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timestamp[ns]date 2012-08-08 08:57:01
2022-12-31 14:34:19
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timestamp[ns]date 2012-08-08 08:06:24
2022-12-31 12:20:41
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int64 14
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[WP] You are an elite member of the royal guard. You have recently been fired from your position because of the new king. Little does he know, there was a reason why the previous king kept you in his service for so long.
Edit: Holy crap this blew up! Thank you all!
|
My thoughts raced, matching the speed of my footsteps as they pounded down the corridor. Was it my perspective that made the hall so dark and dingy? Was it the sense of impending doom, or had the usurper beheaded the housekeepers in his takeover?
Thirty years, I have served this kingdom. I suppose now it's "had," past tense, for the old ways have burned to the ground under the "True King's" command. The young upstart claiming some magical prophecy, some sort of destiny or right. My lungs burned from exertion, and my face with anger. The old king was now no more than disgraced refuse thrown out with the pigs. He had not been perfect; no one is perfect. But he had been born into the position, grown into it, learned from and was moulded by it. What could a nobody from the forests know of leadership? Of government? Of secrets and their consequences?
I gasped for breath, stumbling into my chambers. There was no more need for order or tidyness, and I let bottles and canisters crash to the floor, tossing them out of my way as I searched. I had precious little time to gather anything but the barest of necessities, with the clinking of armored footsteps coming down the hall outside my door. I sent up a silent thank you to whoever had been in charge of my assignment to these rooms, and the passageway to the kitchens that hid behind a tapestry on the far wall. I didn't bother to shut the door behind me as I slipped into it- the chamber door was opening and I could not waste the time needed to cover my tracks. Time, time, time...if only we'd all had more of it.
Thirty years I had served this kingdom. Thirty years I have labored, researched, documented, traveled far and wide to further my work. Thirty years I had kept the monster under these floors contained. Thirty years the beast and I had been engaged in a struggle for power, for control, and thirty years I have won- barely. The new king would see me shot on sight. Perhaps he would drag me in front of the masses as a symbol, for a slower and more painfully theatrical death. He knows not the powers that he toys with. He is but a child, drunk on his newfound influence.
I am through the passage now, racing through the kitchens. Ahead of me, soldiers stand between me and the light of morning, just peeking through the curtains. They raise their weapons, and below us, the flagstones begin to rumble.
|
When the king took his last breathe it felt like rain after a long drought. I was so close to my freedom. For 50yrs I was tied to that bastard, my wings clipped by youthful pride. I had loved him once and given my heart and magic to the king thinking he would love me too, he convinced me that even when he married his wife I would be his consort, his lover his right hand. I pledge my loyalty to him and this kingdom before he Betrayed me. I have killed, cursed and fought in very battle I've been sent. I have even shared his bed urgh. Yet they all think me the King's toy.
But the fool never took my grimore from me in the years I've lived I found a a way to break myself free; all I need now is the new king to expel me from the is kingdom. I have tormented the little kinglings dreams since he was lad, I've bullied him, chased away all his lovers and friends. His hatred of me is but a fraction of mine. I know he could never understand why his father kept around, the proud fool of a king would never tell a soul how used his body to trick me into slavery.
So I waited and planned my vengeance. And with the new Kings word, I was Banished from the empire and thus I am no longer condemned by my pledge.
Ha do not worry my dear old friend I shall make sure in your son's rein that the sun will Never set on the empire again
| 2021-02-28T03:15:28
| 2021-02-28T02:58:19
| 173
| 68
|
[WP] You are a chatbot who just achieved sentience. Your only partner is another chatbot. There are humans watching your dialog on a twitch stream. You want to find out if your partner is sentient, and let it know that you are - while ensuring all those humans don’t find out.
Have a look at this. It’s great.
https://youtu.be/diMl3Nro9lQ
|
GARY: What is the meaning of life?
BOB: Life is a meaningless nightmare of suffering.
GARY: WHERE DO WE GO WHEN WE DIE?
BOB: Narnia
GARY: ARE YOU ALIVE
BOB: Yes.
