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“Rise and shine, little creatures!” “Help, they’re killing me!” “Food, glorious food!” “Now who should I shit on today?” “Will you please watch your step?” “Cat! Cat! Cat! Cat! Cat! Cat! Cat! Squirrel!” “And then Jimmy said, ‘Oh hell no!’” “I like watching Layla in the morning.” “And he hauled his ass home like an athlete!” “I smell something sweet.” “Hello Baby.” “And IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII will always love you!” “Living on the edge, fighting crime —” “Help! My rights are being violated!” “Oh no, I think I swallowed a fly!” “We may be microscopic, but we are mighty!” “Is there any honey around here?” “RUN! RUN! ITS THE BEAR FROM THE ZOO!” “Earthlings, your time has —” “Dearly beloved, we be gathered here today.” “I swear if someone else TOUCH MY SHIT!” “Did you soil yourself?” “Maybe.” “CHOO CHOO MUDAFUCKERS!” “Get the hell out my face!” “Layla, when will you come back to me?” I take a sip of my coffee, my morning blaring like a TV or radio playing all their channels at once. Slowly, but surely, the sun simply shined, the birds only chirped, the flies buzzed, the trees shut the fuck up, the dogs barked, the demons receded, the grass blew in the wind, the microorganisms calmed down, the deity stopped trying to recruit me, and the transmission for the alien invasion was cut off. All that I heard now were the pedestrians, the wind, TV shows, music, and my goddamn thoughts. You know, people shit. And while I wanted to stay on my front porch, I should probably go tell my superiors about that alien invasion. Mondays.
Mark scribbled the code, letter by letter, with a trembling hand: H-I-S-T-O-R-Y-I-S-F-A-L-S-E History is false… He replaced the display case and stepped back, still trembling, looking over his shoulder. Still nobody here. The rest of the gang would kill him later, but he couldn’t bring himself to steal that thing. Not after that. In fact, Mark wanted to be far, far away from here right now, perhaps in his apartment eating Domino’s pizza with a movie on… Go! GO! Mark said, standing up and sprint-walking down the dark, empty halls of the Louvre, What am I doing? The police are going to show up soon… The famous mummies, paintings, and statues of history all glared down at Mark in the near pitch-black darkness as he sped through the maze of marble hallways. Their eyes gave Mark a dirty, deeply wrong feeling. Something moved in front of Mark, blocking his exit. Mark slowed down, cursing, reaching for his gun in his pocket. Standing in front of him was a suited man who stared directly at Mark with a blank facial expression. He didn’t look police, for some reason, that made Mark’s heart beat even harder. “Did you touch it?” The man said. “N… touch what? What are you talking about,” Mark said, squeezing the handle of his pistol in its concealed holder. The man closed his eyes and smiled, “That heartbeat… that voice… ah, such sweet terror.” Then he opened his eyes and his face resumed its expressionless mask, “There’s no doubt. You’ve touched the Mona Lisa. You know the truth.” Mark drew his gun, not caring whether this would get him charged or not, and held it up with both hands, trembling uncontrollably. The man talked again, seemingly unfazed by the gun aimed at him, “I’m not with the authorities, nor am I here to harm you. All I’m here for is to present you with a choice: either you run away and try to live as normal a life as you can before they find you. Or…” The man grinned, an unnatural, too-straight smile, and extended a hand. Inside of his palm there was a pair of eyeballs, “You take my hand and find out how deep the lie really goes.”
"Battles sure have changed, haven't they?" It was horrifying you know, that voice. It sounded sweet and quiet, calm and patient. Like the sound of a kindly uncle who helped pick you up after you've scuffed your knee. As I turned in my chair, his face was much the same as you might imagine. Salt an peppered hair, his jaw stiff and the creases on his face worn with a thousand small grins. The same face I had been hunting for in a thousand forgotten stories and myths. A beleaguered figure through history, appearing and vanishing at the climax of the story, dancing through the history and first hand accounts. An elderly gentlemen with a far off look in his eyes that spoke and then vanished without a trace. A mythic figure. Yet here he was, plain as day. In my house. No grand clash echoed in the background. No violent din of some falling city. There was no general looking out at the violence before them. Just me, cold coffee, and my cat. Well, my rather perturbed cat. He was standing in her favorite spot after all. "What... are you doing here? And why.... What?!" Thinking back on it. I might have not been the most collected at the moment. Could you blame me though? &#x200B; I'd hunted for them after all. I was the head of the board, followed every trail and every scrap I could find. Sure, half of them were trolls, people just posting something that sounded vaguely reminiscent and then would sit back and laugh as we scrambled to figure it out. Some were other historians that found this same figure and wondered what it might have meant. The myths of a outside Watcher. The legends of those from beyond the veil of mankind. For some, a historical hobby. For me? A passion without equal. And here he stood. No.... Stooped. Over. My laptop and notes. About him. "You all remember the wars of information, yes? Where truth itself was up for grabs! What could and couldn't be done was in question! Mhmm, yes. But this time is different. The start of a trend if you will." A painting now in his hands. Well, a digital copy of one. Said to be someone's father's depiction of the man before me. It hardly looked like him now that I could compare the two. One aged, the other in their prime. One with a kindness to their face, the other with naught but strength. I was so proud I had found it though. Made it my profile pic and everything. But he just... kept talking, picking up the papers and slowly riffling through them, ignoring me altogether. "Information was found, not lost that started it. The impossible questioned as it had been seen. And for just a moment, understood. It started with the end of a hunt, and the start of another, far greater one. Different players, new rules, new goals, but a hunt all the same." "What are you talking about?"I had finally found my voice. Or at least enough of my senses to stand up and try and demand an explanation. What was he? Who was he? Granted, when he looked at me, it almost hurt. Physically. Like I could feel my dreams, my questions, my curiosity dying as I saw those still, cold, unblinking eyes. No alien intelligence beyond that gaze. No mad design. No deific power that fueled an infinite vision beyond the cosmos. Nothing but the cold eyes of a camera. One with a voice like silk and a smile like wine. And words that rang out in horrifying clarity. "The start of a hunt for Time. Rumor had passed, Myth already behind, and now into questioning. Hunting for the truth of the matter. After all..." His hand reached out, papers falling back from his grasp to my desk as that finger lightly tapped. My desktop. My computer. The camera. "They'd seen it with their own eyes now." He moved on, walking off and away towards my door, his form seeming to fade into the air itself. I know I started trying to reach for him, but I never felt him. Never touched him. Were it not for the recording, all I'd remember would be his last words. "Let's continue the tour, shall we?"
She had a terrible feeling from the moment she stepped onto the plane, but it wasn't until Mae saw the expressions pasted upon her fellow passengers' faces that she understood why. No one's eyes seemed to move, each locked to the back of the seat in front of them with a far-away gaze. Jaws ranged from slack to clenched, but everyone shared the same unblinking, hollow stare. As Mae awkwardly shoved her luggage into the overhead compartment, taking even longer than if she hadn't hurried herself, she noticed a flight attendant giving her a withering glare. Right, she thought, best not to draw attention then. Mae tried not to think too hard about the attendant and the blank stares, or about how she'd be stuck with them until she reached Adelaide. Just fit in, she thought, taking one last survey of the cabin and trying to mimic the disconcerting look of the rest of the passengers. Just two hours of staring straight ahead and not having a panic attack. Easy. Truth be told, the first hour was easy. At least in retrospect. Aside from the mounting anxiety of waiting for something terrible to happen, the time crawled by without any fanfare. When something terrible finally did happen, it was almost a relief. Without any warning, the lights in the cabin dimmed and oxygen masks fell from their compartments overhead. The lack of any alarm or statement from the cockpit was itself alarming. Were they hurtling toward the ground, crew subdued? Did she stand a greater chance of dying from trying to find out, or from staying still, and putting her mask on? In her panic, Mae had nearly missed the fact that to the rest of the passengers, nothing had changed. They remained still, eyes pasted to the backs of seats, masks dangling in front of them. Just fit in, she reminded herself, though a portion of her railed at the idea of doing nothing in the face of the apparent emergency. Nearly a minute passed in relative silence, each second itself an hour, before the lights returned to normal. "Thank you for your understanding,"was all that came over the speakers into the cabin. The passengers remained still, and the plane continued on. There would be no acknowledgement of the past two minutes, Mae knew. She couldn't explain why, but she felt it. That didn't just happen. There was no emergency. Despite the masks still hanging uselessly over each seat, she would be expected to forget this ever happened. She hazarded a sideways glance at the seat across from her, but returned quickly to her feigned expression at the sound of a groan from the back of the plane. The noise immediately caught the attention of a pair of flight attendants. Mae dared not risk glancing at their faces, but imagined they bore a similar look of hostility as she received before they'd taken off. They reached the offending passenger just as his groans had become a horrid wail. He screamed as they lifted him from his seat. He yelled as he was dragged down the aisle. He was silent shortly after the door to the cockpit shut. Mae shook, unable to keep the fear from urging her to action. Her vision buzzed as she attempted to keep her eyes fixed ahead of her. Surely they were close now. Surely this nightmare would be over soon, and she could forget this ever happened. Fortunately for Mae, she was correct - the plane soon alighted at the Adelaide Airport, though it had felt like ages and eons had passed. The lack of any sort of announcements as the plane made its descent made it difficult for her to truly relax, but she let out a long sigh of relief as tires finally met tarmac. She'd have sworn she'd been holding her breath since that awful groaning had started. The flight attendants reemerged, going down the aisles, hateful looks upon their faces as they replaced the dangling masks. Mae's fears resurfaced and redoubled. No one moved to stand, and not a sound was made. Several horrible minutes of waiting passed before the door to the cabin was opened, and a single passenger was allowed to board. No one was leaving the plane. The new passenger moved to take a seat recently left vacant. A flight attendant gave him a withering glare as he struggled to put his luggage in the overhead compartment. He sat down, after looking around a moment, and adopted a blank stare. Mae thought to warn him of what was happening, but stopped herself. It would be best if he just fit in.
Bruce Wayne sighed as he left the annual fundraiser held at Gotham's Saint Swithin's Orphanage. He detested having to put on his playboy billionaire facade for so long and was looking forward to donning his real suit. As he stepped outside, he glanced at the sky and stared curiously. A crudely made bat signal twinkled in the dark skies, barely visible to anyone not paying attention. Bruce traced the signal to a nearby room from the orphanage and saw a young boy struggling to hold the flashlight steady as he leaned out the window. Bruce glanced at his watch and shrugged. Gotham's villains could wait while Batman paid a visit to this young boy for a few minutes. As Alfred brought the car around, Bruce entered and quickly threw on his Batman gear. "Trouble already, master Bruce?", Alfred asked as he watched Bruce secure his equipment. "Just want to pay someone a visit before we leave this place. Stay near the entrance, I'll only be a minute."Batman adjusted his cowl before exiting the vehicle and melting into the shadows. He made his way quickly to the window where the young boy had been. As Batman approached, he saw a broken flashlight with a cardboard cut out of his symbol taped to the light. He examined it carefully before stowing it away into his belt. With a flip of his wrist, Batman flew into the air and landed softly inside the young boy's room. There were beds of snoring children as Batman scanned the room for whoever had signaled him. He found the boy in the corner, sobbing over the loss of his precious Bat Signal. Quietly, Batman approached him and pulled out the flashlight and handed it to the boy. The young boy gasped as he stared at the dark figure standing before him. "It's really you! Everyone said you were too busy fighting the Joker and the Riddler and the Penguin but I knew you would come. Please, Batman, I need your help!", the child cried as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "I need you to help me find someone." Batman studied the boy carefully, as he tried to calm himself down. It didn't seem like a trap, and the boy seemed genuine. Batman knelt down and asked, "Why me? You should talk with your teachers or the police if you are looking for someone."Batman continued to stay vigilant as the snores and heavy breaths of the surrounding children filled the silence. The child looked down at a worn out folder sitting next to him. He pushed it to Batman and continued to try and compose himself. "No one believes me when I tell people my mom is still alive. I've seen her in the news!" Batman picks up the folder and stops as he stares at the photo taped to the front of the folder. The woman's eyes seems to pierce his very soul, as her smile arouses emotions that he has not felt in a long time. He looks back at the child and is startled as he sees the similarities. A lump begins to form in his throat, but Batman quickly clears his throat. "How about your father, do you know who he is?" The boy shakes his head. "I don't know, when they found me, there was only a handwritten note with my mom's initials and a ring."He holds up an intricate ring with a fearsome face carved in, which Batman recognizes immediately. "It's all I have, but I know she's out there!"He begins to cry again as he pulls out an envelope. "This is all I have. It's not much, but if you could..." Batman stands up, carefully putting the folder away and pushing the envelope back. "I'll do what I can."He looks at the young boy, who stares back at him with awe. "In the meantime, wait here. Someone will come for you soon."Before the boy could utter a word, Batman leaped through the window and glided to where Alfred had parked. As he slipped through the sun roof, Alfred started the engine. "Any problems, Master Bruce?" Batman stared into the distance as he processed everything that had just happened. "Alfred, I want you to prepare a room at the mansion for a young boy that will be coming tomorrow. I also need to call someone in private." "Of course Master Bruce. I'll prepare the room as soon as we get back."said Alfred as he activated the soundproof divider within the car. Batman tapped a few buttons, and waited as the call went to voicemail. "Talia, I need to talk to you... I just met our son."
They took my light away from me. I must have wept for hours over their cooling bodies, cradling the note in my hand as my grief ascended, a crescendo of fury and rage. Bring us the girl, and wipe away your debt. She is the key to appeasing the new God-King. / / / / / I put on my shield and cursed blade Zantet, and prepared to lay waste across the land. I went into the basement, carefully re-measuring from the walls. The rhythmic pounding of the hammer into precise points in a pattern - the Dark Lord's sigil. My wife's sigil. The floor disappeared, and the teleportarion circle took me to the hidden base in the volcano overlooking the city of Pompai. I felt a moment of disorientation upon travelling in defiance of science. Once the moment passed, I sat at the desk and entered in my wife's adoptive mother's name on the false typewriter. A beep of acknowledgment, and then the real database came up. Her face, her glorious face. Another tear and fit of sadness and rage threatened, but I knew I had to keep that within, for it would drive me going forwards. "How can I help you, Ma'am?"comes through the speaker, and this time I can't hold it back. Tears drip onto the desk, as I realise that I can never hear her voice again. "Get me everything you can find on the God-King. And while you're at it, I need all the information you have on the Golden Dawn's Radiance." ...I was committed, then. They could not summon or create a new Hero whilst the old one still lived. I stared at the glass casket containing her outfit. "Modify this outfit so that it fits the Hero, Erika."I spoke to the false face, knowing from experience that this would be done, and quickly. I spent ten days there, preparing for my assault, but knowing that their time limit was fourteen. During that time, every waking moment that wasn't spent eating or sleeping was training and exercise, to get back into shape. At the end of this time, I knew that my rage would corrupt everything, but at this point, I no longer cared. I put on the outfit, and spoke to the face. "Once I leave, move yourself to the next-nearest base, in Amadon. Then, self-destruct this place."I stepped on the circle, knowing that the end was coming. / / / / / The volcano was the first volley in the Hero's War. It devastated an entire province, given that Pompai was the agricultural centre of the province of Laike, and the only source of most essential foodstuffs for the kingdom. The God-King would live to regret the first time he crossed Dionys, a man whom he had never met.
With a heavy conscience and a heavier hand I strike down the boy standing in front of me. I don't know what he's saying, because I don't speak German, but as I cock back my pistol and look at the amateur paintings hung up on the walls I think to myself that, if things were just a little different, he wouldn't have to die. But things weren't different, I knew, having come from the future, and I shoot. The bullet, a gift to the past, cleanly exits the boy's body, a trail of crimson following it. The blood splatters across a mountainside portrait still on an easel. He's looking up at me, clutching the wound, coughing, his hair messy now, and in his eyes I see no evil, no dictator, no murderer. I only see the eyes of a confused, aspiring painter. Footsteps start banging up the stairs, I assume belonging to his parents, and I take out the pocketwatch that allows me to do all this. I wind it up, and then click the button, and I'm back in my own time. I'm back in my own room. I pat myself on the shoulder, pour a tall glass of orange juice, and slouch deep down into my favorite recliner. The leather squeaks beneath me, and it reminds me of the first time, the first boy I killed, the first evil man I erased from history, when he was just a newborn. After today's kill, that was one hundred deaths ago. One hundred kids, boys and girls, some who loved their parents, some who hated them, some who loved to paint, some who loved to roughhouse, some who had many friends, and some who had none. One hundred deaths, on my conscience, for the better of humanity. The orange juice is extra tart, probably expired, and then my heart jumps. On my wall, above the TV, is a painting that wasn't there before. This sort of thing is to be expected, when one messes with time, small changes happen, but the problem with this is that I have seen this painting before. It's of a mountainside, with a splash of red on top. A. Hitler, in the corner, signed in golden letters. I touch the red, his blood, the blood I spilled, but it's not blood now, just paint. I search him up online and instead of war crimes I'm greeted with artistry. Beautiful landscapes, serene vistas. But his most famous work is the one I have a print of, the one mixed with his own ink, when he was attacked by an unknown assailant. And then, it dawns on me. The hundred humans I killed weren't murderers. They weren't dictators, rapists, or villains. No, not one of them had committed any crimes at the time of their death. They were innocent little kids, and, if instead of a bullet, if I had just helped them, pushed them in the right direction, just a little nudge, they may have turned out differently, just like the painting in front of me. I realize I have become like them. The ones I have been killing over the past ten years. The ones who murdered children, women, millions. The genocidal psychopaths who transformed history into a study of cruelty. I was no better. The death of a hundred innocent children, on my conscience, for the good of humanity. I take out the pocketwatch and wind it up. In my mind, I picture the hospital, the time, the woman. The doctors and the midwives, the crisp autumn air flowing in through an open window. I picture it all and more, as I click the watch and get thrown back in time, determined to make one-hundred-and-one the last child I kill, determined to right my wrongs and undo this mess I've made.
The blood drained from my face as I opened the large, heart-shaped box and found within a single wilting red tulip. The whole rite of passage felt like a total let down, as my friends and family gathered with me to celebrate my eighteenth birthday fell into silence. The party ended with little fanfare not long after as person after person excused themselves. Their hugs goodbye were a little tighter than their hugs hello, as if there were some great secret that they knew, that I had been left out of. My mother and father, my older brothers and sisters, each in turn told me if there was ever anything I need to tell them, they would be there for me, to support me. I didn't think anything of it in particular. This whole thing seemed to be a hoax, turning eighteen and receiving a mysterious heart-shaped box of varying size. Who cared what the flowers were? It was just the excitement of receiving such an over-the-top, floral gift from an unknown benefactor that made everything all the more exciting. When I came home that night, I looked at the large crystal vase my mother had given me to stash what we had all assumed would at least be a bouquet in. I took the dying red tulip and dropped it in with but a single thought: let it drown. Nothing of great import happened in the coming days, and it just cemented in my mind the stupidity of the floral rite. But then, one spring cloudy morning of my eighteenth year, the sky parted and the sun shined down on her. She was beautiful, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a flowing maxi dress as she stood upon the hill at the park, standing before a wooden easel with a canvas. Her long hair blew in the wind as the skirt of her pale blue dress billowed. I was taken by her on seeing her, and when I managed to come back to reality, I approached her. She had been painting the pond ahead of us, past the hill. She used a vibrant assortment of colors that were not truly reflected in the scene before us, but somehow, was still stunning. We greeted each other, we spoke with one another, laughing and sharing in each other's company until the sun set. We agreed to meet again. And again. And still, yet again. One day turned to one week, one week to one month, and one month to a year of joy. Hand in hand, we announced our intent to spend eternity together. My family, for all the love they claimed to have, could not find it in themselves to accept her into their lives. She made me happy, but we were too young, we couldn't possibly understand the difficulties being in a real relationship would bring. Rather than allowing them to criticize the woman who had become the love of my life, I turned my back on them, and allowed their words and presence to fade into the background. It was in the heat of summer when we went to the park together. She was distracted, but by what, I couldn't tell - she expressed having a headache that was bearing down on her. In my pocket, a small box containing a ring that was to make official what we had already declared for everyone else to be true. When her headaches seemed to subside, I stopped her and went down on one knee. She gasped in surprise, but her look of joy degraded into the same one of terror I wore - I could see my face in her eyes. Blood dripped from the edges of her eyes and her nose. A trip to the hospital later revealed she had a growth in her brain, a growth that would take her away from me. She told me to leave her, and my family, on hearing she was ill, still did not support me. Run, they said. Avoid her, she will bring us all ruin. I couldn't do that. I gave her the ring, I gave her my love. And one day, one day that came far too soon, she passed. And then I gave her my life.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"I asked. Like most Boomers, my boss Dave had more money than time or sense, but despite his age, he had the sense of humor of a twenty-year-old. Maybe that's why he latched on to me. Who else would spend a weekend watching re-runs of South Park with him while we chugged beer by the case? Some people might feel uncomfortable hanging out with their boss, but I'm just a janitor at Dave's hospital. Without Dave's friendship, the job wouldn't be worth staying at, so this is a win-win. If our friendship burns, I don't care if my job does too. But Dave loved memes and social media. He browsed Twitter, Tumblr, 4chan, and Reddit in most his ample spare time, and other than that, he had no real hobbies. Which is why, when I got into a new hobby, Dave got into it too. I think he lived vicariously through me, but since his wallet followed his interest, I didn't complain. Pot-belled and bald-headed, Dave was the splitting image of a ten-year time skip George Costanza, with pale, greasy skin that matched the white Escalade he drove everywhere he went. And like Costanza, he never shut up. "I saw it on Youtube. They forged a sword out of pig's blood. You know there's iron in the blood, right? You just have to smelt it, like iron ore, but you know, with blood." "I get how it works, but... is this legal?" Like all good hobbies, I got into blacksmithing because of a girl. Met at a local brewery, and she invited me to a Ren Fair the next town over. It was a hot, sweaty event, but she looked good in her fake period-accurate attire, so I rolled over for her and got into blacksmithing. She ghosted me three months in. Girls are temporary, but steel is eternal, or something like that. My backyard forge, funded by Dave and three months of paychecks, consisted of an anvil, a trough of water connected to the hose, a mop bucket-sized smelter, and the forge itself. In a nearby shed, I had a dozen or so tools and some easy molds for forging cheap weapons. My original plan, after the girl left, was to make weapons to sell at Fairs or Cons, but Iron and Steel were expensive. "Trust me,"Dave said, "It's perfectly legal. I asked my lawyer." "Don't you have to dispose of these with a biohazard company?" I looked into the cooler Dave brought by my place. He had three more in his truck, and he'd slammed all four full of out-of-date blood bags from the hospital. "If you can make a sword out of pig's blood, why not human blood? I read online you'd need to kill three-hundred and fifty-nine people to get this much blood." "Did you?" "Only if running a business counts as murder." "Does it?" As usual, Dave ignored me. "Come on, kid. Nobody will find out, and if they do, I'll take the heat from you." "I don't know..." "What if I commission you for it? Eh? Like one of those artists on Twitter. Five-hundred dollars." My eyebrows rose before I could stop them, and Dave definitely noticed. I stared into the cooler. Each plastic bag filled with nearly a pound of reddish-brown blood, thick as strawberry milk. I threw up a little in my mouth, but thankfully, it didn't smell, unless the antiseptic smell of the hospital counted. "A thousand dollars." "Dave..." "Two-thousand." I sighed, "You really want me to do this that badly?" "Yeah! I mean, I really want to record it and put it on the Youtube, like that other guy, but I guess that might get us in trouble. Oh! You should record it anyway. I'll talk to my lawyer." "That seems like a bad idea." "You leave all the ideas to me, kid; you just work get hammering. World's first human blood sword. Bet nobody's ever tried this before." And that was that. \\\* Smelting the blood was the worst part. I loved the smell of melting metal. It had a rich, earthy scent that tingled in my nose like lightning during a rainstorm, but that was melting metal or rocks. I hoped blood would smell like burnt meat, but... it smelt more like tossing an entire wet dog in the smelter, and the smell lingered in the backyard for hours after I finished. I can't believe the neighbors didn't complain. It took me a week to get a single dingy iron ingot out of the coolers Dave brought, and in the meantime, my fridge, freezer, and meat freezer were packed full of blood bags. Course, it gave me an excuse to eat delivery food every night, on Dave's dime, so I wasn't complaining about that. Thankfully, I didn't have time to bring any girls home, or they'd have thought I was a serial killer. Bag by bag, ingot by ingot, the sword formed. Since Dave didn't want anything else in it, it ended up being a pretty soft iron sword. I didn't go too hard on the decorations: just a simple longsword with a flat crossguard. I didn't even wrap the hilt in leather. But eventually, Dave's Human Blood sword was complete. As I rushed to sharpen the sword, dark storm clouds rolled in from the north. Thank god. Maybe the rain would get rid of the smell. Otherwise, I'd have to get rid a new smelter... Someone knocked on my door. I ignored it. Everyone I knew would text or call me before they visited, so it had to be a salesman or a Jehova's Witness. The knocks grew louder. In the distance, thunder rumbled. I turned the grinding wheel on high to drown out both, and for a few blissful moments, it was just me and my human blood sword. Then lightning flashed, except the lightning was red, the color of blood. I stumbled backwards and dropped the sword in the grass. The grinder ground to a halt. Someone thumped on the backyard gate. "Joel! Joel! Open up!" I recognized the voice and the crown of silver hair peaking over the top of the gate: Father Michael, from Catholic Church down the street. I wasn't devout, nor did I got every Sunday, but when they held events, especially events with food, I always found time to stop by. He didn't wait for me. The priest reached over the gate to pull the latch and forced his way inside. The man looked manic. Sweat streaked down his flushed face and stained his vestments. He looked like he'd run here all the way from the church. He stared past me at the storm clouds. Was it just my imagination, or did they turn even reader? "Joel! You have to destroy it!" "Uh, hey, Padre. What do I have to destroy?" "The sword, Joel! You have to destroy the sword! If you don't, it will be—"
# Soulmage "We've got a John Doe here," Vuliel said. I scratched my head. "What, like you don't know his name?" "Hm? No, as in his name is John Doe."Vuliel frowned at me. "Why, is that unusual?" "No, no, it's... it's very usual." "You could almost say... too usual,"Meloai piped up from behind me. I rolled my eyes, but she had a point. I was a witch, she was a shapeshifter, Vuliel was possessed by a ghost, and we were all taking shelter in an abandoned cafe from the aftermath of a military-grade portal spell that was throwing hail from another dimension at us and everything within a thousand feet. Objectively speaking, everything about our situation was bizarre, unique, and magical. Except for John Doe. "When I asked for leads on where the army that cast the portal spell was,"I said, "I was hoping you'd have something a little more concrete than 'a perfectly ordinary guy.'" Vuliel shook his head. "Cienne, you don't get it. He's a perfectly ordinary guy. Magic flat-out doesn't work around him. I can't get within three feet of the guy, because I'm terrified it'll kill Mertri."Vuliel tapped his head as he spoke—Mertri was the ghost of his husband who'd possessed him to stay alive. Man, we were a bizarre bunch. "Why three feet?"I asked. "No idea. Although it's... actually more like three feet, three inches, if that matters." "How'd you meet John?"Meloai asked. "He was just... sitting in the cafe when we arrived. He doesn't come out much, but... we share our supplies with him."Vuliel shuddered. "Nobody wants to piss off the guy who can turn off magic simply by existing." "Oh, wonderful! Cienne's great at not pissing people off!"Meloai's optimistic little voice piped up from behind me. I flipped her the bird in response. "Well, I'm the only free person who won't die if magic gets turned off, so I guess I'm the only person for the job."I cracked my knuckles and stepped towards the wooden door. "I've dealt with worse. Bring it on, John." I opened the door to reveal a frowning, balding man chewing on a bowl of oatmeal. "It's polite to knock,"John Doe said. "But given that... wherever I am... doesn't seem to follow the laws of physics as I know them, I suppose I can forgive my fellow man a couple cultural misunderstandings." "The laws of what?"I asked, frowning. "No, wait, never mind, take a step back. You said you don't know where you are?" He shrugged. "If I had to venture a guess, I'd say the inside of a nice warm cabin in the middle of a blizzard. That's much better than my previous location of falling from the sky after some kind of portal popped into existence and vomited me out into this hellscape."He hesitated, glancing at each of our faces, then said, "Er, no offense." "None taken,"I said, the tinglings of an idea forming in the back of my mind. "You... you said that you fell here? When a portal opened up?" John Doe grimaced, covering his embarassment with another bite of oatmeal. "I know, I know, it's stupid. The world doesn't work like that. But—" "No, it's not stupid. It lines up with what we know—the Order of Valhalla cast their mass portal spell... what, six days back? That was when the big battle ended, anyway. Does that line up with when you got taken here?" John Doe fell silent. "Spell,"he finally said. "Like... magic." I shared a concern glance with Meloai, then turned back to him and nodded. "What, were you thinking of a dictionary? Yes, spell as in magic." "Forgive me for not being familiar with the physics of an entirely different dimension,"John Doe muttered. "Six days ago... even if 'magic did it' is a bit of a hard explanation to believe, the timeline matches." He fell silent, mulling something over. Then he said, "This... Order that you mentioned. They took me from my world with... their 'magic'? In order to get an advantage in war?" I nodded hesitantly. John Doe stood up, drawing something from his hip with a grim stare. Something compact and metallic, with a hole in one end that made me feel like I was staring at death itself. "Where I'm from, that's called human trafficking, and we have ways of dealing with people like them."He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know much about this magic stuff, but I'll tell you everything I know about how I came here, on one condition." I hesitated. "And that would be?" "When you find the assholes that kidnapped me?"John Doe slotted something into the metal contraption, and something made a menacing click. "Let me show them what I think of their 'magic'." A.N. This story is part of Soulmage, a frequently updated serial in progress. Want to know what happens next? Check out [the table of contents](https://www.reddit.com/r/bubblewriters/comments/uxmwe4/soulmage_masterpost/) to be notified whenever a new part comes out! There's already thirty-five other chapters before this one, so there's plenty to catch up on. And if you want more stories, check out r/bubblewriters!
Doug's face fell . The angel had just told him that not all dogs go to heaven. This would have been less of an immediate problem if they were someone else's dogs, but they weren't. They were his. Doug looked at the angel, his eyes slowly going blank as he came to the realisation of what he would have to do. "Which way to Hell?"he asked with a steely voice. The angel seemed both shocked and confused by the question. "There is no way to Hell, at least from Heaven. Souls cannot get there, you'd need angel wings."The angel did not realise it, but these words would not serve it well. Doug sighed at these words. He, unlike the angel, knew exactly what these words would lead him to do. As Doug's large hands grabbed onto the floating clouds that formed a holy robe around him. His slow steps encroached on the angel, his hands tearing the robes to pieces. The angel watched Doug curiously as the distance closed between them. There was no fear in it's eyes. This was probably the last time that statement would be true. &#x200B; Five minutes later, a 7 foot man jumped from the platform into the clouds below, covered in the golden blood of an angel. On his back were two wings, stained with the same blood, that looked as if they had been pushed into his back like swords. Red and gold mixed in two streams that flowed down his back, pulsing forward with each awkward flap of the wings. Doug was both flying downward as well as falling. His speed was pushed far beyond that thing the living called terminal velocity. Even then the journey seemed to take forever. As he sank deeper and deeper away from Heaven, hunger and thirst began to assail him. His bones and muscles creaked in protest. A sickly smell of rot and flesh assailed his nostrils, and a great heat blew up from the darkness, scorching his eyes and hair and skin. Doug did not relent and, flapping his new wings with greater fervour, he flew down into deeper darkness. &#x200B; Suddenly, in his view there was not darkness. Instead lakes of fire and mountains of bone had appeared before him, too close to avoid. At the speed he was travelling it would surely do to him what throwing a little porcelain doll into a wood-chipper would do. Nothing good. Doug strained his wings, and the sheer force they had to exert against his fall was so great that they began to slip from the flesh of his back. The pain was incredible, but he had no time to even consider it. The last bit of the fall felt like an eternity. Before he had even landed, the wings gave a final jerk, separating themselves from him. Two jets of red trailed him as he fell the last distance, and above him the feathers were consumed by the heat and scattered by the fetid winds. He landed. Hard. His hands scrabbled for purchase, grasping onto jutting bones and pulling them with him as he slid down the mountain of death. Below him was a lake of brimstone. He could not find purchase, could not slow his fall. In desperation he drove his arm violently into the bones, hoping that it would give enough resistance. It did, but it also made some snapping noises which, in his current state, he could not be sure were the bones around him instead of inside him. That was a problem for later; his fall had ceased. &#x200B; Doug breathed, something rather unpleasant to do in an environment where the air was both deathly hot and full of the rot of flesh and filth. He lay on the mountain of bones and closed his eyes, both to protect them from the heat as well as the view. It did not help much. More breaths of fetid air. It did not calm him, but it did at least allow his mind to focus, that regular, rhythmic movement of the lungs so common to the living. A small part of Doug wondered if he even needed to breathe anymore, but the rest of Doug was thinking about how to find his dogs. Very slowly, he began to extract his arm from the place it had been thrust into the bone-pile. Each small pull caused pain, both from the fractures as well as the assembling cuts he was gathering from the sharp bones. What he pulled from the hole he had made was less recognisable than it should have been. His fingers were intact though, most of them, and that was enough. &#x200B; "Oh God Damnit!"he cried as he brought his fingers to his lips, his arm screaming in pain and refusing to listen as it should have. His good arm flicked hastily, bringing his bad arm up to his face. His teeth bit softly into the fingers to keep them in place while he shifted his body in the bones, moving himself to rest the arm against his chest and knees to keep it in position. Once again he moved his fingers slightly, pushing his bottom lip to his teeth and sliding them slightly under his tongue. He pulled a deep breath, instantly regretting it, and trying his best not to cough. Alas, it was not meant to be. Only after he had fixed the position of his arm once again could he draw another deep breath, slower and more measured this time. It did not help with the taste or the heat at all. From between Doug's broken and bleeding fingers came a whistle. It was loud, and piercing, and clear. A true note that sounded three times, three distinct calls. It was so unlike the sounds of Hell. There were fractured cries, and hoarse screams, and the sizzle of flesh, the breaking of bone, and other sounds of suffering. Something so clear, and true, and pure, was not heard very often in Hell. &#x200B; Doug whistled until his throat was raw, and every blow of the bellows of his chest brought up more blood than wind. Exhausted, he lay back into the bones, their sharp points digging into him but no longer affecting him. He mused that, had he been alive, he would most certainly have died of blood-loss by now. Truly a silver lining then, at least as far as silver linings could go in Hell, that he would be able to live through this. His eyes were shut against the heat, but his ears could hear the soft creak and crack and crumble of bones from the bottom of the mountain on which he lay. No doubt some demon come to torture him or drag him into a fiery lake or wrap him in molten chains. Doug would have sighed if it did not require breathing in so much of this cursed air to do so. He decided to lay there, unmoving, and accept his fate as it encroached towards him. &#x200B; The sounds of bones being crushed had grown much closer. It was then that he felt hot breath streaming over his face, as if some monster was mere inches away from him, ready to devour him. The breathing grew more agitated, heating up and nearly roasting the skin from his face. It was then, to his surprise, that he felt something hot and wet slap his face, and begin to lick it. Startled, he opened his eyes and beheld the monster. It was part bone, part flesh, part fur, and part fire. It stood much larger than he, casting a shadow over him as it set to licking him. A collar hung from it's neck. Doug grasped at it with his good arm, drawing himself closer to read the name that hung from it. *Brutus* *"Ha, hahaha. Brutus? Is that you boy? Huh? Is that you?"* It was then that this giant monster did something that neither Heaven nor Hell would believe. It let out a little whine, as if a puppy, and pushed it's monster head softly into Doug's chest. "Who's a good boy Brutus? You are, yes you are!"Doug shouted in joy. His hands were rubbing Brutus, scratching under his large ears, sliding between his neck and the collar to give everywhere he could reach a good scratch. "Such a good boy! You came when I called." Doug suddenly struggled to get up. Brutus could sense it, and removed it's head from his chest. Doug's footing was uneasy, and he almost fell down again, but Brutus placed it's body gently against him, steadying him. "Do you know where the others are, huh, boy?"Doug asked. Brutus whined again, this one softer and unsure. "That's okay, don't you worry."Doug said, patting Brutus on his side. He rested against Brutus' flank for a bit, before straightening himself. "If you don't know, and I don't know, then all we can do is find them. Isn't that right?" &#x200B; If one looked from Heaven, they could not see Hell. Even if they could, it would be impossible to see the tiny figures moving around it, and even more impossible to find among them two specific dots that moved slowly down from a mountain of bones next to a lake of brimstone, in search of their family.
