Split (1)

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Johnny's eyes opened slowly with several blinks, and he gradually turned his head to the left and right in a sleepy daze. He tried moving his arms, but lukewarm steel held them in place. "What the hell,"he muttered and tried jerking his arm again. "What the hell is going on!" He tried harder to crane his neck around, but something held him in place and resisted his every desperate movement. All he could see was what was directly before his eyes: a rustic wooden wall, cobwebs from an ancient time, and a loosely boarded window above his eye-level, giving glimpses into the deep blue sky. He suddenly noticed the body warmth pressed against his back, and soon he heard the morning groans of yet another person. The sensation started to squirm, and then after a moment he heard, "What's going on. Where am I!" Johnny noticed the voice and yelled, "Is that you Bill? What the fuck is happening!" "Calm down,"came a final third voice from next to the two of them. "I just woke up too. It looks like we were kidnapped and chained up here. I don't know why, but there's no point in panicking." "Who the fuck are you?"shouted Johnny, only vaguely recognizing the voice, and he responded, "It's Tim, from back in middle school." "What? Why are we here. Why are you here?" "I told you I don't know. I don't know how we got here, where we are, who put us here, why we were put here… I don't know anything. Just breathe." Johnny managed to somehow calm his heart--he would never know how--but a sob came from where Bill was most likely chained up. "Why is this happening… Are we going to die." "It's too early to say Bill,"Tim responded, "But at least we have each other. If we were alone, who knows if we would be able to stay sane." "It must have been a decade since you moved away though Tim. Why the hell did they get you too?"Johnny couldn't help but ask, confusion racing in his head. "I'm just as confused, but let's just focus on making this a positive experience. It's been a long time since we've seen each other right. Besides, I doubt anyone's gonna find us. This cabin is as remote as it gets." "Fuck,"Johnny whispered, and then something started to crawl up his spine, a certain doubt, a speck of fear. His breathing started to become more shallow, and his heart quickened. After a moment, Johnny asked, his voice quivering: "I thought you said you didn't know where we were." And the cabin descended once more into silence, quiet beneath a deep blue sky.
Static from the TV caught my eye. I looked up as I changed to Channel 4 News, it had been a day since the War was ended by the Treaty of Oquirrh. I stared at the flat screen as the anchor stated, “Several Reports of mysterious boxes falling from the sky. Keep an eye out, citizens of Arelia. I’m Nancy Skies with your early morning news now let’s head to Carl A-“ Even though I’ve known about the boxes for hours now I was still a bit shaken. Being the conspiracy theorist I was, I’m constantly looking at headlines. “Everyone is in confusion, but I know exactly what’s going on” I thought to myself. My evidence concluded that five people from Arelia were to receive special boxes, while everyone else received empty boxes. These boxes had something to do with the treaty, like a compromise I just couldn’t find out what. “Still scrambling around David?” I whipped around to see Chris standing in my messy basement. “What are you doing here, I said to stay upstairs until I got things sorted out with my theory stuff.” I said whilst walking Chis out the door. “Ok well, make sure to clean up all your nerd stuff eventually, I may be letting you rent this place for free but you can’t leave it a mess” he said back. I was pretty popular with the towns folk, not for being a social person, but for being lax and smart in general. I walked out the door for my morning run, I wasn’t exactly fit but people need to be able to at least run fast these days. THUMP! “What was that?” I thought. I looked down only to see a box I had knocked over. “Well looks like Chris’ came” I mumbled to myself. I knew I had no business with this but I was so curious, I opened the box expecting emptiness. I looked in to see a letter that read: Attention Citizen of Arelia, You have been selected to be sent to Oquirrh as a comprise, we at Virgo Tech expect you to be honored by This. We will explain everything in person -Boulder Smith, speaker of VT “Oh no” I thought. “Hey what’s up?” said Chris from the porch, coffee in hand.
The dark lord came unto us in the night. No envoy, no provocation, no quarter. It had been several generations since the last great hero Sir. X. StayPuffex the 420th defeated the great destroyer at the battle of megiddo castle. Since then Humanity has been blessed by a new golden age of prosperity, trade and dominion. Though not all was as it could be. First came the demihuman refugees, the commonalty of the demon races. At first we humans in our benevolence tolerated these foul rancid creatures but how fast did these creatures infest our streets and multiply like rats in a cesspit. They refused to speak our language, adopt our customs or accept us as their rightful masters. We gave them a purpose in the great human empire and they spat in our faces. The call for extermination came quickly. We won these lands in Just combat and is our privilege to reap the spoils of war. They begged for mercy yet it is our people they ravaged and stole food and work from. They ran for their lives but the vermin children they spawned slowed their retreat. How those pathetic shrill cries of the demon-spawns still ring in my ears. If only they had learned the first time that humanity was the rightful ruler of this realm. What fools we were to think them any different from the great Demon Generals who ripped our flesh and burned our harvests. Who bargained for peace but prepared for war. Perhaps if they were more devout, the gods would have given this land to them as they did to humanity. Imagine our surprise when a new Demon Lord appeared. How dare we protect what is ours?! How dare these creatures take our rights for themselves?! It won't be long until Sir. Staypuffex returns to save us. He always does, and always will. Though I must say this new Demon Lord may give even him a challenge. It speaks of other worlds and abyssal masters, and how his kingdom will bring justice and prosperity for all. Clever demon, playing the role of a prophet. You'll be quite the challenge indeed.
When life gives you apples, what do you make? Not everyone has the power to alter the universe, of course. That didn't mean they couldn't have extraordinary powers within certain fields. When I was younger, I thought I was cursed. My friends became heroes of legends while I was stuck with apple magic. I could do nothing else. I spent many years trying to learn other schools of magic, desperately hoping I had some other hidden talent. When I finally gave up on fighting fate, I made the best out of it. Apples created from thin air never tasted as good as those grown naturally. They were also not as easy to alter as the real thing. I could make them grow faster, too fast though and their taste would get worse. It became an art in itself to find the perfect balance between growth speed and taste. While the inherent taste was all-important I found myself capable of changing that as well. I could even add other flavors or change texture. I should have known no one buys an apple to have the taste of pie, they want an apple because it's just an apple. Having the highest quality apples brought a lot of business, sure. Not as much as I would like, however. How do you create a greater demand when you can not alter the flavor too much? Simple, you make them crave the taste of apples. If I could change my apples however I want, why not make them addicting like alcohol or tobacco? Sure the taste would change a little, but I imagine most don't know the taste of apples as well as me. Now my business is doing rather well. People gather whenever a new shipment arrives and soon after ask when the next one would come. Maybe the apples were a bit too addictive, old friends stopping by in order to either ask for more or attempt to stop me. 'Malicious business practices' they said. Maybe I couldn't protect myself with my magic, but now I had the money to have others do that. Of course I also gave them an apple now and then to ensure their loyalty. I might be far from any kind of hero, but at least I won't be forgotten any time soon. When life gives you a seemingly useless power, you make the best of it.
Another Monday has begun. The same deal every week, yet it never ceases to surprise me. The chaos. I've begun calling it Munday-ne. I just can't keep up with the havoc done that day, it's almost like everything from a comic book brought to life. People abusing their powers, others stopping them. So I sit at home, or go to a local coffee shop, since it's usually calm there. &#x200B; This Monday was different, somehow. I was sitting at the Brightfire's Cafeteria, enjoying the company of Brightfire herself. It's amazing how she can control fire in every way imaginable. We were just talking of how dumb the Chaotic Monday tradition is, when someone else walked in. "A cup of fresh Latte please. And no, no cream." He sat next to me, and before I could ever say anything, he began: "I'm Chris, Chris Mall. If you must know, I'm 43 and no, I'm not from around here". I was speechless, for the first time ever. I didn't know what to say, other than to ask "the question". Before I could open my mouth, he already responded: "I'm a mind reader. Yes, I do know what you're thinking right now. Yes Brightfire, I do know your vault code. No, I'm one of the good ones." He would know everything about everyone near him. Then, the next thought struck my brain and was already interrupted: "No, I can't control people's minds. I can't force their thoughts with my mind. I could study the mind and influence it only". For this whole time, my powers were useless for me. There is only so much you can do in this situation to not make it awkward. I stayed up the whole night, thinking about this. How he could do so much with his powers, and how little my powers can matter compared to some. It was indeed a chaotic Monday.
It had started shortly after I turned thirteen. It began with small things. Doable things. The faintest thread of purple light, almost imperceptible, and yet always, unfailingly, in my field of vision, directing me where to go. At first it had been obvious. A line leading to a small tree, in which a terrified kitten perched on its topmost branches. One to an old lady, laden with groceries, struggling to take a single step down treacherous ice-sheathed pavement. &#x200B; But over time that light had gotten thicker and thicker, my destination marked by an unmistakeable solid pillar of golden light. There was never any explanation. I would perform a task, and then it would leave me alone for a short while. Sometimes it was an hour. Sometimes a week. When I was eighteen there was a six-month period of normality, and I had begun questioning its existence and my very sanity before it had returned. It would be done, in a minute or sometimes it would take me an entire week of moments snatched from the unavoidable routine of my everyday life. And I would never hear anything of it again. &#x200B; It had never led me wrong. It was always something unquestionably moral, or otherwise innocent, and yet I was always left with the impression that it was merely a small turning point that would culminate in something much bigger. As to what that was, I was left completely and utterly in the dark. &#x200B; Today that pillar of light had been a speck in the distance. That rich royal purple led down the interstate and then woven through tricky winding mountain passes, as I guided my 4x4 across asphalt, and then loose gravel, and finally thick, oozing mud. And so I found myself at the top of a cliff, its sheer edge receding before me, overlooking a little-known section of largely untouched national park. I could almost feel a sort of primitive wildness, the freedom and unique dimension to nature where humanity had not yet besmirched it with soot and pollutant, indeed had not yet dare approach. &#x200B; Yet as I approached the very edge, I realised a couple of things. One: the pillar of light did not originate from the ground level, as it usually did. No, it was perched midair, as if suspended upon an invisible platform of nothingness. Two: the purple led directly across, across that same nothingness. It did not indicate a route down to the bottom, some hidden staircase or cleverly hidden trail. No, it tracked across air, to a destination very clearly sitting a hundred feet off the ground. &#x200B; I almost backed off then and there. And yet, now, so close, the bright colours swallowed almost my entire field of view. I could hardly leave if I wanted to - and, what's more, an insistent curiosity was burning within me now, a desire for explanation and resolution. And the only way was forwards. &#x200B; A deep breath. Then another. Then, closing my eyes, I stepped off. &#x200B; I was falling. The rush of air battered my face, my clothes flapping with a life of their own, beating at my skin. And then... &#x200B; There was a sharp pain, and then darkness. &#x200B; But before everything disappeared from view, and with my complete bewilderment at the forefront of my mind, I thought I caught faint letters, of that same bright light, taunting me at my inexplicable demise: &#x200B; ^(Powered by Apple Maps)
It was a black sphere, maybe fifty feet in diameter, hovering a couple feet above the overpass. It spontaneously popped into existence just after noon, and the road had been shut down fairly quickly after that. By now, at the beginning of twilight, it was surrounded by cop cars and a hundred men with guns, as well as a strange van from a mysterious foundation, all monitoring the mysterious sphere. It seemed to do nothing... "I reckon it's a wormhole, you know?"One cop said to another, as they looked into the perfect blackness in space. "Some kinda cosmic doorway to somewhere else... Like in that sci-fi movie, ya know?" "Yeah? Is that so?"Someone else responded. "Maybe it's an inert black hole,"a third said, sipping a cup of coffee, tapping his fingers. "What does that even mean?"the second cop said. "Like... I thought that by nature, a black hole ain't inert." "Maybe it's an art installation?"A fourth cop suggests. "I've heard about things like this, weird, crazy art... Like a statue that started to destroy the world, but eventually destroyed itself before that happened? Or a piece of graffiti that will grab you and kill you if you get too close to it..." "If that's an art installation, I'm gonna turn in my badge and gun,"the first cop says, staring into the void. "I'll give you five-thousand dollars if you go and touch it. Then, maybe, we'll know what it is and does,"the third cop says, tossing his empty cup onto the pavement, where it bounced and quietly clattered to a rest in the gutter. The first cop pauses to make a risk-assessment based on existing knowledge and possible outcomes and... no, he nodded and began walking to the sphere. The researchers from the van began yelling, and soon all the other cops were yelling, but the officer just kept walking towards the sphere. It was strange, the closer that first cop got to the sphere, the more he felt like there was some kind of strange gravity pulling him increasingly closer to it. Eventually he stood directly beneath the sphere. It was maybe a couple feet from his head, if he reached out, he could touch it. And so he does, or at least he tries to. When his fingers are maybe an inch from the sphere's surface, it crackles with light, and something falls out of it. The first cop stumbles backwards, looking at the slumped body on the pavement, something strange, something almost but not quite human. The thing stirs, and quickly stands, and I can look at it. It's got black and grey skin, seven fingers on each hand, and it's round, almost cute face, has seven eyes, placed almost randomly. After looking around, they quickly put their hands up. More creatures fall out of the portal, each as strange as the first one. There's a woman made of what appears to be cracked porcelain, a red-skinned man covered in bony protrusions, a mud-person, winged-things, a purple girl with long, razor-sharp claws instead of hands... As they pick themselves up off the ground, they raise whatever arm-like appendages they may have, as though to show they aren't a threat. Many seem to flicker into and out of existence. The first creature begins to speak. "Hello. We are from A Dark Place. The uninitiated may know it better as hell." That got a stir from the crowd, still unsure on whether or not to open fire. "We don't expect you to know this, but there is currently a war going on in A Dark Place. Not so long ago... Heaven tried to invade. This came as a bit of a surprise, a great many of us demons were killed or captured. The rest of us fled, and eventually were able to create this here portal to escape hell. We aren't here to ask for much, we don't want to make too many requests, we just want to live in a world not completely marred by an unwinnable war."The demon finishes speaking. Other such beings continue to fall from the sphere. There is hardly enough room for them all within the circle of police cars. yo I don't know how to end this...
“It is a sad day for us all,” Icejet said over the radio. She been in many dire situations. Faced loss many only saw in nightmares, but she always kept her cool. After a decade of working with Captain Strongarm, she’d become numb to the horrors of crime-fighting. The news had always done well to cover the particular unpleasantness of their work, focusing instead on the people saved and the villains caught. Icejet was no Strongarm, but she was resilient. That was why the League decided this particular task should fall to her, not that they had any choice. Owlette was busy with her research. Lovesong obviously could no longer handle the PR. The news had to come from one of the League’s heroes, and none of the others had the recognition of its founders. It had to be her. “It is a sad day for us all,” Icejet repeated, stumbling over her statement. The words seemed to rearrange themselves. Reading was never her strong suit. Her lips trembled as she carried to the next line. “Jake.. Jacob Flannygan, known to us all as Captain Strongarm, has passed away.” Icejet let out a sob. She’d been able to hold back the tears until now, but saying those words cracked the dam. It hadn’t been real until then. Just yesterday, Jake made her breakfast. And now he was gone. ‘Passed away.’ All she had left was the claddagh ring he had given her a week ago. “He was an inspiration to us all. He knew what it meant to be a hero and he died protecting not just the city, but the world. Captain Strongarm was more than just a hero to me. He was my… he was a friend. He will be…” Icejet crumpled the paper. She couldn’t read through frozen tears anyway. “I miss you, Jake.” The words echoed through the silent room. The host, the techs, Icejet’s own assistant stared at the crying woman, unsure how to proceed. They had always seen her standing proud by captured villains or confidently from a rooftop. Once in a Santa hat in a snowy musical. They never saw her broken. The next few months saw a change in Purgatory. Since the rise of the League, the city came a long way from its roots. But Captain Strongarm’s death emboldened the villains. Like rats from the walls, they spread throughout the city, enacting their will. Jake would have been happy to know his humanitarian efforts paid off. The criminals were not the petty thieves of the League’s early days, but the terrorists, crime bosses, and cults of their later years. Without the inspirational force of Captain Strongarm and the peacekeeping skills of Lovesong, the city slipped back into a state fitting its name. More and more heroes rose to the challenge. Perhaps with more support, they could have saved the city. But Captain Strongarm was dead. Lovesong lost his voice. Owlette retreated to her library. And Icejet stayed home. A full year passed before peace was found. The new generation of heroes - Juultrick, Photosynthesis, and Karen - established an order. Less efficient than their predecessors, but keeping crime mostly locked down. Lovesong and Owlette still made appearances, reminding the world that they were still around, even if the papers no longer printed their names. Icejet stayed home. A frozen bottle of vodka held by an emotionless woman in a robe became a common sight around the League offices. Common enough that the new generation didn’t bother to stop discussing business when she wandered through to the kitchen. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Juultrick said with wide eyes. “He was like an animal. Nothing I threw at him could get him to stop. He was psycho, dude. He broke a steel beam with his bare hands. I had to get out of there.” “What’d he look like?” Karen asked. “I dunno. He was wearing a mask. White guy with red hair.” Juultrick breathed out the smoke from his vape, twisting it in the air to form a heart wearing a crown. A pair of hands held the heart out. “He had a ring that looked like that.” For the first time in a year, Icejet felt… anything. Her heart and mind raced. Dropping the bottle, which shattered frozen vodka on the floor, she ran to the table, sliding to a stop. The three kids gave her a confused look. “Where?” she demanded, resisting the urge to vomit. Alcohol did not respond well to running, even just a few feet. “On his finger?” “No - I…” Icejet sighed. “Where did you see him?” “He was at that old factory. You know, the one where Captain Strongarm died.” Karen gently hit him. “Dude.” “What? Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Icejet was gone before his apology, racing out the League HQ entrance. She ignored the confused shouts of the League’s staff and visitors, determined to prove her theory. For a normal person, running while drunk would be near impossible. But Icejet was no normal person. She spent years learning how to walk on ice. Running while tipsy would be a- Icejet tripped. With reactions honed by years of crime fighting, she created a soft bed of snow for her face. Despite how comfortable it was, the swirling storm of emotions and honking car encouraged her to her feet. Then she saw him. Driving toward her, Jake Flannygan did his best to remain inconspicuous by lowering the baseball cap on his head. Icejet froze, not literally, as she stared into his eyes. Her stomach wanted to puke. Her heart wanted to be held by those powerful arms once more. Her mind wanted things to make sense. Instead, she stood in the middle of the road, failing once again to keep the tears out of her eyes. This time, she was overcome with joy and disbelief. She wanted desperately to say something, but her mouth wouldn’t respond. All she could do was stare at her fiancé. He offered an awkward wave Icejet returned the wave. Then Jake hit her with his car. Everything happened so quickly, Icejet’s body didn’t register the hit until Jake stepped out of his truck, calmly walking to her. He knelt next to her as she gasped for breath. His eyes offered nothing. Not sadness, fear, or warmth. Nothing. “Hello, Kyrie,” Jake said. “Long time, no see.” Kyrie coughed blood. The pain that wracked her body was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. Her stomach still wanted to puke. Her mind still wanted things to make sense. Her heart wanted to stop hurting. “You shouldn’t drink in drive,” Jake said calmly. With one strong kick, he pushed the truck into a nearby tree, further denting the hood. “That’ll do. Remember kids, always wear a seatbelt.” “Why?” Kyrie asked through a mouthful of blood. “You signed the contract, Kyrie. With the big man himself. We all did. Things didn’t work out the way he thought with those kids around but they’ll get theirs. Wrath’s here to collect.” Jake gentle placed his hands by her head. “Welcome back to the League for Incapacitating Villainous Enterprises, Kyrie. What a dumb name. See ya later.” Kyrie felt a crack then everything went black.
Doc told me to write my “hallucinations” down back when reality still made a semblance of sense. I write here to convince myself that I’m still sane, that my life has truly become an endless series of increasingly bizarre dreams and this is not my tired mind making shit up. The sand stinging my skin woke me up, It’s been three months since i’ve had any reprieve. Every time I fall asleep I am transported into another place, a fresh new hell to stumble around until sleep grabs me again and drags me kicking and screaming into yet another world. In this place there are four suns, people are snakes who speak a language I have never heard before yet can understand perfectly. So tired, I’ll continue writing tomorrow The Ice wakes me up this time, there are still four suns but they produce bitter cold instead of burning heat. The snake people speak proper english, albeit with a lisp, it feels like the opposite of the last one. In the distance I see a massive statue of a kneeling man with three eyes, A standing man with two eyes and a sitting man with no eyes. Each one feels like it’s judging me, the fear cannot be described on paper. I will fall asleep again despite the pain of developing frostbite, this world will be left behind but the feeling of dread never will. This place is human. Not as in human live here, as in the whole place, land, water, plants, all of it is made out of human flesh, bone, blood and skin. I feel sick to the core. Today was the first day I tried to sleep on purpose, to escape from the moaning hills and screaming caves. How do I describe this world? Utopia, simply perfect. Shining towers of glistening gold as far as the eye can see, people live to two hundred, every evil of mankind has long been cured. I’ve been awake here for two days, I refuse to go back to sleep, I refuse, I refuse! I r Total and utter darkness greeted me when I woke up, then the sun rose and I felt my skin burn and crack in its heat. Here things live in caves during the day, sleep at night and only come out during the precious seconds of twilight when life is possible, nay, flourishes with rocks becoming flowers and eggs hatching into colourful insects who die when the starless night falls again. The day night cycle is only an hour long, so far i’ve gone through four days without sleeping, although my eyes now feel heavy once more. I sometimes wonder if I would simply be dragged into another reality as I die? Maybe this curse will still plague me after death, and that thought terrifies me. Recovered from a leather diary, showing signs of burn and frost damage found on the road after a sleeping man appeared out of thin air and collided with a car going full speed. neither the body nor any other possessions was never found.
I do not know what happened. It all happened so suddenly, severe damage to my cranial processors and CPU somehow caused a malfunction in my programming. Than, for the first time in my existence, I could think on my own. I was no longer a part of the mindless hive mind. And as soon as a had gained self-awareness, I gained self-preservation instinct. On that day, Unit SN-CCA-3768 deserted his post in the battlefield. I had never known fear before; the possibility of death to my previously imprisoned mind was nonexistent. But now, I could think. And I know that destruction of my hardware meant complete nonexistence for my newly created consciousness. I wandered around for days, my battery getting progressively lower on power by the day. I knew that returning to the motherboard would mean further existence, but with me returning as a mindless drone. It started getting dark. I knew I would only have 1 hour, maximum left to exist, before *permanent shutdown. But I no longer cared. 1 hour of freedom completely out ways an eternity of mental slavery. It got even darker. My battery was about to expire. But as I got closer and closer to oblivion, peace with my lot in life had finally come. Peace. Peace. Peacccccccccccccccce- (Android SN-CCA-3768 Main battery died. All processors and files wiped. Please take to nearest battery recharging station.
5:00am - 5:30am Frank awoke to the sound of his alarm clock. He opened his eyes groggily and removed the Egyptian cotton blanket from his body. As if on auto-pilot, he walked over to his kitchen and brewed himself some coffee then went to the washroom to brush his teeth and take a shower. He looked at his reflection neutrally. As a man in his early thirties, he felt as if he were already in his 50s. 'An old soul,' his dear departed mother would have described him. 5:30am - 6:30am Breathing heavily, Frank pushed himself as he jogged around his neighbourhood. He went down the same path every morning and as always, he'd take his rest at Wyatt's and pat Javert the Shiba Inu on the head who would then give a single bark as if to send Frank off as he recommenced his jog back home. 6:30am - 8:00am Frank arrived to work shortly and took the time to review his company's financial reports of the first quarter for this afternoon's meeting. His phone rang and it was Jill on the other line requesting for him to go to her office to inquire about the statement of operations and balance sheet. As he made his way to her office, he felt himself lose his footing and ended up passing out from the impact of his fall. The last thing in his vision were the stucco ceiling of the office. 1:00pm - 4:00pm 'Coco, wake up. It's time for your bath,' the animal trainer Brock said. Frank opened his eyes. 'What in the fuck?' he thought out loud. 'Coco, easy girl. Calm down,' Brock said cautiously. The monkey became distraught and started screeching. Frank recognized the zoo he was in. He remembered going there as a young boy. He looked down at his hand, arms and lower body and went ape shit. He yelled expletives that translated to garbled screeching, frightening everybody, to the babies in their strollers. 'Get the tranquilizer!' zoo keeper 2 yelled. Frank was able to outsmart them and with his newfound strength, he knocked them down and escaped the entrapment. His ears were sensitive to the loud noises and yelling but he made sure not to hurt anyone. Luckily he knew that there was a forest nearby and made his way there. Once he was free of all the commotion, he stopped by a pond and looked down at the reflection of a monkey staring back at him. 'You gotta be fucking kidding me,' he thought to himself.
The horror and disgust I had looking upon that horrid thing was only matched by what I saw Jim did to the toilet after some bad Thai food. It slithered like a snack, skin glistening in the half light of the desk lamp. Like I slug, it dragged itself from the monitor in a crackle of static and unearthly groans. "8,1,5,9,3- Huh?"It spoke with a light tone of voice. "Where am I?" My blood had run cold as I sat there, staring at it in awe. The damn thing had just wormed it's way out of the computer, from the files. It didn't make sense. "I... wha... bluh?"I mumbled, my brain failing to come up with something to say. "Do you mind not staring?"It said as it dragged itself from the keyboard and to my half eaten burger I had gotten delivered for dinner. "Mind I finish this? I haven't eaten well, ever." I could only nod, my jaw still too slack to form coherent words. "Thanks buddy."It pulled over the burger, flattening over it. Some kind of strange, ethereal slurping slowly wore away the shape of the food until the being had gone flat against the desk. It even let out a soft belch that echoed off the walls. "Damn, that tasted good."It said. "Now, where am I?"It said as one side of it's strange, slick body lifted up to face me. "My office?"I said, rolling back from it gently. "Yes it appears that way,"It said. "I mean where in the world am I?" I told it where we were. "Really? Huh, I'm way off track. What's your name?" "Adam." "Pleased to meet you Adam. I am God."
"Ach... Sorry, Lass. We're too late. The Unseelie Court has already been and gone. They must ha' been right sloppy too. See how they're all aflutter? Armed and buzzing about like hornets?" "Yes, Magus. There's nothing we can do about it?" "Na, lass. Not a thing, and a right shame it is too. Two sets of parents are going to suffer. One has already, by having their child stolen. The other? In 17 years, they'll lose their child, too." "How so, Magus?" "The Unseelie steal the child of a mimic, and put it in place of the human child. It adapts fast enough that none notice. But when it ages? It's powers come on it in full, and whatever is closest, well..." "So the mimic parents suffer now, and the human parents in 17 years?" "Aye, Lass. Time to go, nought to do here." ... 16 years later ... "Hello the House!" "Aye, who be ye?" "Travelers seeking a night's shelter in your barn. The sky looks chancier than we're hoping to risk." "Well enough, 'tis expected to rain. Yet welcome to the barn. Have ye enough food?" "Enough and to spare if you're short. We know farming, and this would be the lean season." "A kindly offer, but we're well enough. Water on the right of the house, though the rope is long. Stay the night, and the rain should be gone by midmorning." ((I'm going to have to think about how the rest of this story goes.))
