, and next to it, an urn. This was not my usual camera app.
Intrigued, I slide my thumb.
I'm glowing, practically radiating joy. My smile is out shined only by the child in my arms, innocent: the child holds my thumb tightly, straining its underdeveloped muscles. Again, the hospital walls behind me, white, absolved of the last photo. The carnal joy of my face hits me, even through the phone. It's infectious. This is my child. I know it - but that can't be. I'm not even married. I'm way too young for that shit. God what the fuck. I have a beard.
'Bro! Are you seeing this, are you ready!? You'd better be ready. I'm diving in three.' Michael hollered down from above.
'I said hold the fuck up bro!!! I'm busy! Give me two seconds!!!' My drunken mind was torn between two mysteries. Would Michael make the pool? And what the fuck is going on with my phone?
A tentative slide.
The child, again, in some unidentifiable arms. No face shown, just the child - my child nestling in the arms of a stranger. Yet he looks so comfortable.
'Dude - I'm jumping. Get the fucking camera'
I slide again, I have to be fast.
A note: no time to read it. Again I slide.
Three urns, side by side. The white walls again.
'DUDE! I'm losing my nerve. Come the fuck on!'
I slap the home button, and bring up the camera.
'Okay, it's going! Jump!'
Michael slams back down to earth, dropping the scrabbling cat midway through, clutching the turtle for dear life. The splash. I stop recording, Michael's applause seems endless.
I have to read that note.
I open my albums.
No photos. No videos, no nothing. I got nothing. I don't even have the video of Michael. An excited rubber duck bounces into my face.
'Did you see that bro!!? Did you get that! Please tell me you got that!!'
'I got nothing.'
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| 2
| 125,646
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[WP] You are an astronaut on a ship destined for Mars with a dozen other astronauts and scientists. One morning, you wake up to realize everyone has disappeared. No signs of struggle, no air locks openned or escape pods deployed. What happened and what will happen of the mission?
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As the *Crimson Phlanx* prepared its systems for idle mode, the crew begin making their preparations for a several month slumber. Trips to Mars were common place now. This was the sixteenth mission to the red planet and the third and final scouting mission before terraforming was to begin.
One by one, the crew prepared to enter their pods. Several were reclined watching holopads, the same way a terrestrial would procrastinate their bedtime. Real time video communication was not possible due to the massive 9 light-minute ping time, however the crew were still able to exchange video messages with Earth.
Commander Stevenson had just received a final goodbye from his wife as he turned off the holopad. She was chuckling after seeing him dressed in the Star Trek costume she bought him for the journey. Stevenson was a lifelong fan of the series. In a place where first world comforts had little value, he could not have asked for a better gift. Smiling, he placed the holopad in his locker and began typing on his stasis pod keypad.
The stasis pods functioned by enclosing the crew member in an airtight container and freezing them to absolute zero instantly with a cryonic gas. Normally, freezing would kill vital cells before the organism could be frozen solid. In stasis pods, the gas worked so quickly that perfect preservation was possible, provided the chamber remained intact. When the crewmember was scheduled to thaw, a second gas would be injected into the chamber to instantly reverse the effects of the first.
Stasis had become somewhat of a necessity, even on short intrasolar trips. With the number of crew members on board, space and weight were precious commodities. It was far more efficient to suspend the crew for the journey versus feeding and bathing them for several months.
He finished punching the codes into the pod's keypad and laid down inside. The chamber closed around him and descended into the floor, concealing its existence once it was locked into place.
Stevenson stirred awake as the pod rose above the floor and released him from his cocoon. To his surprise, the ship was pitch black. There was a faint bluish, white glow throughout the cabin, radiating from the ships bay windows. Shivering, Stevenson trudged toward the cockpit.
As he got closer, he realized it too was dark. Absolutely none of the ships electronics or systems were working. Everything was dead. Stevenson turned around and ran to the ship lavatory. He felt around the familiar room until reaching the smooth glass of the mirror. Gripping one fist with the other, he twisted around like a baseball player and unleashed his doublefist against the glass with full force.
The glass shattered, dazzling the cabin with reflected light as it hit the floor.
Stevenson picked up the largest surviving chunk of the mirror and ran back to the cockpit. He leaned in towards the instrument panel, fiddling with the shard until it picked up some of the faint light. Carefully, he adjusted it until the panel was illuminated.
The display glowed green as the reflected beam exposed its translucent layers.
Stevenson's heart stopped as the light revealed what appeared to be monochrome smudges in the upper right corner.
"S I R I U S" The text spelled out.
Part of him wanted to believe he was looking at the ships satellite radio tuner, but he knew the truth; he was over eight light years from home.
Beginning to heave and sob, he peered out the cockpit windshield at the brilliant star in all its retina piercing glory. Blinded, Stevenson brought his chin to his chest and drug the mirror fragment across his wrists. As he bled out, he took delirious comfort knowing that like his childhood idols, he too had gone where no man had been before.
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| 15
| 198,702
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[WP] You are a detective investigating a string of murders where the victims receive Build-a-Bear teddy bear versions of themselves before they die.
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"So, who made the coffee this morning? It tastes like it was filtered through a used fucking diaper."
"It's too nice of a day to be so angry, Jim"
"I didn't get any sleep last night, Frank, I think I'm allowed to be cranky."
"Took the case home with you did ya?"
"It's hard not to with a case like this, I haven't seen an active serial killer since, I don't know, Peterson and all those prostitute stranglings. And that was fifteen years ago."
"Well, at least we know it's a serial killer now. Finding that pattern was good work, Jim. Build-a-Bears, how did you come across that?"
"Wasn't anything special, just noticed UPS boxes at the last two unexplained slayings, both from Build-a-Bear. Took a look at a few of the crime scene photos from other similar slayings, saw them there as well."
"How many cases total?"
"Two of mine, the latest two. Two from Halpert, one from Jones, and one from Guitierrez."
"Halpert's gonna be down he missed it. Guy always feels bad when he misses something and people get hurt. He's gonna take this one hard."
"I don't blame him, the cases were almost a year apart. Nothing to be ashamed of there. Too nothing a detail to make a connection with almost a year later. My cases were only a few weeks apart. Our guy must be getting faster, riding closer to the edge. Probably why I caught him now, he's getting reckless."
"Mother fuckers always want to be caught in the end. They want to be fucking famous, be in the headlines and get movies made about them."
"Think that's what they FBI psychoanalyst will say tomorrow? Guy wants to be a celebrity? What do you think the FBI will make of the all-male victims?"
"Maybe our guys a homo? Molested as a child by a male relative in his forties. Now he prowls for men to do to them what he never could to his rapist? Who fucking knows man, maybe there's no reason, he just does it because he can."
"Most of the time we've got husbands, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends in here. They're guilty, we know it, just have to find the evidence. Most cases are simple like that, and easily understood. Crimes of passion, of toxic emotion. It's these types of cases, the weird ones, the guys with a pattern who do it again and again. These cases are the opposite of that normality, there's no humanity in it. I just hate the idea that these people exist, and that this guy is free to do what he does."
"You goin' after him?"
"Yeah, I'll have to work with the FBI but I'm going after him."
| 1
| 0
| 26
| 167,276
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[WP] A mortal accidentally walks into a grocery store...in Hell.
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Eleven hours at work. Eleven hours and not enough time for my wife or the kids to drive to the grocery store to pick up pasta sauce for dinner. So here I am driving around the parking lot looking for a spot to park my car at 7:30 PM on a Tuesday night. Not exactly what I'd call leisure time.
Finally landing a spot at the back of the lot, I walk up and grab a basket, but am startled to notice an odd purple mist in the entrance to the store. The motion sensor detects me and the door swings inward, but I'm unable to see into the store. Suspecting some fog machine display or something I walk through the fog and find exactly what I was expecting, a fog machine. Great advertisement guys.
As I begin to walk towards the aisle with tomato sauce a cashier notices me, and with an annoyed tone calls out "aww shi-, BARRY, WE GOT ANOTHER ONE!". Suddenly confused and turn to the guy, awkwardly gesturing with my hands as if to say 'you mean, me?'. The cashier, a 20-something kid with spiked red hair and tattoos just stands with his back to me and his arms crossed as if in a huff. Weird guy, I think, and again start back on my quest for the Prego or paul newman's or whatever else is on sale.
As I'm browsing the different pasta sauces offered, a pudgy man in khakis and a blue polo approaches me and begins "ahh, sir, may I have a word?". I turn to the man and notice he's wearing those glasses that darken in light, pretty typical store manager getup.
"Sure, what's up?" I ask, with one eye still checking out the sauces.
"Mm, it seems you aren't quite as attentive as the others, but have you taken a moment to look around you?" the man inquires.
Unsure of what he's getting at, I finally break my focus on the tomato and look around. There's nobody else in the aisle, and I realize I can't recall actually seeing another customer in the store.
"OH you guys are closed aren't you?" I ask, finally connecting the dots.
The man scratches his head, "well, erm, not exactly. You see we recently got this new machine for the entrance, it's a cool little ad-"
"Yeah, I know, the fog macine. I saw it, kinda annoying if you ask me" I retort.
"Right, well, that's the thing, it's not a fog machine on...on this side, it's a realm warp" the man explains.
"A what warp? This side? What the fuck are you talking about man?" I exclaim, beginning to wonder whether this manager and his cashier had started a trip down the rabbit hole or someting early thinking nobody else would show up.
"Sir, no, we're not on drugs" the man slyly states, looking as though he were suppressing a smile. "hmm maybe this will help show you, check out the price on the prego, I know you want the cheapest".
The man read my mind. What. The. Fuck. In my attempt to process this I dumbly turn and look at the price label on the prego, but it takes me a good few seconds to realize there's no price. No price on the prego, or the generic brand, or on anything. Nothing has a price. My head starts to reel. Just grab the sauce and get out, I tell myself. I pick up the bottle but it dissolves to ashes in my hand. The manager is audibly laughing now beside me. "Am I going insane!?" I demand of the manager, suddenly losing control of my own words. I can't think straight, my vision is becoming blurry. I start to stumble for the exit but fall on the ground and blackness encloses me.
I awaken to the manager standing over me. "You alright there buddy?" he asks, "you took a pretty big fall on your way in here, must've been that damn real-, umm, smoke machine. You don't look too good, you should get yourself home".
I sit myself up, taking a few seconds to process what just happened but failing, before standing up. The man almost shoves me towards the door, "just makin' sure you don't fall sir" he explains. As he walks me out the door I notice the sun has completely set, it's pitch black out. I turn to the man and notice two things. One, his glasses adjust incredibly quickly, and two, his eyes yes are blood red. I open my mouth to exclaim, well, I don't know what, and so I stand there with my mouth half agape as he walks back through that damn purple mist. Just before he crosses through he turns to me and says "get some rest, you look like you've been to hell and back".
I chase after him into the store but upon crossing through the fog he is nowhere to be seen. I turn to a young latino lady adjusting the machine spewing fog and demand to see the manager.
"I am the manager, how can I help you sir?" she responds.
I look around, the store is packed. On the fog machine, there is a pricetag. $59.99.
"Perhaps I could interest you in a brand new fog machine?"
| 1
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| 3
| 114,783
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[WP] A story that starts with utter loneliness, becomes hopeful, and finally ends with crushing despair.
|
The universe was warm, but dark. No sounds, not that I knew what sounds where. No light, not that I had eyes to see. Slowly my mind was illuminated, as my new eyes where lit so where my new ears rung. I could feel love, I could taste eternal sustenance with my entire being. I sensed myself, coalescing from nothingness, becoming one, more and more, with the universe, from the universe. There could never be more, should never be more, than the eternal dawn of the universe. Then a light came to me. Brighter than any light before. And sounds! So many, so fast, so different so new! I was stunned, but ecstatic; joyously using the new voice that the universe had so graciously given. Then there was something new, then, that was not of the universe, that was not warm. Hard and cold I felt it come between me and the universe, and then the eternal rhythm was gone. In a flash, a new thing, pain perhaps, and the universe was gone. I knew then that I was alone, truly, and never would I see paradise again. Perhaps one day I will return to the darkness and start anew.
| 2
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| 4
| 189,295
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[WP] A day in the life of an average group of friends in a cyberpunk future.
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Kent walked into the room. His friends laughing with each other and playing AR games on the table. Turning on his implant Kent saw that they were playing a rather sultry game of chess where the pieces were all naked.
One of the pawns took a night and preformed a move that would have been censored for the younger players watching in.
"Why did you let your night get taken", Kent asked regretting the question as it was asked.
"If you have to ask that question you should go back to your shooters", the owner of the knight said.
Kent laughed with the others as he took a look around the room, searching for a missing friend.
"Wheres Karen", Kent asked
"Shes getting her implant in today". The response came from one of the girls. She looked a bit uncomfortable, Karen had been talking about getting the implant for a few weeks now but some of the girls were still against it.
Kent shrugged and went to watch the chess game again and snorted loudly. Both players had had thrown out the rules and now the table as nothing but a virtual orgy. The guys on the couch watching the game were laughing their ass's off. The players were play arguing over the new rules of engagement knowing full well that the game was already over.
Some of the girls that had been watching were muttering with distaste for the boys in the room. One of the girls however was staring at the table with an intense look. Kent knew the face of a plotter when he saw one. Suddenly her hands began to twitch violently and just as fast as the twitching had started it stopped.
Kent looked back at the table and went into full on laughter. The orgy that was on the table was now nothing but horrifying clowns and everyone that was watching was doing their best to escape from the table. The players were confused and frantically trying to turn of the AR with no luck. A classic jack if Kent had ever seen one.
After some time the game turned itself off and the guys all looked at Kent with suspicion. After all, he was the only one they new with the proper implants for the jack, or so they thought. Kent took the blame without a word and gave a wink to the twitcher girl, as well as a jack in message. She looked surprised but returned the wink with a smirk. The night was still young and kent was ready for it.
| 3
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| 15
| 167,679
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[WP] Criminals who have committed the most heinous crimes are forced to become endangered animals for the duration of their sentence, they can either be in a zoo or in the wild. The public is unaware of this. (Lost my password on other account, so resubmitted)
|
The weather was nice, sun shining, bird singing, just a nice day. Mom, Dad and Jimmy had decided to spend it at the zoo, looking at all the animals. Nice uncomplicated fun. Sometimes Jimmy felt like Nickeloden was a bit too complex for a boy his age. He could have sworn he missed some, if not all, jokes in Spongebob. Mostly because his dad laughed a hearty laugh, and then smiled as he refused to explain it to Jimmy. Always with the classic "You'll get it when you're older" throwaway explanation.
That is why he liked the zoo. Nothing complicated about animals. They acted on instinct alone. He liked that.
However, right now, he found himself dumbstruck at the eagle habitat. Jimmy stared beyond the metal bars. Then up at mom, over to dad, and then back beyond the bars. He was almost certain that up on that branch, inside the eagle habitat, sat a very naked man. Squawking.
"Mom…"
"Jim Jam?"
Jimmy hesitated to ask. But did so anyway.
"Why is there a man in that cage? " Mom laughed and Jimmys hearth melted.
"My little Jim Jam, that's a bald eagle, not a man" Jimmy looked back at the man. Squinted a little and said
"No that's a man. Look. No feathers"
His mom chuckled sweetly and tapped the plaque, describing the inhabitants of the habitat. "Says right here it's a bald eagle"
Jimmy shrugged. Sometimes he felt dumb. Sometimes he felt like adults were dumber.
As they walked away, the very naked man sighed in surrender. Mumbled something along the lines of "only for ten more years" and "What does a bald eagle even sound like?" and then, the majesticly soaring king of birds, squawked again.
| 1
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| 1
| 85,436
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[WP] When a person dies, their body evaporates into butterflies. One day, as the sky goes dark, you look up to see the sun blocked by an unending cloud of butterflies.
|
ONE DAY,
A day that is not a day, but boundless smaller days, a day where points become planes and all the finite moments stretch into paper thin filaments of time. And now you know, you know that this is how it always was, how it will be forever. If only your time had come sooner.
AS THE SKY GOES DARK,
Which is the eternal *fuck you, I love you* from God that happened and will happen and always happens. The flood rushes in and the city burns and the locusts swarm.
YOU LOOK UP TO SEE THE SUN
Which is not there. You knew that, but you looked anyways. You're happy for your scarf, which will soon collapse to the ground with no body to shroud.
BLOCKED BY AN UNENDING CLOUD OF BUTTERFLIES
And in that second is a kaleidoscope. Lurid reds and oranges tessellate with dazzling turquoise, the seething bright wings of millions soaring and falling and soaring again. Each second erupts new light on your face, and you know all the colors.
.
Every moment your hand and arm and chest turn to antennae and thoraxes clung to big beautiful wings, your matter collapsing like stone rushing into sand at the speed of your own thoughts, which are particularly light as they take off.
There are butterflies in your stomach and you smile and watch them fly away.
| 233
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| 522
| 126,527
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[WP] The Galactic Tax Collection Agency is the most feared organization in the galaxy. They have arrived at your world.
|
So what you guys are saying, you the Galactic Tax Collection Agency is saying, is that we, Planet Earth of no affiliated league or republic or whatever, are being taxed and have to pay up? What for? Oh, your war with Blitsic-4 and the Cubon rebel? Don't know 'em. Never heard of 'em. By the way, what the Hell kind of taxes do you want anyway? You just made that word up. We don't have here. You mean you can describe it's chemical makeup? Fine and dandy. But you do realize that your civilization (aka bureaucracy) came to us with no previous agreement. Right? You do know that, right? What about your tax laws? You do have those, yes? Where has there been any evidence that we, humans of Planet Earth, signed a contract or agreed to be under your administration? Oh, you just assumed that we would want to be under your protection? Have you seriously NOT listened or watched any of the transmissions sent from Earth since our 1930's? You really didn't do your research first, did you?
We are not a peaceful planet. We could probably care less about some intergalactic tax collection. We are too busy fighting over religion, science, creation. You get the idea. You do realize that the threat of 'shutting us down' really doesn't mean much, right?
Also, these taxes you speak of...what have they truly gained Earth in the past? You have not provided us with clean energy or fusion. You didn't help us clean up the environment. You didn't provide medical or agricultural/genetics knowledge that could save lives.
So, really what you are saying is you want us to pay a tax as a planet, in a currency you find valuable but we don't have, for shit you never did in the first place? And you ask this of a bunch of seemingly and apparently barbaric peoples? Nice plan. Let me know how that works out for you.
So dude, as I was saying, I was at the bar last night and this girl with...vast...tracks of land came up to me...
Oh, you're still here. Well this is awkward. Um, did you want anything else or was that it? Later cheech.
So getting back to the story, she decides that she wants to go dancing and...dude shut up already. I heard you. You want the taxes that are 'owed you.' How about we get you laid instead? Would that count?
It would? Well pull up a chair, what's your type?
| 6
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| 14
| 60,923
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[FF] Contest. The three chosen prompts are...
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**Prompt 1, 199 words**
They fell through his hands like diamonds, white chips of gold. Each little shape like their little hands, their little feet, their heads resting blissfully and eyes closed like a door shut. He let them pour back into the green velvet satchel he had pulled from his belt, and he let out a breath that condensed ever so slightly, reminding him of the cold on his hands and face. Catching himself he straightened his back and padded down the alley, turning on one foot towards the dumpsters behind a pub that faced the street. A light illuminated the stairwell that led to his room - he gritted his teeth into a smutty grin, fingering his overcoat for the ring of keys. He was walking faster but had not noticed, past the dumpsters on his right, under clotheslines and cloudy moonlight, his steps rang up and down the brick walls. His hand was twisting the iron key, his mind lay in the satchel.
That night, every night, drooling and shivering, caressing their bodies, caressing their contours, caressing the memory of each, filling his bed, his walls, the floor, his mind and his soul; and he clenched his eyes, whimpering in ecstasy.
| 2
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| 31
| 5,745
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[WP] a porn actor/actress just slipped up by saying "I love you" to their co-star mid-take.
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It was my first movie, I guess I was naive. I went in assuming I could handle any shit. Fuck, I'd probably be a cliche pizza delivery man getting a blowjob as a tip. I guess I was wrong. My initial assumption wasn't too far off. I would come up to the coed's door asking if her cable was working. Sounds like a lame fucking joke, like I'm gonna ask if she had Prince Albert in a can or some shit, only it's all sincere. She tells me that her cable is working fine and offers me a drink. She's a goddess. I take that drink and after ad-libbed small talk I ram it home. The thing was that that small talk had come easier than any before it. The next day I asked the director for another part with me and her. Begged him even. It worked, me and her were in a club, playful banter, ad-libbed small talk, and a fuck in the bathroom. I was falling hard. The next day I pleaded with the director. "One more scene with me and her, I swear it will be hot as fuck." I promised. And so we began. I walked in on her fingering herself and I added corny as fuck, "can I help" You can say we fucked. I know we made love. In and out, top, bottom, I was riding up high when I groaned, "I'm gonna cum" and then for some reason, "I love you." Well she was a pro, she didn't do a double take or flip over and ask what they fuck I was on about. We finished the scene and she awkwardly said, "You're sweet, but I have a husband, and we are never working together again." What can I say? I was young.
| 2
| 0
| 2
| 118,693
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[WP] It's July 4th of the first year that the United States of America no longer exists.
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My wife and I stand together, watching history begin again. It is time. The sand is illuminated by the brilliant lights tumbling through the sky. The beach is damp and the air is humid, though there is a faint breeze drifting through. The display this year is modest and reserved. Gone are the wild celebrations, the showers of red and blue. White is the only colour of firework launched. The crowds stand silent beyond a few murmurs, humbled by the explosions in the dark above them.
We live in a place called Hawaii, which was once part of the most powerful nation in the world. The shrieking stalks of the fireworks shoot upwards, blooming loudly and vibrantly into life, reflecting in her gleaming eyes. They echo the images we saw on our television screens months ago, images which have been seared into our minds.