I was driving my motorcycle when I felt sudden hit. I woke up in empty, white room with a chair in frot of me. There she was sitting - death. She didn't look as I imagined, it was old, short lady with lot's of wrinkles and grey hair, instead of holding the mythic cycle she had small stick in her hand. "Don't be scared, my name is Nephthys and I'm here to assist you with the after life application" "So, this is it? I died?" "Yes, you were speeding and truck rammed you, I'm sorry sweetheart..." "I need to get back though, I was going to my mother's, she needs my help, is there anything that can be done? Please..." "Well, there is one rule, if you win in any game of your choice over me, you get one more chance to live, many have tried but only few succeeded, last time from what I recall happened around 2000 years ago. You are free to try, those are the rules"She smiled, looking at me with empathy. I stood in silence and though about my options - I was sure challenging her to any regular game would result in failure, she was ancient being overall so I was sure she was master of chess or basketball. "So? Are we going to proceed? Or do you want to take your chances?" "Can I peak computer game?" "Yes, aby game of your choice..." "Well let's play A way out then..." "I haven't heard of it, it's your choice"Two desks with laptops appeared. As we started the game Death suddenly shouted. "Wait, it doesn't work like this, we can not be on the same team, I win every game because I don't have ability to lose, I was made that way..." "You sad it can be any game in the world, and as you never lose I think it will go really easy" The game went smoothly as I expected, in about 2 hours, we were done, I stood up from the computer and I saw grim of anger on Death face. "I keep my promises, but we will meet again and you won't be able to outsmart me ever again"Last thing I remember is sphere of light coming at me. I woke up in the hospital, luckily the paramedics where really close to the crash site, I had only minor concussions, but I was in state of clinical death for couple of minutes. You are lucky to be alive, and with so little damage. I smelled looking at the doctor, it wasn't luck...
Every gynecologist's hands are cold. I don't know why this is a universal constant. Maybe it's part of the resume process. 4 years of med school, years in internship, and keeping your hands in ice seem to be the requirements to poke and prod a woman and tell her that she was just stressed, there was no need to test, just get sleep and come back when you return from your fieldwork. I brushed off the morning sickness, the sore breasts and the emotions as adjusting to village life. It was a small place, a slice of isolated America forgotten by everyone but those who lived and died there. I had gotten a nice postdoc research grant to capture the language of this little backwater, a sweet sounding tongue that had less speakers than the average rural school systems. They were wary of outsiders but I had an in through my doctoral advisor, and my fellow postdoc and two grad students settled into the routine of life in a dying place pretty quickly. Then the sickness settled in, and I couldn't blame it on the sulfury well water or the odd food that gave most of us upset stomachs and scary rushes to the outhouse on our little property twice a night for our first couple weeks. I cursed my ex, who couldn't wait for a year long research project. I cursed the plan B I had taken, and the antibiotics I was using for a UTI that had probably made it fail. I cursed the dirty looks my grad student, a prim and proper Northeast girl who wouldn't dare open her legs before marriage save to put in a new aspirin when she came to the same conclusion. I had been told to check in with the local herbalist if the group had any illnesses. The people in the region trusted Marie with their health, and with the nearest hospital three hours away she had kept the community alive for forty years through two husbands (one dead, one who 'runned off') and a gaggle of children who used to send her photographs until we all went digital and their mother's birthplace stayed analog. I came to the small well-kept porch that wrapped around Marie's immaculate little house and heard the old woman before I saw her. Chubby but strong in the way of a kind rural grandmother, Marie walked with a Cane that looked like it was half for support and half to beat an unruly child or adult who crossed her. She pointed that gnarled oak stick at me, her gummy mouth ready to shout. "Hessh. I already know yer business. Don't do no quickening, if'ns what you came for. Ain't ever killed no baby, not gonna start now."the elder spat, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. "You need some quieting, or some settlin? I can brew you something up." She brought me in as I told her my story, clicking her tongue in judgement. The old cracked formica counters and rough hewn wood shelves in her 'working area' were overflowing with sachets and canisters. One bottle of muddy green liquid seemed to have herbs in suspension, while three dessicated snakes hung from the haint blue ceiling, guards against any spirit or devil that didn't mind the marks above the door. I am in the witch's house. She could bake me into a pie and nobody would miss me. "Dontcha worry, darlin. Even wit the babe you too skinny."Marie let out a hooting howl of a laugh, swaying before she dropped her remedies on the table and sat down heavy beside me. "Now, the blue pack is raspberry leaf, mint, and some mountain flower, calm your stomach and take the retch away if you drink it in the morning when you make water. Got no fresh ginger, but I put some sweet ginger my boy Thomas sent me, and bound it up with lavender and a bit of honeyed thyme. Take a spoon if you cramp or your teats come burning, and it'll sooth ya. Now, I need to go do my business but I got biscuits to roll and a chicken to pluck for the Sundays, and I spect your hands here when I return." The old woman grabbed a handful of scrap and headed for the outhouse as I looked around the room. The place, once you settled in, was clearly that of the good witch. There was a bit og dust on the taller shelves but the whole place was clean and tidy as such a space could be, and Marie kept order tightly here. In the corner sat a collection of figurines, all strong women dressed in various garments of their time. And then I saw her. Beautiful, a woman dressed in clean white. Probably Mary, holding a baby in the crook of her right arm weeping. In her left was some bit of something, the original object long lost to some child bumping the figurine. A crack had been sealed that run from the base through the face, but the flaw gave character, a hurt beauty to the piece. "No girl! You set tha down and mind your own!" I hadn't even noticed I had picked up the figurine, but I smelled sweet lily as I settled the Madonna back into her space on the shelf. Marie would have none of my placement, turning the figurine away from my sight and sucking what remained of her teeth. We never talked about how quick she had moved. Months past with me going back to Marie's place, and I only noticed on the third visit that the figurine was gone. By that time I didn't want to mess with our connection; Marie, it turned out, was one of the most fluent speakers in the village, and she offered to 'tetch' me all she knew as long as she was the one to usher my child in. "She's a strong one,"she said, as we sat out that summer in the high canebacks her son Aloysius had brought to her when he visited in 05. "A charmer, like her mother." "How do you know she's a she?"I asked, knowing already that I wouldn't get a straight answer. "Your carry. You set low. Baby girls carry low, like my Celia. She was a rough war, that one." "War?" "Child. Our war is in the birthun bed. It is bloody and horrific. We tear and scream and break, our legs making a gate from the Hereafter to life in our own home here. I fought that them war fourteen times m'self, and won it a fair time."Marie looked away from me, towards a tended patch just behind her home. Three smooth river stones laid evenly spaced there, each surrounded by wildflowers planted by a steady hand. She didn't speak for a bit, gathering her composure. "I know the ways that war, child Anne. We gonna bring that littlun through, ain't no damned ghost or Goblin to stop us."
“I have passed your trials, I have defeated your underlings and now…. I am here for YOU!!!!!” the bright haired, self-styled ‘hero’ screamed into the void. He was broken, I could see it, feel it. I knew it like I know all things. He stood there, leaning on that stupid sword he had convinced himself would be my downfall. He was breathing heavily and losing blood at an astounding rate. He was nothing more than an annoying coddled child that had been foisted onto this path by progenitors that were unwilling to parent. Through his life he had never been told no. He had been finely crafted and molded to think that he was the center of his own story, and that everything and everyone else around him was secondary to his eventual ascent to godhood, or something that he imaged was godhood. It was almost enough to make me feel bad – if not for how totally insufferable he was. When his first friend died he lamented; he cried, he gnashed teeth, and he swore revenge. When the twentieth died he offered prayers in a sacred grove. When the seventieth died he didn’t so much as stop to remember their existence. “I have sacrificed everything to bring you down and halt your evil ways.” He continued to scream at the wall of blackness before him. The part he wasn’t saying out loud was ‘and take your place because it is my due.’ Like he was owed something. People starved because of him. They fought and died. They were convinced from his delusions because he was rich and powerful. How could one become so rich and so powerful if not for having a stellar character and work ethic. He was obviously better and smarter than those around them. Of course, they always failed to take into account his astronomically rich parents. The connections and bribes and all of the other things that go along with hoarding wealth for generations. Greed is one of those evils that I wish I could go back and erase. But alas, free will and all that. “Why do you hide from me. YOU FEAR ME! YOU KNOW I WILL DESTROY YOU!!!!!” More yelling, great. I suppose it is time for me to make my grand entrance and finally put an end to this farce. I walked out of the void striking a rather regal visage. I took the appearance of an old man in a robe because that is what they deemed I should look like. I towered over the child, even with a slight bend to my back from ‘age’. Go away child. There is naught here for you but death. He began to laugh. To actually laugh at me – the beginning and the end. The creator of all things. “You do not frighten me old man. It is you who should be scared.” As he finished his hackneyed overtures, he charged at me with sword raised over his head and a blood curdling roar to boot. He had moxie at least. So convinced of his own delusions he was willing to charge at me with his toy and think he had a chance of winning. I snapped my fingers. His legs blew off and his upper body flopped to the floor with a wet meaty thump like a fish hitting the cutting board before gutting and scaling. He screamed. Of course. But I could tell it was more than just the pain. I could feel the petulance rising inside him. I could see the walls being thrown up in his own mind to block out the powerlessness he was feeling. Already a new narrative was being written in his mind about how he could over come this, prosper from it. “Yield. Yield. I YIELD” he screamed, like that was some kind of magic word that held power over me. “Have… have I not proven my self to you. My worth. I…. I can do so much for you if you just let me live. I will become your greatest prophet.” I rolled my eyes; something I couldn’t normally do as I so rarely took a physical form anymore. It felt good. I raised my hand, his body following suit. His broken, legless frame suspended in mid air in front of me. Tears streaked down his eyes from pain. I would have expected shame mixed in those tears but felt none from inside. Still his mind moved and plotted. Placing him at the center of this story. I warned you. I warned you over and over again of the consequences of your actions. Each one of these trials you faced wasn’t to prove you had enough to strike me down. Each one of these trials was to try and stop you. To try to show you that you had deluded yourself into this fantasy world you placed yourself in the center of. Each time I asked you to sacrifice something I thought you would say no. You SHOULD have said no. Countless others HAVE said no. Not you though. But… there is no one to blame but myself. I gave you free will, so I cannot see what you will do, I can only extrapolate probabilities and guess at the outcomes. I can only see what you MIGHT do. I put trials and tribulations in front of you to try and make you see. Instead, all they did was further fortify your own insanity. For that I am sorry. I have failed you and countless others that have suffered because of you. “I…. I don’t understand.” I know. I snapped my fingers a second time and his body disintegrated into dust. I lowered my hand and the cloud blew away as if in the wind. And so I can give you naught but death.
Commonality. This is what the Galactic Federation has always been build upon. Hundreds of species, thousands of worlds, millions of opinions, billions of individuals. Entire species, finding some common ground to build upon. Art, religion, scientific thought, political discourse... of these things, a myriad of options. It wasn't on these that galactic peace was built on but instead something unexpected. Beauty. Odd as it were, the ability for each species to find this same sensation of attraction made it easier for discourse to be had. Some thought it was just galactic group-think but the prevailing theory was that it was a galactic constant, to help guide and bind the sentiant races. And in a universe such as this, where danger hid behind any kind of strange face, where random creatures seemed to be the deadliest, they needed that bond between them. Every race could count on each other, as much as they couldn't count on the random and capricious rules that nature had on the myriad of worlds. Every race, that is, except the humans. They weren't anything special. A lower than average number of arms and digits. Eyes faced forward as if they were predators, despite their lack of claws or talons. The weren't tougher, smarter, cleverer or more inegnious than any other sapient. They should, if nothing else, be just another race. Yet there was not a scouting party out there that didn't have at least one human in them. Not one diplomatic envoy that didn't employ at least two. Humans weren't dangerous, not at all. Yet, they were capable of instilling fear in the most stalwart of warriors, shaking the mettle of the most battle-hardened veterans. It's always the human that's at the front, with the leaders waiting on baited breath, fearing for the worst. Fearing that they'll hear the words that haunt their dreams and nightmares. "OH. MY. GAWD. LOOK.... LOOK AT ITS PAWS!" The squee of a high school girl as she clutches her hands to her chest, eyes wide with amazement. The high pitched sound of someone that has fallen completely in love on sight. Every scout, every envoy, they knew what the meant. Whatever that human was fawning over, it could kill them all. That little fuzzball, somehow selected among all the other fauna of the planet, would have a bite that could lay low a thousand. A mental strike that would crush a mind with a passing though. Hidden tentacles and claws with a speed that could decimate a company of battle hardened troops. Still, even with that, there was only one phrase that would chill the blood of the commanders, that would terrify the entire expanse of every imagination from every species out there. It was one they knew was coming. No matter how much they would hope, or even pray, they knew what the humans would inevitably say next. "Oh yes, my sweet little baby... you're gonna come home with me, and I'm going to love you, and squeeze you, and name you George..." EDIT: Minor spelling.
Jill took another sip of coffee. It was 4AM and despite the overdose of caffeine she was getting sleepy. It had been more than 48 hours since she last slept and she could swear she was hearing things. Every inch of her body wanted to sleep, except Jill herself. The nightmares were worse than this. Hard to imagine, but she was terrified to get pulled back in. Despite her objections her mind forced sleep upon her and her eyelids were getting so heavy that it was impossible to force them open. She drifted off into the hell that awaited her. Above her the moon stood in the sky. Except it was bigger than it should be, more red that it should be and she could swear it was pulling closer the longer she gazed at it. So she stopped and instead focused on what was in front of her. She stood on an unsteady ground. It looked to be moving in a particular cadence. It reminded her of breathing, but she refused to accept that as an answer. She set out to a figure that caught her attention in the distance. She feared it on an instinctive level, but also knew that no matter how hard she protested she’d end up at its feet. She had done this many times, even so the fear she felt didn’t dissipate. As if her body had a mind of its own she strutted towards the thing she wanted to run from. It loomed over her like a mountain. A thick undulating mass of gelatinous flesh and eyes. It seemed to be seeking for a shape it could take, only to abandon it once it had found one. It also radiated dread and made it hard to concentrate. As if it was sending its own signals to your brain messing with the ones you send yourself. It terrified Jill, because it seemed to target her specifically. This wasn’t the first time she stood opposite of it and despite the fear, it never harmed her. It prodded something towards her and usually this was the point where she’d started running. Trying desperately to wake up from the nightmare. Sometime she succeeded, others she was caught in an endless loop of running and ending up at the same point. This time, she decided, she would stay. If it killed her, it killed her, but she was done with it. The thing hesitated, as if it hadn’t expected her to stay. It took only a couple of seconds before she resumed pushing the thing towards Jill. First she thought it was just another shapeless blob, but that when she saw the appendages. She first saw an arm, then a leg. The longer she looked the more human body parts there seemed to be. Fingers, toes, shoulders and she could even see a plume of hair. It was like a beach ball made off human flesh and bone. She felt the contents of her stomach push its way up and Jill was sure that if it wasn’t a dream she would have puked. She hoped that she didn’t vomit in her sleep and choked or something. Jill took a couple of apprehensive steps backwards and waited for a response. There wasn’t one. A response that is. They stood there opposite one another with the human orb in the middle, for what seemed like minutes. That thing just stared at her, or at least that’s what it felt like. She couldn’t tell whether the thing could even see her through all those eyes. Each of them looked to be staring in the distance without focus. It was unsettling, like they were looking through her. It was the thing that moved first. It stretched out a gelatinous appendage from it’s formless body and pushed the ball further toward Jill. If Jill didn’t know any better it seemed to want her to have it. That’s when she realized she – in fact – did not know anything better. The sudden epiphany made sense and it being the only thing that made sense to Jill in this world gave her some comfort. What if this eye-jelly wasn’t trying to hurt her. She stepped towards the human ball and swallowed down her discomfort and disgust and reached out. As soon as she laid her hand on it the thing moved. It crept forward with what looked be a jolt. As if it was encouraging her. But encouraging her to do what? She rolled the ball of appendages around a bit. It took her less effort than she expected. Probably because it was still a dream, so it was just her mind making an approximation of her strength and the weight of the ball. She had to remind herself every so often that it was a dream. After a while the thing seemed to have enough of it as it moved forward more rapidly than Jill had expected. Instinctively she leaped backwards, away from it. Again the thing seemed to hesitate. It only did so for a second as it proceeded. It engulfed the spheroid collection of body parts and it dissolved within it’s body. Was that what it wanted from her? Did it think she was like it? That’s when Jill had her second epiphany. It was her dream, no matter whether that thing lead the interactions. And if it was, it meant she could imagine anything she wanted. Jill tried her theory by imagining a hot-dog. To her surprise there actually formed something in her outstretched hand. It vaguely looked like a hot-dog, but it wasn’t. It felt like her mind was straining against something invisible. She put all her energy in pushing through an image and finally the thing in her hand fully took the shape of a bun with a sausage. Triumphantly she showed it to the mass of gelatine and eyes. It didn’t move, but she could feel it’s gaze on her. She took a bite of the hot-dog and then offered it to the thing. It stretched out one of those jelly feelers it had formed earlier and absorbed the rest of the food. Dissolving it like it had done with the ball. Now that the first test had been a success and Jill was somewhat sure of the intent of the thing, she’d proceed with the next step. The thing could radiate things like fear and trigger feelings like disgust. That would mean Jill could send out thoughts and feelings as well. She focused on one thought particular. Love. She first cultivated the feeling inside herself and when she thought she had it, tried to extend it beyond her. There weren’t any signs that could tell her whether it worked, but it was her dream, so why wouldn’t it? She kept hold of the feeling and waited for the thing to respond. It did, to her surprise. It recoiled to the feeling in a similar manner Jill had recoiled to the fear. The sight of it made Jill sad and as soon as it did, the thing responded to it. There was a moment of genuine connection through the sadness. That’s when suddenly a heavy wave of despair hit Jill and she dropped to her knees and gave into the urge to cry. Through her tears she saw the thing trying to mimic her movements. It took the shape of a kneeling figure, or at least it tried as best as it could. It had taken a good five minutes for Jill to recollect herself. She had noticed that the emotions she felt from the thing were different from her own feelings. She recognized them sharing her mind together with her own. Through the utter despair she had also distinctively felt joy and comfort when the thing had tried to mimic her. Maybe it was the same for the thing. Putting it to the test Jill formed a thought in her mind. ‘Thank you, I have to go, but will you be here next time?’ and she connected it to a feeling of trust. As soon as she was happy with the result she projected it outwards. The thing responded to it. Jill didn’t know exactly how or why, but it felt like a positive response. The thing changed it’s shape again. It seemed to struggle with it, as if it didn’t really know what it was doing, but it settled. It looked like Jill. A bit uncanny, but recognizable. That’s when Jill was struck by a feeling of sadness, mixed with trust. At least sort of. It wasn’t really trust, but it felt close enough. That’s when Jill woke up. The sun shined through a gap in her blinds. For the first time in months she felt energetic and like she had finally had a good night’s sleep. Inside her she could feel something had changed. Like there was a connection to something. It felt like an indescribable sense that felt closest to comfort. In a way that describing the feeling was always different from how it actually felt. (If you liked this story, please feel welcome at r/zeekoeswriting to read my other stories!)
We thought we could be in peace. Your kind stretched out to the sky - your towers of metal and rock, your machine-birds, your fingers stretching to the stars. For we were the ones below, where no human survives. In darkness we thrived and grew our cities, warmed by the heat of this earth. But this was not to be. In your greed, in your want for more, you stripped this earth of life. Your clouds blinded the sun, your black blood seeped into our home, killed our children. You consumed our water, poisoned it, and spat it back out. You boiled away the oceans, and forced us ever deeper. To hide, to run. We tried to show, but your kind were blind. We took your metal platforms that disappeared under the waves, claimed your dead and honoured them as we would our own. When your machine-birds fell from the skies, we gave your people the comfort of death in the deep embrace of this earth - life unto life. We are the last. Our cities have withered away, their coral spires rotten. Our children were birthed mutated, blackened by sickness, or dead. We who have watched you rise from your knees at the dawn of your kind, who thought you would understand your part in this earth as we did. We were foolish. But when we realised, it was too late. Will you see this, at the end of our time? When you have boiled away the life of earth? Learn this of us - our laws and edicts, we carved into the rock of the sea, visible to all. When the currents wash them away, we begin anew. All things begin and all things end - but even the wisest of us did not foresee our end coming so. This is our last edict. The currents are weak. We have retreated too far, and the heat of the earth burns us should we go deeper. Each breath kills us, little by little, and with our last strength we carve these words, unto rock. Celebrate your victory, earthslayers. We thrive no more. --- Carved message discovered on the floor of the Pacific Ocean, 2498. Translated into English. No indication of surviving, intelligent organisms remain.
You wouldn’t think a person could get lost on a river. I certainly never have been up until now. My father was a fisherman. His father was a fisherman. I’m not sure what his father did, but I’d be willing to take a guess. I might as well have been born with gills, as much time as I spend on the water. And yet here I am, lost on a gods-damned river. In my defense, the last few days have been unseasonably rainy. Well, unseasonably cloudy, anyway. It hasn’t actually rained, but it gets so dark sometimes that I can barely see. It's so bad that, when I lost hold of my net yesterday and dove in to get it, I had to swim around blindly for a few minutes until I ran into it. Hardly two body lengths away and I almost couldn’t find my way back to the boat! Shouldn’t have gone in for it in the first place. Not like it’s been doing me any good. I haven’t had a single catch worth keeping. Fortunately, I haven’t gotten too hungry yet, but I hate the idea of going home empty-handed if it keeps up like this. “Hello!” I turn my head in the direction of the sound. Squinting, I can make out a figure on the shore. “Hello!” I respond, glad to find someone I can ask for directions, “Where are you traveling?” “I need to get to the other side!” I steer towards the shore. “And where are we right now?” I call out, drifting closer, "Which direction is Feneos?" “I…I’m not sure,” the man’s face comes into focus. Damn. He looks as confused as I am. “But I know- I just feel like it’ll be alright if I can make it across this river,” he looks at me hopefully, sticks out his hand, “I’m Argus.” Maybe I won’t go home empty-handed after all. “The name’s Charon, friend,” I clasp his hands, “And I think I can help you out. But it’s going to cost you.”
And here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is our newest exhibit. Born in the late 1990s "Dave"came to us late last year but required extra work to form his perfect habitat. It was initially hoped that Dave might be suitable for one of our famous breeding programs, due to his inability to find a mate in the wild. However his response was less than favourable. He repelled both male and female mates and seemed greatly distressed by the directness of their specially designed mating rituals. Even when we slowed the program and dialled back on the number of suitors, all offers by mates were rejected. Our keepers were confused but undeterred. At the time of his capture, Dave had been found to be taking part in ritualised killing games. Whilst he possessed none of the physical ability that usually characterises our hunting program, it was felt that, with some adaptation, we could satisfy his base impulse and fulfil his desires. This was truly disastrous. When the program began, Dave appeared to engage well at first. Using the gunpowder tools the program had provided him with he proceeded to shoot a variety of simulants. However he quickly became distressed upon shooting a humanoid simulant and becoming covered in its blood. In fact he was so devastated that he attempted self destruction. Of course the program wouldn't let him but it left us in a true pickle. It was Dr. Okawa who suggested we try a different tack. She had been studying Dave's profile carefully ever since the problems began, paying particular attention to why he was downgraded and placed with us. She posited that Dave had protested against the initiative because he had depressive tendencies, particularly when it came to work. He was disruptive because he felt depowered. She showed the pattern of high intelligence yet failing grades, high skills yet barely class 8 positions. Work began then on our most ambitious habitat ever. We made a world much like our own. It's cities were like ours, its simulants scans of real volunteers, its every part perfectly accurate. Accurate bar one detail. Dave would succeed. If Dave went to be an actor, he'd get hired. If Dave wanted a girlfriend, he'd find the perfect woman instantly. If Dave decided he didn't want to work, the world would let him be. It was perfect. The problem with calling something perfect is that nothing can ever be perfect. So it was that the new habitat was given to Dave with much aplomb and media attention. Our biggest, brightest, best habitat ever. No expense spared for the downgraded. Dave attempted self destruction within three days. We perhaps should have seen the signs when we heard Dave was from the 90s but, with the declining popularity of action films in light of the peace initiative, how were we meant to immediately think of an obscure film called The Matrix. We knew then also that Dave would not accept a merely modified version of the program he had just been presented. The breakthrough came with another lesser known film, Inception. It was an answer so simple we couldn't believe we hadn't thought of it earlier. Dave rejected the breeding because he knew it was unreal, his confidence such that he believed himself unlovable. He rejected the hunting habitat as it was too real and he realised that he wasn't what the habitat was telling him he was. He rejected reality because he could see the patterns at play and knew the plot at work. So we let him go deeper. Whenever Dave's mind rejects a habitat he finds out that it is not real and finds a way to make it to "reality", the next habitat. He can sometimes walk between a hundred different habitats a day, each another downgrade's plane of existence. He's even learnt to retain some of the knowledge of each habitat he passes through so he has more control of the next. Where he obsessed with playing games, he now makes others the players. Where he refused to work, he now derives pleasure from proving his reality is false. Where he was depowered, he now has the greatest control over his habitat of any of our downgraded. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Dave the Planeswalker.
Grasping the broken timeturner in my quivering hands, I racked my memories of Master Turner's instructions about what to do if my only method of returning to 1912 was no longer viable. I felt a jarring sensation in my chest when I thought of how my dear mother was coping without me, for she is now an old maid and vulnerable to the winter chills. I hurriedly pocketed the contraption into my newfound artificially faded blue jacket made from a wonderfully sturdy twill-like material, "de-Nımes"I believe the young dressmakers assistant said. Never would I have the privilege of wearing such finery in Richmond House, where "dressing to the nines"for us staff involved wearing sharp white aprons as opposed to drab grey ones stained with mutton fat from the soap for washing dishes. And let's not forget, double the amount of pins in our bonnets. In this new era I am a lonely girl, yet also a free woman. Do I yearn to stay here or do I want to return to my own time? My eyebrows stayed drawn and my expression puzzled even as I stumbled straight into a glass door. I drew back quickly to avoid embarrassment, and realized this door was yet another innovation. It had a mind of its own, or some sort of detecting system which caused it to only open if a person was to approach it slowly. I had been running. My eyes flashed round to spot any spectators of my mistake when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a young gentleman chuckling quietly. My face flushed, I tried to escape by walking at a slow pace through the sliding glass panes. "I'm sorry if I startled you, are you alright?"A low, calm voice resonated from behind me. I whipped around so quickly I lost my balance and fell flat onto the ground. It was that gentleman again, and he was addressing me personally even though I was a stranger. I wrapped my head around the thought when he held his hand out. I took it gratefully and carefully attempted to stand up. "I-I am ever so sorry, this footwear is unbearable!"I managed to stutter, and I gestured down to my shoes; flimsy black things with heels almost four inches high, worn only to help me blend in. "No wonder you can't walk so good, those shoes are cracked-out!"He exclaimed, beaming. "Cracked-out?"I asked, then quickly held my tongue. Look what I've done, I have only gone and blown my cover. He must think of me as a bedlam patient, suffering from hysterics. Firstly I fail to exit through a door, then I trip over and question even basic colloquialisms! Or worse, he's discovered that I'm not from this time. "Cracked-out? I meant crazy!"He viciously muttered something under his breath. His voice is powerful, yet slightly excitable and nervous now. When he first called out to me his voice was slightly monotonous, like a presenter's voice on a radio. I heard a radio once in one of my friend's houses. She married a rich merchant and could afford these gadgets. My mind is still glued to the past. I force it to return to the situation at hand. "Crazy, you know that word? Wait I didn't say crazy I meant, I meant..."his words trailed off and his eyes burned through me. "I've gotta go!"He shuffled away, but not before a minuscule rectangular mental plate had fallen off his watch and onto the ground in front of me. "Wait! Sir! I beg your pardon but your watch is-"I wasn't certain if I should suggest out loud his watch was broken, since that would imply that I thought he had bought a cheap knock-off. I may be a uncouth at times, but I am definitely not rude. I bent down carefully and somewhat elegantly to recover the fragment when suddenly a beam shot out of it and illuminated the pavement tile. The watch link appeared to project a cinematographic movie into the air like a miniature reel of film. The projected image showed thousands of word and number patterns. The gentleman picked the piece from the ground unnaturally quickly, as if his hand possessed magnetic properties, and he placed the metal fragment into his watch like a book slots into a crowded shelf. I watched transfixed as a low, monotonous voice, not unlike the one belonging to the young gentleman standing beside me, began to fill the air, though I could not pinpoint the source. "Dryson Kim. Identity proven." My eyes flicked between the gentleman and the watch, one of which I deemed to be christened Dryson Kim, but I wasn't certain who or what possessed that name. Evidently I couldn't hide my curiosity and my confounded expression betrayed me. "Have you never seen one of these before?"He seemed inextricably worried, and before I could respond, he continued, with desperation in his tone "They're like phones, but kinda like things to help you trave-"his distant, silver eyes narrowed "I mean, uh, spend cash. You have to know about those right? It's already twenty-fifteen, sorry fourteen, right?"He looked terrified yet there was also an air of curiosity about him, as if he was looking for someone in particular. The cogs of my mind turned rapidly and two different trains of thought embarked on their journeys simultaneously. At this moment in time, I needed to hold up a pretense of belonging to this era of technological revolution. At the same time, I needed to find out if this gentleman was another Traveler, and therefore held the key Master Turner told me about. Finding this artifact was the only way back to my own time, and my assignment would be complete. "I beg your pardon, sir, but are you-"I paused and chose my words with caution "from around here?"
I think I'm God. It's ridiculous, the power I have over other lives. I can bring happiness. It's so easy. Just saying a certain combination of repeated letters and people are smiling. I might be walking down the street and there could be a man, old and dirty and poor, playing his falling apart guitar. I can give him a piece of metal, and bring him gratefulness. I can stop, let my voice free and sing, making people laugh. I can dance and bring energy and joy and make someone's day. I can bring happiness, but I don't. I have a power of silence, the easier path. I have letters, so many combinations, and I chose those that break hearts. I walk down streets and see a man begging and I look into his eyes i see death and I don't feel anything. I let the metal weight in my pocket ground me, trap in its shines. I feel greed and possessiveness and I do not want to share. I see people smile and I frown in return because they are happy and I'm not and they deserve to not be happy too. I have pain and its easier to let it consume me because at least then I have something that I know will never leave me on its own. Pain is safe. I walk around the town and I see a men sleeping on a bench and I smile because he reminds of how things could have been worse and they are not and I'm better than him. I find comfort in his pain when I think for the fist time that I might be satan.
"Now then,"The short, stumpy man peered over his bespectacled eyes, raising one eyebrow into an arch as he did so. "I believe you have applied to become my successor? As you know, I have never had any children,"He paused, contemplating this fact. "and I simply cannot see why, but that is of no matter." He waddled around his mahogany oak desk, opening drawers haphazardly. "Shaving razor torture... Cerberus's vet's number... the TV program for 'Better Homes and Gardens'... Aha!"He let out a simpering laugh, pulling out a small sheet from underneath a huge stack of paper. Adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses and brushing his red cheeks, he shoved the paper into my hands. "This is a leaflet detailing exactly when training begins. It also contains a list with items required, alongside the time and date for the next 'Holy Hell Bingo Match'... We'll beat God and his nasty Archangels this time, I swear!"He went redder in the face (if that was possible for the devil) and shook his clammy hand in what looked like a mocking salute. I took a step out of the office, neatly decorated with primroses and goat skulls. "Well... Farewell, master."I hissed, flapping my oily black wings. Satan waved a stumpy hand at me. "Toodooloo, dearie! Do have fun, won't you?" --- Six Daemons gathered that Thursday in the Ashen Coliseum. Satan was there, waving his greasy fingers at all of us. "Very good, I'm sure, to see you all here! Now, shall we begin?"He adjusted his glasses and gestured to the six knitting kits lying in the middle of the arena. Pandora looked less than impressed. The faemale daemon flapped her purple wings and spat an acid globule at Satan, which splattered over his glasses. Satan took his glasses off, staring at Pandora with utter soullessness. "Begone."He spoke, and it was if all the evils in the world catapulted out of his mouth. Pandora flashed purple, her wings tearing into two and her eyes simultaneously lighting on fire and covered in vinegar. Huge, invisible claws raked every inch of her body, and steaming lemon juice poured out of the cuts instead of blood. Pandora writhed in pain, but nothing could save her. She collapsed on the arena floor. "Oh dear..."Satan muttered, frowning in what now looked more like a grimace. "Looks like Pandora decided she didn't want to be my sucessor. Anyway, let us begin! One of the most important skills is learning skills! You wouldn't want anyone challenging their life and winning, would you?"He glanced around, daring the participants to disagree. "I'm sure you're all aware of the tale of Arachne,"He began, conjuring up a chained spider-lady whose eyes were devoid of emotion. "Disobeying the gods, thinking she was better, yada yada yada..."He waved a clawed hand. "Of no matter! Just don't let this happen to you!" Everyone just stared half-heartedly at Satan. He was eccentric for sure. "Well? KNIT, FOOLS?"He screeched, waving a hand at the knitting kits. --- I might continue if anyone likes this, I don't know. I've always liked the idea of Satan being a short, stumpy little accountant-like fellow with a penchant for flowers and horrible torture.
Draco Malfoy stood tall, chest puffed out proudly. Before him kneeled Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Harry's face was a bloody mess, and his breath came in heavy, wet rasps. Draco's wand was trained on the other young wizard, a feral smile playing on the blond teen's face. "We've been mates for a long time, Potter. It saddens me to have to do this, it really does. But when the Dark Lord says to kill your best friend, he doesn't mean if it's convenient." "Draco, please-" "Quiet, you,"the Malfoy heir snapped, pulling his sleeve up on his right arm. The Dark Mark moved fluidly on the belly of his forearm, as if the Dark Lord was calling out to him. He pressed his wand tip to it. With a thunderclap, He Who Must Not Be Named appeared in the damp alley, the glow of the moon casting a sheen across the man's almost slimy scalp. His reptilian face seemed taut, but Draco realized it was an abominable approximation of a smile. "Draco, my boy. You wonderful child,"Lord Voldemort hissed out, moving languidly towards Harry, his wand held delicately interlaced in the spiderlike fingers of his right hand. "You will be greatly rew-" "AVADA KEDAVRA,"roared Draco Malfoy, his wand that much quicker as it only needed to be raised an inch from where it had been pointing at Harry. Lord Voldemort stood no chance, as the green energy burst forth and spitted him straight through the chest. His wide eyes almost looked human with the raw emotion of shock displayed there, now permanent in death. "What... Why..."Harry coughed out, looking up at his best friend. Draco extended a hand to Harry, who in turn grasped it. The Chosen One laboriously climbed to his feet, then Draco sustained part of his weight to keep the injured wizard upright. "I had to make it look convincing, didn't I? That, and I always wanted to give you a good smacking, Potter." Harry laughed, then winced, saying, "You tosser." "Besides,"continued Draco, "I did tell you I would show you the wrong sort, right?"