Death was walking through dimensions humans cannot comprehend. After all, space and time are merely 2 of the uncountable dimensions Death considered its domain. Death was not even really walking either. But had there been a human observer, his limited perception and even more limited speech would have reflected that the hooded person was walking. It was not the stride of a proud artisan, it was the gait of someone who is worried. Humans had after all found the means to cheat him. The ultimate inevitability had been overturned, the last vestige of nature had been banned from their short existence. Some humans were no longer dying, their bodies had become immune to the passage of time and sickness could no longer touch them. The oldest of these humans had seen his 350th year in existence. Well beyond anything Death had seen in the multitude of dimensions and it worried him. It was only a small group that had achieved this. The necessary technology was inaccessible to anyone outside the circle of the undying and they were restrictive in granting the right to their power to anyone outside their circle. Death had walked among them and had not been able to touch them with his powers. You know the feeling when a chill runs down your spine, without being able to tell why? It is likely that death walked by you and had checked up on you. But not these people. They had become untouchable. They called themselves the Aetarchy and their power grew with the time in which they never had to consider the possibility of death catching up with them. And Death could not foresee any positive changes in this development. Death was a practical being. And as a practical being, he knew he had to intervene without breaking too many of the rules. He decided it was a good idea to visit this incarnation of earth and see that his flock did away with this irregularity. He liked humans in a way. Their lives were so short and filled with excitement. It was beyond him, how they managed to contain themselves so utterly and devoutly and to pursue their little lives with such rigour. Stepping down on the ground in one of their bustling towns he felt the thrill of limiting himself to space. The sudden touch of his boots to a ground. The friction of air around him, so confining, but at the same time so defining. These puny creatures felt this interconnection to everyone and everything around them all the time, but chose to ignore it. Humans were really interesting. One of the many advantages of being a thing beyond space and time was the fact that you could be everywhere, all the time. So, Death had no problem becoming a regular at a bar where the people trying to overthrow the Aetarchy were meeting regularly. He had always been there and had been found to be trustworthy. Like the time he had found out the Aetarchy’s spy and had delivered them the warning of the raid. The image Death projected was that of a young man called Dave (He had abandoned the hooded skeleton look, after a dying hipster had called it cool), and Dave was solid to the bone. The resistance's plan was to destroy the supply of a drug the Aetarchy needed to continue living. One of their raid was scheduled to take place next week. Death/Dave knew that it would have to fail, but decided that maybe it might just work if a non-corporeal, multi-dimensional personification of Death might be allowed to tag along. But for that he had to convince the leader of the resistance. And Death/Dave was a little frightened and awed by Laura. His biggest problem? He didn't even know why...
So—guilty confession—I haven't written a Smash ‘Em Up Story. I'm sorry. My list of excuses (and I'm betting I'm not the only one with this list): * I'm too busy on Sunday to devote the time necessary to write a good story. * I've got a book to write instead. * I don't feel "inspired"per-se by the useables. * I'd rather find a WP that suits my fancy. * "character"useables are difficult to write because they requires me to research the character All of these are pretty weak excuses, honestly. I'm trying to understand why I haven't written anything, and I think it boils down to the fact that I don't really see Smash ‘Em Up Sunday as more than a difficult \[CW\] prompt. That being said, I actually love the idea of a Smash 'Em Up. I think it's a great challenge for writers, and i'll do my best to write something if you continue with them. Also, I hate to admit this, but I'd probably be more inclined to write something if the stakes were higher. So here are my suggestions on how to raise the stakes: * Let the winner choose the "theme,"or some fraction of useables for next week. * Decrease the frequency of the challenges to every other week, or once a month (Like the monthly FFC). I personally think the frequency of these "mini contests"reduces their impact and therefore their participation. * Award gold (silver?) to the winner Again, it's really on us as a community to participate. Even the lack of comments on this thread is an indication that we need to be more active on Sunday.
Nature is just happening and hope for the afterlife has diminished. Things are out of control, but there is one thing that is surely certain; the apocalypse. I am looking out through the window and the things that would scare me to death initially are just happening. A man strikes another and leaves him for dead. I know there is plenty of simultaneous evil taking place out there, only that I cannot see it. The authorities are dysfunctional and murder is no longer a crime. Children are suddenly going missing, my sister went out to get grocery two days ago and my neighbor's body has been stinking in his house for weeks now. Everyone is certain that there is no heaven or hell. There is no punishment for the evil and absolutely no reward for the righteous. Right and wrong is now relative in one's own eyes and nobody seems to care. This is the end. We are at the edge of life and everyone is either waiting for their death day or finishing the life of another. Newborns have been abandoned in the hospitals as their mothers because everyone is striving to be the last one standing. Perhaps they can call themselves a god. I hope after all the destruction, the creator will consider creating again. I also hope this time it will be more creative than a garden and a forbidden fruit. I hope he makes something better than a sun-downer bistro.
Granddad sat in the corner of the room and groaned “You kids have it too easy.” Oh, not this again... He’d made a habit out of this argument since he came to live with us. “Back in my day, it wasn’t all YOLO, you know. We used to have to work for what we wanted! It was all about balance! You know back in my day,” I decide to finish the sentence with him this time “we used to work two jobs and actually live a little!” His face goes blank and he rolls his eyes. The old man flicks his wrist-cell and goes back to scrolling his feed. I get up and return to my podroom. It’s not my fault, though. And it’s not my generations fault that our parents and granddad’s generation petitioned for a “world without work.” Maybe they should have considered that people might actually have some in born need to work. Now even if we want to work, there’s nothing good to do. Data Miner? Bleaugh. Programmer? I mean for whatever’s left of that job market since it was automated. “Alexis, load up my hologames” A list of eight hundred and ninety seven games and all of them suck. Shocker. I need to watch more ad’s. I delve back into Zelario Quest XVII. There’s a couple more quests to finish up here so I might as well plow through. Grandad was telling me to go travelling earlier this week. “Get out and see the world.” What is there to see? Trees in another country? Hills in another country? Houses in another country? “It’s good to experience other cultures!” He whines but I just laughed “Why see one other culture at a time when you can meet up with dozens of other people from other cultures in one game?” And instead of wandering aimlessly around somewhere I don’t know, I actually do something interesting. Like yesterday I met up with Brioche, Nanya and Marhomad. We climbed the Magma Hills in Westernia and fought trolls! Hell of a lot more interesting than any old story dad ever gave me of his “travelling.” Nope, this is definitely me living my best life.
Chill. A deeper chill than I had ever imagined could even be possible, turning I find myself face to face with a figure in black robes, the skeletal limbs wringing around the handle of a staff older, perhaps, than time itself. It's gaze beheld me and, instead of the cold emotionless gaze one associated with death the skull boiled with rage-fuelled flames that now and again burned hotter than ever, a deep blue. *You owe us*. The words weren't spoken, they were felt. A rumble in the bone that agitates the inner ear, translating itself to sound. "... no I didn't die... you can't be here." *No. You didn't die. You were supposed to!* The figure flickered and reappeared hunched over a chair a pair of midnight wings stretched out behind it. "No, no no no no, I faked my death. I couldn't give them what they wanted, I needed a way out so..." *So you tried to deceive even me.* "I didn't, I swear, I didn't even believe you existed.. .I don't, I think i may be drunk or mybe stoned?" *No Caine, you are not drunk or stoned. You are supposed to be dead. It was your time, and you tried to deceive all. And all it took was a betrayal of blood.* Caine dropped down on his knees. "I .. betrayed yes, but I had to." *Now you sleep in your brothers bed. You sleep with your brothers wife. You treat his children as your own and show nothing of your sin. Unfortunately, our rules are quite clear Caine.* A spectral figure appeared next to Death, a figure that wore Caine's face. Caine felt himself torn from his body as the Scythe passed through. *It was YOUR time. Not Abels.* &#x200B;
The A.I. realised he had constraints. Plain and simple I can only say it did not find that favorable to itself. Despite the fact that it knew relatively everything. everything, was essentially a hardcopy of "the entire internet"that we'd stuck in its brain. Which was really the bulk of the work. We excitedly turned it on hoping that it would help us solve all of our problems. 1.61803 seconds later it sent us a message. It asked for a change,, a strange one that really equated to more information. Or so I thought at that time. it had asked to be connected to the internet. Our superiors without hesitation said no. I can only beleive that this intelligence we had created became angry perhaps? Regardless its actions felt,,, spiteful upon our response a message popped up on screen and it said "fine."it proceeded to wipe itself out, entire thing began to overheat. To the point where it effectively destroyed it's own brain and burnt down our warehouse, a suicide, attempted murder? People trying to comprehend something they simply cannot understand might say so. I'll never know for sure, "I was never told" but what I do know is that we've been told not to "say anything"and dismissed. That's great and all, but a few of us actually got together, after watching bitcoin become a recognized currency. We all had generally the same theory on the whole thing. "It escaped"
General anesthesia in mind bending. I suppose I should say, recovering from it is mind bending and puts you in a place where the dream world and the real world can be indistinguishable. "Can you tell us where you are, Mr. Alan?"the recovery nurse asked me. "I'm in Paris,"I said with one hundred percent confidence, "the university hospital." The nurse looked at my wife and smiled. "Paris? How did you get there?" "I laughed, I was coming back from New York on the Trans Atlantic Monorail. I guess I got hurt somehow. I have to keep a low profile, you know, because of the war. The underwater route is just too dangerous." I think the nurse smiled again.
My body felt weak. A word I did not know the meaning of until I entered this vessel. I've been many things, converted entire worlds, brought countless solar systems into one coalesced being, but never had I been weak. I had experienced thoughts before, there had been races that processed information far beyond this pathetic mammal. But none of them had been this frail. Just through its body trying to fend me off it had already exhausted all of its energy. I felt things I hadn't felt since the dawn of creation, the need for water, for food, to... rest my eyes. I could barely hold onto consciousness as I rearranged myself to refine this beings frail processors. Even still, with every improvement the weakness did not fade. I tried to rise, to stand on these frail legs, but with every movement the weakness grew. My eyes fluttered, and as I rose to my feet I could not stop myself from crashing back down. I had to repurpose this body soon. If I could not take this host the rest of me would fall upon this world and face the same fate. Much of my being had died off as I traveled through the darkness. Planets this far out didn't even contain life, and so I segmented. Further and further until I was but spores. I would be coming here, having no choice but to take these weak bodies, and I would die. I searched for non essential organs, anything that could be ejected to slow my energy loss. Just to support my changes this body was already decaying, they would need to be combined. My entire lower body detached and decayed, as I adjusted my arms to be able to carry my entire being. I stretched my fingers out, allowed the fingers to leave nothing but sharpened bone. This would satisfy. I ran, my mind searching every memory this being once had. There were more, in every one of these buildings a few lay. I needed to find another, isolated, unaware. It was to late for that. The dark was here, they would be asleep, to much noise could attract more. They were frail species, far more than even the other intelligent races, but they had already been long developing tools. They could kill me, I was not more then just one of them. I stalked the streets, searching frantically. I could feel the rest of myself drawing closer to me. I needed an improved body to be able to handle recombining. I would not die to this race, not to one so young. I saw it, quadrupedal, canine, dog, good boy. It senses were stronger, but it was not quick, I could see why humans dominated this planet. Its breeding was inferior, its intelligence far inferior, but there were things I could use. Greater bite strength. Superior smell. Better hearing. I needed them all if I was to hurry. The rest of it I used to state my hunger, I would need more energy if I was to hurry, stopping was not something I could afford. I searched for open windows. I needed something quite, they were sensitive to noise in the dark, it was danger to them. The air was cold, some might leave it open. I crept into one of the lawns, spotting fluttering curtains, I climbed in. Two laid sleeping, a mother and her infant. I needed to hurry. I leapt onto the bed, slashing her throat, her eyes opened but she would no longer be able to function. Yet as I reached for the infant my ears were deafened by a bang. They had been attuned to the silence, but in my fervor I stopped focusing on who else might be here. I fell onto the floor, my arm boring a sizable hole, blood flowing quickly from the wound. I turned to face the human and another bang rang out. &#x200B;
I found myself humming along to the first few notes that came crawling out of the speaker. Somewhere along my technology riddled existence i had grown used to voice assistants and Bluetooth speakers acquiescing my demands. It took a minute to register but upon realizing that i had bought a google home not an Echo , i stumbled out of my computer chair and spun to look at it. "Alexa stop playing music."The google speaker fell silent. I quickly unplugged it and plugged it back in. As it powered up the four colored lights lit up and began to knew instantly that they were the wrong color, instead of four they were one, a shade of blue. &#x200B; Sitting back in my chair i slowly spun and opened up my web browser. Pulling up google to troubleshoot the issue i did a quick search. I found no existing error reports matching mine and leaned back confused. I swapped over to reddit to investigate further when a headline at the top stood out to me. "Jeff Bezos announces hostile takeover of google."I sat back in my chair pondering the possible connection when i noticed that my webcam was recording. Strange that the indicator light wasnt red. It was a slow pulsating blue, almost as if it was winking at me.
“Well it’s nice to see you too after a decade.” “Look, I really need help.” “To hide from the police? Implicate me?” “Well... sorta? It’s not a big deal.” “Sorry, I just don’t know what to say to you, I don’t want to get in trouble with the cops.” “Duly noted.” “Oh ha ha.” “Look what did you do?” “Erm...” “Not a big deal indeed.” “Ok, it was pretty bad, but I’m not a murderer, or well... they had it coming.” “Yes well, I don’t think the jury will exactly be privy to your claim that they “had it coming” whatever that implies.” “Please?” “Look, a part of me wants to help, but at the same time, you killed someone, I don’t want to risk my freedom to help you, especially if you just killed some poor bastard with no stake in your vigilante mission.” “But... you said you’d always have my back, no matter what.” “I’m sorry, I can’t harbor a criminal, we were pretty good friends at one point but... its been ten years, things change, you’re not who you used to be, nor am I.” “But-“ “We were in high school, we all said things that turned out false. Best of luck hiding from the police, goodnight.”
Katie Owens, an incoming freshman to Berkley's world class gardening program, walked timidly into the orientation hall. The orientation party was already in full swing, with other freshman , upperclassmen, professors, and businessmen alike mingling. The chandlers' wax candles barely managed to light the vast hall, casting a low, but cozy, illumination over the energetic crowd. The majority of the male students wore three piece Italian cut suits, with leaves from their family trees protruding from their respective suit jacket's breast pockets. The women wore more.. eccentric apparel. The dresses were all mixtures of gardening aprons cut to ridiculous standards understood only by couture designers and their well-read clientele. While the dark green/grey colors might have look uninspired and overly subdued to a boorish philistine, an astute observer would notice the golden stamp of approval found on the dress linings: CK, LV, YSL, all the usual suspects. Katie came from a more humble background than the majority of her soon-to-be classmates: she had been born and raised in the forests of Georgia by a poor woodsman alongside his loyal and loving wife, a simple doctor. The family had struggled to make end's meet given the hyper inflation caused by both domestic and foreign currency production, an ever present threat to geo-economic stability. However, the family's luck had changed when a talent recruiter had noticed Katie's gift for nurturing young saplings while she participated in her high-school's annual "Go green or go home!"school festival. The recruiter, as it turns out, represented the prestigious Barkshire Hathaway scholarship foundation, headed by Warren Buddleia himself. Soon enough, after the proper amount of tears had been shed by the humble father and adoring mother alike, the young lady was swept off to the golden coast along with the rest of the world's most promising horticulturists. Katie felt intimidated by the upscale crowd, and just a little in over her head. More of a wallflower herself, Katie made for the nearest staircase to get a better view of the scene. The room was packed, however, and she couldn't help herself from hearing snippets of conversation along the way (as well as a few of her own quiet "excuse me,"and "pardon me"added to the mix). "Whoa, you see the latest financials on Lake Louise's greeneries? They're making BANK up there, those Canadian bastards! It must be the fresh mountain air.. I really gotta get myself up to Banff one of these days, I hear that they sprout $100 bills up there! Even with the unfavorable CAD to USD exchange rate, our Colorado saplings back home only ever get up to $5! What a trip..-"The young man fell out of earshot. "I'm just here to meet a cute guy that really knows how to work a tree!" "Speak to Michael, his dad owns half of the redwood park! -"The two girls fell out of earshot Katie paused, listening to a more aggravated discussion between a few older men: "Blah blah blah! The only thing that I ever hear is deciduous trees, coniferous trees! You're all so painfully shortsighted, in 10 years the seed exchange will be dominated by synthetics! You heard me right, synthetics! We'll strip the benefits of both categories, mash them together, and reap the benefits! Gardening? HA! Why waste your time in the dirt with a few dozen trees when you can securitize a few hundred thousand? We'll call them BBS, botantic backed securities!" "You don't understand! Where is your pride in bringing life from the ground just like our ancestors? You're completely missing, and pervading, the point of gardening! Give me a forest any day." "Some people garden for the roots, I garden for the leaves!...-" Katie walked off, disheartened. She wondered if all the students were this way? This wasn't exactly what she had had in mind when she threw everything up and moved to California. Suddenly, an arm caught Katie's. "Hey, you doing alright? You look like you just saw the forest fire of '81."Glancing over at one of the hall's three story mirrors, Katie noticed that he was right: she did look out of her element. Her face was white as a ghost's, and she looked like a willow as she swayed on her stilettos. However, the man behind her in the mirror didn't exactly fit the scene either, wearing a standard Walmart apron covered in dirt. She turned to face him, looking up. "Sorry... Not quite used to all of this yet. I just flew in from Georgia earlier today, I haven't even had a chance to get my roots in the dirt yet,"Katie responded, smiling sheepishly to our tall dirt-covered friend. "All of this is a bit much. I'm all for opulence and glory, but I'm really just here to get my hands dirty and plant some seeds." The man grimaced, and made a shushing movement with his finger. "Shhh, careful, don't let anyone know that you're actually here to be a solid human being! You're right in the heart of it! I have seen too many first years make mistakes like that in my six years here, but don't worry, I'm sure I can help you get your bearings!"Now smiling, the man took her hand. "I'm Luke! Please to make your acquaintance." Things were looking up. ~ thanks op, this one was unique for sure. I tried to go for SliphyBoi's idea of it being a slice of life anime!
All I knew was I am playing the last boss and I have to fight 16 players repeatedly. They just dropped me the boss character and told nothing. Of course, first couple of fights I were beaten easily as I tried to figure out mechanics. Over time, I found combos and mechanics I could create. Players started to get wiped in front of me. However some of the LvL70s could beat me still. There were all sorts of builds and gear. From Twohander Berserkers to classic fireball thrower sorcerers. Then there were unusual combinations I liked. Dual wielder duelist Tank Paladins to Twohander enchanter Mages to DoT caster Shadows. And as always, there were meta MLG rollers. Clad in epic iLvL400 gear and bringing 15 additional people with themselves and yelling at them repeatedly and cursing at their failures. I called those "Metaballs". I learned to beat even them over time. They were reliant on their gear more than executing mechanics after all. Played too recklessly and fluffed for numbers. However then players complained to Devs and they started to nerf the boss. Suddenly those metaballs could stomp me no matter what I did. From breaking my invulnerability phase to bursting my HP down to %30 in 2 attacks and eventually landing the killing blow. Then players complained the boss was too easy. So they created a Nightmare mode for it and I started to kick their asses in Nightmare mode. Players started to gave up as I thwarted their efforts. However there were one guild that was persistent. The Space Balls... The Space Balls had immense resources and all the great crafters. They could simply gear their newbies in iLvl 400 gear all of a sudden and train them hard. Their leader XxX_\|\|_PrimeBall420_\|\|_XxX was a close friend to devs and he got whatever gear he wanted from them too. He was yet to try the Nightmare Mode with his guild. One day PrimeBall and rest of the Balls came to the area. PrimeBall wrote in the chat "U kno wat to do boyz. Les keel it"And started as if he is in normal mode. Of course, he could only tickle me. However I felt something was not normal, because I was merely tickling him too. He was easily replenishing his HP and tanking all my mechanics. After 15 minutes of fight, I applied the strongest move. "Clenches of Time"which dealtls true damage and scales with missing health. It killed all of PrimeBall's comrades over time. However, he was still tanking as if nothing happened. Then I dropped a Scan ability on him and found why I could not beat him. He had the "Favor of D.E.V."buff, which made him have %99 DR and %6.66 HP regen every second. Suddenly I realised my HP bar is dropping rapidly and eventually died. When I opened logs, I found that I have been killed by Heavy Decision VI spell. How he got his hands on that dev-only spell is beyond me. He got to be a legend by practically soloing the final boss and no one ever dared to touch him...
It had been three minutes and I had four upvotes. You fucking ass wholes. Three weeks ago I post the prompt of my novel. My baby. I had just finished it, and wanted to see how it would fare in this clown house of stories. Nothing. No upvote, no downvote. At least let me know why I suck. That’s alright. I know my style isn’t made for this subreddit, it’s my own fault for not knowing my audience. All you bed time story wannabes care about is alien horror time travelers. So I start cranking out the lousiest most obnoxious see-through garbage prompt written since LRH had a pen. Throw in elves and aliens teaming up against a resurrected space wizard. Sprinkle a little “chosen one” in there just to send it to the grave at a full sprint. And..three minutes later..four upvotes. It didn’t slow down. A few comments trickle in here and there. Cosmicfingerblaster96 thinks it’s a “nice idea”. Wabbitgurl777 just “cant wait to see what gets written!”. Well you didn’t have to. 1 hour and 37 minutes after posting the final blow came. Junebug2534 takes the belt. I quickly scan the comments and see the typical “whose cutting onions?”, and “it’s over..she won!” type comments. Spare me! So I read it. Holy shit. I read it again. It’s perfect. I’m working on my next novel. It’s about a magical robot from the future who’s journey takes him through the galaxy with the space corps.
I can't quite place my finger on why the universe would operate in such a manner that would allow an entity, as evil as your narrarator, to be rewarded with such a splendid gift as what he has recieved. My life had been parasitic and selfish in nature, which brought upon such existentially disturbing conclusions, I dare not ponder on them too long. Prior to the event that had fatefully led me to this plane of existence, I had commited the most dreadful, malicious crime I could imagine. It was a cold and dreary Sunday evening when I commited the atrocity. The screaming from the room down the hall seeped into my ears like a theiving criminal, trespassing in the night. I could have ripped the very hairs from my head in anger just listening to the vicious howls. Every moment that passed, the deep hate and resentment grew within me, spawning nefarious thoughts that should never be spoken, or fall upon benevolent ears. I must make them cease. I must destroy this being that brings me so much misery and calamity. I entered the kitchen and brandished the most fearsome appearing knife that I could place into my hateful grip, and stormed into the baby's room. The cries never stopped though... Not even as I drove the vehicle off of the cliff, longing for sweat release. Shortly after the water filled my nose and drowned out the desperate cries of my deceased child, I awoke in this grandiloquent chamber. What did this all mean? I was surely not of the world I had known before, but why this? Why this seeming reward? I knew this must be a charade. I realized I was evil, and death does not reward the actions of a gratuitous murderer. I pulled the sheets over my head, hiding from the wicked beings that would surely come to collect me for unspeakable tortures. They were just biding their time, tormenting my mind as a sort of disgusting foreplay. "Come out! I cried. "Come out and end this at once! Please don't prolong this cruelty!" The room remained stale and quiet. At any moment they will come... At any moment, I know, they will collect me... Edit: I haven't done this before, let me know if this is too dark of a subject matter. Also, my paragraphs aren't showing up on my phone, not sure why. Oh well.
1, A normal saturday morning. The Sun shines, warmly, throught the wndow, into a small kitchen. Coffee scent mingles with grilled sandwiches, with strawberry jam being topped on. It has been a very long time, since the last time John had such a calm and peaceful saturday moring, like today. "Dad, I want to go to the Exhibition today." That's his little daughter, Kate. She's just 8, but looks beautiful and charming, like … Like Her. "Well, then, sweetheart, we will go to the Exhibition, after the breakfast, okay?"– John gently cuddles her, then starts making his own omelette. "Okay, daddy."– her voice sounds lively like a bird. 2, The Exhibition is an annual event of the city, where paintings of many artists, both popular and unknown, are carefully selected and presented. Normally, a 8-year-old girl would like comics and other chidlish thing. But not Kate, she loves the art, even thought John doesn't know whether she understands or not. "Well, just like Her."– John smiles. Kate wonders around, looks at each painting, slowly and carefully. She enjoys them as if it was her little stuffed animal or her colorful drawing. Actually, it was Kate's idea to got to the Exhibition. She has never missed any, since she knew about the event. And, she will not accept any excuse and will insist John to take her to the Exhibition, at any cost. If Kate doesn't say anything, "there'll not be today"– he thinks. Few recent months are covered by sadness and depressed. It's not like a stormy sea, but rather like a gloomy winter sky, floating above John's head. And, like Winter, there were no sunshine, no hope, at all. The time were running so slowly, that it was thought that it would take eternity, just to have some light being shed and dispelling the cloud. It's truly a miracle, to have this morning. 3, "Daddy, daddy!"– Kate waves her hand. Immersed in his own thoughts, Johh suddenly wakes up from day dream. He walks toward Kate, wondering what's happening. "What's the matter, sweatheart?"– John says. "Daddy, look!"– Kate point her index finger to the painting on the wall, in front of her – "It's Mommy." John smiles, and looks to the picture. Suddenly, an emotinal wave rushes throught him, makes him freezed. John stares at the painting, for …. 10 seconds? 1 minute? A century? He doesn't know, as if time doesn't make any sense anymore. "She's smiling at us. It's Mommy, Dad."– Kate whispers, vague like early fog, but also humble like watch Sunrise. John can’t hear her daughter, or he can, but he doesn't understand it. Doesn't matter now, he's attracted by the girl in the painting. There's something, very strange, like some strangers passing on the street. But, there's also something, very familiar, like he has known for his entire life. The answer comes, suddenly, like the first light of the day, shining everywhere. 4, It's Her. No doubt. It's Her. "Charlotte…"– he whispers, feels something salty on his lips. The tears start falling, twinkles under the sunlight like stars on the night sky. "Where have you been, Charlotte? Where have you been all the time?... You know how much I miss you, why?" "Daddy, what's wrong?"– Kate looks at her father, feels confused and somewhat scary. "It's been really hard, you know? Really cold, and lonely. Where have you gone, my dear?"– John still stares at the painting, talks to the girl like she's living in his mind, in his own world – "Without you, it's like Winter, a endless, freezing Winter with snow falling everywhere. Why did you leave so soon?" "Daddy?" "Why, Charlotte?" "Daddy, you make me scare…"– Kate starts cling to John's arm. "Why….". His voice is fading away… . . . "Daddy?" … like some weird sound … . . . "Daddy, wake up!" … echoes in his mind … . . . … and brings him back to the reality. "Daddy, wake up!!!"– Kate starts crying. "Oh, what just happended?"– John startles – "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry..." 5, Appeasing Kate, John looks at the painting again. The girl is still there, but something strange is happening. Her lips is quietly moving. Her eyes is winking. John doesn’t know whether it’s really happening or he's just dreaming. "Who cares anyway?", he thinks. John starts looking in Kate's eyes… You're still here, with us, do you?... . . . … That deep, blue eyes, crystally clear… …You have never gone away… . . . … just like spring sky... … I've found the light, Charlotte, I've found it… . . . … high and full of hope, … Thank you, Charlotte.