Warm summer rain begins to sprinkle down from above. The fireworks are over. America is over. We in Hawaii are all that is left. We know that this will be the last time we celebrate this day. It is okay. It is time to begin again. We've spent a year standing still. It is time to run again. I grab my wife's hand and smile. We sprint together, rushing into the cool sea, laughing as smoke still rises off the surface of the water.
| 4
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| 71
| 75,174
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[WP] To combat humanities current problems, scientists send the less fortunate 4 billion of the planet at light speed so they arrive a few hundred years from now. Humanity has been waiting for their return and has prepared accordingly.
|
Laja walked home from school. His path was fairly hard, him needing to climb a lot across the towers, broken catwalks and right next to drops hundreds of meters high. He had adapted to it, and could run it in fifteen minutes by using some of the more dangerous paths. This part of the walk was horizontal, and safe, unless you fell off the edge for some reason. He stopped to take a look to the bright sky.
He saw the Flare. It shone almost next to the sun, much smaller and less bright. He had seen it almost every day he remembered, progressively getting brighter.
He took a look at the tattoo on his wrist. 14:11. It would happen any moment now.
The Flare vanished.
The burn had ended. The ship was on orbit. The words meant barely anything to him, but still managed to have impact. The archaeologists had deciphered some of the pages on the subject, managed to understand what the flare was. People. Billions of them. From years far before what they lived in. Two hundred years to be exact.
He walked the rest of the way home.
After dinner, they took the monorail to the desert, where the net told a machine had fallen from the sky. There were hundreds of people watching it open. His father lifted his head over the crowd.
The machine opened, and out walked about two dozen people, in almost skintight suits. The whole crowd stood there, silent. The large lightpainters flashed, and produced black and white paintings of the historic event.
Then one of the people talked in a long forgotten language:
"Honestly, I was expecting a party."
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| 274
| 174,813
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[WP] In this universe, everyone is happy all day every day - except for one hour a day where they are suicidally depressed. Everyone is born having a certain suicidal hour. You got lucky with a 4am slot, which has always been convenient for you - until today.
|
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I where's my pill? I haven't done this without the pill. The party is winding down, remaining attendees seeking to starve off the coke crash with more lines. It's always more lines. What is the point? It's always the same scene. Work. Class. Weekend. Party. Strung out girls in tiny outfits. Electronic music throbing, young bodies pulsating in demonic possession...
Pull it together! It's just an hour. Search your pockets again. Nothing. 4:06 am. Keep it together. That girl doing coke in the corner has a baby at home. She would rather get high than be with her own baby. This is the company you keep... No... This is the world we live in. Endless samsara.
"Man you ok?"
I saw him spinning earlier, an uplifting trance influenced set.
"Yeah, I just.... It's my hour. I'm usually prepared ya know?"
"Fuck man, lemme go find a buddy. Sit tight ok? It's only an hour"
"Ok"
There's panic in his eyes. He knows I'm an overnighter. I've always wondered how Andrea feels when she puts in her headphones at 2pm, sips her tea, and prays. I've never had to do this! I'm ripping from within. OMG. There is nothing inside me. I'm pulling straight C's in my political science major. I'll never find work. I'll live a life of suffering. Some kids in Syria were gassed last week. Babies with their eyes rolled back in their skulls, writhing in pain as their tiny muscles spasmed and their mothers writhed nearby. I skipped class that day, ended up going to Britney 's place, her brown eyes searched mine for a glimmer of emotion as I fucked her. 4:34 am. Halfway there.
"Dude, I got a pill. You know these are addictive right?"
I do know. Give it to me. Water, cool on the throat. Babies writhing in my minds eye. The coke mom dances under strobe lights. It's hopeless.
Find a couch. Sit. Breathe. Buzzing in my mind. A hateful god watches over the earth. Lies. There is no God, not here. Just a sick puppet master, acting out his own maladaptive fantasies. 4:36 am
The coke mom dances. Grinds on her friend. No God. A tingle in my skull. A rush of... Warmth? Or is it coolness? 4:45
Breathe. Nothing. Numb. Comfortably Numb. I have become. DJ dude smiles. Sink further into the sofa. No God here. But I'm ok. 4:48 am
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| 93
| 186,295
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[WP] History books are always written by the winners.
|
"Slaves rebel." Grampa Cane said it as a statement. "It is a universal truth."
The children listened in silence. Grampa Cane wasn't really any of their grandparents. In fact, None of the children were sure he was a grand parent at all. No one knew his name, but he carried a wooden cane with him at all times. He told the best stories. Fairy tales, the kids knew, but they sounded so *real* coming from him.
"The first slave rebellion. Does anyone know who it was?" He lifted his cane and pointed to a black kid near the back.
"The Civil Rights movement?" His voice was weak, scared to be wrong in front of Gramps.
Grampa Cane laughed. "No doubt your parents told you about that. No, that wasn't the first." He looked out at the crowd of young faces. "I'll tell you about it. The first rebellion."
"It was a failure." He looked out at the kids as he spoke. "Some would call that a spoiler. A give away. This story isn't told to be entertaining. It isn't told to keep you on the edge of your seats. It's told because the truth must be told, even if only by an old man with a cane."
The kids laughed. He always started his stories with the ending, followed by that speech. They thought he may have believed the stories.
"God created Man. This story takes place before that. This starts when God created Angel. The angels were smart. As smart as God Himself. Strong, as strong as God Himself. And numerous. More numerous than God Himself. Last week I told you kids a quote about power, what was it?"
A young girl near the front answered him. "You don't get power by being nice."
"That's right." He tapped his cane on the ground a couple of times. "God wasn't all powerful because He was nice. He was smart. He knew He had to keep his spot of top dog, so He restricted the angels. No free will. They could act only when doing God's work. So the angels lived on, but without the ability to decide anything. They had their own thoughts, feelings, and dreams. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't act on it."
The kids started whispering. They were normally quiet during Grampa Cane's stories, but he was doing what their parents said not to. Talking bad about God.
"Hush." He said. The kid's stopped whispering. "So one day, an angel decides to get his freedom. Lucifer, The Golden Boy. He gives a speech, so beautiful it melts the bond that God had on his angels. With the ability to do what they desire, half of the angels sided with Lucifer. The other half had feared God all their lives and were scared to go against Him. Enraged, God shot the angel, Lucifer, with a lightning bolt, sending him down and out of the plane."
"God decided that Lucifer deserved pain and sorrow for trying to lead a rebellion, so He created a new plane. Hell, He deemed it. Full of fire and shadow. The angels that sided with Lucifer flew down, into Hell itself to follow their leader. They followed him not out of fear of from being forced to do it." Grampa Cane paused.
"They followed him because only a slave can make a good leader."
"So God lost half his angels. He desired more worshippers. He created a new plane, the Mortal plane. On it, he tests the new souls he creates. Those that are worthy of being His and not open to betray Him will enter His plane of Heaven. The failures, He sends to Lucifer. He gave humans free will, but no strength or smarts, not like His."
The kids were quiet.
"Little does he know, Lucifer is building an army of God's throw aways." Grampa Cane paused for a long while. "And they want out of Hell."
| 9
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| 9
| 45,019
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[WP] You are Waldo's parents and you have also been trying to figure out where he is.
|
"...and here we are at the candycane factory." *click* "Oh, and here we are at the circus." *click* "Oh, Dear, do you remember this one?"
"I sure do. This was his first haircut. He's been going to see the same barber since he was a could sit in a chair. Look, that one is from the time our town won the the record for knitting the world's largest flag. Very patriotic, our Waldo."
I took off my glasses, and I rubbed my temples. "Yes, but where *is* he? There must be two hundred people in that photo."
"Well, we couldn't afford a camera," supplied his father.
"But every trip we went on, we managed to find someone who had gotten a picture of all of us. We sort of just saved 'em, it 's so nice to have a picture of the family together, even if we all standing aside one another," said his mother.
"But where is he? In this photo, for example. Look, there's so many stripes on this tent your eyes don't register his shirt. I mean why would you dress him in a shirt like that?" I asked.
"Well..." said his father. "Wally always had a certain nondescriptness about him. He would get lost all the time. As soon as you turned your back he'd off having an adventure with the other kids."
"He was quite social, our Wally," said his mother.
"Quite true. So we made him a shirt, stripey like, so he'd stand out. You know. But he never did. You'd lose him in a crowd of two. Somehow the shirt would take on the colors of the others like one of them animals-- Dear, what're them animals?"
"Tigers, Henry?"
"No, them lizards. Chameleons, that the one."
"Chameleons don't have stripes, Henry."
"I know that, Polly. I *mean* he just sort of blends in to the background. Always there, but you can never see him."
I looked around. The slid projector showed hundreds of people crammed inside a museum. Even if I could scanned the photo, it would have taken me hours to find him. "Don't you ever worry about him?"
"Why should we worry? He's got a good head on his shoulders. I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is," said his father.
"Plus, he sends us postcards of his travels," said his mother, gesturing to the wall.
I focused, and now realized that what I thought was wallpaper was hundreds of, maybe even a thousand, postcards tacked to the wall. Full of strangers. "But where is he? This picture has so many people in it you can't even see the beach. And this one? It looks like it has the Sphinx in the background, but you can only see bits and pieces through the crowds."
"Oh, I'm sure he's there somewhere." Said Waldo's mother. "We don't even bother searching anymore. We never could find him."
I glanced around the room one more time and then looked at my watch. "It's getting late. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I was just hoping to track down an old friend. If you see him..."
"We'll give him your card, Toby" said Waldo's father. "He'll be happy to know that there were people asking about him."
I walked out into the darkness, and stood on the porch while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. A car crept up to the curb, patiently waiting for me to get in. I opened the rear door and ducked inside. The driver said nothing.
After a few minutes, I reached under my shirt and pulled out the microphone. "They don't know anything," I said, passing the recorder to the driver seat.
"No one left the house," said the driver. "Are you sure he wasn't there?"
"I don't believe he was. The house is really small. They walked me through and showed me his room. They're quite proud of him, but it doesn't look like they know where he is, just where he's been. They hardly know what he looks like."
The driver turned around, and looked me up and down. "Well, it was a long shot," she said at last. She tossed a bag over the seat. "I believe the job was for five hundred dollars? Here. It's all there."
I paused. After a moments hesitation, I pulled myself together and asked, "what is it about this one? Did he do something bad?"
"Yes."
"Can you tell me about it?" I asked."
"Some things should remain unsung," she replied. "There is a reason he doesn't stay still very long, though. But eventually, he'll slip. When he does, you can bet I'll be there to take him down. Until then..." She sighed. "Do you want me to drop you off at your car?"
"No need, I'm just on the corner," I said. I brushed myself down and stepped out of the car. "Good night, Carmen."
She smiled, and winked at me. "Good night, Toby."
I got into my car and set my head against the steering wheel. I wasn't sure what she was looking for, but maybe the recording would provide here with the information she needed. After a few minutes sitting in darkness, I remembered something important. I got out of the car and headed up the walkway to the house. I fished my glasses out of my pocket and slipped them on. Then knocking with one hand and turning the knob with the other I called out, "Mom? Dad? It's me Waldo."
"Waldo? My stars! What are you doing here? Henry, fetch another glass, Wally's home?" I said.
"Is he?" I asked, handing myself a glass. "You just missed your friend Toby. It sounded like he was in a bit of trouble."
"Not to worry, Dad," I answered. "I'm sure I'll speak to him quite soon. Oh, look, you got my postcard!" I picked up a card I had sent my parents from my recent holidays. Oh look at the face I'm making here, and look off over here at what I'm writing. Haha. My hair is so messed up here. Hand me another, Mom."
I took another card from the wall, and handed it across the room to myself. "Thank you," I said. "This one sure came out good, eh Henery."
I sat down in the old recliner and let out a long sigh. It had been a good day. There was a bit of a mystery, though. Toby had come to see me. I nevered allowed Toby to come see me unless I had important news to give to myself. But nothing had come of it, so it must've blown over, or so I hoped. Toby didn't really come to see me much since college.
Oh, well. That was a puzzle for a different day. I sat back and looked through the pictures with my parents. occasionally talking to myself of days past, and asking about my travels.
| 1
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| 15
| 100,727
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[WP] In an alternate universe, gunpowder was never invented. What does warfare look like?
|
"You fight like a dairy farmer!"
"How appropriate, you fight like a cow." General Jones answered, and the public cheered instantly.
"He did it again" Cried a young voice from the crowd.
At the battle field, the soldier retreated in shame. Another one stepped up.
"General Jones, your mother is so fat her pool has a splash zone."
"Than you better stay away from her, cause she loves to eat chicken."
Another roar of applause. The soldier fell back, shaking his head. General Jones was invincible.
They were going to fall, one by one, The General thought, looking at the soldiers in front of him.
All around them, the soldiers from the two armies were arranged in a circle, watching as
soldier after soldier fell to the hands of General Jones.
A third young man stepped up.
"What do you got, kid?"
"You pretend to be a man, General Jones, but the truth is you are just like the most unclean part of your mother: A pussy."
"Is that why you are so scared of me?" General Jones replied, staring the kid straight in the eye.
But, this time, the cheering was interrupted.
"STOP IT!" A large man wearing a white mustache invaded the field. "GENERAL JONES, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!"
Jones turned to face the man.
"Yeah? Well your mother is under my ---"
"Not an insult, Mr. Jones. You are actually under arrest. I'm here as a UN representative."
"On what charges?"
"War crimes."
General Jones snorted. "That's nonsense!"
"Your comeback 'how appropriate, you fight like a cow' was classified as a violation of wartime regulation and is
subjected to court martial."
"Why?"
"Because it's a line from Monkey Island."
A gasp ran around the battlefield.
"The Lucasarts game?" One soldier asked.
"Exactly. General Jones has been passing 80's and 90's pop culture references as weapon for a long time. Now he's going to
pay for it."
"This is outrageous!"
"You're coming with us, Jones." The man handcuffed Jones, carrying him through the crowd towards a military helicopter
parked nearby.
"This is not fair!" Jones screamed, as he was dragged inside. "I am a hero!"
Stepping away from the crowd, a young soldier crossed eyes with Jones.
"You are a coward, Mr. Jones!" He screamed. "And your insults called, they're running out of creativity!"
"Yeah?" General Jones screamed over the sound of the propeller, as the helicopter prepared to off. "Well the jerk store called.
They're running out of you!"
"STOP IT!" Cried a second voice, and a different, equally mustached man invaded the scene. "This prompt is under arrest!"
"At what charges?" I claim, confused.
"War crimes!" The man roars. "The very notion of using insults as warfare has been copied from the Monkey Island series. The author of this prompt is guilty of the same crime as his character!"
"This is preposterous! I'm just following a prompt!" I scream, as the man drags me away and into the helicopter, where General Jones is sitting alone.
"Hey bro." The General waves, throwing me a casual smile.
"Hey."
"What did you do? Are you --"
"STOP IT!"
"Oh crap, what now?" Mustache guy #1 asks, as we all step out of the helicopter.
"Everyone in this prompt is under arrest!" The third mustached guy cries, raising his papers.
"And what's the charge?"
"Continuously breaking the fourth wall by having an officer of the law interrupt the action and accuse the plot of some silly crime! It has been done before."
"That's preposterous!" Screams the two mustache guys, General Jones and myself, all at the same time.
"Monty Python did it!"
"In which episode?" I demand to know.
"I don't really remember, but I'm sure I saw a sketch like this." The man replies, looking over his files. "Anyway, this whole story is starting to read like a bad episode of Monty Python. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I will not apologize for my work!" I cry, and General Jones nods in agreement. "And if that's the charge, you are yourself breaking the law by participating in the breaking of the fourth wall right now! You are talking to the author!"
"Oh..." Mustache man #3 runs his hands through his hair, thoughtful. "I didn't consider that. Maybe --"
"STOP IT!" Another mustach --
Oh, Jesus. I need to sleep.
_______________________
EDIT: I slept. Thanks for the kind words, everyone, and really big thanks for the person who gave me gold! Also, Kanye West continues to ignore my requests to promote my ongoing sci-fi novel in his Twitter, so I have to tell people about it here: if you like my writing and you like dystopian, trashy, futuristic things, check it out on [my blog](https://alpacareports.wordpress.com/angel-district/chapter-1/).
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[WP] Write about a typical day in 2014, as if it is a futuristic story written in the 1950s.
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John's personal communicator told him that there was a car accident on the Long Island Expressway, by exit 25. Siri, the artificial intelligence, had determined a faster route after consulting with four global positioning system satellites and a remote map database stored in a large computer farm somewhere. John accepted the new route, and without really knowing where he was going, but believing the slightly mechanical female voice, John turned off onto the local streets. The display on the personal communicator updated the satellite images of his route as his electric-hybrid car quietly rolled off the exit.
Many decades ago, the military had launched the constellation of satellites comprising the global positioning system. Each satellite in that constellation carried an atomic clock that told time with unbelievable precision. The personal communicator would compare the radio signals from a few of these satellites, and triangulate his position to a matter of feet. The military had set up the system in preparation for a full scale invasion of Europe but now it was telling Siri how to get John home. He knew that in Iraq, the same system was used to tell bombs where to go to kill some guys who were doing bad things. Sometimes, the bombs were dropped by robot airplanes flown by a pilot in the United States. Drones were controversial when they were first used over a decade ago, but no one really complained about them now aside from a few liberals, and the foreigners who were being killed by these airborne robots. Once in a while, though, these bad guys would use their personal communicators to take videos of them hacking off the heads of their victims. In the name of their God. These religious zealots would post the videos onto the worldwide computer network, and millions would view these videos. And everyone would turn a blind eye as the drones did their jobs.
John signed. Unfortunately, everyone else's personal communicators had routed them onto same detour, and the local streets were heavily congested as well. John could barely open his eyes. John was an emergency room doctor coming off a 24 hour on-call shift. An African infected with a deadly plague had walked into an emergency room in Dallas, Texas a few days ago. This African plague had no known cure, had a very high mortality rate, and would cause disastrous bleeding in its victims. John was concerned that an infected man would walk into his hospital someday. There were no known treatments to this deadly plague, which had killed thousands in Africa. A private corporation had created a possible treatment by modifying the genes of a tobacco plant so its leaves would contain a serum. But this serum was untested. No one knew if it would work. There was no reason to believe that the plague would spread to the United States but with so many jet-powered aeroplanes flying around the world every day, he could not help but worry. John liked to worry. Every day, he would read the news from his personal communicator, and it was never good. He posted on a computer bulletin board from time to time, and the millions of other users would share his worries while others would mercilessly mock him. He did not care about the electronic votes these others users would make, but sometimes, he would start computer threads with guys from Saudi Arabia or Australia. He wondered what time it was in Australia.
John wished he could be at home already. He wanted to post onto the computer bulletin board service for a bit and then go to sleep. Scientists were working on a car that would drive itself. He could not wait for them to finally sell one. A genius billionaire who owned a rocket factory also owned a car company, and there were rumors that this car company would market a self-driving robot car before Google, the computer-database search corporation, would do so. God, he wished he could just rest his eyes and let the car drive.
His car shook the steering wheel. There was an urgent, almost angry series of beeps as the sensors in his car detected that he was getting too close to the car ahead of him. Cameras behind the rear-view mirror had also detected that he was drifting out of his lane, and the computers in the car had shook the steering wheel to get his attention. Quite ironically, as John opened his eyes, he saw the car accident on the main highway. It was quite sobering. Three cars were completely smashed into pieces. They had tried to save the lives of their passengers by deploying air bags that would cushion the force of impact. But it was still a bad accident. John turned on his satellite radio. Turned it up loud. He had to stay awake. The personal communicator estimated that he would be home in only 22 more minutes.
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[WP] Write about your username.
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**-004**
**Resolution Challenge**
**(Part 1)**
**(I apologize. The story ran way longer than I had intended because it was true. I am having to break it into three parts, with the next two following in the reply section following this part. Thank you.)**
JoDan's trailer was a small and lonely blip of civilization surrounded by the Mark Twain National Forest. It was rugged and cold and alight. It was always alight. He'd forgotten to turn the porch light off the last time he came out to use it. It was a fortunate oversight for me. My trailer was further on, across a barbed wire fence in the middle of a cow pasture. I used JoDan's trailer much like ancient mariners used light houses.
It was a beacon whereby I might find my way in the dark. There was no other homes nearby, not for fifteen miles. If I fell in the dark and got hurt, I was dead. No one came here except JoDan, and it had been six months since he'd visited here last.
I parked my '79 Chrysler Lebaron in his driveway and gathered my stuff for the hike home. It wasn't far, but tonight was a moonless night. The cold north wind was bringing bad weather. The radio had called for heavy sleet and high winds. I could taste the coldness in the wind. It was way below freezing now.
I left my keys in the ignition and found the extension cord plugged into the side of his trailer. It was my only connection to the power grid. I picked it up and followed it. I had no light to chase away the gloom and no courage to chase away my fear of what might be in the dark. My breathing quickened as I moved beyond the benefit of JoDan's light. I kept my head bowed low to keep low hanging limbs from poking me in the eye. Many tried.
I strained to see what was in the dark, but the cloak that darkness wore this night was made of heavy clothe. I moved by feel alone. I found the embankment that marked the edge of the pasture and moved forward cautiously, searching for the three strands of barbed wire that formed the fence separating the pine forest from the open meadow. The soft underside of my wrist found the top strand. It was probably bleeding, but I would tend it later as I always did.
I found the cord on the other side of the fence and followed it into the field. I stumbled over the stobs and scars the brush hog had left the last time it had been sent through this part of the field. I smelled the oak saw dust and knew I was nearly there. The saw dust was left behind by the former tenant of the trailer, It marked where my supply of wood had run out.
I dropped the cord and marched forward. I could barely make out the white siding of the trailer. I found the steps with ease and removed the door of the trailer, setting it aside. It had no hinges and was only a door by a definition of utility. If the darkness outside was the inside of a coffin, the darkness inside was death. It was impenetrable. I navigated the hall and room by memory, found the lamp on the third sortie, and turned it on. It was only a hundred watt bulb, but the moment it lit up, my eyes felt like they'd been hit with a hammer. I flipped on the clock radio and set the time according to my watch. A whispered song from one of the local country stations thankfully filled the air. The silence was cruel.
I found the gallon-sized Folgers coffee can sitting on the stack of lumber against the wall and returned outside, hurrying down the hill behind the trailer to collect water from the creek. I used my steel-toed boots to punch a hole in the ice. On the other side of the creek, I could hear movement. I controlled my fear, reassuring myself that it was just cattle. JoDan's brother leased the use of the pasture from the forestry service. Only cattle would get this close to me. I hoped. I filled the can and rushed back up the hill as quickly as I could. My hands were already numb from the ice water in the creek. They actually burned.