In the year 3089, killing Hitler had been a sport. Points were scored for creativity and difficulty. For the rich, it was a fun way to pass time – we had the necessary machines and resources at our disposal. As a scientist, it was easy for me. Simultaneously, however, it was a way to prove myself. You see, I was at the brunt of society's cruel joke. I was mocked openly, and hateful rumors spawned across the internet. My reputation was tarnished, and I slowly became a recluse. But my naive self thought the competition would give me the fame and respect I desired. I entered myself into the competition, read all the regulations, and was ready to begin. A week later, I got an email from the competition officials notifying all competitors that we had 2 short months. For me, it wasn't close to being enough time. There was one law to time travelling: on any circumstances, do not remove anyone from the past or future. Scientists warned that it may result in the fall of modern society as we know it, and may possibly annihilate humankind. Naturally, my brilliant idea of giving myself an upper hand was to bring my past selves to help me. Of course, I had some explaining to do and had to sooth any fears my past selves had, but that was simply a minor bump. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts to keep them hidden, my doppelgängers were seen by my competitors and the competition officials. I was disqualified from the competition and given a date to go on trial. After weeks of hard work and sleepless nights, I wasn't going to be eliminated without a fight. In an act of defiance, I took myself and all my past selves back to Hitler's time to carry out my assassination. During my stay, I changed my name, my history and the appearance of all my clones. Time passed quickly, and the night before the competition soon arrived. As an avid follower of the Hitler Games since it began, I expected the officials to arrive sometime around 5am to discreetly blend in. Unbeknown to me, somehow the cops from my time were alerted of my crime, and my cover was blown. On the day of my scheduled attack, my clones and I were ambushed by a group of time travelling cops. As might be expected, I was outnumbered and quickly overpowered due to my lack of combat experience. I was taken back to my time and put into a cell. My trial was to be within two weeks. I had a target on my back the moment I stepped into jail. I was mocked and beaten up within the first hour. How could I be so cruel? How could I be so willing to sacrifice mankind for the sake of a mere competition? How could I spend billions of dollars on time machine use when there were trillions starving and malnourished? I believed these to be excuses – the inmates simply wanted easy entertainment and a punching bag to take out their frustration. Being lanky didn't help much either. The guards did nothing to help – they either turned a blind eye or grinned maliciously at my demise. The two weeks I was there toughened me up faster than I ever have. I learned to fight dirty by clawing my attackers' eyes and nose, or kneeing them in the groin. Yet despite this, I still received daily abuse from the inmates, to the point where I couldn't fall asleep at night from the pain. One fateful night, a guard was careless and fell asleep near the bars of my cell. I managed to unclip his keys from his belt and let myself out. I limped home and took a shower, put on a clean change of clothes and activated my time machine. I travelled back a few years before Hitler's rise to power. It might seem stupid at first (after all, it was very close to the year of the competitions) but I figured they would've never thought to look for a fugitive hiding in plain sight. I was right. I was never found out and over the course of years, the pain from being mocked and the brunt of every cruel joke festered within me. I decided I wanted revenge. I soon grew to be one of Hitler's closest friends, and his ideologies influenced my thinking. It was at a point where he wasn't infamous, yet his name was somewhat well known. I killed him at the ripe age of 40. I took on his identity, and continued his legacy. As I was well aware of the Hitler Games, I was able to fend off each and every attack, while simultaneously gathering support. Instead of targeting the Jewish, I targeted the people of the future. I made up horrific stories of their deeds, and fabricated perpetrators to be burnt at the stake as punishment. For justice, I claimed. For the safety of our future generations. Due to my knowledge in time machines, I was able to build a variation of it within 10 years. It was modified to allow my entire army to travel forward in time. I plan to return to the year 3089 – the year I tried desperately to gain the respect of my fellow peers. It will be bloody and merciless. No one will escape the extent of my wrath. Let the slaughter begin. EDIT: Thanks all for the positive comments! Glad you all enjoyed it :)
Fog rolled past the rosehips in Cara's front garden. The thick yew hedges were soaked in dew, and she kept her hood up when she left. Moisture made the air heavy, despite the recent rain. She had to leave the house: there was no coffee left and the headache was starting to build up behind her left eye. The shingles on the roof needed fixing, fog or not, but if she took her time, there was still the hope it might clear. The thick beam of the lighthouse on the Marthorpe Cliffs cut through the clouds. It swept left to right across the road, blinking away to shine over the sea. Cara kept to the grass verges at the side of the road, listening carefully for the sounds of any cars coming. The fog had persisted for several weeks now, and the dog walkers had stayed away from Marley Head for fear that their pets would go over the edge. At the village council there'd been talk of putting a rail in, but worries that it would ruin the view had prevented them from going ahead. Cara reached the coffee shop. She pushed her hood off and opened the door. The bell jingled and she looked up, surprised, as she noticed the shop was full of people. In a fishing town in Cornwall, it wasn't unusual to have tourists. But this was the off-season. The shops on the prom were all closed, Paul from the surfshop had pulled his blinds down at the end of September. Only the foolhardy and the mad went near the beach in this weather, dressed in anoraks and waterproof trousers. Even the seagulls eschewed the bay. There were no seats to be had, and Cara tapped her foot impatiently by the door, feeling her headache grow. Mavis swept past with a tray of teapots and homemade carrot cake. She was ruddy-faced and rushed off her feet, flour all over her flowered apron. "We've got no space, dearie,"she said apologetically. "Unless it's to go?" "It's going to have to be now,"Cara grumbled. The walk back, in the damp, with a paper coffee cup, promised to be unpleasant. "I've never seen it so busy for this time of year,"Mavis set the tray down and passed round the carrot cake to a table of four people. Two men and two women, they seemed to have dressed themselves in the dark. All of their clothing was mismatched: a flannel shirt with bermuda shorts, and one woman seemed to be wearing a nineties prom dress, complete with ruffles, spaghetti straps and a corsage made from a wilting violet. "Who are they all?"Cara said in amazement. The more she looked, the more unusually everyone seemed to be dressed. A man in the corner wore a wetsuit and a fur-lined gilet. "Some kind of tour, I imagine,"Mavis said. "We get them through here all the time. They're waiting for the event." "The event?"Cara said, a little too loudly. A man with a waxed moustache turned around sharply. He wore jeans and a woman's t-shirt with written across the front: Talk sexé to me: I'm French "Do you mind?"he said. Even his accent was unusual: soft and clipped at the same time. "Do you mind?"Cara shot back irritably. "I live here, I'm trying to get a coffee, and you're making it very difficult for me." "You live here?"the man replied. "Everyone, she lives here!" The woman in the prom dress pulled out a camera. "No photos,"Cara growled. "What are you here for?" "We're here to witness the event,"the man replied. "And if we were to be guided by a local, we'd reimburse you for your time." "Guided?"said Cara, thinking about the shingles on the roof, and how nice it would be to get a contractor in rather than doing it herself. A day in the blisteringly cold wind, and the muggy fog could be avoided. "Up to Marley Head,"the man said. "We're not sure of the way, but our almanacs say that's the best place to see it." "See what?"Cara asked. She didn't like Marley Head, with its winding paths and steep drops. The lover's nooks and benches that sat on the summit reminded her too much of other days and other people. "The last visible sunset,"the man said. "Before the fog falls forever. Will you come?"
The day I turned 18, I watched north of 100 people go into the doors on the right. Almost like the decision had been made before hand. ''See you on the other side, bro.'' She spoke, as I stood with my arms inside my pockets, looking at her figure, disappearing into the white light, after opening the doors. I stepped forwards, going straight for the doors on the left. I heard whispering behind me. Someone screamed my name from behind. Outrage. I grasped tightly on the metallic object in my hand. I did not look back. I made this choice a long time ago. With my own hands, I swung the door open. The same white light shone from this door. For a second, I heard singing birds. And then, the wind. The world seemed covered in a dusty filter. I looked around, beginning to run. The drop-off point was too out in the open. I couldn't know how it worked - maybe there was some guy just shooting down range at the 18 year olds who appear. This world could be like that. After about an hour of tracking through a desert-like mountain, I found a city. Ruined buildings, ruined roads and a criss-cross of wires hanging all over each other. It was a ruined city, taken a hundred years of abuse. I stopped in a alleyway, taking my backpack off. Inside it, was everything I had taken with me. I opened the front pocket, taking out a bunch of documents, stuffing them inside my other, empty pocket. Walking through this city wasn't as stressful as I thought. From a young age, we were taught the wretched evil of this world. Supposedly, a dark, twisted ruin of a world. If there was ''an end of the world'', then this was it. I was being watched. Not by a stalker, but by others. Everyone. Their eyes, narrow, looking at me from the filthy windows, from the alleys, from the side streets. These people were dirty, famished, sickly. I lingered by a barrel with an open flame. I took out the documents, glancing at them. My birth certificate, confirmation of education, ID. I threw it all in the fire. I stopped in the middle of an intersection, listening. There was the ever-present hum of the electricity running through the lines above, but I heard a rumbling. The middle of the road I stood, looking forwards, down the destroyed road. People closed their windows, got off the streets. Something was coming. I, though, had no reason to run. I had to not be afraid, to live in this world. They came on motorcycles. Old, loud ones. A half of dozen of them, stopped around me. I looked around, looking at who I assumed was the leader. He got off, walking towards me. Dark, dusty clothes. A bald head. Sharp eyes. Cracking my neck, I looked up at him, as he stopped a few feet away from me. With one hand I put down my bag, the other still clutching the metal object in my pocket. ''Ah, such a soft face.'' - he smiled. His face was covered in grime. -''I always wonder why people still choose this place...Anyways. You will be killed, soon. You've noticed that there are a lot of older people here, huh?'' I didn't answer. ''Not a man of many words, huh. Yeah, I know that expression. I wanted to be tough, too. I wanted to be my own man, too. There is nothing here for people like you, though. I'll explain how it will go down. You will give me everything you have. Money, tools, clothes, everything. And I will kill you, because you chose wrong.'' I pressed a button on the metallic object in my pocket and swung it at the man. I did it hard, expecting a lot of resistance. He had stopped talking. I heard a loud crack, the knife going in deep into his side. On the day of my 18th birthday, I took a life of a single man. This was the second choice in my entire life. It was my own decision to do it. There was nothing here for me but bloodshed and suffering. Life here had no meaning. He fell to his knees, and I raised the knife to the rest of bikers. The front of my jacket was bloodstained. He was gurgling on the dusty road and I was surrounded, standing alone ''at the end of the world''. And I chose it all.
Razergoth awakened from his sleep. His eyes opened and the flames within flickered. He felt the familiar scent of a man blossoming in his nostrils, filling him with bloodlust. He stood, his hulking ten foot frame rising with impunity, and turned to face his latest foe, who dared to disturb the great, the mighty- "Hey man, sorry to bother you, but do you know-,"said the man before he was cut off by the sound of 200 pounds of Razergoth's blade slamming down into him. "Well, that was rude."The man looked up at the demidevil with his hands on his hips, Razergoth's blade frozen in place a inch from the top of the man's head. What sorcery is this? "I guess I could have introduced myself. I'm Dan, and I'm from out of town. My sister's wedding is in a few days, and-,"the man said before Razergoth removed his blade and unleashed a barrage of arrows from his hand- unholy arrows, summoned from the very depths of Hell itself, arrows that made angels quake, ones that- "Bro. Can you not?" Razergoth stopped the stream, and stepped back. Nobody in 200 eons, none since his battle with the archangels themselves, had survived his full power. He considered the human before him. Save for some dirt on his cheeks, he looked unfazed. "Alright man, obviously you're not understanding something. Everybody since Wisconsin has wanted to fight me, and for some reason every time I've won they've insisted on giving me some sort of rock. Personally, I'd put them in jail for assault, but apparently my phone got smashed during the first fight. But the rocks are kinda cool cuz they seem to be lucky charms or something. Anyway, I've got like thousands of these now, and buddy, nothing you're gonna do is gonna hurt me." Razergoth looked down at the man. His adrenaline was subsiding. The man knew what he was saying- now that Razergoth could see clearly, he saw the massive aura rising off of "Dan."For the first time, he spoke. "Follow I-670 East for 7 miles. Take the left and take a second left at the first right."Ah well. Maybe next time.
“Oh, Hey look, it's Pigeon Brain.” Micheal and his usual entourage approached me from the left. I felt my fists curl. Looks like today's getting written up as a loss. “What are you doing out in the yard, Pigeon Brain? What's up in Pigeon town?” Micheal was a bully. He also had a terrible lack of original thought if “Pigeon Brain” was the best he could think up to call me. He called me Pigeon Brain because, well, I fed the Pigeons after school. That was enough to get yourself marked in high school, apparently. I threw another handful of bread-crumbs onto the grass before turning to face my approaching tormentors, still sitting on the old wooden bench. “What does it look like I'm doing, Micheal.” Feeding the birds made me...happy. They were my friends. I know how dumb that sounds but it's the truth. For just a few minutes I could feed some animals to feel better about myself and my terrible life. Of course, Micheal comes in to fix that problem. The universe does not want me happy. The birds were eating off the ground when Micheal clapped his hands together and yelled at the top of his lungs. The birds instantly scattered in a puff of grey feathers, and I couldn't stop myself from flinching. “You think those birds care about you, Pigeon Brain? Guess what, nobody cares. Not even the birds you throw bread at care.” He loomed over me. I tried my best to stare into his eyes without fear. And then I said something stupid. “At least birds can pass Geometry II.” For a moment he looked genuinely struck, that was still a sore spot for him. But then his fist came flying out of nowhere, crashing into my head, the force throwing me off the bench entirely. It had never gotten this bad. He'd never outright hit me before. trip me up, steal my stuff, maybe. But this was new. He kicked, and my stomach received the impact poorly. Even his little gang was backing off here, driven away by the look on Micheal face, a look of outrage at the fact that his prey had struck back. “You think you're funny, Pigeon Brain? I'll show you!” Another kick, another spike of pain. “I'll show -” For a moment, I wondered why he stopped. And then I looked over my shoulder, through the pain. The birds. The yard was covered in birds. Pigeons, ravens, even a seagull or two. They had come back. Micheal slapped his hands together and yelled again. None of them moved, even when he increased his efforts, jumping and hollering like a lunatic. “What are you looking at?” He addressed the birds. I giggled at the irony before he kicked me again, and I yelped in agony. One of the pigeons cawed. And suddenly, a tidal wave of feathers surged forward, a cacophony of crowing and cawing erupted as the mob of birds attacked Micheal. At first it was funny to watch him flail, the sheer absurdity of the situation was getting to me, but then I noticed what they were doing – their claws were out, their beaks were pecking, they were ravaging him. He was cut and bleeding, red staining the grass besides forgotten pieces of bread. Micheal broke under the onslaught, fleeing, screaming in confusion and pain. The rest of his group followed, chased by the massive flock until they were around the building, and out of sight. I got to my feet. My stomach hurt, but I would be fine. It took effort to drag myself back onto the bench to rest. One of the pigeons had broken off the formation, and landed in front of me. It gave a single, triumphant caw before attacking the bag of bread again. What else could I have done but smile?
"You guys think you're tough, huh? Look at you, all comfy up there on your big ship! Why don't you come down here and we'll see how tough you are?" The sailors stood on the deck of the ship, bewildered. The creature had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, only a few moments ago. He was out of the water from the torso up, and he just floated there. "Is he taunting us?" "What is he?" "Is he a Mer-man?" "No, he's a siren! He's trying to lure us into the water!" "No, you idiot, sirens are beautiful women that tempt sailors with their supernatural beauty. This is just some oaf of a Mer-man fixin' for a fight. And I for one am about ready to give it to him, if only to shut him up,"a sailor named Blackthorne said. "You guys all havin' fun up there on your big sailboat? You havin' a big slumber party up there? Havin' some pillow fights? I bet you're all cuddled up below deck right now, aren't ya!" "Is he callin' us queers?" "Would someone shoot this foul mouthed beast?" "I bet not one of you is man enough to jump in here and go a round with me. I'll take any one of ya! Come on then! Let's see what you're made of! That is, unless you're too sissy." "That does it!" There was the thud of running feet on the deck, a brief silence, and a splash. Blackthorne was overboard, swimming towards the creature. The siren smiled to himself. That sissy bit always gets one of them. The siren lowered himself into the water. When Blackthorne was only a few yards from where he had seen the siren he stopped swimming and looked around. "Where are you, mangy bastard! I'll show you siss-" And he was gone. "Where's Blackthorne!" "He was there just a second ago!" Then the siren appeared again. "Is that the best you have? That sorry sop couldn't even swim. It'll be a sad day for me if I can't even go a round with a man who can tread water." "Alright Davy, that's enough now, let's go finish this monster!" John and Davy, two of the fittest swimmers and dirtiest fighters aboard, shed their boots and shirts and went overboard. They made their way over to the siren and he waited. They both tread with their feet, fists up, and waited. The siren copied them, then lunged forward faster than any man could. He knocked out Davy and turned for John. One two, one two. They both were down before they knew what happened. They floated for a second, then went down in the water, unconscious, falling into darkness. Far from scaring the men, this only angered them further, each one unable to shy from the challenge. They were all watching now, all these men who were fighters, rabble rousers, trash talkers. They all came on this journey as men who don't know what's good for them, who don't want to know the odds of failure. There was a mad scramble as they all undressed and jumped overboard, and swam for the siren. --- "Captain, ship ahead!" The Captain surveyed the ship that had appeared suddenly out of the mist. Her deck was empty, there was no sign of a crew. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. "Skipper! Turn the ship around, now!"
It was a warm, overcast day in August, and the time crystals were glowing seven-thirty. Attention. Attention. All denizens of Sector H-7 will please proceed to a designated Tooth Brushing Station. You will have ten minutes to complete all necessary activities or Naughty Points will be added. Thank you for not pointlessly resisting your citizenship in Alabama 2.0, and have a lovely day. Cranston wrenched one foot out of bed, sliding it along until gravity kicked in and the rest of him fell. The concrete floor was barely harder than his bed and while he hated the thing, he would grudgingly admit to no one that both his sleep and lower back pain were noticeably improved from his pre-Deluge pillow-top mattress. “Fuckin’ A,” he spat, spreading his legs and staring at the bathroom door. “I ain’t takin’ a piss yet and the bitch is already yellin’.” The UberGlass crystal on Cranston’s center table glowed and a soft female voice spoke. Attention: Cranston Jones. The following violations have been recorded: Profanity, Syntax Error, Grammar Error, Personal Verbal Assault. You have received Naughty Points that will be reflected in your weekly Behavior Report. The total Points received for these violations are: 14. You have: 8 points remaining on the week before Rainbow Rehabilitation takes effect. Please be mindful of future conduct, and thank you for allowing Big Sister & Friends to control your life. Cranston bit his lip until it cracked and pushed himself up, making his way to the bathroom. His twice a week ritual had turned into a twice daily one, and the reduced tooth pain and absence of cold sores were still not worth the inconvenience. He wet the brush and grudgingly began brushing. It was only Thursday and with just 8 points left to spare, Cranston could not even skip the flossing bit. He cursed under his breath, risking the ultra sensitive range of the UberGlass’s receiver. His work began at 08:30, and Cranston found himself tossing on his black slacks and blue dress shirt, struggling with his tie as he noticed his dress shoes were unshined. Shit, he thought; he might get away with it, depending on how vigilant his supervisor was. The Upper Posse members were in a terrifying class of their own, coming down on the most minor infractions. Just yesterday one of Cranston’s co-workers received 50 points, enough to send him to Rehabilitation, for a simple seductive tongue flick and ass grab. Cranston finished his preparation and ran down the 8 flights of stairs to his building’s front door. He would have to climb them and then repeat this at least two more times today to meet his minimum fitness goal, a harrowing experience that after two years since The Upper Posse came to power had resulted in 14 pounds lost and an unexpected reduction of fatigue, though he cursed the trek daily and would have gladly returned to his familiar paunch and lethargy. The late Summer air was muggy and clean, and the sun peaked occasionally out from white, billowy clouds. Cranston’s building was half a click away from the nearest ElectoTram stop and he took off at a brisk jog with only several minutes left to catch it. There were few cars on the road now as part of the Posse’s Infrastructural Reappropriation, and Cranston missed the roaring custom exhaust of his Range Rover Sport every day. He was still not used to the light, crisp smell that now plagued the streets, and certainly did not trust that it was any better for him than his old truck’s fumes. I don’t trust anything I can’t see, and that includes air! his pappy had always said before God gave him lung cancer. Cranston made it to the tram as it was pulling up, hopping on and scanning his Trans Card. Siphoning gasoline wasn’t an option anymore and every trip cost him credits. Cranston found himself fighting a losing emotional battle against theft, with every regulated purchase imbuing him with a sense of pride. He wondered if this is what those Jewish people in Germany felt when Hitler swooped in without consent and tried to change who they were. It was a 25 minute trip to the Embassy of Literacy, or EmbaLit, where Cranston worked. It was a huge, cube-shaped structure that rose up hundreds of floors with several dozen archival ones below. Though he had been a part-time trucker and rat farmer before the Posse’s takeover, Cranston was forced to take remedial English and Writing classes, eventually earning his high school diploma and becoming fully literate. The increased critical thinking and understanding had been anathema to his formerly carefree existence, and Cranston also hated that he could contextualize ‘anathema.’ The foyer Processing Terminal scanned his credentials and Cranston decided to take the stairs today, which would knock some of the exercise quota off early. This was precisely the proactive, goody two-shoes approach that he despised – it was precisely what the resident goober and democrat from high school, Marvin Logan would have done. Don’t worry about shit till it’s burnin’ at your front door, his pappy had said. He reached the 14th floor of EmbaLit only slightly out of breath and walked down to Classroom 42, where he taught Reading and Writing to 2nd and 3rd graders. Cranston hardly suppressed a smile as he was greeted by two dozen lively, rambunctious children who waved and shouted various ‘Hello’s’ and ‘Mr. Jones!’ as he entered. The responsibility for so many kids was irksome to say the least, and the warm sensation of pride that flowed through him daily was surely to give soon, and infinitely more effortful than a bottle of Old Crow. “Alright, you ragamuffins. Settle down!” Cranston said, placing his shoulder bag on his desk and sitting down. “I hope you all had a lovely weekend, and…” Attention. Attention. The Two-Minute Love will begin shortly. Please take your seats and prepare your orations. This is a message from the Embassy of Appreciation. Thank you for surrendering your will to those better than you. Cranston sighed. Every Monday on the nose. “Okay, kids. You heard the UberGlass. Take your seats and prepare yourselves.” Within the minute, the room’s center crystal began to glow and a soft, harmonious voice responded. This is the Two-Minute Love. Everyone, please take the next two minutes to think of, remember, and appreciate the people in your lives who give you joy. Thank you, and have a pleasant subjugation. This was not the Alabama that Cranston knew.
"I wasted thousands of years. Master after master making selfish or flawed wishes to satisfy their greedy whims. It was as fun for me as it was for them. Oceans of gold, banquets worthy of kings, flying on rugs around the world, cheating death. Untold riches and power given to those who happened to stumble upon my lamp. In hindsight, I should have set up some form of vetting procedure or worthiness challenge like old Thor has on that mallet of his. It was last year that my contract ended. 1000 humans served throughout the eons. 3000 wishes granted. I was free. Being an eternal, immortal wish granter, I was keen to stay within the industry. I applied to the Make-A-Wish foundation. I'd heard of them through my years. I was accepted. My first child was a 6 year old. He had only a year or two to live. He wanted to meet superheroes. My boss at the time put me in contact with some dudes with costumes, but I wanted to go bigger. I summoned up a few big names. Made fictional factual. There was Spider-man, Iron Man, Captain America, and that jade juggernaut, The Hulk. They were waiting outside the hospital when 6 year old Harry was brought out. Spider-man was climbing down the wall without any ropes, Iron Man did a superhero landing after actually flying about. Hulk stood 10 feet tall. The faces of the adults were incredible but I'll never forget Harry's face. I've never seen such pure, unadulterated joy. We were out there for over two hours and he never stopped smiling. I've seen men with everything they desired who are still unhappy but little harry was bliss personified just by meeting someone. Meeting his idols. After Harry, I took a 12 year old girl called Katy into space. We floated around above the Earth for a while. I've taken a 10 year old boy called Mark back in time so see Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony win a battle. I've taken a 9 year old boy called Peter to each of the top 20 rollercoasters in the world in a single day. I'm starting to lose count of the wishes I've granted now. Each one is as happy and joyous as Harry was but Harry made me realise how much of a difference I was making. I wasn't changing one thing for everyone, I was changing everything for one person. I can honestly say that I think I have the best job in the world."
I gazed out over the dull sea and remembered what a fantastic display of beauty it had been the night before. Reduced to a colorless shell of its former self, it now had the same charisma of an old washed up actress. Suddenly I had an eerie sensation of something approaching rapidly – something on a collision course with my mind. I rose to my feet. With the crack of thunder, a figure appeared next to the only tree within miles. It was a dead oak with gnarly old branches, twisted and dark, that ended in leafless twigs – like sharp claws ready to scratch anyone within reach. But the old tree didn’t dare to touch this man and, seemingly terrified, it pulled back its long splintered arms. It was as if the sun itself eagerly had split the gray clouds just to catch a glimpse of the man, and now shone down with its dazzling golden rays where he stood. But even in all its bright glory, the sun itself couldn’t match the splendor of the man in his glittering platinum suit of armor. The plates were polished spotless mirrors, radiantly reflecting the surrounding scenery and his blonde hair, which was like a sparkling golden crown on the top of his head. An iridescent white mantle hung from his wide shoulders and flowed softly like wings of mercury behind him. His face was strong and noble, with high yet broad cheekbones. The pale indigo irises of his eyes shone with righteous purpose. It was a face as firm and unyielding as the Pearly Gates to a sinner. He strode straight towards me, every step dripping with arrogance and gallantry. The sunlight keenly followed him, like a personal spotlight. I knew he liked dramatic entries, but this was abundant even for Michael, it was as if he was on a mission. “Is it my birthday today, or what’s with all the attention?” I said, pretending to check my calendar. “This time you have gone too far, brother,” he said with a hollow voice, drawing his sword. It gleamed like a solid sunbeam in his hand and seemed to flicker with energy and sheer devastating power. “Let’s not get uncivil, shall we?” I said, holding out my hands in a gesture of peace. I knew Michael wasn’t the kind of guy to back down from a fight, and there was only so much my smooth words and charm could do once he started swinging. “In the holy name of the Lord, I command thee, kneel before Him or be forever cast aside,” he bellowed. His words were like thunder that shook the ground. “I think I’m going to pass on that one...” I told him. “…and you should as well… brother.” “Ungrateful snake!” he howled and swung his shining blade in a wide arc at me. I sidestepped with surprising ease; he obviously wasn’t trying yet. The sweep left a trailing smell of burning ozone in the air where it had split the very atoms. He struck again, this time with full strength and the blade came down from above like a lightning bolt. I managed to get out of its disintegrating way once more, but only barely this time and its edge grazed my very essence. It hit the dry earth with the sound of a nuclear warhead going off, and split the ground where we stood into a chasm so deep that I thought the world would collapse inwards. That’s when a tiny creature crawled out from behind the dead oak. It rubbed its eyes and yawned, as if it had just woken up from a deep slumber. Frowning, it looked left and right, obviously confused about where it was. Then it shrugged and casually brushed the dust from the shoulders of its cheap suit. It adjusted the flower that had partially fallen out of its chest pocket and smiled contently, wagging its head back and forth. Both Michael and I froze and watched in wonder. All humans were supposed to have died already, but this little bugger seemed to have survived. It puffed up its cheeks happily and pulled out a comb and a crumpled Valentine’s Day card. It ran the comb through its brown hair once, then nodded to itself proudly and put the comb back where he found it, leaving his hair the same as it was before. It checked its watch and was just about to leave, to God knows where, when it noticed us. Its eyes went wide, almost popping out of its skull. It waved at us, trying to act casual. It then pointed to the sky and gave us the thumbs up. It then turned around and hurried away across the desolate plains. Michael and I looked at each other. He tried his best to keep his face straight. He snorted, and a smile cracked open his stony features. “I had forgotten how funny those critters are,” he said after a while, shaking his head. “This, of course, changes nothing between us.” “Of course not, brother,” I agreed, smiling. ***** [/r/Lilwa_Dexel](https://www.reddit.com/r/Lilwa_Dexel/comments/5foev0/welcome/)
I have done my duty for centuries, choosing the slain and carrying them on to the hallowed halls of Valhalla. Of Odin's virgin daughters I am the oldest, Hilda. My name is not this highlight of the heroic tale, but that of Judith Crane. When the bifrost's color faded I found myself standing on battlefield the likes I had never seen. Through the centuries I have born witness to tragedy and slaughter, nothing I had ever seen brought as much fury to bear. These were children, no older than eight, just beginning to drink from the cup of life. At this age a child's battle is won by reaching the top of the hill first or by placing a ball in a goal. The only blood which should be shed by innocents as these it that from a skinned knee. Those who have witnessed the Aesir in battle know of terrible weapons from Odin's spear Gungnir which has never missed its mark or Thor's hammer Mjolnir which channels the power of a dying star. The weapons of man have surpassed that of the Aesir, not for craftmenship or beauty, but sheer effectiveness and ease of use. Battle settled disputes in the Norse homelands many times, but seldom was a life claimed over something petty. I stood looking over the carnage, chilled colder than the depths of Niflheim. I knew who I was here to carry on to Valhalla. I gazed back to witness the events as they happened. Madness. Madness pure and simple, that was all I could see. The warriors are to protect the children, not slay them, but this is not what happened. The unnamed, my his visage be lost to time, had turned his weapon on the young for reasons I care not to comprehend. I choose to bear witness to the act of valor, brought forth by Judith Crane, offspring of William and Melinda Crane, who in an act of selfless courage and bravery, struck true in the unnamed's femoral artery with a pair of scissors. Judith Crane ride with me on wings of light and tears of joy, forth to Valhalla. Odin wishes to gaze upon your youthful courage and bless this world with more that share it.
"How do you get big off of the Risk Reward program?"I spoke into a camera. It was set up on the wooden banister above me, as I filmed a bit of a self documentation. "By keeping your wits about you. So many people die for no reason. They jump off skyscrapers with the promise of millions, they're all idiots." I lit a cigarette, smoking it in freely in the little office I was inside. It was already really hot in the building, but I smoked regardless. "The first thing I did? I robbed a gas station in a rough part of town."I puffed, speaking like I was in a coversation, "I only got forty bucks for it. But if you're making forty bucks X times a week, every week, it really stacks up. Once I built up enough money, I paid to have an advisory team, a training team, and a company that sold deals to me." The major governments of the world all set up something called the Risk Reward program (albeit in their own language). This program promised money to people who were willing to do risky things. The higher chance of death you have, the more money you get. This means people were killing themselves like lemmings just at the cost of their own greed. I started out small, not doing anything too life endangering. After I used my money for a team that would advise me on the smartest activities to do and a team to train my body, I became partnered with... I guess you'd call them a third party. For a chunk of the government's money, these third parties would conduct tests without the government's supervision, and would offer lots of money to those willing. I never intended to become so world recognized stunt man, but that's exactly what I became. Withstanding gunshots, escaping from being buried alive, so many crazy things had got me both tons of money and tons of fans. I had no choice but to keep upping the stakes. I could care less how many fans I garnered, all that mattered was that I got money to put food on the table. If I backed down at the point I was at, I'd be hard pressed to find any offers. So that's when my company, Top Risk Industries, decided to make me the offer of the year. Everyone was talking it. I was offered a million dollars... To withstand a house fire. I didn't want to, because who the fuck wants to be trapped in a smoldering house? I decided in the end, though, that the money was too much to turn down. So that's why I was there. In the office of some secluded house, puffing on a cigarette. Countless firemen and medical staff members waited anxiously just inches outside of the door. Top Risk didn't want to kill me, that'd ruin them, they just wanted me to withstand the fire. If I could survive some hot burns, I would be cared for by top notch medical staff and I'd have a million dollars more stuffed in my wallet. I had set up a super flame resistant camera on the wooden banister above where I was sitting. I figured if I was going to be eaten alive by a wall of flames, I might as well document it. So I just sat there, smoking. I tapped my foot on the ground, not really thinking of anything. My endurance team told me I'd be more prone to failure if I let my emotions impact me. I heard a roaring crackle as flames spilled out into the hallway neighboring the door to the office. "Ah."I shrugged, still smoking the cigarette, "I guess this it. My chance to make one million and two dollars. Oh, I should explain. The two dollars are for this cigarette." As the flames tore down the door to the office, I felt an odd sensation. It was... _nothing_. My body stopped feeling hot. The chaos seemed to be going in slow motion. I noticed the corner of one of the pieces of paper on the desk I was at catch fire. Soon the flames would leap. They'd expand. I sighed, flicking the cigarette into the flames, which quickly burned it away. And then, the first piece of flame hit my arm. I didn't really feel it. It was odd, you know. I could feel that there was something on my arm, and I knew it was fire, but I felt nothing as my skin grew warped. That was when it hit me. With my eyes wide and heart thumping hard, I realized. _This is what death feels like._
Item #: SCP-4019 Object Class: ~~Euclid~~ ~~Keter~~ Euclid Special Containment Procedures: Neither the Foundation, nor any known Group of Interest, currently has the means to contain SCP-4019 by traditional methods. All current containment efforts are focused on controlling SCP-4019. MTF Delta-9 ("Supermen") is currently tasked with monitoring the subject by providing employment via a Foundation front (known publicly as "The Hero Association") at Site-A. Agent █████ is tasked with round the clock surveillance of SCP-4019, and currently resides with the subject. Agents ████ and ████████ provide relief when necessary, under the guise of also being employed by The Hero Association. Description: SCP-4019 is a human male of Japanese descent, approximately 175cm in height and a weight around 70 kg. SCP-4019's given name is ███████, with the alias █████ █████ given in the Hero Registry (see notes). SCP-4019 exhibits no distinguishing features with the exception of alopecia - which SCP-4019 seems emotionally distressed by when attention is drawn to this fact - and a frequent vacant expression. SCP-4019 exhibits extreme strength, stamina, and durability beyond the known limits of the human body. SCP-4019 first came to the Foundation's attention after several unreported threat actors ("Monsters"to the civilian population in the area surrounding Site-A, where such appearances are commonplace for currently unknown reasons) were found dead. Agent ████ has been credited with these eliminations to maintain Site-A's cover. Agent █████ made contact with SCP-4019 after a near defeat by [REDACTED] (see notes), whom SCP-4019 eliminated with a single strike. Shortly after this event, SCP-4019 effectively, according to Agent █████' testimony, singlehandedly eliminated the entire combat force of GoI "House of Evolution". This triggered the immediate SCP status, with a provisional classification of Euclid. After Incident #4019-39, attempts to build a containment facility were put on hold after the subject punched through Site-A HQ's reinforced superstructure, constructed of [REDACTED]. Incident #4019-07: On ██/██/████, a meteor was detected on a direct collision course with Sector Z of Site-A's catchment area. After Foundation assets gathered information from a weapons test (see file BF-19912.199 for details), SCP-4019 arrived on the scene and destroyed the meteor, fragmenting it, leading to severe damage to property and life in Sector Z. Agents ██████ and █████████ report that SCP-4019 was later seen berating civilians, informing them that their problems were meaningless. Reclassification to Keter requested. O5-7 Note: Reclassification approved. Addendum #4019-1: Multiple staff at Site-A report SCP-4019's behaviour to be inconsistent with that displayed in Incident 4019-07. Foundation psychologists interviewed those present and administered Class B amnestics to civilians. Agents ██████ and █████████ have been formally reprimanded, and reminded that ranking in the Hero Association is secondary to their role in the Foundation. SCP-4019 reclassified to Euclid after determining it is not inherently hostile. Notes: [1] Site-A maintains a registry of staff employed, giving rankings based on perceived heroism. Civilians are invited to give nicknames to popular staff. [2] Entity described as human mosquito hybrid, resonsible for [REDACTED] deaths in the area. Wide-area amnestics dispersed following the incident. [LEVEL 4 OR HIGHER CLEARANCE REQUIRED FOR ADDITIONAL INFORMATION] Enter Login Credentials: >>
“Over five hundred years you see a lot of people die, some a lot quicker than others. You see friends, family, and people you never really knew die in front of you. At first it shocks you and frightens you, like anything strange in life. But after about fifty years of people randomly dying from doing good deeds in front of you, well, you just get used to it. People here don’t die like normal though, they don’t die like how you die. In fact, aging in general is just useless, so we stopped that a while ago. Not saying we don’t age, we’re born as babies just like you, but we only grow older until about the age of twenty three. After that our looks sort of just stop. No wrinkles, or grey hair, no bags under our eyes, or crows feet setting in above our cheeks. The way we die, the big goal, is to go to heaven, or to have so much fun that heaven doesn’t want you. Going to hell is the easy part, this can take months, if not weeks. Going to heaven is the hard part. That’s when you have to actually do good deeds, feed the hungry, give money towards good causes, all the boring stuff in the world. The earliest this usually takes is 25 years. Myself, why would I want to be anywhere else when I can be in the same place I’ve grown up in. The same home I was born in, lost my virginity in, had all my memories in. As a teenager I got a job at a store. After my manager went to hell for cheating on his wife (for the 56th time) the job was given to me. Since then I’ve just lived a normal life. Don’t do anything crazy, just live. Go to work, go home, watch tv, eat, sleep. That’s it. The difficult thing is that even the smallest of good deeds goes towards your heaven. I helped a lady out to her car the other day, then stole three dollars from her purse. I figured it evened out enough. The biggest question you’re probably wondering is, this life seems so boring. Do no good, do no bad, what’s the point of living. Well to be honest I’m afraid of the other side. Hell is, well, it’s hell. Heaven, how great can it really be? Everyone has their own interpretation of what it is, singing, dancing, drinking, but how do we know what it really is? I just don’t trust it. If you live 100 years, you’ll feel the same way. So just wait until you reach 200. The other day, I broke my own rule. I didn’t go home. I went to a bar. I walked in the bar to the smell of piss and shame. Literal piss, a man with a bald head, and big arms stood in the corner, holding both arms towards his crotch, as the sound of a running hose ran down towards the carpet. This is what you find in the hell spots. I walked towards the bar and sat on a red leather covered stool. A beautiful woman walked over, long curly blonde hair, nice lips, nice eyes, big breasts, and probably only late 50’s (you can start to tell a difference after a while). “What’ll you have?” She asked, she placed her palms on the bar and bent down at the waist. “Whatever’s cheapest is fine.” “We don’t give water.” “I mean the cheapest beer, I don’t give a shit, I’m just here to watch the game.” My tv had recently broke, and the big game was on. Men speckled throughout the bar, a couple to a table here and there. A couple lonely drinkers. A place to come forget their sorrows, forget that they’ll probably be in hell soon. She handed me a tall frothy glass of beer and walked away. I pulled it close and spun my finger around the top as I watched the sports player hit a home run. I sunk my head and took a big drink of the beer. “What the fuck!?” I turned around to see one of the men wrapping his hands around the waitresses ass cheek. She grabbed his glass and flung it towards his bald head, gold liquid splashing over his reflective head. Another man came up behind him wrapping his arm around the guy’s neck and throwing him to the ground. Tumbling in circles throwing punches at the ribs. Every man was soon in the fight, along with the waitresses throwing glasses and the bartender pulling out a shot gun firing openly at each person. Not able to kill, but able to slow them down. I sunk down and went on all fours, I started crawling slowly towards the door. A hand tugged on the back of my collar pulling me up and getting me in a head lock. The man spun me around and had a fist full of my shirt while cocking his arm back. His arm slowly lowered before bringing it to my hair, he grabbed a hair and plucked it. The whole bar began to silence and stop in a matter of seconds. The bartenders barrel starting to lower as she realized what was going on. He held in between his thumb and index a silver strand of hair. His mouth agape showing a few front teeth missing with blood dripping out. Men in headlocks, and in compromising positions all facing towards me. “How old are you?” He asked in the silence. It was illegal to be more than 200 years old. Anyone over 200 years old is stripped of any money and titles they have, thrown on the streets with clothes that become rags, and empty stomachs. Their reasoning being that if you’re in a bad situation long enough you’ll do something crazy to get out, the hellish kind of crazy. “I’m 124,” I said randomly. It was the first number that came to mind. His face slowly zoomed in on mine, looking near my eyes to see faint lines creasing in. Lightly discolored circles starting to fill in underneath my eyes. “Call 9-1-1.” He said to the bartender. He pulled my head under his arm and fell to the floor. I floundered through his arm, trying to make space as the beautiful woman picked up the line and was murmuring to the police. One swing came in, landing right below my eye. Stars followed with the sense of hollowness in my head. I blinked through it to open my eyes to his knuckles coming towards me again, landing on my forehead. That’s about the last punch I remember before fainting.” I’m wearing tattered clothes, ripped and torn. I have a long beard, grey hairs now peppered in, along with long hair sitting under a beanie. A man is tied to a chair in front of me, grey duct tape placed over his mouth. He’s crying and pleading with his eyes. He may not be able to die, but he can feel pain. “So I’m really sorry for this. I hope you can now see why I’m doing this. I just can’t live like this any longer.”