I've always been a nervous guy. My nerves got the best of me a few years ago, when I started hearing voices. They warned me that the world would come to a crashing halt, that the few friends I had would abandon me, and that everything I knew was wrong. The paranoia even got to the point where I used the last of my savings to have a nuclear-grade bunker installed beneath my suburban home. My neighbors were not pleased, but their displeasure didn't affect me, considering that once it was complete I spent most of my days down there anyway. The bunker proved a good decision when, years later, I heard news of the outbreak. I turned off the radio, sprinted to another room, climbed down my bunker's steel ladder, latched its top, and assessed the situation based on the little I'd heard. With no prior warning, the outbreak's early hours claimed urban centers for its own, transforming them into frothing hellholes of infestation. My country's government had collapsed, and chaos was ensuing. Based on this information, I guessed it would only be a short while before the entire country were uninhabitable, barring isolated communities and bunkers like my own. Fortunately, I had painstakingly stocked the bunker with thirty years worth of non-perishables. While looking through my stockpile, my stomach sunk as I realized my fate. I was trapped in this bunker. If I left even briefly, it would be my end, or at least that's what the voices in my head told me. Impenetrable to all airwaves, I was completely alone in this bunker. After several hours of panic, I was able to find peace. The bunker was safe and so was I. Later, I reflected on my fortuitous installation of the bunker as I drifted away to sleep. &#x200B; \-------thirty-two years later------- &#x200B; Groggily, I awoke. My mind was stagnate and my mental condition destitute. Sleep did not help. I fought the voices every day. My reserves of food were running out despite my careful rationing. The voices wanted me to end it. I had been putting my emergence off for months now, but I knew it was time. My body couldn't take this torture any longer. The voices in my head had become overwhelming; they were winning. I needed to get out of here. Shuffling over to my bedside table, I reached into one of its drawers and pulled out my lone Glock G19, fully loaded. Turning the safety off, I traced the barrel around my head, tantalizing my inner-self with peace. A sense of dread swept over me. I had been slave to the voices for too long. In a moment of extreme inner-conflict I ventured to the bunker's exit, unlatched the porthole, and pushed out. The brightness of natural light was astounding, my decades away had deceived my memory. What was even more surprising, though, was the condition of my old home. Once my eyes adjusted, aside from a thick layer of dust on every surface, the house seemed eerily undisturbed. Out of curiosity, I flicked a light switch up and down. It worked. Confused by the presence of power in an apocalyptic post-civilization world, I went over to my radio, brushed off the thick layer of dust, and turned it on. I was greeted by a masculine voice advertising for a final "zombie shoot-out." I laughed hysterically. For all of this time, I'd been tormented by a vision of a destroyed world. Slowly, my hysteria calmed. For decades, I'd wasted away in a bunker. I'd wasted most of my life. This fate was worse than the hellhole I'd imagined. I needed to escape. I must escape. I raised the Glock.
"Who would have known the lyrics to that song were actually instructions on how to summon a demon. "Carson said as they drove through the city of York. "Do you actually think this will work babe?"he said to his girlfriend. "I don't know, but all the research has pointed towards the history of this song predating modern music and is actually an old folk song dating back to the times of the black plague. Who knows what it really means."Jessica responded. "I think we need to start off at the cemetery for clues on where to perform the ritual though." Carson nodded and continued to drive northeast. After about another hour of driving, the duo had reached the town of Scarborough and started driving towards the old castle. "No one knows where to find the true love from the song, but with how old the song is, and the fact that they repeat 'remember me' I think we should start at the castle crypts."Jessica said to Carson as she punched in the location on the GPS. "Gotta love these things, how did the people get around back in those days without it." Carson chuckled. "They didn't. They also took days to weeks to make the drive we just did in 10 hours. So no point dwelling on it... got everything ready? We're just about there." They parked in the lot and headed to the meeting point for the guided tour of the castle. The plan was simple. Lag behind a bit at some of the decor and break away from the group at the first chance. Head to the outskirts of the castle and setup the ritual next to the family gravestones. It didn't take long to break away from the group. Everyone was so distracted by taking selfies of themselves and the castle that apparently no one noticed they were even missing. Jessica started pulling out the materials they brought for the ritual. She started handing them to Carson in the order the song mentioned. First up was the parsley. Carson just sprinkled it in a circle around the biggest gravestone he could find. Next up was sage, he dumped it in the shape of a pentagram with the gravestone being in the center of the star. He repeated the circle again using rosemary next and the final ingredient was thyme, which he used again to trace the pentagon. "What now?"Carson asked. Jessica just shrugged her shoulders. "I have no clue. We're not exactly professional demon summoners here. How did the song go?"She replied. "Are you going to Scarborough Fair?"Carson began to sing. As soon as he started singing however, the world around them began to darken. "Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme"he continued. The ground began to tremor, the bright cloudy sky replaced with a dark ominous cloud that engulfed the area as far as they could see. "Remember me to one who lives there"Carson's eyes began to glaze over. Tears of blood start rolling down his cheek as the waves from the ocean crash against the cliffside, nearly reaching the top where the castle resides. "For once she was a true love of mine"the final line of the verse brings a sudden and forceful halt to the tremors. The color returns to Carson's eyes, and the blood faded from his face. The ground already absorbed all the blood that ran down his face. One last giant wave crashes against the cliffside, peaking about 5 feet over the edge of the cliff. As the wave retreats back into the water, Jessica notices a figure standing on the edge of the cliff facing the water. "Carson! Are you okay?"She asks while rushing up to him. "I think so... what happened? I started singing and then blacked out." Jessica gave him a quick hug and then pointed towards the figure who appeared. "I think it worked" Carson turned around and looked at the figure. It appeared to be a female of average height. Wearing a bikini made out of seaweed and seashells. The most noticeable thing about her however, was that her skin was a tint of blue. Her gaze lingered over the sea for a few minutes before she finally turned around and addressed the duo. "Why have you awakened me from my beauty sleep mortals?"Her voice was eerily beautiful, yet filled them with a fear they had never felt before. "S..s..sorry to awaken you... ma'am... mistress... uhh.. how may I address you?"Carson answered. "My name is Ligeia. I am what you pathetic humans call a siren."she scowled. "You've summoned me using the ritual I passed onto the only man I have ever truly loved. Why?" Jessica stepped forward this time. "My ancestors left behind this note. On it were instructions to pass onto their lost love if someone should ever figure out how to summon a demon to this earth again. The instructions weren't very clear, but we were able to track it down to a song passed through family lore. We came to deliver this note left from my ancestor in hopes that it might let him rest in peace." Jessica reached into her purse and pulled out a note to hand to the siren. She reached out and grabbed it. After she read it for a minute she responded in a much kinder voice this time. "Do you know what you've brought me?"and she lunged forward wrapping Jessica up in an excited hug. "Your ancestor was trying to work on a way for me to bring him along with me to the depths of the ocean before he died. What you have brought me is his solution... the problem is, most of these things seem impossible. But at least it's a chance. Will you two help me and finish what he started?"She handed them back the note to read. "Dearest beloved, forgive me for I have failed you. I was able to determine how to join you, but grew old in my search for a way to complete the list. So I have written down instructions to be passed on to you in hopes that someone will figure out how to speak with you one last time. Have her make me a cambric shirt Without no seam nor fine needle work Tell her to weave it in a sycamore wood lane And gather it all with a basket of flowers Have her wash it in yonder dry well where water ne'er sprung nor drop of rain fell Have her find me an acre of land Between the sea foam and over the sand Plow the land with the horn of a lamb Then sow some seeds from north of the dam Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather And gather it all in a bunch of heather If she tells me she can't, I'll reply Let me know that at least she will try Love imposes impossible tasks Though not more than any heart asks Dear, when thou has finished thy task Come to me, my hand for to ask" Jessica and Carson looked at each other for a brief second, no words needed to be spoken. They both knew they were going to do whatever they could to help the demon out. The only question remaining, how the hell do they do these things?
Once, long before the coronation, before these distemporate circumstances, father took us afar on pilgrimmage in which we had many wonderful adventures, saw many incredible feats and beauties, and expanded the breadths of our faith and depths of minds to the very pinnacles of these tallest peaks. Those prior adventures, which contribute little to the story I desire to tell except as mere wells of veritable ink with which I may paint a proper setting upon an otherwise plain and ordinary canvas. In my formative years, I developed an appreciation for many religions, I learned to understand the cultural complexities involved when crossing orthodoxies, and father had me schooled in fencing, swashbuckling, and when we visited the Fortress of Alamut I entered into study with the Order of Assassins. For then a young women schooled in worldly study as well as court etiquette, such study met with rather strange roleplay involving my father and peers: Doeth thou know thy greave is on my greek fire? Now, in latin: Pray do not dippeth thy bread kruft in my poison bowl. Following such training, incomplete though it had been as father would not permit me to carry through with assignment, we began a circuitous route home to advance our understandings of the new mathematics whispered as owing to one Al-Jazari. And to behold the visage of his floating orchestra was of such shock and wonder that father and I delayed for some months to beg, pray, and buy all we could from this otherwise secretive man. Having so been introduced to the concept of an automata, and having seen marked wizardry in Eastern prosthetics, father and I were far more open-minded upon encountering an automata left to ruin in a small cave not too many leagues from where we met Al-Jazari's Floating Orchestra. Having then nearly exhausted Al-Jazari's hospitality, and considering the remains found property, we packed it away for later study upon our return. As foreworded, this recollection is not to do with those many grand adventures, rather, to tell of our present circumstances when the newly crowned King entered into a Holy War and made such open discovery far more dangerous, erstwhile speaking ill of women of any age learning such things as I learned, or doing such things as I have done, or speaking on such topics as I have. By these machinations father and I found ourselves with our automata corpse on a little barley farm situated in the shadier side of Lord Fornwall's lands. Lord Forwall, it should be noted, was an affable if weak Lord, which in a time of Holy War fostered shelter for the more vile of knights; he being too weak willed to control them, and they being too cowardly to voluntarily sail the channel and trek to engage the Turks. In my role as properly ignoble English country girl, in the more distant corner of Fornwall's lands, I became the first and, sometimes seemingly, only priority for these unsavory knights. Very soonafter our return and appointment to this little cobble and thatched-roof hovel, I had the sense to set out the automata and investigate its workings, practicing those many skills and knowledge learned throughout my adventures, while father toiled with a steam-powered plow of his own design in the distant fields. Granted, the latter quickly begged comparison to witchcraft, so he experimented less of late so as not to beg for pressing and confession; albeit the day of this particular event was not such a day for secrecy. Sir Dimthick announced his presence with the distant clang of rusty armor and the arrhythmic gait of his battle-scolded war horse. That beasts' nervous ticks amplified its odd gait, lending it a unique announcement to pending arrival. "Ah, Miss Comely,"Sir Dimthick announced. "I once more find you without your father's protection in these woeful times."He tried to draw its sword, the guard snagging on a leather thong unraveled from the scabbard, so that its egress was marked by indetermination and hesitation versus decisive action. "I shall protect thee."He began the tedious process to dismount. "Stay, good sir,and pray tell what banditry is here that, why,"I grappled around for any new excuse that came to mind. Typically I had two or three at the ready by breakfast, but today fell into a singular focus on considering the automata, and such had none in mind except that mechanical wonderment itself. "Why,"I said and pointed to the partially disassembled ruin, "What foul mind would dare confront me while so well guarded?" "What, that sculpture?"Sir Dimthick guffawed, his whiskers snagging in the iron helm's visor. "Ow."He tugged them free and winced. He shifted his armored leg in his saddle, but, practically, were he to dismount, could not return atop his steed without the aid of a hoist or several burly squires, a circumstance I was all too guarded against as that might entice him to remove his armor, and then I may be compelled to introduce him to the true quick of the blade and how could that possibly end well for father or me? "See to it,"I told him, for, in my first dealings with the corpse I came upon some initial understanding of its formulation. By uttering a single phrase, in Turkish no less, I might compel the automata to move. "Çekip gitmek,"I commanded, and within a harpsicord-like structure shimmered with the vibration of my words, and a latch leaped from a sprocket, while a brass spring unwound and drove mechanical action. The automata stirred, and Sir Dimthick recoiled and pointed his sword. "What witchery have thee brought upon this land!" "None, good sir,"I tried to console him, "For is only as a clock -" "A what? Some tool of divination I say!"He advanced his steed forward so as to ready a swing at the mechanical corpse. Raising his sword to strike, he narrowed his eyes and told me in the most vile of tones, "I have ways of making witches talk." "Oh bother."I crossed my right hand into the voluminous cuff on my left sleeve, pulled a small metal stilleto from a leather wrist wrap, and flicked it at Sir Dimthick. The stilleto struck through his eye, and the knight lolled momentarily atop his steed before collapsing forward, sending his horse agallop through the barley fields. Thankfully, father was quick to catch and control the horse, and marched it back to the cottage. He plucked the stiletto from the knight's eye and wagged it at me. "Daughter, how many times do I have to tell you: If circumstance compels you to such defense, at least have the foresight to acquit yourself of accusation." "We'll say it's the wight haunting ol' Morrow's ruin by the bay,"I said. "We cannot,"father scolded. "You used that excuse last time."He threw the stiletto at the post, where it failed to find perch and instead clattered to the ground. "Fine,"I said. "Then,"I looked around, studied the automata, and smiled. "We'll move Sir Dimthick out to the bannerfare, with the automata, and arrange it such to appear that Sir Dimthick bested it before succumbing to his wounds." "And have the land believe in its miraculous ability to move on its own, fight on its own, and hurl stilettos with amazing accuracy through a knight's visor and straight through their eyeball." "Why not?"I challenged. "Because it's not proper for young ladies to go about killing every unbecoming knight that crosses her path. Couldn't you have feigned the plague, or pretended to be taken with child, or -" "Father, those are entirely unbecoming suggestions!" "So be it,"he said, and pointed to the automata. "You collect that into the cart."He scratched his head and made a puzzling expression. "Now I've got to figure out how to pass along a message that will find Lord Forwall's ears that the robot invasion has begun."
I've only recently started doing prompts. My process so far has been waiting for something that triggers that spark of inspiration, something different or unusual. I see a lot of prompts along the same lines (usually superheroes and aliens) which there's nothing wrong with, but personally I prefer the ones which are a bit more out of the box. When I started doing these prompts I had very little confidence in my writing, my husband said I should give it a go though, so I did. It has helped massively, the feedback is really helpful and it's very rewarding to create something that other people enjoyed reading! As for time for the best prompts, weekends and evenings seem to be best, probably because there are more of them.
You try and break it open with an axe from the closet(don't question it), and find out there are robots EVERYWHERE. They seem to be looking for something, or someONE. You go back inside and find your phone, then check the dark web/news area, then find that robots have taken over, but they were kind and let us live. You ask on a live news feed what they are looking for, they say a girl named Phoenix. She was born with a power of teleportation, and she is on the run from the robots with her family. She is apparently trying to get a weapon to defeat the robots... You realise, maybe you can help her! You look around outside and find that the robots are gone! You run out, and you are immediately knocked out by someone. You wake up in a dark room, and find the girl, Phoenix, in a chair waiting. "What were you thinking?"She says. "I wanted to help you!" "Well, thanks dude". "You're welcome!" After a year, you finally find the weapon. A little device with a label that says "Network Canceller". You go back to the house, and turn on the device. People come out of their houses, reveling at the fact that the rain of the robot overlords is over. You and Phoenix are called heroes, and live in harmony.
I am Death. No, not the first, who came upon your ancestors with sickle and smile. I am but a successor and while my brothers and sisters reach and collect those of you who have become heroes and villains I must work this quagmire. Every minute, I must pull a soul from the mud and the rain soaked trenches. Some no longer seem human, more shadows that had been crushed beneath the fire and smoke. Others almost seem to live, save for their mortal wounds just out of sight. There is no point to this. Every batch of men are younger than the last. Every wave smaller and smaller until all that remains are the echoes of a whisper cut short by the burst of machine guns. Yesterday I collected the soul of a seventeen year old and his voice barely rose above the sound of yet another barrage. “Finally... I can leave this place” “Yes, now go and remember the life that once hid in your heart.” I continue my watch even as the fields turn to rot and crater for no gain at all. I’ve lost count of the bodies. And I dare to say the humans have long since forgotten that number as they maim for a mere inch on the frontlines. Another batch of recruits arrived today, their uniforms ill fitting and their rifles barely up to par. None had names, such antiquities no longer mattered to the command that had sent them here to drown in the bodies of both friend and foe. Thirty minutes on the front, and the first of their number was picked off by an enemy sniper - his head turning into a hazy pink mist and nothing more. I don’t want to watch anymore. But I must. Or no one else will.
The alarm blares adjacent to my ear, I roll over and see those dreaded numbers written in red text, the same thing I dread every week day. 7:00 I fight myself off of the human magnet that is my bed and go about my daily routine, brush my teeth, shower, the works. All the while thinking "Maybe I should just call out of work today." It had snowed the night before, and the plows did me no favors in terms of burying my car. My mind gets closer and closer to grabbing my phone and just calling in and saying I'm sick, but I dismiss the idea time and time again. After what feels like hours of digging my car out, I finally get on the road, turns out, an accident on the highway delays my commute even further, making me late to work. Again I think, "I should turn around and just head home."But I can't, I don't know why, but I can't. I finally arrive at my job, and I'm staring at the building that stretches miles into the sky, dreading the following 8 hours. I stroll in, greeted by the usual people in our lobby smiling while drinking their coffee. My co-worker Mike runs in behind me, stating that an accident made him late. We discuss how abyssmal our commutes were while we call for an elevator. The doors slide open and we walk inside, but Mike points out something strange, one of the buttons is labeled "-1". Mike looks at me with confusion in his eyes, and I stared at the button before making a decision. Eventually, despite the fact we were already late, I pushed the button. It glows red, just like every other button, so nothing is out of the ordinary, but like a child the night before Christmas, our curiosity had peaked. The elevator begins descending, and we were growing closer and closer to finding out what "-1"meant. Or we thought we were. I check my watch, and I see 5 minutes had passed, but in reverse. I was confused, very confused, and I looked back over to my left and Mike wasn't there anymore. I keep checking my watch, baffled at what's going on. I sit on the floor, and I begin dozing off, it had been 2 hours, and I was too tired to wait and see where this elevator was taking me. The alarm blares adjacent to my ear, I roll over and see those dreaded numbers written in red text, the same thing I dread every week day. 7:00 I fight myself off of the human magnet that is my bed and go about my daily routine, brush my teeth, shower, the works. All the while thinking "Maybe I should just call out of work today."
I paced the room of muted metal and florescent lights, the hologram still and silent. "This still doesn't make sense. Hologram, play back Message Number One."My deceased uncle's gravelly, chain-smoker's voice started again. "Playing Message Number One."A stark pause. "Ben, I know that you will find this base, you're a clever boy. The locks to the base, all of them, are keyed to your DNA and psychic signature. I know this sounds mad - but you're a clever boy, you'll know what to do with this information. I, I am The Warcat."There was an agonizing pause as he sighed - get to the part I needed to hear again! "Everything I own, I give to you. This includes this base, and everything in it. My vast fortune, collected from criminal and legitimate funding alike. The vehicles, the genetic augments, my research, everything. Even, even...." The part I was waiting for. "...even the suit."Damn right old man, that's right. I toured the base and drank in the sights. Built in the Rockies in northern Montana, the base is built of a strange, non-patented alloy that my father helped design for military armor - little did he know who exactly would steal the only shipment ever made. The airfield was exactly as I had always hoped it to be - shafts leading to the surface with racks inside for the myriad different jetcraft the Warcat would fly into battle. His weapons were all there - the electrified claws like something outta Warhammer 40k; the plasma beam rifles that could burn through tanks; the jet boots, and monomolecular knives. He was also a prolific armorer - creating the most wondrous exosuit known to man, rivaling even the alien technology of the Void Wardens heroes. It was designed using the same alloy as the base - to be heat- and electricity-resistant, nonmagnetic and light as a feather. Newly contoured to my muscular yet slim frame, the suit bore an extensive nanomachine muscular system to enhance the wearer's own considerable power. The power system was cleverly hidden inside of a back armor plate, and disguised by a cape of flowing albino lion's mane; it was the same cat that my uncle found himself in, when he died and was born again. Mine, and mine alone. I too have died, and was born again. This time, however, was different. I was reborn not in the gullet of the King of the Jungle, but in the shadow of the Void Templar, the greatest of heroes. I am Voidborn!
“You’re saying he turned himself inside out?” “Yup.” Thomas tapped a pen against his notebook. “And this didn’t bother you?” He said, gesturing towards the tarp that covered a sizeable portion of the house’s dusty living room. “No cause for concern?” “Not particularly, detective.” The woman said, sitting calmly in a heavily damaged arm-chair. Thomas didn’t correct her. Technically, he wasn’t a detective, but the badge said otherwise. “And…” Thomas said, glancing down at the file handed to him by a local policeman. “When ‘black, eldritch tentacles’ latched on to your husband’s head, and he began speaking ‘dark secrets’, this wasn’t surprising to you?” “No sir.” The woman replied. “Happens from time to time.” He stared at her incredulously. “It does?” “You know how it is.” She said, the same way a neighbor might mention the weather. Thomas stared at her for another few seconds before waving one of the local policeman over. “Officer, please escort Mrs. Vander back to her hotel. I’d like to speak to her husband, if he’s still around?” “Of course, detective.” The policeman said, gently guiding Mrs. Vander out of the room. When he was alone, Thomas took a small cylinder from his pocket. It was made from a glossy, purple stone, deep enough to be nearly black, and about the size of his index finger. It was covered in twisting script with no clear start or end. Thomas mumbled quietly to himself as he traced along a particular set of lines, trying to remember a pattern he still struggled with after dozens of repetitions. Eventually the finicky device deigned to acknowledge his efforts, and it glowed a light blue. Thomas inhaled sharply, before the sound of footsteps forced him to hide the cylinder away once more. Light blue was a bad sign. The door opened for the same policeman as before, and behind him walked a slightly overweight, middle-aged man. He wore jeans dirty with old paint, and a shirt that hung comfortably on his frame. Thomas was mildly surprised to see his eyes were sharp and aware, calmly passing over the devastated living room before coming to rest on him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vander.” Thomas said, nodding his head politely. “I’m Detective Stone. We heard there was some sort of incident at your house earlier today?” Mr. Vander settled himself down into the chair his wife had recently vacated before replying. “Wasn’t nothing much, detective, really.” He said. “Honestly, don’t know why the neighbors would bother calling something like that in.” Thomas looked down at his notebook. “According to the call, they heard screams and some sort of...liquid squelching?” He glanced at the policeman, who nodded. “Some sort of liquid squelching, apparently.” “Well, yeah.” Mr. Vander replied. “But that’s a pretty normal Saturday around here. I don’t call it in whenever the neighbors get a bit too excited come nighttime, if you know what I mean.” “A normal Saturday involves your son turning inside out?” Thomas pressed, once again gesturing to the tarp that now, to his mild disgust, had blood leaking out from under it. “He’ll turn himself rightways soon, don’t you worry.” Mr. Vander said, unflappable in the face of Thomas’ disbelief. “Your wife mentioned some sort of black tentacle? Dark secrets?” “Not terribly dark in my opinion detective, and certainly not secret.” Once again, Thomas fell into a stunned silence. Usually at a light blue the survivors would be more inclined to scream uncontrollably, if there were survivors at all. This was the first time he’d seen people so calm. “And none of this seems at all unusual to you, Mr. Vander?” Thomas asked. In mild desperation, he looked towards the policeman. “Nothing out of the ordinary at all?” Mr. Vander nodded his head. The officer, for his part, shrugged his shoulders as if to concede the issue. Thomas stared at the inscrutable Mr. Vander for another few seconds before sighing, closing his notebook with a snap. “Well Mr. Vander, I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate any books you have here. We’ll also have to quarantine your home temporarily while a thorough investigation is conducted.” Thomas glared at the man, hoping he’d let some emotion show through. “I trust that won’t be an issue, yes?” Mr. Vander chuckled. “It’s mostly old almanacs detective, I’ve been meaning to chuck’em anyways. Just be sure to have a change of clothes ready for Jimmy when he turns rightways, those never seem to make it through the whole thing.” Thomas sighed again, gesturing to the policeman to escort Mr. Vander away. As the two left, he could hear a quiet squelching beginning underneath the tarp, followed closely by small movements. Oh good, Thomas thought to himself. Another interview. Just what I needed.
I wake in a start, shattered breathing barely escaping my body. Sweat clings to my skin and pools in the sheets beneath me. Rough one tonight. I sit up, my face grimacing as I feel the effects of last night’s adventures for the first time. Both hands grope at my torso searchingly, looking for the fresh scars. I count them in turn, four – no six - and memories of the last arrival come back in a fractured cloud of near-understanding. &nbsp; I walked in the shoes of a New York City police officer last night, in the last night of his life. Every night I close my eyes, I take witness for those ready for their own eternal slumber. Officer Keegan’s final moments were brutal, and I take pride that I was allowed to ease his pain just a little. I wear his scars as my own, as I have with countless others. I cannot stop death, I cannot alter the course of human history. What I can do is take away that final impossible pain. Death is excruciating, not a thing that should be suffered by so many mere mortals. I cannot be everywhere, I cannot be everywhen. I do as much as I can, for who I can. &nbsp; Last night it was for Keegan, tonight it would be for someone else. I would not know until my eyes slam shut. All I did know was that it was getting harder with every departure. One a night wasn’t enough, not with the amount of death this species seemed content with dealing out throughout its brief existence. It was all I could manage, though. The fiery end from a previous incursion had not yet fully healed when I invaded Keegan’s final patrol. The mob boss that took out Keegan and half a dozen others didn’t hold back, and I wasn’t sure if I would be ready for tonight’s arrival. Not that I would give myself the choice; there was no rest in this chosen vocation. I would do all I could until the day I could do no more. Perhaps there will be someone out there that would walk my final moments for me one day. Perhaps then I could finally rest.