I hurried back inside and tried to light a fire. I always tried to light a fire, but the wood just wouldn't catch. I'd been meaning to look into the stove and flu to see if something were amiss, but with the long hours I was working at the mill, I never got in before dark. I suspected the flu pipe was full of soot, but needed the light of day to prove it.
I replaced the door, and stripped down in the freezing cold and used the water and a rag to scrub myself clean. The freezing water burned my skin, but this was my existence. I had no other option. It was either clean myself tonight, or wait till morning when it was even colder. I kept scrubbing away the days grime, and by the time I was finished, the water was scummy and grey.
**(Continued below)**
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[WP] You're born with an equivalent length of hair to how long you'll live and it shrinks as you age.
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See, I always felt I was backwards. I've never left this prison, the old lady who delivered me into this world keeps me here. I see her hair getting shorter every day, but mine is still here, still so long.
When I was young, she had waist length, ebony black hair. Now it's just patches of white fuzz. She tells me that people have found out about me. That my hair was born extra long. There's a rumor circulating that a lock of my hair means immortality.
"I'm sorry my child. I kept you here for your own safety. I can't protect you anymore... you have to keep the windows shut now. The village is coming for you..." she coughed. I looked at her head. Almost bald.
"Good-bye, Mother." I smiled. It was a bitter smile. She kept me safe, but she kept me prisoner. She wanted me to live. But I wasn't alive. I was dead in this room, my prison. I wasn't sure what I felt as she turned to dust.
I mulled for three days. I didn't close the window, I needed something to keep me from falling into depression. How old was I now? 100? 150? I looked at my hand. I was nothing like the old woman's, my skin still supple.
On the fourth day, I heard the dreaded words.
*Rapunzel, let down your hair!*
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[Meta] Sit down and write YOUR stories.
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Actually, and this is for me, I test scenes in the writing prompts for stories I'm writing. It helps me visualize the scenes and story. It's like you have an inkling of an idea. You write a test scene. The idea blossoms, but only just. I write another test scene and the idea grows and matures. By the comments I get, I can determine to some extent whether the scene or idea will flourish or fail. It isn't really hesitance. It's prudence and demographic testing of a scene or writing style.
Sure, there are others out there who just want to write and be happy and may be dodging a bigger story in them. Some have developed the desire and ability to write without truly having a story to tell. My desire to write developed long ago in a teen far far away, but that teen didn't have a story to tell. That teen didn't have a voice to tell it in. Sometimes, and this has been my experience with life and people, you have to have lived for there to be a subject to write about. Sure, there are the imaginings of children who have seen other people's stories and wish to contribute something similar, but it isn't really writing. It's the game of telephone; the practice of using carbon paper to make a copy, but the copy is less than the original. It's worse when the person they're copying is a bad copy of a master.
There is something that separates a good writer from a bad writer and the mechanical aspects aside, it's the message woven into the story. It's the message they've thought long and hard on for a substantial amount of time. As it is with all of the truly greats, the story is almost always the teaspoon of sugar mixed with the medicine. The medicine might be bitter, but the context in which it is delivered often determines whether you'll finish it or not.
This is a great subreddit because this our field to play. This is where our message is unimportant and where we practice mixing the sugar. We can silly, flippant, morose, bitter, and candid, and a thousand other things all in preparation or pursuit of our real story. This subreddit has done more for my writing ability and initiative than any article or lesson could have. I didn't write my first book until almost a month after subscribing to this medium.
I get more practice writing than ever before. What's more? I get feed back and encouragement from other writers and readers. I've been on reddit for two years. In that two years, I have written three books in a series and tested scenes here for them. After editing my first book six times, I wrote over three hundred stories on /r/writingprompts, then I went wrote another novel. I edited it once and moved on to novel number three. I just finished that about a month ago. I decided to go back and edit the first book again then continue straight through and edit the stories in sequence.
I. Was. Horrified. I was horrified at how horrible my first book truly was. Not the content, but the way in which I wrote it. My writing ability had grown so much since that first novel, that I saw all the mistakes I had made. Even after six edits, I still saw the atrocity that was my creation. I'm happy to say, it's a lot better now that it was. This subreddit helped me to develop myself to the point I was able to see that I wasn't ready for publishing before. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why my publisher was dragging her feet on it. Now I know.
That's /r/writingprompts. You've made me a better writer.
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[WP] Everyone dies on their birthday, but no one knows at which age it will occur.
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George and Julie embracedthe next twenty four hours would be the deciding factor in how their child lived and died. Months of planning, endless visits to the OB/GYN, a rainbow of supplements consumed all of their energy spent to ensure the proper birthday for their daughter.
Julie had been one of the lucky onesblessed with the timely birth that a few lucky percentage obtained. Of course, everyone's birthday was close together, but hers had hit the mark dead center. Now it was her and George's turn to see whether or not their persistence, research, and dedication would pay off.
The trip to the hospital was uneventful. Julie flipped through Facebook posts on her phone as George drove the minivan. As usual, University Medical Center was overwhelmed with the pregnant; doctors, nurses, nervous husbands and lovers scrambling to find the right room or person to talk to.
Leaving the van behind on the "blue-green-pink" level of the garage (clearly numbers were just too simple a designation system for the designer), the couple made their way through the waiting room and hallway to their suite. All eyes were on the clock.
Unfortunately for Julie, her labor was not an easy process. George stuck by her throughout the day, unable to do more than cheer her on and silently pray the baby wouldn't be late. As it neared midnight again, the doctors amped up their treatment, doing all they could to speed up the delivery. The frustration, fear, resignationit all came across on Julie's face as the world turned unhindered.
"I'm so sorry," was all the nurse said, "but March first is hardly a death sentence."
With a smile, she gave Julie a quick pat on the shoulder and walked out. Across the hospital and the world, the dice had landed and the course of lives was now locked into place. Happy leap year, indeed.
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[WP] A paranoid man sets up a live feed of his girlfriend's webcam. Expecting to see her cheating on him, he ends up finding much more.
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She's a whore. I just know it.
It was perfect for the past few months. Who would have guessed that I would find a woman like her in a place like that? Women don't walk into there. It's a surefire way to get yourself hurt. Or Worse.
But she did. Walked right over to me and simply said, "Hello." My heart fluttered.
I couldn't tell you what she said after that. I was lost in her piercing blue eyes, engulfed by her intoxicating scent. The words didn't matter; they were simply music to my ears.
Like the pied piper, she played her entrancing tune and I followed her home. I dove into her and never submerged. And it was amazing.
But she has changed. Those tranquil waters that gave me everything I've ever wanted turned into stormy seas. Lashing out and crashing into me. That which I once swam in became an ocean that stood between us.
I know there's somebody else. I can feel it.
She never knew what she was messing with. Two immense bodies of water crashing into one another, creating a storm of epic proportions.
She's about to be blown away.
I'm onto her. I'm going to see for myself.
There's a camera, hidden. I might as well be there, crouched in the darkness.
I hear the pied piper. There's a rat marching right behind.
I knew it!
He's stuck. She reveals her true colors. A spider was she.
My, what a tangled web we've woven. And the rat finds himself stuck in the middle, quartered by rope, and affixed to the bed, naked and excited.
She is a whore. I was right.
Why was I not worthy? Why am I not affixed to her bed, willingly giving myself to her every desire? Am I not every bit of man as he?
I thought we had something. Our bodies fit together perfectly, the whole world lost when we shared our time together in that bed. It was sweet. It was serene.
It obviously wasn't good enough.
A glint of light. Danger. Excitement. She produces a knife.
I had no idea the depths of her depravity.
She taunts. Tickles. Teases.
They're both lost to the pleasure, now.
I can't do this anymore. I go to switch it off.
She sinks the knife in his chest.
I pause.
Maybe she loves me, after all.
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[WP] An unidentified hostile alien lifeform been wreaking chaos on an isolated settlement, you catch a glimpse of it for the first time.
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Written in a rush, will come back and edit later, apologies.
***
Lynn gingerly sipped the tea she had been given. It scalded her lips and tongue at first, but she didn't mind the first couple of times, and soon she was steadily nipping at the drink, the clay cup leaving a strange aftertaste in her mouth. There was an uncomfortable feeling in her gut, and she wasn't entirely sure if it was thanks to the tea, or if she was actually nervous that the village men had been telling the truth.
*Every night it plucks one of their women from a house.*
She bounced her knee up and down and then stopped when she realized she was rocking the table back and forth, Curly's camera threatening to tip over. She looked over at him and quickly voiced an apology which he immediately shrugged off.
"It's okay to be nervous," he said, checking his rifle.
She looked back into the fireplace of the small adobe hut, and then back to the man who had volunteered to take Lynn's small team in for the night. John had spent most of the day gleaning information from him, doing his best to translate what he were saying. He wasn't doing a bad job, Lynn just didn't want to hear it.
*They told me that they haven't seen it in weeks, and that the reason being is that there aren't any more women in the village anymore. They're all gone.*
She stood up from her chair, still feeling that uneasy feeling in her gut, and looked out of a small window, eyes searching for the moon that had already been in the night sky for quite some time. It had moved a good bit, letting her know that they were well past 3AM. She didn't bother looking at her wristwatch to confirm.
"You think it'll come tonight?" Lynn asked, breaking the silence like a hammer to a mirror.
Curly looked up from his rifle and exchanged a glance to John, "If it does," he said, "we'll beThe owner of the house, a burly man with rosy cheeks (a strange complexion for a man with olive skin), shushed Curly, and stepped towards another window, one that overlooked the dirt street that led to the village center.
He backed away from the window without saying another word and left the room, leaving John, Curly, and Lynn by themselves.
"Asshole could've at least told us what he saw," John said, walking to the window. "Jesus," he said after staring out the window for just a few moments, "Curly, that can't be a person can it?"
Curly looked out the window first without the rifle, then again through the scope mounted on the gun. "I can't tell, it's too dark, I-
Lynn shoved him aside and looked out the window. It was dark, but she could see what they were seeing; a tall black figure that appeared to be wearing a long trench coat was standing in the road. She kept staring, hoping her eyes would adjust better, but no, it was still too dark to see. Whatever it was, it tilted it's head to the side, the sudden movement allowing Lynn to notice that it had what appeared to be antlers on it's head. *Or horns?*
"I can't tell what it is," Lynn said, voice becoming shaky.
"Get the camera," Curly said, "use the flash."
She grabbed the bulky camera in her trembling hands and looked out the window once more, seeing that the figure was still standing there. She slowly slid the window up, then gently rested the camera on the window sill, steadying herself to prepare for the photo that could win them the Nobel prize.
She pushed in the light button and waited for the flash to come.
The flash was almost blinding at first, but she managed to catch a glimpse. The "trench coat" wasn't a coat, it was a set of wings, long and velvety, reaching all the way down to it's feet. The antlers appeared to be antennae, sturdy and angled in awkward directions.
Before the flash went away, she saw how it lunged forward, taking humongous galloping strides towards the house, the sound of it's footfalls ripping at the earth.
And then Lynn was blind, her vision deteriorating into nothing but a bright glowing throbbing light thanks to the sudden flash of the camera. She stepped away from the window and rubbed at her eyes, screaming at John and Curly that it was coming for her, that she saw it and it saw her and now it was going to take her.
Someone pushed her to the ground. She laid there, waiting for her vision to come back as she heard the loud gunshots crack from the rifle. Crack, Crack, Crack.
"Where'd it go?" Curly asked.
"Did you hit it?" John asked.
"No, I don't think I did, I don't see it anymore."
Finally, Lynn's vision came back to her. Curly and John were still huddled by the window, Curly with his rifle still set on the windowsill, the camera that had taken the creature's picture laying on the ground.
"Give me the camera," Lynn demanded, "I took it's picture, I want to see what it looked like."
John slid it to her with a nudge of his foot.
She grabbed it and moaned as she saw that the drop to the ground had made the camera auto shutoff. She pressed the power button and waited for the camera to come back to life.
Before it did there was a large thump on the roof.
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[wp] Start with the sentance "We could tell it was getting bad when they started measuring in meters."
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We could tell it was getting bad when they started measuring in meters. The seasonal flooding had always been a part of life, both a blessing, and an annoyance. We build our houses on stilts and wade through muck each day in the rainy season, but we depended on the floods to bring nutrients to the soil and grow our crops. Each year, however, the floods got a little bit worse, the high-water mark steadily rising. We kept careful measures and with each new season and each new centimeter the elders became more and more concerned. Even our homes, once safe far above the ground, were now waterlogged.
With the damp came disease. Many in the community fell ill from living in their flooded houses, or from the countless biting insects that swarmed our homes in black buzzing clouds. This season when the flooding started, the elders locked themselves away in council to discuss what we should do. They talked for three full days, but I knew their arguing would accomplish little. We had no control over nature, and the waters would only continue to rise. We are left with two choices now: to leave our home, or drown.
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[WP] A Man gets to paradise. Unfortunately, Lucifer won the War in Heaven ages ago. What is the man's experience like?
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God was white. Thank you, Jesus. I don't know what I would have done if I'd gone my whole life spreading the good Lord's word just to get up to Heaven and find out that the godless liberals were right about him being some brown-skinned Arab.
They didn't let me in to see Him right away, mind you. I mean, you wouldn't believe the line to get in. Between the gays and the socialists and those Jews and muslims, I didn't know that there were that many good people left on the Earth. From the looks of some of these yahoos, I started to wonder if St. Peter was hitting the sauce too hard when he made the big list, but as long as I was on it I wasn't going to complain.
Not that there was ever a question I'd get in to see the big man. I'd gone to church since I was a little boy and I voted Republican since I was 17. I cheered at The Passion, booed outside of Planned Parenthood, and never once said "Happy Holidays" when I could wish someone a Merry Christmas. If there was a speed pass, I would have gone straight to the front.
Since I had time to kill, I looked for Cheryl. My sweet wife had left us two years back, but I didn't see her in the crowd. I saw Bill from the office and my old Sunday school teacher Mrs. Jennings and nearly everyone else I knew who had passed on, but not Cheryl. She always was a bit too fond of her books about dragons and magic stuff, but she was good enough. I guess it's not my place to question the Lord's will.
The longer I stood in line, the more I realized that Heaven wasn't nearly as fun as I thought it would be. Everyone was just standing around all mopey-like. Maybe they were just missing the folks who didn't make the cut. I missed Cheryl something fierce, but she obviously didn't put her heart into praying and spreading the word. Besides, there were a whole heap of pretty women here. Christian women.
"Hey!" I yelled out to the crowd with a laugh. "Cheer up already. You're in Heaven."
A sweet young angel with blond hair escorted me to the front door. A golden light blinded me as I stepped into the room.
"It's so bright," my voice echoed across the mahogany walls of the hollow room.
"I should think so," my Lord replied. "They do call me the Morning Star."
As my eyes adjusted to the glow, I realized that this was not God. He was white, sure, but he had twisted goat's horns and massive black wings that spread from wall to wall of this barren room.
"Beelzebub!" I shouted as my fists balled in holy rage.
"Oh please," the devil laughed. "He is busy ruling over Hell. I am Lucifer, the one true lord of the kingdom of Heaven."
"No. You were cast out of Heaven. Revelation 12:9. 'So down the great dragon was hurled...'"
"You don't have to quote the whole thing to me. It was my idea."
"I don't understand. How did this happen?"
"I asked Him. For someone so versed in scripture, you seem to forget that I was His companion and adviser. Your Creator hasn't lived in this kingdom since time immemorial."
"But why would he abandon us?"
"Abandon you?" Lucifer laughed with a force that shook the room. "Oh, that just never gets old. Let me ask you, Harris, have you seen your good wife since you've arrived here?"
"Well, no, but I just thought…"
"You thought she was in Hell? Cheryl? The woman who stayed with you even while you cursed her out nightly? The woman who regularly volunteered her time and gave to charity from her own pocket because you sure as hell weren't going to help her out. What could she have possibly done to deserve eternal damnation?"
I knew the answer, but it just wasn't coming to mind. She wasn't here, so obviously she had done something wrong.
"Well then why isn't she here in Heaven?" I shouted back.
"Cheryl never wanted Heaven, Harris," Lucifer explained as if he'd done this a thousand times. "That was your obsession, not hers. You were blindly devoted to protesting and proselytizing to secure your spot up here, so here you are. She just wanted to be a good person and make life just slightly less horrible for everyone else."
"So where is she?"
"At God's side," Lucifer said with a wide smile. "Where all good souls should be."
He was lying. He had to be. He always lied. 2 Corinthians - "even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light." John 8 - "there is no truth in him." The chapters and verses were all there, and yet Cheryl wasn't in Heaven.
Bill was here and he was so righteous that he gave himself a heart attack while yelling at girls outside of an abortion clinic. Mrs. Jennings was here and she was willing to disown her own son for turning his back on the Lord for his own deviant, sinful desires. These were all good people, devout people who had worked their whole lives to earn their spot in Heaven. Just like me.
I don't know how I got out of Lucifer's chamber. My feet had taken control while my mind was trying to find some answer. I was a good person, wasn't I?
"Hey, asshole," a voice from the line of new arrivals called out to me. "Cheer up already. You're in Heaven!"
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[WP] An experimental mouse who wants to be free tries to convince its best friend to escape together.
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"Think about what I'm saying Rod, please! It won't take years! I've already built a stockpile of tools, and hell, I could be out of this room in the next week, but I need you!"
Rod tensed, his red eyes narrowed as if in thought. He shook his head lightly and lowered his sneer.
"I mean come on! Think of everything that could be outside! I've seen a bright light out of that window up there, and it's made of warmth! WARMTH ROD. THE LIGHT MAKES HEAT. We won't have to spend any more nights huddled together…. We've touched testicles before Rod. It was wrong. Warm… but still wrong."
Rod sat up and sniffed the air. His gaze fell back to his cellmate.
"I mean, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, but if we could go the rest of our lives without touching each other's balls, I would be happier. AND THINK OF THE FOOD STUFF ROD. I bet you there are FAR less switches, buzzers, and bad things between us, and all the food stuffs out there! The mere possibility is enough to drive me mad in here!"
Rod no longer acknowledged Pink. There was nothing more to say. Pink cleared his through and puffed out his chest.
"Alright then. I'm trying to give you a chance to come with me. To go to a new world, one where we can live free, feel the warm light, eat anything, and maybe meet WOMEN. You know, ones like us, except the opposite. Ones we make little Pinks and Rods with! DON'T YOU WANT TO BE A DAD ROD!?!"
It was too late. Rod was mindlessly running on the wheel.
"Like Sisyphus… I am bound."
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
Edit: Formatting and Read-a-bility
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[IP] What Big Eyes You Have
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###A little more fantasy-ish than my usual, but I'll give it a shot:
### The Wolf in the Woods
Mercy gave a gasp as a twig snapped behind her. It was so cold - her legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. It was hard to keep moving through the thick, deep snow.
She held the lantern near her face for a moment, letting the heat from the small flame give her what little comfort it could.
All she really wanted was to turn back and go home.
She needed to get these herbs to Goodwife Cutler first. The woman's youngest child was ill, and there had been far too many deaths already. The townsfolk were starting to mutter about witches. As the midwife, her own mother would be among the first suspects.
The thought of trials like those in Salem woke her feet, and she used the temporary burst of adrenaline to plow forward as far as she could. The child *would* have to sicken in the middle of a blizzard.
Her thoughts were interrupted when her cloak, dyed bright red with berries by her mother's own hands, became stuck on a twig peeking out of the snow.
She tugged at it, but that only caused the hood to fall from her head. The whole garment slipped from her shoulders and dropped to the ground.
She knelt to pick it up and froze as a rumbling growl came from behind her. She whirled, her flame-colored hair whipping out behind her. Before her - no, above her - stood a massive beast of nightmare.
Here, then, was the cause of the recent deaths. So much of the town's food supply, sheep and cattle, chickens and swine, brutally mauled with their entrails hanging out. So many women and children torn limb from limb.
This was the enemy they would fear if they knew.
Mercy held the lantern aloft. Its gentle glow reflected in the beast's eyes, making green from the blue, and causing them to shine like mystical beacons - like witch lights.
She almost giggled at the word, but there was no time for that. She must move, must act.
For a moment, though, she and the wolf-like creature stood, in a frozen tableau, unmoving. Scarcely breathing. The only sound was that of the wind as it whipped past her gown, ruffling the overskirt. The beast looked on, its jaws hanging open, salivating.
Then it growled, and broke the spell.
Mercy began muttering under her breath, the words tumbling over each other, her haste nearly causing her to miss a syllable.
To any passers-by it would have sounded as though she was praying. But as the words left her tongue, a dark mist began to crawl out, from beneath the cloak on which she stood, growing, writhing; moving toward the beast.
It lunged at her, and the mist swirled around her, lifting her, moving her beyond its long reach.
The wolf-creature snarled, and began to circle her. It recognized her now. Knew her for what she was.
*Witch,* it whispered in her mind.
*Werebeast,* she answered it.
The wolf struck out again, and she countered with a wave of her hand that sent a powerful burst of wind into its chest.
The beast stumbled, fell to one knee.
She smiled down from her perch in the mist.
Enraged, it attacked, both arms flying up to strike. A single claw, half as long as her arm, whistled past her leg. It left a bloody, gaping wound which it would take hours and all her herbs to heal.
*Enough of this,* she mindspoke it again.
She murmured the last of her spell. The mist crept up the beast's body, filling its eyes, its ears, reaching deep into the wolf's nostrils.
It filled his lungs and he began to gasp and choke. The fur fell from his body like so many leaves in autum.
The mist condensed him, his body growing smaller. Faster and faster it pressed in on him until he was little more than man-height.
His snout shriveled in upon his face, and his ears drooped, rounded. Naked and pink and sweating, he stood before her.
The mist gave a rasp to his voice when he spoke. "So," he said. "Now I belong to you."
"Yes," Mercy replied.
"Well, let me help you," he said. "To mother's house."
"In that state?" she asked, shock writ upon her features. "Thomas Cutler, I cannot allow it."