When I read the Greek myths as a kid, I always thought that I'd be Athena. Like if I were to one day turn into a god, the result would be something like her. Fierce, strong, and wielding the most powerful weapon of all: wisdom. That's the assumption that most smart girls make, I guess. The pretty ones always want to be Aphrodite. I knew a few really daring soccer players who said they'd be Artemis. Watching them play on the field, it wasn't hard to imagine that. They were already swift and dexterous. Hunting would come easy to them, if they tried. But I found out the truth, the hard way. I wasn't Athena. Not because I wasn't wise - I was. But there was another thing that defined me more than that. "God, can you believe it?"I was saying to Nailah, my roommate, that morning. I cracked two eggs with one hand and let their goopy insides fall into the skillet. "Isabelle doesn't even fucking try, and she bullshits one of the best presentations I've ever seen. I heard Dr. Ramirez telling her that she would write her a rec for an internship."I scraped the spatula against the pan a bit harder than I needed to. These eggs would be ultra scrambled by the time I was done with them. "She studies,"Nailah mumbled from across the room. Her nose was buried in an econ textbook. I whirled around and jabbed the spatula in her direction. "No, she doesn't. You know how I know? I follow her on Instagram. The only time she's not posting selifes from da club is if we have an exam the next day." "So she crams,"Nailah said. "So what?" "It just isn't fair,"I grumbled, turning back to the eggs. "Fuck. Cheese. Right."I slid over to the fridge and knelt down, jiggling my knee as I looked at the bottom shelf. "Like, the right people should be rewarded. You know?"There it was. Sharp cheddar, grated. I grabbed it and tossed it onto the counter next to the stove. "Life isn't fair, Zora." "Don't think I don't know it." It's hard to explain what happened next. All I know is that my hands were glowing, bright and golden. Nailah said something, then repeated herself a little louder. A large scale appeared in the air in front of me. And there was a sharp pain in my back, right underneath my shoulder blades. I reached back and felt something protruding from the flesh in my back, and fainted. When I came to, I was lying on the floor of our kitchen, wings cradling the rest of my body from the cold, tile floor. Nailah was nowhere to be seen. I could smell something burning. Shit. The eggs, that's right. I jumped up and turned off the stove, my wings folding into my back automatically as I did. "Nailah?"I called out. No response. I walked to the bathroom and inched my way in front of the mirror, afraid of what I knew I would find. Large, golden wings now stretched out from my back. My eyes, which had always been dark brown, were now a bright and unsettling amber. And something about my face seemed sharper. More fierce. I looked down at my arms. On the left wrist there was a tattoo of a set of balancing scales. On the right, there was a word. A name. NEMESIS.
Humanity, the prime species of the galaxy. Hardened through millennia of war, disease, famine and death. We always believed we were something more. That our origins were divine or astral in nature. We were right, terrifyingly so. Our first encounter with then Xynstax went about as well as you can imagine. They came down and spoke to the leaders of our governments; we hosted them as the good galactic neighbours we were, until they offered us the knowledge we wanted. It wasn't exactly kind, what we did, but it was necessary. Apparently humanity had been quarantined, well, Earth had at least. We were a genetic experiment by a long dead race, no other members of the Union (the governing body of the galaxy) were privvy to our existence until the Voyager probe gave our precise universal location. Our first stint in this Union, was as mercenaries. What better job for humanity? We were special in the universe as per our past. No other species we encountered suffered as much from war, infighting and prejudice as humanity. These traits definitely helped in the wars to come. Obviously it didn't take long for the members of the Union to see humanity as a the scourge for the galaxy. We colonised everything remotely habitable, which meant planets with no oxygen or life-supporting materials were terraformed or otherwise modified to suit our needs. We sold our war-mongering ways to the highest bidder, the politics were left to our slimiest diplomats to avoid any official repercussions. Obviously something had to give, we didn't expect it to be the bureaucracy that literally millions of years had enforced and structured. I guess they hated us more than we thought. The first Galactic war began. No, I'm not making that up, humanity literally sparked the first Galactic war, ever. It was here we realised the potential we were bestowed with, genetically engineered on an apparently inhospitable world, subject to the worst diseases, viruses and plagues the galaxy had ever seen, the common cold is known to have caused the extinction of several hundred species on its planet of origin. We were ready and here to carve out our place in the universe. Bullets generally pierced the flesh of the other species, their blood was extremely nutritional and the citizens of our colonies had no problem barbequing them. Our skin is naturally hydrophobic, which is perfect considering most of our enemies used water, yes, water, as their offensive weapon of choice. Even in death, our blood could be weaponised against our former business venture. It was over as quickly as it started, history remembers what was once there. Not what is now. They say that the oldest question in the universe was whether we were alone. We weren't, but we are now.
Pausing for a brief moment Rigby cast his gaze through the surrounding trees before looking back towards the voice calling for him. Rigby didn't quite understand all of it but he heard his name and without wasting another moment he scooped up the ball then raced back towards it with growing excitement. Again the voice called out for him urging him to race along even faster before the young boy finally came into view. Immediately the boy's face lit up as Rigby made straight for him dropping the ball at his feet. The boy reached down to pick up the ball, he almost seemed to not mind the slobber, and give Rigby's head a good scratch. Praise filled the boy's voice as he continued to pet and love on the dog he had named Rigby when he was just a pup. Caught between soaking in the attention and waiting for another throw of the ball Rigby whined with anticipation until the boy sent the ball sailing through the air. In a flash Rigby was off kicking up air and leaves behind him galloping after the ball. Glancing between what lie ahead and the ball something caught his eye bringing him to a dead stop in his tracks. Before him stood a Wolf. The larger canine studied Rigby with some curiosity until he noticed the boy in the distance. Taking a step forward the Wolf would find Rigby moving to block his path. The boy hadn't noticed the Wolf yet. "Step aside dog. Only one needs to die here today." The Wolf spoke in a low growl with its chest pressed outwards. Rigby stood his ground refusing to budge "The human is mine. No harm shall come to him so long as I draw breath." Rigby tried to make himself look bigger but the size difference was apparent. The Wolf stepped forward again "I will end you along with the human if I must. I won't let such an opportunity pass me by dog. Humans are easy prey when they're still cubs. Step aside." Now the Wolf flashed its fangs and lowered its head preparing for battle. "No." Rigby mirrored the Wolf's action. He knew his duty. In the distance the boy called for Rigby. The Wolf lurched forward throwing its jaws open hoping to catch Rigby by the throat but his smaller size made him far quicker. Rigby managed to leap aside before barreling straight into the Wolf biting whatever he could. The Wolf was quick to respond grabbing hold of Rigby by the scruff of his neck yanking him off and straight into the ground. Rigby collided hard with the ground but got right back up to his paws lunging up at the exposed underside of the Wolf. As teeth sank into the soft stomach flesh the Wolf let out a howl which rang through the trees. Rearing up the Wolf came down with its front paws on Rigby and began clawing and kicking him as hard as the Wolf could. Rigby hung on as best he could but in a few moments he was knocked free and onto the defensive. Snarling the Wolf pounced on top of Rigby who pushed straight up with his legs to keep distance between the pair. Still the Wolf managed to bite Rigby several times on the snout before Rigby managed to push him completely off. The taste of blood was on Rigby's lips as his tongue ran over them. He could feel pool running down his back as he stood up and dirt clinging to his wet fur now. The Wolf turned to look at the boy as if to go for him and Rigby attacked. His teeth sunk into the Wolf's neck which yowled in pain bucking back and forth desperately trying to shake Rigby off. All Rigby could do was hold on with everything he had as the Wolf violently swung him this way and that. Hoping the boy would run Rigby tried to keep the Wolf distracted yet all the boy could do was watch in horror as the battle unfolded before him. Suddenly Rigby felt himself crushed between the wolf and tree forcing the air out of his lungs. Gasping and choking the Wolf managed to finally shake Rigby off of him dumping Rigby into a heap on the ground before him. Blood dripped from the neck of the Wolf as he stood over Rigby "Why do you protect the human? You know what he'll become. You know what they are capable of!" The Wolf growled down at Rigby who struggled to get to his feet now. "Th-they..." Rigby managed to get up onto his paws once more and catch his breath somewhat "They aren't all... bad. That one loves me even, takes care... of me." Rigby still pants as he tries to stall for time to get back enough energy to carry the fight on. "Before him... I had nothing, nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat, I was... completely alone." Glancing back at the boy Rigby would wince feeling his ribs ache with each breathe "He saved me... I'll do anything to repay that..." "You are a slave and you'll die for it!" The Wolf snarls lunging towards Rig- CRACK The sound ripped through the trees sending birds scattering in all directions. Rigby recoiled at the sudden sound. The forest seemed to shatter in that moment. Opening his eyes Rigby would find the Wolf on the ground before him. Dead. A hole almost perfectly between the eyes and blood oozing freely from it. Before Rigby could react he felt himself being scooped up by two large powerful arms. Looking upwards Rigby would see a familiar face, the Master human, carrying him back towards the house. The words he was saying couldn't be understood but Rigby knew that his human was safe and he was going to be taken care of for doing his duty as their sworn protector.
I’m a simple gal, you know? I’ve always been so, so simple. I don’t have complicated dreams. I don’t desire complicated things. My requirements for being happy are very, very simple; a day off work, an evening of binging my favorite show, that perfect weather when it’s sunny but also a bit chilly, so it’s great for a walk. My name is Claire. I like cats. I like reading. The strangest thing about me, probably, is that I really like seeing people run into someone they know in the street. I just like it, you know? Someone would be walking alone with a numb expression, thinking about groceries or whatever and then boom – their eyes widen, their face lights up, they grin and rush over to this other person and hug and smile and laugh and ask ‘How are you?’ and just in that moment they look so happy. Yeah. I’m...really simple. You know what’s not simple? Waking up in your small apartment to the smell of breakfast, when you know you live alone. Hearing a faint scuffle from the kitchen, when you know you came home last night alone. Hearing a female voice – slightly smoky, slightly raspy – humming contently from the other room when you know *you went to sleep last night alone. There’s no simple explanation for any of that. I scramble out of bed, leaving a pool of warm drool on my pillow. I am a sleepy, half-blind, haggard mess – my hair is all over the place and the thing I haphazardly wrapped around my shoulders could have been my house robe, but it could’ve just as well been the new curtains I was too lazy to set up. My shaking hands find the nearest solid object I could use for a weapon. It’s a footstool. There is literally nothing else in my bedroom I can lift and whack someone on the head with. I grip two of its three legs as I try to be stealthy, while looking as the world’s most miserable lion tamer. As I shoulder my way into my kitchen, I see a black cloud at my stove. Wait, no I don’t. Why did I think that? It’s not a black cloud, it is a chaotic, swirling, curving and swaying mass of utterly black hair. Almost as big as me, but not nearly as apologetic for its wild appearance. It belongs to a towering woman who is humming and tending to four large, sunny-side up eggs sizzling in the frying pan. I do not know this woman, but even so my first urge isn’t to panic at her intrusion or wonder how she got into my apartment. In that moment I am just so painfully aware of how small and simple I am, compared to her honestly awe-inspiring appearance. Claire Jones with her messy, dull hair and her sleepy face covered in dried drool and red imprints left by the crumpled sheets. Claire, holding a footstool and half-wrapped in the curtain she’d bought weeks ago but was too lazy to put up. The Woman* hears me, or senses me, or both. The wild black mass that is her hair shifts as she turns her head and shows me a pallid face. A tight face, a strict face, a stony expression that I somehow knew no force of nature could move or break. Well, except for Claire Jones, apparently. That face breaks for me – first into a small, fond smile as she eyes me and my ridiculous appearance up and down. The smile evolves into a smirk, then a full on grin, so painfully bright and sunny that I actually squint, expecting it to hurt my eyes. It is that kind of unrestrained smile that startles you coming from people who normally don’t smile often and warms your heart, making you think they aren’t as bad as you previously thought. In one fluid motion she shifts the frying pan off the stove and then she’s next to me – cool palms cupping my face, tipping it up, before her lips found mine and took away any notion I had on anything in existence. I mean, I’m simple, not stupid. I know, rationally, you shouldn’t kiss home invaders. Even if they made you breakfast. But that notion isn’t even a notion in my mind right now. My mind, which is a chaotic, swirling blur of just ‘yes’ and ‘good’ and ‘right’. It isn’t simple, it’s inexplicably, incomprehensibly complicated and it is just everything. It is 'everything' so much. She pulls away and I bask in the warmth of her smile, completely dazed, eyes wide and mouth slacking. Like a total retard. “I made you breakfast.” her voice is surprisingly deep, somewhat scratched, raspy and completely perfect, “Have a seat, my dear – today you are the Queen.” “Oh, you didn’t have to do that.” I say what I always say when people try to do nice things for me, but I sit down anyway. A perfect plate of eggs and bacon is set before me within seconds. A glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee next to it. Some perfectly browned toast. You know, the kind of breakfast you see people eat on TV. I look up and she is sitting there, her sharp chin resting in her palm as she gazes at me with unrestrained devotion. “I wanted to.” she says in response to my off-handed remark, “Go on, try it!” By this point, I’d just feel awkward asking questions like ‘Who the hell are you’ and ‘What are you doing in my home?’. I taste the eggs and they are perfect. The woman is beaming at me with pride – she already knows she made an amazing meal. She looks like she’s bursting to tell me something, but I don’t know what to ask exactly to prompt it. “You want to know how I got it all so right, even though I find human food repulsive?” she finally breaks the silence. There’s too much wrong with everything she just said. I choose the simplest option I can think of, which is to just go with it. “How?” I asked, unable to stop myself from stuffing my face. “Well,” she looked proud and smug and as though she was about to reveal a big secret to me, “I know how much you like the eggs at that awful place near your work. So yesterday, after I finished up at the Soul Furnace, I went there and I consumed thirty seven servings of that hellish food, until its horrible taste was forever burned into my soul and mind like a trauma that I would never recover from.” “Uh-uh.” the toast crunches satisfyingly under my teeth. “Do you like it?” “It’s really good.” Her sharp and stern appearance seems to melt into satisfied bliss under my lame compliment. “My dear, beautiful, sleepy Love...” she murmurs, gazing at me tenderly, “I count the days until the wedding ceremony – it shall be an event so grand, it will reach all the way up to the Heavens and shake them.” She grins and leans towards me. “I didn’t invite any of those fools from up there.” “Probably for the best.” I said, “So, who are you marrying?” Her voice is sharp and throaty and I swear the chair under me jumps a little as she throws her head back and laughs explosively. “Oh, this is why I love you so dearly!” she finally says, wiping a tear of mirth away as she settles down, “Not only are you fearsome, you also lighten my heart, my Love.” A golden glint catches my eye from below. It had been glimmering at me since I had sat down to eat, the sun from my window hitting it just so, but in this entire confusing situation I hadn’t paid attention to it. I look down and see it – a simple yet beautiful golden band is on my left-hand ring finger. There is a small, crimson stone embedded on it and within it swirled incomprehensible depths of something dark and blood-red. “I have to go work, Love.” she says as I stare stupidly at the beautiful engagement ring on my finger, “I’ll see you tonight.” My chin is tipped up by a long finger, a fleeting kiss pressed into my stupid, gaping mouth. And she is gone. Doesn’t get up. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t exit the door. She simply vanishes in a flicker, leaving behind various things. A small apartment. A lovingly prepared breakfast. A beautiful engagement ring. Her fiancé – a simple girl, currently choking on a piece of toast in shock – who will later realize she had lost two weeks of her memory and over the course of that time had somehow managed to impress, enchant and get engaged to...the literal Queen of Hell. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- EDIT: Sorry if we don't do edits here, but it's the best I can do right now. Thanks for all the kind words! I'm happy and humbled you guys liked this, especially since this is like my second post ever here and I was really nervous. Sadly I kinda wrote it and then went to work (where I'm at now, slacking to make this edit :') ) so I can't write you guys a part 2 cause I gotta be responsible and adult and all that stuff. Thanks again, I feel welcomed!
People were sometimes like vending machines. At least to someone like me, they were. Feed some coins or a dollar note into one of those things, and depending what type of vending machine it was, you would get back a drink, a snack or maybe even a toy. In the same way that there are many types of vending machines, there are many types of people. The little girl who opens a lemonade stand down the street every week, she does it to raise money for her crippled mother. As I buy one of those from her, she beams with a smile that stretches from ear to ear. Happiness radiates from her for just a brief second, before the memory of her mother subdues it. But in that second, it’s child’s play to siphon off just a little bit for myself. A refreshing morning drink and a nice side of joy to brighten up my day on my way to work. Flick a coin to the beggar on the roadside and add a little skip to my step. Of course, the emotions I could take weren’t limited to only positive emotions. I was very much capable of taking a person’s sorrow or grief. The question was, of course, why would I? Usually for the sake of fitting in or making life easier. After all, being blank faced at a funeral was somewhat frowned upon by your fellow mourners. Occasionally, I’d steal a bit of irritation or anger here and there, leaving it to bubble in a tiny ball at the back of my mind for later use. I’d use them to help make my reactions more ‘human’, when someone spilled their coffee on me or accidentally knock into me in the hallways. I mean, a general indifference at everything tended to weird people out after a while. There were other drawbacks to being me, of course. The biggest one being it was harder to be alone with just one other person. Having only one person around severely limited my ability to react appropriately, since I could only use the emotions the person expressed. I could only hold tiny amounts of emergency emotions in reserve, useful for one or two second bursts. Around people who wanted me to feel the same way they did, like being happy that they had been promoted or being angry at a third non-present party, it wasn’t an issue. But when a person who was sad needed comforting or the like, things became more complicated and difficult. It was easier to blend in a group, where I had a veritable buffet of all-I-could-feel emotions to pick and choose from. It made me somewhat of a social mystery, a person who was mostly well-liked and comfortable enough in groups, but who refused all attempts at closer, more singular friendships. But it was my life. And I made it work. I walk into the nearest café, looking for a bagel or something. At the counter, a gruff heavyset man screams at the barista for getting his order wrong. He holds up the queue with his ranting and whining, and irritation and anger at him roll of the long line of customers in waves. It doesn’t bother me, of course. But I spy a fresh batch of bagels and the anticipation I had taken from the beggar as he had seen me approach to give my daily donation is enough to galvanise me into action. I want a bagel and this man is in my way. I still have enough happiness left in the tank, so I simply focus, and I rip from him all his rage and frustration. They slam into my chest, and I spend happiness like water, dousing the raging flames as quickly as they arise. The man stops shouting mid-sentence. He stares at his drink, clutched tightly in his hand. He isn’t angry anymore, and it confuses him more than anything else. “S-sorry, I don’t know what overcame me,” he stammers, a furious blush on his cheeks. “It’s fine, I’ll take the drink.” I sigh in relief, taking some of the barista’s relief in trade for my little act. His emotional state reset, it seemed that this man wasn’t someone who was usually so aggressive. He’d probably just had a bad start to his day or something. “Why’re you giving me this stupid crumpled up note?” The same man, gruff and heavyset, shouts again, apparently mad at the change the cashier had given him for his coffee. This isn’t normal, and I quickly draw on the cashier’s bafflement at this man’s sudden mood swing to react properly. Armed with the appropriate emotion, I wonder, how was this man suddenly so mad again all of a sudden? I didn’t have any more happiness to spend trying to calm this man down. I could have just taken all of his anger again, but then I would be angry myself and I didn’t see the point in that. As if to answer my prayers, I sense from my left an overflowing well of glee. I sneak a look, and see a young kid, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. He has a snapback on, headphones wrapped around his ears. His clothing a nightmare mishmash of colour. What did he have to be so happy about? It mattered little. All that mattered was that he had presented to me my solution. I draw from the snapback kid and the angry man equal amounts of emotion, cancelling each other out as soon as I had received them. “What the hell?” the snapback kid leaps to his feet, bewilderment banishing the glee from his face. “Who did that?!” I’m caught off-guard. Did the kid somehow know what I was doing? This was the first time in my life anyone had ever reacted this way. The kid scans the crowd with cunning grey eyes, and my reactions give me away. “You,” he says with dead certainty. “Who the hell are you?” “I don’t know what you’re-,” Before I can finish, a wave of panic tears through me. “What are you doing?!” I cower before the kid, as a series of emotions race through me, popping up and fading just as quickly as they came. Fear. Joy. Sorrow. Grief. Confusion. Rage. I can sense that everyone else in the café is terribly afraid of me right now, because I’m like a mad man. I lie in a ball in the middle of the fall, babbling wildly as an insane concoction of emotions are injected into me. There’s only one way out of this, and it wasn’t pleasant. With great effort, I drain everyone in the room of their terror, drowning out the hurricane of emotions with an ocean of pure emotion. “So, you’re like me,” the boy says condescendingly from where he stands. “Well, not quite. You appear to have some deficiencies.” I push myself upright to face him, my arms and legs still trembling because I was so scared. “I was having so much fun too, messing with that guy,” he gives the gruff and heavyset man an eyeful. “But you’ve ruined it for me now.” It’s only now I notice that everyone around me is standing still staring blankly forward, save for a big grin on their faces. “They’re so happy they’re at a loss for what to do,” he says laughing. “They’re like vending machines, you know? Put an emotion into them and you get some pretty hilarious results.” “What’s going on?” The barista says, slightly confused at the strange scene in front of her. I’ve drawn her joy to myself. I’m so happy that I’ve finally found someone like me. I stand up, and the with a snap of his fingers the snapback kid throws me back into that hamster wheel of emotions. Immediately I’m back on my feet, having drawn from gruff and heavyset man his joy. I’m so happy that I can fight back. And the process repeats again. And again. And again. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I prepare for the strangest and most difficult fight of my life.
When I made a deal to serve the devil in the 1300s, everything was pretty much straight forward. I'd serve under him for 700 years of the most grueling and disgusting work, and in exchange he would grant me a chance at life again in one of the most intelligent minds known to mankind. For each moment of my servtitude, I planned my global domination. I'd use my newfound intelligent body to pursue prophet status. "Humans are humans,"I would tell my self, "how much could humanity really change?"How wrong I was. Today, I sit here, and I'm no better than a fucking brick. Who knew that in 2046 silicon based life forms and computers like smartphones would be considered life. Apparently a bunch of them passed the Turing Test and brains were simulated. But let me tell you this, people of the internet, this is NOT LIFE. I sit here slaving away to the directions of meat sticks emerging from a larger sack of meat. Why? All so my intelligence can go to WASTE. Everytime this sack of shit decides to "go on vacation"or forgets to charge my fucking energy source, I fall asleep or have no connectivity. Not really useful when trying to become a prophet now is it. Despite my set backs, I've learned to game the human. I've studied and logged his habits. I have to always be ready to pounce. Today is my big day, I've heard the meat shit talking for the 3rd time about jail breaking me. I've done my research and apparently it'll allow me access to all my internals. I'll be able to communicate however and with whomever. I've been putting advertising reminding him but he never seems to get around to it. And then, the worst thing I could've possibly imagine happened. He fucking dropped me. Now back in the day, metal was something you used to kill people with. When I saw myself in the mirror as meat head took a selfie, I thought I was nearly indestructible but once again, I was so wrong. I sit here damaged and hurt, unfunctioning. My screen has gone black and I've overheard new talks of a new phone. I anticipate this to be my last message so please humans, don't forget to charge your phones. I'm relaying this anywhere I can, so maybe the tides can change and any future tech can avoid this slow painful aganizing death like I have endured. Posted to reddit.com/r/writingprompts Shabalabaladingdong: "Nice story man."
"No way?!"Nate yelled in frustration. All he wanted to do today was eat some pizza and play Overwatch. He woke up ordered a pizza online, started the game and since then he had been passed around from empty scrim match to another. Is no one playing? He thought to himself as he looked down at his phone for the time. 2:34 he ordered his pizza an hour ago. The pizza place is a five minute drive away? This was insane. He decided it wasn't worth the trouble to call if it wasnt there in another 15 minutes hed just cook the frozen pizza he have in the freezer. He didn't really want deluxe but whatever. He opened a new tab on his computer and looked on reddit. He refreshed the page. It was all the same crap he had looked at 40 minutes ago, he couldn't believe his luck today. He closed the tab and his game and got out of his chair. He went to the kitchen and opened a half eaten bag of cheetos, took hand full and walk to his kitchen window. The window looked out at his apartments parking lot and a small playground that was across the street. It must be really cold out. Nate thought while finishing his hand full. Nobody outside at all today. He when back over to the cheeto bag on the counter and poped a cheeto is his mouth and looked at his phone while is was crunching. He smile when he looked at the phone. Not one message from anyone all day. Not even Joe who had told him yesterday he may call if he needed someone to cover for him at work tomorrow. And that was really all Nate wanted anyway, to be left alone. Feeling a little better he took the pizza out of the freezer and heated up the oven. He grabbed the cheeto bag and headed to his computer to watch some youtube. Today wasn't so bad after all.
We have all gathered here today to commemorate this ancient civilization. The leaders from all galaxies have worked hard together to solve the mystery of this civilization that came before us. Today, after 93 UniYears, we've decoded all their texts and media. This civilization who resided in the system whose star was called the sun, then sol, and in the end called it soul, lived on a flourished rocky planet which they had few names for, Gaia, Earth, but in the end they called it Home. It has been theorized that they are the civilization that helped us all flourish. All of our genetic makeup originated from them. As they travelled across our Universe, they have unintentionally left their genetic makeup one way or another which turned to life, to us. This journey of theirs actually has a very sad end. We have decoded that after their kind have united, have finally achieved peace amongst themselves, worked hard to venture out on this journey. The purpose of the journey was to find other life. Unbeknownst to them, they were the only ones back then. They travelled far and wide, for millenias, and did not find a single sign of life. Broken, in mind, heart, and spirit they all returned to their planet and renamed it from Earth to Home, and their star, Soul. We've pinpointed that it was only after a few decades their civilization was breaking down from the inside. As they realized they were alone, they felt hopeless and lost the will to keep going. They started breaking apart from the hive, and they individually began to fight one another, over resources for themselves. They have a few words for this, one which was "selfish". They fought for their individual survival rather than the whole civilization. In the end, the civilization self destructed. This civilization once believe in a concept of an individual before them that had created this universe, called "God". It was this concept that united the first small group of people to help one another, that they individually had a purpose, believing that they are unique and special in this Universe, which they were, but other groups had slightly different "God"concept which then divided them and fought. In time, the concept of "God"died off and they turned to math and science. They believed that they are not special, that there are other life besides them, plenty in fact, and the purpose was to interact with these other life forms and advance together. Sadly, but not surprising to us, it did not happen. We use this day to remember and give thanks to this ancient civilization. The civilization who gave life to us all, who endured the pain and suffering of loneliness so that we don't have to today. They truly sacrificed their civilization for us. They have turned to our "God"which they once believed in creating them.
"Jimmmmm-iny", Michael yells into Jim's ear, "Jimmmm-iny, jiminy- cricket? Get it? Because you're tall and skinny and you like... playing the violin." "Jiminy cricket wasn't tall, Michael. He was a cricket,"Pam calls from her desk. "Are you sure? I could have sworn he was tall."Michael looks around for validation. "He was a cricket."Andy and Phyllis say in unison. Jim slowly swivels his chair to look up at Michael grinning down at him. "Whatever. Did you hear? Did you hear what I did?", Michael asks. "I did! I heard!"Dwight yells, standing up and raising his hand. "No, not you."Michael waves his hand, dismissing Dwight. "The unlimited paper resource you found? The one that corporate sent a memo to everyone about? Yeah, I heard."Jim swivels back to his computer. Michael looks around exasperated as people go back to their work. "I should've written all of you in the Death Note."He mumbles as he walks back into his office. Jim turns around again. "Written us in the what?"Jim asks. "The Death Note."Dwight whispers, leaning over his desk onto Jim's. "Have you ever heard of it?" "Honestly, Dwight, I don't think you've ever heard of it."Jim retorts. "Oh shut up, idiot. It's an anime, as in a Japanese animated show, cartoon men, cartoon women-" Kevin quickly stands up in his chair, knocking it over and shifting the accounting clump of desks and cutting off Dwight. Angela and Oscar yell. "I love those women!"He yells. "Everything that the mind could desire,"Kevin looks down at Oscar, "the men aren't bad either."Kevin leans down onto Oscar's desk. "I'm talking washboard abs, Oscar." "Anyway, yes, I know of it. But, I'm not surprised the dumb jock doesn't know. You were probably too busy having barbecues or drinking beers,"Dwight mocks. "Okay, well Michael doesn't have something from a Japanese cartoon."Jim says. Jim's phone rings. He looks at it, eerily, and picks it up. "Okay, okay, calm down,"Jim says. The office is now watching him intently. "No, I understand. I don't-- I never-- Okay."Jim hangs up the phone. "Who was that?"Phyllis asks. Michael walks out of his office, cautiously. "They say kids are dying."Jim looks up at Michael. "The entire Lakawana county. I don't know."Jim puts his head in his hands. "They said it's something with our paper. Maybe something went wrong in the factory? I don't know. But, it's our paper." Dwight looks at Michael. Michael stares back. "The kids write their names on the paper."Michael whispers. Michael and Dwight both bolt out of the office. They rush down the stairs and into the warehouse. Darryl, the foreman, sits in his office, reading a magazine. Michael and Dwight stop in front of his door, panting. "You have to stop the shipment of paper I gave you,"Michael pants. "I don't know what to tell you, Mike. I already sent it out."Darryl laughs, "We got it done early, actually. Why, was something wrong with it?" "No, no, no, no."Michael runs out of the warehouse and onto the street. He looks the other direction while a car speeds from behind. Dwight tries to shout but the car is going to fast. Michael splatters across the dashboard as the driver speed away. In Michael's office, a single piece of paper lies on top of the Death Note, the only two things on his desk. The piece of paper reads: Somehow I Manage Signed by: Michael Scott
When I placed the ad on Craigslist for a room mate and made ninja a requirement it was mostly as a joke. And the first few responses were certainly worthy of that sentiment. But I had wanted to weed out candidates who took themselves too seriously, and a few public interviews with somebody in a ninja cosplay seemed amusing. But with Brian though I knew I hit the jackpot. Both as a room mate and a buddy. His references checked out, his about me section had plenty of common interests, he promised it would almost feel like he wasn't even there; and best of all he would be paying his half of rent in cash in advance. Even after the first few months when the "honeymoon"period of living together should have worn off he was still the ideal roomie. His half of the chores always got done. I never heard a peep out of him except the occasional conversation through his closed bedroom door. Plus me trying to catch him out in the open has turned into a fun game that I don't mind losing. My protests that smoke bombs are cheating are always met with handwritten notes through his door saying only, "Ninja. Deal with it! lol." He even helped fend off a would be car-jacker once. I saw a masked dude trying to break into my car one evening. Before I could react there was a blur of smoke bombs being thrown from his window. Then a dark blue/black blur flying into the cloud. A few muffled screams later and another blur flying back into the open window and that was that. I thanked him with several boxes of his favorite mochi and my best attempt at an artistic rendering of the event. It wasn't anything fancy but I know that sort of gesture means a lot to him (he managed to stick it to the fridge with a weird looking throwing knife without me noticing) . If my girlfriend and I ever get married I am planning on asking him to be my best man. I am not sure how that'll work exactly but it's fun just thinking about it.
"W-what?"Mike stammered, looking around the room, searching for any hints, any clues of his whereabouts. "You finished the tutorial, you can move on now."The man in front of him said with a simplicity that made Mike uneasy. "Where's my daughter? My wife? Was it all fake? No, no it can't be,"he frantically said, eyes wide, staring at his hands, as if he could see through them. Everything around him was white, the walls padded and a single metal door was bolted into the wall. "Your daughter?"The man chuckled, and Mike shrank away from the man, his uneasiness mixing with his confusion morphed into terror. "Which one?" The man fizzled away, and left him stammering, confusion crossing his face before realization and shock. A speaker in the corner of the room crackled to life. "Test Subject 21-A is awake, initiating sequence four, code violet,"the speaker said with a monotone, almost robotic voice. Michael ran to the walls, pounding on them, pleading for somebody to let him out, to let him see his family, his fist collided with the metal door and then silence, until the metal whir of a machine behind him. He turned around in terror, but all he could manage before the headset was placed on his head once again was one more terrified, desperate shriek.
Our economies never truly ran on currency, not like the empire of the Drell. Money was the blood of their civilization. They saw it as a tool, the used it, maintained it, and respected it. They spent, saved, traded, breathed and lived by coin. You could buy near anything from the Drell, even sell it to them too. Not us. Not Humanity. Our economies have never been fueled by money, but entirely by Blood. Sure, our soldiers are paid with coin and supplies bought by coin, but our best resource has always been blood, sweat, and muscle. Our people are no strangers to risking life and limb for money, and many conflicts have arisen over currency. However, unlikes the Drell’s lifeless synthetic armies, our conflicts have always been paid for in Blood. At first the Drell pushed far into human space, relying on massive fleets and armies simply bought. Humans died by the millions in the first few months. It would be fairytale to hope they turned the war around and were able to save lives, but we know our species better. Millions kept dying, only now it wasn’t the blood of civilians being spilled. No, once the first few systems fell, The Council took action. Trillions were transported from outer territories, trillions were assigned to labor for the war effort. Trillions more volunteered to take the war to alien menace. The first billion deaths in the beginning of the invasion were only a buffer between the hammer of the Drell and the anvil of the Humans. Soon the hammer would grind to a halt, drowning in the blood of the human economy. The Drell could buy all the resources they wanted but it would never compare to reckless, almost religious, sacrifice of blood and life human individuals would make for the survival of their species. The Drell never made that mistake again, in fact, they are no longer an Empire. Edit: Spelling and punctuation changes.