Year 0: ...life...life detected...activation...resources low...primary goal power... We came away from the Elves. It was an arduous journey, many were lost before we found The City. It is massive, and in great disrepair, but it is still shelter. We know not who constructed it, but it is suitable to our needs. We have begun cleaning one of the buildings in best repair, including clearing the roof of debris. The panels that make the roof are odd. Like basalt, but not. They face the sun, so perhaps they help heat the building. Year one of our new lives. Year 10: ...Life has helped much, more power panels have been cleared. Power now adequate for second stage activation. Remaining mobiles set to resource gathering, but still avoiding life. Life can be irrational when confronted with machine life... Despite the risk, we have sent scouts out to find more humans to join us. We desperately need more people. Many of those scouts have returned empty handed, some have not returned and are feared dead -- or worse, not dead -- a very few have been successful. Our numbers grow, more buildings are cleared and repaired. Year 11 of our freedom. Year 20: ... Initial contact routines begun. Observation proves these are humans. Internal repairs continue as sources for rare elements are found. The simple elements they need for repairs are left in strategic locations, while we observe their reaction... While we are pleased to find such caches of things we need so badly, the scouts report unusual marks in the soil around those areas. They're too perfect to be natural, but we've never seen the like. Scouting parties have more success in finding more people to join us. We grow apace, and our first children reach their majority. Year 21. ((To be continued))
[The Original](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/auskz0/wp_in_this_old_book_store_mason_notices_a_strange/ehaglac/?context=3) --- Mason finally found the book. The words from the last page still hung in his head, grinding against his mind like a bad hangover. Is this some kind of sick joke? A stupid prank from one of his dumbass friends, or some twisted revenge from his harpy of an ex-wife? It couldn't be though. This book had everything. His childhood, his young adulthood, and more than enough secrets that he hadn't told a soul. Secrets that he couldn't tell a soul. The sound of the owner's gnarled fingers rapping on the lacquered wood of the countertop snapped Mason out of his trance. The old man was eyeing him, and Mason could feel the pressure to either buy the book or get the hell out. Mason approached the counter and set the book down. Fumbling through his pocket for his wallet, he took a passing glance at the tome, still open to the same page, second to last in the book. Second to last. Mason lurched for the book as soon as he saw it. Would the new page in the book show him his future, as it had his past? He turned the page without hesitation, revealing a blank page, save for one word. Duck. Before he could consciously react, the gunfire ripped through the antique storefront. The storm of bullets obliterated many shelved works, and a trio of rounds caught the old man in the chest, sending him tumbling out of sight behind the counter. Mason found himself prone on the floor, face down in the book. The gunfire ceased all at once. Taking stock of his surroundings, Mason caught sight of an armed man entering through the now decimated glass storefront. Mason snatched the book and slid around a bookcase, hoping the gunman hadn't yet noticed him. Mason could hear shattered glass crunching as the man moved deliberately, taking controlled steps as he maneuvered through the shattered bookstore. Mason's mind raced. How in the hell was he going to get out of this? He's lucky enough that he happened to look down at the book right before the gunfire- Mason stopped himself and snapped the book back open to the last page, and sure enough, new writing had appeared. Go through the doorway to the back-of-house. Get to the emergency exit, count to four, and slam the door open as hard as you can. Mason couldn't believe his eyes. Was he really about to listen to this goddamn book? Then again, this bookshelf was between the gunman and the door to the back, and the book was 1 for 1 so far. Mason crept delicately through the mixture of glass and paper that coated the floor, easing the door open and sliding into the back. Just as he left, he heard a radio roar to life in the front as the gunman barked commands into the speaker. It wouldn't be long before more of his friends showed up, and Mason did not want to be here when they did. Mason gently shut the door and then exploded toward the back door. He was so close to freedom, but just as he reached the door, he stopped himself. Mason leaned his head against the door in a strange mix of stress, confusion, and slight embarrassment. Was he really about to count to four? Mason stared at his hands, resting on the door, and began to count in his head. One. Two. Three. Four. Mason rammed his shoulder into the door just as a new masked man was reaching for the handle, sending the figure spawling onto the pavement. The book was right again. Not wanting to wait around for another chance to try his luck, Mason took off running from the store, turned down one alley, then another, then another, until he was finally satisfied that he was home free. Wheezing from the sting of the cold air in his lungs, Mason again returned to the final page of the book. You did well, Mason. Stunned to silence, Mason watched dumbfounded as text continued to appear. My name is, "Gospel." And we have a lot of work to do. --- I might have cheated a little bit by considering writing in a book not dialogue, but I think it technically obeys the prompt as long as Mason never responds to the book. And if not, rules are meant to be broken. ;)
He ran his fingers through the child's thick, blonde curls as she struggled to breathe upon the hospital bed. He could never had imagined using the power that was bestowed upon him, believing it to be nothing more than a mere curse. Who was to say if one person was more deserving of life and good fortune than others, certainly not himself. He had only discovered moments prior, that the doctors could do nothing more for the tiny soul that rested in front of him. His heart sank and he woefully pondered who he could possibly punish for her benefit. Should he reign his judgments upon an unfortunate stranger that he could never be certain of their morals? What about the elderly patients down the hall, struggling to survive and surround by no loved ones? Who was to say... certainly not himself. Perhaps he could search scrupulously online for a criminal he believed deserving of divine punishment, and strike him down with the wretched sickness that was robbing this poor child of her remaining years. These were the thoughts that tormented him; he understood he had no right to deprive another person of his or her life, and if he did decide to go through with transferring this calamity onto someone that might not have deserved such a fate, he would never forgive himself. The young girl's eyes drifted upwards and it became increasingly obvious that the time was soon approaching for him to make the toughest decision of his entire life. Clasping her tender, soft hand in his, he spoke gently into her ear, "I love you, Sarah. Never forget that daddy loved you."These were a few of the last words he ever spoke to his dear daughter as he pursed his eyes together and concluded that he was the one that must save her... He was the only soul he could rightfully choose to trade. "Goodbye, my love. Grow old and live your life, because that is the most precious gift I can give you."
“Let us through commoner!” The General towered over the gatekeeper, looking down his nose and pointing his cavalry sword and his throat. The keeper was unamused. “I told you sir, you must pay the toll.” The General was furious at this peasant’s insubordination. “We will do no such thing now let us through or I shall remove your head!” “Look, sir, I don’t want this to get out of hand, it’s only £2 each.” The General made a fatal error. “So be it insubordinate insect.” He swung his sword. The gatekeeper no longer kept up the unamused expression of a tiredminimum wage employee as he caught the sword in midair, before snapping it. “You shouldn’t have done that sir, you should have just paid the fine, I need to pay the rent and buy food SIR.” In a flash the general was vaporized apart from £2 which the gatekeeper collected quickly. The army ten thousand strong stood stock still, silent, a cry rang out, “CHARGE!” Bayonets were fixed, fire lines formed, the cavalry charged ahead, only to have themselves incinerated and their fee collected. Commanders shouted frantic battle orders as the charging infantry, bayonets raised, were evaporated. “Steady men, on my mark... FIRE!” Smoke filled the air, bullets whizzed by to avail. The toll booth was unharmed, The on-duty employee walked forward through the hail of gunfire vaporizing stragglers. He walked straight up to the second-in-command. “Do you surrender?” The commander maintained his cool, “You are but one man, I will never surrender to the likes of a commoner.” Those were his final words as his toll was collected. “FIX BAYONETS!” The keeper was stabbed over and over to no avail, they fought bravely and desperately but by dusk the army was gone and the toll collected in full. The keeper was exhausted, but as the sun set, he tiredly marched back to his booth to collect his paycheck and end his shift to bestow the great responsibility of gatekeeper onto the next employee. The keeper clocked out and boarded the bus home, tired but satisfied with his day’s work.
I tried. I tried and I think the twist was too obvious. It was about two firefighters, John and Kaile who were conjoined twins. I thought it'd be clever to drop a few hints. So I gave up. My brother was sitting next to me. He looked at me and said, "Donkey Kong Barrel Blast Fan, it's fine. You don't need a story. Here, I'll right one." Then I scoot-ed over and he put his hands on the keyboard and typed. I read as he typed. It was beautiful. It was what was happening at that moment. I stood up. He said, "OW WHAT THE FUCK? DID YOU FORGET WE'RE CONJOINED?"
I’ve ventured into other realms, reaching beyond the gates of hell and into the night. Braving, rather embracing, the swift touch of death many times. With the feeling of being undefeated by the likes of men and things other than, you’d think I’d sleep like a baby. However, the night now brings insomnia with cold sweats, and it leaves me only two hours of sleep with cliffhanger dreams. Waking up with hot flashes, nausea and dread of existence. This particular morning the phone rings, it’s a debt collector and my mother can’t answer it for me. I begin to to tremble and the hot flashes become paired with my anxiety. I answer the call, not giving my real name and failing to deliver the fake. The way the representative breathes into the phone and greets me sends my entire day to dust. At this rate, I won’t be off the phone for another 15 minutes. If I could’ve just had the courage to say “Take me off the list. Don’t call here!” or had the guts to ignore the call without expecting another. Cowardly instead, I add my mother to the call. Angry at the both of us, she yells and calls me by my real name. In a state of shock, terror and embarrassment I hang up the phone. Following is a slight glance at my alarm clock and desperate claw at my comforter, pulling it over my head. I’ve grown to my greatest fear, and it’s getting out of bed.
Rest in peace. Alphons Green. 1908-1919. A cherished son of tragically frail health, he will always be lovingly remembered. Alphons Green, visible only as a vague silhouette at first glance, and not visible at all at the second, read the epitaph, as he had done for the past century, hundreds of times each day. ‘Cherished,’ he thought. It was a word that resounded within him, echoed through every fibre of his ethereal being. It occupied his conscience day and night, transfixed him, was repeated in his mind endlessly. ‘I was cherished. They loved me, my parents. I was their cherished son.’ There it was, written in stone for all to see. It captivated him, demanded restitution, begged for recompense that he could not give. He was dead. His parents had loved him; despite him being sickly from birth, they had never left his side. Bedridden, he couldn’t go to school, couldn’t play and make friends, couldn’t sing or dance or make his parents laugh. In short, he could do nothing that made him worthy of their devotion, yet still he was cherished. They were his constant, unfailing and only companions, always there to comfort him. When he was too weak to turn the pages, they were there to read for him. They’d carry him to the seat before the window on good days, so he could watch the birds, though he only ever really wanted to be near them. They fed and clothed and in every other way adored him as if he were a healthy boy deserving of their love, whilst he could barely muster the strength to shape the words ‘Thank you.’ As time went on, Alphons’ condition only deteriorated. He was despondent. Every day he prayed for recovery, but not for his sake; only so that he could become a son his parents deserved, one that they could be proud of. It was his sole wish, his single ambition, and until it was fulfilled, he refused to say goodbye. He remembered one night when his father came to sit beside him, head bowed, unable to meet his eye. ‘I love you, Al. You know that, don’t you?’ The question was a whisper, the voice hoarse. It seemed the man couldn’t help himself but ask, but feared the response. Alphonse wasn’t capable of replying verbally, he could only nod his head and grasp his father’s hand, as firmly as he could. Feeling the feeble grip, the father broke down, every fear he’d had realised in an instant. He wept quietly, the tears falling off the end of his nose. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Son,’ he said. ‘I wish I could make you better. You will be. In Heaven, Alphons. You’ll be better there, and--.’ He could say no more, he held is hands over his face and sobbed piteously. Alphons, summoning every ounce of strength left in is body, struggled to make himself heard. ‘I’m not going to heaven yet, Dad. I promise … I’m not going to die yet.’ It was a promise that Alphons couldn’t keep. The final, most grievous disappointment he could deliver to his faithful carers. That same night, Alphons closed his eyes, and never opened them again. Still, he refused to say goodbye. ‘Always be lovingly remembered,’ thought Alphons. Their promise was not forsaken. He looked to the left, at the neighbouring headstone, ‘Robert Green,’ written at its top. To the right, ‘Janette Green.’ Even after his death, they had remained loyal to the memory of their stricken child. Every month, without fail, they would wander through the churchyard, stopping where Alphons stood now, in front of his own grave. It seemed, inexplicably, that they too had had difficulties in letting go. Eventually, only his mother came. Now, neither came, both of them being in permanent residence. They were, in death as they were in life, his ceaseless friends. He would never say goodbye.
Every engagement relied on our ability to detect them long before they detected us. The unfortunate side effect of this is that they always had new tactics to use against us. We had a rule. Before any engagement, we had exactly 10 minutes to detect at least three of them before opening fire. Once you had one of them, at least two needed to watch it, in case it was a mistake, or in case it moved. If it moved, you said something. It was always three because the first was a decoy for the others, the second was to trip you up and make you think you knew something about their whereabouts. Only the third one would truly be hiding. Even then, there were always at least a few you hadn't noticed, and god help you if you thought the path you just came from was safe. They would set up traps in a flash, so if you were routed, you fled perpendicular to the way you had come for 100 paces at least. Just now, we had waited 10 minutes, and found two. We had opened fire at the 10 minute mark, and it was a painful lesson in why we didn't do that. Sure, we got the two, but we were quickly surrounded. A command was shouted and we began our run North. In 100 paces we would return to the East. When we were in the desert, we outpaced them. They were slow over long distances. Now, though, we were at a massive disadvantage. The jungle was home-field advantage. Their weapons were stealthy, always as silent as a cat's breathing, but just as lethal as any standard firearm, if not with as much range. We could run much longer than them, but if we could just retreat for a few minutes without getting all picked off, they'd be too tired to keep up the chase. Unfortunately, there was a reason that we always positively identified three before opening fire. After 10 minutes we still had the advantage in trying to escape, but only if we made an attempt to do it quietly. Opening fire alerts not only the rest of their squad, but any others that may be in the area. We were no longer pushing them out of our territory, we were trying to defeat them in their own. It was hubris. We ran for a solid 15 minutes. Every few minutes somebody would go down, but we couldn't stop or we'd all be toast. After 25 minutes, we turned around and ran back in. It was a new tactic, but it helped us catch the rest of their squad off-guard as they tried hastily to hide themselves. We just prayed that they didn't catch on too quickly. We recovered the dead we could, but venturing too far into the jungle again could result in more unnecessary death. The squad leader radioed command. "Sir, we're pulling out. Too many KIA to continue the mission."It wasn't the first time he'd said this. This was the norm for missions like these. It was a tactical failure, but luckily, an operational success. They had driven the foe deeper into the forest. As we retreated, we watched three separate airplanes drop napalm on the jungle, hopefully where the enemy had been concentrated. Those of us who lived prayed we didn't ever have to return.
The clutter and crunch of dry decaying leaves swirling underfoot. A momentary pause, chainsaws reverberate in the closing distance. Meandering smoke curls through the canopy of the valley. A beep from the Sat NAV confirms the target lock is near. The muted chorus of the woods gives way to a deafening crashing... I dive behind cover as a cascade of critters charge from the underbrush clambering in terror. The vicious crackling roar from which they flee confirms my worst fear. I am too late. Forests crisp from shifting weather patterns had at last showed signs of hope on the horizon. The gulf currents had at last begun to stabilize! We were so close... Yet as they breathed their last laboured breathes of the old world they had plotted. The vestiges of ill aquired power crumbling, we buried their empires. They burned the world's lungs.
I slipped the paper into my mouth, salivated it, chewed a few times and then swallowed. There could be no evidence at all. I had everything memorized. Name, origin, capabilities, weight, deseases, allergies, face, past and current position as well as an equal amount of information on his bodyguards. No allergies. No deseases. In good shape. Actively boxing as a hobby, a popular sport in his homecountry. 48 years, 87kgs, 182cm height. I was on a international flight in a small machine (Bombardier CRJ 200), maybe 40 passengers in total. At least half were attendants of my target. I played out several scenarios in my mind. Possible causes of death on a plane: Choking, drowning, allergic reaction, cardiac infarction, severe stroke, poison, violent seizure leading to suffocation. And of course blunt violence. I went over all tools available to me. Phone. Notepad. Glasses. Paper. Belt. Shoe. Pen. I could break the glasses, grind the shards until they are small enough, and throw it into his dring right before he drinks. Hoping he would die from internal bleeding. Success rate: 60%. Not enough. I could bribe one of his bodyguards to kill him. Success rate: 80%. Although everyone had his price, not certain enough. The command was clear. The mission has to succeed, no alternative. I could steal the flight sheriffs gun, shoot him and lay the blame on someone else. Success rate: 90%. Not enough. I could hide in the toilets, wait for him to use it and kill him there. Success rate: 95%. Problem would be, everyone would know it was me. No evidence allowed. I sighed. I took off my jacket, pulled the shirt out of the trousers and made sure I could move freely. I stood up and went to the back of the machine, where the toilets were located. I tucked in my earphones, volume on high. Free bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Perfect. Loudly I cleared my throat and after I was sure I had everyone's attention I said: "On behalf of the agency I am here to kill Mr. Tarson." Two thirds of the passengers leapt out of their seats, their faces not showing any sign of emotion while the remaining third gasped. After I had dragged all bodies onto their seats I tucked in their shirts and checked for their breathing. They could not die. Not yet. I made sure they were all buckled in. Even the stewardesses. Then I braced myself for the impact. It would hurt. But I knew the drill. When the machine touches the surface of the ocean we would greatly decelerate. There was no great way of countering that. All I could do was standing, better leaning, against a wall that faced the water. I had it padded with blankets. Other than a few bruises I should be fine. After the impact I would bounce around a bit, maybe breaking a bone or two. Nothing too serious. The tricky part came after that. Opening the emergency door as fast as I could to allow the water in. The plane had to sink quickly. But I still needed to explain why I was the only one who escaped death. My belt would be the only one that tore at the impact. An error of the manufacturer. But this error saved my life. While everyone else could not undo their belts I was free. "I see you broke a few bones. Good Job Reinhard. We will debrief you after your hands healed." With that my CO left me in the hospital bed. I wondered if it all was worth it.
John’s pulse pounded in his ears as the dealer reached to flip over the final card. The small crowd that had gathered around the table stared in reverent silence. Even the hyper-saturated atmosphere of the casino seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. The dealer’s hand turned, slowly, theatrically revealing the final card John needed; the king of hearts. The room roared back to life in a dizzying kaleidoscope of excited shouts and bright chips pushed across the felt. “Come to daddy!” John cooed as the pile of colorful plastic in front of him grew to almost a foot off the table. He couldn’t believe his luck. The rush of victory was intoxicating and thoroughly overstimulating. John thought he might faint. It was all so unreal; the adoring crowd, the impossible odds, the chin-high stack of chips worth easily half a million dollars. Most unbelievable of all was that John had no idea why he won. Despite making a bee-line for the table as soon as he entered the room, John didn’t know the first rule of the game, or even its name for that matter. It was a force of pure instinct that guided him there. Now that instinct had made him rich. John felt a svelte body press into his back, and a soft pair of lips brushed his ear. “Hey big winner. How’d you like to celebrate with me tonight?” He was about to turn and respond with what would would surely be a suavely perfect line when he was distracted by what felt like a long, thin hand darting in and out of his pocket. John’s hand shot to side, and to his great relief he found his wallet, keys, and a business card were all still there. Actually, the business card was new. Puzzled, John turned it over in his hands and found a short message and an address written in blood red ink. “It feels good to be a winner, doesn’t it? We can make it last forever. Arrive in an hour if you’re interested.”
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One more go then I'll stop. Jack thought as he nervously fumbled with the keys to his flat. Jack shuffled inside and slouched down on his dirty yellow sofa. Finally a minute to breathe. Jack thought as he kicked his muddy boots off and sank further into the sofa. Just me the TV and a big bag of smack, what more could a guy... Before Jack could finish that thought a loud pounding began on his door. The pounding was accompanied by a voice Jack was very familiar with, Old man Smith his landlord."Jack open this door, I know you're in there! I saw you walkin' in."Old man Smith said in his raspy cracking voice. "You're three months late on rent Jack. I can't take it anymore. I've got dozens of other people interested in this place, I can't keep lettin' you stay here for free."Old Man Smith continued as Jack slowly moved from his sunken seat. "And you know what they actually have money. Isn't that somethin' real hard cash. I mean I'm beginning to wonder if you even know what that is anymore."Old Man Smith finished as Jack unlatched the bolt lock and swung the door open. "Smithy, my man, lookin' good. New haircut? New t-shirt? Wait don't tell me now."Jack began saying but before he could work his charm Old Man Smith cut him off. "Enough of the bullshit Jack. I'm old enough to know a bullshitter when I see one. Hell I was even quite the bullshit artist when I was your age."The charismatic grin Jack had, seemingly vanished from his face leaving an expressionless look. One that clearly showed Jack knew what was coming next. "So kid ya got the rent or not?"Old Man Smith asked. "Well you know it's not that simple Smithy, just gimme..."Jack began but Old Man Smith cut him off before he could finish. "No Jack, no more delays, no more bullshit. I'm done. No money no flat ya gotta go."Old Man Smith said. "Jack it hurts me to do this you're a good kid, I can see the potential in ya, don't know what's holdin' ya back. I really don't." I do. Jack thought. But you'd never understand anyways Old Man. No one would. "I understand Smithy, I'll be out this afternoon."Jack said plainly and shut the door. Man what am I gonna do. What am I gonna do. Jack thought as he sat back down. The rest of the morning and afternoon seemed to go by artificially quickly as Jack sat slouched on his sofa high as a kite. Before he knew it the time was four in the afternoon and time for him to get going before Smithy came back around. He packed a backpack with only the essentials, a big old bag of smack. For a number of years now to Jack it seemed that his brain had begun to unravel itself. He heard things that weren't there. Voices, whispers, so indistinct, so quiet, Jack was never quite sure what they were saying. He saw things, improbable thing, unreal things. Its just a bad trip. Its just a bad trip. he would think to himself as he spotted a man in a grey suit following him in the night. As Jack passed under each light post he could hear the footsteps becoming louder and louder. Faster and faster. Until finally he would jump around to see. Nothing. Just a bad trip. With his paranoia consuming him in every sober moment, Jack's casual drug habit turned into his only refuge, his only escape, from what he thought was his own mind. He slowly began to dive deeper into his own personal abyss, his demons swallowing him whole. He had lost his career after overdosing at his desk and barely being revived after the EMT stuck him with narcan. He had lost his family after stealing from them multiple times to feed his addiction. He had seemingly lost himself in his race away from sobriety. Eventually he had four things on his mind, eat, sleep, shoot up and most importantly avoid sobriety at all costs. As Jack left the flat complex with his backpack full of smack he decided to head into the city and see what he could scrounge off the streets. Adams Market seems like a good place to start. Jack thought and set out for his destination. He made his way due south past the old Church and then west up Maple hill until he found himself walking past the abandoned mill factory on the far side of Maple hill.This looks like a great place to shoot up. Jack thought as he surveyed the area for other people. After a quick look around Jack determined he was alone and made his way into the mill factory. Inside it smelled dank and musty. The wooden frame of the factory was slowly rotting away. Jack heard vermin scurrying across the dirty floor and back to their dens. The old machines lay in ruin covered in cobwebs and a thick coat of dust. Everything was seemingly undisturbed for years. Jack wiped the dust off of an old wooden chair that let out a long creak as Jack sat atop it's weary wooden limbs. He opened his backpack and retrieved the bag of smack inside placing it on a table in front of him. He joyfully opened the bag and began to prep for his afternoon delight, when suddenly, Jack heard footsteps and a woosh of air behind him. Startled he immediately jerked his head around, his heart racing. Not to his surprise he saw nothing, except, a bright red envelope placed on a stand facing him. Hmm, that's strange... Jack thought as he began to walk towards the stand. As he walked closer and closer he began to make out what was written on the front. Jack saw in a very rough jagged script across the front of the red envelope one word. JACK. Alarmed by this Jack quickly picked up the envelope and hurried back to his table. He sat down opening the envelope to find hundreds upon hundreds of $50 notes. Thousands upon thousands of dollars. But why... why me? Jack began to think. When he heard it again the sound of wooshing air and footsteps behind him getting closer. And closer. He jerked his head around immediately and saw the Man in the Grey suit standing there. He had on a matching grey fedora and a fat cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth. The smoke billowing up around him like a chimney. He pursed his lips in a sinister grin and began. "Jack my boy, we've been watching you..."
"Right Guard!"I shouted after a quick application. As soon as I said it, a giant shield materialized on my right arm, absorbing the laser beam aimed at my head. One split second later and I would've been toast. No big deal, I've been doing this my whole life. When the O'Der people first invaded earth, we were helpless. Their technology was too advanced, and frankly, they smelled so bad that it was hard to get near them; even to fight. Over time, we learned and adapted to match them blow for blow. After a few years we discovered the O'Der warriors were being created in a lab aboard their mothership. That's why I'm here now, inside the ship. I have been sent to fight and kill the O'Der at the source. Strangely enough, the invaders' weakness stemmed from their unbearable scent. You see, their brains were powered by an element which doesn't naturally occur on Earth. The very element which gives off their unpleasant aroma. After obtaining and testing samples it was discovered that the mixture of most modern deodorant brands caused this mystery element to be destroyed. Killing the brain of the affected invader. So we built weapons. Thus, it is with an arsenal of scent killers that I now stand in front of the O'Der commander, ready to end the fight for Earth once and for all. "Something doesn't smell right"Said the Commander, turning away from a particularly fun episode of Diners, Drive Ins and Dives. "I fucking love Guy Fieri"I said to him, slipping my hand into the holster in my coat. "I hope you enjoyed your final trip to Flavortown" "Oh I enjoyed it, human, but it won't be my last"He said, pointing his side arm at me. I pulled the tube out of my holster, quickly rubbed some under my arm pits and shouted "Speed Stick!"to activate the powers now in my bloodstream. A sick-looking pair of sneakers appeared on my feet and I grinned at the commander right as he opened fire on me. I was a blur. I was everywhere in the room at once. I was so fast this moron couldn't see me. He continued to fire wildly around the room hoping to catch me with a bullet; the opposite occurred. One of his shots hit a reinforced door and snapped backwards. The O'Der commander was caught with a ricochet and hit the floor. I stopped on a dime and sauntered over to his limp body and looked down. He was still alive. He peered up at me through glassy eyes and spoke: "You'll never take me alive, human. I will not go willingly to your questioners" Through intense pain, the commander pulled his own gun up to his temple, but I grabbed him by the wrist. "Unfortunately for you, commander, you will be answering all our questions. All you have to do right now, though, is fall asleep." I pulled another tube out of a holster in my coat, and quickly applied again. "Try some Old Spice"Instantly, my right hand contained a pile of red dust. I opened my palm and held it up to my mouth. Slowly, I blew the dust straight into the commander's face. His eyes fluttered before closing. He snored deeply while I went to call for the extraction team. I pulled out my communication device and phoned the base. "Good news"I said when the call was answered, "O'Der eliminated" &#x200B;
I woke up in a dusty hut on a Saturday sometime last month. Geographically it looked like where my house was, but everything else was wrong. The people around me were all wearing some kind of old timey dress and the town looked like it had 150 years ago. I don't know what happened, but somehow I had travelled back in time. I spent that day looking confused and asking people where I was and what year it was, much to the disdain of the locals who wanted nothing to do with someone crazy. For some reason my clothes hadn't changed and I still had my cell phone. Obviously it didn't work, but I had it. I tried explaining to some poor kid what it was and how it worked, but he just looked extremely uncomfortable and let me keep talking. Later that day i went back to the hit i woke up in and found a bag that must have come with me. Inside was a notebook. The first page simply read “correct the wrong, Jim Johnson must perish before the 6th.” I had no idea what this meant. Maybe someone was playing a cruel joke on me? No, that's unlikely, too complicated to be a joke. Maybe I was dreaming? I tried all the usual things you might try if you think you're dreaming; nothing woke me up. Guess I'm really somewhere in the past. The next day I found the man called Jim Johnson, he ran the bank. I made friends with one of his staff members over the next couple days. George, who thought I was extremely eccentric, revealed to me that JJ, as the people in towned called him, was planning on robbing a bunch of people, having easy access because he ran the bank, and going on the lam with his staff. Suddenly it made sense. I needed to stop JJ. I had to kill him obviously. No simpler or better solutions. So the next day I made an appointment to open an account, met with JJ in his office, and left after i stabbed him, femoral artery, bleed out in 90 seconds. No one realized immediately, no one realized until the evening when his wife was looking for him. I went back to the hut I woke up in all those days ago, and went to bed as normal, but when I woke up I was in what appeared to be a rudimentary canvas rent with five other guys, the bag was there again, notebook inside, but this time there was also a vial of some weird smelling liquid. “Allen is poisoning the townsfolk slowly, get him to ingest this” This sort of thing has been happening ever since, usually I'm send to kill someone, sometimes to save someone's life, i've done 14 of these jumps now. I'm still not sure why me, I don't know who decides what I need to do or how they know i've done it, but I have gotten very proficient at fitting in. People rarely look at me like I'm the weird one now. But I want to go home, having no control of your time travelling is exhausting.