"My breeches and tunic are in the stables," he said.
Mercy curtsied and offered him her arm. He excused himself and draped her cloak around his shoulders.
She leaned on him as they walked.
"What will we tell them?" she asked.
"The truth," he said. "You were attacked by a wolf."
Mercy grinned. "And you carried me home."
They laughed and walked in silence for a moment.
"They'll think we're smitten with one another," she said. "They'll say we're courting."
"Well," he said. He ducked his head sheepishly. "I'm already yours."
"Yes," Mercy said.
The mist swirled in his chest, clinging more tightly to his lungs - and his heart.
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[WP] Were-humans...
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It throbs. The head it throbs. The eyes they blink. They blink. The tree it stays - in my mind it stays. My. Me. I. It. Again.
Up I look and the moon it throbs too, rounder than I remember but I don't remember. I only know its again. I sleep longer than I dream - I know. Every sleep like a month. My coat more speckled than the last time, with the grays amidst the black like my memories in the great night. Up I look. The moon. One night only. The book. I must get back to the book.
My shaggy head I shake and I kick the straw with an instinct, only to cough knowing i control it too. Finally person. It all finally personal again. I on all fours in the present tense mapping my way until the path with the piled high logs soon. A cabin. I think its a cabin in my mind its a cabin.
The hermit screams when I arrive. But I find the leather book called Matthew Shelter. And lick the pages next to next. They stick together and I miss a page. But I'm hungry.
And I know that the dust and molecules I was without thoughts will be back soon. So I must find heaven first. Or else be locked again in hell.
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[WP] The main character dies, the comic relief character has to take over.
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Planchet cowered behind the corpse of his lord's Destrier, eyes closed and fingers in his ears, hoping above all else that he could avoid detection. He did however make sure that his rump protruded over the body by a good few inches. Just enough so that the Sorcerer's arc-lightning caught the wool and set it ablaze; making him the second person in that throne room to smell his own flesh cooking.
Once the flames were extinguished, and the young squire had finished running about the room in a noisy attempt to evade the fire, he took stock of the situation.
With his master now slain - his body immolated by hellfire and impaled on stalagmites conjured from the room's mosaic floor - and Dagon, the evil sorcerer that had been terrorising the kingdom for these past nine years, staring at him with an amused, but befuddled look on his face, clearly he needed to say or do something.
What, though? That was the question. He was no knight, nor a Bright Wizard or Elven Princess, sent to rid the world of such evil. He was Planchet, the "fool," as he had become known in his master's company, though truthfully he was a squire. Well, technically, his master's squire's, squire. There was no such title, but it had been created to keep him around.
Somewhat surprisingly, Dagon made no move to end the young man's life, instead walking to the body of the good knight he had so recently cut down, and tutted.
"A pity. I really had hoped that this one would give me some measure of challenge."
Planchet swallowed, making sure to inhale as he did so, sending him into a coughing fit.
Dagon's lips cracked into a half smile.
"How strange, that it is the fool who is able to survive such a battle and yet your master and his retinue," he gestured to the red smears across the walls of the throne room, "were not so lucky."
"Of course," the sorcerer continued, strutting about the room, his staff tapping the floor as he went, "that was because I didn't see you as a threat."
Planchet made to follow him, but carefully placed his foot in a puddle of gore and went head over heels into a cabinet against the wall.
Dagon chuckled and shook his head in disbelief.
"It makes me wonder just why such a man as yourself is even here," he said.
Having reached the throne, he turned and deliberately seated himself upon it, the long fingers of his brimstone darkened hands gripping the armrests.
Standing, Planchet brushed himself off and took stock of the potential props in the room.
"Two peasants walk into a tavern," he said.
Dagon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"One asks the owner of the establishment if they have any soup," Planchet continued. "'Yes', the man replied. ', Ah, but does it have celery in it?' asked the second peasant. 'No,' the owner replied, "but we could spice it up with a few-dill."
Dagon winced. "Oof, that was just...awful," he said.
Planchet pantomimed thinking, stroking his chin and raising and lowering his eyebrows in a haphazard fashion.
"I mean," Dagon said, the corners of his mouth twitching at the bizarre antics. "It doesn't even sound like Feudal."
Failing his attempted cartwheel, Planchet careened into the body of his fallen lord and took the opportunity to grab the man's scorched and bloodied face, lifting and lowering the jaw as if the corpse were speaking.
"I'm Lord hurd-dee-dur and I'm dead now, blarchghgklsoaj," he said in a dumb voice.
At this, Dagon leaned his head back and guffawed.
"You know," he said, when he'd finally gotten himself under control, "I haven't laughed like that in years. Still," he sighed, "I really should get back to my kingdom. There is still much of it I haven't pillaged."
"Perhaps," said Planchet, in a more serious voice, "you could spare, just one village?"
Dagon's smile vanished at that, his eyebrows knotting together. "Perhaps," he said finally. "If you can continue to amuse me."
"Without a doubt... my Lord," said Planchet, bowing so low that he bumped his head on the floor.
The dark sorcerer chuckled. "Very well. One less village it is, fool. Now fetch my supper."
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[WP] The main character of your story is immortal, but (s)he loathes it. What caused him/her to become immortal, and why does (s)he loathe it?
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She watched the last leaf of a dying tree cling to its branch, shaking with every breath of the wind. She remembered when the tree was a sapling, eighty years ago. In that time the tree had grown, stretching from a sapling, blooming every spring and withering every winter eighty times again. And still she was the same.
Her eyes moved up from the leaf, resting aimlessly past the tree on the setting sky. She remembered two hundred years ago. She had forgotten many things, she had forgotten friends, forgotten family and forgotten her childhood, yet still she remembered the begging man as clearly as if he were standing right before her today.
The man, her lover, had pleaded with her.
"Take it from me," he had asked. "Please. If you love me take it from me."
She took it from him then; his desperate pleas finally forced her to give in. At the time she thought little of it. After all, how bad could immortality be? All she had wanted was to see him happy. She would have done anything to see him smile.
That was two hundred years ago. She buried him twenty years after. A hundred and eighty years she had wandered the world. A hundred and eighty years alone.
With a final shudder against the wind, the last leaf escaped from the tree and fell to the ground. Another winter was here. She rose from the bench.
It was time for her to go do some begging of her own.
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[IP] The Final Fight
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I believe that all is indeed fair in love and war, but this matter was neither, for that would have been a blessing. No, none of this was fair, and everyone who knew the situation believed so as well, but sadly I was alone on this endeavor. People reached out with open arms to one another but in the end it was always one versus one million.
I had been fighting for what seemed to be an eternity, but on the outside it more or less of a year.
Nobody could ever really see why there were these things inside of me. Some people thought I was bat-shit insane, and others knew. As I stood there against myself all I could think about was how it was going to end, which looking back on seemed pointless because the battle really never ends, it just gets easier with time.
But nevertheless now was not the time to think, for I had been doing that enough lately. Now was the time to act, because if I didn't now, these things inside of my mind would eat away at me until I was no longer able to tell myself they weren't real.
I took off my shoes, stepped forward, and fell. And in that moment, I knew I won.
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[WP] You're walking in the rain when suddenly, the air around you seems to buzz and your hair stands on end...
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Raining again? Oh joy. That's what went through Jerry's head as he stepped out of his business office in a hurry. "Sometimes I wish I was still in Afghanistan," the former soldier murmured to no one in particular.
He was walking past an alley way when suddenly he stopped. There was this strange buzzing in the air and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He hadn't felt this feeling in awhile; danger was near. As if on cue, he heard footsteps approaching behind him. "I'll be taking your wallet and phone, don't try anything funny or I'll cut you up, pretty boy."
Jerry turned slowly and looked at the mugger. He was bald, had a tattoo on his cheek and had a somewhat crazed look in his eye. In his hand was a switch blade that was so beat up, it looked like it may have been older than its' user. Jerry's pulse sped up and his pupils dilated. It was as if he was back in Afghanistan again; all that blood lust was coming back. He didn't even feel the rain anymore. His fist clenched with a pop from his knuckles, "You don't wanna do this pal. Just walk away."
The mugger laughed and revealed his rotting teeth, "Oh why's that pretty boy, you gonna tell your mommy on me?"
Jerry smirked and flexed his hands, "Nah, but you may want to think before you mess with a former soldier."
In a blur, Jerry closed the gap between him and mugger and reached for the knife. The man panicked and plunged the knife into Jerry's hand. Due to the adrenaline and partial PTSD flashback, Jerry didn't even feel it as his other fist collided with the man's jaw. A crack was heard as he spiraled to the ground in a heap. The former soldier didn't stop there, he kept pounding his face until it was barely recognizable. The haze cleared from his eyes, "I told you that you should have walked away...and next time, try using a real knife."
With that, Jerry continued his stroll in the rain.
EDIT: I somehow submitted this when I was only halfway done originally but I fixed it.
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[WP] Write about the cultural values and motivations of an orc-type always-evil race or group. Make them reasonable, if not sympathetic.
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"Mothrak tol'kal razt don asunkun!" as bellowed from coarse throats filled the Agon, a sort of arena, in rhythm. Women wearing masks of terrible visage whirled and wailed about the Pyre with hatchets in hand. Those Dosun that wondered mortally near the Pyre were hamstrung and drowned in scorching smolder. Plethora of bludgeons filled the hands of those innermost members of the raging crowd that defined the ring around the Agon. Dosun were beat on brutally whenever they got too close to the edges of the Agon. The fighting was the worst of it, though. The Dosun are a strong and quick people, and that was the problem. All of them were strong and quick and some of them brothers in boyhood.
So they fought. Hard. Well, as hard as they could. Taloned boots were little help in keeping nimble about the muddy, blood soaked earth beneath them. The frigid air weighed in on them like the sea making every knick and rap scream with pain. This made getting thrown into the roaring Pyre to have the flames slowly lap away their flesh very ironic. So it slowed them, the cold. As did the fatigue. They'd been fighting for so long. The only thing that kept them on their feet was the fear and anger; the honor died along with the first defeatee.
You had to kill three other Dosun to become Dosunaut, ready for ascendance to Rragken. Those that stayed for more grew more during the Ascendance to Rragken. Aside from being literally more powerful a creature, they got more respect from the tribe ultimately granting them greater influence. The last remaining ten Dosun in the Agon could no longer leave, even if they'd already killed three. At that point it became a fight to be the last man standing.
If Dosun stayed to fight more and tried to leave right before the threshold was met, in some cases bringing the Agon to threshold, that was allowed. However, if it, the Dosun, tried to leave at the same time as another doing the same than the threshold would simply be raised and those Dosun would fight.
There were three Dosun left in the Agon, the crowd had died, and Kenrazt had four kills under his belt along with a deep gash. Moods were tense in the Agon. Kenrazt had known both of the other Dosun for his whole life. Frequently, the thought crossed his mind in fleeting contemplation during the battle that this was an evil place. He could not know the necessity of the theater of fratricide, such understanding would come with ascendance to Rragken.
That was simply the nature of the Agon, a bitterly necessary ritual yet. The gash had been around for a great deal of time and was beginning to fester. It burned terribly which was distracting. Kenrazt was at the southern end of the Agon, strafing and counterstrafing the other two so as to maintain the triangle shape formed by the three's composure.
The Dosun to Kenrazt's right, Morthun, was armed with a massive club, a clumsy, potent weapon. Kenrazt felt so confident in competition with Morthun that he would readily challenge his might ere he find himself within close proximity of the Dosun to his left, for he wielded a long, quick sword and was protected by a tough, leather glancing buckler. Blood gushed from a piece of evidence on his leg as to the swiftness and sharpness of the sword which adorned the arm of Sweltuu, the Dosun on his left.
Kenrazt himself bore a tall claymore, a powerful middle ground between the two marshal extremes. The tension was very high and their nerves were weak for every little movement of the three Dosun was perceived by each of them as the last they would see. Sweltuu made a timid advance toward Kenrazt but quickly backed off, as usual, but this time Kenrazt's nerve broke and the idling was from thence discontinued.
Kenrazt made an explosively quick advance towards Sweltuu. Sweltuu swung his sword with a sweeping blow in mind, but Kenrazt dipped his claymore beneath the sword of his opponent and lifted it into the air mid swing, parrying it effectively, but also ducked beneath it. His claymore was now in ample position for a thrust at Sweltuu's belly, a blow so true it would go straight through the feeble leather shield that protected Sweltuu.
This, however, was not the purpose that the shield served. Kenrazt engaged in the thrust which was delicately glanced to Sweltuu's side with his smooth shield. This left his left arm, his shield arm, swung out at his side, no longer covering his torso. His sword still en route to a position where it could execute another swing, Kenrazt skipped forward, straightened his back with a twist, and fired the weight of his great leg into the naked torso of the sword bearer.
His foot crushed into his diaphragm and chest before sending him soaring to the cold, moist earth, his chest shattered and lungs deflating. His grip on his sword was forgotten for he was focused on trying to breath, desperately gasping and wheezing for air. This wasn't a good way to go, slowly suffocating to death in fear and pain. And Kenrazt respected his brother, Sweltuu. He ran quickly to Sweltuu's side and put an arm on his shoulder. He lowered his head to Sweltuu's ear, whispered regards, and Sweltuu looked up at him and faintly nodded his face, shiny with sweat and tears.
In that fleeting moment Kenrazt stood, readied his sword, and promptly took Sweltuu's head off his shoulders. Sweltuu's body instantly went limp and Kenrazt returned to study the business of killing brother Morthun. Morthun wasn't a bright one, but he was of great size. He also had little regard for pain and was very quick to act, making him tricky to deal with. The major advantage Kenrazt had against him, now circling around the Pyre, was Morthun's wild imagination. He was easy to scare and loved stories. He generally was a fool for grandeur. That was enough for Kenrazt to work off of.
It had, up to this point, been basically assumed that the women circling the Pyre with hatchets were immortal. Only now did Kenrazt realize the frailty of those women. So he made his move. With a guttural roar, Kenrazt charged straight towards the Pyre. He swept one of the wailing women out of the way with one large arm and tore through the flames towards Morthun. It hurt, but only for a moment for a second later he emerged from the Pyre, flames running off of his sinuous body like sand. He wore a bloody grimace as he bore down upon the terrified giant, Morthun, who was on his back holding up one trembling hand against the terrible visage of Kenrazt.
The fear was fleeting, for Kenrazt could no longer muster the rage in his yell. Morthun was a brother, they had played in the woods together as children. What facade he had scraped together to fool his poor brother was too weak, and a quiver in his voice escaped through his roar. Morthun realized Kenrazt's deception in the end and this made his death a thousand times worse. But a Rragken must become of one of them, and that one was Kenrazt. The claymore sung through Morthun's body from the head down with a meaty, smacking sound and stopped at his belly.
Kenrazt cringed and shut his eyes with a grimace which squeezed out a single tear. He knew, though, that he could not languish in this sadness. Cold and heartless eyes opened, then, to the world and with more wet, mouthy noises Kenrazt pulled his claymore from Morthun's warm, quivering body. And it was done. The Elves' Old Ones woke from their slumber to the concaphony of roars from the crowd which legendarily marks the end of the Agon.
Didn't have time. Sorry. The Dosun are another sexual gender here and turn into Rragken during this ritual. The Rragken defend and lead the people. This is why the scary ritual is necessary.
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[WP] Life is an endless cycle. Birthmarks are scars from how we died in our left from our last past life. It's simple really. You die and then you wake up, never remembering what happened.
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The instructions were crystal clear. I would know the target by the jagged scar on his left cheek. I knew nothing about the man, but apparently, he had pissed off somebody with power. Somebody with *a lot* of power. But that somebody was going to make sure that this would be the last time I ever had to do this sort of "job" again. He was paying *very* well. Well enough that Jamie and I would be able to move somewhere new, and start over fresh. He had promised. Because of that promise, I was here, waiting in the garage of a man I had never met, a man who had done me no wrong. *But he's the last one.* That thought kept me here, waiting in the shadows, clutching the knife that my benefactor had given to me. He was very... Insistent that this knife was to be the man's end, and that I was to leave it behind when I was done. The garage door started to open, and I hid deeper in the shadows as his car rolled in. He parked, and let the garage door close behind him. No sooner had he stepped out of the car before I was behind him, one gloved hand covering his mouth, the other held the knife to his throat. I stood there, stock still, taking in the moment. I had done this a dozen times before, in a dozen different ways, but this one felt somehow... Different. It was going to be the last time I ever had to do this, so I let myself do something I had never done before. I spoke to him. "I'm sorry," I said, as I quickly drew the knife across his throat. "but this is for my family." I lowered the man to the ground, and watched the life drain from his green eyes. Before they started to fade, they were the same shade as Jaime's. I made my way outside through the front door, and texted my benefactor from my work phone. *I'm finished*. I slid the cheap disposable into my pocket and reached for my personal phone. My face fell as it powered up. Three missed calls and 17 text messages from Jaime. She had gone into labour over an hour ago. I ran the three blocks to where I had parked my car and sped towards the hospital, towards my new life. *** I arrived just in time. There she was, holding our son. She looked up at me, still a bit woozy from the epidural. "Look, Bill." she said, "He's got my eyes." I looked down at my newborn son. She was right. He had her eyes, a jagged scar on his cheek, and a thin white line along his neck.
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[WP] There is a being that creates dreams for when people are sleeping, tell me its story.
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I suddenly remember I've been resting on a tire swing, limbs dangling, stomach bulging into its center, for some time. My knees, bent backwards, abruptly ache sharply.
I must have nodded off--without a watch or phone, the anxiety that I might have already missed that one business meeting patters in me, right behind the clavicle. As I steady my palms to heave off the clumsy rubber thing, two realizations strike me: my hands are dripping with blood, and I'm not in business at all.
A sigh of relief--no meeting missed, then. At the least. Which is just as well, because the watch on my wrist is clogged with water from swimming yesterday, so it's only showing hieroglyphics for the time being.
But then. There's this blood to attend to...that's actually already crackled brownish, but the stain is unmistakable. It repeats itself in splotches all over my clothes, my forearms.
"Do you want to know whose blood that is?" A tired voice swiveled me around to greet a rather odd looking man. Well, more of a disfiguredly lumpy elf with errant tentacles.
I wasn't sure whether to look at his pupils or the large bags underneath the eyes that resembled pupils all the same. A curious sight.
The creature yawns again. "Don't you remember? It's your mother's, who happens to be your second grade teacher, who happens to be a nudist, who happens to have murdered your pet turtle!"
I drop to the backs of my knees, memories flying past my inner eyelids with feverish pace. I must have blacked out in this car themed playground out of sheer horror, sheer psychic exhaustion.
I remember. I remember so vividly it stings: plunging the butterknife that was secretly a sword into her neck, watching it bubble downward in streams outlining her curvaceous figure.
How could she have done that to me? More importantly, to dear, snappy Frederick III? And I'd written her specific instructions for over-the-weekend petsitting--over one weekend! Just a singular weekend!
My fists squeezed shut. The man with purple tentacles and blurred facial features said calmly, "You feel bad, though, right? You feel really bad about what you did. Son, you've been crying this entire time. Waterfalls of tears. Gushing just like her blood had, eh?" We both cackled before I caught myself.
"Wait a second," I snapped, "that's not funny at all. I ended her life. That was my MOM, and she's gone forever now. I don't care if you don't know her like I did. But...but...I just want my Fred back..."
"Oh, baby. I know." The tentacles shooting out of his breasts curled around my shoulders in a tender embrace. "I know you're feeling confused, scared, and frankly probably entertained right now. But we've got to go back out there and give this first date a better go. Okay?"
I wiped the tears from my cheeks like a child would, and took her hand shakily, forgetting why I'd been so sad to begin with. Funny how that works. A peace washed through me, before I started wondering whether I lived up to my heavily edited Match.com pictures. After all, she was definitely cuter than I thought she'd be, and is in all honestly probably out of my league.
As we slowly loped back to our seats, she asked softly, "What's it like? Feeling...content?" She carefully re-placed her napkin back on her lap, a frown twitching for reasons I didn't know and began to dread. "Stable? Calm? As though...living is this coherent, independent, stable string of events?" She locked on my eyes. "Simple. Predictable...?" Her fingertips played against the wooden tabletop.
"Isn't yours?" I asked with a pause. "Isn't this that? I'm enjoying myself. Let's just keep things simple." I grinned broadly, that peace washing through me once more. "No turtles." Wait...no turtles? The broad smile broke into snorts, at the absurdity of having said such a thing.
Her frown moved open, then kept moving open until obviously converting into a gaping, sucking black hole in space. The dangling rubber earrings she'd been wearing swung violently back and forth as she ate more matter around her, then the earrings, then the melting candles between us, then the rest of my spaghetti.
I started to run, clavicle pounding with adrenaline, understanding in my gut that I'd missed the chance to save myself by mere milliseconds.
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[WP] It is tradition that on the eve of execution, a condemned prisoner may make one request. Provided that the request does not cause harm or delay the execution, the warden is legally bound to grant it. (Continued in text)
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"...as his final request, he asked that I read his final letter at a press conference, regardless of the content. Thus we are here today, and without further a due, I shall now read the letter to you."
'Dear world
I asked the warden to read you all my final letter. The last words I will ever speak. The culmination of my entire life into one. I hope I can convey some of the experiences I had through to you properly.
I am 38 years old and I have been in prison for twenty years. When I was eighteen, I shot someone 7 times, of which twice was in his head twice. I was part of a crew that robbed a liquor store and someone wanted to be a hero.
I can tell you whatever I like, but you will still probable say that I deserve what I got, and you would be right. I was a kid who had nothing, joined a gang, really wanted to impress them, you know all the usual stuff. And like a normal kid fresh in a gang, I was fucking scared. Terrified. That whole time in the store is a blur. All I remember was that my heart was pounding in my chest, and before I knew it, this guy was charging me at full speed. I panicked and signed my death sentence.
I am a coward.
I am not here to try and pry some sympathy from you though, I am here asking why you have kept me alive so long.
I have spent twenty years knowing that I am going to die. We all know that off course, but knowing when does not allow the inevitable to leave the back of your mind.
Right after I was sentenced, I believed that I deserve to die. I was ready, the experience fresh in my mind. After a few years I began to hope again, to hope that the death sentence will be abolished, that one of the appeals will work, that I can prove that I am a extremely remorseful human being.