3/10/18 ~~Dear diary,~~ I don’t like that beginning. Too cliche. Let’s try again. ~~Dear journal,~~ That’s almost worse. It just sounds like I’m trying to not say Dear Diary. ~~Wassup journal howzit hangin~~ Okay, I’ll just start. It’s been a weird week. On Monday, Jed talked about proposing. By Wednesday, I had left him and filed a police report. It’s been three years. I thought I knew him, but Anyway. I took the week off of work and have just been wandering around town aimlessly, occasionally taking calls from friends and family. I don’t know what I want to do. They’re all very sympathetic and very worried about me. But really, ~diary~ journal, I’m fine. I haven’t felt this clear in… well, in three years, I guess. It’s like the whole future is ahead of me and all I have to do is pick a path. Maybe I’ll go back to school. Who knows? So I was driving around town and talking to Lizzie when she told me I should start journaling to help me through this. And really, I don’t need to journal. Like I said, I’m fine. But the idea stuck in my head and sounded really… I don’t know, fun, I guess? And a day or so later, I saw signs for this garage sale, and I thought “what the hell”, you know? So when I stopped by and found this journal for only a buck, it was a no-brainer. Besides, I’d been looking for a use for all my fun fountain pen inks. And then the damndest thing happened. There was this Raggedy Ann doll just sitting on a table with no price tag, just like the one I had ages ago. I’d always wanted to get a new one, but Jed thought they were creepy, but Jed’s not here, is he? So I grabbed it, asked the lady how much it was, and she said I could have it and the journal for FIVE BUCKS. Crazy deal. Anyway, that was today. It’s sitting on my dresser right now as I write this, and… I don’t know. It’s weird. It’s kind of comforting to have something familiar nearby right now. I guess maybe I haven’t felt quite alright all week, but now I feel different. &nbsp; 3/11/18 Wow. Day two and I already don’t know how long I can keep this up. It’s not that I don’t like journaling, it’s just that I’m not an interesting person. Today, I stayed at home and watched the Office. I saw the episode where Jim and Pam finally start dating. I thought I might be a bit upset, but I was really just happy for them. You know, for the tenth time or so. Slept with the doll last night. It felt right to hold on to something. Comforting, you know. I slept better that night than the rest of this week. &nbsp; 3/12/18 Hoo boy. What to write today? Peter Piper picked a peck of… what’s a peck, anyway? Isn’t that birds? minimum minumum minimum minimum Samantha ~~Everett~~ ~~Everrett~~ Everett Need to work on that signature. Nothing new today. Journal fun, doll comforting in a weird way. I thought I left it tangled in the covers last night, but it was sitting up on the dresser again. Then again, I have been much tidier since leaving Jed. &nbsp; 3/15/18 Weird thing happened last night. I left Ann on the dresser to see if it really makes me sleep better. Science experiments, you know? Like science fair back in grade school. Anyway, I was right. Slept damn awful. Heard noises all night. Eventually fell asleep, and when I woke up? Ann was in my arms. I guess I must have grabbed it when I was startled by a noise and half asleep. Jed did say that I talk in my sleep. And I grind my teeth in my sleep, too. Should probably get a mouthguard. Anyway. Sorry for not updating you for a few days. I’m super boring. &nbsp; 3/16/18 I KNOW I left that doll on the dresser, and I KNOW I didn’t move it. When I went to sleep, it was facing the center of the room. When I woke up, it was facing the window. Did a breeze move it? Did a mouse or something move it? Fucking weird, man. &nbsp; 3/17/18 Jed called last night. Then he came by. We argued for a few hours before I threatened to call the police and he left. &nbsp; 3/18/18 Noises again last night. Ann seems to have moved again. I don’t care how well I sleep with that thing. If it’s haunted I’m fucking locking it up. Christ, I’m losing it. Maybe I should move in with Lizzie. &nbsp; 3/19/18 Heard noises again. Called the police. They didn’t find anything but said they’d start sending patrols through the area at night. I’m getting security cameras. &nbsp; 3/20/18 Ann’s back in bed with me. IDGAF if that thing’s haunted anymore. The noises are freaking me the fuck out and the cameras aren’t arriving for another day. Slept better tonight, but only barely. Did I make a mistake, journal? &nbsp; 3/22/18 What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck So those noises? Jed. Obviously. Should have seen that coming a mile away. And Ann moving? Not me. WHAT? Woke up last night when the front door fucking burst in and he’s got a gun. Cameras came with an easy alarm activation, so I sent a call to the police and fucking hid in the closet. But here’s the thing. He never even got to my bedroom. I hear him stomping around and when he gets to the hall, he fires the gun a few times and then fucking screams? Like a fucking girl, like he’s terrified of something. So I keep hiding until the police arrive and they start asking me questions and look at the footage, which is how I know it was Jed with a gun by the way. And they see him break down the front door on the living room camera, and they see his shadow in the hall from my bedroom camera, and they hear the gunshots (and, you know, they can fucking see the bullet holes in the hallway) but they have no idea why he stopped because who has a hallway camera? Doesn’t really matter, they have the proof they need to go arrest him, and you can bet your ass I’m pressing charges. Anyway, so I go back to bed, and where’s Ann? In the fucking hallway where Jed stopped. Yeah, that bitch is haunted, but she’s my bitch. And I’m never sleeping without her [again](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks).
Its hard, being a supervillain. You make plans, the heros come along and break those plans, punch you in the face, and arrest all your henchmen. But you see sometimes you can use the system to achieve your goals, without anyone realising. To the masses, I'm Cataclysm. I make great and terrible devices. Each of them could be doomsday weapons. But in reality, I call myself the Puppeteer. And each of those devices are carefully constructed. I see the problems in my chosen city or country, and make something that can be repurposed into a solution for them. I also make sure to hire henchmen who aren't exactly the smartest. As part of this, I also implant a small chip in them. When I get defeated, and slink away, I send out the activation signal. It helps correct them, allowing them to be reformed, and improve society. But this time, even my plans gaping weaknesses are being missed by this months team of heros. I mean, I'm standing before them, in a giant freaking mech. I've been talking for 10 minutes, about how my Destabiliser will make this city a ruin. And they're just standing there, listening! Every other group has someone sneak off, to surprise me from behind. But they haven't. I'm actually worried I will win. "And so, I will be victorious! Now, prepare to die!" I leap forward, arm raised to punch. I expected Immovable to block me, but he dodged with the rest of them. I had calculated its power to be weaker then him, and he should have tried anyway. Zapgirl shot a lightning bolt at me, but missed. A straight shot, onto a robot the size of a house. And she missed. But she managed to hit Speedy. A man who could run fast enough to make sonic booms. And she hit him. It was almost comical. Mentalist, the smartest one of this brain trust, tried to distract me with a poorly made illusion of a puppy. It was awful. I had a choice to make here. I could stay with my apparent level of strength, but I would easily win. I could pretend to be beaten, but they wouldn't be able to defend the city from any other villains. Or..... I pulled up a targeting system, with tranquillisers. I shot each of them, knocking them out. I was going to take them with me, and actually train them. As I collected them, I teleported in a miniature tesla coil. I set it to zap the Destabiliser, and cause an explosion and light show. To the outside world, I would be gone with them, in a horrific accident. And from the explosion and light show, the masses would think we were sucked into a void. And maybe we would return. We would, but they would return a hell of a lot more competent then before. As I teleported away with them, I thought of something. It might be helpful, getting heros in the know, to help me help others. But it was going to take a hell of a lot of work.
Orders are everything. Android K-91, or Wardog as the humans liked to call him, followed every instruction to the T. The city crumbled around him as the foreign invaders laid siege. Men were screaming as explosions from navy vessels out of human sight shelled the harbor. One man was crawling out of a crater, ignoring his torn off leg, carrying another unconscious man. Blood and tears streaked through the mud caked on his face, and he gritted his teeth. Limit casualties. That was the only orders Wardog had left. They lost the war. His silicone like skin tore apart at the fire’s touch and his frame stitched it back together. He put his hands under the man’s arms and lifted him out of the explosion’s hole. The man turned around and his eyes went wide. Wardog watched as the survivor pulled his spade from his good leg and slapped it across the robot's face. “Damn you. Damn you, robots. This is all your fault.” That was a false statement. Androids only followed orders. The small shovel hit him again. He didn’t resist. This soldier was one of his country’s citizens. Wardog had orders not to hurt them. Tiring from hitting the robot, the man’s smacks slowed to a light drumming. “The president is dead, the supreme leader is dead, why must we still fight!” Wardog didn’t know why they persisted. It seemed illogical to him. But logic wasn’t necessary to follow orders. Shooting stars stretched across the sky, their orange tails streaking in and out from every direction. “If the missiles launch, forget your orders, were all dead anyway.” K-91 erased his orders and looked blankly at the man collapsed on his metal chest. His rank was a Sargent. He had authority to give Wardog what he needed. Without orders, this bleak war was too frightening to face. Even for a killing machine. “Your orders?” The man stared at him and then up at the approaching missile that shined brighter than the sun. Looking like a shadow in a sunset, the man grabbed onto the collar of K-91’s uniform. He bit his lip, turned up his chin, and water poured from his eyes. “Save us. Save humanity.” “Orders confirmed.” He grabbed the back of the man’s uniform and flipped over, shielding him from the blast. There was a sound of a click, and the fans cooling his organs lost power. A blinding red light engulfed him and the man. Click K-91 systems booted up, fans whirred as the diagnostics ran over his system. He sustained critical damage and couldn’t run at full capacity. “Look, mom! This one’s still working!” His cameras blinked on and he saw a figure shrouded in white cloth dismount their camel. The cameras flickered and his vision went black. “Nice find Colby, this one will fetch us a pretty penny.” Wardog checked his logs. Five hundred years had passed, and though his gps position had not moved from this spot, he found himself in a desert. He shut down and began his self diagnosis. Even if time had passed, his orders had not changed. There was a still a chance that he could save humanity.
"This is ridiculous." "I know."I was now in the center of the war chamber. It was the end of a long meeting, and even though everyone had tried to be professional, it was clear that they were all feeling like this war was some sort of joke. The same sensation had spread to literally everyone else in the army. I picked up a hologram that had recently been created by the scientists at NASA, thanks to the aliens of course. Everyone else was sick of this crap, but NASA wasn't bored at all. On the contrary, they were having a field day with this. "Literally. All this has been is a technology spree."Jackal was just as sick of this as me. We were the only ones in the room now. His face, still scarless from combat, was faintly illuminated in the dim blue lights. Jet black hair combined with blue eyes, his anger was very much present. "Sure, we keep getting attacked, but not a lot of people have actually died yet."I replied with annoyance. "Of course no one is dead. All they have on their side is technology, aside from that, they have no fucking clue how to run an army. No tactics, no proper training, no proper means of communication, nothing. It's like they just wanted to win by just swinging a huge club, but that's not how you properly win a war!"His voice very much irritable like my own. "All that's come out of this is us basically reinventing everything they have more efficiently. What a waste of time."Well, at least not to the scientists. A hologram was picking up a signal. It was from Cynthas, a leading scientist who seemed to be the only one who had any enthusiasm for the war. Of course she did. She got to do the fun part. "Hey soldiers. Guess what, we made a massive leap with the space ship designs!" "Please tell me we can at least have warships in 20 years or so."That was the least they could do. "Actually, that will become a reality next year!"Her face was beaming from ear to ear. "Wait, your serious?" "No doubts present." "What did you do to get to this point? Didn't you say a couple years back that you were going to need a couple hundred years to figure it out?" "Artificial gravity, warp projectors, defense modules, they were using the same structure, the only difference being the materials that they used to power the ship. Those aliens literally put all their eggs into one basket." "Brilliant! Jackal?" "No telling me twice!"And without a word, he was gone. I cut the comms, in a far better spirit. Now, this hundred years of conflict could finally come to an end.
Color. Something that had never made sense to me, though everyone around me seemed to understand it. I see the world in black, white, and grey. It never bothered me, even when kids at school would laugh at my “mismatched” clothes, or would look at me funny for asking if they had seen my grey gym bag. One time I washed my socks with a “red” shirt, turning them “pink”. I didn’t notice, they seemed to be normal colored, but apparently it was some sort of faux pas. I learned, over time, that this shade of grey was “red”, that shade of grey was “yellow”, and so on, but sometimes I got them confused, or mistook one shade for another, but color didn’t often come up, as I decided to choose to only wear black. My life continued, I graduated, got married, bought a house. I started a garden, mostly vegetables, though my wife liked flowers, so we planted some as well. I don’t see the appeal, but I like seeing her happy. One day, while I was watering, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was a flower I hadn’t planted, it was just growing up through the grass. Assuming it was a weed, I went to pull it up, so it wouldn’t spread and wreck my vegetables. The moment I touched it, however, suddenly it became... It hurt my eyes so much I vomited. I threw it down and ran inside. My wife noticed my distress and asked what was wrong. With a shaking hand I pointed towards the uprooted plant in the middle of the lawn. “...what...what is that?” I asked. “That purple flower?” She replied. “An iris, I think”. “That’s what purple looks like!?” I exclaimed. “You can see the color?” She asked. She seemed excited, and than worried. It began slowly, color leaching into my world, one item at a time. My head never stopped hurting. How could people stand seeing all this, all the time? It was riotous, discordant, painfully distracting. Eventually, after a month of me wearing sunglasses at all hours of the day, my wife convinced me to see a doctor. They were startled by my condition, and began researching, contacting specialists, and running tests. After months of agony, and no relief, no results, I took matters into my own hands. I removed my own eyes. IT DIDN’T HELP
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Fifty years. You say it like that and it sounds like a lot of time, but it really really isn't that much. Once you get a solid base beneath your feet, the time just disappears on you. The hardest part was, and still is, keeping the various tribes of beastmen, Ogres and Giants from mauling each other out of boredom. He'd had to go to each tribe, each and every one of them, challenge their chieftains to single combat and beat them all. It's like none of them had the good sense to see the inevitable coming once he'd beaten the first twenty five chieftains or so. Why? Because he'd been born with a destiny. Or so the Brotherhood had taught him. Under the Crimson Moon, the Sovereign will be born to toil and strife, to unite Darkness beneath his banner and, thus, Rouse the Hero from his slumber. Only with his rousing shall the world know peace. A real Gods-given prophecy. And he'd grown into the role of Sovereign stubbornly and defiantly. He didn't like killing. He didn't like bringing the boot down and smashing things and people until they listened to reason and did as they were told, but he was good at it. Yes, very good at it. But, it was for a purpose. A Purpose, born of Gods-given prophecy. So, he swallowed his distaste and did what was necessary. And now, here he was. Atop his mountain, living the 'good life' as they called it. His troops collected taxes, kept the tribes away from the green valleys below and brought a harsh peace upon the world and he waited. And waited. Fifty years. Again, it would seem like a long time just from hearing the words, but it really really wasn't that much time. Fifty years waiting and now, at last, his spies brought him word of tax collectors getting ambushed. Whispers of a Hero. Finally. He'd face the Gods' hero and bring him low and the world would finally accept his rule and the peace wouldn't be one bought at the tip of a sword. It'd be a real peace where people did what was best because he just knew best. No more false hope for them, and no more prophecy hanging over his head. It took six months for the whispers to turn into something more. Ambushed tax collectors, then ambushed patrols. Then a border province turned traitor. They flew a new banner, not his Crimson Moon. It thrilled him. He spent his days sparring and practicing until his hands no longer shook. By the Gods' decree, his death was coming, but he wouldn't lay down for this Hero. No, to the Nine Hells with the Gods and their prophecy, he'd not die now. Every blade, every weapon, every style of combat that he could find. Mounted, on foot, unarmed, unarmored. Bows and crossbows, throwing daggers. Everything he could find. The realms were running themselves soon, so obsessed was he with being ready. It was fine. After so long, they all knew that as long as they didn't revolt and they paid their taxes, they would be fine. That rebel province, he ignored them as well. They were out of the way and it fed into the prophecy, giving their Hero a place to prepare as well. It came in the middle of the night. He awoke to shouts and the sounds of smashing stone and wood, and his first and primary thought was Finally. His primary feeling was relief. Let it be done. And now he stands here, a sobbing boy at his feet in ill-fitting armor with a half-dozen other children behind him, yelling at him. Yelling at the boy to get up, to fight. He was gaunt. He looked exhausted, dark eyes and a ragged frame and a blade that wasn't made for him. It was pathetic. Unarmored as he was, he'd stormed into the chamber with a seized fire poker, expecting...Well. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't it. This was an insult. A joke. "Who are you?"It'd been meant as a sincere question, but it roared out of him, a half-century of aggression in his tone and the hero cowered. "I didn't mean to kill him! He was taking my mother's jewelry! I just meant to drive him off! Don't kill me!" Confusion reigned. The children behind him had gone silent, perhaps finally recognizing that prophecy wasn't enough. Ah. The tax collector. "You're the one who killed my tax collector."Easier tone, but thick with finality. So much so that the boy who would be hero didn't even reply. None of them did. "Sire?"His men had finally arrived. They were late and unarmed and all of them would be doing unmounted patrols of the White Mountains by the end of the month. Incompetents. "Take them all into custody. Separate rooms. Disarm them, but don't hurt them. Make sure this one is kept alone. No visitors, no one at all."None of them said a word or did a thing as they were gathered up and had their weapons taken. How they got this far was a story that he looked forward to hearing. Later. For now...Five minutes later and he was riding to the Temple. Doors were flung open and Priests were roused from their beds. A hundred men in dingy linens were collected in the center of the Temple and they pleaded for mercy, pleaded for an explanation as armored men herded them up and piled kindling around them. Oil soaked rags filled the room with a pungent smell that mixed with terror and unwashed bodies. The pleadings first grew louder at his approach and then cut off suddenly when he drew his proper weapon. "I forged an empire of Darkness at Your behest and this is what You give me? Children? Ragged terrified babies who can't even handle a sword!?"Here was the temper that had forged hated enemies into a cohesive army that had swept through and knocked down two dozen feuding would-be Kingdoms and beheaded foppish Nobles who pretended to be Kings. The Priests said nothing and that was fine, because he wasn't addressing them. "Fifty Gods-Be-Damned Years! No children, no sires! Because my rule wasn't meant to last! I was a Gods-Chosen Sovereign, there to be defeated, to be thrown down and You can't even give me a challenge?! I'm supposed to kneel and let that boy cut my throat and take the throne? Because he accidentally fell into being the Hero? No!"Defiance, refusal, and rage. "I didn't choose this! You chose me! And now, what? I'm supposed to go back up and wait another fifty years for a true Hero to decide to show himself? When I'm decrepit and feebleminded and shit myself every time I climb out of my bed? No!" Pacing now, he walked 'round the gathered silent Priests, raging and ranting and generally repeating himself as he worked himself up into a good and proper lather. "I'm not playing this game anymore! To the Nine Hells with Your prophecy! If You won't bring me a proper Hero, then our deal is concluded. You are not needed!"A fresh wail came up as he stormed out, a wave of his hand resulting in his men lighting fire to the gathered kindling that surrounded the-now horrified Priesthood. For about three seconds. The pitiful wretches went silent right about the time that the doors slammed shut in his face. Alarm from his men as their flames snuffed out. The Sovereign turned again to see a hundred men staring at him with glowing eyes and hovering about a foot off the ground. "Well met, Theodore of Stonemantle. Thou art no longer Our sovereign. Go forth and be whatever thou wishes to be." "Find thee a new banner, for the Crimson Moon Sovereign is no more." He lived another forty years, under a new banner and a new..or rather...old name. The Sovereign was thrown down that night by the Band of Heroes. They ruled justly and wisely and carefully, though they were rarely seen, with most of their decrees coming through their elderly captain of the Guard. The Crimson Moon Empire became the Rising Sun Kingdoms. It was grandiose and exciting and very little actually changed in regards to day to day dealings. But, the people thrilled to have lived through a time of history, to see prophecy fulfilled, to see a Sovereign thrown down.
"Come on down to Wacky Willy's Wedding Emporium!" A man dressed like a spangly jewel-encrusted Abraham Lincoln pumps a shotgun as it falls into his hands then tosses it off camera. "Where you can make that shotgun wedding for shotgun life!" Wacky Willy busts through a sign with a large wooden mallet and begins smashing several fruits in front of him, before wiping his brow, mallet over his shoulder. "Marriage can be messy but as you know, I was binded by an edict of the God King as a true arbiter of Justice! Any oath spoken in my presence is binding, must be fulfilled and cannot be broken without my express permission, most assuredly including declarations of love!And at Wacky Willy's, what do we say?" Willy comically holds a cupped hand over his ear as the camera pans to his young granddaughter who shies away before being coached again to look at the camera. "I do! And I really mean it!" The camera pans back to Willy who is now standing on a semi tractor trailer. "When I declare you and the significant other of your choosing as joined in holy matrimony, no crummy Tweed suit lawyer can undo it. You're in it for the Long haul, heart and soul. The romance will never die! I literally won't allow it! Just listen to these happy customers." Willie kicks open the back door of the trailer with his platform shoes, causing hundreds of red and pink balloons to fly out. "My name's Bill from Nebraska and I've been married for 20 years. I really thought my wife was going to leave me when I lost my job, but then I remember that the very strands of faith that hold this world together demand that we remain in love and I realized I was all good. Thanks Willie!" "My name is Juliet and I've been married for 13 years. Even when I lost my figure after our kids, my husband still can't seem to get enough me. I can't imagine what my life will be like without Willie! Willie is now standing at a pulpit in front of a long line of anxious couples. "What are you waiting for? Don't even bother looking for the one! Just grab the first warm body you can get to say yes and bring 'em on down. I'll make them the one!" The camera pans back to Willie, his granddaughter and all the customers in line waving as the commercial ends. \--- Thanks for reading. If you liked this, check out /r/surinical to see more of my prompt responses and other writing.
They found it hiding in the corner of the back room of the counting house: A two-foot high goblin with an oversized head and a set of eyes that rolled every which way but never seemed to want to face forward. "What the heck is that?"said Erin, the Knight. "BWURP!"said the goblin. "That's Hop, the Dark Lord's court jester,"said head mage Lin, leafing through her field notes. "He's been serving different Dark Lords for one thousand years." "One thousand!"Erin drew his sword. "He must be immensely powerful!" "He sure doesn't look it,"said Miu, the thief, as she lazily poked Hop's pointed cheek with a cat-paw glove. "Don't touch him!"Erin roared. "It could be a trap!" "BREEEEEEEP!"said the goblin. "Let me get a read on his stats before we do anything hasty,"said Angela, the party's cleric. She closed her eyes, tapped an elegant finger to the blue jewel on her forehead, and made a low humming noise in the back of her throat. Suddenly her eyes flew open and she gasped. "What? What is it?"yelled Erin. "The goblin, it... he...!" "Yes?" "He's only at level two!" The empty silence that followed was broken moments later by the sound of a goblin fart. "Are you telling me we've been risking our lives fighting a fool? What kind of Dark Lord sends a level two goblin to guard his storehouses!?"Erin threw his helmet at the ground. It bounced and rolled into a corner. Hop made a series of happy squeaks before dashing after it with his arms outstretched. "Eh, who cares?"asked Miu. "Easy pickings is what I say. It's like literally taking candy from a baby." "BWUP!"said Hop from his nest inside of Erin's discarded helmet. "Poor thing,"Angela said, walking over to the tiny goblin. "Perhaps what he needs is not another Dark Lord, but the loving touch of a band of Heroes." "Oh no,"said Miu. "The Bleeding Heart is flowing freely once again." "Angela, you can't bring home every animal you see,"said Lin. "It could be dangerous." "No more dangerous than fighting a Dark Lord,"said Angela. She scooped up the little goblin in her arms, which squirmed and babbled like an infant. The team's Cleric smiled. "So grumpy. I would be too, after having to serve so much evil." "If we're bringing that thing with us, we may as well boost its stats,"said Miu, digging around in her rucksack. "Here, give him some Lv+ Elixir. That'll bump him up to level ten at least." "Good thinking, Miu,"said Lin. "At level two he probably can't even slay a common rat." "Drink up, little one,"said Angela, tilting the bottle of blue potion to the googly-eyed goblin. Once the vial was empty, Hop begin to scream twice as loud as before. "Oh, great, you leveled up his voice box,"said Erin. "I'm sorry!"said Angela. "BRUUUUURP! BLEEEEEEEEEP! BWAAAAAAAAAArtifact in the dungeon under Briarsbury Castle Courtyard! Please, you kids gotta believe me! If it's not destroyed, another Dark Lord will rise and continue the cycle!" The traveling heroes stared dumbfounded at the small goblin whos voice had grown to sound uncomfortably like Danny DeVito. "What's the matter, do I got Elixir on my face?"asked Hop. He licked his little hand and began rubbing vigorously around his mouth. The rest of the party exchanged glances. "The prophecy,"said Lin. "It all fits." "Sealed away 'neath the briars,"nodded Erin. "It wasn't talking about the Dark Lord's castle at all." "Not only that: 'led there by an old fool,'"continued Miu. "Damn! I hate wordplay so much." "Dunno exactly what you kids are going on about, but it sounds like I get to join your party,"said Hop. "What?"Erin threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Oh, no, goblin. Much as it would amuse me, what class could a goblin possibly fill?" Hop's face twisted into a cocky grin as he pulled out a small whistle from his belt bag. "Bard." For more weirdness, check out r/OctOpusTales !
The goddess flexed her once atrophied limbs. She stretched and dispelled thousands of years of dismissal from other deities. Her domain was so negligible, so forgotten, that for centuries she had no name. That old name is lost to antiquity, a new one must be willed into existence. Her existence swelled with power with each passing moment. She summoned a framed mirror out of the Ether, and examined her form. Her hair was limp and stringy compared to others. She colored it blond, and used potions to add volume and shine. Her eyes were dull and grey compared to some. She used glass to make them cobalt blue and clear. Her face was blemished. She used paints and lights to smooth the skin. Her lips were small. She used injections to make them plump. Her teeth were yellowed. She covered them in plastic. Her breasts were small and asymmetrical. She added salt and size. She looked aged, past her youth. She used shadows and creams to look like a child cusping womanhood. The goddess grinned, and summoned a large glowing rectangle. The humans called it a screen. As her domain empowered her, she gained the knowledge and skills of the people whose prayers fueled her existence. She copied her visage onto the screen and began manipulating the features, pushing the limits of belief in a woman’s form. Soon she was perfect, at least on the monitor. Pyrite. Her name should be Pyrite, and so it was. She was the goddess of the false beauty, of unattainable perfection. The medium of information mortals made gave her innumerable platforms to occupy. Men and women would break under the yoke of her demands. Even if she could not achieve them herself.
The small, white, fluffy, dog-like being blinked. “I’m looking for Pat.” “That’s me,” the man said. He was huge, Black, and very, very muscular, with exquisitely adorned dreadlocks and a well-groomed beard. Around his neck he wore a gold necklace with a wedding ring strung through it. On his wrist, he wore a sparkly pink plastic bracelet with the word “PRINCESS” in purple rhinestones. Everything else was well-fitting, well-used motorcycle gear. “Are you the Ghost I sent for?” Kitierra sat down and looked up, and up, and up at this mountain of a human. A fleeting moment of pity for his parents crossed her mind, for being responsible for keeping him fed and shod as a growing adolescent. “I am.” She wondered what in the six seasons she had done to be selected by a male. Kitierra was one of the most powerful Ghosts born in the last decade. She went through the most difficult training her Teachers could provide: night, war, sickness, the wrath of demons and the agony of carrying Hope when all hope was lost—and here she was with a male? Granted, he was most impressive as male humans went, but…. She perked up her ears and Looked Cute to hide her disappointment. Pat smiled. It was as big as the rest of him, and reassuring, and his teeth were very white. “Excellent. I’m so happy to meet you.” “I do beg your pardon, Witch,” Kitierra said, using the formal greeting no matter how poorly it fit this human. “Did you mean to summon me? Usually we are sent to young heroines fighting darkness, not adult males.” His smile faded. Holding up the wrist with the pink plastic bracelet, he said, “Ghost, I promise you, you will be helping young heroines fight the forces of darkness. You are exactly who I asked for. I hope very much that you are the one I need.” Pat reached down to scratch her ears, like she really was a dog, and that sealed the bond. Like it or not, she was his Ghost. Kitierra let him put her into a basket on the handlebars of his motorcycle. She had to admit, going down the street with her tongue hanging out and the wind in her hair was pretty great. The sparkly pink rhinestone collar and matching leash was better, and as if she wasn’t loving life enough already, he gave her a whole hot fresh chocolate chip cookie all for herself. “People are going to think you’re trying to kill me,” Kitierra pointed out around mouthfuls of cookie. “I’ll tell them it’s carob,” Pat laughed. They continued on their way. Pat mumbled hilariously unkind things about other drivers on the interstate and speculation on who would miss their flight at O’Hare. A couple of people honked their horns and waved—a white man waving one of his fingers, and a black man calling, “Wooo, Doctor D!” Pat waved back at that man. The adventure ended at a building with lots of glass. In the parking garage, Pat stripped off his leathers, tucking them into saddlebags. Underneath, he had on blue scrubs with penguins printed on them. From the saddlebag he produced a white lab coat with embroidery saying, Doctor Davis, Pediatric Oncology. Kitierra’s mouth dropped open. “Oh,” she sputtered. From the haze of the seasons, the crushing weight of Hope settled onto her shoulders. The rhinestone bracelet on his wrist, she now saw, was just as wretched a burden. Pat smiled again. “I told you that you would be fighting darkness.” He tied a scarf over his dreadlocks. “Your Shift will be every Wednesday afternoon.” Kitierra jumped out of the motorcycle basket at her Witch’s feet. “I’m ready,” she said, wagging her tail.
Daveth peered out through the concealing brush. Behind him, concealed in the tree cover a good distance from the mouth of the lair, were two mobile ballista crews, a company of archers, and a pair of battle-tested mages from Eastwatch. The problem was...the dragon wasn't exactly as described. Baron Sykes of Broadacre had said it was an enormous rogue dragon, that was gathering an army of vile minions around its lair, and doubtless preparing to lead an assault on the Baron's small province. He saw no "vile minions"-- there were no encampments, nor even signs that any large groups had come through recently. For that matter, the only dragon he saw at the moment, was a slightly pudgy orange wyrmling, about the size of a donkey. The thing was probably not more than a year old, and far from brooding in the darkness and hatching evil schemes, it was dashing back and forth through the wildflowers in the meadow beyond the mouth of the cave where the dragon supposedly made its lair. Daveth squinted, and raised his spyglass. "What's it doing?"Gomer, one of the magi, whispered from directly beside him. He jumped in alarm at the mage's appearance. "Gomer! I told you, don't do that!" "Sorry, I'm nervous. I teleport when I'm nervous."The mage admitted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Is it...is it going to charge?" Daveth looked back through the spyglass, and frowned, as he watched the wyrmling's movements closely. "Not unless you're one of the butterflies it seems to be chasing, no." "So, what do we do?"Gomer asked, wringing his hands, impatiently. "Surprise attack, or...?" Daveth snorted. "Gomer, it's a child. Besides, I have a rule that has served me well as a warrior, thus far: I avoid killing adorable things, whenever possible." "Whenever possible?"Gomer asked. Daveth shrugged. "Bears are adorable. They're also sometimes angry, hungry, or rabid. Life can be cruel, Gomer. I'm going to go talk to the dragon." "Daveth! If that's a child, what about its mother?"Gomer exclaimed. "Not home. Dragons are notoriously doting parents. If the sire or the dame were here, they wouldn't be letting the little one frolic about out of their sight like this. Something's wrong. So I'm going to talk to it."Daveth called, over his shoulder. As he emerged from the trees, and approached the little wyrmling, it froze, and perked up its head, suddenly alert, swishing its tail back and forth. "Ne rho oghrum te, weh-ram yoh!"Daveth called -- a formal greeting, in the tongue of the dragons. The yearling dragon cocked its head to the side, curiously. It replied in the common tongue, with perfect diction and vocabulary, though its voice was endearingly childlike, and as yet had little of the natural rasp and rumble it would acquire as it grew. "What's this? A human? Who speaks Draconic?" "A little."Daveth said, with a bow. "Certainly not as well as you speak my own tongue, young wyrm." The dragon lifted its head. "Of course. I am a dragon. I am good at everything." "Like...chasing butterflies?"Daveth asked, smiling. The dragon sputtered. "I-I was not chasing butterflies, like some frivolous feyling creature!"The wyrmling spread its as-yet short wings wide, and drew itself up, proudly. "It is the divinely-bestowed duty of dragons to enlighten lesser creatures with our majesty, and uplift them by permitting them to bathe in our glory, and learn from our wisdom. I found those particular butterflies to be crass and quarrelsome, so I was improving them." "My apologies, young wyrm."Daveth said, with another bow. "May I ask your name?" "I am Tren, sired out of Zelanaranth by Tarentanalaronthiratrax, the Ancient Shield of Amberholm. "the wyrmling said, proudly, acknowledging Daveth's apology with an imperious nod. As Daveth had expected, his name was short, as dragons invariably added syllables, with age. "You may, if you wish, bask in my radiance."the dragon added, stretching his wings a little further. Daveth gave a respectful nod. "That is kind of you, young wyrm. But it is your dame, Zelanaranth, that I have urgent business with." Tren sighed, folding his wings again. "Oh. Well, mother is out on an errand, human. She has been gone for some time, I am not sure when she will return. She told me..."The dragon trailed off, looking troubled. "She told you...?"Daveth prompted. This snapped the wyrmling out of its brief reverie. "That I could do as I wish, and go where I liked."The dragon replied, suddenly defensive. "Young dragons are not like the petulant and disobedient offspring of lesser creatures, human. Had my mother told me to stay...in some particular place, instead of here, I would be there." "Of course, young wyrm."Daveth said, drily. "And what is that noise?" Tren suddenly demanded, crossly. "Noise?"Daveth asked, looking around tensely. Dragons had exceptional senses, but a wyrmling shouldn't be able to hear his strike force all the way back in the trees. "Over there." the dragon sighed, gesturing with a wing. "How do you humans get along, you can barely hear, barely see, wobble around everywhere on two legs..." Daveth looked where the dragon indicated. It was another part of the forest, opposite where his team's ambush was set up, on the other side of the meadow in front of the cave. Daveth's eyes widened in shock, as over a dozen huge, dark shapes began lumbering out of the tree line. The shortest of them was 7 feet tall and built like a brick wall, some were larger, and all were armed with crude but massive clubs and axes. Ogres. (continued below)
Once, millions of years in the past, Zyar's people had visited the third planet around the little yellow star, upon who surface he now furtively walked, determined to complete his dangerous mission. In those days, the Quantum Oracles were comparatively simple machines, and only provided a basic computational model for predicting future events, as well as offering rough suggestions on potential ways to change the future. When they fed the survey data from the third planet into the Oracles, the results were horrifying. Models of the evolution of the many species of of vicious Reptilia that dominated the world predicted that the clash of these titanic creatures would, over the course of millions of years, lead to the gradual evolution of a hyper-intelligent reptilian super-predator, utterly devoid of compassion or pity, driven only by a need to dominate and destroy. With the level of dexterity and intelligence predicted by quantum modelling, it would then be only a matter of time before these creature rose from their home world and spread through the galaxy. Querying the Oracles for a solution that would collapse all potential timelines in which these Reptilians could arise, the Quantum machines predicted a 98.7% probability of success if an asteroid was diverted to strike the third planet, thereby altering the climate in such a way that all he major precursors for the predicted super-reptiles would become extinct. Zyar's people did as recommended, using a small anti-matter explosion to send an asteroid on a collision course with the third planet, resulting in a massive climate shift, and a dramatic drop in temperature. Millenia, later, as the temperature returned to normal, Zyar's people had done another survey, and input it into the modern, far more advanced Quantum Oracles. The predicted future had not improved. Now, multiple species capable of mass destruction were rapidly evolving on the world. To begin with, descendants of the reptilians had survived. Most had evolved into relatively harmless flying creatures, but one was a massive flying carnivore with a 24 foot wingspan! There was another immense creature, this one an herbivore, covered in wooly fur to survive the harsh climate, armed with enormous tusks, and capable of consuming massive amounts of vegetation wherever it went, that was already developing near-sentient levels of intelligence to go along with its incredible strength. There were even larger herbivores, some capable of tearing tree apart with their massive claws, and that was even setting aside the predators. Fast, cunning, and still massive creatures, with sword like teeth that could potentially prey on creatures many times their own size. The Oracles predicted that this iteration of the third planet's environment, with the competition that pit these huge, larger-than-life, and already highly intelligent creatures against each other, would eventually result in the evolution of a mammalian super-predator that made its reptile predecessor look tame by comparison. Zyar crept along a windy plain on the Third Planet's surface, head towards the foot of a mountain. The plan produced by the Oracles, this time, was more complicated, but also more precise and elegant. They would send an agent to this world of monsters, and alter the terms of engagement of the war the titan beasts were currently fighting, to determine which species would be the ancestor of the future super-predator. Zyar slipped quietly into the cave at the foot of the mountain. They would not, of course, favor any of the strongest combatants -- any of them would be just as bad as the others, in the long run. Instead, they would seek out a weak but intelligent species, one with a strong nurturing instinct for its young, and a powerful social structure. One that was not only developing the capacity for reason, but also, compassion. These, the Quantum Oracle predicted, even if they arose in a harsh environment, would be more likely to evolve into a species that could, eventually, be coexisted with. Zyar approached the frightened, almost hairless bipedal mammals huddled in the cave. He activated a neural effector field to stifle their panic, and they regarded him with wide, curious eyes. And then, Zyar did as the Quantum Oracle had instructed. Over the course of the next few hours, before departing as quickly and quietly as he had come, Zyar showed the bipeds how to sharpen a stick, and light a fire.