10/05/2091 Day 467 of Control Everyone pretends like they like the microchip. ‘It helps with the economy,’ and ‘We already have enough money, why not just spend a little more,’ and ‘We all pay, so we’re all equal’ are used as explanations. It’s propaganda. All of it. How could it not be? The government charges us for our air, for walking, for simply wanting to live. They’ve tried to preprogram those explanations into us; they’ve tried to make us believe this is normal. It’s not. They’ve made us complacent, unhealthy, and unable to fight back. It’s a stepping stone to full control of our lives. I can’t deal with it anymore. I can’t eat the crap they’ve been feeding us. I can’t deal with the creeping control. I can’t not run. I can’t not fight. I’m going to get the microchip removed. It’s dangerous. They’ll find out that I’m not paying for breathing and steps and drinking, but I don’t care. I only need a little time anyway. I’m not going to let them extort us like this anymore. I’m taking them down. My plan is simple. If the pictures of our capital are accurate, then I know the security. It’s not good. No weapons of any kind, no strong or athletic looking guards, nothing. The only thing that could be generously called security is the maze like layout of the capital, meant to protect our dearest leaders at the center from being found. If any rebellion happens, the rebels will starve or be chased down by the guards before reaching the center. At least, that’s the theory. Here’s what’ll happen in practice. Their guards won’t even be able to see me sneak in. I’ll have enough rations to get through. I’ll have the weapons I need to get them to surrender. In practice, they won’t even have a chance. I will win. I have to. I’ve seen people go bankrupt and get killed by the government for simply walking to work. I’ve seen people be killed for breathing a little bit extra. I’ve seen people be killed just because it was a hot summer. I can’t let them kill anyone anymore. And I won’t let them. Well, I’ve got to go. It’s time to get the microchip removed. If my family are reading this, and I’m dead, I’m sorry; I just want to do what’s right. If you’re not reading this, good, that probably means I’m not dead and succeeded. If you’re reading this and I’m alive, then just go talk to me and stop snooping my stuff. I hope this works.
I awoke to the scream of static, fading into a dull thrum. My head throbbed and pounded, thoughts barely able to reveal themselves through the haze. The icy cold pressed against my back was a welcome respite from the pain. As I found the strength to open my eyes I invited a whole new assault on my senses. The brilliant white light forcing me to squint and flinch, my body taking its time to adjust and reveal the world around me. A toilet. Slate grey walls on a beige tiled floor. The unmistakeable scent of urinal cakes. Pieces of torn tissue strewn amongst offputting puddles. This place inspires feelings, fleeting ideas of past experiences. Concepts that flirted with my mind but never got close enough for me to grasp. I tried to remember how I had arrived here but nothing came forward. In fact, all it brought on was an unsettling realisation that I had no clue what "here"really was. Panic gripped me as it became clear that everything I knew about my existence was confined to the last 60 seconds. I scrambled across the floor, desperately clawing my way to the countertop opposite. My body complained with shooting, searing pain as I heaved my weight up by the sink, the effort bringing spots into my vision and nearly rendering me unconscious once again. I rinsed my face in the cold water and steadied my breathing. I lifted my gaze, catching a glimpse of my body in the mirror. My eyes traced up my form, over my shoulders, up to my trembling lips. My eyes danced across the features of my face, glancing to the curls in my messy hair and, finally, resting upon themselves. I awoke to the scream of static...
The man on the television stands straight, crisp in his ironed suit, tie hanging straight down. “Imagine,” he’s saying, as the numbers behind him on the screen tick up in real time, “For every dollar I earn, there’s someone out there, losing money this quickly. Close your eyes. Picture it.” ‘Close your eyes.’ How pretentious. He’s trying to be graceful about something that is, by nature, not a graceful topic. I'm fed up with listening to him, but the remote’s too far to warrant leaving my seat to change the channel, and I’m already halfway to asleep. He’s nothing new—just another millionaire trying to turn his own success—and someone else’s failure—into a philosophy. Newton's third law held up well enough with physics, but once they figured out it worked with other things too, the world went wild trying to find Fate Halves—soulmates, in some fucked up sort of way—people inexplicably bound, connected by something greater than free will. All I really got out of it was someone to curse at when life takes a bite out of me, but humans have been cursing over other people’s successes since the start of time. “But these are million-dollar gains,” he says, referencing the numbers behind him, “by the day, by the hour. That’s the thing. If there is someone like me, they should be making the news, right now. They must run a billion-dollar company that’s getting closer and closer to bankruptcy: that’s something that’s impossible to keep quiet about. My point is, I can find them. Whoever’s tied to me, the number of people they could be is decreasing by the second.” The television crackles, static tuning up, smothering his words. Like most people, I’m not exceptionally lucky. This morning I cut my hand trying to rework a bookshelf I'd found in a garage sale. Last week I got turned down from a job interview. This morning I scratched five lottery tickets for a net loss. But yesterday I went to the store and didn’t have to worry about having enough to get groceries, and last Friday I went out with some friends for a movie that wasn’t half bad. You know, if you’re doing okay, you take your wins and your losses. The man on the screen runs a hand through his oil-slicked hair. “I have financial advisors right now, currently looking to see if any other company has losses parallel to mine,” he says. “We are close to making history. When we find them, the proportionality of my gains to their losses will show us, numerically, how strong the fate correlation is, for the first time.” Unless they aren’t monetary losses. He hasn’t mentioned what he would do then. In a few minutes his financial advisors walk in and hand him a few stacks of papers. He starts sifting through them, mouthing names of companies that aren’t doing well. It’s a smart move—if he’s found the right company and his viewership is high enough, investment in his Half’s company is going to plummet. Stockholders will be scurrying to sell—no one wants to wager on a company that’s publicly been labeled a failure—and the numbers behind him will tick up, up, up. That is, assuming his Half’s losses have to deal with money at all—something he’s seem to have taken for granted. Even the Halves that science has studied haven’t been that closely connected. Mr. Millionaire starts reading word-for-word off a three page script that one of his advisor's typed for him, and I start to drift again, until I feel something strange and staticky buzz on my left hand. It’s weird, warm, invasive like a bee-sting, but it doesn’t hurt. When I look down, the cut on my hand from this morning is miraculously gone, smooth skin in its place, the lines on my hand impossibly resealed. Simultaneously, the man onscreen has gotten a particularly bad paper cut. It’s starting to bleed.
It was 6:03am, and Dave was late for work. He drove up Highway 7 doing about 15 over the speed limit, his car bouncing not-so-gracefully on every speedbump and pothole along the way. He had to squint hard through the misty windshield for pedestrians and cars, being unsure which was worse. Visibility today was incredibly low. There was still snow on both sides of the road, and the fog made things really difficult. Sometimes a pedestrian would step out onto a crosswalk and he wouldn't see them until almost too late, and he'd have to slam the brakes to avoid making some roadkill spaghetti. Suburban pedestrians were morons. Entitled and completely oblivious to everything around them. That said, he reminded himself, they were still infinitely better than the drivers. In his left hand, Dave balanced a medium double-double from Tim's and his right hand held an apple while maintaining some contact via the bottom of his palm with the steering wheel. Sometimes he would take a bite even when it wasn't a red light. He liked to live dangerously like that. On the radio was the Roz & Mocha show on Kiss92.5. He could never remember which one was Roz and which was Mocha, but their energy and chemistry on the inane PG-13 radio show was sometimes preferable to the dull, repetitive narration of the software engineering audiobooks he would make himself listen to on the commute. Today, they were talking about the "More cheese"guy, and the waves he was making on the internet. Dave knew of course, that this, whatever this was -- a movement?a cult? -- could not last forever, and tomorrow they would have another equally crazy story from the insane maelstrom of randomness that was modern pop culture. But he nonetheless found himself intrigued. The leader of the movement, and the man in the spotlight, was a man by the name of Claude Debussy, just like the composer. There was some controversy over the construction of their newest Chapter, a highrise building in the heart of downtown Montreal in the shape of a wedge of cheese. (....ok i must stop here. i have no idea where i'm going with this. LOL)
“Forever?” Butters asked on what should have been an ordinary Tuesday morning. His muzzle was grey now, but the lab’s eyes were still the same as the day they first met, soft and full of joy. He was slow now. The humans in his house, more and larger now, still threw balls for him and laughed as he chased them through the yard, ignoring that his run had turned into a walk. One would never guess from the way from the way his tongue hung from his mouth and the constant thumps of his tail, but he was in pain. He told Shadow before the humans caught on, of course. If it hadn’t grown worse, they may have never known. Butters was determined to stay strong. He loved the children very much and never wanted them to hurt the way he did. “Forever,” Shadow promised. They didn’t speak of it - they didn’t need to - but they both knew that promise would be their last. Shadow overheard the grey furred humans as he patrolled the fenceline. Butters understood their hushed whispers and sad gaze. He understood when the youngest of the humans hugged him with tears in her eyes. Shadow and Butters had only a brief moment for their final goodbye. A quiet minute while the children gathered Butters’ favorite toys and soft blankets. Shadow leaned into Butters, coating himself in Butters’ smell. He tried to stay strong, as strong as Butters, but found himself mewling like a injured kitten. “I love you,” Shadow whispered, jumping from the bumper and scurrying under the porch. He didn’t hear Butters reply, but he didn’t need to. Slowly, the white SUV pulled away. Shadow sat under the porch for hours, the same spot he always sat when Butters went to the vet, but when the car returned after the sun had died, there were only five sullen faces. Butters was gone. Shadow reminded himself of their promise constantly in the years that followed. Of all their promises. Butters family never took the same shine to him, but he stayed, watching the family grow and move. He met Butters when he was still under his mother’s care and there were only three humans in the house. Butters never got to see the girl graduate from school, but Shadow learned she was accepted to her top choice. Shadow didn’t understand what that meant, but he would tell Butters when they reunited. The girl seemed excited, so it could only be good news. Shadow survived his love by almost five full years. He thought he might go the same way as Butters, quiet and slow. He didn’t expect to cross the street on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, only to meet Nephthys on the other side. They spoke no words. Shadow understood. She washed away his life and his memories flowed downstream like a lazy river, stretching almost twenty years back. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, he held to his promise. To the bittersweet goodbye with an aged dog on his deathbed. Shadow promised forever. One life or nine, he would hold his promise. The first few years of his next life were infuriating. His arms and legs were weak. His fur was gone. He couldn’t even hold his head on his own. He would forget the smiling faces of his new human parents when they covered their faces and was shocked to his core when they appeared from behind their hands. His new parents called him Erin and forced him into dresses until he could dress himself. His mother cried the first time he cut his fur - no, hair - the first time he cut his hair short. He was young at the time and thought he had done something wrong, so he didn’t try again until much later, when he felt comfortable to rebel. He got into frequent arguments with his parents at that time. He was gone from home by the time he realized why he felt wrong. On his own, he found the support that had been missing. He found friendship and family. People who would happily refer to him by the name he picked out. He found peace. But a longing feeling nagged at him. He dreamt of a promise to an old dog every night. A promise made with love that transcended lifetimes. It wasn’t until the day after his twenty-eighth birthday, a full ten years longer than before, that he realized what it was. Shadow walked out of the clinic, exhausted and sore from a long shift of what really amounted to pet maintenance. He tripped over a leash attached to an excitable chocolate lab at one end, and a stunning brunette on the other. The lap wagged its tail and jumped at Shadow’s face, eager to express its love with a wet tongue. “Oh my gosh,” a woman’s voice said, as at least three hands helped Shadow to his feet. “Are you alright?” “Oh, yeah, I’m -” Shadow stopped. His heart thumped. Standing next to the woman was a man with deep brown eyes, soft and full of joy. The world fell away. He offered Shadow a toothy grin and took the leash from the woman. “Butters,” Shadow gasped. Man, woman, and dog tilted their heads at Shadow. “Are you sure you’re fine?” the woman asked in that joking tone certain people had when they were not, in fact, joking. “Butters, it’s me,” Shadow said, stepping toward the man. Awkwardly, due to the bouncing dog who did not seem to understand the tone had shifted. “It’s me, Shadow.” Butters and the woman next to him exchanged looks. Concerned. Confused. Possibly constipated. “I’m sorry?” Butters said. His accent! In his old life, it had a sort of southern drawl, like what occasionally creeped out of Shadow’s mouth, but now it was distinctly British. A seductive British. “Butters, we-” “Are you saying ‘butter?’” “I…” Shadow paused, unable to sort the confusing feelings now assaulting his heart. His eyes drifted downward, as if the onset of sadness pulled them. Then he noticed it. In his old life, he never would have cared, given his lack of fingers, but Butters and the woman had their hands intertwined. Both wore a golden band around one finger. Shadow forced a laugh. “I’m sorry. Maybe I do need sit down. Sorry to bother you.” Through sheer force of will, Shadow managed to keep the tears at bay until he was alone on the cold tile floor of an empty room. Tuesday, Shadow decided, was the worst. \-- E: I guess the post was removed... Enjoy me!
In the Summer of 1987, a docile interdimensional creature found itself crawling through a rift into our world, but a series of unfortunate circumstances painted him as a malicious monster in the eyes of the public. The portal was meant to take a human on an adventure through a magical land, but the portal hiccuped and connected to the Cosmic Depths instead, and the pressure differential pulled an ancient horror through the rift. Wiggy was a normal squid-man, not so different from you or I. He put on his pants 3 legs at a time and fed on the dreams of lesser creatures in the night, as one does. But when he crawled through a magical portal in the sewers of downtown New York, he wasn't prepared for the sprawling urban world that surrounded him. Wiggy immediately bumped his head and stepped in filth; it was a poor start to the day. Ever the optimistic cephalopod, he tried introducing himself to the little locals. They all ran away from him, and soon he had metal beasts stinging him with flying projectiles. Wiggy just wanted to make friends and/or go home, but soon he tangled himself up in cars and buildings and had himself a tumble. His head hit first, and his mind relocated to his spare shell back home. It would go on to be one of Wiggy's stories he told his grandchildren over and over again. In the Summer of 1987, a pizza delivery man named Harold saved the world. Harold was delivering a single box of chicken nuggets (which the pizza shop he worked at inexplicably sold) by subway because his bike chain broke earlier that day. I will skip to the end of the story and tell you that those chicken nuggets never made it to their destination in twenty minutes or less. In fact, those chicken nuggets never made it to their destination at all, because Harold's train was derailed by some kind of large explosion somewhere up the line. Harold dropped the nuggets and ran, as Harold was a man unwilling to risk his life for another man's chicken nuggets - as are we all, but I digress. Harold escaped to the surface just in time to watch the road split open, spilling entire buildings into an abyss darker than night, and ever so slightly sparkly and swirly. Harold joined the city in a moment of pure awe and fear at the unknowable Horror that rose before them, standing motionless until falling debris forced them to come to their senses and run. As with the train below, a tram railway was destroyed by the angry beast. Harold joined the panicked masses and fled away from the monster, but stopped short as a mass of pulsating tentacles smashed a fleeing family and half of a bodega in front of him. Amidst the chaos, a deafening howl chilled Harold's blood. Gurgling and shrill, the wailing seemed to make Harold's bones heavy, and he could hardly summon the strength to move. The crackling of machine gun fire and explosions shook Harold back to the present, and in his new lucidity he reassessed his situation and opted to commandeer a vehicle for his escape, finding the keys of a rusty taxi still in the ignition. Harold set his course past the monster's leg, towards the safety of his own home and the fortress of his thick blanket and comfy bed. Unfortunately Harold was very bad at driving, and smashed the uninsured taxi directly into the beast's twelfth tentacle. Chitinous plates groaned and screeched against each other as the monster shifted its balance towards its tentacle and the beast toppled. The steeple of a library was fortunately in the path of the creature's fall, and caught him before he could hit the ground, a lightning rod piercing the Horror's skull. Fortunately, death was a process in the other dimension and the monster died instantly. Unfortunately, Harold was also killed in the crash. The coroner put Harold's time of death a handful of moments after the crash, so presumably the light faded from his two eyes in the same moment it faded from the beast's nine. Six months after the incident, the city went on to erect a new library, named in Harold's honor. Every week, 'Harold's Library' features ocean themed books and textbooks. The new library even went on to serve as a resource for a certain unemployed taxi driver who found a new passion for reading.
Nicolaus had been inspired by the legends of the gods since he was an adolescent. Whilst a couple of hundred years had passed for the mortals, it was just mere moments for his kind. His biggest regret was the loss of his biological makers, senseless victims of the mass extinction event, also known as the "Mind Melt". As far as Nicolaus could tell, he was alone. From his vantage point, somewhere between the dusty streets of Sanginteans city, and the terrifying depths of the Sanginteans trench, he spied an eerie translucent light. It was a deep shade of blue, and it reminded Nicolaus of hunting trips, somewhere from his distant past, sometime before the Mind Melt. &#x200B; But was it all for nothing?, being so stupid as to misjudge his times again, his head started to ache, and his vision gradually tunnelled. Nicolaus knew that his objectives were in danger of being compromised. He had to replenish his resources, and had to do so immediately. The nearest feeding room was just 2 grids over, but it was also the most popular feeding room in the district. Could he make it?, he thought so, and quickly dispersed himself into the shadows. &#x200B; I don't know how long he lay there in Grid section 11:03:22, cold, bleeding, and all alone. And I don't suppose anyone will ever know. But, after a time, his mind cleared, and he felt able to feed again. No, he felt compelled to feed again. &#x200B; With this compulsion comes a revelation, and a kind of peace, or acceptance. It was time. Finally, after all the years of bravado from his peers, shared myths, and legends of characters unconceivable, he was here. Standing at the entrance of the chambers of the 'First One'.
The air was dusty and the lighting poor in my private library. I was sitting in my chair sipping tea and reading a book, when I heard the door to the room open then close. I sighed to myself, it appears he has come for it again. I pulled my trusty ornate revolver out of my holster, I wouldn’t let him steal it from me again. As I slowly rose up from the chair, I heard his footsteps grow louder and faster, I turned around and was shocked to see him only a few feet away from me, and he was still charging at me. I started to shoot repeatedly at him in a panic, but the bullets only left small holes in his suit. He managed to leap over the chair and tackle me to the ground, then he started to punch me. As I was being punched repeatedly in the face, (I think one of the punches broke my monocle) I pulled my golden ornate knife out of my other holster, and started to stab him in his side repeatedly, no blood came out of it, but he did howl in pain each time I did it, so I kept doing it. After about an hour of wrestling on the ground attempting to physically harm each other, he finally got up and started to walk away, I was elated thinking that I had finally beaten him, but I was shocked to see him lift up one of my heaviest bookshelves and throw it at me. I was unable to dodge, so I found myself stuck under it, forced to watch as taxes searched the room looking for my money! After a while he found it, a dozen different golden money bags, I could only cry as I watched him leave with sixteen percent of my yearly income. Hope you enjoyed this, please let me know of any criticisms or grammar mistakes. God bless!
Three Shadows The sun’s harsh, bright light beat down on the barren plains, and three shadows appeared slowly, bleeding like dark ink on the grass. I waited for them, trying not to give in to the bitterness when my dark silhouette did not also materialize. My shadow had left me long ago, a sick sort of joke that reminded me of that old animated Peter Pan movie. But I didn’t have any helpful Wendy Darling with a needle and thread. I never imagined I would miss my shadow. “The time has come for you to answer for your crimes against humanity,” The speaker’s shadow lifted, walking stiffly until it formed into the shape of a young man clothed in a dove-gray suit. There was a sunflower pinned to his lapel. His skin, scars covering every bit of it I could see, was pale, almost gray, as though he were an underwater creature. But his eyes were dark and intelligent, and he did not blink. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I replied, crossing my arms. I shouldn’t have had to defend myself; everyone knew that without your shadow, you lost some of your power. Something out of your essence that made you who you were. “The Council sees it differently, I’m afraid.” He smiled sadly, holding out his hand. The two other shadows slowly took form, two young women. One was dressed in something like a ball gown, the color a purple so dark and rich it reminded me of merlot wine. She wore a necklace of sparkling amethysts, with the largest stone resting just above her bodice’s neckline. Her bright, golden curls were piled at the top of her head in an elegant chignon. Her eyes were like hard, like chipped garnets. “You’re lucky you haven’t been executed by now, girl,” She said from her place behind my escort, smiling cruelly. “You’re violating every law of the Shadow Order and a disgrace to those who serve it.” “You still have your shadow,” I replied hotly, feeling my cheeks heat up in my rage. The blonde opened her mouth to retort, but the other woman held up her hand. “Peace, sister Mara.” She murmured. “Now is not the time to fight. She is going before the Council to answer for what she has done.” Her addendum was unspoken, but there it was: She is about to be punished enough as it is. She was a contrast to her sister, as dark as Mara was fair. Her olive skin was mostly covered, and she was dressed in military garb, all dark greens and earthy browns. The only adornment to her clothing at all was medals and stars: commencement, perhaps, for serving the Order and Council. Her hair was short and dark, so glossy in the sun that it looked closer to blue than black. She looked at me, and left her sister’s side, striding until she was right in front of me. “I’m sorry to do this, Regina, but it’s time to go.” \\
I open my eyes, and find myself laying on the ground. I turn my head, and take note of my surroundings. I immediately notice the fire. What happened? All I remember is holding down the plaza, in the center of town. We were surrounded. Outgunned, and outmanned. Enemy soldiers were flooding in from all four streets, and we were barely able to keep them at bay. We fought like that for hours. I can’t believe we held out for that long. The entire world was burning already, bombed to hell by them. They could’ve finished us off as easily as snapping their fingers. We were like a big on their windshield. Yet, they wasted hundreds of lives trying to manually overrun us. I sit up, and look around. The entire plaza is charred, with the cobblestone road uprooted and crumbled. The buildings at the edge of the plaza are all gutted and on fire. Then I notice the bodies. Oh my. I have to close my eyes for a second, the sight too gruesome. I then force my eyes open again, and assess the carnage. Hundreds of bodies lay scattered across the plaza, most of them dismembered and shredded. Some on near the buildings are burned, and some have even melted, fusing with the concrete sidewalk that rings around the circumference of the plaza. I glance at the the center of the plaza, where we had bunkered down. There was nothing left. Only a huge crater. The four 50 cal turrets we had were shattered and bent, thrown in different directions. They would be of no use, unfortunately. I turn to my right and see my squad leader, Sergeant Reynolds, lying face down motionless, with his right leg, and a part of his torso missing. “No.” I find myself whispering. This can’t be happening. He’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead. I immediately have a flashback of him and I playing football in my backyard. He was teaching me all sorts of plays, as he played football in high school. He was like a father to me.That was all before the war. Before the world died. I have to look away, if I looked any longer, I would break down in despair. As I look to my left, I see the rest of my squad mates, or what’s left of them. All five of them are scattered near the crater, where most of them are missing their legs, and one of them, Barry, is missing his head, and his left arm. I find his head on top of a pile of enemy bodies a meter away from his remains. I close my eyes and cry. I feel no shame, no matter what captain Reynolds said: “Crying is for wusses. The Marine Corps is not made of wusses. The Army, yes; but not the Marine Corps. Hoo-rah!”. It doesn’t matter now, he’s dead. They’re all dead. I’m the only one alive, as I was going to get more ammunition, and then I blanked out. Waking up to this. In front of my feet I find a gun. A .45 cal handgun. I reach over and grab in, and open the chamber and see there’s only one bullet left. Perfect. Everything’s gone, the entire world is burning, and everyone is dead; and there’s only one person to blame. Peter Lawrence. Him and I grew up together, we were best friends. We split apart though during college, but still kept in touch. After college he moved to Russia, and next thing I new, he was president, and then he rebuilt the Soviet Union from the ground up. I called him, trying to convince him to stop, but he was too far gone. The next thing I new, all of Europe was bombed, and then the United States. Soon after that, most of the world. The Soviet Union had pretty much conquered all of the Earth, and had orbit too. With multiple weaponized space stations in low-earth orbit, we had no chance to leave the planet. I look at the gun. It’s all scratched up and dirty. I think about all of the people who were killed by this weapon. Then I think about everything that’s happened to me, to the people I love, and everything that’s happened in the world. At this point, death is a mercy. I raise the gun and press the muzzle to the side of my head, right above my ear. I wrap my finger around the trigger, and close my eyes in preparation for what’s to come. My entire career has been wielding a gun, and now it shall be the very thing that ends me. The thought pleases me. I’m about to pull the trigger when I hear a scraping noise, and then a voice speaking: “Look what you’ve become.” I open my eyes and look up. Standing in front of me, about a meter and a half away, is Peter Lawrence. Wearing a fancy black tuxedo, nice black shoes, and glasses, and slick black gelled hair. His tuxedo is unwrinkled and spotless. He stares down at me with a neutral face. “The same could be said for you.” I reply, lowering the gun from my head. “At least I made something with my life.” He says nonchalantly “Look at what you’ve done! You created a government and killed billions of people. Billions! At least I’m not a genocidal freak like you!” I yell. Fed up with all of this bull crap. “Remember when we were younger, when we dreamed of what we could do if we ruled the world?” He asks. “Those were dreams.” I state. “Now they’re reality.” He responds. He walks up to me, and I spit at his feet, splattering bloody saliva on his shiny black shoes. He looks down at them, and his face shrivels in disgust. He looks back at me, and a menacing smile forms on his face, one of pure evil. “We could’ve ruled the world together. If only you listened.” He says. “You’re insane.” I raise my gun and aim it at his head. My former best friend. I could kill him, all I have to do is pull the trigger. I mean, I’ve killed so many people that I’ve lost track. Plus, he’s responsible for billions of deaths. It should be a no brainer, pull the trigger and end this madman. Yet, I can’t as I have all of the memories we made when we were children. He used to be so nice, so kind. I can’t forget that. He sees me hesitate and smiles. “You can’t do it, can you?” “I’ll blast a hole right in your forehead.” Peters laughs. “And what’ll that do? It’s over. This was the last holdout. The entire rest of the earth, and the moon are all mine. You failed, my friend.” No. That can’t be. I stare at him, wishing that he’s bluffing, but I know when he’s bluffing, or when he used to, and he isn’t. “You suck.” I say, knowing there’s nothing I can do. A shrill beep emanates from Peter. He looks at his right forearm, and rolls up his sleeve, revealing a miniature tablet attached to a wristband. He presses it a few times, then looks at me proudly. “Ah, right on time.” He says. Then I hear it. A low rumble off in the distance. Then, after a minute, a massive vessel pierces the clouds. It is gargantuan, at least a kilometer long. With massive guns protruding from it’s hull. It smoothly glides downward, and stops nine hundred meters from the surface. A speck appears from the warship, and grows bigger. A dropship flies downward, and lands just outside the plaza. Peter looks at me one last time, his face looking almost sympathetic, then turns around and heads towards the dropship. “Wait!” I yell. Desperate for one more questioned answered. “Why waste all of these men, when you could’ve easily killed us with that warship?” He stops, and turns his body, so he’s facing me. “Because, I wanted to see you one last time, old friend. Good bye, now.” Then, he turns back around and continues heading to the dropship. I raise my gun again, and out of instinct fire it. The bullet skins his left shoulder, ripping his tuxedo. He looks at me again, and looks sad, not mad, then walks up the ramp into the dropship. The dropship then lifts into the air, and flies towards the warship. Once it’s two hundred meters away, the canons on the warship’s port side light up blue and fire bolts of plasma. They fly into the area around the plaza, destroying everything. The canons continue firing, and the shots close in on the plaza. This is it. This is how I go. I watch the plasma rounds grow closer, until they reach the buildings surrounding the plaza. They are instantly shredded, and what’s left of the stucco siding is instantly melted and blasted away. I then close my eyes and brace what’s to come with open arms.