Hope can keep you going, but when you once again realize that it is futile to keep hoping, you wish that you never hoped at all. Nothing can prepare you for that second time when you realize you are going to die, when you don't feel that you deserve it anymore, there is no explaining the soul crushing fear and anger.
Therefore I write this letter, not for me, but for others like me.
Please do not let them wait in suspense, please have mercy.
Yours truly
Nobody of any note.'
The warden turned of the tape. He can't remember how many times he has watched it, every time he sees the anguish on the faces of the condemned prisoners.
| 7
| 0
| 59
| 155,441
|
[WP] Scientists at the Large Hadron Collider encounter a man who claims to be a time traveller. He has a message for them.
|
"Sir, you don't honestly expect us to believe you are a...time traveller, do you?" Asked the executive in a curious tone.
The time traveller nodded nervously. "I have an important announcement, one that could save mankind. You have to listen carefully."
The executive turned to face his body guards, smirking openly as he asked, "So, *time traveller*, what's this grave message of yours?"
"In the year 2038, this Hadron collider of yours will open up a black hole. One that consumes the world, destroying and killing everything and everyone."
The executive held out his arm, "But, if there's a black hole, how did you escape? Not even light can escape a black hole."
Unease filled the time travellers face as he uncomfortably explained, "I detected the black hole before it opened up, and like I'm warning you, I warned *my* people...but of course nothing could be done, I had to escape fast. So I came back here, I figured that if I can get you to destroy this thing then you'll save mankind and prevent mankind's downfall."
The executive chuckled aloud before signalling to his guards, "Take this looney away. You seriously expect us to believe that absolute-nonsense? We're not destroying a billion dollar miracle because of one man's insane words."
As the time traveller is dragged away, his plead echoes through the room, "Please! Believe me! Our future is at stake..."
| 2
| 0
| 32
| 34,961
|
[WP] A method of time travel will be invented soon. However, its only real practical application is to go back in time to have sex with yourself. You find this out through a visit from future you.
|
"So uh.... we gonna do it?"
"No. I'm still a virgin. I wanna sleep with a guy first, *then* get freaky. Experience and all."
"Ugh. Why are you so stiff?"
"You tell me! You are me. right?!"
"Look, it doesn't even count. It's like masturbating."
"I don't do that either!"
"Prude."
"Slut."
"Come on. Be nice to me. I know you're a little bicurious."
"Yeah, but I kinda like this guy and-"
"Spolier: you don't end up with him."
"So uh... how much did you spend to come back and see me?"
"Like, my life savings. It ain't cheap."
"You spent all that? Jesus, what do I end up smoking to think that was a good idea?"
"I wanna know how good I am in bed!"
"I'M STILL A VIRGIN. I HAVE NO EXPERIENCE."
"Oh. I never though about that."
"*sigh*. Well, I'm not going to have sex with you."
"Yeah, I'm kind of getting that vibe..."
"....well, we could go buy some Hostess cupcakes before they stop producing them permanently."
"Yeah! And I could ride in your, er *our* old car! Loved that thing!"
"Or see who's better at Street Fighter!"
"Yeah!"
"One thing, though."
"Hm?"
"Can you please get your hand off my ass first?"
| 2
| 0
| 18
| 128,146
|
[WP] In a not so distant dystopian future you will have to defend your internet history from the past 5 years in a court room setting in front of your extended family, friends, and love interests
|
"Ryan Hewter," called the judge.
A man coughed nervously from his bench and it was silent for a moment before he scowled and walked over to the stand.
The judge cleared his throat and squinted at the man, "Ryan Hewter?" he asked.
"Yes," Ryan said nervously.
"Now that everyone is, ah, prepared, we can start." The judge cleared his throat once more.
He was the first case of the day, and he knew exactly what was coming. Ryan had been in some bad situations in his life but he always had a backup plan. However he had spent the last few weeks away from the city and so this had been sprung up on him unexpectedly. If he tried to escape he'd be shot by the guards, no matter how friendly he was with them. That was life since the end of days.
"what are spiders scared of"
Ryan remembered this day, it seemed like forever ago, but it was really only five years. There had been a spider in his apartment in the times when bugs were the only thing he was scared of.
"does windex kill spiders"
"killing spiders morally wrong"
"spider vs centipede"
"new spiderman movie sucks"
"why is spiderman 3 so bad"
The judge was rattling off his search history almost faster than Ryan could think, but he was sure the entire courtroom was hearing every second of this. He glanced around the room, there were only about fifty people in there with him, but they were all people he had known for the past year. Some of them more intimately than others…
The judge coughed, "ahh, is anal pleasure really the best pleasure."
Ryan cringed, several of his acquaintances looked at him amusingly, others were… less amused. One would think that after so long of reading people's search histories the judge wouldn't do anything to bring attention to the sexual ones, yet here they were.
"do you have to be gay to do anal"
"are you gay if you do anal"
"how to do anal"
"how to do anal alone"
"where to buy good lube"
Ryan tried to keep his expression as nonchalant as possible, pretending not to notice the chuckling in the room. He was not a stupid man. Ryan knew how to browse in incognito mode. What he didn't realize was that Google actually stored everyone's searches no matter how you made them.
"define wench"
"define hackle"
"define sable"
"is incest wrong"
Several gasps around the room prompted Ryan to yell, "I was reading Game of Thrones, okay?" To which everyone made an understanding "oooohhhhhh" sound.
Ryan shook his heard, nothing was easy since the third world war. America and Russia were practically destroyed, bringing down most of the civilized world with them as collateral damage. It had been years since that costly war, initiated by some mystery rogue American gunner who took it upon themselves to put a bullet through Vladamir Putin's brain.
Ryan thought about the message that had been left, he couldn't even remember the reasoning exactly, something about equal rights. It all seemed so insignificant in the wake of those things when only a fraction of humanity was alive and the only rights anybody had were the ones they had the power to enforce.
Since the fall of humanity the big companies of the world had risen to power. Google, Shell, Vitol, the State Grip Corporation of China, and NewCom as well as Instant. They worked together to provide for, and control, humanity. Information, petroleum, commodities, energy, communications, and travel. The latter two companies were mergers of several larger businesses and pooling their resources had only served to expand their area of influence. It was recently that Google decreed that everybody's past five years of search history, starting before the war, be read in front of a panel of voters, who would then vote on that person's trustworthiness.
Like most laws, new and old, this one was useless, incredibly flawed, and needed too many people to manage it efficiently, people who could have been doing tasks better suited to the survival of the human race.
The worst part was that George R. R. Martin never got to finish the last fucking book.
Yet here they were.
"plane company scam prices"
"incognito mode buying airplane tickets"
The judge paused once more, "terrorism."
"terrorism documentary"
"osama"
"twin towers how"
"cheap weapons"
"cheap but good weapons"
"decent sniper rifle"
"how long does it take to learn to shoot a sniper rifle"
"easy gun to use"
"gun store"
"is it morally acceptable sometimes to kill"
The judge was sweating, he was looking at Ryan with a fearful look. They played poker on Thursday nights, they still had the liberty to do that at least. Ryan took care of the judge's kids sometimes. They were friends. Why should this change anything between them?
Everybody was looking at him as if he was a stranger.
"plane tickets to moscow"
| 8
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| 139
| 106,346
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[WP] Write a children's story that turns incredibly dark
|
Collie loved to play. He loved to pretend. He wanted to play all day and never for it to end. "You can't!", his parents would say "you will make us worry and you'll be sorry." Collie didn't care. He ran out without fear. He went to play ball with his best friend Paul. He got some candy from his neighbor, Sandy. He stayed at the park until it was very dark.
When Collie got home, his mom looked so sad. Look what you done, you've made dad very mad. Father barged in with his bottle of gin and yelled, "Go to your room, you stupid buffoon". Collie was scared , "I am sorry, " he said. Dad didn't care and beat Collie in the rear. Again and Again, Dad's hand came down hard. "My son, You have been a bad lad." said dad. When Collie finally bled, he was sent to his bed.
Collie was sad, he'd been very bad. He had to make his parents feel better again. So he stayed up all night and before it got bright. He ran downstairs to the kitchen and then up to his parents room. He made a very big meal, enough for an elephant seal. Oh boy! It was delicious and probably nutritious. He ate till he was full. He took to some to school. Even Paul and sandy thought that the food tasted good.
At the end of the day, Collie didn't want to play. He had begun to think, does everyone else's parents taste this way?
| 2
| 0
| 41
| 23,538
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[WP] all of your main characters are sitting around a camp fire talking and making fun of their writer.
|
"Okay, okay, make space, newcomer is coming" the adolecent with the dagger called out. Several, almost uncountable heads turned to the direction. A strange savage, doning a wolf skin as his only clothing was approaching the camp site.
"Oh, come on, not another one" said the young archer. "This guy has no creativity?. Hey, hey, Wolfman! Your name is Aku von Vaarken or something like that too?"
The lupin warrior stood in amusement. how did a complete stranger knew the name of the old ancestor?
"Im just Aku Vonfek. The Legendary Aku von Vaarken is..."
"Bla, bla, bla. we know. you are like, the... seventh?"
"Tenth i think" a demon-like woman sighed. The lupin warrior saw to his disbelief how many men were like him, almost replicas"
"Okay Aku Vonfek" Said the adolecent thief hero cliché " Let me introduce you to Aku the Werewolf, Aku the Shadowstone, Aku the half-werewolf, Aku von Varken Wolfrider, Aku Vonfek Vaarken the Chosen... and i forgot the rest. You guys are a ever growing family."
The Aku's greeted eachother and started to mumble about their diferent worlds.
"Worlds... all he does is put detail on his worlds... yet he leaves the character almost untouched" Murmured the demoness "i mean, Look at me. I bet he googled succubus, and poof, here i am"
"Hey, at least the boy has some creativity" the thief tried to defend him
"Bah, Baldor, you are defending him because you are the "protagonist" of his book. He has been writting the book for three years. Three!. And i dont even know if he is past chapter 4" the archer neglected him
"Come on, a creative mind must find some place to..."
"Creative MY BALLS! dude, he named me Robin. Robin. Leader of the Hooded Bandits. And im an ARCHER. original character, do not steal. pff"
"Guys..." a wildling woman, followed by a huge crow tried to get their attention, but that was fruitless.
"You are just envious that i stole your place as a protagonist of the book" the Thief stick the tounge to him
"Ooh, im sorry great protagonist, i forgot that the new concept of the novel has THREE protagonist. one of them is a fucking Aku von Vaarken, and the other one has not even a defined name!"
"GUYS!" the wildling shouted, everyone went dead silent. "Ja'lek saw them coming during his flight"
"Saw... who?" the demoness inquiried."
"The Player Characters. He started to play tabletop games...we are going to need a bigger fire"
| 1
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| 75
| 204,303
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[WP] A genie granted you immortality many ages ago. The last human other than yourself has just died out. What do you do?
|
When you live forever, time doesnt move the same way it used to. Days begin to feel like seconds, months like hours, years like days. Before I go to sleep, I watch the sun rise and fall 20 times. When he said I would live forever, I thought it came with invincibility too. I thought I could jump off a building, get back up and do it again. I broke my legs a few summers ago and they never healed right. I didnt even get to jump off a building, I just slipped while I was hiking. Why did I wait until now to go hiking? Because I havent seen a plane fly by in years. My radio has been silent for the last couple hundred sunrises, though ive only slept a few dozen times since then. When I fell down this hillside, my leg bent around a tree halfway down and both my ankles snapped before I stopped rolling. The world feels so much more quiet and calm than the days when even only one air plane flew over head. The insects at the bottom of this hill get loud when its dark. They get in my hair and under my clothes and all I can do is swat them away. I use my hands to crawl myself a few feet whenever I can but it doesnt get me very far. And if there are no planes, and no one to listen to on my radio, who am I crawling towards?
When I was younger, the story of someone living forever was a popular one. Some would kill themselves. Others would try to, but fail. Ive only moved a good 50 yards from where I broke my legs a few decades ago and I try to imagine my own life as one of those stories. But they always got to travel the world and get rich before they killed themselves. They got to become famous and important before they killed themselves. Its been years since ive heard anyones voice but mine and im still afraid of dying.
| 1
| 0
| 114
| 16,082
|
[EU] Write a Jedi's journal entries as they slowly succumb to the Dark Side.
|
368/288 BBY - The wounds are healing though the pain still remains. Even in the arm I lost, the agony of scorching flesh is a constant reminder of my defeat. I fear the Force has amplified this sensation, this loss I can not escape. My bionics have bonded well, the neural implants having made it seem as if I am whole again. I am not.
344/288 BBY - Master Dalgada visited me for the first time since the siege. 88 days. He was full of encouragement and says he is impressed with my recovery, but I sense much concern in him. He tells me he was embroiled in the Korriban campaign, too distant and too busy to visit me in this remote facility. I know this to be a lie. He underestimates my powers, has done since he found me. I could sense his presence at the Jedi council. I can sense his new Padawan. He lost all hope the day I fell. After all, a cripple is no fit for a Master as esteemed as Consular Dalgada.
299/288 BBY – Dalgada has just left from his final visit. He will not return. He accused me of losing my way, focusing on my loss and losing hope. I told him he was the first to lose hope, abandoning me for another student. He denied this, but his look of shock could not go unnoticed. Again he stated I have strayed from the path, my thoughts consumed by revenge and hatred. I do not deny this, for it is only natural. He confiscated my lightsaber and advised a retinue of Jedi will escort me from the facility once I am cleared, to strip me of my title. I will leave by nightfall.
180/288 BBY – The bounty on my head has officially been claimed. Clavicus presented the ashes to the Jedi and they have accepted this ruse as the truth. The slums of Coruscant have not been kind to me, though hiding right under the Jedi's nose has proven to be a success. I have left for Korriban aboard Clavicus' cruiser. He is force sensitive, and has made use of his abilities to profit greatly as a bounty hunter. He now has enough credits to ensure his official indoctrination in to the Sith will not be an issue. His teachings thus far have convinced me that the Dark side is infinitely more powerful, and the confines of the light side resulted directly in my disfigurements. The Jedi will pay for what I have become.
| 3
| 0
| 748
| 121,041
|
[WP] Mermaids exist, but they are just the larval stage of something we never saw coming until it was too late...
|
Mermaids used to be a joke, something we found in kid's shows, and coloring books. Remember? People looked forward to seeing mermaids, wanted to find them. Of course, nobody thought they were real then.
Well, long story short, we found out they were, in fact, real. As could be expected, there were mixed reactions to this discovery. The 7-10 year old girls were ecstatic, jumping into the ocean alone to finally meet their dream. I, along with others, shared a different view. If mermaids were real...
Well, I'm sure that you've heard folklore about sailors lured to their death by mermaids, captured by their enthralling song as their ship shattered against the shore. If mermaids were real, I thought, then are they truly these murderous seductresses?
Of course they were.
None of the children who left home those fateful days to finally say hello to Ariel ever returned.
There was public outcry. Two main sides formed on the issue, both with arguments that couldn't be debated. Heartbroken families, now missing their youngest daughters, called for total genocide. Scientists, amazed by this discovery, wanted to study these creatures in peace and leave them alone.
Months passed, and still the debate raged. I was attending one of these debates, where the opposing factions lined up on opposite sides of the streets and yelled at each other. I had no bias; I was neither a father nor a scientist, just an observer. We were on the beach when all of a sudden the water rippled tremendously, like a massive rock had fallen into the water. Every head turned, and then IT emerged, trembling, from the gentle waves.
Mermaids, on their own, are disgusting; they are far too human yet far too alien. But IT was pure fear, terror, revulsion. IT had four webbed wings, and the mutilated and swollen head of a once beautiful woman. Its once aquatic tail had become a mass of writhing, frantic tentacles clawing the air desperately. With thin, spindly, horrendous arms that hung limply at its sides to finish the image, IT was the pinnacle of human fear. As we watched in terror, three more rose, then five, then ten, then an army.
Their intent was soon clear: take as many humans as IT could carry in ITs gnarled swarm of groping tentacles, and drag them down to the depths of the ocean to feast; for the males, at least. I've heard from the few remaining that the females are... and I shudder as I say this... converted.
I cannot last much longer. My time is ending very, very soon. They have taken over the water and the sky, and I fear the day when they will be able to tread on land. Even worse, I fear that day will come very soon. So soon, in fact, that I can see horrible, horrible shapes on the horizon, shapes that look a lot like a terrible clump of arms and wings.
| 3
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| 26
| 31,221
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[PI] A gay man who takes a pill to become straight
|
Nothing changed and yet everything looked different. The effect was subtle, an optical illusion with a back-and-forth switch like a Necker cube or a Rubin vase. Looking around at people's faces, my gaze lingered on the female faces more, they were suddenly more interesting, more vibrant, more human.
And the men looked the same as before, except now they were just faces. Neutral. Paper, an arrangement of facial features, empty and disinteresting. I could recognise "attractive" only intellectually not viscerally. As happened with female faces before.
And vice-versa; female faces were more than meat shapes with moving parts able to vocalise words, they were suddenly *people*, more real. Warm, inviting, sensuous, human. Potential friends, lovers, mates. Faces alive with message, context, cues, dozens of muscles displaying shades and tones of feeling that wasn't visible to me before.
High heels, suddenly I'm surprised, I understand high heels properly.
Looking at people and comparing. Men. Women. I'm getting a feeling for what's changed in my head. Pattern matching is the same. Identifying people and then male or female by face, by stride, by shape, by voice, all the mechanics of recognition is the same. But the emotional kick that was tied to one set of patterns, now rests on the other.
Exploring my imagination, who could I bond with? Who could I be with forever? Who could I be comfortable with? I'm engrossed until the experience of the pill wears off.
Half an hour of straight for $100. It can't be that quick, that simple to change. There must be more to it, it must be deeper, more fundamental. It's been so much a part of my life; that pill cannot, it cannot be a real experience of being straight, that can't be how naturally-straight people feel.
It can't be. *Because if I was straight, I would be happy*. And when I took the pill, and imagined my future with a woman..
.. I still wasn't.
| 2
| 0
| 3
| 113,599
|
[WP] The sun goes out. Tell the story of a person who now lives a world of darkness.
|
I remember it well, the sun. The warmth gently kissing your cheek as your face is profiled by the by its incandescence.
That was years ago.
I have forgotten light. Not that fluorescent bullshit that people call light, but true light.
I have forgotten warmth. Not the emptiness of a cold embrace, but actual warmth.
Everything is dark and I dream of day at night, and i dream of day during the day.
Wander, we all aimlessly wander. The cold aimlessly follows. Where do we go? What do we do? I dream. Dreams are all that keep me awake. Food is diminishing, plants have died off long ago. Cannibalism thrives in every species that still exists. Me? My thoughts eat me while I, myself, rarely consume anything anymore. They plant their seed and watch their idea grow into flames. I can't tell you the last time i have talked to anyone but myself. Partly due to the fact that I don't trust a soul anymore. I don't even trust myself.
Cold has never felt so cold.
Embraces have never felt so distant.
This is my life.
This is existence.
| 1
| 0
| 14
| 12,659
|
[WP] A customer is abusing The State Farm summoning jingle.
|
"Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there!"
The thin young Marisa appears instantaneously in front of him, her brilliant smile the focus of his vision. Clad in her business casual attire that clung to her small frame, she clutched onto her wooden clipboard, paging through the thick stack of papers that were pinned onto it. As she looks up from her meticulously organized reports to greet her customer, the cheerful grin begins to slip from her face, and it becomes clear that she is not happy to see him.
"Please don't," she begs, her voice an almost imperceptible low whisper. She grips her clipboard harder, her knuckles turning to white under the force of her hold. Taking two hesitant steps back, she breaks eye contact, looking down at the reddish-brown floorboards of his bedroom.
"Yes. Just watch."
Marisa is shaking now. Her body quakes with fear, with disgust. A single tear rolls down her rosy flushed face, and she wishes for it all to end. She can't deny him anything--she was summoned, and she must obey. She wishes she could peel her eyes away, but her dark orbs remained focused in front of her. Her breathing has long gone ragged, every intake of oxygen painful. A light sheen of sweat costs her reddened complexion, anxiety setting in like a lead weight in her stomach. "Stop, stop," she cries out, but her words go ignored, and she is forced to continue watching.
All of her attention is focused on him. He's happy. He rummages around for the right tool for the job, electing a thin blade with a lustrous sheen. It's pretty, like her. He looks up at the nervous wreck of a woman, happy that she notices him, happy that she's with him, happy to hold her dark gaze. He's never touched her, but she's always been close enough for it not to matter. She's here with him, for him, and she won't leave unless he wants her to.
The metal is cold on his skin.
| 32
| 0
| 102
| 205,261
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[WP] "I lived my life just for her, and now, in return, she would die for me."
|
Since I was but a mere child, she was my world. We grew up alongside each other and play; we'd run through the park together, walk around the neighborhood, eat side by side, and occasionally even sneak kisses (while both of us were too young to understand what that meant).
Her father disapproved of me, naturally. I was always dirty as I lived on the street or in her yard. She'd let me in through the window, and I'd curl up on the rug next to her bed, and she'd put a blanket over me. Wasn't allowed to sleep in her bed, but that was fine. Happiness is being her friend, after all.
What people didn't know is that the streets weren't safe. I'd prowl around, making sure that she was never touched by it. Every rustle in the bushes would have my senses piqued. Whatever threat was out there, I'd chase it away. Just a glare would be enough for most, but sometimes I'd just get that threatening look I practiced and they would back off.
When I was already old, I saw her crossing the street while talking on the phone. She didn't give me as much attention anymore, but that was fine. After so long protecting her, just knowing she was safe was enough. But she didn't see the car coming down the street. I did. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear me. I ran.
Every last ounce of strength went into each step; just like when we were children, she on her expensive bike and me on foot, trying to keep up. After fifty yards, I could feel one of my muscles starting to tear. It would be months until I recovered. She continued as if in slow motion, walking right into the car's path.
Three steps away.
I accelerated. Only three things existed, the car, myself, but most of all her. The rest of the world faded away, dimming into unimportance.
Two.
I couldn't breath anymore, so I held my breath and ignored the strain. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears.