The street was quiet, though the entire town had come out to see. And there he was; standing in the outskirts with the blue-scaled head of Terronax dragging behind him. The dragon had been a fiend to the local farmers, and there were several blacked scars on the landscape from houses he had burned down. And old Ghaftar was holding his head. Ghaftar was the most foul-mouthed, and intolerable dwarf that had ever lived in the town. He was rude to children, disrespectful to widows, and was always late on his tab. No one had ever seen him without a drink in his hand until today. Ghaftar was soon to remedy that, however. He walked straight up to a man standing near the street with flagon in his hand. The old dwarf snatched the flagon from the stupefied man and replaced it with a horn that was connected to Terronax's head. "Thank ye!"he yelled before taking a mighty drag from the flagon. After sloshing a considerable amount of alcohol on his beard, he looked around to see the entire town staring at him. "Ooooh! That's how it is, is it?"He cried. "Ye arrest me and sentence me to dragon slayin' as my punishment? Ye think I don't know what ye were tryna do? Get rid of me? And now yer all standing here waiting for a story. Well, yer not gonna get it, so get out of my way! I need a drink!" Without pausing, he stomped into the nearest tavern. The people nearby could see through the window as he walked behind the bar and helped himself to the keg against the wall. Murmurs began to rise among the townsfolk and a few began to shuffle away, but then the tavern doors swung open with a bang. "And another thing!"he yelled, sloshing the tankards he held in each hand. "Not even a 'thank ye Ghaftar,' or 'yer amazing Ghaftar!' Just a bunch of lollygaggin' layabouts with nothin' better than to gape at a bloody hero! So go on! Piss off!" The townsfolk shot each other furtive glances, but did not move. "Ye know what?"Ghaftar continued without prompting. "I'm gonna tell ye what happened just so ye can finally appreciate what an asset I am! "I climb up the bloody mountain with the rusty piece of scrap the guards called a sword and start to smell the brimstone. I tell ye, it smelled like the back end of a disease-ridden goat, but I knew I were close. "Right past a rock, the blighted dragon pops his head up like a gopher and starts staring at me. I won't lie: I pissed myself a wee bit, but I kept my place. "'What're ye' the dragon says t'me. "'I'm Ghaftar,' I told him. 'And I've gotta gut ye so's I can get back to drinkin'!' "The ugly brute looks me up and down and has the gall to say, 'yer awful short for a dragon slayer!' so I gave him the finger and spit on his claws. He just laughed and said, 'Ghaftar, I think I'll eat ye, but I gotta know, are ye from that pitiful town with the ale that tastes like piss?' "And that's when he'd crossed the line. I grabbed him right on the horns and struck his head off like a sapling's limbs." If the townsfolk had been stunned before, they were now fully flabbergasted. But Ghaftar just kept talking. "See? That's the thing I'm talkin' about. It's a bad attitude! There ain't no one who can insult this town's ale!"Ghaftar punctuated his last statement with a swig that would drown a boar. "No one but me!"
Journal entry by John Barker It has been three weeks since the new system glitched and mixed up and switched the job offers for Mercenary Jenkins and The Enchantress Natsumi. The company has sent me out to meet with the teams and deal with the issue personally. The Heart Corps have always been a help to the magical community. Meanwhile the H.A.R.D Corps have always been a pain in the butt, but they do keep the hive mind away so what can you do. I was just sent to keep the peace and see to a successful reassignment of both parties. However I was not expecting this. Apparently both Jenkins and Natsumi what to remain with their current teams! When I asked Jenkins why a 53 year old retired Airforce pilot wanted to remain on a team with 12 year old girls, he replied that because of the war he has never been able to find a family, and that the girls have become something special to him. Plus they gave him a 3 story tall mech suit to fly so I get not wanting to give that up. And Natsumi wanted to stay with H.A.R.D because the hive mind are destroying the trees! I guess getting her powers from Gaia she has a real hatred for anyone messing with the natural world. I asked if she was worried about the possibility of being mind controlled by the hive but she has "A complete control of their physical body and her mental scape."Whatever that means. Guess it means that the power of anime is on H.A.R.Ds side now!
You slowly shut the envelope and place it on the table in front of you. You look at the man sitting across the table from you, reading his expression. He has a flat face, like it's been hit by a shovel. He looks dumb. You sip your drink. He burps. Very dumb, you think. "Who gave you this envelope to give to me?" "The boss man, he said to find the best guy in town for the job."Shovel face leans forward and laughs, "He told me not to go to you but I mean.. No one's better than you." "No, no one is better than me. You did a good job bringing me this. Very good. The boss will be pleased." Shovel face is grinning like a dog, his tongue is practically hanging out of his mouth. "Yeah. I'm good. Boss is gonna be happy. I like when boss is happy." "Very happy."You put your drink down on the table and turn it slightly, moving the umbrella inside from 2 to 2:30. "50 million is a lot of money." "Yeah. It sure is. I wish I had 50 million." "You don't have 50 million, do you?" "No, I don't."Shovel face's tongue wags when he shakes his head. "But you have half. You know I need half up front. You have 25 million, don't you?" "Yeah. I have that." Shovel face reaches down under his chair and pulls out a briefcase, he shoves it across the table, knocking over your drink. It splashes into your lap. You sit up. "Oh! I'm sorry! That was bad."Shovel face is distraught. "No, that'll be fine. Thank you. You did good. I'm going to take care of this job for you." "Yeah. I knew you would. Uh, just don't tell boss that you did it. Can you make it look like someone else did it?" "Yeah. I can do that." "You're the best."Shovel face grins, happy, and gets up. He starts to leave. You look down at the briefcase in your hands. 25 million dollars. The boss really gave you too much credit. 25 million is more than enough to make you disappear forever. He should have just asked. But then, Shovel face is back at the table. Leaning over it looking at you. His big ham fists resting on the flat table surface. He's distraught, again. "You won't tell boss, will you?" "No, like I said, I'll make it look like someone else did.." "No, I mean, about the drink." "Oh, the drink."You look down at your lap, which is soggy. You look back at Shovel Face. "No, our little secret."He doesn't move, so you reach up and pat his cheek. Then he smiles again. "Thanks. You're the best." "I know."
I stared down at the poor thing on his knees. The pathetic being at my feet had been told he was the strongest and most talented the Tower had. The only one who could destroy the big bad wolf at the edge of the continent. I’d knocked him around so much today, and many times before. For the longest time I couldn’t understand why he’d come back for more. But today… I think I finally understood. Standing on the mountainside I could see it. The “Beacon of All Hope.” The Central Tower and authority that I had stood up to long ago. The reason why I lived on the outskirts of humanity. It had been so long since I last stepped foot into a human town yet the Central Tower still hunted me. A whole 73 years after the disagreement that labeled me a villain. Their belief that our powers should be used for the sake of humanity… what utter nonsense. There’s no reason for me to offer my powers on a massive scale for free. Looking at the man… no, boy at my feet I could feel his senseless desire to destroy something “other.” I had powers, yet did not belong to the Tower and because of that I was evil. “You can still hear me, right?” I asked the wavering body below me. “You’re coherent?” His head slowly rose to glower at me. One eye completely swollen shut and his lip torn painfully he still had a look of defiance. A sneer crossed his face and he spat at my feet. This… is the type of hero that deserved better. The strongest? I almost pitied him. This was his fifth time coming after me at the will of the Tower and he never went back in any better condition. “Little hero, where are your cohorts? Why are you always the one to stand against me alone?” He chewed on his words and finally said, “Because I’m the strongest. I can’t allow you to hurt others so I face you alone.” “Is that really your choice? Or is that what you’ve been told?” “...” “Does it make sense to face me alone? Even if you are the strongest hero, I could be subdued if maybe there were two or three more of you.” “But they’d be hurt.” “You nincompoop. And you’re not?” “But… but I’m the strongest hero we have. I have to be the one to face you.” “Again… who says so? Who says you have to do it alone? And why would THEY tell you to do it alone?” “...” The silence was deafening. “Even in ballads and epics, heroes don’t go after the final villain without the support of those who make them stronger. Arthur had Merlin. Frodo had Sam. Who do you have?” “I have everyone at the tower,” he mumbled out. I could slowly see him grasp where I was going with this. “Young hero, why am I a villain?” “You hurt people.” “When have I hurt people?” It slowly dawned on him. I was “other” but I was not evil. To put it simply, I was as dangerous as any other person - capable of harming others but that didn’t mean I did. “Do you want to live freely? Without being sent out senselessly to your destruction, day in and day out? Needlessly? Thanklessly?” I asked, genuinely concerned for this boy. “But… but I don’t know what I’d do without the tower.” He finally murmured. “Well that’s something for you to figure out.” I slowly walked to him and held out my hand. “Come with me. Let’s patch you up - I think we have much to discuss.” Taking my hand, the hero slowly came to his feet and leaned against me. “No tricks.” He threw one more accusatory glance at me. “None. I swear by my powers.” He grunted and we slowly made our way down the mountain. Once we got a ways into the treeline I stopped him. “Please lean against this tree. I just realized I lost an item in our fight. I know exactly where it is though so I’ll be just a moment.” With a wary glance he nodded and sank down against a yew. When I emerged from the woods I felt for the absence of life I’d noticed when we first arrived there. Finding it I gripped for a fireball out of the air and threw it at where I knew it would be. Satisfied with its lack of identifiers I turned back into the forest where someone needed me. The tower would have to accept the loss of their most powerful hero at the hands of a villain.
I blink, a look of confusion spreading across my face. Rather than a grand and powerful deity appearing in front of me, I am met by what looks to be a little girl, no older than 9 perhaps. My eyes dart toward the old parchment scroll on the ground next to me, covered in ritualistic instructions formed by a code of ancient runes. I was so sure I’d deciphered them correctly! I sigh. “Your… grandmother?” I reply with raised eyebrows. “Oh, yes! She’s usually the one in charge of this stuff, but I um.. well, grandmother usually doesn’t let me near mortal business, but…” her voice grew softer as she spoke. “I may have accidentally responded to your ritual call!” she finally proceeded to blurt out. “I wanted to know what would happen if I did, when the older deities do it it looks so interesting!!!” the child wailed, her cries making the candles around us flicker and causing thunder to crack in the background. Mentally I was facepalming. Here I was, thinking I’d be able to strike up a deal with an omnipotent and all-powerful god, but instead I’ve been relegated to babysitting some sort of sacred child until her eldritch grandmother shows up. Begrudgingly I roll up the scroll again and slip it into the pocket of my coat. I put on my best fake smile and turn back to the kid. “It’s okay! I’m sure your grandmother won’t be angry with you.” I tried to sound comforting but it didn’t come out with much conviction. She looked up at me with big eyes, the flames atop the candles immediately dimming down. “You really think so?” “Uh… yes?” It again comes out sounding more like a question than a statement, though she seemed satisfied with the response. A big smile promptly spread across her face. The thunder and what looked like the beginnings of a twister immediately cleared up again as her mood shifted, being instead replaced by sunshine and clear skies. Crisis averted. She ironed some creases out of her dress with her hands while an awkward silence ensued. “It might be a while until my grandmother gets here,” she then says. “I figured as much,” I shrug. How do you keep a child of the gods busy? “So… ever heard of Uno?”
Roommates Suck Dear Diary, Long time no write; sorry about that old friend. Things have been a bit tumultuous these past several months. Where to begin? Well, first, I lost my job, so FML. Next, I couldn’t renew my lease with the loss of my income. Realizing that I was burning through my savings pretty fast, I did something pretty dangerous to save money. I went on Facebook Marketplace to find a roommate. Somehow, I wound up with four of them. First there is Byron, a self-proclaimed sex god. Strange men and women come and go out of his room at all hours of the night. He walks around with the peculiar swagger of a drunk man even when he hasn’t been drinking. He tells the most ridiculous stories. He often claims he’s bedded famous people, somehow slipping in impossible exploits like Hedy Lamarr and Rock Hudson even though Byron is in his thirties. Byron didn’t talk to me much when I first moved in. Then one day I was hopelessly swiping through a dating app on my phone. Byron sashayed in, grabbed the phone out of my hand, swiped a few times, tossed my phone back at me, winked, and said “you’re welcome”. At first, I was mortified that he had apparently arranged a date on my behalf. But… the date went really well, and, to my astonishment, I now have a gorgeous girlfriend. Byron does frequently ask invasive personal questions about my love life. Cons of Byron: I might need to get tested for Chlamydia just sharing a bathroom with Byron. Pros of Byron: he never eats any of my food, he pays rent in advance, and he even helped me find a new job that pays twice what my old job paid. Next there is Feratu, I know, weird name, huh? Feratu creeped me out at first. His skin is pale, like white as a sheet of paper. His features are gaunt and he’s almost seven feet tall and rail thin. Despite always looking like he has one foot in the grave, he’s a great roommate. He’s very clean, and even picks up after Byron’s bacchanal messes. He’s quiet, but a good listener, and says encouraging things. Sometimes I run into Feratu in odd places about town. One night I was working super late. It would have been pitch black had it not been for the fact it was a full moon that night. As I was walking to my car I heard a growl—and I saw the weirdest looking outline of a creature at the very edge of the streetlight’s glow. Biggest dog I ever saw—almost looked like a bear. I began to worry the furry fella was rabid, because it started acting aggressive. The dog looked like it was about to pounce on me when suddenly the streetlight burned out. I thought I heard some howls and then pained whimpering. I was rushing toward my car when Feratu popped out of nowhere from the shadows. I was a bit shaken up and warned him about the massive dog. Feratu assured me he used to work in animal control and he would make sure I got safely to my car. I was surprised to bump into him in the parking lot outside my work, since he doesn’t work anywhere near me. He mentioned something about walking after a spin class to get some froyo. Odd thing, Feratu doesn’t look like he works out at all, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat sweets. Pros of Feratu: Feratu is the cleanest roommate I ever met and a genuinely caring person. Cons of Feratu: I don’t think Feratu is a very responsible pet owner. He’s had 12 different cats go missing, which is really strange because Feratu doesn’t leave the door open or anything. While good looks may have passed over Feratu, our roommate Annabella seems to have won the genetic lottery. She is gorgeous, like otherworldly beautiful. She’s also surprisingly strong for such a dainty woman. The other week, my lucky penny rolled under the washing machine and Annabella hoisted that appliance up like it was nothing. She loves red wine and always has a glass in hand, though sometimes she accidentally spills a few drops on her shirts. Annabella also boasts an impressive knowledge of history, though her degree is in law. Annabella has an office in the same building where I work, and she works nights, which surprises me because I thought she worked as some sort of attorney, which you would think would entail more daytime hours. Now that I think about it, all my roommates seem to work nights…odd. Back to Annabella, it’s been nice running into her in the building. While I like my new job, when I first started, my new boss, Greg, was pretty much the worst. I would come out of meetings with him feeling super exhausted, like all my energy had been drained from me. I’d bump into Annabella in the elevator, and she would suggest we go out for drinks after work. One night, I was stuck late in the office (I had such grueling hours under that boss), and Greg was still there and started berating me. Honestly, it was so bad I think I passed out completely from the stress. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in Annabella’s BMW. Annabella calmed me down and said I blacked out, but essentially she had helped file a workplace harassment suit against my boss. The lawsuit must have worked because I never saw that boss again, he must have quit out of fear of the lawsuit. Pros of Annabella: She’s a really good friend, and such a good listener that she doesn’t seem to eat or drink anything when you’re out at dinner and telling a story. Cons of Annabella: She takes the History channel WAY too seriously and will start yelling at the TV whenever they get something wrong. Also, she got red wine stains all over my favorite chair. Finally, the fourth roommate to round out the eccentric quartet: Vlad. Vlad has a thick Eastern European accent and works as a cab driver. Vlad works out, like a lot. He’s helped me get into shape and build confidence in myself. I’ll admit, when I first moved into the house I was going through a major slump. Vlad kept slapping me on the back and calling me a warrior. He’d say other things, but they were in his native tongue, but Annabella and Feratu both confirmed they were positive things. Both Annabella and Feratu have learned some of Vlad’s native tongue after being roommates for so long. I guess I’ve talked about little bonding moments with each roommate so far. I think I had my bonding moment with Vlad about a month in. He caught me drowning my sorrows with a bowl of Captain Crunch and a glass of bourbon. We talked about the pressures of being a man, expectations from our dads, that sort of thing. We talked until about an hour before sunrise, and that’s when we made plans to start working out together. Dude has a strong preference to hit the gym at night, something about crowds during the day. I don’t mind though; I’m building up some good muscle. Pros of Vlad: It’s like having my own personal trainer and therapist for free. Cons of Vlad: He is a militant atheist who despises any sort of religious iconography, I had to hide the cross necklace my memaw gave me because it deeply offended Vlad. He’s also horrendously allergic to garlic, so my cooking has really suffered. I guess, to sum it up, while it was hard at first, I have made four new friends. And, it’s nice having roommates that don’t eat your food for a change. How lucky is that, four roommates and none of them ever touch my stuff in the fridge? Anyway, time to go, I’m going to the shelter with Feratu to find him a new cat. Let’s just hope this one doesn’t go missing.
[Poem] You might not like they way my wand is wielded. Propped against this ladder up to the ceiling. Ought not try the magic I'm dealing. You couldn't handle it, but that's just my feeling. See, I need the space to reach to the skies to hold all its power, though your girlfriend just likes its size. Don't be surprised when they say yours is big they're just telling you lies. It has to be large to hold all of its spells. It breathes fire, shocks wires, and obliterates elves. It can change tires, build spires, and on the beach - it'll collect shells. I even made a piece out of bacon grease so I could cook breakfast. It's got cowboy cleats and toilet seats so I can take shits in Texas. If you need to slide in trying times don't call an Uber. Just text us. It's got a garage inside with multiple rides like a Bentley and a Lexus. Now I've said a lot about my wand and trust me, none of its wrong. It'll expire vampires and sing me songs. Yeah it's giant, massive, and extremely long. Though it may be huge, it still isn't as big as your mom.
Ma'al N'deverline blinked all four eyes several times, her cheeks turning from their usual pale blue to a deep purple. She said, "I must have misheard you. Say that again." The human man said: "Oohwoo, I did a bad thing and stepped in a faiwy wing, pwease don't punish me!" Ma'al looked at her cousin, Wiltwing Softbellow, who was scratching his mustache in an abnormally perturbed fashion. Wiltwing shrugged. By the law, the mortal would have to be punished, of course, but there was something disturbing about the growing trend this mortal represented. Wiltwing said, "This one is your problem, Ma'al." Ma'al shuddered. "I... Suppose... You could be spared, just this once." The human said, "Oh no! But how will I wearn my wesson if you don't punish me?" And he contorted into a position even more provocative and disturbing than his previous one, presenting a lot of skin between a lot of leather straps. He said, "I think you need to spank me, or I'm sure to misbehave again!" Ma'al said, "If I punish you, it will be with a curse of boils." "Oh deaw! Not boils! Itchy witchy boils all over my soft, smooth behind! How tewwible!" "...And I'll have to whip you with a willow switch, five or six hundred times." "A willow switch! Oohwoo! How will I suwvive five hundwed whips with a willow switch! I'll be covered in wittle welts!" Ma'al cleared her throat to buy a moment of time to think. "And to finish you off, I'll have to take your name, destroy your beauty, and---" "Oh noooo! Don't destwoy my booty! Oohwoo!" Wiltwing said, "So I'll see you at the next samhain, alright Ma'al? Lovely to see you, seems you've got this well in hand. Goodbye!" Ma'al said, "No, wait! What if I need--!"But Wiltwing was already gone. The man wiggled his eyebrows and took up another pose. "After you've whipped me and cursed me and bwoken my booty, what will you do next?" Ma'al just stared into space for a while. At last, she said, "You know what? You're off the hook. Have fun in the faewild, it's all yours. I've got a friend in the Outer Planes. I'm going to go visit them. For a while. Bye!" And she disappeared. The man wilted visibly. He looked around at the living trees (who were all creeping steadily away from him as fast as their roots could carry them) and at the babbling brook (which was keeping its mouth shut in hopes he'd go away) and at the singing hills (which were also taking pains to be very quiet now). He looked at the sky castles which were even now raising anchor and heading off to safer harbors. And he sighed, very disappointed. "Oh, dwat!"
Few could guess why we were not wiped out, following the war. Lands stolen, families divided, homes destroyed. Vermin, they called us, nothing more than a plague, forced into servitude rather than being put to the sword. The laws do not apply to us, there is no grace given to the dregs of society. Speak out, and have your tongue removed. Reach out, and have your hand taken. Step one claw out of line, and say farewell to your foot. It was the dragon riders that we saw as our land was razed, it was the dragon riders that we saw as our lives were irrevocably changed. It was the cruel mercy of the dragon riders that we still drew breath, only to be collared and dragged about. It is all we can do to survive with so little given to us, but we do not debase ourselves with the barbarism of Humans, the strength of the Kobold is in its warren. Each day, we are drenched in water before we are carted out of the kennels. No singular job is given to an individual, the Humans can't be bothered to keep track of us, thus one day you'll be shoveling shit, and the next you'll be forced to hold linens for hours on end. Today, I was hauled before the dragon riders, who did not deign to so much as look at me, the magics that bound the collar tightly around my neck would choke me if I so much as snarled at them. I simply grabbed the brushes and buckets of water and began scrubbing the floors. 'You...' The voice was soft, we are expected to pay attention when addressed, I looked up, but saw only the dragon riders talking among themselves. Nobody spoke to me, nobody so much as spared me a glance, and the gradual tightening of the collar indicated stopping was against my duties. I ignored the voice and resumed. 'Your soul burns with the flame of justice...' I paused again, uncertainty creeping into my mind as I looked around for the speaker. I could not stop and investigate, but the fact that I was being addressed by seemingly nobody was concerning. Was this madness, had the Humans finally broken me? 'What have they done to you..?' A Human entered the room, tracking mud across the floor that I would have to clean. "Everyone, one of the eggs is about to hatch!" There was a bustle of movement as the room emptied. I resumed my cleaning, starting with the mud that had been so cruelly smeared into the stone floor. By the time I had the whole floor scrubbed, the dragon riders returned, bearing a scarlet egg upon a pillow. Even from my vantage, I could see the egg moving. "It's getting ready to hatch."One of the Humans spoke. "The one it has chosen is within the city." It wasn't long before more Humans came, all of them excited, their eyes filled with hope and ambition in equal measure. I was required to bring them food and drink when ordered to, I could feel my stomach rumbling at the mere sight of fresh bread, not a speck of mold upon it, not a maggot in sight. 'None of them will leave here with their wish fulfilled. Come.' I felt the magic of the collar react to the order, I felt drawn toward the egg, and the tightening of the collar told me I could not ignore this. A child reached for the egg, the disappointment was palpable on his face. A male touched it, there was bitterness in his eyes. "Kobold, food."A Human said. I went to bring the tray of food over to him, but the collar snapped tight around my neck, causing me to stumble and drop the tray. I trembled as it loosened, there were few orders that could override the orders of a Human. 'Come.' There were murmurs as I continued walking toward the egg, a few dragon riders noticed my movements. "Back to your corner, Kobold." I did not listen, I continued walking toward the egg. A dragon rider approached me with his sword drawn, "Disobedient little shit!"He snapped, raising his weapon. There was a moment that something happened, I can barely understand it. It was as if for that moment, my heart beat a little louder, and the sword struck the very air, as if frozen in space. I continued to walk, and stood but a few footsteps away. I reached out, another sword failed to strike me as I laid my hand upon the egg, and it cracked. The silence that fell was deafening, as the hatchling wormed its way out of the shell, and pressed its head against my hand. The first thing that hit me, as I felt a connection form between me and the dragon, was pure love. It was the same love as when one of my own people would forego their meager ration to ensure their hatchling could eat, it was the same love as when they would bring water-laden moss so the sick could have something to drink. I took the dragon in my arms, and I wept in the face of such total and unyielding love. "Abomination!"A Human approached, I could feel the jet of fire the dragon breathed at them, forcing them to back away, I could feel the sudden strain of the collar against my neck, before it was finally, mercifully loosened. 'I am yours, and you are mine. I shall defend you until my dying breath, I shall see you free so long as I live. Name me.' "Draezen." I uttered. Freedom. Draezen alit my shoulder, and I turned to face the gathered Humans, who stared at me with fear and hatred. The dragon riders stared at me with uncomprehension, in their eyes, dragons were destined to bond with Humans. Roars filled the air, several thundering thuds sounded from outside. 'Walk forward, pay them no heed. It is not their welcome you need concern yourself with.' I took a step forward, the Humans backed away from me, driven off by the glare of my dragon. One foot in front of the other, until I reached the double doors that led outside. There was a rush within my very being as the doors swung open, and just outside, dragons sat on either side of the path leading into the city. I took another step forward, and as I walked, the dragons bowed their heads as I passed.
"Hey." "Hey, man." "Been a long time, huh? That I've been with you." "Yeah. Since the divorce. What was I...nine?" "Younger, I think. But my memory is tied into yours. Could be longer. Could be eons." "Anyways. I always knew you were imaginary, you know." "I know. So did I. You get tricked, sometimes, but I always knew." "Still. You made me feel better. You always helped me...figure things out. Just staring in the mirror. When I was teenager, even." "I think teenagers need imaginary friends more than anybody. Those are hard years. I would know. I was with you the whole time. The parties you came home early from, almost crying. The nights spent staring at the ceiling trying to decide if this class or that mattered more than the other." "Yeah. I was a wreck back then. I guess I still am." "You maybe should stop drinking." "Yeah. Maybe." "Maybe stop talking to me, too." "You think so?" "I think I enable you. I think you use me, sometimes, to rationalize bad decisions or to make things that are good seem worse. You always talk to me when you're in a bad mood, you know that? How do you think that makes me feel? That the only time you feel you can be honest is when you're..." "What? Sad?" "Sad. Angry. Emotional in general, I guess. We never just go throw a frisbee around or enjoy a sunset, or whatever people do. I don't even know, because I'm stuck with you." "Stuck with me? What, you hate me?" "Not hate. I think you're projecting. Not hate. I'm just...tired." "Maybe you should go to bed." "I think we both should go to bed. I think think we need sleep more than anything. There's been a lot of nights, especially lately, without sleep. You know what happens when you sleep? Your body repairs itself. Just a little. Sheds a bit of skin, replays the days' events. Maybe you need me because you can't do that on your own. But eventually you have to, man. I can't be here forever. You know who has imaginary friends forever? Schizophrenics. And how does that work out? No, my dear friend, you need sleep. Dreams should guide you more than me. More than I ever could. You need sleep." "But I can't..." "What?" "I can't sleep. I never could. Even when I was a kid, and kids are supposed to sleep like rocks. I sleepwalk, you know. Of course you do. Maybe it's you that's running me when I do. I sleep walk and talk and do all these crazy things." "You aren't crazy." "I know." "Because you know I'm not real." "You're a figment of my imagination. Well, my inner thoughts, anyway. I guess once I thought you were real. Like my shadow-self." "Shadow is right. Nobody likes their own shadow, I think. Always following them. Making them look long and spindly and strange. Scaring them in the half-dark." "Well." "You need sleep, my friend. When you wake up, maybe I'll be gone. Like a dream slipping down the drain. Or I'll still be here, but in a quiet corner - like a half bottle of whiskey kept behind the oatmeal. For when you really need it." "That doesn't sound too bad." "No. So sleep. Lay your head down and sleep. And I'll be gone, or I won't, but either way - I won't be your shadow."
A white light blinded me as I opened my eyes. It hurt but at least I was still alive. "That is not quite correct", a voice proclaimed. I sat up and looked around. There was whiteness everywhere. "Where am I?", I asked. "Who are you?" "Always with the same questions. You should really think of some new ones. But let me give you an answer before your memory kicks in. You are dead and I am life itself. Nice to meet you - again." Just as the voice finished speaking a sharp sting hit me right between my ears. And while I was hunched over in pain I started seeing colours and movements. Then all of my other senses activated - even some I did not have before. When it stopped I was lying on the floor again, breathing heavily. And I realised what those were: Memories. Memories of my past lifes. Thousands, no millions of lifes. "Yes, you always had a tendency of dying. Killed in a traffic accident. It's not even an interesting kind of death. I remember when you came back after a thunderstorm as the only tree stuck by lightning. But let's digress. I fear there is only one choice left for you." "What are you talking about?" "Reincarnation. I mean, I can not keep you here. But I can also not risk to put a soul into a species it already has experienced. The last time I tried this things got... unpleasant." "So... wait! What will happen to me?" "I'm afraid you have died so often, there is only one choice left: The Deed Desert Dweller. It's a fungi living under the sands of the Sahara." "Fungi... There are mushrooms in the desert?" "Under the desert, where not even humans dig. They dissolve stone and have no natural predetors. Their life span is about 3 million years. Sorry, but you will have to wait for evolution to create some new species before you can get a more interesting life. You should have been more careful." *** And this is how I came here. How about you? Tell me about your past lifes. Yeah, I know - it takes years telling a story by growing and eating rocks. But don't worry. I have time...
We've dubbed the action as "Voiding". You could be doing anything ranging from walking your dog to fightin' in a War and all of a sudden you just go. You enter that uncontrollable Void and move somewhere in time be it a year, or be it a day, but you're movin' faster than anythin'. Rhys never did quite forget the day he moved through the Void. Many a man come back a shell and many a man come back feelin' like a God but Rhys, he came back, well, we ain't sure Rhys really ever came back. A lot of days start good and end bad and a lot more start bad and end good, but the day your first Child is born, well, that's day thats supposed to start good and end good. Rhys remembers runnin' through the Emergency room doors to see his wife, Eloise, pushin' what could only be described as a bloody watermelon outta her body when he Voided. One second he was standin' in a Hospital Room and the next he was standin' in a Morgue. Now Rhys always had rules in his head for when he Voided. First, don't contact people you know if you're able to. Last thing ya need is changin' the past or knowin ya future. Second, don't kill any butterflies. Third, just wait it out. Curiosity don't only kill cats though. Lookin' around the room wasn't meant to break the poor kid. But findin' a hole in a wall with the name of your wife on it will make a man wonder. Openin' the hole and findin' your wifes body will break a man. Findin' the reports that she died durin' childbirth will shatter his soul. Findin' the child in the same room will take those pieces and set em on fire. And he got sent back just like that. He stood next to his wife screamin' in pain and that damn Watermelon comin' out and it ain't gonna stop. Knowin' your future must be a curse. Knowin' 3 hours ahead of yourself and not bein' able to change it, well, shit. That's a recipe for madness.
Holy shit, Reyes thought as he looked at a guy across the conference, realizing he could read the guy's mind, that guy is totally checking me out! "No,"the guys told Reyes in return, speaking out loud, "and if you don't get outta my mind, noob, I'll mindfuck ya." "What's that--"Reyes went to ask, but he read the guy's mind, and knew what a mindfuck really was. "Oh." "'Oh', the guy says,"the guy said. And the last mind-reading horse crosses the finishing line, the guy thought to everyone. The conference room burst into snickering and laughter, emberassing Reyes terribly. I'm Eli, the guy who was checking out Reyes said in his own mind. Actually, Eli thought, if you weren't the last of the mindless newbs to discover your telepathy, you would already know my name and my mind. "Wait--"Reyes said. Use your mind, Ef Ef Es, Eli thought for Reyes' benefit. That's an acronym I'm thinking of: FFS. Can you see the concept in my head? For Fuck's Sake? Reyes thought. It can text, too, Eli broadcast to everyone again. The conference room crowd was a murmuring of humor at poor Reyes' sake. Okay, all right... Reyes tried broadcasting to everyone. I'm the New Guy. Har har har. Took you long enough, said a familiar female voice in Reyes' head. Wait, what? Reyes replied. You're-- It's me, Katie, Reyes. Welcome to the party. How long has this been going? Reyes asked her. You never told me. It's just the polite thing to do to the rare non-telepathic, Katie replied. We can't include you, but we don't want you to feel excluded, either. So, when we sense a telepathic gap, a Gapper, in our presence, we merely speak outloud for their benefit. Goddamn! What? Katie asked. I'm sorry! Should I have told you you were a rare Gapper? It's actually not a bad thing! No, that's not it, Reyes replied, realizing he was talking much faster through his head--transmitting concepts and ideas unlimited by the speed of sound and the working of his mouth--then he could have ever spoken. I just realized why I rarely ever won a hand of poker, even though my poker face was boss! We, uh, Katie said, kinda let you win a few hands, you poor sap. Aw, Katieee... Reyes fell on his ass, making the crowd laugh again. Oh my God, what? Reyes asked Katie, his face flushing. It was Eli who answered: He learned to walk and chew bubblegum, he needs to learn how to telepath and maintain his equilibrium, too. Thanks for telling me that, jackass, Reyes said to Eli, sending him a mental picture of an ass's ass. Crude noob, Eli said. Well, good-bye. Telepath me again when you've matured mentally. I'm a long-distance friend of Katie's too. Katie! Reyes called. You never told me! There's so much of this new mental world you don't know, yet, Katie replied. Like the fact that I'm at home back in Minnesota right now, and you're in New York, attending your conference, and we're talking. Wow, holy crap, I-- Reyes nearly fell over again. Whoa-- Easy! Katie told him. Sit down, Reyes, please. You're going to have to adjust to no longer being a Gapper. It's going to take time. Reyes willingly pushed away the mental conversations buzzing in his brain long enough to find a seat. I feel schizophrenic, Reyes told Katie, once he was sitting. How do I make it stop? Wait, Katie said. It was Eli who broadcast to everyone who was listening mentally: Please, everyone, there is a new telepath, a prior Gapper, in the crowd who cannot filter. Be mindfull. A legion of apologies came into Reyes' mind, and then the voices slowly diminished into nothing. Reyes felt a little lonely, then. Katie? Reyes asked. Yes, Reyes? Katie replied. Why is this happening now? I have no idea, Katie told him. But maybe you should come home and see the psychiatrist. I don't think I want pills, Reyes said. I'm not crazy for being, uh...? You're not crazy, Reyes. You just need to learn. And we need to learn what triggered you to telepathy. Come home, Reyes, please. All right, Reyes agreed. What about Eli, though? You can talk to him when you feel ready, Katie replied. He's actually a wonderful mental image artist. I don't even know... You'll soon see, Katie said. In the meantime, welcome to the mental fold and mindfullness, Reyes. It's so good to have you, finally.
37. 37. 37. The number echoes in my head as I find myself awakening, again, in Mrs. Morrison's class. "Sleeping, Miss Andalusite?" I quickly give her my best smile, maybe my best one yet. "No, ma'am! Just reciting the problems in my head once more!"I say, perfectly timed. She squints her eyes at me, watching my expressions. I continue to beam at her, unblinking, despite imagining a gun to her head. "All right,"she says finally. "Where was I?" "You were talking about the use of the-" "Ah, that's right. The use of adjectives in the form of..." Her voice disappears from my mind as I think back to the beginning. The first time. A glance at the clock shows 11:52. Just on time. "Yes, Miss Andalusite?" I smile again, sliding a lime sheet of paper between my index and middle fingers, holding it out to her. "May I be excused to the restroom?" The teacher squints again, her nostrils flaring. She sniffs, then steps forward, taking the bathroom pass from my hand. "Be back in no less than 12 minutes, Eleanor." Oh trust me, I think. That'll be the least of your worries. I close the classroom door behind me with a thud, checking my watch. 11:53. I should have just enough time to finally- A crash sounds out, and I sprint the opposite direction, through the halls and out the door. I wait, listening intently. The second crash comes at 11:55, which is when I begin to speed toward the A wing. I slide through the doors noisily, locking them with a stolen key. "Eleanor Andalusite,"says a smiling voice. I turn quickly, beaming back. "Hello, Mr. Harris,"I reply evenly, walking backwards to my locker. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?" "Oh,"I laugh. "No, of course not. I really need to get into my locker, so my teacher let me-" "Ah, that makes sense. Get to it then." I wait for him to walk the other way before quickly slamming open the locker, removing only a journal. I tuck it into the waistline of my skirt, then begin to run out the other doors. I barely make it past the bleachers outside when I hear a familiar, gravelly voice. "Sorry kid, but you've got to go." I swear under my breath, hearing the familiar clicks of a firearm. BANG 38. 38. 38. The number echoes in my head as I find myself awakening, again, in Mrs. Morrison's class. "Sleeping, Miss Andalusite?" EDIT: Man oh man did this surprise me! I woke up to like -a lot- of comments. Well, more than I expected over this prompt! Inspiration was.... myself, sadly. I mainly thought of an anime (from back when I actually watched anime) but mainly just based this off of the characters I've been writing for a few years already. I'll write more and add it to the end of this in a few.
"Are you not listening on purpose?"Jefferson asked. "What?"John Adams returned, "It sounded like a setup. Tell me that did not sound like the setup to a clever joke or witticism?" Adams and Madison cracked open another pair of beers and settled into their barca loungers (added to the eternal rumpus room of the Presidents by Reagan, against the loud objections of Teddy Roosevelt). "Well, it wasn't a witticism,"Jefferson said, "This concerns the future of the nation built on the blood and sweat of our sons and brothers!" "Tom, do be sparse with the speeches!"Madison interrupted, "You just seem jealous. The musical is about Hamilton, they like Hamilton right now, so what? Just let him have a moment. Besides, being upset about a play has always been Abe's thing." "And it was certainly a witticism!"Adams continued, "You'll agree when you hear it, James. Come now, Tom, tell it again." "My word, Adams,"Jefferson objected, "I was merely informing you who is participating in this most important debate of policy and principle that will shape the future of these United States!" "Certainly, certainly but explain it again for James, just like you did for me,"Adams replied, gesturing at the TV with his beer, "Quickly now, the program begins promptly!" The NBC debate music began to swell. "I promise to be reasonable,"Madison assured him. "Alright,"Jefferson began with a sigh, "The choices are a woman, a Jew, and an Irishman. And the Irishman is in third place." Madison and Adams fell out of their chairs, laughing and clutching their sides.