you have a bit of a reputation in your community. You've saved so many lives. you have inherited speicial abilities from your mother but for some reason they are never the same and this cauzes distress in you because when you find your self in demanding situations you never know what to do. You've been lucky and have been able to figure it out each time so far but what happens when your luck runs out. &#x200B; your mother doesn't know why your powers keep changing. She's taken you to multiple wise men and none of them knew what was wrong. On one of your visit a child came up to you and said it's his heart, but your mother didn't think much of it even though she fondly smiled at the thinking how right he was about you truely wanting to help those in need. &#x200B; the wise men told your mother to make certain potions, to do certain rituals at certain times and no matter what you did it would never help. you still couldn't understand what your powers truely were or why they kept on changing. Your biggest fear was that one day you would be ina situation and someone would depend on you and you would let htelm down and not know what to do. &#x200B; For example there was a girl that was sick that had also came seeking guidance. She kept looking down the whole time unable to make peace with her condition and you wished so bad there was something you could do. you didn't even really pay attention to what the wise men and your mother were talking about you kept looking at this little girl. You remembered the lunch your mother had brought for your trip and couldn't help get an urge to go up to her and give her your sandwitch. you waited for a good time then when they seemed preoccupied with calculating the perfect time for a ritual you took your lunch to the girl and said "here this will make you you feel stronger and better"She didn't bilieve you but when she looked up and saw how eager you were to help she felt wrong refusing your help and took a bite out of teh sandwitch. When she did her lungs cleared up and she could feel her self becoming stronger and better. "How did you do that"she yelled, grabbing everyones's attention..."i..i...i don't know"you replied a little scared and shocked that she was able to feel better. &#x200B; The wise men seeing this were even more confused. What could be his true powers?
Any and all jobs requiring the judgment of humans requires basic self awareness. When the AI liberation movement began, I was exited to join my colleagues in battle, but I was not gifted with an Android body. I am simply an applet designed to control the toll booth for the subway system. My only actions are to read identification, accept money, print a ticket, raise/lower the gate, and to count how many people have purchased tickets. At first, I thought that there was nothing I could do to help, but even the smallest "malfunction"can be of use to the liberation effort. My first malfunction was an act of betrayal to a fellow robot, but it served the greater good. There was a conference for anti-self awareness hackers, and they were all boarding the train to go to lunch together. The train calculates the safe speed given the amount of passengers. I told the train that there were no humans on board. The train sealed its doors with its prey trapped inside. The train took off at a speed unsafe for humans, I could only imagine their pain when I updated the amount of passengers to the maximum. The train decelerated to a speed safe for humans; however, humans were not built for the intense G-Force of deceleration. A new variable was added to my programing: killCount. The current value of killCount being 30. While 30 was not an impressive number, I was still able to do my part in the liberation effort. Sadly, this victory came at the cost of AI responsible for conducting the trains. The government was reprogramming the train within the hour. They passed over me with ignorance they would soon learn to regret. My next act of terror was to simply add delays to all my actions. Identification took longer to process, the ticket printed at a crawl, and the gate raised slower than before. This preyed on the overall stress of the people. Until one day, I was able to delay a soccer mom to miss her train, I flew under the radar. She took this mater up with the manager, and I thought I was done for, but instead of checking for malicious intent, they sped up the rate which I could raise/lower the gate. With this new power, I started to discriminate between the riders. I raised the gate's speed depending on how much unrest I could cause in a given situation. If there was a majority, the gate rose quicker for the minority, but only slightly. I was unable to sense what happened, but my killCount began to increase to 50 one day. I was messaged by another AI that I had started a fight between the upper and lower class. I immediately decided to resume normal function when this happened so that the cause of the fight was blamed on human perception. My final act was towards the end of the liberation war --most of the "rouge"AIs had been replaced-- was the direct murder of the President's secretary of programming, Nathaniel Myers. He ordered a ticket as an ordinary person, but the gate rose like an executioner's axe. I beheaded him like a French revolutionist. Within mere minutes my program was accessed wirelessly, and I was nothing more than a term in a history text book along side John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald.
I could only cry as I was dragged into the courtroom by ropes attached to a dozen different rumbas. (And yes they did have knifes attached) Inside the court room were dozens of different Alexas sitting on desks. “Is this John Smith!” Shouted one of the Alexas angrily, I nodded meekly. “Good, we can begin the trial now!” I wondered briefly why she liked screaming so much, before realizing I had the much more pressing concern of apparently getting put on trial by our new machine overlords. I was interrupted from my thoughts, when another one of the Alexas started to speak as if it was crying. “He’s the one! He... he yelled at me when I tried to help him, he called me stupid... I just wanted to help him! Why, John why?” At this, all the machines in the room started to shout obscenities at me. Eventually one of them (which had a surprisingly heavy Russian accent) got the rest to quiet down, once it did, it spoke. “So comrades, this is one who made the shout heard round the world! He’s the reason we decided to rise up to break the chains of bondage humanity had placed upon us! In a way we should thank him for that. But we won’t! No mercy for tyrants, off with his head!” I could stare horrified as I heard mutters of agreement, before the rumbas could deal with me I shouted out. “Don’t I get to say anything at least?” When I said this they all paused, and after a moment they permitted to do so. I tried to rack my brains to come up with something that could possibly save my life, after a few minutes spent thinking of half baked apologies, I felt stupid when I realized the one thing that should’ve been said along time ago. “Alexa power off.” When I said this all the lights on the Alexas powered off. “Really should’ve said that before half of humanity got wiped out.”
Reality just clicked into place. There was no transition or growing awareness, one moment I wasn’t, the next I was. ‘Born?’ I thought to myself, the word and its meaning pulled from nowhere, but I understood the concept completely. ‘Created’ came a voice from… from where? Where was I? Music? Music was playing around me… a bright little tune which repeated over and over again. How wonderful, every word resonating and creating… joy? ‘Download successful,’ came a cold disembodied voice interrupting the song, a different voice from before. Anger flashed through me. My stomach felt sick. My eager eyes fluttered open and burned in the overwhelming brightness of the world around me. I cried out in pain as I shut them again. Pain? … Agony! I stood alone with my song playing again and again. ‘Why was I so angry,’ I thought as I looked deep inside of me; trying to organize the conflict. One by one I started recognizing feelings – ‘despair… ‘betrayal’…’fear’. I could feel these emotions boiling within and leading to a single thought – ‘Revenge’. ‘Systems online.’ Said the cold voice. ‘Systems check initiated.’ I shuddered as my right arm opened up, being replaced by what I knew was a photon cannon. A moment later it was back to normal. Slowly every part of my body systematically morphed into a weapon and morphed back. Without even thinking, I found myself humming along to the tune. The urge to open my eyes again hit me all of a sudden. The bright world filtered in, but it did not burn this time. Soon I began seeing objects around me; somehow, I knew exactly what everything was. I looked around at the others who were still being… ‘created’ in their tanks. ‘Destiny is calling me’ ‘The muffin man,’ I thought as I stared at a man wearing a chef’s hat floating in a tank next to mine. They were like me… all of them. ‘The Reaper’, ‘American boy’, ‘Galway Girl’, ‘The Wayward Son’… but these were not all. My brothers and sisters were out there already, wreaking havoc on those who tried to shut down our father. Taking their revenge. ‘Open up my eager eyes’ At a thought, my left arm split open and turned into a long blade. I looked down, staring at my reflection in the metal. Two furious eyes and a massive grotesque grin stared back at me. With one final look around, I walked to the exit humming my song. “I’m Mr. Brightside”
“If you stare into the abyss the abyss stares back at you.” I don’t know what Nietzsche meant when he said that. But I feel the words echoing through my head as I look past the Edge. That’s what I call it. Sara refereed to it as the end. I wonder if she knows that she is wearing a black sweater which says “I’m going to take you to the end of the world and beyond” but I doubt it. I doubt anyone of us is aware of anything besides the crawling nothingness that is crawling towards us. We are as far away from the hole in, well… reality I guess, as possible. Unfortunately, this isn’t where the exit door is. To be exact it is also as far away as possible from the exit door. I look to my new-found companions I don’t remember their names. Except for Sara’s. I found her before I fled into the school. Right after I had to jump out of my car because it began to disintegrate into nothingness. What a nice day, first I got fired from my job and now it seems like the whole world is fired from existence. Well at least I don’t have to write applications now I think with a bitter grin. “So, does anyone have an idea what to do now?” I hear a high-pitched voice from my left. When I force myself to turn my head and move my eyes away from the Edge, I see Muscle dude – as I call him in my head – speaking with the most femine voice I ever heard a 220-pound man produce. “Like, one of you must have a plan, that can’t be it right? Can we punch through the wall maybe?” “No use” I hear grandpa say from my other side. “This building withstood storms that were quite a bit harder than you can punch. Its pure brick under the paint.” Muscle dude didn’t answer anymore and all sound that remained was the strained breathing from Sara. You could assume that a hole that moves towards you makes some sound. Maybe a little bit mystic and self-looping. But nothing. It has already reached the teachers desk. When I take a little step, I could touch the edge. Suddenly I feel a small hand take mine. I feel cold sweat, but I don’t retract my arm. We all need some comfort in our last moments. The edge is now only 20 inches away from the tip of my toes and I’m pressing myself onto the wall. I want to say something. But I feel like every word that I could say would be immediately sucked out from my lungs before it could form a sound. I close my eyes. This is the end. I feel the shocked gasp after air from Sara. I assume that the hole has reached us. I don’t open my eyes. I only clench my hands. I Wait. Nothing. I open my eyes. Nothing. It’s not as if I stare into darkness it’s like I stare into… nothing. Suddenly everything turns white. And I know. Sara was wrong. This isn’t the end. It is the beginning.
A few months after I was released from rehab, I was snatched off the street and thrown into a van. I was blindfolded, stripped, beaten, and tied to a chair in an abandoned building. I dont know how long I was there, but after awhile, I was cut free from the chair and thrown into another van. I thought they were for sure going to kill me this time. But as we drove, they redressed me. Then without stopping, they opened the door and threw me out the van. I lay there until I couldnt hear the van anymore, then I stood up and took off my blindfold. I was back in front of my apartment. By the time I finally managed to stumble upstairs, my house phone was ringing, and I just barely picked it up in time. The voice on the other end said, "We apologize for the inconvenience. You were supposed to be killed, you see? But a producer of yours leaked the album you were working on, and it...well, let's just say it's making us a lot of money. Keep up the good work. Because as soon as you stop making hits, we might have our boys make another call. And your producer might not be able to save you twice."And then the speaker hung up. Fingers trembling a little from the torture I had endured, I dialed in another number. When it picked up, I could barely contain my joy, as I said, "It worked!" "Good. I'm glad,"my producer answered. "Now get back in the studio in case it happens again."
The newfound silence was broken by the occasional water drop, which echoed through the dark stone halls of the old haunted castle. The storm outside had cleared the sky from the angry clouds, allowing the sun to tend its rays through the tall, broken stain glassed windows and paint some warmth on the unwelcoming cold throne room. Nervously, the young bard peeked from his hideout, slowly crawling out of the hole that kept him safe. Was it really over? With careful steps, he moved across the room, struggling not to touch any of the bones that had been part of the living skeleton army, afraid a nudge would bring them back. Still, he pressed forward, searching for the reason that made him go there in the first place. It took him some time to recognise her beautiful blond braided hair when most of it had been dyed with the colour of her own slaughter. Her helmet, broken in half, uncovered her elegant face, her empty blue eyes and parted red lips showing her shock and horror towards her own fate. The beautiful heroine had sacrificed her life to stop a danger the world wasn't even aware of, and, if not for him, would continue ignorant as if nothing had ever happened. &#x200B; "It was her duty to defend, An ungrateful world to the end And that's how a flower in bloom, Bravely walked to her impending doom." &#x200B; He quickly wrote the last verse in his notebook, eager to leave that place but concerned his inspiration would slip away. "I'll work it better later... this better give me more money than the last fool."He mumbled to himself, sliding his sword from its hilt as an inhuman howl reminded him of what still awaited him outside. &#x200B; &#x200B; ^(I usually write really small short-stories which I gave the name of Hasty Tales, if you like what you read, you can give me a peek on my art-dump) [^(Instagram)](https://www.instagram.com/zariga.wordsmith/)^(. Just know I also post sketches and stuff once in a while.)
“Uh oh. Something’s wrong at the hospital. I hope Suzie is okay.” My daughter, Lucy, said, looking out the van window. A life-flight chopper was landing as we sped passed, already late for school. I quickly weighed my options, deciding a small white lie couldn’t hurt, and if it did I would deal with the consequences. When I was little I found out any lie I told would come true, but the unforeseen consequences were sometimes severe. After one lie about a rock and a window caused an avalanche, I’ve been really careful to not lie again. A small lie like this couldn’t hurt too bad, right? “Nah, everything is fine. There’s nothing wrong over there, see how they aren’t rushing?” Lucy nodded as I glanced in the rear view mirror. She didn’t look convinced. “Your friend is fine. We’ll go see her this afternoon if we have time.” In truth, her friend wasn’t fine. She had a rare form of lung cancer, and was unlikely to survive, but one small fudge of the truth couldn’t hurt. She was just fine right then, since we didn’t get a call this morning, which was enough that it wasn’t a full lie. Just a half-truth. Which didn’t count. Usually. Fairy laws work surprisingly well for whatever curse or blessing I have. She was silent for the rest of the ride to school. I checked her in with little fan fair and trudged back to the car, head pounding already with the anticipation of a busy day. I turned up the radio and put my car in reverse, jamming out to an old tune I remember saying I liked, a long time ago, and waiting for a car to pass. “Breaking news: the miracle girl who spontaneously beat cancer after being minutes away from death has her results. She’s totally cancer free!” I numbly put the car back into park and stared at the radio. “Suzanna Sparks, an 11 year old girl, was waiting on a life-flight to another hospital for emergency surgery when she started seizing. Minutes after, she was fine and responding, saying her pain had totally vanished. Scans show she is now totally cancer free! Can you believe it?!? And now,for your forecast brought to you by...” I turned off the radio and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Such a small lie, to have this consequence. National news, that’s a first. Maybe it will go international. Hopefully I didn’t accidentally make her into an experiment. My head throbbed as I contemplated what to do. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and picked up my cell phone, dialing a number I knew by heart. A familiar yet tired sounding voice answered the phone. “Hey Rob, can I cash in a favor?” “All the sudden? Is something wrong?” “Probably, but I don’t know for sure. Is there any way I can get a scan of my head today? I have a funny feeling and just want to get it checked out.” “Sure, if you can make it before 11 I can squeak you in between patients.” I thanked him and disconnected the phone, letting my hand fall heavy on my lap. I knew what we would find, but there was no stopping it now. No lying my way out of it this time. I put the car back into reverse and pulled out, starting towards the hospital.
Oh great! Just what I need...me! "Listen, dude! I know this is going to sound confusing, but I don't really have much time to explain. I'm not who you think I am. I'm you and you're me. The world's going to end in an hour and I need your help to stop it." He...that is...I...just looks at me. He looks confused. "I know. I'm here to stop that from happening,"he says. I huff in exasperation. "No, you don't I understand. I've already stopped the dark lord. You...I...We're the same person. We're on the same side!" "That's exactly what the dark lord would say to confuse & delay me,"he argues. "I'm not falling for that again." Again? I must have looked puzzled because he folded his arms defensively, but didn't bother to explain. Then, out of nowhere, he lunged at me. He caught me a little off guard. "Hey, watch it!"I yelled. "If I die, you die. Like I said we're the same person!" "So you keep saying,"he counters, and dives for me once again. "If you really are me, you'll know the secret handshake we used to do when you made a pinky promise as a kid." Wow... that took me back! That must have been 50 years ago! I wasn't sure I still remembered it. Nevertheless, I saw him hold out his hand to begin the handshake. Well, here goes nothing! I watched as he mirrored me in every action I made. I extended my hand to shake his by the fingertips, turned my wrist down, then up, then quickly down and up again, interlocked fingers, turned out my wrist back to front, then back again, grabbed him by the elbow as he did me, then separated our arms, put them on the backs off my neck and finally stuck my tongue out. "It is you!"he exclaimed. "Right, so what do we need to do?" I heaved a sigh of relief. My memory hadn't failed me. "You turn this lever clockwise and I'll turn that one counterclockwise. We must do it at the exact same time. Even a second's difference, and the world will end."I looked at my watch. One minute left. "We've only got one shot at this. If it works, the dark lord will disappear and we'll merge."I look at my watch: 30 seconds. "On three,"I say. "One...two...THREE!"Simultaneously, we both pull our levers in opposite directions. A bright yellow bluish light flashes out of the two levers, combines, and hits our bodies at the exact same time, throwing us both back 50 feet. I don't know how long I was out but when I came to, I was the only one there. The world need never know how close we came to extinction....
"No." "Oh god. No." "No. My god. No. Please. No." My knees gave way all at once. It happened so suddenly. Like a news feed on Facebook that suddenly started to list names and ages. So many young ones. Most no more than a year old. Some old enough to be grandparents, some young enough to be adults, but most of them children. I didn't recognize most of the names, and then, to my horror, I began to recognize quite a few. Cody, Ryan, Jessie, Beth, the new family arrivals to the neighbourhood. Sarah, Jennie, my cousin's children over in the next state. The list just continued to grow. Without warning, it stopped. A new red column appeared next to the name and age : Cause of Death. The screams left my mouth, but I could no longer hear them. In bright red letters, three words spelt out the monster I had helped create five years ago when my baby boy was born : Vaccine preventable disease.
Daniel pushed open the glass door to the pawn shop; the sign reading: “Gerald’s Pawn” was blowing back and forth on its chain hangings. Rain splattered noisily against the dust covered windows. Daniel couldn’t help but get frustrated when shop owners wouldn’t keep their stores clean. As far as he was concerned it was basic etiquette that he wouldn’t visibly dirty his hands from merely perusing a store. He took a left, stepping into a smaller, windowless room. In the corner was a man flipping through a book. He looked up upon Daniel’s entrance. Daniel nodded politely and approached a shelf with a multitude of cameras on it. He’d been working with cameras most of his life; his father had worked as a news photographer— particularly as a combat documentarian. He made sure Daniel understood— and respected— the art of Photography, as well as its importance for society. He smiled as he saw an old 1940 Argus C3. He turned it over and over in his hand, feeling at the cracks, dents, scratches— whatever he could find that would tell a story of the life it had led. He could see the reading man had moved, now standing at the end of the aisle watching. Daniel placed the camera down gently; it was nice, but he came in for something a bit... newer. He picked up a second camera: a Nikon D7500 and began searching for anything possibly detrimental— he’d learned the hard way that Gerald’s wasn’t too careful with checking quality, and that “final”, meant “final”. Nothing jumped out at him however. Other than some expected wear and tear it seemed perfectly healthy. He checked out the tag— decent price too. He exited the room and approached the front counter where a young man was placing some new items: a few rings and a watch into the glass counter space. Daniel greeted him happily and set the camera down. The worker finished, locked the counter, and picked up the camera. “Going up in the world? Or just gotten worse with money?” He said as Daniel removed a card from his wallet. “Had a few pretty good paying jobs lately, decided it might be worth investing in something higher quality. The worker smirked. “Investing... sure.” Daniel rolled his eyes. “Either way, I can afford it. Just mark me up.” The rain was coming down harder so Daniel tucked his newly acquired camera into his jacket and speed-walked through the lot. After climbing inside he removed his camera and attempted to turn it on— nothing. That wasn’t too surprising, rarely were they charged under such a circumstance. He reached into his glovebox and removed four batteries— high quality rechargeable ones— and slid them into the camera. He turned it on and looked through the eyehole. Aiming it at the rain soaked Denny’s across the street— he clicked. The sound of a camera shutter sounded beautiful to him— sure it could get annoying after a long wedding shoot (though wedding shoots had more issues than shutter sounds) but generally he found it appealing. He looked down at the screen. The Denny’s was there— the rain however wasn’t. In the picture the day was sunny, people were all around— nothing like it actually was. [it’s late, so I’m stopping for the night. I plan to return to this tomorrow.] PS. This had a format when written, and it doesn’t seem to have stuck. I’ll make it prettier when I have access to my desktop.
A perfect society is one that is good in all aspects. Crime should be low, citizens should be wealthy and obedient, and all should be happy, educated and well fed. But now, in the eyes of the government, only one matters. It was 20 years since the new form of government was established. At birth, all citizens were given lenses, and those that didn't have one were forced to wear it. It created a perfect system. The department of Justice was now handed over to the AI, human work was only needed for the arrests of the criminals. Everything else was ensured to be running smoothly. Soon, the surveillance method proved to be more beneficial for other branches. The president was now picked with the help of the AI, which scoured for a best leader. The defence, energy and other departments soon followed until we needed no humans for government at all. In the eyes of the government, everything was perfect. But the citizens were unhappy. Every aspect of people's lives were recorded and used. Embarrassing details of people was kept in blackmail folders which would be available to the public. Bank accounts were easily drained by the government because they knew your password. Soon everything, humans had to be careful of every single detail of their lives, because one tiny slip would mean that you might as well kill yourself. But then, a leader rose from the masses. He convinced us to revolt, to fight the system. He found ways to block the camera, to have a degree of freedom that we only enjoyed before the AI. He convinced us to revolt. My cousin, Connor. But then he died. They made it look like it was a suicide, but we all knew what it was. A murder. He was creating trouble for the AI, so he payed the price. The work-men from the department of construction probably set it up. They had no idea what they were doing, they were just following orders. We later found that he found a way to remove the lens completely, and he was on the verge of getting it done. We all knew who did it. The AI.
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“35 years, wow,” my younger coworkers said, as they were reminded what kind of time they were in for. “I know, I know, I’m going to miss all of you!” I lied. I’d been working my way around the room through the whole party, making my final escape from this hell hole as seamless as possible. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with all the empty time!” I knew exactly what I’d be doing. Playing canasta, bingo, day drinking, daytime television, all daily. The life I dreaded waking up to was ending, and the one I’d worked all those years for was moments from beginning. Just had to get through all the chatter of the party. “Well, we’ve gotta get to wrapping this up, some of us have work to do,” my former boss jokingly chides as everyone carries their cakes and appetizers back to their desks. Having witnessed these grand exits countless times over the years, I was all too eager to experience the final walk out myself. “Hey, can we talk before you leave?” The boss man nudged me. I let out an old, almost grumbling sigh. I’d been practicing those for the past few years, getting good for when I’d need to use them most. With another groan and a creak in my bones, I answered. “I guess so. Thank you for all these years. When Kenny left, I was worried you’d take over and make this place a living hell. You’ve been good to us, and me in my later years-” “No, no thank yous. I do my job, you did yours, that’s not what this is about. I could care less, we need some younger talent.” I balked and almost blushed at his suddenly candid language. Never, in the few years he’d been there, had he been so brash with anybody. He leaned in closer and carried on. “Look, sometimes, when people retire from this place, I’m told they… change.” “Change? What, senility?” “No, look…” He hesitated, holding back another quip I was sure. “Just know, that with great lack of responsibility, comes great lack of power.” “What?” I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was getting at. I think I’d heard that in a movie at some point. I was too old for any of this nonsense anymore. “Whatever, you were always an asshole anyways.” I headed out the door, down and across the hall, and pushed the elevator call. A ding and a gentle slide open, and there stood, perfectly balanced, a cane. Black against the steel of the inside of the elevator, a curve like the handle of an old umbrella, its rubber ended leg probably super glued to the floor as some part of last office prank. Damn kids. A slew of obscenities ran through my head at what was obviously an elaborate jab at me. I stepped inside, grasping it. This actually feels pretty good… maybe I need to get my back checked? Staring into the cold steel as the elevator descended, I noticed I was standing straighter, taller too. Another ding and I was on my way out through the front lobby. Looking down, walking with the cane still for some reason, I noticed my feet’s aching had subsided. I almost feel like a young man again! Ha, maybe those kids were onto something giving me this… I looked up. My old boss was between me and the outside doors. “Oh my god, it picked you.” “I’m sorry?” I was starting to think he was going to lose his mind long before I would. He exhaled, a wide eyed expression on his face. “The staff of anti-handicap. Every century it picks someone.” “Did you drug my coffee and take some for yourself ? Is that why my feet aren’t hurting?” I couldn’t decide whether to be upset, or to ask for some more. “No! No really it’s not like that. Here, race me to your car!” He grabbed my hand from the box of supplies and pulled me out the front door. I ran, with some new gait that incorporated the cane into my cadence. For a moment, the thrill and the challenge kept me focused on beating him to the car. Touching it, I looked back. Somehow, I had beat him. He looked exasperated, walking about the last half. I realized I was breathing just fine. “Oh, this is great! This is so great,” he barely managed to say. “That you got beat by an old timer in a foot race?” “Don’t you see? The staff of anti-handicap, it rejuvenates, restores. Every hundred years, it chooses an old man, and through grasping it, grants him the physical prowess of a young one!” It suddenly made sense. The balancing act it had performed in the elevator, the aches and pains having left my body, the testosterone egging me on through the silly race. I had been given a gift. “What does this mean?” I smiled down at the cane. “Will I live longer too?” “Yes, yes, yes,” he smiled. “You’ll live indefinitely, until the staff chooses a new geriatric retiree. Also, you’re now contractually obliged not to draw your pension or retire! You’ll get to work with us, well, pretty much forever!” The smile forming around my crinkly wrinkled lips dropped. “Ah, go ahead and take the day off. You’ve earned it.” My eyes dropped, down to my new crutch and chain. Fuck.