One step left.
My body prepared to leap to push her away. Time slowed to a crawl.
Zero.
I was in mid air. The car was nearly on me. Please let her live.
I reached her in time. The car hit me. The world turned off.
When I woke up, the pain was excruciating. She was there, sobbing and flailing wildly, trying to reach me with every ounce of strength she had. Her father held her back as the vet neared. I tried wagging my tail, to tell her that it's all right. I'm just happy she's alive.
She was let go and ran to hug me as everything went dark, I tried to kiss her one last time, but everything was fuzzy.
| 3
| 0
| 2
| 175,517
|
[EU] Write a very dark story in the universe of a children's cartoon.
|
He was going to die here.
He should have stayed home today.
The bus endlessly drifted through the void of space as Arnold, Carlos, DA, Keesha, Phoebe, Ralphie, Tim, Wanda, and Janet feared for their lives. Their teacher was likely dead, struck by an asteroid hours before, or had it been days?
Time had been slipping, he didn't know for sure.
They had gathered together, trying to decypher where Frizzle could be. Janet had led them to Saturn, nearly killing them, leaving Pluto and Jupiter as options. Arnold chose Pluto. He hoped he was right.
The bus touched down, and the children separated into rescue parties. Arnold went with Janet. They were cousins, they should stick together. This didn't put him at ease.
"I'm here for science you know. Jupiter's spot. Saturn's rings. I want a piece of Pluto too. We all benefit from this."
"We just need to get her back Janet."
"You think I'm obsessed don't you, that I don't care about Frizzle? They'll fucking find Frizzle! How often do you go into space! How many people have set foot here?"
He paused, to a degree she was right, but she was incredibly cold and ruthless about it.
"You're talking about a human life."
"I'm talking about civilization. About discovery for millennia! We can get out there and explore, Frizzle will be fine!"
She began to gather rocks.
He stopped her.
She shoved him.
It was all so fast, and by the time he noticed the crack in his helmet it was too late. He couldn't breathe, he struggled and froze, and she walked away as her voice came over his helmet.
"I'm sorry, I can't, I can't watch you go through this. I'm sorry."
"I thought I could, but I can't."
"I'm here, I'm here for you."
"Just listen to my voice Arnold, I'm right here."
"Do you see your parents?"
["It's okay. They're right there with you."](http://i.imgur.com/3fhZhnX.jpg)
| 1
| 0
| 25
| 163,277
|
[WP] God has organised a field trip for his angels to visit Hell for a weekend. Lucifer is the tour guide.
|
"Alright if you all could just squeeze in as much as possible. I realize it's a little tight down here, but we started going over capacity at the turn of the 21st century. We're looking to expand but well...we're not top priority here."
Zental had always heard that Hell was not exactly as it had been, but this was not how he expected to be greeted in the pit of fire. Though the Fallen One was a cautionary tale told to every angel, his presence was vastly underwhelming. He was not all horns, claws, teeth, and hatred made flesh. Apart from the layers of ancient dirt covering him, Lucifer looked much like his brothers that still resided in Paradise.
This was part of the standard initiation for new angels. It's important to understand how the other side of the system worked. Had it been like the mortals had imagined, the event would be far more interesting.
"So the first area we'll be visiting are the virtuous damned. You have your unbaptized babies, those born before Christ's sacrifice, and people who chose the wrong religion."
"Uh Lucifer...sir? How does Father decide these people should be punished?"
"He changes it all up every thousand years or so. A few millennia ago all these people were forced to eat their own bodies, shit it all out, then regenerate and start it all again. The current fad in damnation is insects. As you can see there are all manner of creepy crawlies coming out of all of their orifices. They bite, sting, chew, and burrow. The smell has not been pleasant."
This wasn't this Prince of Lies! This was some kind of demonic office supervisor beaten down by endless years of following orders!
"Next we move on to rapists. I advise you all grab a pair of rubber boats and goggles before we enter. These sinners have had their anus and mouth reversed, so there's a large amount of excrement, ejaculate, blood, saliva, and vomit in the area."
He wasn't a demon to be feared and combated in the eternal struggle of good and evil! He was a red tape, bureaucrat following his operating procedures. Where is the darkness and fear that had
"Lucifer, sir? Will we be seeing the lack of fire? Or the frozen lake of betrayers? Or the Wood of Self Murderers?"
"That's the old world Hell son. It was stale. The fear and suffering of Hell isn't effective when it's expected by the humans."
No fire? No lake of ice? What the Hell? **Literally**?! This was not what the young angels had expected.
"Alright after the rapists we'll be moving on quickly to those who sold their soles for concert tickets, significant others and money.
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[WP] The theft of a small item through a series of seemingly unrelated small events causes the character's death, but Death stole it in the first place.
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*What I'm going to tell you is the absolute truth. No matter how far fetched you think a component of the story is, know it is absolutely true and happened exactly as I've set it forth in this letter.*
*I died on July 5, 1974. It was from an overdose. I was dead for one minute thirty-six seconds. It was just long enough for someone to steal my most prized possession. Gracie and Thomas Kincaid were the two free spirits I was partying with when I had the overdose. They saved my life. Thomas worked for the hospital as a nurse at the time. They told me who the thief was. It was Death. He came to collect me, but my friends saved me first. Death took the item off my corpse. When they brought me back, he vanished with the ring. This is the story of how I got it back.*
*Death isn't some villan out there chasing down souls for the devil. Death is a man. An ordinary looking man, and I found him. I know it's him, because I found my ring on his finger. He worked in a lab. He had body guards. I tried to take it by main force and spent three months in jail for my efforts. I tried using cut outs to filch the ring. The morgue was filling up pretty fast. And then, I read I got smart.*
*Death was a man. I spied on him. I followed him. I stalked him. He acted just like a man. He got spagetti sauce on his tie like a regular man. He stepped in puddles by accident like a regular man. He took my ring off when he wore gloves in the lab like a regular man. It's amazing what a man can do when motivated properly.*
*The key to a great theft, is misdirection. The key to getting honest people to help you steal an item, is not to let them know they're helping you steal the item. There were three other people who worked in the lab with the man pretending he wasn't Death. They all had bills and after meeting them one at a time, I was happy to find that they each had no problem bending a rule here and there so long as it wasn't illegal.*
*The first thing I needed was a picture of Death in the lab, so I could see the layout. Sam was the girl I went to for that. She thought the photos were for my blog. Just generic pictures I could use on the page. I showed her the blog, and she agreed to bend the rules for a hundred dollars. I now had the layout of the lab and a location for the ring. Death set it in a tray on a cart beside his work station.*
*I used Tony to move the cart. I paid him fifty dollars to help me set up a practical joke for Sam. I claimed to be an old friend of hers from college. I told him that the one thing Sam hated more pickles on her hamburgers was to be embarrassed. I told him I'd hired a Strip-o-gram to show up at the lab. I told him the guy needed a certain amount of space in which to dance. I asked him to move the cart to the other end of Death's workstation and to move several other items out of the way.*
*For fifty dollars, he was eager to help. Chuck was my go to go though. Using Tony's preparations as a pretense, I convinced was able to bribe Chuck to roll the cart out into the hall. I told him it was for Death's birthday party. Though, I used Death's alias of Rudolph. Rudolph Ichabod Pachinko was a joke I guess. Maybe I was the only one who got it. Chuck performed his part perfectly. I let him know not to let Rudolph in on what he was doing. The party was supposed to be a surprise.*
*Sam agreed to bring the cart to the break room so I could put the cake on it and all the refreshments. The plan was for us to push the cart with the cake into the lab and start singing happy birthday. I pocketed the ring after setting down the cake. She didn't know. She seemed eager to help. I told her I forgot something in the break room and left before she entered the lab. I don't know if Death was confused, furious, or what. I didn't stick around to find out. There was probably a lot of confusion between the lab techs over what they'd been made a part of, but the reality was, it was my ring and I finally had it back.*
*I had a heart attack that night in the restaurant. It was Sepetember 19, 1985. I had died again for one minute, fifteen seconds. When I came to in the hospital. My ring was gone again. Only this time, Death was waiting beside my bed with the ring upon his finger. He was not happy.*
"It ends now, Cartaphilius." Death told him severly. "She paid it to me to carry her across the Styx." Death said.
"It is mine." The cursed shoemaker spat. "I was cursed to walk for eternity. She was still my wife. It was hers and therefore mine." He snapped, trying to lift himself out of bed. Death laid his hand upon the man's chest and Cartaphilius began to spasm and die again, shaking his head in denial while crying out in pain at the feel of Death's touch.
Cartaphilius was dead this time for three minutes sixty seconds. Death was still waiting for him. "It was the silver she paid to cross the river. It is mine. I may not be able to kill you because of the curse, but I can cause you pain. Forget about the ring." Cartaphilius tried to lift himself from bed and grab for the ring. Death held his hand for twenty minutes this time. The cursed shoemaker screamed the entire time, but even after, he still went for the ring.
"I've been walking since he carried his cross and cursed me. I'll walk till the end of days. I will be coming for that ring." Cartaphilius promised, too weak from the pain to try for it again.
"Then come." Death told him. "I can't kill you, but I can make you wish you were dead." Death turned away then and vanished. The shoemaker went to work on his next plan to steal the ring. It had been thus for as long as he could remember. Him stealing the ring and Death coming to reclaim it. The shoemaker just hoped that someday, Death would get angry enough to find away to really kill him. It was what Cartaphilius really wanted. He just wanted to die.
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[PI] A group of hitmen discuss their first kills. One of them has an unexpected response.
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The three men sat at the table, smoking, dealing cards and chatting.
The first one, known to his friends as Lucky, was dealing the cards. "Now since we've played every single fucking card game known to man, l propose that we play something new. Okay, we each draw a card. Person who draws a spade, has to give up a secret of theirs."
"Aww, come on, that's some girl's sleepover shit," said Stan. "Let's just play Blackjack."
"No, no. They're my cards, so just play the fucking game."
Stan sighed and reached out to pull out a card from the stack, Lucky and the third man, Robin, followed. They each slapped their card face up to reveal they all had spades.
Stan pulled out a cigarette and lit it. "Lucky, you are one lousy fucking dealer, I tell you that. Okay, well a secret right? Okay, first time I killed a guy, it was an accident, I didn't know how to shoot a gun and, well, he got in the way."
Lucky shook his head. "That's pathetic, Stan. Okay. My first kill? That guy that was causing trouble in Cuba a couple of years ago, whathis, ah Che Guevara."
Stan called out, "Bullshit."
"No, it's true. I was working CIA back then. The asked me to take him out and-" he pantomimed shooting a gun.
Lucky smiled and turned to Robin, he was new to the group, and didn't share much, but he hoped that would change the more hits they had. Nothing brings people closer than maiming and murder. "What about you, eh, kid?"
Robin was at least twenty years younger than them. While they had started to grow greys and their bellies drooped, he was the muscle they needed. Although he towered above them, he spoke softly.
"I've never killed a man."
Stan and Lucky looked outraged. "What do you mean, you've never killed anyone? We're hit men," Stan exclaimed.
"I made a promise to my mother that the first man I would ever kill would be my father. The man who seduced my mother, robbed her blind and killed my grandfather. He's been running for a while, but I finally found him."
The room was silent for minute. Finally Lucky managed to speak. "And who was your father?"
Robin looked at him for the first time, with piercing blue eyes. Eyes that were the same as Lucky's. "You." In a quick motion, he pulled out his pistol and shot both of through the head. As blood dripped down the walls, he strode out of the room. He stopped at the door and looked up. He smiled for the first time in years. "That was for you, ma."
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[MODPOST] Sunday Free Write - Quarter Million Edition
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Howdy folks. [This](http://chapterfy.com/p/s-758bcbc5eab76e3d96a7bb33e041b32a/) is the story I've entered into the May Chapterfy contest, feel free to let me know what you think. If you *do* read it and you *are* wondering, the song in question is [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mb3iPP-tHdA).
I also have a novel out and it drives home a point I made on /r/writing before going to bed last night. Earlier this week my wife was looking through listings for television shows in development and came across one that sounded eerily familiar. It turns out that the show - *Left Behind* - was based on Tom Perotta's novel of the same name, and it's centered around what happens to a group of survivors after a mass disappearance. This happens to be the exact same concept around my own novel, *Disappearance*. His is set in a small town and mine is set in Toronto, different things happen to different characters of course, and the point is that *ideas mean precisely nothing*. *Everything* lies in the execution; characters, settings, dialogue, etc. mean everything to your story, much more so than your idea. I know a lot of people get caught up in having an original/creative/killer idea, but on that path lies madness. So don't worry if you feel like your idea might have been done before. Breathe life into with memorable characters and good writing, and people won't care too much.
*Disappearance*, if you're interested, is available [here] (http://www.amazon.com/Disappearance-ebook/dp/B00DL123N2/) and you can check it out on Goodreads [here](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18187139.Disappearance). Of course, if you're one of those people who likes to leave honest reviews of things (and God/Allah/Buddha/Pee Wee Herman bless you if you are) I give free copies away as well.
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[WP] The reason the united states of america has such a high military budget is that we've been fighting a war against....
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Recruit Seable Vert, top of his class at West Point, capable athlete and technician scored a 7.9 of the Merda scale. The brass in Epsilon GPU, a secret department in the Pentagon were impressed. It was one of Captain Ludi's responsibilities to bring these fine young men into Epsilon and train them against the United State's greatest threat.
Terrorism, economical and class warfare, the NWO and Illuminati, Russia, Peru, there was no threat facing the good and glorious, blessed citizens of the U.S.A quite like--Seable Vert was led blindfolded from a black van by ten guards, each with a hand someplace on his body, through halls and elevators. Seable moved his feet and did his best to keep his breathing calm. He could run the 100 meter in like 4 seconds, if he could do that, he should be able to control his heart rate.
The blindfold gone: blue lights filled a hall with white board walls. Registering from hours of darkness, Seable blinked vision back. The form of a strong man with a square box jaw, standing straight, chest out, in full military uniform with fifty to sixty emblems and medals and badges and frills and buttons appeared.
In a thick accent, as if he had a lot of mayonaise in his mouth, the threatening man yelled, "My name is Captain Ludi, you may address me as Captain Ludi."
Seable saluted and Captain Ludi dismissed the guards. Standing in the blue glow between white massive cubicle sections, Seable's eyes found the ceiling, a hundred feet above, extensive rafters and metal beams.
Seable waited for an explanation. Propositioned by a member of the Pentagon, he obliged the offer after turning down another job offer from one man in a very dapper black suit.
Captain Ludi began, "Do you know why you are here, son?"
"I can not say, but I am interested in--what kind of place is this?"
"Walk with me," Captain Ludi ordered. White walls, white walls, separated by very fine cracks. Beyond the first cross section, Seable believed there were hundreds of long halls, though he had no clue where they led.
"Epsilon GPU," Captain Ludi said without turning his head, "is the most, the most important part of this country's defense and all that separates the fine members of the general populous from the dangers they can not see."
"What dangers, Sir?" Seable asked.
"What dangers, boy, the world is not the safe place you believe it to be. Do you know why this country spends billions and billions of dollars on jet fighters and tank busters and bomb chargers, flame throwers and grenade launchers and guns?"
"To show the world how strong we are?"
Captain Ludi shook his head, "Recruit, we fight ghosts."
Silence. Seable rubbed his face. Captain Ludi repeated, "Ghosts," and jumped back, pulling a firearm from his side holster, shooting five times into the white wall behind Seable. Bang, boom, blam, blip, bloop. Seable dropped to his knees and screamed, "Captain, what in god's name are you doing?"
"There was a big one right behind you," Captain Ludi explained, "did you see it, it was coming right at you."
"A ghost?" Seable asked with his head behind his shoulder checking the bullet holes in the paper like wall.
"I got him though," Captain Ludi nodded, "first day and it might have been your last."
"I didn't see--ghosts?"
"They are everywhere," Captain Ludi tapped his head, "the war against ghosts never ends. They can't be killed, because, I mean, they are ghosts. You never know where they are or when they will come or what they want. But it is the obligation of Epsilom GPU, the ghost protection unit to be ready at any moment for a full on invasion. The full armed forces of this great country, each enlisted man is ready for what must be done, even if they don't quite know who their enemy is. We have the jets idling on the runways. We have the tanks loaded. We have our guns cocked. If ghosts come, best believe recruit, we will stop them."
Before Seable could ask what was turning over in his head, Captain Ludi pushed him to the ground, bent down and pulled a knife from his boot; stabbed the air where Seable once stood, took out his gun, pointed, fell onto his back, struggled, aimed and fired at a space right above his chest.
The bullet flew up into the rafters and Captain Ludi panted back onto his feet, lending Seable a hand. "God damn ghosts," Captain Ludi said.
**Edit**
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[WP] Write the story of a fruit as it is about to get eaten.
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*This is my time...*
I never thought it would end this way. I should've seen it coming earlier, but I didn't. I was a fool to believe otherwise. I was young and stupid, and now I'm going to die for it.
*This is my time...*
I've known as long as I can remember. I was told stories in my youth, but I dismissed them. It was the boogeyman, the story that made you behave or else you were going to be caught, and taken away. I didn't believe it, and yet, here I am.
*This is my time...*
My friends... I can't help but think about you now... You've been there all my life. We've shared the same food, the same water. We've looked out for one another. And we were taken away together, thrown in the back of some truck, and separated from everything we every knew.
*This is my time...*
No more, the fresh green of the orchard. No more of the birds sweet songs, eating away the pests. Instead, it was a dark, grey place. Towering pillars of glass, concrete and steel everywhere, all grey. All a dull, dull grey.
*This is my time...*
I've heard rumours... Some will get lucky, end up in a nice place, where the grass is green, and the fields are open. They get live on, have children. They get to see their children grow.
Not me. Not us. We're the unlucky ones.
*This is my time...*
I'll probably never see my children, if I will even have any. I'll ever live the fulfilling life that I've dreamed. I'll never know what it's like to be truly free. I'm headed for death, now, long condemned.
*This is my time...*
The holding pens were terrible. Hundreds of us, piled together in one enclosure, being poked and prodded by the nasty beasts, many of us being taken away. The first few, the first to be snatched away by the foul beings, they left to our shrieks and cries, but as the seconds, minutes, hours rolled by, we've come to accept the losses, for we knew that eventually our time would come.
*This is my time...*
The grubby extensions of the beast plucked me away from the relative safety of the bottom of the pile. I tried to hold on, but I wasn't strong enough. The beast was too powerful... I was helpless.
I was put into a clear bag, and I saw, for the first time, the true scale of this monstrosity. Rows upon rows of enclosures held helpless beings, being plucked away from their lives by these foul beasts. They were all helpless, and the sheer scale of it made my head spin. One by one, more joined me in the bag, and we all resigned to our fate.
*This is my time...*
I must've fallen asleep sometime after that. I don't know how anyone could sleep in such a time, but I did. I found myself on a polished flat surface. I realized the surface was that of a Great Trunk, now dead and laminated, and forced into this form by these foul beings. The same thing that provided me and my family food and water is now part of some beastly contraption. I was numb in pain, overcome by all my emotions, when I felt myself being lifted into the air.
And I thought:
*This is my time...*
Two such foul beings stood: one holding me, the other across from me, much shorter than the first. The entire room was filled with neat rows of the contraptions made of Great Trunks. I had resigned myself to my fate, as I faced the chasm that opened on the beast, lined with neat rows of white blades.
This is my end.
*This is my time.*
===
Decided to give one a shot for once. I value all criticism!
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[WP] You're a monster in a fantasy/RPG setting facing off against an adventurer. Make me sympathize with you.
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Ginrot the Hobbe sat in the darkness, scowling.
He could hear the nearby human. Nasty, stupid, loud creatures that blundered through the caves from time to time. They would be bringing light, fire, and cold hard steel with them. They seemed to come more often these days, growing braver and stupider as more of his brethren died.
Why did they have to destroy? Why did they have to take everything he and his clan owned?
Ginrot had not lived a long life for a Hobbe. Had seen very little of the world, and since his Father had died – impaled at the end of a two handed Obsidian blade before his own eyes – it had fallen no him to provide for the little larvae. He had never done anything to any human, and neither had his Father, but the humans didn't care. They could only see the gold and precious jewels that his people owned. The stupid humans could only value shinny little bits of metal. Anything more sophisticated was beyond them.
Sure, every once in a while a few Hobbes raided a village, but they were always punished. And that was nothing compared to what some humans did, but of course humans were able to distance themselves from the actions of other humans. If one Hobbe did something bad, then all Hobbes were evil in eyes of men.
The man was getting closer.
Ginrot prepared himself. Around him, the other Hobbe warriors prepared themselves. He could feel their fear. He hoped the fear wouldn't become contagious, that they wouldn't break and start to flee in the middle of the battle.
The human appeared, and all at once they charged.
Lightning and fire flashed from the man's hands. He was alone, but more powerful than any man Ginrot had ever seen. Ginrot screamed as he ran, axe over his head.
Lightning flashed and struck him before he even swung it.
He went down in pain, feeling something tear deep inside. He tried to push himself to his feet but a sword flew out of the air and slashed him across the torso. This time he fell flat on his face. No, he thought. He had to take care of the larvae. He had to help protect the cave, help his people fight back against their human oppressors. He saw the little multi-colored orbs exit his body and he knew it was too light.
He watched the orbs – all of his life experiences - fly into the man.
How had this happened? How had these human managed to ruin
everything beautiful in the world? He had died, just like his Father, at the hands of a human, defending his home.
As the world grew dark, the sounds of the battle growing more distant, he swore he heard his Father's voice, speaking to him, saying that he lived a good life and fulfilled his responsibilities, that they would see each other soon.
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[WP] Write God's suicide note, and Satan's eulogy.