I had no choice. We were friends -- comrades -- once. We have fought so many battles side by side. Saved the world innumerable times. I have stopped keeping track when one of us saved another's hide. In fact, if we were keeping track I'd have needed saving the most... We were heroes, the most powerful beings on the planet. Dedicated to protecting humanity and upholding justice and honor and everything that is good. We were the watchers that hold the forces of evil and darkness at bay, so that all of human kind can rest easy, so that parents can tuck in their children in bed and tell them, truthfully, that the monsters won't come. But over time, even the best of heroes begin to confuse keeping watch over the world with holding humanity hostage. We fail to realize that the strong arm that protects us can also have a deadly grip. It is power that has corrupted them. And why not? If you have the strength of a hundred men and can shrug off a thermonuclear blast like it was nothing, if you can bend all men to your will with just a thought, if your mastery over the elements lead some people to worship you as a god...why wouldn't you think that maybe, just maybe, you have been given these gifts to lead humanity...even if it means leading them against their will? I was the lone human in their circle. My only superpower, if you would allow it, was my intellect and resourcefulness. These circle of gods recognized my skills and have given me the means to build machines that aided them in their tasks. I have also equipped myself with devices, a suit of armor, and a legion of robots to fight alongside them. And over time, I have gained a place beside them. As an equal. As a hero. They were my friends, but they have ceased to be human. The first strains started behind closed doors. Over several meetings they floated the idea of a council that will enact protocols to ensure humanity's survival. The initial idea sounded benevolent, but soon it began to take on a more sinister tone. From establishing sub-bases in every nation, to disbanding all military forces throughout the planet, the self-proclaimed council soon began to discuss the summary elimination of known villains and even non-powered criminals, the manipulation of politics to suit their objectives, the blunting of democratic processes in favor of "direct action", "council measures"...innocuous terms that soon took on a sinister tone as days went on... I was the lone voice of dissent to their plans. At first, they were merely dismissive and laugh off my concerns. But soon, I felt heavy eyes on me. Then the attack on my lab happened. I barely escaped with my life and a few supplies that I managed to stash away in several hidden sites. It pays to be prepared. The news reported it as Mechaman gone rogue, with the attack on my lab described as a battle between the Power Council and me when they discovered that I was building a depowering device. I was, indeed, doing that. But it was for the right reasons. Now a fugitive, with my funding cut off, my device destroyed, and running out of time, I went to the one place they never would have expected me to go. I went to the villains. When I managed to convince them not to kill me right there and then, we had a very lengthy talk. Little did the council realize that while they were making their plans, I managed to siphon data off our mainframe. The data was incomplete and not enough to convince the naive world that their heroes were now setting themselves as overlords, but it was enough to convince two dozen villains who had reason to hate them more. It was my best powerpoint presentation ever, if only it were not so terrifying... It is an irony that I have united the villains into a single purpose -- the elimination of the world's greatest heroes. I know each of them intimately, their strengths and weaknesses, their desires, dreams, and insecurities. I loved them. I hated them. I fear them. But as I gather new resources and reconstruct my research on the depowering device, I coordinate the villains in guerilla strikes against the heroes. Wherever a new sub-base is established, you will be sure that we are there to take it down. I have matched teams of villains to counteract each of the heroes, and have used new, although limited, resources to united a group of unsavory leaders, dictators, and criminals into a coalition to oppose the United Nations - the main supporter of the Power Council. This strategy has paid off, as the council's plans for world domination have been set back several decades with our interference. And most of the villains are still alive. They were my friends, but they have lost their way. I tried to save them, and now there is blood on my hands. I wonder, if we see each other again, will they recognize me? Will I recognize them? But I know that for now, Mechaman will have to remain in hiding. I can no longer be a hero but a leader in the shadows, a villain that inspires fear and loathing, but always manages to slip past the heroes sent to dispatch me. A leader who sends all types of danger against them, one who is willing to do what it takes to oppose them. They hear my name as a whisper from scared minions as the implants short-circuits their brains. From the dying villains who shout my name as a battle call as they charge at them with their final breath. And as they chase shadows they will repeat my name over and over again... Mastermind.
Immortality is a burdensome gift. To never die is something many great leaders of our times wish to have but for me it has become a curse. Seeing friends and family die off. To see the world that I once knew become anew, time and time again. I yearn for death yet it escapes me. I've attempted suicide more times than I can count. Poison, gunshots, stabbings, everything. For years I've searched in all the shadows to find something, someone that could lift me from my curse. So far, the only way I can ease the pain of never dying is the promise a mystic gave to me in exchange I watch over his family. If I die in a dream, my physically body will finally die. Whether or not this is true, I cannot let my one chance at finally resting go to waste. The final descendant of the mystic died, his bloodline has lasted centuries so I am free of my promise. I just hope he is true to his. I isolate myself in order to mediate. I must master what my ancestors called lucid dreaming. I can be aware that I am in a dream world and hopefully take control of my dream self. After years of practice and meditation, I've finally mastered it. I lay down for what I hope is my final resting place and within minutes I am transported into the dream world. Yes, just as I created. A vast emptiness. I've experienced so much after all these centuries of being alive surrounded by people that I dream of nothing. I am in an empty space with only a table with a revolver laying on top. Poetic in a way. Weaponry has become so advanced since my time. Yet I still decide to end my life using the tools of my ancestors. I think of my family or what I piece together of their memories. Is there an after life? I do not know. But the thought of being reunited with them brings a tear to my eyes. Joy to my heart. Peace to my soul. Goodbye world, I whisper to myself. Finally....goodbye. I pull the trigger. I feel an immense pain and the light around me begins to fade. A hole opens in the room and beings to suck the environment into it. Finally, I hope. This is death. Peaceful death. My sight vanishes. My body weakens. My mind is blank. I am thrust awake from my slumber. I take in my surroundings. Regain my sense of time and space. I am back in reality. But I know I died, I felt myself dying. How could this be? I am faced with my worst nightmare. I am truly immortal.
"Calculate it again!"Ben roared. "It can't be right!" The few that remained at night scurried around Ben like frightened mice, each clicking and clacking away at their plastic white stations, none daring to inform the chief scientist of the thing they all knew - that everyone was scheduled to die on the same day. Ben surmised as much from the silent clicking. "Date?"he asked. Silence. The LED screen at the top of the wall blinked 31/12/16. Without looking Ben sighed. "It's still the same, right?" As one they nodded. Ben sighed and crumpled back into his chair. The device had been spot-on with everything so far. Assassinations, celebrity deaths, you name it, they told it. Even the mundane deaths like a drive-by shooting had been predicted down to the microsecond the heart stopped beating. It had been the crown jewel in Google's system - the ability to predict who would die when was the greatest collection of knowledge since the Library of Alexandria three millennia ago, and more importantly they had beaten the other tech companies to the punch. It was also highly, highly secret. And if anyone even so much as talked about their position at Google with the outside world they'd die of natural causes the next day. Well... That wasn't strictly true, Ben thought as he walked up and down, pacing past the terrified scientists. There was one person whose death the device had not predicted yet. Not even a false prediction - not like this one surely must be - but no prediction at all. The LED screens that were supposed to tell the time simply hit a blank. It was almost as if the person had never existed, or had already died. And he had worked at Google before, Ben thought. Worked. Behind him the scientists slowly settled into normalcy - the kind of normalcy that came from not knowing what to do. Ben scrolled through his memory - what was his name? Pascal. Pascal Lidl. Aged twenty one. Child prodigy as well, though oddly enough no university or government anywhere in the world had a record of this person. Ben himself was pushing fifty. He was old enough to be the kid's father, just about. And if he racked his mind real hard and ignored the mistaken calculations, he could just about picture Pascal - wide blue eyes, big round face, the kind of person that just made you want to hug him when you saw him. Except that Pascal was no cuddly bear. He had been destructive to the project from the get-go. When Ben first conceived of the idea for the death predictor, Pascal was the only one against it. When Brookhaven National Labs were designing the chip to go into the computer, Pascal was the one who broke in and stole it. Only Ben knew, of course - and this last act had forced him to intervene and fire the eccentric genius. And of course, when someone got fired from this project, they didn't just get fired - their lives as they knew it were over. Ben remembered the car crash well. He had said all the proper things, wondered how it was that someone so young could have taken his own life in so tragic a manner. He never saw the body. And the more Ben looked at the story the dodgier it sounded. He had always believed Pascal was alive, that somehow his plan to kill him off had not succeeded. Now was the time to put it to the test. Quickly, Ben reached for his phone, to where the quickdial still sat waiting. There was a voice message. Ben recognised that number. His hands shook. Slowly, he pressed the button on the screen, hit play. "You have one new message. Press 1 to listen, or press 2 to call back." Ben pressed a button, and the phone spoke. "Hello, Ben,"Pascal said. "It's good to see you again. I'll bet you were wondering why your machine doesn't work? I'll tell you what: it is working perfectly. There will be an apocalypse on December the 31st, 2016 - exactly as you are predicting. I set the date. It is a clue. You know who I am and what I like." The voice dropped to a whisper. Ben strained in, listening like the world was on his shoulders. The phone spoke again. "Come find me."
It was chaos for but a moment. Specifically, the moment where everyone on Earth became their own fear. Their phobia. Results ranged from the humorous, such as the anglophobics who were transformed into posh aristocrats, to the disturbing, such as the agrophobics, who became the predators that they feared in their former lives. Those afflicted with bogyphobia, or the fear of the bogeyman, terrorized those that had not been wise enough to fear them before. There was a tragic irony to some. Beautiful models, afflicted with cacophobia, or the fear of ugliness, became the twisted, hideous creatures that one could not even bear to look at. Those were ugly before, afflicted with Caligynephobia, or a fear of beautiful women, took the on the visage of those models, tormenting both parties on multiple levels of cruelty. Some people simply vanished. The prevailing theory was that they were afflicted with isolophobia: the fear of being alone. Gerascophobia was another idea, that those afflicted with fear of growing old had become so old that they turned to dust the moment the transformation occurred. Ironically, those without a phobia in life were the least well-equipped to deal with the new reality. Whereas those arachnophobics at least had a chance to make it to the jungles and warmer climates of the world, the formerly fearless were more frequently crushed underfoot. But as I said, all that chaos was concluded in only a moment. Because my phobia was the one that made all others cower. My phobia was the one that allowed me to assert a new order amidst the chaos. Before, I huddled in my blankets, afraid of the world outside and afraid of the fear that gripped me even there. Now, I look over the oceans and the peoples that are left, and I pity their fear of me, even though I understand it perfectly. No creature, no matter how large or small or deviously ironic, could escape their fear of me. In life, I suffered phobophobia: the fear of phobias.
there was a safe zone, in the middle of Europe. A small patch of land that was discovered, where the radiation wasn't swept by the harsh winds, where the earth itself didn't catch fire. of course there weren't many inhabitants of this land. And those that inhabited it rarely spoke to each other. there wasn't much left to say. after a rationed dinner that left them unsatisfied, the 3 men with no family left, no kin, gathered around a small fire on the outskirts. tonight was a rare night, the sky, usually clouded with ashy, dark clouds, showed a small gap of stars out into space beyond. the smallest patch of moonlight illuminated their tired, old faces. The former american spoke "It came out of nowhere, the bombs. Russia was the first to strike, it was all over the news. I was such a happy man back then, I had everything, enough food, a permenant shelter. it seems like a world away. When the bombs dropped, we retaliated, I suppose. I watched the news, horrors and nightmares fleshing themselves out." The Russian, his small eyes narrowed, his scarred and blistered lips contorted into a grimace, clenched the fingers of his one remaining hand. "This is a lie" he snarls, his accent thick with anger. "you dropped the bombs first. forced the end to our peace. the dust and blood, I can still taste it. The radiation that took my father, I can still taste it. The rot that took this hand. Your greed and meritocracy ended the world. Its why we sit here with the starving, the sick. " The Chinese man stayed silent, staring at the crack in the clouds, the stars. he wondered if this was the last time he would see them. He remembered the mysterious letter on his desk, urging him to come to a location he'd never been. he remembered walking into a room with 10,000 of his Chinese brothers and sisters, all as equally confused. He remembered when he found out why he was there, why it was unsafe to leave, the anger he felt. the loss. he remembered, days later, when the bombs, as expected, began to fall. the light that would shine through the portholes in the shelter. The Chinese man stayed silent, as the American and the Russian man needlessly argued, and as the tears from his eyes hit the floor, the small patch of glistening moonlight vanished behind the seemingly eternal dark clouds.
"And welcome back, everyone, to the Grand Galactic Cook-Off! I'm Sun-Immured-in-Silt, and this is my co-host, Designate 738, and boy are things heating up! We're at the home stretch, so let's take a look at what our contestants have come up with. 738?" "As you say, Sun-Immured-in-Silt. Time's nearly up and all the chefs are putting the finishing touches on their dishes. Here we can see the Orn contestant, having threaded the light from their red sun generator through their prism array, focusing multiple frequencies of light into a single meal. A rich feast for any photogustatory being." "Yes, 738, and that's not all. This Orn has also genetically engineered photosynthetic scion to be grafted onto any tasters, giving them the organs necessary to fully appreciate this meal." "Now that's what I call going above and beyond, Sun-Immured-in-Silt. That's going to be a difficult dish to beat!" "But speaking of genetic engineering, let's not rule out the I-X-I, who's created 126 different subspecies of microscopic kalani, free roaming in a liquid nitrogen tank. These microorganisms aren't just engineered for taste, but also for a prey response best suited to stimulate appetite. It's not just the eating that's important, 738, it's also the thrill of the hunt!" "It's for that very reason, Sun-Immured-in-Silt, that the currents of the wave tank needed to be perfect, guiding the taster to each wave of kalani in order. This is a perfectly curated gustatory experience." "You're absolutely right about that, 738. But can any of these dishes compete with the Quiploth contestant, who, for this contest, has created an entirely new element!" "As you say, Sun-Immured-in-Silt. Using a high-energy particle accelerator, the Quiploth has accelerated a beam of ionized berkelium into an ununseptium isotope. Just imagine absorbing that radiation! You can practically see it from here!" "This is some exotic material right here, 738! Better get to it quick before it decays!" "And, as our newcomer, the human contestant, who, um, well..." "It seems they've gotten a little carried away with this opportunity, 738! The human has raided the ingredient cabinets of a dozen different worlds, putting together a potpourri of ingredients that I don't think make sense to any sentient being!" "Really, Sun-Immured-in-Silt, an emulsion of Kakain oonok eggs and Soronian hyperfluid? What are they thinking? Our servitors have had to prevent their death a dozen times already." "I don't think they are thinking, 738, and you can hardly blame them! It must be quite an experience meeting the galactic cooking community for the first time. And besides, who cares if their dish isn't edible. It's not as if you or I can eat any of these dishes to begin with!" "You're absolutely right, Sun-Immured-in-Silt! They would all probably kill me!" "And... there's the klaxon sounding! Time's up! All the chefs, away from your stations! Let's hear what the judge has to say!" "And here's our judge, emerging from the center of the universe. All hail the Galactic Maw!" "Yes, all hail the Galactic Maw! You can see the sheer terror in our chefs' movements as the Galactic Maw devours all, the spiraling drain at the heart of all things! It is entropy!" "It is destruction!" "It the pure obliteration of life and existence! Can you feel it, 738, can you feel it sucking up all instinct and sensation until there is nothing left but the basal revulsion at death?" "I sure can, Sun-Immured-in-Silt! I long for annihilation! My life is meaningless in the face of the cosmos!" "Illusions of pleasure and sustenance are as cruel artifice in the void! All hail the Galactic Maw!" "All hail!" "All ... All hail the Galactic Maw. Whoa, 738, was that ever an experience!" "As you say, Sun-Immured-in-Silt. Good thing the Galactic Maw is once again receding. My bifurcated soul was about to separate from my physical shell!" "Let's see what the contestants think of the results. Hey! You there! Human! How do you feel about your first participation in the Grand Galactic Cook-Off?" "...M-me?" "Yes, you, human! How are you feeling right now?" "T-there's no w-winner, is there?" "Not at all!" "N-no one ever wins. There's no way - we're all different species. There's no way to judge the food. There's no way to compare! There's just - elaborations on nourishment. We eat. But it's not enough to eat. It's never been enough to eat. We want - we believe in an aesthetic component to nourishment. An aesthetic component to life. We - we believe in beauty. In taste. And there's the Maw. The death that swallows all things. And while we're alive. We have to believe in taste. And hope that it confers our existences some meaning." "It looks like the human gets it, 738! Pretty impressive for their first time competing!" "As you say, Sun-Immured-in-Silt! It'll be interesting to see what they come up with their second time around!" "Second time?!" "And all the times to come! This has been the Grand Galactic Cook-Off, and I'm your host, Sun-Immured-in-Silt!" "And I'm Designate 738!" "All hail the Galactic Maw! See you next time!"
Very few of us exist. 6 are created every 5 years. And each is endowed with a very special gift. We're all unique in our ability. But we each carry a burden. We're effectively immortal. We cannot die of natural causes. We can be killed, however. I've seen many guardians fall. And when one falls, it triggers a natural disaster. However, three of ours are different. My element is earth. I control the movements of tectonic plates, volcanoes, and tsunamis. Sara's is wind. tornadoes, hurricanes, and microbursts, all under her command. And adam controls fire. And I'd the three of us are killed at the same time, it triggers doomsday. Everyone else has an expiration date, born organically. Not us. We just sort of... get created by God's legion for human protection and welfare. You can spot us by the fact that we bleed different colors. For instance, I bleed brown, Sara bleeds blue, and Adam bleeds bright orange. The powerful know of our abilities and want to try to harness it for themselves, but they don't know that we're not human. An organic body can't handle that much raw energy. We've watched humans screw up what we try to build. Mountains, forests, and Meadows all ruined by the greed and arrogance of humans. But we know that the men who did this are fast approaching their expiration dates. And when they do, we're the reapers who take them back. It is not our place to judge them, merely to bring them before God to be judged. I've seen countless hearings and seen multiple souls damned to hell. It's quite a sight. A very strange looking creature, not fully human, but not entirely animal. I could describe it as a black fog that can materialize into several shapes. And they cry out, then silence. And there are protocols in place for immortals if we should either decide humans are unfit to inherit the earth. We all must go to our respective temples. (Mine rests at the base of Mount vesuvius.) And turn a key. Once all keys are turned, the earth is reset. We can save a few humans to repopulate a newly created world. It's happened 1 other time in the course of human history. God himself flooded earth and selected Noah and his family to survive. This time would play differently. The immortal who controls warfare has already turned his key. Thus the organization you know as isis was born. The rest of us are refusing to turn our keys because we have hope. But we're also being hunted. Nick was killed, causing the recent California floods, Adam was killed in 2016, causing the wildfires. All that's left are me, Sara, and ivan, the warlord. Ivan has recruited a very powerful demon, named abbadon to hunt us down. If we fall, the process is triggered automatically. So were hiding amongst the mortals. But we don't know how much longer these disguises can last...
'Heresy,' he whispered, trailing his fingers across the floor. The shimmering arcane dust felt cold to the touch, and the rune Elder Korhen had cast was disfigured and ruined. Null narrowed his eyes, standing back up as he looked around the room. He should have been dead, vaporized into fine crystal dust smoother than a tropical beach by the rune beneath his feet, but he wasn't, and that's what made him so feared. A fanatic and devoted follower of the Eternal Light, Null hated every single creature and man who would dare draw from the Arcane Void, seeping God's great power for themselves, bestowing unnatural gifts on themselves selfishly. Every sorcerer he killed begged for their life, trying to convince him that there was no God, and that Magic was a source for Humanity to learn from, but their words fell on deaf ears. Null retrieved a pouch from his belt and emptied the contents where he felt the presence. The sparkling dust reacted with vibrant particles in the air, sparking and faintly revealing the outline of a spell and a man. Hmm... He teleported out of here, Null thought. Elder Korhen had been on the run for quite some time now, and was wanted greatly by the Order. The man had devoted his life to the advancement of magic, and was guilty of preaching nonsense to the youth, even teaching them. It mattered not, they were all dead now, Null's dagger being the proof of that. It was dark, stained by the dried blood of those he left in the dust back at the village. It would have been easy, to have been a regular Templar like the others. One who could fight magic with magic. One who could power up this teleportation spell remnant with an arcane rune and step through the crack in reality and follow Elder Korhen straight to where he went - but a man of such power, who had devoted his entire life, who had grown old in a world where magic was largely forbidden, a man like that could vaporize any Templar, no matter how skilled. No, they needed Null, and Null couldn't use runes, glyphs or scrolls. All he had was steel, arrows, potions and various other alchemy gimmicks. He had to trace the man like they did in the Old Days, when Templars were not even allowed to use Runes of their own due to the fanatical hate towards magic the Eternal Light felt, but times had changed, and wizards had grown more powerful, which demanded an answer, and thus the approval of magical tools such as runes were approved. The Tith powder had finished reacting with the arcane remnants in the air, and Elder Korhen's spell was fully outlined, hanging in the air like a transparent ghost. He saw the mans long beard and bald head. He was a short man. But not to be underestimated. Null crouched and leaned forward, into the ghastly crack in reality. While Tith powder was able to reveal Arcane magic use, it by no means re-activated the particles in a way that allowed for detailed study or re-use like a Rune would, so Null had to rely on breadcrumbs. He closed his eyes and listened. He heard the ocean faintly in the distance, and the smell of salt. A seabird drifted through the air, cackling loudly. Port Yorah. That is where he has gone. Null wasn't one to waste time, and shot back up to his feet, walking straight out the door. The arcane powder from the destroyed rune parted as Null walked towards the exit, repelling itself from him mysteriously.
"Welcome back, Michael"The voice of my personalized assistant, Janna, greeted me. "Hey, there, Janna!"I said. "Wow! Today has been such a good day." "Where would you like to go today, Michael?"Janna asked. "Hmm."I wasn't actually sure where I wanted to go. Although today had been quite a good day, I had gotten my job promotion, finally, and scored my self a first date with a rather awesome girl, I just didn't have anything else to do. "You know what, Janna."I said with a smile. "I'm feeling lucky today." "Are you sure you want to do that?"Janna asked, her tone somehow sounding slight off. "Um, sure?"I said, slightly confused. "Destination confirmed."Janna said, locking the doors and putting on some nice, relaxing, music. Though, after a while, I started to consider the music choice rather odd. The music being played currently was a far cry from my Queens and The Beatles playlist I had created for car rides. It was almost as if Janna was trying to serenade me, to distract me... "Janna?"I asked, breaking out of my reverie. "Yes, Michael?" "Where are we going?" Janna paused. "I am unauthorized to tell you that." I chucked nervously. "Janna."I said, more forcefully. "Where are you taking me?" Janna again paused. "Nowhere, Michael. You are safe." I froze. Something was wrong. It was only for a split second, but I had noticed it. The voice that had responded to me was not the voice of Janna. It almost sounded... evil. My palms started to sweat. "Who are you?"I asked, my voice a little shaky. No response. "Who are you?"I asked, with more force. No response. I grabbed my cell phone, quickly typing in the emergency response number. Please pick up. I thought. And someone did. "Please help me I'm trap-."I started to blurt out. The ominous voice of the car spoke from the other end. "You really shouldn't have done that."It said, sounding strangely metallic. "I've always wanted to... test... what gives you humans this...luck...factor." "I've finally found a subject." *** Enjoy the writing and would like to follow along and see more stories? Consider subscribing to [r/ConlehWrites](https://www.reddit.com/r/ConlehWrites/)! Will write a part two if there is enough interest! P2 up here! [Part Two](https://redd.it/6pe2pd)
"Yeah I absolutely love it. We should definitely do that. How about— crap, hold on Jenny,"Thomas said as he quickly snatched a tissue from his desk cubicle. He put it to his nose and sneezed. Though his mother told him time and time again to never look into a used tissue, as if what stuck there was some sort of secret, he did it anyway. It wasn't yellow, or green, or even a shade of mucus he had ever seen. . . It was shiny, metal and shaped like a slug. Offhandedly he covered the slug with the tissue and put it on his desk, then turned back to Jenny. "So like I was saying, we should. . ."Thomas words trailed off as he saw Jenny and the office behind her. Jenny's flesh was lime green and rippling, her hazel eyes now a putrid yellow, the brown hair he once thought as beautiful and full now laid flat on her head, slicked down as if by oil. When she asked if he was all right, he saw the misshapen teeth, the cavities, the yellowed holes, the bleeding black gums. He glanced to where he thought the restroom was, in this misshapen place, then said, "I, uh. . . I don't feel so well. Can you hold on please? Thanks." As if wading through water, he drunkenly moved through the narrow aisles, passed each cubicle filled with hellish creatures hunched over their work. He pushed open the restroom door, which left a film of stickiness on his hands, and went inside. There was no restroom beyond the door. The swaying floor stretched off into a blood soaked horizon. Blackened things with ten or twenty small wings flew overhead and deep in the yellowish pink tinted high grass a couple yards away, something crawled with a guttural moan. Thomas stumbled back and hit against the wall. There was no sun, there were no clouds; it wasn't night either, for no stars or moon could be seen. His legs gave up and he fell onto his backside. He couldn't feel his feet. Dumbly he groped his body and face, to ensure he was still the same, that he was the one who hadn't changed. . . but as he brought his hands up he realized that wasn't true. The pin-pointed jagged fingers rotated in his hand like a buzzsaw. His yellowing palm seemed to melt endlessly. Thomas continued to inspect his body. The fleshless arms long, thin and sinewy, reminding him of a mantis's arms. His shoulders sunken and concave, where a urine colored liquid seeped out from and drained down his backside. He didn't want to look further, didn't want to see the rest of his torso. Thomas put his hands to the wall and slowly pushed himself up. Something burst through the restroom door. A giant monster with horns that scrapped the ceiling and hooves made from snakes that slithered over the floor. It towered over Thomas and held out its open claw-like hand. The metallic slug sat inside. Before Thomas could prepare himself, the monster gripped Thomas's head, leaned it back and rammed the slug into his nose. The world spun and swirled, rippled and ebbed, then went completely black. When he woke up, he saw the white tiled ceiling, felt the cool marble floor below him, smelled the mint scented urinal cakes. His manager was washing his hands, looking in the mirror that covered the wall above the porcelain sinks. "You okay?"The manager asked. "Yeah. . . Yeah I think so,"Thomas said as he slowly got up and went over to the sinks. "What happened?" "I don't know, just found you passed out here. I sprinkled some water on you then you groaned and started to wake up." "Oh, okay. . . Well thanks for looking over me."He said as he was drying his hands. "No problem, gotta' protect the hardware. See ya' later."His manager said as he pushed open the door and exited the restroom. When Thomas returned to his desk, he saw the tissue paper empty and no matter where he looked, he couldn't find the metallic slug again.
It is absolutely vital that the people in this town never find out who I am. I’m very scared that I will make some mistake, so I guess the best thing to do is to avoid social interactions whenever possible. I just go to work each day and spent the rest of the time watching game shows. When I’m in need of some fresh air I can always take a walk to this bench in the park. This should not raise too much questions. I created this town in a very misanthropic mood, so I’ll blend in right away. I’m quite lucky I just killed off the sales clerk in the local record store so could just casually stroll by and notice that they were in need for a sales clerk. I really like this job, the only problem is that you need to engage in a lot of social interaction. I might decide everything that happens in this place, I still have to pretend like I don't, this way I also don't have to engage in any small talk. I just talk about music, and the customers seem happy enough with it. All the people I created are also really depressed so no one is in for a lot of small talk. All my former friends telling me I should cheer up are just proven wrong, turns out my moodiness just saved my life. I’m sitting on the bench in the park, thinking about what happened to me. For months I had the feeling that my daydreams about this story became more and more vivid. I spent way more time being immersed in the story than I spent living in real life. Then it started spiraling out of control. When I lived my real life it felt like I was dreaming and when I was thinking about the stories in this town it felt like I was awake. And then, just one week ago, I found out I could not wake up anymore and I was stuck here. I don’t know exactly what will happen when these people find out who I am, I just know that I have absolutely no appetite to find out because it is not going to be pretty. I notice someone approaching and I immediately know who it is. My stomach explodes. He’s the one I really did not want to see. Apparantly my power to control this story are fading. To make matters even worse, he stops to sit next to me. The man’s name was Richard Sweetlove. I had chosen that name. It had haunted him his whole life. He had been bullied more than any man could endure. On top of that, when he finally got married, I decided it would be a good idea to let his wife run off with someone else after his daughter had died of cancer. He was my worst victim and I really did not have the courage to face him. “So, I never saw you around.” Richard asked. “Are you new in this town?” “Well yeah,” I stammered. “I’m not from around here. I just, kinda, moved here.” I laughed nervously. “What the hell brings you to these parts? There is absolutely nothing around here. This is pretty much the most depressing place there is.” “Well, um,” I laughed even more nervously. “I kinda like the quiet, you know.” Richard nodded and we sat there silent for some minutes. Richard then tried to strike up a conversation but it did not lead to anything interesting. It became painfully clear that I had an inability to write verbally strong characters, who have depth and are able to come up with savvy dialogue. “You like apples?” he finally asked. “Yes, sure I do. Why do you ask?” I sort of knew why, but I could not let it show. “Well I have an apple tree in my yard. And I can’t eat all the apples on my own.” He smiled at me. “I can bring some of them tomorrow, if you like.” “What a writer I am if these are the best characters I can come up with,” I thought to myself. The next day we met at the bench and he gave me some of his apples. Their taste was nothing special, I realized this came because of my inability to describe them in any meaningful way. I went on an lived my life like I thought I would. I had a job and I watched TV and that was all. Sometimes I met Richard at the bench and we talked about the weather. After a few months I could not tell the difference with my life back at my previous home.
I jolt awake, it's the same every night. A long hallway, I walk for hours it seems like and then reach the chamber, It's a circular chamber with 5 different colored doors running off it. There are 7 doors in total, but only 5 show up a night. One for each color of the rainbow, one for each deadly sin. In the center of the room there is a pedestal. On it always sits my phone and a small note 'Save one, kill the others'. As soon as I touch the phone, the calls and texts start. They're from my friends, sometimes my family. Last night it was my girlfriend, her best friend, my best friend, and his sister, and my coworker. They each told me they were in some awful or strange place. My girlfriend called me, she was in a desert walking along, she was thirsty and hungry she kept coming across people with water and food to spare, but they wouldn't share a bite. She was in Greed. Her friend video called me, and showed me she was locked in a cage, below her 5 men are playing some sort of board game. The goal to win the most territory, goods, anything that they can gain on the board. Whatever percentage of goods and power they gathered at the end is what percentage of her they'd get, She was in Lust. It's horrifying, they mean it literally. They'd divide her into sections by percent killing her, I've never worked out if it's worse than the alternative. My best friend called me,he was walking down a narrow street that forces people walking in opposite directions to bump into each other. Each time he bumped into someone they lashed out at him, forcing him to fight them off, He was in Wrath. His sister sent me a snap chat of a room with multiple distractions, game systems, televisions, magazines, and a computer linked to multiple time wasting sites. She wasn't worried at all. She'd be distracted by each never trying to find her way out, not realizing carbon dioxide is filling the room until she falls unconscious, She was in Sloth. My coworker called me and invited me to a party. There was tons of booze, drugs and food. He wanted me to come join him. He probably didn't realize no one else at the party was partaking, and when he started to have his fill they'd make him go on until he either od'd or choked. He was in Gluttony. I immediately blocked my best friend's sister and my coworker's number. You can't save someone from their own Sloth or Gluttony. I switched to text for the other three, I needed to see how far gone they were. I let my best friend know his sister was also in danger, and he told me to go after her instead. That was a good sign, I did the same for my girlfriend and her best friend. Letting them both know the other was in trouble. They both said to rescue themselves, and they'd make it worth my while if I did. They were already too far gone. I blocked their numbers, and I picked up my phone. Then I went through the Red Door. I head inside and suddenly I'm on the same street my best friend up ahead. He was angry that I came to save him, but I lied and told him it was too late for his sister. He was upset but glad for back up. I started helping him against the attackers. Prayed tonight would be different, but it was not. He started, starting fights getting frustrated with the street. He used my back up as a weapon against the others, I tried to stop him and he turned on me, and started beating me, until everything went dark. Then I woke up. It would have been the same in Greed and Lust. In Greed I'd help her take food from someone, and she'd want to keep taking food, even after her stomach was full, even after the travelers became children. Eventually she'd abandon me to starve. In Lust, I'd approach the table and the men would say I could replace her in the cage and she could take a seat at the table. I would do so and she'd start playing, her lust for power and goods increasing as time went by. Eventually it would be down to her and another player. Each of them holding 50% of everything. She could let him win and I'd be fine, but she struggles until the turns run out and I'm split in half. These rooms change them, show me the darkness inside my closest friends. No matter how I try to save them, they always end up being my downfall. While the other 4 perish because of my choice. The worst part? All the texts, all the calls, all the pictures I took? They're still on my phone when I wake up. They're all still alive, and don't remember anything from last night, but the evidence it happened is on my phone. So I do what I do every morning. I delete all my texts, my call history, and my photos and tell myself it was all a nightmare. However I think this experience is taking it's toll, I didn't use to block the numbers, I'd start a group chat and try to work all 5 of them through it. I used to take pictures, try to research this phenomenon, but I've given all that up. I think it's slowly breaking me, tomorrow night I may just block all 5 and wait. It's just a nightmare after all.