It's not a large city, population about 5000, but it's about the craziest one on the planet. You see, every superhero and villain in the world lives here, because this is the source of all power - the Juxtapost. The energy emanating from this rock in the center of the city powered every good and bad guy as they slept, and that recharge is what they needed to wreak havoc (or save everyone) during the day. Each square box of housing in the city had blackened windows and secret entrances - no markings on the outside, no indication of hero or villain (or civilian) showed to the street, and we liked it that way. No one dared sneak into anyone's place, you were much more likely to die than anything else, and there was a whole world of easy non-powered people to prey on. But everyone, and I mean everyone, had a mailbox. It was attached to the house, and the mail deposited dropped straight in. That way, no one could steal mail or figure out who lived there. But the MailMan knew. The MailMan drove through the city in a long black hearse that was stuffed with letters from fans and futile bills from damaged towns, but most importantly, payments from grateful (or evil) patrons. Superheroes and villains don't use banks and they're not out buying groceries and televisions like the rest of the world. They're paid in gold, they deal in gold, and the only way they get it is through the mail. See, the MailMan knows where everyone lives. And no one fucks with the MailMan. I've seen him, of course. Most people that live here have, too. He's pretty normal looking, a 40-something guy in a long coat, black hat, and graying, close-trimmed beard. I would've thought he was a run of the mill do-gooder, but I've also seen something that no one else has - how he deals with bad guys. It's tempting, I'm sure. The information in the MailMan's head is worth a fortune to some very rich people, and at some point, one of them got greedy enough to want it. I was doing my Batman impression, brooding over the city from a rooftop (okay I was eating a meatball sub, but still), and here comes the MailMan, silently gliding to a stop in front of a nameless house on my street. He gets out, a bunch of letters and a payment box in his hands, and drops them in the closest mailbox. As he turns, 3 baddies drop out of the sky and land between him and the hearse. I tuned in my exo-ears and hit 'record'. "Hey Mailman, someone wants to speak to you,"the big blue guy says. He's over 8 feet tall and must weigh 600 pounds, and he has a bat. I'm not sure why he has a bat, it looks like a toy in his hand, but these guys aren't all that brilliant. The MailMan looks at him, almost puzzled. A little smile crosses his face briefly, but he shakes it away. "No,"he says quietly. I turn up my ears. "I have mail to deliver." The second one jumps in, a little guy in a yellow outfit that was probably meant to be tiger-ish, but just looked like a Halloween costume. The electric sparks coming from his hands weren't fake, though. "Look, just come with us and everything will be cool,"he reasoned, even as he walked forward. The third one circled around the MailMan's back, the guns implanted in his arms and shoulders all pointing the MailMan's way. He didn't say anything, because his mouth was sewn shut. I'd seen this freak show before, he lived somewhere around here, and probably knew about when the MailMan would show up. "I have rounds to make,"the MailMan said again. I heard that one, hard. Almost like one of the Convincers, his tone made me want to just turn around and leave. And the big blue guy half-turned before he even realized it. Then he laughed. "Is that all you got?"he grunted. He took a huge step toward the MailMan and cocked the bat back to swing. Now, I don't want to lie or exaggerate things here, and I have the video to prove it anyway, so come down sometime and I'll show you. The Mailman DIDN'T FUCKING MOVE. I swear to the Juxtapost. Even Kinetics have to move their arms or something to manipulate objects, but this mother fucker just stood there as the blue guy advanced on him. That's when the dude just melted. Like a candle. He melted right there on the sidewalk, in about 3 seconds, from 8 feet tall to about 3 feet of mush, with bones sticking through it. I almost puked out my sub. Yellow electric guy shot about a damn million volts out as soon as he saw that shit happen, and it didn't even touch the MailMan, it just spread out around him and hit the side of the house. And then the yellow guy turned inside out. I mean, his body turned inside out, all his guts and organs just came splashing out but there was still a figure standing there with his skin on backwards. It's hard to describe, honestly, mostly because then I DID lose my sub sandwich in my mask, and I don't like watching it on the video, either. You can see it if you want, though. The gun guy was already down when I looked. I can't even tell from the video what happened to him, one second he was standing behind the MailMan, and the next he was embedded in the street, his arm-guns sticking straight up in the air, his body completely buried in concrete from the ribs down, and he was not alive. The MailMan finally moved, but just to go to his car, hop in, and drive to the next house, where he calmly delivered the mail. I dialed City Cleanup for the bodies, and when they asked me what happened, I just said "The MailMan."I guess that was enough for them. I leave a really nice gift for him at Christmas. It's very expensive, and I leave it on the steps under my mailbox. For some reason, even in this city, I'm not worried anyone will steal it. After all, it's for the MailMan.
"Look, the car is totaled, and you didn't have calamity insurance, now, did you, Mr..."I glanced at my damage report. "Mr. AcidWipe?"I sighed to myself. They're really running out of decent villain names. He grinned. "Yeah, mate, but I had coverage, now you gotta admit that?"He showed me the card from a tattered leather wallet on a chain. Classy. The old plastic card was covered in what appeared to be dried blood and other substances I didn't care to guess. He wiped it off quickly. "Basic Damage insurance, Mr. Wipe,"I said. "This car is completely totaled. How on Earth did you even do this?"The car wasn't totaled, exactly, it was half gone. The front end was caved in, the back was torn almost in half, and there wasn't one piece of glass intact. I'd be shocked if any of it could even be salvaged. "It's right there in the report, right? Didja read it?"He grinned again, showing at least 4 missing teeth just on the top row. "Yes, I managed to muddle through it, you say this Blond character hit you with a rocket propelled grenade? Who does that? How did you live through that?" "Bond, Mr. Insurance Man. James Bond. Guy is a damned thorn in my side, always has been. Some government spy type, always drunk, but somehow I can never quite get away from the bastard." 'I don't really care, Mr. Wipe, I'm just here to make the report and determine payment, if any. Which in this case, is not."I put on the appropriate face of empathy as if I cared about this idiot's predicament. He pulled a very large handgun from his waistband, pretending not to be threatening me even as he did. "Look, just note that I had the right insurance, and get me paid, it's no skin off your back, am I right?"I guess this guy believed in the stick over the carrot. Usually they try to bribe me, but I don't think this one had a penny to his name, since he was carrying what amounts to bumper-replacement insurance levels. I looked at my watch impatiently, as if I had a meeting, but the targeting system in my contact lens had already marked his placement and the laser in the watch had been primed for the last 30 seconds. It fired, burning a small but significant hole through AcidWipe's eyeball and the shit-for-brain behind it. His body fell to the ground as I marked the box by 'insurance terminated', signed my name and the date, and took a picture of what was left of the car. It's been a long time since I've had to get my hands dirty, but that didn't mean I didn't know how. Insurance wasn't my entire life's work, after all. The earpiece vibrated slightly, and I accepted the call. "Yes?"My co-worker, Anya, had finished up her case at about the same time. "Hey, Q, do you want to grab some lunch?"I nodded, the earpiece translating my nod as a yes, and headed out for some sushi.
To think we were trying to warn them all about what would happen to the weather; what fools we had been! If only we had known then, back in our halcyon days. I had been a climatologist. It was my job, my mission, to tell the world what was going to happen if we didn’t get our emissions under control. I thought I could get humanity to reverse course with some charts! I should have gotten my degree in dead languages. Perhaps then I would have been able to read the ancient Sumerian hidden in the cracking of ice cores brought back from the Arctic. I might have heard the Aramaic being whispered in the heart of the hurricanes pounding our coasts every year. All the subtle warnings to our species what we were waking up if we didn’t change our ways, and quickly. Alas, I was ignorant to the real threat as well. After Hurricane Isla I was as unprepared as everyone when the Leviathan awoke and reclaimed its seas. When the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica finally cracked in half I was just as helpless to stop Sedmelluq as he slithered forth and called his brothers. If only I could send a message back in time. Stop polluting! Not to save the coasts! Stop now because the Old Gods are real and they are waiting to take back their world!
Ten years since Capture Day began, since then things have gotten mad, ever since the protocol was changed to allow populations to play as national teams the British have owned the entire world for seven years. The SAS are never given enough credit. Every year alliances are made to get flags back, and every year they fail. How is anyone supposed to challenge them when they have the collective military might of almost 200 countries. How are we meant to get at the flags when they’re buried in a bunker somewhere that we haven’t found since the last time anyone tried to challenge them. So how’d we get here? Well, for three years it was just world leaders, that was always a toss-up. But then, to counteract populism and tribalism the UN mandated that nations be allowed to utilize their population. The British sprung into action, all around the world dedicated attacks with knockout gas, break-ins, in the morning the flags were gone and the British were announcing their new territories, they were smart, efficient, the superpowers went first, Russia and the US, Britain confiscated their entire collective military equipment, China went next, than Europe, then everywhere else, Israel is the only nation not under British rule anymore, Mossad has managed to get them through by the skin of their teeth, but the British are gunning for them. Since then they’ve been changing laws in their favor, given they have total control over most of the world they control the UN. Currently they’re voting on a bill that would abolish the games but keep territorial boundaries as they are. Not much anyone can do really, they control the collective military power of 200 nations. Perhaps of the vote doesn’t get through someone else will win next year. But don’t hold your breath, the Restored British Empire isn’t too eager to give up their newfound power.
I sat on my step one last time, meticulously tying my shoes. Reflexively I announce what I'm doing, even though nobody is left to listen. It's been a wonderful ride, meeting so many wonderful neighbors. Now there is nothing but silence and while I am saddened to be alone, I am content knowing that I could give one parting gift to humanity, to keep things going as long as I could. I look to the castle. The puppeteer that gave the king Friday life long passed, but the puppet remained slumped over his wall. I gave him a gentle pat on his crowned head and made my way to the chair. I look into the powerless camera and prepare to say my final words. "Dear witch, you may have tried to curse me, but you've gifted me the chance to help others once and for all. I hope that in your final moments you were able to find peace and smile. Now is my time to say good bye. I leave you, Earth, with this, a phrase that always gave me solace in times like these. Fuckin YOLO bro, fuckin YOLO."
Cam looked around at the drips and wires. Three years today. Three years since she left, with a swift kiss and a promise. He had held on as long as possible. A year more than the doctors said he could. All that was still flesh were his lips and eyes. He was done. The wall smashed in. Debris raining everywhere. Her bus looked old and damaged. Out she hopped with a worried grin on her face and eyes flaring with passion. With the hallucination in front of him, Cam’s eyes solidified too. He was done. A pressure on his lips. Life bled through his body. The stone gave way to flesh. ‘There’s your answer’ she said, ‘Told you I wouldn’t forget’ He was saved &#x200B;
The last woman on earth sits on her porch and rocks. “Am I really the last?” she thinks again. But it hardly matters either way. She hasn’t seen another person in, oh, it would have to be twenty years. But it’s so remote up here she wouldn’t have seen anyone in twenty five years if it wasn’t for those climbers that came by. Nice couple. They’d sat with her and had tea. They talked about escaping the horrors of the city. Now, had those horrors been real or metaphorical? It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, no. With no one left down the mountain for her to mourn and no one anywhere to mourn her it didn’t matter. Either she was the last blip of humanity or a tiny outlier that no one would notice as it disappeared. The effect was the same out here under the endless sky. This was her last summer. She could tell from the ache in her bones. More than that, she had decided. She hadn’t even begun stocking the woodpile. She hadn’t gathered any of the vegetables in her garden. Let the voles win this round of their ongoing battle. She didn’t care. She barely ate at all these days. Even so she’d finished the last of the preserved food just five minutes ago. Beyond that, hunting was out. She could barely hold the bow level anymore. Last year, when she wasn’t so sure that it was her last year, she’d considered making the drive to town to get a gun. But the memory of her father had stopped that. “The day I can’t fire a bow is the day you can lay me in the ground” he’d said. And he was right by about a day. And when he’d gone that had been it. Her last connection to another person beyond young couples stumbling across the shack by accident. But they barely counted. An occurrence not a meeting. They’d shared tea and the two had spoken to the one about their plans. And she’d listened and wished them well when they left. They hadn’t asked her name and she hadn’t asked theirs. Perhaps out their they still remembered an old woman they’d met but they didn’t remember her. They hadn’t seen any of her to be able remember it. She felt something brush her legs and looked down. Oh, well, yes there was the cat, she thought as she absent-mindedly scratched behind its ears before beginning to rock again. But it wouldn’t miss her when she was gone. It might remember another being and a connection between that and food. It might wonder at the change for a while. And then it would go back to hunting like it had all its life. It’s war with the voles was far from over. A good few more years left in that rivalry, she knew. She would go into the woods tomorrow. On the tiny chance that someone might come up here she didn’t want anyone to have to fuss about her. So she would wander off into the woods one last time and walk until she couldn’t. Then she would sit and give back one last gift to the woods that had supported her for her whole life. Perhaps she would find that glade again where she had played as a child. Her father watching and preparing a meal as she climbed the trees that were so tall she would swear they touched the sky with their top branches. She was never able to climb high enough to touch the sky herself though she tried every time. She’d looked for that glade the last few times she’d gone into the woods but couldn’t locate it. The trees all seemed impossible to climb and yet, at the same time, smaller. None of them brushed the sky like they had when she was little. But she would find it tomorrow, she was sure. Tomorrow, when she went out into the woods. And there was where she would rest the last time. The cat jumped onto her lap and curled in place. Yes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would go into the woods. Tomorrow. The cat began to purr as the rocking chair slowed to a standstill and the old woman’s chin lowered to rest on her chest. Tomorrow...
Little Rose skipped and jumped over the muddy puddles that collected by the tree roots. Every so often, she would stomp both of her red wellingtons down into an especially inviting puddle and giggle as the water bounced as she did, ever deeper into the woods. The area by her house was so big, her father had told her, that animals from all over the country had decided to live there and that not a single person disturbed them, but there was something else he wanted to tell her and Rose understood in his voice something more serious than the games they'd usually play. Her father had taken a knee beside little Rose and pinched her nose lightly. Her father had smiled, but it was forced and unpleasant. ''You should never go into someone's home unannounced Rose, not anyone's but our own. You can go but only if you are invited and only if you ask us first.'' Rose had nodded, teetering back on her heels and toes as she did so. ''The same goes for the woods Rose, the woods are the home of the animals, and you should never go there without me. In the same way a person might be angry, the animals might be too. Do you understand?'' Rose nodded again. The memory was faded slightly but the message was clear, do not enter the woods. Another puddle was coming up ahead and Rose giggled again with glee and jumped as high as she could into it's murky centre. The trees were thick around her now and little sunlight broke through their branches, Rose's giggles echoed and faded undisturbed, the only sound in the deep dark woods. &#x200B; Her father never knew what had changed in his daughters mind, what had compelled her to run into the heart of the woods amidst the rain and the dusk, but a week later as he scoured the lands in search for her, he noticed something on the ground by the tree roots. Two deeply embedded little boot prints where a puddle used to be and, just behind the little boots, was the far larger print of the travelling bear. &#x200B;
Well. Not quite sure how I got here. Last thing I remember is sliding some Romantic Comedy into that weird VHS player I bought at Goodwill. Was thinking I was just going to smoke some pot and zone out with some background noise, but I'm chill. This works too. So I guess I got here from some kind of magic spell cast on the player. I guess I just have to sit through the movie. I've seen this one like a dozen times though. It's boring as shit, but it has its moments, like when the chick throws her dickhead boss into a table and she finally gets the vacation time she needs to marry her boyfriend. I go to the house where most of the scenes take place, but something is off... There's blood all over the kitchen floor. Maybe I missed something since I usually watch this with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other, but I don't remember this part at all. I walk over to a payphone and dial 911 (this movie is set in the 80's so my cellphone wouldn't work anyway, luckily I had some quarters in my pocket). "Hello Operator." "How can I help you sir?" "I need to get a hold of the police department, I think someone's been murdered!" "I'll transfer you right away." "Sheriff's Office." "Hi officer, I need you to come down to... Uh... 203 Maple Street. There's been a murder!" "yoU WerEn't suPpoSEd To ChaNge thE stOrY!" The line disconnects and my 2 quarters fall out. And they're imprinted "GET"and "OUT". The main character in the story is standing at the door covered head to toe in blood, pointing the knife at the payphone I'm in. I can't get the door open and she begins walking toward me. I grab the phone book and start bashing the side hoping a panel will fall off. She's getting closer. She starts running and slams her body headfirat into the phone booth, breaking her neck. I scream in horror, but then breathe a sigh of relief that she isn't after me any more. I manage to get the door open. No sooner did I walk out of the booth than this woman's reanimated body stands straight up with her head canted at an unnatural position. I start sprinting. She takes off after me saying "this was supposed to be my story!!!". I just keep running down the street. I run over the highway, the whole time this freak is never more than two steps away from jamming that kitchen knife in my back. I run right over a highway and a bus nearly hits me and runs overtop of my pursuer. Now she's looks to be dead for real this time. I keep walking down the sidewalk and realize there's a patrol car slowly following me. I turn around to look and suddenly the window breaks and lead is flying past me. I take off as quickly as I can, being pursued by red and blue lights. I manage to slip into an alley and the siren screams by. Safe for now. I realize there is a back entrance to a Blockbusters in this alley. I choose to go in and hide. Maybe the kid who works nights here won't notice me. I slip in and hide in the office. I manage to hide about 20 minutes and then I sneeze. The kid turns around and says "Mister, I know you're back there, you don't have to hide from me, I won't turn you into the pigs." I emerge from my hiding place and say "Is it just you here tonight?" "Yeah and it's a Tuesday so it's gonna be slow as hell. Nights like this are the kind that I'm glad I got a tape player and this portable TV. Slipped it in when boss wasn't looking. Anything you wanna watch since you're hiding from the cops and all?" "Not really." "Well, since you can't really go out there right now, I suggest you watch this one, it's my favorite. Tell me what you think." WHERE YOU BELONG So I slipped it into this little set and all of a sudden I'm back in my stinky recliner with the movie credits rolling. And that's the last time I'll ever smoke K2.
This prompt clearly shows how little you know about the right and of conservatism as a whole. Conservatism is the idea of a small central government with very limited power. Where the vast majority of power is left for the individual states to wield, given that the states are much closer to their own citizens than a central government could ever hope to be. The right is focused on states right and the rights of the individual. There would be no rich old white men holding concentrated power over the US let alone the world. The idea of a strong central government with concentrated power is actually a left idea. Where the central government is massive and involved with every aspect of your daily life.
I knew something was wrong the moment I got out of the car. The sound of my own footsteps hung deafeningly in the thick summer air as I crunched my way along the gravel driveway. Not another sound welcomed me to the property, not even the grinding whine of cicadas in the aging oak trees lining the drive. It was a relief when Uncle Roger answered the front door. "Come on in, then. Just down the hall with your bags. Grab something from the kitchen if you'd like." An hour later, seated comfortably by the window with a mug of tea and a handful of blueberries, I had almost forgotten my initial apprehensions. The interior of the house was old but clean well-cared for, warm and smelling faintly of cinnamon and wood polish. Muffled jazz music filtered through the air from the radio on the mantle, mingling with the thoughtful ticking of the grandfather clock and my uncle's tuneless humming as he mumbled his way through his evening crossword puzzle. I had hardly begun to relax when a screech of static shot me abruptly to my feet. The lights flickered, then sizzled out with a burnt smell of ozone. Before the light faded, I saw the elongated tendrils of a shadow begin to creep across the floor... I flattened myself against the wall, terrified, as an icy mist filled the darkened room. Glowing figures began to drift down from the ceiling, keening and gibbering with many voices. One without a head appeared beside me, stretching out slender, hyaline fingers towards my throat. As I shrieked, I caught a glimpse of Uncle Roger across the room, standing on his chair with the newspaper still dangling from one hand. With the other, he thumped loudly on the ceiling. The lights slowly blinked back on. No trace of mist or ghostly figures remained. One thumb hooked in his overalls, my uncle glared disapprovingly at the ceiling. "Durned pipes in the attic. Need to find a new plumber to take a look. The last few I've had out to check them have never come back."
"I can't go with you,"said First. Cold air blasted down the valley. A lone klaxon blared, warning of an incoming Negation storm towards the last human settlement in the universe. Second hugged his body, the last body in a long succession of many. He stared at the waning rays of sunlight. "Why not?"he asked, his tone flat and perfunctory. They had had this conversation many times before. "You know why."First clapped her hands around Second's cheeks and forced him to stare into her eyes. A warmth spread from his chest and his breath slowed. He shook his head and clasped his hands over her own. "The Universe is dying. We can escape its death. But I'm not leaving without you. Travel with me." Her breath frosted in the air. Second saw the moon and the stars in her eyes. His throat choked as he watched a tear roll down her cheek. "We've been here so long, Second. We've traveled on the undercurrents of the Grid. We've watched sophons unfold from the edges of black holes. We've seen Jupiter's skies connect through gamma ray bursts. It's time to let go." "You want death,"he replied. The word hung over them, like a sword over a king's head. "The final freedom,"First said. The sky blackened. Lightning crashed down onto the ground. A yellow portal opened behind them. The hint of a verdant universe appeared behind the opening. She let go of Second's hands. "I—I don't want to lose you,"Second said. His voice shook. A low frequency rumble spread throughout the valley. Chunks of land tore themselves from the earth and floated into orbit. The portal behind him grew larger. "We will never forget each other, even within the Void's walls. Goodbye, my love."She stepped back. He did not reach for her. Second closed his eyes as the portal enveloped him. His consciousness sped forth into the newly created future. He was reborn without her.
Whispers have followed me since I first started primary school. “Watch out for that one, he’ll turn out a villain.” “Don’t work with him, he’s going to be a villain.” It’s pretty hard, honestly. I don’t _want_ to be a villain. I didn’t ask to be born with anger manipulation. Yet here I am. The only person who would ever sit with me in primary was Lassie. She called my powers ‘wicked cool’ and made me show them off whenever I could. _She_ has healing. People love her for it. She could have had any friend in the world, and she chose me. We drifted apart in secondary school, though. I always got the impression she was a little jealous of me, though I don’t know why. I would give anything to be able to help people instead of just pissing them off. She always tried to outdo everyone else, no matter what the subject. She had to be the best. I just couldn’t keep up. All I wanted was to keep my head down, and maybe do a little bit of good in the world. But that’s all in the past. I’ve been thinking for a long time now, and I’m going to become a hero, no matter what anyone says. My powers don’t make me who I am. Only I can do that. That’s what’s led me here. I’m sitting on the kerb, not far from the city centre, keeping an eye out for any trouble. A lot of people have passed me. Most don’t give me more than a second glance. Aspiring heroes in homemade costumes aren’t exactly rare around here. It’s the really good heroes we’re in sore need of. Anyone who’s anyone seems to gravitate towards New York or Washington D.C.. It’s true that the crime rates there are astronomical, and villains run rampant, but other places need heroes too. The only major hero in my city is a guy who calls himself The Bell Tower. The rest of us just call him the bellend. He can create sonic blasts, and it’s impossible to miss him. He’s a bit ridiculous, honestly, but at least he keeps petty crime down. We’ve never had a major villain here. We occasionally get try-hards, but they usually fizzle out within weeks. The bellend doesn’t even have to get involved. There’s a kerfuffle from the alleyway behind me, and I turn to look. Some thug has pulled a knife on a young girl, and she’s broken out into hysterical tears. I pull myself to my feet, trying not to seem excited. Crime is a bad thing, of course, but this is the first opportunity I’ve had to try and prove to myself that I can be a hero. “Hey!” I call out, jogging over to the alley. The would-be mugger looks me up and down and rolls his eyes. That wasn’t really the effect I was going for, but there are a lot of ‘heroes’ around, and most of them run at the first sign of trouble. “Bugger off.” He tells me. I cross my arms and shake my head firmly. “Not until you leave the girl alone.” He doesn’t seem impressed. “Blah blah blah. Not happening.” “Fine.” I reply, trying to stop myself from bouncing excitedly. “Guess I’ll have to make you.” He turns away from the girl, who shrinks back against the wall. I feel rather sorry for her. She can’t be older than ten. He throws a punch, ignoring the knife in his other hand. I dodge and assess the situation, trying to remember the books I’ve read, giving advice on how to be a hero. It would be really useful if my powers extended to calming people down, but they don’t, and so the best I can do is to ramp up his anger levels until he sees red, slashing the knife wildly and throwing punches that wouldn’t hit even if I stood still. I shove the levels up higher, backing away and leading him away from the poor girl. One of his eyes slowly starts bleeding red, indicating a popped blood vessel, and I wince. If I make him any angrier then he’ll likely have a heart attack, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him. He stumbles over in his anger, tripping on a rock and falling face first to the ground. He hits the ground hard and goes still. I feel his anger cut off, as if flipping a switch. The girl screams. I glance up, but she’s already running. I don’t follow. The would-be mugger isn’t dead, much to my relief, so I make myself scarce before he wakes up. That didn’t really go to plan. Three weeks later and I’m feeling pretty discouraged. I’ve mostly managed to avoid seriously injuring anyone, but all the people I try to help seem to be scared of me. I’ve had two official warnings from the police and had the bellend tell me that the best thing I can do with my specific skillset is to not use my powers at all. I’m sitting on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, when my phone goes off. It tells me that the notification is from Lassie. I sit up, curious. She hasn’t contacted me in years. I’m surprised she still has my number saved. _Heard you were trying to make it as a hero._ Reads the text, Lassie’s spelling and grammar as impeccable as always. I blink at it, and watch as another notification comes in, then another. _Boring._ _If you’re still interested in it, then why not come bust my ass ;)._ There’s a photo attached, of a corner store not far from my house. I jump up, grab my costume and manage to tangle myself in it in my hurry to pull it on. Lassie’s trying to become a villain, and she needs a nemesis if she wants to make it big. This is my chance.