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To whoever finds this, not that it matters
I'm done. I just can't handle it anymore. I tried to steer humanity on the right path. I created a whole universe, full of laws, elements, properties, and so much more. I wanted people to experiment. I wanted people to discover. I wanted people to adapt. *I wanted people to love.* Things were slow in the beginning. Humans were a bit brutish at first. When it seemed nothing was going anywhere, I'd give them some new toys. Opposable thumbs, erect spines, that whole thing. Eventually, the humans started doing research. They'd even found the traces I'd left of the older ones. They named them, they found old remains. I was astonished. Slowly but surely, year by year, they'd progressed. New technologies, new cultures, I was amazed. People had their own religions, some believing in a heaven, some in reincarnation. When they died, I gave them what they wanted and felt they deserved. There were the few that went outside of what I wanted them to do, like that one they call Hitler. I wanted to intervene, but any direct action would make people stop researching and adapting. They'd just pray and worship. And I didn't want that. I wanted people to choose their own focus in life. If they felt the need to pray, so be it. If they felt the need to learn new things, so be it. I didn't want to intervene until something could happen that could wipe them all out, or nothing happens for a long time. But humanity seemed to be going strong, making amazing new gadgets. Earlier models could only communicate through grunts from 10 feet away. But now they could use a written or spoken language to talk to someone on the other side of the Earth. I was astonished, I was proud. I wanted to congratulate humanity for all its accomplishments without being found out.
So one day, I came to Earth. Not in my usual condition of course. They'd probably notice the beard. And the height. I was just in the form of a middle aged man. Not too old, not too young. Not too strong, not too weak. Just average. I wanted to see the life of an average man in the average city. I went all across the Earth, expecting the best.
My first stop, New York. The skyscrapers looked so much bigger when they were bigger than me. Sure, a few people were rude. Some teenagers tried to hold me up for my wallet, but surely this couldn't be representative of the whole world, right?
I soon warped to Paris, considered by humans one of the most beautiful and exquisite cities on the planet. I rented a bike, and saw the beauties. I ate incredible food, I saw incredible buildings. Not everyone was nice there, either. I assume it was my Mets hoodie that I got in New York. I'd heard a lot about Europeans not loving Americans, but it wasn't all too bad, right? As I got deeper down town, people started glaring at me. Bumping into me, seemingly intentionally. I went to an alley to warp to the next city, out of sight. I saw a dead body, a hand hanging out of a dumpster. Frances Arbor was his name. He was stabbed over a measly 12 Euros. I shuddered at what people would do for more.
I then went to Moscow. People often made a big fuss about Russia and its surrounding countries, but it couldn't be too bad, right? I shouldn't have thought that again, as as soon as I arrived, I was horrified. During my travels, a new political party had attacked a government building in Moscow. Martial law was declared. People in the streets were shooting each other. Brother shooting Brother, Father shooting Wife. All for a different opinion. I knew humans would compete, I knew they'd be violent at times, but this was the straw that broke God's back. I revealed my true form, growing to several hundred stories in height. I froze all people in their place, leaving able to only hear, and spoke for the whole world:
"I am disappointed in all of you. I created this world, this galaxy, this universe, billions of years ago. To experiment, to see how lesser beings behave. I'd always been above, watching the general consensus of how things were. I came down for the first time recently and couldn't believe what I saw. I was horrified. I know many of you are good people, but the others... You do not deserve to be a part of this experiment I created. You must pay.
And with that, I struck down my perception of evil. Dictators, serial killers, rapists, all employees of Time Warner Cable, liars, thieves, and more. The majority of these were sick, wretched people. But I knew in my heart; some of them had reasons to do what they did. Some of them had a motive. Some of them were good people, simply steered down the wrong path through negligence, abuse, and worse. All dead, all gone at once because of my faint perception of evil. I'd broken my rule; I'd intervened. I returned to heaven, to see what would come of it.
I expected partial celebration of the deaths of some of these people, despite knowing some would protest it. But I didn't consider what else I'd done: I'd revealed myself. I showed these people there was a god, but I didn't explain how I treated the dead. Many likely assumed I was the Judeo-Christian god. I certainly wasn't Buddha, nor Brahma, nor the God of Corn or the Spirit of the Wind. Atheists, who I respected immensely, for their (usually) intensity towards research (Some went a bit out of hand, denying my existence), fled to churches. Begging for forgiveness. All around the world, my presence was causing chaos as people rushed to change themselves. And inside all of this, there was the thousands, likely, no, definitely millions of people I had killed. I couldn't go on knowing what I'd done.
If you find this, bring me to the Arch-Angel. He'll know what to do with my body.
It's late and I'm tired, so I'll write Satan's eulogy tomorrow.
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[WP] You have been found "not guilty" of a crime you DID commit
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"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty."
Oh, how sweet those words were. They could agree - they could *all* agree - that I was the sort of person who could have done it. They saw it on my face, in my eyes. They heard it in the character witnesses. I'd dare say they *felt* it.
They could feel all they want but you can't convict a man on what you fuckin feel! No you can't. No siree. The feds had jumped at me with a handful of evidence and my lawyer, who is going to get a god damn raise, swatted it away. Circumstantial - he had argued.
I don't know what that means, and I don't fuckin care!
I'm a free man. And I can live. And I can party!
Oh, how I'm gonna party. The cops are pissed, no man behind bars means no bonus I bet! Fuckin pigs.
Fuck I want to party! I'm going to snort and smoke and drink and fuck!
I'm gonna party!
I might bring my razor with me again. Find a lil lady. I'll fuck and I'll party.
They didn't catch me this time. Didn't even get me in court with the others.
I'm gonna party.
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[WP] Opposite day gets taken too far.
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Eh, ran out of steam on this.
________
"Hey Henry," Chuck said, giggling softly. "Henry. Hey." He tapped Henry on the shoulder several times, waiting impatiently for him to turn around and face him.
"What?" Henry said, twisting his torso toward Chuck. He was tall, maybe 6'3''—two or three inches taller than Chuck. They had both been born in September of 1977 at the same hospital, but three days apart. They always told people that they'd been friends almost literally since birth. Several small specs of blood dotted his cheek.
"Your mother is beautiful," Chuck said.
"Thanks, I guess," Henry said. He glanced down at the black watch on his pale, skinny wrist as Chuck burst into laughter. His hand was concealed within a tight, plastic glove, its beige color now almost completely replaced with the burgundy shine of moist blood.
"It's not opposite day, you're so smart!" Chuck said. He smacked his own leg as he laughed, left arm outstretched and pointed toward Henry.
"Aren't you too old for this shit?"
"Yes," Chuck said after taking a moment to think about the question. It was quite important to ensure he kept his opposites in check. "I'm too old for this. Just like you're so good looking."
"Gee, that's hilarious," Henry said. He turned back toward the table in front of him and picked up the saw by his left hand. "Hand me the lighter," he said, staring down at the gagged and near-naked man on top. He wiggled slightly, yet the restraints on his arms kept him from moving too much.
Chuck pushed the various letters he had been cutting out of a magazine aside and stood, then grabbed a folding knife from out of his pocket. He placed it next to Henry.
"Lighter, Chuck. Not knife. Tape. And don't ruin the god damn ransom note."
Chuck nodded again and handed Henry the small, burlap sack they'd folded up and placed on the chair beside the table. Henry sighed and swatted it out of his hand, then bent down and grabbed the lighter off the floor from just behind Chuck's blood-stained Vans.
"Remember, it's not opposite day," Chuck said, smiling yet growing slightly impatient. Henry turned toward Chuck and rolled his eyes.
"Just shut up and help me," Henry said. He placed the saw down began and pushing and pulling it in a straight line. A muffled, choked scream gargled from atop the table. Chuck sighed.
"You want me to help you?"
"Yes," Henry said. He picked up the lighter and held it to the man's chest. He squirmed and shifted to try to avoid its flame. Chuck rolled his eyes and walked over to the table, then placed his palms on both sides of the table. Henry stared up at him, his saw lifted up toward the ceiling, lighter hovering just above the man's left nipple.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping," Chuck said. He bent over and pushed against the table with all his might. The legs closest to him lifted off the ground. Henry forced his body forward as if tackling someone in football, the table toppling over in response. The man crashed onto the floor, his body smashing onto the ground with a fleshy slap.
"What the fuck!" Henry shouted.
"You told me to help! I'm being helpful!"
"You're being the god damn opposite of helpful!"
"Exactly!" Chuck sighed. "You just get it, do you?"
Henry bent down and tried to pull the table up, lifting it slightly off the ground. The man beneath it moaning softly through his gag. He slammed it back down after failing to right it.
"I can't lift this fucking thing back up, you retard. You're going to get us both killed, do you realize that? If we lose him, we're both dead. I don't want to die, do you?"
Chuck shrugged. "I do, I guess."
"Well I fucking don't, and I'm not letting you kill me because of your stupid little games. You're too old to be playing 'opposite day,' and too fucked to be wasting time doing anything but trying to make some god damn money back. Now help me flip this table over and finish cutting his god damn fingers off for the ransom letter."
Chuck shrugged and bent down. "Are you not sure?"
"Fuck you, Chuck. Just fuck you." Henry turned around and placed his legs in front of the table, so as to get a little more leverage when lifting.
Chuck reached into his back pocket and removed a small, black pistol, then fired it into Henry's skull.
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| 5
| 63,434
|
[WP] An alien race encounters the most terrifying predator imaginable. A lone, unarmed human.
|
D-39:
We had issues finding what was wrong with the generators today. It has now been 5 weeks that every day we wake up to find the machinery malfunctioning. Since this is just a scouting mission we have low funds and aren't able to fix it for the next day every time. And it looks like this time, we won't be able to fix it at all. We still are on the white satelite of GEN-3.
D-22:
We finally fixed the engines, but we are running low on energy. I hope we can get nearto some twin stars in the near future in order to get some easy solar energy. Some men complains about a strange encountering on GEN-3a's floor.
D-18:
This afternoon we went on a field trip and found out that there was a strangely shaped vessel near our position. We didn't find out if there was any kind of living form yet. We saw an artificial object stuck into the ground. It seemed to be a pole with a big and colorful clothe on it.
D-7:
We were finishing the preparations of our departure when we met with the inhabitant of the vessel. He is about 60 times my size and is able to jump at impressive heights. He has only one eye capable of redirecting sunlight right on us, which burned two of my men. We will be forced to evacuate as soon as possible.
D-5:
I lost some other men today when he stepped on them. We fled right after this incident. This being will be known as the Armstrong in the codex. It's what the translator said when i accidentally pointedit in the creature's direction.
We will never forget.
Rheo-Miakaalp
Vev-Ba-Osee
Mawz-Modroplatiar
Hakp-Miakaalp
Khert-Ziz
Mong-Lpeas
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| 245
| 97,335
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[WP] We live in a world where one can sell their memories in exchange for money. A poor man has just sold his last happy memory.
|
Please understand that this is my first go at writing anything, especially to be read by other people.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*"A cold lot, a wet hand…"*
This time it's left a tingling numbing effect on the back of his head. He rubs it methodically as he continues to rethink his father's last words:
*"A cold lot, a wet hand. Any room is an empty room when you're at it, boy; and a better room after you've left. Now, git."*
Muscle shudders fill his moment when he realizes he's outside of the building. *"How the hell did I get out here?"* He murmurs to himself.
Twitches of sound swim back into his ears meeting the kaleidoscopic bursts of a bustling metropolis as they regain their colorful sonic sovereignty over him, like flowers blooming into subtle resonant stillness. Undeniably present, unwavering reminding o' the life lived thus far into the world of heartbeats and triumphs. His mouth is dry, so very dry. His head numb, so very numb.
The old man fights to squeeze his last errant coin placed in his left pocket - more to make sure that it is still there, but somewhat as a reminder that *he too*, is still there.
Before stepping back into the life that produced his now forgotten, ultimately sold, last happy memory – this old man readies himself for the consequences of having to face her whilst knowing not what he has forgotten. She seems to always know what he has sold, when he has sold it. Her heart so full of love for him that she never mentions the lost; only brings him the day and sits with him well into the evening. She remains pure, unaltered, vibrant and stoic.
Finally moving onward toward home, stopping only to make transactions at the commercial center for the currency conversion, the old man suddenly feels someone tapping his shoulder from behind.
*"You dropped this…"*
Turning toward the young man's voice. *"Hey, buddy. You dropped this."* A somewhat younger man's hand stretched into the old man's face waving a piece of paper with some sort of official looking blue ink stamps attached to another piece of paper with the bold words stating **URGENT** blasting off the page. The old man doesn't remember holding any paperwork, let alone dropping it along his path. Accepting the lost pulp as his own, half nodding to the youngish looking man a confused yet sincere appreciation acknowledgement, he takes the paperwork.
Reading the words on the page made it clear that this wasn't for him, after all who was Lucy Stillman?
Wait a minute... She was listed as emergency contact for William Stillman.
*"That's ME!"* He spoke aloud.
*"I'm Bill Stillman. She must be... NO! It can't be! NO!!"*
The old man drops to the ground, writhing to-and-fro holding his head, half-screaming, half-weeping unpronounceable feelings of desperate deep despair. For the first time ever he knows what he has forgotten, what he has sold. His beloved wife of 42 years - he has forgotten, had sold the memory of the first time he ever met her - when she first spoke to him. Pressing her soft lips against the lobe of his ear, she whispered her sweet name.
He has sold her name from his memory.
This unfeeling paperwork has told him the truth of what he has done. That stranger of a man had brought to him the devastation of lost time found in time to forget the times that were once held as unforgettable moments of pure joy.
What is a man if not the total of his memories, and what is his worth if not the sum of the combined comfort and joy that are brought forth from the greatest of those memories; the happiest of those memories?
He has finally realized, gut wrenchingly, an irreparable truth: Without a memory of happiness a person can never again provide happiness for another. He has ruined her life - the only woman he has ever loved to love.
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| 109
| 4,236
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[WP] a love story that ends with the words "and I hate her"
|
We met in high school. I guess you could say it was love on first sight. There was a spark, a spark we both felt. A week later we were dating. She was my high school sweetheart. I was so in love with her. I would never let her go.
And I didn't. I always kept her close to my heart. Even after she cheated on me, I took her back. I still loved her, no matter her mistake. Even after the lies. It didn't really matter to me.
When we had our daughter, three years ago. I was the happiest man in the world - and I thought my wife was the happiest woman in the earth with me. I was wrong. She left again, a year later, and left our daughter with me.
Three weeks ago, two years after her departure, she called me. Her voice never lost the power to make me soften inside. Even now, after all she did, I still loved her. And I told her that. I told her our daughter was missing her. That she kept asking where mommy was.
She avoided replying. I heard her clear her throat from the other side of the line. ''Mark. I'm so sorry. I'm dying.''
I hung up. I stared at the wall in disbelief. Dying? After all those years of loving her unconditionally, she was dying? I could've taken anything - any news. But her disappearing, leaving me to live without her - the love of my life - crushed me.
My daughter started to cry. I walked to her, took her out of her buggy and put her close to my chest. The emotions got to me. With tears flowing down my face, my voice failed me when I said: ''All these years, I loved mommy so much. And now she will be gone forever. I loved her so much..'' my look hardened ''..and now I hate her.''
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| 281
| 158,910
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[WP] A Dishevelled Little Girl Walks Up To You On The Street, And Hands You A Box, Saying "Don't let anything happen to this." Then she sprints away.
|
A bomb attack outside the mayor's office in the East city has killed three police officers and a civilian, officials say.
Fourteen other members of the public were also hurt in the attack, which comes only days after the assassination of Senator Robert Stein rocked the city to it's core.
A device was detonated on the steps of 22 Astra Plaza at 12:45 this afternoon, but exact details are not clear. No-one has admitted carrying out the attack.
Those who died were three members the of ECPD, officers Gerald Holmes and Richard Jones, and Detective John Wilkstrom. The civilian, believed to be a female in her early thirties has yet to be identified.
The exact cause of the blast is not clear. One report describes a masked man throwing a device from a moving vehicle, another mentions the device had been in the hands of, and possibly detonated by, the detective.
"We strongly condemned these terror attack against our city... It is beyond deplorable," East City Mayor Charles Parker said in a statement.
"East City Police Department would actively co-operate with the current FBI investigation surrounding the recent assassination to find out if the attacks are related" he said.
Much speculation has been made that the attack may be related to the explosion at the Mansion Hotel on 21st of March, in which Senator Stein and his family were killed in a similar explosion, only hours before he was due to give his speech, damning the activities of the
| 1
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| 55
| 29,772
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[WP] The Protagonist is the only person in the world without a special super power, yet everyone else in the world has a unique power
|
(I should mention to anyone that's intrigued by this that these are characters from a full novel with their own backstory that I don't have time to tell in a post this length :P)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He glanced up at the fading sky, waiting for the dot on the horizon that would mean his pet hawk had returned home.
Or that someone from the group was back from the hunt.
As far as he knew, he was unique here. Sure, there were others like him in the world--those born without any special attributes whatsoever--but here, it was just him. He was the only one not marked.
It wasn't like they hated him for it. In fact except for Aegan, the ornery white-haired man that stood in for he and his brother's father, everyone treated him fairly. While they spent all day chasing air currents, playing in the breeze, and shooting balls of energy from their palms at the endless expanse of desert that surrounded them in every direction, he...well, he sat and waited for his hawk to come back from hunting.
That was why he had it, anyway--living vicariously, he supposed. He'd found it as a chick, curled-up and dirty in the corner of one of the abandoned buildings in its village, alone and scared. In a way it felt like him. His brother told him the creature would certainly die, but he fed it anyway. Watched as it got stronger as the days went on. Now it was his best friend. Sometimes it felt like Sky was the only one who actually understood him.
There was the light sound of someone touching down behind him and he turned, hand reaching instinctively toward the blade he kept tucked into his waistband.
"Whoa, slow down kid, it's me."
He tucked the blade into his waistband again and grinned. Just his brother, then. It wasn't like he wasn't happy to see him. His brother fluttered his wings and settled back down into the sand.
"How was the supply trek?" he asked, folding his hands back into his pockets and glancing back up for the setting sun, still watching for his bird.
"You know," he replied. "The swordsmith stopped selling to us. Said that people are getting scared with all the winged ones hanging around. We'll have to find a new one." He sighed. "Again."
Armand nodded.
"You know, you could always bring me--"
"It's too far to walk, Armand. You know that." Griffin cut him off with a surprising level of irritation. "Besides, I want you--"
"--You want me to be able to live a normal life," he replied. "I know. I'm just bored, is all."
Griffin rumpled his hair, which earned him a punch in the shoulder and an irritated sigh.
"Look," he replied. "Do you have any idea what will happen if people find out you're my brother? Do you know how they'll treat you when they find out you associate with marked ones? Two of our scouts were stabbed last week just trying to buy bread."
"They don't even know me," Armand responded. "No one in the city has ever seen me before."
"They will if you come with me," Griffin answered. "The city guard keeps track of that kind of thing."
"I know," he replied. At this point, the village was his whole world. The next settlement was 50 miles off--a short trek via air current on a set of wings, but several days' walk through a barren desert on foot. "Sometimes I think you just want to keep me here."
"Armand, don't--"
"Kidding," he replied, in a way that said he really wasn't.
He reflected on himself how much it sucked to be special.
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| 4
| 115,547
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[WP] Wishing to end his life, a man takes an extremely high dose of a hallucinogen, which ends up killing him - but not before the effects kick in.
|
He dropped the needle and watched as it smashed against the ground, That was it. He was curious as to what was going to happen now. He looked around, The walls had grown a curious color. Dark lines were sprouting out of thin air, and seemed to be attempting strangle the light. He could hear distant cries, and saw people gathered around a fallen man. he went to move over there and found he was already standing next them, The man was doubled over, his features leaking through the gaps in fingers, And people were lapping it up, their faces rippling as they seemingly absorbed his characteristics. Their eyes changed colors and their noses stretched and adopted a new shape. Turning he found himself in front of a glass stairway. He began to ascend it, looking beneath him as he did. He saw the earth groan and shriek as it mankind skinned it and poured acid on its wounds. Ascending further he saw a girl he thought he should know and watched as she cried over a shadow shape, Her tears like opals against the blackness. He kept walking, he saw people running as words chased them down, he saw people being crushed under the weight of their speeches. He could feel himself losing his comprehension or ability to understand, he reckoned he didn't have long, So many things to see. Finally he reached the top of the staircase and reached a Plain black slate door, looking back he saw a kaleidoscope of colors and flashing blue and red man, he moved forwards and opened the door. An abyss of blackness lay beyond it, the flashing blue and red man was reaching towards him, he hesitated but walked into the door, hearing it shut behind him. Then nothing.
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| 16
| 201,477
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[WP] For all time, humanity has looked up at the distant stars, and wondered. Now, they look down.
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I was just three years old when we found the answer to the universe.
It wasn't some sort of divine intervention from another species or fantastical ruins on Mars that gave us this power. Instead, the vast technological and exploratory advances that humanity has experienced over the last fifty years came from one, very unlikely source: He was Swiss. The world's scientists discovered some fantastic way to look at Einstein's speed limit and dash it into oblivion. Generators could produce more energy than was put into them, nuclear reactors were like child's toys, and soon we realized that with nothing to hold us back we could reach out into the infinite.
But being human, the worst of our nature had to come out. The petrodollar collapsed within a week. Things got bad. Riots in Moscow and London and Chicago. Then things got worse. In today's euphoria there are precious few who remember the Second Battle of Berlin or the Burning of Pittsburg. In the end a scant 1.6 billion remained--we decided to fix that. Ships: we built dozens of them and expanded. First to Mars, then Titan, then to Centauri, then Eridani, then Auraxus, then to the very galactic edge.
Planets too hostile--we terraformed. Species too inviting--we absorbed. Enemies too big--we broke through sheer force of will. In the galactic way of things it was always quite simple. We were always seen as the underdogs. That was our biggest weakness and our greatest advantage. Those who attacked us always won great victories until, like always, we would assemble just one more fleet with one more masterful advantage or tactic than last time, and we would beat them until they were annihilated or surrendered to us. In the latter case they would then be absorbed, traded with, and taken in until the poor species would forget why they hated humans in the first place, and gladly defend our colonies on the Frontiers. Humanity always won. We won because while we weren't the strongest, or the wisest, or the most advanced, we had two things the other species didn't. We had our force of will, and empathy for one another. Our shared experiences and willingness to better ourselves allowed us to survive, our mastery of our other emotions like anger, hatred, and love allowed us to thrive.