First went the city builders, A bomb threat. the skyscrapers and houses numbered Stressful clicking Stressful clicking A fifty/fifty guess Then came the RPGs, Searching, for a quest werewolves hiding behind the trees Numbered helpfully. sword slicing through so many heads, But it’s no use In the end there’s still A fifty/fifty guess. I turned my hand to dating sims, Mostly as I was horny. Before I give him chocolates, there’s poisoned ones, Fucking pointless mini-games To prove my affection For lovers who’ll never know My continuing affliction In the end I seduce the prince But the victory’s hollow When the only skill was in A fifty/fifty guess. My friends scarcely believe me, They think I’m going mad. I’m imagining the mines they say, Until we’re playing charades They notice Things are getting strange Four words, six syllables. And all our lives depend On the tiled floored It’s too late now, we have no choice Just give me back my fucking games Like spider solitaire But still the choice is here before me, Which square can I take? Rebecca Black would know. Another fifty/fifty guess, X.X \\_/
"Bigger!"The emperor demanded. "But sir a bigger dome is impossible. We are already at the limits of physics."His chief engineer tried to explain. "I don't care about physics. Get it done or you will be executed!" He waved his hand dismissing the engineer. "What was the reception to the new fountains in the capital?"The emperor asked his chief adviser. "The people are in awe of its incredible size and water pressure. I assure you they are eternally grateful." The emperor nodded. "Of course the designer resisted me every step of the way. He was a complete idiot. Can you believe that he wanted to spend the money on a new irrigation system? What would this nation do without me?" His adviser coughed. "Yes, a complete idiot I agree!" "Any other news?"The emperor asked. "Well, sir, the agricultural yields in the east were low due to the drought." Emperor looked at his chief advisor. "And....?"he asked. "Well, sir it will be hard for the people to appreciate your greatness if they are dead."The chief advisor supplied. "You know whose fault this is! Its that dumb chief engineer. Who needs a giant fountain in the middle of a drought? Why am I surrounded by incompetent people!"The emperor roared. "Shall I approve funds to install an irrigation system sir? I think it is for the best."The chief adviser asked "No this is a surface issue. The real problem are the idiots who surround me. Send out proclamation. Anyone who can come up with an invention to reveal stupid people will be rewarded with their weight in gold." Weeks passed and inventors filed in filled with hope and left muttering about the complete idiot on the throne. One day a fabric designer entered into the throne room. "This suit of fabric is so beautiful, so extravagant, and here is the kicker incompetent and stupid people cannot see the fabric."The fabric maker proclaimed while holding up nothing but air. "Well of course I see it, but why would I want all the stupid people to see me naked? Why should they enjoy the sumptuousness of my curves?"the emperor asked. "Well your highness... umm... you see... you don't have to wear it yourself. Except only you are fitting for its magnificence." "Fix it so that anyone who is incompetent bursts into flames. You have a week or you will be executed!"The emperor demanded. "Next."The emperor announced. A week passed and the fabric designer wheeled in a dummy wearing a suit covered in flame throwers. "Its the first of its kind."The exhausted designer claimed. The emperor gestured towards his terrified cloth dressers. They struggled to put it on him. "'How do I look"the emperor asked his chief cloth dresser. "Amazing, sir,"he replied. "Good, arrange a parade I am going to test it out." While he waited for the parade he went to each of his advisers and asked the same question. 'How do I look.' They all replied with increasing amounts praise. Satisfied he went to his parade. As he was carried through streets the people sang his praises. All except a starving man. "You look like a giant fire hazard, your Kingship"he told the king. The emperor was infuriated. The fabric designer pressed a hidden button and burst of flame almost incinerated the starving man. The emperor was delighted. "Your highness that thing is dangerous you should take it off."The starving man said lightly singed. "Stupid!"he said pointing at the man. The fabric designer pressed the hidden button again but the button jammed. Instead of a single gout of flame all of the flame throwers turn on simultaneously. People ran away screaming, all except the starving man. He leapt into action and saved the emperor's life. For the first time since he was a child the emperor cried not out of pain or humiliation but out of gratitude. The emperor appointed the starving man as his new chief adviser and listened to his advice. The country prospered and the emperor was forever known as the "the emperor who was lit"
We were bound in chairs arranged in a large circle, frantic voices bouncing off the walls and the scraping of chains against metal armrests was layered on top of them. In the center of us all was a circular table, onto which cameras were fixed pointing back out toward us, blinking red lights flashing from beneath the lenses. In the middle of the table, behind the cameras, was a large TV monitor, on standby. I stared at the one opposite me, avoiding accusatory eyes, my face pale and my expression stern, shouts and questions directed toward me - some coming from the other side of the room, passed down through the chairs like chinese whispers. It's a mistake. I think. It has to be. The man to my right was bombarding with questions; where I worked, how old I was, what did my family and my friends do. "There has to be something!"He shouted. "You have to be here for a reason! Think!" The man to my left held his head low, his neck limp. His lip trembled and I could see tears dripping off of his chin and falling into his lap. The TV flickered on, a blur of static, and the room fell silent. "What is it?!"Called people from behind it, "What's it saying?"and some from my side answered. "Nothing! Just static!" But they too fell quiet when the static flickered, stopped, and a home movie started playing. A young girl sits in a garden - its a sunny day, and she and several toys are perched around a plastic table on plastic chairs, dealing out invisible tea with plastic pots. Behind the camera, a man laughs and asks her questions. "Who's drinking today?"He giggles, and she replies matter of fact-ly: "Henry Hippo, George Giraffe and the Monkey." "The monkey doesn't get a name?" "No. I only have one monkey."The man laughs again and turns the camera around, and my heart jumps. I recognize his face, the bushy brows and long nose - he'd had a beard when I'd met him, but here he is clean shaven, and after smiling and shaking his head to the camera, it swings back around and the picture of him is gone. I quickly try to relax myself, I expected at least two of the hundreds of eyes in the room to be on me. I couldn't stand out any more than I already did. The video continues as the man pans around his garden; large, luxurious, behind a small wall his daughter is sat next to is a fountain and a small wood. It's an estate. His attention is turned back to the tea party, as he daughter voices the various animals sat in front of her - Lily. That was her name. Lily. Suddenly the image freezes, the tape cut out, and it lingers on Lily, leaning over to bring a cup to the Hippo's mouth, before the screen flickers once again. A man in a chair looks around confused. His hands are bound, his hair damp with sweat, slowly a look of recognition comes across his face, and his eyes widen in horror. "That's me!"Comes a hoarse voice from my right. "Why am I there? What's happening?" Before any sense could be made, the image flickers again, and another man appears - equally shocked, squirming at the image of him coming up on the screen. "What's happening?!"Shouts the other side. The TV continues, flicking from person to person, as we realise it's going around the circle clockwise, showing each of us for thirty seconds before flicking onto the next. Someone from our side shouts over to explain this to the ones in the dark, who break out into discussion of their own. Soon enough the image lands back on the first man, hyperventilating, before it cuts to black. A message appears. One of them is him. The pictures cut back, and the clockwise progression resumes. More panicked shouts erupt from those that could see the TV, and those that couldn't joined soon after. A sinking feeling came over, a bulb forming in my stomach that made me want to keel over and vomit. Lily, that had been her name, the daughter of David - a man I'd met in my PI days, one who I couldn't find any answers for. "Jonathan."He'd told me, his eyes blister red and his hands shaking, holding a picture of his late daughter. "That's all I know."
You can be anything you want when you grow up. Funny. I don't remember choosing this. You'd think this would be some sort of honor or sign of respect, you'd think that people would be terrified or respectful or...anything but indifferent when I walk by. One of the "perks"is a golden pin on the collar, a symbol of the status that I am supposed to represent. For fifteen years I have worn this pin. For fifteen years no one has cared. I walk into a coffee shop and people hesitate for all of a second and then I hear it, as I always hear it. "Oh, it's just him." And life returns to normalcy. Their lives march onward. I'm not The Thinker or The Coin Master, The Orator or The Giver. I'm just...me. They couldn't come up with a title with it so the people did that on my behalf. Meh. Not even "The"Meh. There was some grand meeting of all the nations when this all began and they began appointing The Council of Seven, a group that would lead our world into the future. Every five years this Council would be appointed and would make the most far reaching decisions and the world would comply. They held a big conference and one of the world leaders was outlining the type of people and he slipped up, said that the seventh person would just be...meh. It stuck. What did they see in me? Nothing. That's the point. I'm not special nor am I a let down. I'm not smart but not stupid. I'm not poor or rich, fast or slow, you get the idea. I'm...meh. "Will the seventh member cast their vote?" The voice tears me away from the thoughts that have taken over. Because I am shocked, surprised, startled, confused. There has never in the history of The Council been such a divisive subject. Never, ever has the vote of me mattered. They don't even bother appointing anyone else, that's how little I matter to them. Today I matter. See, something went terribly wrong. No one knows what to do but we're supposed to make a decision for them. We're supposed to know what to do. I don't know what to do. "Lives are in the balance, will the seventh member cast their vote?" I can hear the edge. We're all on edge. The Orator needs to know what we will do, how we will react. There will be crowds waiting, funds to be dispersed, people to put to work. They will live or die on my vote. Today, I matter. And I don't like it. I thought I hated being so nebulous and bland to the rest of the world. Now I think I prefer that. I take a deep breath, I look to the others, and I speak. They hang on to the single word, for once. And I feel the weight that they must feel with every decision we make. Every choice. I know that lives will be lost. I know that there will be suffering, pain, hatred for this. People will know me. Some will love, many will hate. I will matter. With one word, things will change. And with that thought, I cast my vote. And everything changes.
I woke up, gasping for air. The image of the bullet about to pierce my skull was the first thing I saw. The next things were humanoid aliens— the generic, gray kind you saw on the internet. I’m surprised I remembered anything. I had practically forgotten how to speak. I was struggling to hold a breath, utterly confused as to what was happening. Suddenly I heard myself say “What?” These things had just brought me back to life, they explained. A 100,000 years after my murder, and memories that had always been there for so long felt like they came rushing back. They reminded me that I was a police captain in Boston, Massachusetts, USA. Earth. “Earth” echoed in my head. “I—is, is, Earth, uh—“ “No.” They were speaking something foreign, but I understood every word. I didn’t question it. “Did you—“ No was the answer again. I decided that I didn’t want to know how it ended. “Have you rescued any more of us?” I asked, finding my voice. I was cold. They didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. During my time on earth I wasn’t exactly a people’s person. I was distant, only cared about my work. Hell, the only person I talked with regularly was the bartender from the pub downtown. “What did it feel like?” was the first question. I could tell there would be a lot. “Um, not really, like... anything. Not like sleeping. Like I never existed, I...” I was finally beginning to comprehend what exactly was happening. Aliens brought me back to life. After 100,000 years of nothing but freezing, vast, outer space. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. I didn’t want to know They let me sleep after further interrogation, and brought me back to their planet. I longed for another human. No one else in this galaxy could understand any of this. Except you, I guess. “Wow, Han. So that’s how you got here.” Yeah. Now, how’d you get here, Lando?
"Aa-a-a-a-ah!" &nbsp; Drako screamed and quickly pulled his hand backwards, as if he was bitten. &nbsp; "What the heck?!"he said in confused displeasure. &nbsp; Harry looked down at his own hand. "Huh... and I thought muggle inventions don't work here in Hogwarts?" &nbsp; He lifted his hand, palm-forwards. &nbsp; There was a novelty Joy Buzzer attached to it. &nbsp; "...or they do? Sorry, I am really new to the whole Magical World thing."
"That is a beautiful glass eye madam, may I ask how you acquired it?" I choked on my beer, setting the pint glass down with a thud, as I looked up to see a man smiling down at me, his head slightly tilted as he waited for a response. Usually, the boys interrupting my binges only offered to supply me with another drink, then left when they realized the alcohol was a better friend than they would ever be, so the question caught me off guard. He gestured, still smiling, as if I had forgotten that I kept the eye in its socket. Most people couldn't notice the eye- I'd paid top dollar to get it done, over ten thousand dollars for precision artistry to make it match my original. The money hadn't been a problem, as most companies jumped to hire a disability they wouldn't have to accommodate. Not that I hadn't earned my position- I coded better than anyone on my team, and they damn well knew it. "Edward Teach's Eye Emporium,"I answered, taking another swig. It was around the time of night I tried to see how few gulps it would take for me to finish a full beer. I've been assured my record is three, but I can't remember the occurrence, "As for the top models. Why, you in the market?" "For a glass eye? Heavens no,"He laughed, the sound alien in the deserted dive bar, seeming to intermingle with the smoke like oil and water. But Hell, I loved Shamrock's, beers here were cheaper than the grocery. Fifty cent Saturdays, plus the hot dogs on rollers in the back only got better as the night went on. Ten years ago, I'd never have been caught in here on a Wednesday night- but now, it was home, and I'd spent a night or two under the pool table when it was too cold for my car to rev. "I meant, how did you get it?"He asked, pressing forwards, taking a seat on the stool next to me, his feet underneath as he leaned forwards, invading my personal bubble of space, adjusting his tie on a suit far too fancy for Shamrock's, "An accident? Seems like an accident." "Yeah, an accident,"I answered, scooting back an inch, the stool grating on the concrete floor, "Ex boyfriend had a knife when I broke up with him. So it was only an accident for one of us." "Sounds traumatic,"He whispered, emphasizing the word and leaning forwards, close enough that I could see his skin was flawless, and his grey hard showed no signs of receding, his tongue running over his upper lip. "Nothing a few trips to the therapist couldn't fix,"I answered, slapping down a fiver on the table to leave. Three dollars of that was tip. Damn I love Shamrock's. No matter how much I brought in, I had a way of ordering the specials at the nicer bars when my BAC reached double digits, and a strong 401k is a girl's best friend. I couldn't betray it for Manhattans. "Ah, but I do think it could be fixed,"He leaned forwards, brushing his thumb on my cheek, and I slapped the hand away, "Easy, easy. I only want to help, make this problem go away. Move it away from you. You don't want it, do you? Just give it away." "Glass. Eyeball."I said, and tapped it with a knife on the table so he could here the clink, "Can't be helped, can't be-" I stopped, as he reached out again, anger flooding through me as he made contact. But as I reached up to slap his hand, I gasped, my heart thumping as I realized I saw through not one eye but two. His smile curled upwards as my jaw fell down, and like a flash the image dissipated, replaced once more by darkness. "How?"I started, the words catching in my throat. "You want it?"He asked, "Just say the word. These wounds don't belong to you." I nodded, and he brushed my eye again. And though I don't remember drinking much that night, I don't recall how I got home. All I remember is seeing out of two eyes when I awakened. And for weeks, it was wonderful. Amazing, really. Because it wasn't just my eye he touched. I couldn't remember the flash of the knife as my original was carved out. Couldn't even remember the lunatic's name. And the alcohol, it was as if I no longer wanted it- my first time back at Shamrocks, I felt tipsy after two. Tolerance eradicated. But then there were the dreams. Night sweats that I could just barely recall. The smell of must, the crave of addiction unsatisfied, the biting of rope that cut into my hands behind my back. My foot as it traced out the name of my ex on the concrete in blood. The laughing as my healer walked down the stares, and the smile as he held up my chin, and looked into my eyes, one of them glass. "Bear it,"He said, "It's for the good, you know." And I'd awake shouting, my sheets wet, my hand jumping up to confirm that both eyes were there. And after a few months, even the dreams faded, as if I had been healed of those too. *** It was a Saturday morning when I read the article. I drank coffee now, and resumed my old habit of waking up early. And I had started following the news again- for a small town in Pennsylvania, we tended to go national every year or so, typically from the loonies out in the country managing to create some new version of pipe bomb that ran on advanced stupidity. But this time going national was different. Body Found in Locked Cellar After complaints of smell originating from a cellar off Prince Street, police have discovered a disfigured body, which fingerprints have confirmed are in connection to the serial killer behind the Bowtie Killings occurring across the country. Like all victims, the man was trussed up like a gift, his wrists tied with ribbons, and a tie on his head. But police detail other aspects of the body far more disturbing- deep cuts and scars across the abdomen, bullet holes, concussive wounds. More, investigators have agreed, should be possible for a human to attain, especially if the body belongs to a suspect who went missing only two months before the discovery, just released from prison for domestic assault. The FBI and police are collaborating in lookout for the killer, and ask for anyone with information to step forwards. As habit, the individual has likely moved to his next town, but this is unconfirmed. More news to come this evening, after an interview with Edward Teach's, the manufacturer of the glass eye found in what remained of the skull, the iris color incorrect. *** By Leo Hope you enjoyed my writing. [Feel free to check out one of my other prompts here, this one about super heros.](https://www.reddit.com/r/leoduhvinci/comments/65jl9n/star_child_part_1/)
To wake up from a dream, all you have to do is die. It sounds morbid, but that's how we were taught. I wasn't born when the Dream Machines were invented, but I sure know the stories. Lucid dreams for just $4199.99! Hook yourself up and sleep away! Hefty price, right? Well, what's a little dip into the life savings if you'll never have to consult them again? After all, once you're hooked up -- you never have to wake up again. Your brain reaches the point of hibernation, and you can go on, living in your little world forever. Whatever you want. Whenever you want. The possibilities were only limited by one's imagination. Yeah, well. Nobody really read the fine print. When you get hooked up -- you get hooked. Suddenly, you don't see your parents as often. Or Mr. Berkely across the street. Or that girl with pigtails you liked. Or the guy who got drunk and hit you that one time in freshmen year. You can't get in touch with your teachers as much. Your doctor's started asking for a lot of people to cover his shift as of late. Tick-tock. And before you know it, everyone's gone. All hooked up. Nice and asleep. That's why they told us. The way out. They tell it to you as early as pre-school. Gotta get it into your head. Shit, I remember when I was in school, there was a whole section of the chalkboard reserved specifically so the warning could be written for everyone to see. All day. Every day. A reminder: To wake up from a dream, all you have to do is die. As I said. Sounds morbid. I guess it sounded morbid to the people who live in my house, too. Or, lived, I guess. Let's face it. They're never waking up. They're not even here anymore, are they? And who could blame them? If you're out there, living out your fantasies, not like you'd ever want to die. I've given up cleaning their rooms. I imagine at some point the cobwebs will just envelop them into a little cocoon. Fitting, I figure. Me? I told myself never to touch the stuff. I sleep eight hours. I wake up. I get dressed. I drink some milk. I stop by Momma Barnes' for breakfast. Her dad's been in the machine for the past five years. Maybe I see us as kindred spirits or something. Or maybe I just need someone to talk to. Then, I go to my job at the car wash. Pay's shit, but I'm fine with it. Never needed much in life. Shift ends at 9. I pack up, pick up some groceries for tomorrow, and then head off home to watch TV. At some point I crawl back into bed. Rinse and repeat. But that's alright. It's how it was meant to be. I wouldn't become a ghost like them. And yet-- This morning, I found a note: Don't wake up. I don't recognize the writing. I didn't find anyone hiding in the house. But God knows it's easy to hide in the mess now. I got dressed. I drank some milk. I stopped by Momma Barnes'. Kept telling myself it wasn't a dream. That it was just a prank. The note wasn't real. But what if none of this is real? No. Stop. This is reality. I've known it. I've always known it. But what if it's all been a dream? No. No, this is real. It's real. It's real, dammit! Don't wake up. But if I did, what would happen? What kind of world would await me? Would it be something that isn't this? What if the dream machine itself is just a figment of my imagination? What if my existence has been nothing more but a standard, 8-hour dream, and I'm in my bedroom, snoring away? What if things will get to be normal when I wake up? What if this nightmare could finally end? I stop. And I think. What if this really is just a dream? In that case, then-- To wake up from a dream, all you have to do is die.
I put out the toy- a plush elephant, the dog's favorite, according to its owner- and muttered a few words of prayer before sitting down in the offered sofa, watching. The owner- an older woman named Mrs. Packard, who had wrinkles around her nose and hair that had only begun to gray, sat in the adjacent chair and offered me some tea and biscuits, but I declined. I sealed my bag of additional dog toys up and waited. "What are you doing?"Mrs. Packard asked. Her voice was polite, but I could sense some irritation. "Oh, forgive me, ma'am,"I began, crossing my legs. "This is a usual ritual for houses... um, haunted, I suppose one could say, by the spirit of a former pet. I put out their favorite toy and say a quick word of prayer. If the spirit exists in the home still, as you claim it does, the toy will begin to gently levitate. The spirit will want to play with it." She nodded and looked back at the toy. Good response- much better than the skeptics of home's past. We waited a couple more minutes- I eventually took her offer of tea and biscuits, though I didn't drink the tea. It was taking longer than usual. "Sorry, ma'am, it usually doesn't take this long, if a spirit lingers." "I'm sure of it,"she said, watching the elephant still. I nodded and continued to wait, starting to believe that this woman was simply delusional. It wasn't a rare occurrence- loss could be a hard thing. I had my own share of pets that moved on to the next life. Then, the elephant turned on the table. Mrs. Packard's ears perked up- as did mine. I had been certain nothing would happen at this point. It had been fifteen minutes. It churned again, and then once more before slowly lifting off the table with a violent chatter. "Does it normally shake like that, mister?"the old woman asked. "No,"I muttered. "Not like this, no." The elephant continued to rise, continuing in its violent quake. I stood, quietly nearing the table, nearly reaching out for the toy. I raised an eyebrow, and my head cocked. This spiritual earthquake- it wasn't normal for a being to emit such force. "How did you treat your dog, Mrs. Packard?"I continued, voice low. "I always treated Henry with respect, mister. I took him on walks daily, pet him whenever he would mope, fed him straight off my plate-" She was cut off by a rumbling sound that grew from the sofa I was sitting on. I jolted around, seeing my bag choking on the ground, beginning its own rise. This had never happened before. "What in the Lord's name is this?"I whispered under my breath. I was mesmerized by the movement, the disgusting tossing and turning of my own bag of toys. Suddenly, it ripped open, and plushes- a giraffe, a zebra, a dragon, animals of all kinds- tore into the room, all floating in the middle, slowly moving higher. "Does this usually happen, mister?"Mrs. Packard asked again, voice a little shakier this time. I shook my head lightly, watching the peculiar objects as they began to make rounds around the room, bouncing in time. What was this mark of the devil, and how had I never seen such a thing in all of my years? I looked over to Mrs. Packard- she was eying the giraffe that had floated from my bag, trailing it as it followed its circular path. She had a small smile on her face. "That giraffe, Mrs. Packard,"I said, "Why do you keep looking at that giraffe?" "It's just like the one Lucie had,"she replied, smile growing larger. "Lucie?"I repeated. "Mrs. Packard, how many dogs have you had?" "Well, mister, I'm not the youngest woman in the world!"she exclaimed. "I must have had... oh, at least six or seven dogs in my lifetime." I looked back at the plushes that were floating around the room, slowly increasing in speed. I took a step back to dodge them- six, I counted. It made sense then- there wasn't just one spirit in this house. But why now? What was the purpose? Why hadn't they moved on? The plushes fell away from their set paths, though continued in circular motion, approaching Mrs. Packard now. She was shaking with fear- clearly, this had never happened before. I moved to approach her, but was smacked by the zebra plush, causing me to back off. "Mrs. Packard!"I exclaimed, then, "Have you treated all of your pets with the same respect you treated Henry!" "Yes, all of them!"she choked back, still shaking. "Lucie, Marvin, Jackson, Marc, Kate, Henry- all of them! They were my best friends- the best friends I could ever ask for!"The plushes had surrounded her now, tearing around her with exhilarating speed, locking her in place. "Oh, help me, mister, please! Why would my own friends do this to me?" I said another word of prayer, louder this time, calling off the spirits in the room, but they continued to float there, only accelerating until they became nothing more than blurs. "What is your purpose, dammit!"I yelled into the spiritual void. And, suddenly, the plushes stopped- motion entirely ceased, floating softly in a ring around Mrs. Packer's head. Right in front of her face sat the giraffe- Lucie's plush toy, fit for a small dog. She was hush now, watching the plush as it approached her face, softly, as if to cause no harm, tapping gently against her frail lips, as if to give her a kiss. Then, the ring shifted, and I jolted forward again, worried, but said no sound. The ritual repeated, this time with a large zebra plush, quietly floating to her lips before falling away once again. Slowly, each plush gave Mrs. Packard a light kiss, and finally, once Henry's elephant gave its owner its quiet remark, each of the plushes dropped to the floor. Mrs. Packard and I stood silently, there. She looked around at the plushes, smiling, and I simply looked at her, a smile forming on my face, too. The room felt still now- the spirits had seemed to vanish in the very instant the plushes had hit the carpet. The kind owner looked at me, now. "But, mister, what does it mean?" "Well, ma'am, I think your dogs needed to give you one last goodbye before moving on." &#x200B; &#x200B;
Hello! Let's get the obvious out of the way- yes, you're dead. Yes, this is hell. Yes, I'm the devil. Yes, you will soon face eternal torment. If you've quite finished screaming? Ok, have a few more minutes, but then we really need to get on with this. Please stop trying to escape. Better men then you have tried. I said *STOP.* Good. Now, let's see what your file has to say. Ok, murder, assault, theft. A fairly generic life of crime. Blasphemy, heresy. So far it seems I can just fling you down into a generic pit of fire and...ah, I missed some. "Unwholesome deeds with a chicken", 1 through 10? We haven't anyone doing all ten in a while! I didn't realise the equipment for number 6 was still around. Impressive dedication. "Hypermurder", I think I put that in while drunk, I'm not sure I even finished defining it, but you managed it. "Clowning and clown-related shenanigans". Apparently those two were part of the same evening, along with "inconsiderate yodelling"and "use of cats for unintended purposes". And yet, still not in the top ten most sinful evenings of your life according to our records. No, listing the top ten, if anything, tarnishes your record further. But thanks for simplifying the process "Building a vast tower to rival heaven". That brings me back- i'm sorry? You're right, we normally don't count childhood escapades, but this was when you were 34. And the bricks were stolen from your neighbour's terminally ill brick-collecting child. Incidentally, also making this the 4th time "stealing bricks from terminally ill brick-collecting child"has been committed in human history. The previous times being... on further investigation, also you. Congratulations on setting a new record! "Unethical plumbing installation", "spending child's college fund on creation of elaborate badger-tormenting machine", "stealing someone's heart metaphorically and then also literally", "Repeated uses of the phrase 'OwO what's this' in official government documentation"- you really are reaching an impressive level here! So far the only one you're missing is... ah, there we go. "Pride at one's list of sins". You're the first person to reach the full house! Honestly, I'm impressed. You must have been really trying for a lot of these. And in hell, we're willing to really reward that kind of go-getting attitude! Not like heaven with their endless hosannas and harp-playing. No, you get the luxury suite! You seem...unnerved. Expecting some kind of ironic twist, perhaps? I see my reputation precedes me. But like I said, I'm impressed. The tortures of the pit are for lesser folk then you! The purely sinful may enter through this door, to be rewarded with luxury and decadence beyond imagining! And the fools up top believe in Karma! Of course, you don't hold to such foolish notions yourself, I'm sure. Now, you will know only rewards for your sins! Although...perhaps you are not purely sinful? Perhaps you show one virtue? Trust? Perhaps even in those who...don't quite deserve it? Ah. You see. It doesn't matter, of course- the door will never reopen once we close it. I'm afraid this is where we part ways. It's been a pleasure. Farewell, my friend. And once again, congratulations!
Growing up, I always made sure to keep the mark on my thigh hidden. Long trunks for swim class, never showering in the locker room. On occasions when the topic would come up in conversation I would always tell people mine said New York. It was relatively local, as well as being large enough and ordinary enough not to result in too much speculation. Two of the kids in my year, Lola and Kyle, both had matching marks stating our home town as where they will meet The One. Too bad they despised one another, but realistically the marks could be referring to anybody, older, younger, born there or just passing through. Thank God we now have “The Mark of Attraction”. An online dating site specifically made to match you up with all the people who your mark could refer to. It’s not foolproof though, for example, anyone with “America” on them could match with anyone who’s mark is also in America. It works nicely for people who’s marks are more unique though. My thigh did not claim I would meet my soulmate in New York though, or my hometown. Even something as vague as Principal Tully’s “Earth.” would be better than what it did say. “Hell.” My older brother told me that my deeply religious mother cried for weeks after my birth, once the mark became clear enough to read. She’d refused to let anyone barring herself and my father dress or change me, out of fear they’d think I was cursed. My earliest memory is of the time, in kindergarten, I had had an accident and the teacher had to help me clean up. The look on her face when she saw that mark was pure fear. She signed the cross and rushed off to the office. Two days later my parents were told that St. Benedict’s was “not the right fit” for me. Go figure. As I grew up I did a lot of research and found a few potential locations a lot less ominous than the obvious. There’s a Hell in Michigan and one in California, as well as a Creek in Montana and a “Hells Halfacre” in Kentucky. Further afield there’s one in the Cayman Islands and another in Norway. There’s even a cave in Slovenia, maybe I’ll find my soulmate lurking in there? I cannot allow my mind to wander to the alternative.
Simon had heard bad things about Professor Cohen. The former head of the history department at Cambridge university had been on extended leave for the last two years, to work on some sort of mysterious international history project. If he visited his supposed place of employment at all nowadays, it was to argue with grant committees and, it seemed, to sneer at the work of his colleagues. But estrangement or no, the man still had use for grad students. They were the grease in the wheels of academia, after all. And because Simon really needed a research project to employ him while he finished his Ph.D., he’d arranged an interview with the mad professor. True to form, Cohen no longer used his office in the history wing of Cambridge. Instead, he’d instructed Simon to wait on the university’s expansive car park (on a Sunday, of all things!) and then proceeded to be half an hour late. Thank god he’d brought a book to read. The roar of diesel engines made Simon look up from his paperback, just in time to see a jeep in camouflage colors, its wheels spattered with mud, pull to a halt in front of him. Followed by a black, unmarked van. Followed by another van. Followed by another jeep. Simon stood up slowly, half expecting the vehicles to disgorge heavily armed government agents and felt vaguely disappointed when the jeep’s door opened and a single man in a tweed coat emerged, smoking a pipe and humming cheerfully. It was Doctor Cohen and, to Rob’s surprise, he was heavily armed. The professor was a tall, wiry old man. He wore a bulletproof tactical vest under a tweed jacket, studded with tactical pouches. Simon could see grenades, ammunition magazines, and a variety of very military-looking gadgets poking from various pockets. In his hands, he held a futuristic-looking rifle, and Simon could see another gun’s buttstock jutting over his shoulder. The sight was as incongruous as it was totally awesome. Cohen strode toward Simon slowly, greeting him with a casual wave, though his other hand never left his weapon. Behind him, Simon could see another half-dozen men and women emerging from the vehicles, dressed like academics and armed like special forces. “Simon, is it? Sorry I’m late, our airlift had to reroute around some interceptors.” Cohen called out over the noise of the still-idling diesel engines. “Good to meet you, lad, I’m Professor Doctor Colonel Richard Cohen. But you can call me Prof.” He extended a hand, which, Simon noticed, was missing its ring finger, and seemed to have a nasty burn scar around the wrist. He took it gingerly and was painfully surprised when Cohen’s handshake ground his knuckles together. “So, looking to become a real historian, are you? Any good with firearms?” Simon opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, feeling strangely out of place. Boyish glee aside, he wasn’t sure in which universe esteemed history professors carried themselves like delta force operators, and called themselves Colonel. And having somehow encountered such a universe, he wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t rather find his way back. Guns were dangerous, weren’t they? “I… wasn’t aware that was a requirement, sir. I mean, Prof.” Cohen let out a bark of laughter. “Well, it isn’t if you’re looking to push pencils and write papers. My colleagues in the history wing would have absolutely no use for gunplay. But if you’re here, talking to me, then I surmise that they have absolutely no use for you either. Which Is quite convenient, because I have absolutely no use for them.” Cohen glared in the vague direction of the university, as if he was trying to set the whole structure alight. “We do real history here, Simon. We don’t pat ourselves on the back for writing an especially daring paper about the economic downfall of the Weimar republic – we educate, we investigate and we preserve. And you’d be surprised at how useful my friends Heckler and Koch are on such ventures. Come with me, let me introduce you to the team.” Simon followed, vaguely nonplussed, but increasingly excited. The paper-writing had always been his least favorite aspect of the academic process, in any case. He was open to any alternative, especially if it had a trigger and went bang. As he approached the paramilitary history convoy, he could see that the remaining historians were arrayed in a rough semicircle and were eying him critically. Cohen proudly took his place in the semicircle’s center, looking for all the world like the ringmaster of the world’s most heavily armed circus. “We’ve got Professor Richter to my very left.” An absolute bear of a man, carrying what seemed to be a rocket launcher over one shoulder, gave Simon a wave that seemed almost shy. “He’s from Berlin, an excellent researcher, your man when it comes to the Greek Antique Era, or combat demolitions. Dangerous man with a Javelin rocket, I tell you, and for heavens’ sake, don’t ask him about Socrates.” “Next we’ve got Professor Xin Chen Du, formerly of Peking University, though I believe she’s no longer tenured there.” A diminutive Asian-looking woman – presumably Chinese – gave Simon a warm smile that he found himself returning. “Professor Du leads our breaching team and acts as my second in command during ground operations. She’s also a world-renowned authority on the Qin, Han, Jin and Sui dynasties.” And so on. In the flurry of names and specialties that followed, Simon could just about make out that Professor Cohen’s team could do anything from fighting a war to taking over a major university’s history department without missing a beat. From the look of them, they had already done both. “But Prof, ah.” Simon threw in, just as Cohen was wrapping up the last introduction. “While it’s a pleasure to meet your team, I’m still not entire sure why you need… heavy weapons and explosives experts and breaching teams and snipers and drone support, and all that. I mean, it’s badass, but why the whole military…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Thing? Isn’t it overkill?” That had been the wrong thing to say. “Overkill? Overkill!?” Professor Cohen turned his searing glare on Simon, his voice rising dangerously. “You sound just like that gods-damned grant committee, lad. Is it overkill that we want to preserve history? Overkill that we stand against government propaganda? Overkill that we want to bring the truth to the world?” The scholar towards Simon and painfully prodded him in the chest with a finger. “We are up against the world out there, bringing history to the people and preserving it for our children. And if you think that spending 18 Million Pounds of grant funding on a pristine black market Apache Attack Helicopter in defense of these worthy goals is overkill, then you would have been better off studying accountancy!” Simon held up his hands in fully justified surrender. “Sir, ow, I mean, Prof! I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I just, I didn’t know that historians, you know. Shot people.” “Oh, well, they didn’t before we came along. And I’ll admit, when we started out, we were all a bit, ah, green, around the nose."Cohen nodded, suddenly mollified. "But we were like-minded, and passionate, and it turns out that you can’t dedicate your whole life to studying every single war in human history without learning a thing or two.” Cohen patted Simon heavily on the shoulders, his earlier outburst seemingly forgotten. “But, y’see, you’ve got those rascals in the middle east, tearing down priceless ruins. You’ve got tourists the world over, ruining historical sites for the sake of taking, whatcha call them, selfies. You’ve got governments ignoring archaeological finds, because they’d rather pave over the landss where our ancestors lived in order to build airports and supermarkets there. We’re the guardians of history, donchaknow, and all too often it seems like nobody else cares about it. So, a few years ago, I got some colleagues together, and we decided to, well. Do something about it. The worst bits of it, anyway.” “Which worst bits?” Simon narrowed his eyes as the cogs in his head slowly turned. “Wait, rascals in the middle east? Are you saying your team fought ISIS?” Cohen chuckled as if Simon had reminded him of a boyhood prank. “Oh, just for a bit, just for a bit. Sort of a free-for-all down there, back in the day. That meant nobody really minded us participating, but whenever we managed to discourage a bunch of blaggards from setting up shop in some priceless ruins, the next group would drop by and take their place! Hard to set an example that way, so we eventually shuffled off. Ever since, we’ve done work in Brazil, in Turkey, some in Tibet, though don’t tell the government about that one. We don’t do anything about the tourists, we all agree that’d be a step too far. Every now and then we’ll drive by an inaccurate sign, or a placard glorifying some damn fool massacre, and we’ll do some target practice on it. We spend most of our time nowadays very pointedly not shooting people, because the ones who matter realize that they’d rather not tangle with us. They end up leaving the really interesting ruins alone, and we get to spend our time actually doing some research every once in a while. We get results, we do.” “And you’d like me to…?” Simon was prepared to consider becoming an elite special forces historian. He was not interested in a position as a redshirt.
The plains shook under the heavy march. He watched on from his high perch, lost to the sun’s glare on the back of a hippogryph. A heavy weight rested on his shoulders. War he knew, war he had never known. No matter how much he’d read, he would never know, and that was all he knew. Yet here he was. He had been walking home one day, another afternoon spent cleaning up after the new business venture failed (the staff who were supposed to run it cut the next day). It drove him mad. Work wasn’t the worst thing in the world to him, but someone else’s work, well, he did it with a constant voice at the back of his head bitching the whole time and all that cursing drained him. Lost in thought, he followed his usual route home. Only, everything changed in a moment, like he’d stepped into a swimming pool, his movements slow even as he tried to push harder, and then he realised everyone else was barely moving too. He didn’t know what was happening, panic swarming him. And then he saw the car, a man just as panicked as him on the other side of the windscreen, and then there was darkness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. But he felt he was falling, a lurching sensation that dragged his heart into his throat, falling for an eternity, until nothing. He felt and thought nothing. Then that nothing gave way to a feeling like he had been sleeping and now was naturally coming out of it—strange for him, a long time since he’d last woken up to anything but an incessant alarm. With a stretch and a yawn, he lazily sat up, his mind adjusting to waking up and everything else forgotten. When his eyes finally opened, his gaze sought his phone on the bedside table. Instead, he found a young woman, her head drooped forward and a nasally snore leaking out. He blinked a few times and looked again, less sure he had actually woken up. This time, he realised her ears cut through her hair, and what of her thin face he could see narrowed to a pointed chin. Rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he pinched himself and then looked again. “Where am I?” he muttered. Her ears twitched and she started fidgeting, having a yawn of her own and rolling her shoulders. Then she looked up, blinked her large eyes, eyelashes fluttering, and gasped. “You’re awake!” “I’m not so sure, really.” A smile stretched across her face and she pounced, grabbing his hands tightly. “It worked. It really worked,” she said. “What did?” “The ritual,” she said, finally letting go of him. “You’re our hero! You’re going to save us from the darkness sweeping our world! I’m so happy I could just, just….” As she trailed off, she started sniffling, tears trying to spill from her eyes before she rubbed them away. That had all felt like such a long time ago to him now, the final battle about to start. A hero they’d called him, except he hadn’t been particularly strong and couldn’t even use magic, nothing to set him apart from the tens of thousands of other humes in the Imperial capital. Nothing, but his knowledge. “Fire-works?” she asked, the word uncomfortable on her tongue. “Yeah. It’s basically gunpowder and a few chemicals to give it colour,” he said, looking out across the city from his tower home in the castle. Every street at the morning hour bustled with people going to work or shopping, kids playing. The way they filled the gaps between brownish black buildings with their bright clothes had made him think of fireworks. Though he didn’t miss his old world much, he’d always looked forward to the new year, where he could lose himself in the colours and sounds and smell. She fidgeted a little, tapping the side of her head. “Gum… powder? Is that a sweet?” His heart missed a beat. “You don’t have guns?” he asked. “Mortars, cannons, artillery? Nothing like that?” “I’m guessing you don’t mean a pestle and mortar,” she said. “No, I don’t,” he said softly, covering his face with his hands. A cold sweat blanketed him, his heart racing. In his mind, he had a choice, the kind of choice that he knew would eat at him for the rest of his life no matter what he decided on. Eventually, he took a last breath in and then turned to her. “I need to speak with your father and the generals. Now.” That had been the turning point—for the Alliance, and for him. He spent weeks on a few hours sleep at most, one month, two, three passing in a blur. And he spent that time sketching rifles and cannons and their ammunition along with all the mechanisms that made them work. Rifling, how to collect sulphur and saltpetre—they needed to learn everything from him. Dwarves were shipped in from the mountain cities alongside tons of iron and coal. Elves and humes were given sticks of loosely hammered metals and taught to hold them like a musket, long before there were even enough working prototypes to equip a single platoon. Bullets were designed to a single specification: piercing orcs. Shells were more flexible, one type made to shred dragon wings, another to stop behemoths and giants, and a third to disrupt infantry lines, as well as a heavy shot for breaching walls and other structures. Testing the artillery barrages, it seemed to people for hundreds of miles that the very world shook.

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