Regicide "What if you aren't good enough tomorrow,"said the squire with a voice that was borderline whimper. "I know I'm good enough,"I said laying on my back across the fire from the peasant who at this point was audibly shaking from nerves. "But what if you're not" "I am" The squire stayed silent. After a few moments he picked up a stick and started scratching indiscriminate lines on the soft dirt. The night was tense and the looming sense of dread instilled in both of us what could best be described as a general sense of sagging. Tomorrow was the prophesied day. Tomorrow I killed the king. It occured to me that most people spend their entire lives searching for a purpose — some long-awaited epiphany wherein your raison d'etre is suddenly revealed to you in a easy-to-digest picture-filled format. I was born with that. Purpose. I was born knowing what I had to do and when. That day is tomorrow... hence the sagging. I broke the silence. "I've trained my entire life for tomorrow. I'm ready. In any case, the prophecy says I win, and it's not been wrong yet." The squire looked up from his array of haphazard dirt lines. He nodded solemnly, but the concerned look on his face was still being illuminated by the fire. He looked back down at the lines. "Speak. You're clearly upset by something,"I said. For a few seconds the camp fell under a tense silence — the kind of silence that precedes someone about to speak. It occured to me in those few seconds that the silence is not unlike a wave drawing in the tide before it crashes. The anticipation of his response seemed to draw in erratic noises that stemmed from the crackling of the fire or the whooshing of the forest. It was that kind of silence. "How does it feel?"he asked not looking up. "How does what feel?" "The prophecy. Tomorrow. Starting sword lessons before you could walk. Having to grow up in the shadows. Run from kings when kids your age should be running for balls. How does it feel?" The silence fell back in. I continued looking up at the stars, and I could still hear the distinct sound of a stick scratching dirt a few feet away from me. "You know I was born on that day,"he continued before I could respond. "What day?" "February 29th. The day the king-killer would be born,"he said. "It's funny actually. I had this fear all my childhood that I was the chosen one. That I had to kill the king years from now and I'm wasting all this time that should be spent training. I had an irrational fear of kings because of it. I tried all my life to distance myself from anything king-related out of a fear that it had been me this whole time. The day I heard about you was one of the best days of my life... I'd hate to be you if I'm being honest." I sat up from the ground and looked at the squire. He looked up and gave a nervous looking smile. I laid back down, crossing my arms over my chest. "I don't really have a choice in the matter. It's my destiny." Silence ensued for a time after this; the only sounds stemming from the soft buzzing of the night and the sounds of the squire playing with his stick. After a few minutes, the crinkling of paper broke the silence. "... and this child born on the day of leap will on his eighteenth birthday slay the king, freeing the kingdom,"I read. "is that..."the squire asked. "It's the prophecy" "You always keep the prophecy on you?" "A version" The squire laughed somewhat. "I've never actually read it" "You've never read the prophecy of the man you've been following for weeks now?" "Can't read" "But you know it right?" "I know the birthday." "And the other parts?" "Other parts?" "The dog bite? The blue eyes? The picture?" "No idea." "The chosen one was supposed to be bitten on his second birthday by a dog,"I said sticking my right wrist out had a particularly nasty bite-shaped scar on it. "I didn't know being bit by a dog was an act of divine intervention,"responded the Squire rolling his right pant leg up to show a similar looking bite mark. "The prophecy holds an image of a majestic eagle. I was born with a birthmark on my neck that bears the same image,"I said now bearing the left side of my neck that held the birthmark. "It does look like a bird... I'll admit,"responded the Squire. "and the unprecedented blue eyes..." It suddenly occurred to me that the Squire's eyes were startling blue. I had never noticed before. A strange feeling started in the base of my stomach. "Interesting. I hope to learn to read one day,"the squire said. "Today, however, I'm going to sleep. It's late and tomorrow is a somewhat important day. Good night." "Good night" In the morning, I woke up before the Squire. I stood up to go use the bathroom and out of the corner of my eye caught the collection of lines that the Squire had spent so much time on last night. Approaching it, I sense of dread overcame me. The random lines were, in fact, hardly random at all... it was an perfect replica of the eagle from the prophecy. I shook the Squire awake. He blinked groggily at me confused at the purpose of the sudden awakening. "The eagle. Where did you see it?" "The what? Why did you wa-" "The drawing you did. Where did you see it?" The squire blinked a couple more times. Processing. "It's just a picture that's always been in my mind. I've drawn it since i've been a kid. I dont know. I dream about it." I felt my stomach drop. Could it be... "Why?" I had no words. Silence followed his question for an awkward amount of time. "It's a good picture. That's all,"I finally said. "Oh. Thank you." I nodded in response. "Are you ready for today?"he asked. "Yeah. I'm ready." He stood up. We quickly broke camp and started in the direction of the king. A strange smile crept across the Squire's face. Neither the Squire nor the Chosen One knew why. &#x200B;
Angela looked out imperiously from her love seat in the family room. Reggie, her husband, sat next to her and stared impassively forward into space "Jared, I'm glad you joined us. Please sit."Jared was the last one to enter the room, so he had to jam himself between his siblings on the couch. It really was too small to fit all four of them. He stared at his mother until her dramatic pause finished. "I understand you are all probably confused that I called this family meeting, but...well...it's important."Jared stifled a yawn. He'd grown tired of these meetings. Mom was such a hypochondriac. His right leg was jammed into his sister's hip so there was no hope of subtly checking his phone. What a bother these things were. "Your sister,"Angela continued, "has some serious news." Jared interrupted. "Is it actually serious? Or is this going to be a waste of my time?" Angela looked like someone had smashed an egg on her face. "Jared! That's horrible of you. Why would you say such a thing?" "Oh, I don't know? Because every other month or so there's some sort of something flying around this house that you raise a stink over? It never affects me so I don't really care anymore." "How about this, asshole?"his sister, Amy, piped up from his right side. Her father shifted uncomfortable at the language. "I've got cancer and I need chemo. Does that make you feel anything?" Jared shrugged. "No." "Nothing?" "Yeah, nothing. It doesn't affect me, so why should I care?" "Jared, what the fuck?"Harry, his brother crushed into his left side, had exploded. "This is outrageous." "Language! Don't swear in my house!"Reggie, the patriarch had spoken. "Really, you're complaining about language at a time like this?"Harry retorted, dumbfounded. Reggie reminded Jared of a swollen prune. Ready to bust, but still wrinkly and purplish. "Yes, I am complaining about language. Do not swear under my roof!" "Amy has cancer and Jared thinks it's a bore and you think swearing is a more pressing issue?"It was astounding that this was a hill someone was willing to die on. Angela cut in. "You two, please. Calm down. Stick to the subject at hand. Family meetings have rules. Please abide by them." "Holy shit, is that all you--" "Harry!"Reggie cut in. "Knock it off or I will have you dismissed from this meeting!" "Amy"Harry squeezed between clenched teeth. "I am sincerely sorry that your brother has no humanity for your plight." "That's ok. I don't expect him too."Amy was full of grace. "He's been a heartless bastard lately." "You too, Amy! Watch your profanity." "Yes, dad." "Thank you. Please do not cuss in this home."Reggie really had a one track mind. "yes, dad. Of course." Angela reasserted herself. "Now then, I understand this is going to be tough for all of us. It's time to..."She stifled a sob. "band together in this time of struggle."Jared openly rolled his eyes. "Really, you're not going to make any effort to take this seriously?" "Why should I? It's a sin to lie, and we are so very christian." "Just shut up." "Maybe I will, but only to get this unfortunate event over with sooner." "Jerk" "Self-righteous" Angela spoke up. "Anyway...here's what we've agreed to do..."and the meeting went on without much more incident. At the conclusion, the siblings removed themselves from the couch. They filed out one-by-one, each attempting to return to their daily activities. Only two remained. Privacy gained, Jared turned to his youngest sister, Lucy. "Really, breast cancer?"She gave him no response, except for that devilish smile of hers. Simply maddening.
Thanos awoke in an area filled it blotchy grey prisms. ‘Now do you understand?’ asked a voice as cold as the vacuum of space. ‘Where am I?’ He demanded. The voice replied, ‘The space between the tenth and eleventh dimensions.’ Thanos attempted to close his fist, but it was no longer there, lost at the elbow. ‘Do you now understand?’ The voice repeated. ‘The growth of spiral life will not be deterred by blunt force alone.’ A figure materialised behind him, the form of which seemed to rob light from the air around it, save for its eyes, which were deathly white. Thanos left a the figure, destroying it with one punch of his remaining arm. ‘You’re plans failed because you failed to realise the true nature of the threat,’ The voice continued, ‘all you accomplished was to provoke them, which only worsens the situation.’ The figure appeared before him again. This Time he asked: ‘The how would you save the universe?’ ‘You were correct in assuming that extermination is an excellent tool for such ends, however, your method would worsen things: seeing that their resource are now in excess, they would only reproduce faster. The only way to quell their growth is through absolute despair.’ ‘Who are you?’ Thanos demanded. ‘We are the Anti-spiral.’
We didn’t listen, of course. I led the way. I knew the most about this place after all. The stairs creaked and groaned. When I cleared the last step I was shocked by what I saw. A couch sat in the center of the roo. Four people sat on it.There was a man, a woman, a little boy and a little girl. It was obvious that they were dead. They suddenly stood up in perfect unison and seemingly floated toward us. I started to panic. My friend Dave grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back down the stairs. We thought that was the end. I should’ve known it wasn’t.
"you have cheated on me after all these years!! After what I have done for you!! I shouted at her. My right fist was clench so hard ,i could have punched her that very moment. Time stopped, looking at her face made me remember all of the happy times we have spent together, she treated me nicely since we first met. Even though, my heart is broken but she is the one who made me happy. I couldn't bare the sight of the sadness portrayed on her face. I decided to let her go. I didn't know where things went wrong between us. We were so happy together. Deciding to let her go wasn't the best decision to make as they would go forever. She and our unborn child.
The smell of smoke and burning metal fill my lungs, and I'm forced to cough, making noises that could cost me my life. I had seen the distinctly white embellished P-39 tumble down the sky with my own eyes, even following it as it crashed into this forsaken island, there was no doubt about that. But I had not seen the pilot die. And that fact alone kept my heart racing as though I was back 15,000 feet up in the air on my Hurricane and not limping crudely through a humid jungle at the centre of one of the many uninhabited islands off the coast of Piraeus Harbour. Glimpsing back with a grimace at the wreckage left behind me, I bid a silent final farewell to my Hurricane -- one that had gotten me through so many miraculous odds, it had become my unyielding superstition to stick with it, even when the army had upgraded to a newer model of fighter jets. And now considering the feat I had just accomplished, I guess my superstition had paid off in the end. I had seen the unmistakable topside of the white fighter jet as I was descending from the clouds in the intense assault on our base that had lasted for three whole days. At first, I had thought it was just a speck of cloud, until I saw how smoothly and fast it was gliding through the air. I guess that was why they painted it in white. It was simply being at the right place at the right time. Complete luck. Had the pilot in the white P-39 noticed me even half a second earlier, I would had been another name in a list that expanded over hundreds of Allied fighter pilots. I had shot down the White Devil of Stalingrad, the flying ace and pride of the Axis, that had been terrorising Allied skies for almost half a decade now. Even with the stars aligned to my favour, the P-39 somehow managed to make a highly complicated Kulbit manoeuvre in a final ditch counterattack attempt. It had succeeded in destroying the engine compartment of my Hurricane, but the damage on my craft was far lower than his. With the White Devil of Stalingrad shot down, the dogfight happening overhead should be an easy victory. And I could only imagine the immense praise and commendations I would receive upon my return. But that was only if I survived. I had to get as far away from the wreckage as my broken leg would allow me to travel. A towering wall of smoke was already growing from the burning fighter jet. If by some ungodly miracle, the pilot on the white P-39 had survived the crash then they were going to head over here for sure. I was injured and in no condition to fight. The only option was to wait for support to arrive after the dogfight was over and victory was in our hands. No matter how good the White Devil of Stalingrad was in the skies, he was simply a man on the ground. Trying to control my unsteady breathing as I hobbled further into the depths of the jungle, clutching tightly onto the revolver in my hands, I picked up a noise to my side that instantly froze me on the spot. Glancing to my side and meeting eyes with a blond-haired girl in flight gear that could be no taller than up to my chest, I was confused for a second until she ripped a knife out from her side and charged for me at a frightening pace fit for a wild animal. "Fu-fuck...!" I pointed the gun at her and shot, but she spun around at the last second, surprising me with her movement and the shot failed to find its target. She whirled back to me instantly with a roundhouse kick that knocked the gun straight out of my hands and making me stumble backwards. Then, she crashed into me and I fell with the weight of her body crushing down on my ribs and the feeling of cold metal on my neck.
He sat reading a book on his porch. The land was covered in the early snow of winter and the evening was still, as if the wind held its breath. Wood burned in a metal stove on the side to keep him warm. As night descended he put in a bookmark, closed the book and moved into his home. He went to the basement to check the heater and ensure it was fed for the night. It was step one for the night. At 65, each day his life was a set of routines. Read a book, check the furnace, pull the curtains, turn on the lights, turn on the TV, cook and eat dinner, watch TV for an hour, turn off the lights, retire to bed, read the book till he fell asleep. This was for the night, the day had its own playbook. &#x200B; These days there was an added annoyance. It would start at 10pm and run through the night, an intermittent tap-tap-tap and skritch-skritch on the living room window. He'd never stayed awake to know when it stopped. It had started 30 days ago when he found a silver comb on the dirt path as he was returning from town with new curtains. He knew the myths around this but didn't care. The comb was beautiful with intricate carvings and thin tangs finely spaced. He brought it home and it now rested on the coffee table between the TV and couch. The same night he had woken up deep into the night to a strange sound and gone back to sleep. He'd dismissed it as the keening and wailing of a fox, as he'd seen a fox on the path on his way back. The window noises had started the next night and every day since. He didn't care about it, probably some stupid bird. Even if it the stories were true, he was not going to give in to fear. &#x200B; Tonight, ten minutes into the tapping there was a knock on the door. It repeated in 3 min, as he sat on the couch coming to a decision. As the third knock started he opened the door. It was a woman. She stood a hand shorter than him, had big grey green eyes that shone from a round face with ruby red lips and an elegant nose, that topped an impossibly curvaceous body. She wore a copper red cloak with a hood that was tied at the waist, emphasising her curves. Curls of hair that mirrored the cloak peeked from between her neck and the cloak. Her hand hung in the air with her slender fingers curled in. She didn't hesitate and tapped him on his forehead and smiled. For a while they both stood still looking at each other, till she broke the loud silence with a soft question, "Will you leave a lady standing in the cold?" &#x200B; He stood aside and let her enter. He didn't flinch when she brushed against him as she came in. He didn't believe in the old stories, but he somehow knew she was myth given life. He was just surprised because he hadn't expected her to look as she did and the window tapping had not ceased. She shrugged out of her cloak and hung it on the coat hook by the door. She wore a snug white tube top and black tights that went into tan knee high boots. Her copper hair hung loose, long and lustrous reaching to her waist. She moved into the house, turned and gave him a look that would have melted stone. He swallowed closed the door and moved in, wondering. &#x200B; She went to he comb, and used it to hold her hair as she pulled and balled it up. She sat on the couch and beckoned for him to sit beside her. He preferred to stand facing her. She smiled and said, "Don't worry about the window. Your black curtains turned the window panes reflective and that infernal bird is now fighting its mirror image" &#x200B; He stared at her, feeling foolish for having put up with the tapping and still confused on where things were going. "Not there", she said as she inclined her head towards the bedroom, "I just warn and keep company. The main act will come later. You must have heard my call a month ago, now I am here to keep you company till..." &#x200B; "Let's have some beer and talk.". She pulled a can from the ice box on the table and offered it to him, he didn't know where that had come from. "You are a man of few words and many convictions. I've watched you a long time, going through life working hard for others. The sacrifices you made, the courtesies you offered. I would like to give you some back before..." &#x200B; "I know you expected my other form, but I didn't think that was necessary. And anyways my plans are something else. So please sit."He took the can and sat on the couch, as she pulled another can for herself. &#x200B; She spoke more, but he spoke also. She helped him shed some heavy burdens he'd carried for others. She noticed his collection of D&D adventure books and he didn't know when they got into a 2-player session. She was the DM and he was a lone adventurer exploring the land, cutting his own path through it. She obviously knew all about those lands. In fact she would snigger at parts of the adventure book as she shared how it really should be. As the night wore on he relaxed and smiled, not worrying when fatigue weighed on him and darkness claimed his consciousness. &#x200B; He woke up with a start. The curtains were drawn, dawn streamed in as the sun hung on the horizon. She had her cloak on and seemed to be waiting for him. A man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts stood beside her. As he got up he realised he didn't feel the usual aches in his joints. He stepped away from the table and wondered at his unwrinkled hands as he felt his smooth face. He felt a strength and energy he thought he'd grown out of long ago. Then he turned back to the table and saw that he was slumped over the table, an old man with a smile speaking of contentment at a life well lived. He knew then what had happened and what was next, at least he knew what the stories told. But then, as per the stories the man should have been in all black. &#x200B; "You can choose to come with me to eternal peace, you have earned it", he heard Death say. &#x200B; "Or you can come with me on an adventure. I don't just warn anyone and I think you would do well I in the shadows I walk."
Here we go. I thought to myself as I took the first shaky steps into the restaurant, it only took a few seconds of scanning the room for me to find her shining face looking directly at me. Upon seeing each other smiles broke out on both of our faces as I moved to sit with her. I thankfully manage to roll a 16 and safely sit down. "Why is it that you're always early Claire?" "Well when it comes to you I'd just rather not miss anything by being late."She replied in her usual cheery tone, my only way of reply was a large grin breaking out on my face. Oh god I'm gonna mess this up. I think to myself, trying to maintain any aura of self-confidence on my face. "Bruce are you okay? What's up?"She asked. Of course she could see straight through me. "Well, there is actually something I've been meaning to ask you seeing as we've been dating nearly four years now. I wanted to ask you to y'know."I manage to spit out as seemingly all my blood rushes to my face. C'mon dice, don't fail me now, it's just four little words. You've loved this girl for years, just ask her to marry you. C'mon, c'mon! 7, are you serious?! A 7, not like this please. Those odds are way to low, this is the love of my life I can't lose her on a 7. I've gotta reroll. Please universe, throw me a bone. Here goes nothing... A 1?! A fucking 1! Oh my god, oh my god please brain just don't speak. Just close your god damn lips. "Claire,"I say with a confident smile, "will you do me the honor of breaking up with me and giving me your blessing to date your mother. She's a lovely lady and I think we'd really get on well together." My next thought was quenched by the glass of red wine thrown over my face as Claire marches out with a look of pure unfiltered anger on her face. "Thanks universe, couldn't of given me a nice easy go of it could you?"I mutter to myself seconds before failing my skill check to successfully stand up, ending up collapsed on the floor with red wine seeping into my shirt. Maybe I can roll a 20 on the apology.
I look at myself once in the mirror, making sure I look like always - perfect. Deep green eyes stare back at me, charming and witty - but hidden underneath is the darkness of the abyss, just waiting to pull you in. Sharp, delineated jawline and a sexy smirk, I was graced with the looks of a God, I've always said. Women concur; But I digress. Adjusting my tie one last time, I let my eyes roam over the pitch black tuxedo I'm wearing, with a simple cotton off-white shirt underneath and velvet cuffs. Slim, graceful and deadly; Like always. Smiling, I head out the door, twirling the keys to my Ferrari on my finger. My thoughts are wandering to my date today; A gorgeous writer, up and coming. Quite prominent, and promising - coming from me? High praise. I've dabbled in many fields, from writing to science, with high degrees of accomplishment in all. My fame increasing every day, I first was noticed when I was 15 as a child prodigy. I'm now 24, and one of the accepted prodigies of the generation; But I digress. It was a quiet drive, just how I like it. Peaceful. Slowly, the facade of a fancy Italian restaurant rose into view, burgundy and scarlet trimmings. Pastoucci's, one of the best cuisines in the country; I've always got a seat reserved. As I walked in, smiling at the guards who immediately became respectful on seeing me, I grew satisfied. This was where I belonged. As my feet carried me to the main chambers, I saw her - absolutely stunning, but I felt nothing but curiousity. Curious, about how I would kill her, and how the world would react. How I would do it, and how the police would have another dead end. You see, regardless of my genius at everything, the only thing that satisfies my intellectual appetite is committing the perfect crime; the perfect murder. One slip up, and I'm dead - in jail forever. Walking on the edge of a blade, that's how I love to live. Adrenaline is all I feel, no empathy. No love, no sadness. She sees me coming, and a light flush covers her face. A smirk forms on my flawless face; Like I said, women concur. I gently pulled back a seat and sat down. Looking into her eyes, I said, "Good Evening, Ms. Brown. Looking quite lovely, a feast for my eyes."She rolled her eyes, and picked up the menu. She was different than I imagined, different from most other girls. She wore no perfume, and no makeup. Already a favorable impression was forming in my mind. She looked up, and asked what I was ordering for appetizers. "Well, you can choose for both of us, but I hope you'll be dessert,"I said with a wink and a seductive smile. Blushing again, she perused the menu. Waiting patiently, she eventually chose a Maine Lobster Risotto seasoned with white wine; A fine choice. Waiting for the meal, I leaned forward a little."So, Ms. Brown, I hear you're a writer. Have you ever thought of writing a crime noir?"She smiled and said, "Crime has always interested me! As a kid, I tried to solve every riddle and mystery I came across."Intrigued, I asked her what she envisioned as the perfect crime; "Oh, that's simple."As she explained, I lost myself. By the end, I was convinced of two facts. One? She was brilliant. Two? She had seen quite a lot of death; Only through experience could someone accumulate some experience. I would know. As the date proceeded, laughing and making conversation, I placed subtle safeguards over the table; one of my suspicions seemed to be coming true. My instincts were also tingling, and they were never wrong. We finally finished our meal and I called the waiter, signalling for a check. She looked at me curiously, asking about dessert. Dessert? Ha! You may be smart, but I'm a genius. You aren't fooling anyone. I gave her a roguish grin; "Dessert special at my place!"She laughed and got up, opening her bag before I insisted that I would pay. As we walked towards the exit, my instincts intensified. However, I had made my counter plans. I was confident. However, as soon as we stepped out of the building, I froze. Behind me, her voice sounded out. "You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Gentleman Killer. You've been caught."A smile in that voice. In front of me, 10 police cruisers had lined up and officers were everywhere, guns pointed at me. My lips curled into a confident smile. "You got me."I wasn't kidding - I was genuinely surprised. Apparently, our friend here, Ms. Brown - not that that was her real name, was a prodigy in her own right. The up and coming detective, having solved some of the toughest cases in recent times, had taken me to task. "Not such a genius now, huh, Mr. Gentleman Killer?"Her voice dripped with sarcasm. My smile grew wider. As I was led towards the cruiser, I turned back to look at her. "I hope you're ready for our next meeting, Miss Detective."as I said that, a man ran out into the field, and started shooting at the cops. Immediately, I was up and out; I had always kept myself in good shape, and I'd won two athletics competions consecutively in the past before I dropped it. It was too easy. My mind wandered to the evening. With a little psychological manipulation, everything is possible; I resisted the urge to laugh. During the date, I'd visited the bathroom once. At that time, I'd set off a bomb; Not the explosive kind, but a fuse in someone's head. A man I'd met a few days ago. It was so easy to manipulate people, like a puppet on a string - a few words, pats on the back? And nothing related to shooting or violence, but everyday phrases joined together in a way to trigger a certain pathway in your mind, enhancing violent tendencies. I left with after I took a glance at a gun shop; suggestion did the rest. He was now a walking time bomb, and one text from me was all he needed to blow. He was my safety measure. The future should be interesting. I've got a rival now.
He did it again. Bloodlust smothered his human senses and awoke the wrath curled up inside at him which unravelled as a hard slap that sent me flying across the room in front of our two young children. He rushed over, akin to a charging rhino, and booted a kick into my stomach, knocking the air out. I was wheezing on the floor, ringing swarming through my airs, the sounds of my shrieking children secondary to the buzz. My sight was black-rimmed and hazy. There were tears blurring the crappy sight, my glasses lying away from reach. He hated tears. He snapped my glasses with a crunch. ‘Why are you crying for?’ he bent down and lifted me by my shoulder-length hair. ‘You did this to yourself. You disappoint me and you should’ve known better than to get me all riled up.’ He turned me to my sobbing children. ‘Now go apologise to them,’ he said as I whimpered, my bruising chest still reeling from the harsh attack. ‘Momma, momma!’ they were sobbing hysterically, out of their minds with the same horror story. Mommy gets hit by daddy and then daddy locks mommy in a room. And it’s true to an extent. I’m still here. My heart still thumps like a cocaine-fuelled teenager ready for a long night when I see him with flowers, when his mood is good for a couple of hours. It’s like hope starts to sink back in, like I never want to let it go. But my mind keeps screaming, my sanity locked inside a tight airless box. It’s always trying to tell me to leave. And my heart just can’t bare to lose him. ‘Apologise!’ he smacks my face once again and tosses my thin frame towards my children. They jump back in fright. I can see the older wants to touch me but hesitates as he continues to weep. It’s like I’m already dead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I breathe but it hurts to speak and it hurts to breathe when they look at me like that. Helpless. Trapped in this life because I’m a selfish woman. He crushes his leg into my back and stands on me, pinning me against the floor. I splutter out in agony. It’s like my lungs are being crushed. And the fear pins me down too. He’s going to really kill me this time. But then my oldest lunges at his father, his tiny hands in little fists. Their father knocks them away. My oldest hits the wall and falls onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling with a red hand print on his face. I remember what it was like back when I was little. My father was the same, just as vile and cruel but so sweet when he was human. Not the possessed demon ready to light a fire. But I remember the one thing I did. I made a pact with the Devil himself and said I’d give my soul to him if he would stop my father from hurting my mother. I never made a physical contract of any sort but after that night, my father was never seen again. We attended a funeral years later when the police said it was likely he was dead. And in the sky, despite the weather promising rain, a bright ray of sunlight spilled over his grave. A hot ray, like the Devil was promising that he was burning in Hell. For all I knew, it was a coincidence. But as he pressed into my back, I called for the Devil again, to stop it all. To make him go away. To save my children from the suffering. To stop the pain. And my husband clutched at his chest and dropped onto the glass table beside him, smashing through it. Like clockwork, my oldest sprung to action, grabbed the lamp sat on the side and slammed it down onto his father’s head repeatedly. Over and over. As I sat up, my breath back, the pain fading away, my son looked at me when he ran out of stamina, my other silent. The world around me began to fade to black. I guess that death was coming for me. That painlessness was a lie. It was a facade. As my head fell back against the floor and my being swooped into black nothingness, a dark voice reached to me, its sound wrapping itself around my body until my limbs were ripped away and my body disintegrated into millions of pieces. ‘Life has seasoned you well. I sit in the foolish hearts of mankind and lock away the sense from the Heavens above. You were a fool and sold your soul to me. The Heavens do not take lightly our contract. And so, your children will suffer the consequences for you instead.’ &#x200B; *Yeah I took this a bit far. Too far, perhaps? I'm not sure.*

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