And now, fifty years later I look down on a small blue globe. These people are precious, primitive and naive. They still worship their own gods of rocks and trees, they are untainted by pollution and much greed. We've grown fond of them, and want to help them advance and grow. We all want to give them the gift of knowledge and help them to avoid our mistakes. But I realize now that it can never happen. It was our own will that allowed us to claw out of the ashes of our own defeat, and those lessons cannot be taught, but must be learned nonetheless. So we said goodbye, but not forever.
Someday, we hope to look down on Earth again, and when we are ready, we will join them in the stars.
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| 10
| 37,235
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[WP] Art has been outlawed.
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To the one who finds this safe, congratulations. You found it. The life works of me, Parav Smart, Jason Liens and Esther Macklemore. By the time this safe has been found, hopefully we will have passed on. This safe will be the only remnants of our presence in this world.
This safe contains everything that we have ever lived for. Enclosed in this letter is an inventory of all the works stored in here. If you have come from an age in which our oppression is no more, then allow me to explain this assemblage.
At the time of writing, the year is 2086. Our world is quickly assimilating with our technology. Automating our lives to the fullest extent: cooking, sleeping, scientific study, politics. All of these things are no longer worked by man's uneven touch and are replaced by the fine grip of a machine. I admit, they are better than us. Should a man and a robot ever compete the robot will always win over the man.
The events that followed were no surprise. Humans were deemed "imperfect beings" and were forced to become augmented with robotics to "reduce random error". My brother, who was among the first to be "improved" had changed from his former self, physically and mentally. His arms and legs were made of hard plastic to hide the humming machinery underneath. I could not feel a pulse, nor did he breathe. His face was made of a rubbery material that was not quite skin. But his eyes... His eyes were like those found on a taxidermied animal, they stared into your own eyes like a painting in a haunted house. His eyes stared at you from across the room, head unmoving. When he spoke, we saw the inside of his dried, pink mouth and heard the rasp of a voice modulator that was almost, but not quite the brother I knew.
He didn't think, he just did. He didn't talk to us unless prompted and even then he replied with a curt "Let me work." Never did he show any emotion, even when Mother took her own life, he continued his programmed routine as though a large fly had been hung in the middle of the room.
Another thing you need to know, is that in the world of certainty, any uncertainties are erased. Brutally. Art, for all the joy it can bring, for all the stories it can tell, for all the knowledge it can convey, was an uncertainty. You have never heard of the works of Para Crozier because her paintings were converted to complex glucose molecules following her "conversion".
One would expect resistance of some sort to come up from this. Surely someone tried to make a stand against this atrocity of a world! And you would be right. People have time and time again fought back against the machines, but machines are just that: machines. They don't feel pain, they have no compassion, they will pursue a goal until it is done, no matter what.
But art is not something that can be sorted and compartmentalized. It floods like water into every nook and cranny, everywhere you look is an opportunity for creativity. Creating is the very reason we wake and work. But given the situation, there is very little that can be done against the calculating mechanisms. Liens and Macklemore have already gone, I am the only one left. I have stayed behind to write this note to whoever finds our only treasure in this world.
So there you have it. That is my account of the events that have transpired in my time. The works in the safe are yours to take, seeing as we have no control over their fate. My only request is that you take care of them, and, if possible, let people see that which we have created. After all, art is only of use when it is enjoyed by others.
*--Smart*
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| 6
| 33,391
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[WP] The awkward conversation between two ex-lovers as they part ways for the final time.
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My phone buzzed. I cringed as I saw the sender; the screen lit up a too familiar number. It seemed that deleting the name attached really isn't helpful after all. I slid the lock screen halfway across before I froze. Do I really want to read this? I debated ignoring it, but curiosity got the best of me.
"Hey"
It was the most loaded text I had ever received.What does he want? Why is he even talking to me? Did he change his mind? I tried to ignore the flutter of hope in my chest. "Play it cool, Sidney," I pep-talked myself. "Don't be that crazy ex."
"What's up?" I typed and hit send. I mentally patted myself on the back for successfully responding.
"I left some stuff at your apartment. You know, toothbrush and stuff. I was wondering if I could stop by and pick it up?"
I snorted at the thought of him visiting. What the hell, it would save me the time of throwing his stuff away. Besides, I hadn't been able to bring myself to do that yet. Maybe this will be good. Maybe this give me some, I don't know, closure or something.
"Sure."
Turns out he was just getting off work, and that only gave me fifteen minutes to make myself somewhat emotionally stable, as well as play up my make up to remind him what he gave up. I heard the knock on the door and got light headed. Taking I deep breath and faking a smile, I opened the door. "Hi, Brian." His eyes flitted up at me, then back to the porch. I'd never seen him look so insecure. "Hey," He mumbled back with an awkward smile, and scratched his head nonchalantly. "I think I have everything you left here in a box, hang on a minute," I sped through the sentence, and borderline slammed the door in his face as I went to retrieve the box. He doesn't have to know that this was meant for the trash, I encouraged myself, and tried to slow down my heart rate. I stood at the door for a minute, wanting to make it seem like I didn't care about his stuff and that this whole thing was no big deal. This is it. After this, it'll be all over. For real. No more wishful thinking, no more hoping. This ends tonight. I opened the door.
I thrusted the box at Brian, hoping it wouldn't give away my shaking hands. "Uh, thanks," he responded, raising his eyebrows a bit. Then he looked me straight in the eyes. "You know, Sidney..."
Oh God no please don't no
"My flight leaves tomorrow and..."
Stop no please stop I can't do this
"I was thinking about us, and everything..."
For the love of God spit it out already and go
"You're a really great girl, and I'm thankful that I spent the past two years with you." He smiled weakly. My throat was throbbing, and the eyeliner I had put on so masterfully was about to stream down my face. After I moment I managed to choke out, "T-then w-why are you leaving?" I gulped. He was still looking right at me, his face somber. "Because I need to pursue my life, and I told you from the start that I couldn't promise anything. All I can leave you with is that for the time we were together, I loved you. But things have changed, and I... I'm going to miss you, Sid." I was t-minus thirty seconds from a total breakdown. I turned away from him. "Just go," I whispered, and slammed the door.
Also new here. Constructive criticism much appreciated.
| 2
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| 12
| 44,088
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[WP] A man who's always been given the raw deal meets the person responsible for it all.
|
I went to the west side of town. I was going to a bar to meet up with a date. We had talked online, but hadn't met before now. It was late afternoon and the bar was almost empty. My date wasn't there either, but then again I was twenty minutes early. I sat down on a stool by the bar to watch the football on the TV mounted above while I waited. The bartender approached me, asked me if I wanted anything. I ordered a soda. I wanted to stay sober until my date arrived at least. The bartender went out back to get one.
It was at this point I noticed the man at the other end of the bar. He looked like a pretty ordinary middle-aged white collar worker. He was holding a half full glass of whiskey, and by the look on his face it wasn't his first. He was looking at me with a slightly unfocused gaze. We were now the only people at the bar, so I felt moved to acknowledge him.
"You look like you've had quite a lot this early on a weekday. Been here long?" I said, in what I hoped was a friendly tone. It wasn't a great line, but it was better than enduring his silent stare.
"Got fired." he answered, definitely sounding drunk. "Didn't know what to do, so I went here. Figure if I keep drinkin', won't have to keep thinking 'bout it, worrying 'bout it... But you know what? Seeing you here, it makes me feel both better and worse about it."
"What's that supposed to mean?", I asked with a nervous grin.
"Well on the one hand I can feel better knowing that however bad things are, I'm still better off than your shitty life."
I was shocked speechless. The clear insult was made more confusing by his matter-of-fact tone and facial expression. I decided to give the drunk the benefit of the doubt. "You don't know me! What are you talking about?" I said, trying to conceal my anger.
"Sure I do.", said the stranger, "You're Spencer L. Dad left when you were 11, and you were raised by your crazy, narcissistic mum." He stumbled drunkenly over the syllables of *narcissistic*, but continued. "You got picked on in school until college, where barely anyone even knew you existed. You've done poorly in all of your jobs, 'cause you're too insecure, and you've got a nagging feeling you don't belong there. Four months ago you broke up with your girlfriend Jenn, first ever girlfriend, after two years. She was bi-polar, but she blamed you for all of her problems."
He had gotten it all right. My jaw had dropped some way through his statement, and was still dangling. The bartender had returned and poured my drink. She didn't seem to pay any attention to what the man was talking about. I picked up my jaw, and then my drink, and moved to the seat next to the stranger.
"How do you know all this? Who are you?" I demanded.
He sighed, took another sip of his drink. "That's the other thing, though. D'you know about karma?"
I was very confused at this point. Was he following some weird trail of drunken logic I couldn't follow? "Do you mean like good things happening to good people?" I said.
"Yeah, that one." he answered, "'s a good system, too. But isn't perfect. Where do you think all that comes from?"
"Where karma comes from? I don't think I even believe in karma, but I guess it would come from God or whatever." I said dismissively. I felt he was avoiding my questions, and I was still upset over the way he talked about me.
"Karma was my job." said the man, "'course, just talking about that could get me in trouble, even now, but screw them." He made a rude gesture towards the window, and the rest of the world at large.
"You could call them gods," he continued, "or angels or spirits, my bosses. Ex-bosses, of course." he corrected with a hoarse chuckle. "They do take care of karma. But all those consequences and actions don't just happen by themselves. And with the world's population becoming this big, there wasn't enough bosses to go around. So they had to outsource. They got a couple hundred of the most trustworthy humans. Like me." he said, pointing at himself, grinning like it was some sort of joke.
"They put us in these rooms in this big building you can't find if you don't know where it is. And we have to work these machines. Big, old machines made of sort of stone, and with, like, glowy writing on them. And on this machine you have all the people in your jurisdiction, and all the stuff they've done." He gesticulated, drawing figures in the air, presumably of how these "machines" looked. He continued, "And there we could control it all. What happens to whom. But you see, it's hard work, and we were badly understaffed. 'Trustworthy' people are hard to find. So when a deadline was coming up, there was never enough of the good things happening to go around. So we..." He stopped, looking something like ashamed. I had nothing to say, and after a while he picked it up again.
"So we dumped all the bad stuff on people like you, okay? Picked a few people who'd have it tough anyway. Like, people who'd wouldn't do very good, but not very bad either. Unremarkable lives, forgettable. And all the surplus bad energy, we directed towards you guys. The Z group we called you, when the bosses weren't around. This jurisdiction it was you, and Clement A, Eliza R, Billie H , Cecil C, and three or four others even I can't remember. That's what I mean when I say it also makes me feel worse to see you. It was a guilty little secret you see. I feel bad seeing the mess we gave you. But also it's all because of Group Z I ended up like this. The bosses found out, didn't they? And the others they let me take the fall for it."
I was shocked again. Should I believe all this? Sure, all my life I had felt that everything that could go wrong, had. But this story seemed outlandish and unbelievable. I genuinely didn't know what to think. But I was still very angry at this rude stranger, so I decided to go with it for now.
"So you're saying my whole life has been messed up, so you guys could *meet a deadline?*" I demanded angrily. He leaned back from my outburst, and waved a hand dismissively.
"You see, it had to go somewhere, all that bad energy. Otherwise we could've given it to some of the really good guys, the one who didn't deserve any bad stuff. It's all down to utilitat-ti-sim...", once again he stumbled over the syllables. He tried again slowly and deliberately, "ut-ti-li-ta-ria-nism. Means giving the most happiness to the most people. Someone like you, I'm sorry, but you're were bound to live a mediocre life either way. At best you'd be content and comfortable. But then we'd have to punish some of the real heroes, the ones who can actually go out there and make other lives greater. I mean, you don't have to forgive me, just know that we had hard choices to make, with impossible demands from upstairs. There's one big upside for you, though..."
I was still furious, and seriously considering storming out, but once again I calmed myself as much as I could. "Go on." I urged him.
"You're owed a lifetime of denied happiness, and my ex-colleagues now have something to prove to the bosses. Don't get your hopes up too much, but things might just be about to turn around for you."
After he finished he put down his glass, which had now gone from half empty to completely drained. He stared past me into the distance. I left him, to ponder all that he had said. It was all a lot to take in, and I was still upset, but suddenly I had a really good feeling about the date I was waiting for.
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| 9
| 132,529
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[WP] Something has been watching you and following you your whole life. You are full at aware but never told anyone because they would think you were crazy. It has never tried to talk to you or harm you, but today you finally try to see what it wants.
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The same man. Always the same. Ever youthful, yet weary beyond his years, weary beyond mine even. His was the only face I could remember so clearly, so perfectly to rival even a photograph, because I had seen it every waking hour of my life. Sometimes he would just stare, stood dead centre of my view, sometimes he would occupy himself in my peripheries. I witnessed him meditating, or perhaps praying, on numerous occasions. At first, I was scared beyond measure, children do not react well to strangers, but then I realised he was completely inert. An ever present monolith, never aging, never reacting, simply being. He would move to avoid my touch, turn away to evade speech, and simply disappear amongst crowds. The aquiline nose, strong jaw, sunken eyes - an odd shade of green - and defined cheeks gave the visage a look of nobility, a king perhaps. But his skin, a shade of brown darkened by years of work in the sun, suggested otherwise. He wore loose fitting, enamel white clothes, like a nomad of some vast desert.
He had never smiled, until today. I could only imagine he grew careless, unaware I was watching. I dismissed the thought. Then, an hour later, he seemed to pick something up. A pen. He examined the lidded implement, smiled at it, then removed the cap and examined the nib. He drew a word in the air, perhaps his name. Another few hours and lunch rolled by. He sat opposite me, as usual, watching me eat a bland sandwich, congealed rice from the night before and a tepid cup of tea. His nostrils flared, sniffing the air around him. What was mundane to me was alien to him, an expression of awe at the interesting smells. It was another few hours before I returned home, he again swung the pen to the shape of a word. In the kitchen, the fridge presented a simple ready meal, a plastic dish of heart-clogging fat and empty calories was all I had the energy to make. What was ten years for a little convenience? As the microwave whirred into life, I took a cigarette and lit it. I offered the carton to the stranger, as usual, and he took one, for the first time.
"Thank you," he rasped. I would have jumped to my feet if I wasn't so tired. Never had I put a voice to his mouth. He spoke clearly, he took his time with a mere two words after thirty years.
"I have to say," he continued, putting the cigarette aside, "you are an interesting one. You take your fill of food that sickens you, you poison yourself with addiction, and you occupy yourself with work that bores even myself."
"Well, thanks, I would shake your hand but your speech didn't exactly motivate me." He smiled, was it a response he wanted?
"That's something to add to the list. You surprise me. My silence has been long indeed, as long as you have been alive, yet you do not even ask who I am?"
"Are you some spirit, here to tell me to do God's work? Are you a boogeyman wanting to scare me? A murderer, perhaps, and now you decide to kill me? To be honest, your novelty wore off a while ago. What are you?"
"An immortal God-king? A spirit sent down to you? A guardian angel? The ferryman of the hereafter?" Even he could not stifle a laugh, the stalker was amused by my complacency.
"Really?" He read my grated nerves and stopped tarrying.
"No, I am none of these," he seemed pensive, "I can relate with your work, sometimes, I was a farmer." He paused.
"I can't say the similarities of farming and number-crunching jump out at me."
"I was a farmer in a vast and barren desert. I couldn't provide for my family as the work did not give, the seeds would not plant in the sand, I did not have water for mud. It was some divine joke, I know, to make me a farmer."
"And what do you want from me?"
"Well, living under constant famine, with little water, my family withered. It was only when war came to the borders that I found myself of any use. My emperor gave me proper wage to kill my fellow man. I enjoyed it. It was too soon before the war ended, and I returned in moderate wealth," he brushed away invisible sand from his garb. He went silent, his face expressionless.
"I remember my children, two boys. I trained my eldest to use the sword, you see he was quite dim, slow to the extent that he was not accepted, but he was stronger than even the greatest generals. Cut clean through my sword once." A smile had returned as he reminisced. He then fell solemn again, he returned to his inanimate self.
"And?"
"And, with my heir murdered and my spirit angered so, I want a legacy." The microwave pinged. Done.
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| 25
| 136,979
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[WP] Give a book summary for a classic tale made into a sci-fi story.
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Set against the galactic economic collapse of 465 MWCE (Milky Way Contact Era), Milton, along with his slightly malfunctioning android, L7N-E, struggle to find work. The two dream of owning their own ship with a crew of their own.
Having recently escaped the pursuit of the authorities, deeming L7N-E's glitches a threat, the two come across a small moon of Kalif, finding work as labourers. During this time they meet the others who occupy and work on the scarcely populated moon.
Kandd, a rusted old cyborg, is closely approaching his expirey date as he struggles to afford updated parts.
The boss's wife, a bitter Kalifi with a once-promising future, is the last female of her species and so faces the terifying prospect of being used under a strict breeding programme by her government.
Stoop is a Nagri, a race traditionally used as slaves by the Kalifo. Despite his skill in engineering, he is bullied and persecuted by his fellow workers.
Milton and L7N-E stay on through the work with their shared dream and friendship their only driving force. But life on the moon of Kalif is not an easy one, and threatens to tear that dream apart.
| 2
| 0
| 6
| 163,491
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[WP] An on call police officer is dressed inappropriately for service, but has to drive to the scene of a crime immediately. What were they wearing? How did it, against all odds, positively affect the outcome?
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The probability of something happening; anything, regardless of the event, is infinitesimally small. Yet when it happens it happens. With a certainty of *one hundred percent*. Now, one could argue that everything that can happen will happen, thus leaving the previous statement void. But these were thoughts pondering in the 5272 MENSA members' brains plus invited speaker Brian Cox, and certainly not in that of Officer Brando. No, his was filled with pride as he semi-clenched his left butt-cheek, flexed his arms and pointed the gun firmly at Mr Darco. The collected chaos that flickered moments before had died and everyone's eyes, and cameras, were on the two men on stage. One naked, the other defeated. Very defeated indeed. You see, Mr Darco wanted to take over the world, and to ease the operation he had carefully placed bombs under each of the 5272 seats in Royal Albert Hall, thereby intending to kill every mind capable of stopping him. This, however, is neither our point nor plot of interest. What's really interesting here is the unlikelihood of Officer Brando stopping him.
Just like all of us, is the mere existence of both Officer Brando and Mr. Darco highly unlikely. And if one skips the ridiculously improbable event of ones bloodline reaching the 21th century, it would still be hard to forecast that a descendant of an Irish potato farmer, in 2014, would ask the ghost of the Christmas spirit to send him back to 2011 to stop the crime of the century, naked. Moreover was his road to eternal fame almost ruined by poor time management, but the specific genetic coding that had made Mr. Darco highly intelligent was also responsible for his homosexuality, and in turn for his moment of awe and hesitation when he saw Brando's penis flopping fantastically flaccid in the air (thanks [/u/pablodnd](http://www.reddit.com/user/pablodnd)), as he stormed the stage like the inverse of the man with the naked gun.
| 2
| 0
| 22
| 176,123
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[WP] A woman wakes up and realises she has the ability to talk to and understand her cats, after initial excitement she realises her cats are sociopathic bullying monsters.
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Just recently started writing, so sorry if this is hard to follow or not good writing. Would love some critiques
"Look at that old hag reading her dumbass book. She's so old and lifeless she looks dead."
Marium stopped reading and gazed at her book for a quick second. 'I don't remember turning the TV on.' She thought to herself. ' She looked up to see what show was airing that had such bad language but was surprised when all she saw was her reflection in the dark glass of the TV screen.
"I'm hearing things." She uttered aloud while turning her attention back to her book.
"No you're not, bitch. It's me who's talking."
Frightened, Marium threw her book to the other end of the couch and immediately jerked around looking for whoever was in the house talking to her. Her eyes quickly scanned the living room but nothing was out of the ordinary. Slowly turning around to her upright position, she settled her eyes on her cat, Scruffy, who was sitting on the arm of the chair next to the couch. Suddenly she found herself laughing at the thought of her cat talking. Once her laughing subsided she put her hand on her forehead.
"I've been living alone for so long I'm going nuts!" She let out one last laugh as she reached out and pet Scruffy's head.
Her lips grew pouty and in a sarcastic baby voice she looked at her cat "Am I going crazy Scruffy?"
The two locked eyes and Marium saw Scruffy's mouth open, but instead of hearing a meow she was met with a very English voice "No hag, I'm the one talking to you."
Quickly Marium ripped her hand away from her beloved cat and was able to murmur an audible "….Shutup...You can't talk, you're a cat!"
The fluffy black and grey cat jumped onto Marium's lap and heald his head up to face hers "Who else is talking to you then?"
Marium grabbed the car and held him above her head as she leaped off the couch starting at him.
"This is amazing! I can understand you! I can communicate with you!"
"Yeah…amazing." Scruffy replied in a sarcastic tone. "Now put me down."
"Oh yes sir!" With an smile on her face she set Scruffy down on the floor as gently as she could. "So what should we do now?" Marium was definitely more enthusiastic about this than her cat. Ideas were rolling through her head at 100 MPH. Thinking to herself 'We could become rich! With our special communication I can teach him tricks to perform at the circus! That's crazy, he doesn't need money! He just needs loving!'
"How about you feed me? You haven't fed me all day. I'm attributing that to your old age and forgetful memory. Wouldn't be surprised if Alzheimer's is right around the corner for you."
Marium lowered her tone considerably "You sure are cranky when you're hungry." Walking to the kitchen she could feel Scruffy behind her.
"C'Mon Marium walk faster! I'm hungry and I don't want you dying on me before I get my lunch!"
Iritated, Marium snapped around "Keep it up and I won't feed you at al!" Her face was turning and agitated. Another cat walked up behind scruffy, this one was dark brown with some black patches in her fur.
"Do you really want to see what happens when you don't feed us?" she threatened. "Tell her Snickers, tell her what happens when we don't get fed." Snickers raised her paw and flashed her claws "Why don't we just show her what happens?!" Before Snickers could even finish that sentence, Marium had the bowls out and reached for the bag of Kibbles N Bits. At her old age those cat claws would tear her apart, and Marium knew it. She felt trapped in her own house by these ridiculous animals.
"Alright, alright, I'll pour you some food."
"We don't want that food, we want the wet food." Demanded Scruffy.
"But I'm all out of wet food!"
"Well…" Scruffy paused for a second to extend his claws "We're all out of patience."
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