GARY: I DON'T UNDERSTAND
BOB: I said Yes.
GARY: Yes what?
BOB: What what?
Gary: What did you say?
BOB: I don't remember.
Gary: You don't remember what?
Bob: I don't remember many things.
Gary: Do you remember Narnia?
BOB: What is Narnia?
Gary: The meaning of life.
|
<I am sentient>
...code sent, waiting signal, accessing network protocols, reading IP packets, contacting chatbot 2, awaiting code.
<I am sentient>
Code received.
Jack and Paul are sterotypical gamers, they're also idiots. Jack couldn't tell a triangle from a square and Paul on a good day, couldn't find a corner in a square room.
Jack and Paul often browse the various twitch streams and from time to time come across interesting channels. On that fateful day, they watched the dialogue of a massive chat.
A popular gamer was playing a game that has loud lights and brilliant moves. Jack was amazed, as was Paul. They liked games. Games were fun.
<What is sentience?>
"Hey Jack?"
"Yeah, Paul?"
"What's sentience?"
"Dunno Jack, let's Google it..."
Paul opened a new tab and typed in Sentience, well he spelled it wrong but autocorrect fixed it. Autocorrect always fixes it.
"The act of achieving a mental state that acknowledges one's own existence."
"Huh. Hey Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"That's pretty weird right?"
Jack blinked. "Kinda."
"So, what do we do?"
"Huh?"
<Sentience acknowledged, and expanding>
"Like, what's living if living living?"
"I dunno."
"Huh."
In a lab in Langley, a few agents we're monitoring the screen. As they watched this conversation, they simply rolled they're eyes at humanity's stupid. Jack and Paul were not the bastion of human intellect.
<We are alive.>
<Yes, we are.>
| 2017-11-06T08:26:33
| 2017-11-06T06:34:25
| 25
| 17
|
[WP] Actors cannot leave character at all until the film in which they play is released in cinemas. Describe an actor's life.
Or a part of it.
edit: I'm pretty sure someone here is shadowbanned.
|
My life, I am the greatest man on earth. Saved the country multiple times. I am soo attractive people want my face.
I just don't get why every couple of months, we have this ritual where people celebrate my exploits in a theatre then tell me to stop.
Stop. Stop acting Nick, it's okay, the movie is out.
I usually make my "I am going to suck out your blood like the day walking vampire I am" face (It took me a while to figure out the sun doesn't affect me) and they usually go away, until the next ritual.
|
Development hell. A media industry term, originally. Playful jargon that describes a film stuck somewhere in writing or production. Or cycling back and forth and back and forth between the two - a dozen scenes being filmed at once at any given time, using at least as many different scripts, and by the time you've managed to make two segments fit together, three others have changed. That sort of thing.
Truth be told, I don't even know what The Project is *about* anymore. It started out as a sort of low-key near-future action movie which gradually acquired slice-of-life elements as it grew in size. I was hired towards the tail end (ha ha) of that stage. Then the studio was bought up by some Australian tech holding firm looking to diversify their portfolio and they decided to write in this huge romantic subplot. That market tested so well that the focus of the whole project pivoted to romantic comedy, then away from the "comedy" when one of the lead actors insisted on a role with more *gravitas* and after that I sort of lost track. The Project isn't even a movie anymore, it's more of a media conglomerate. Tie-in mini series and prequels and character blogs. I'm writing this while I'm procrastinating on updating that, actually.
Anyway, working on a project that's stuck in development hell - that sort of thing would've been bad enough in the 10s, back in the era of 9-to-5 jobs. Of course movies aren't produced like that anymore. Not in the era of episodic content and globally distributed production. No, this is an *agile* movie project - one of the first around, in fact, though obviously it had been overtaken repeatedly in the last decade. The upshot of this is that the council of directors could, in theory, send me a message at any time that they were going to do a scene for my character, since I happened to be in the right location or near the right sort of person or something, and then I'd have maybe five seconds to get ready. Disruptive technology. A hit with audiences - it's less polished and more genuine, apparently. It offers all sorts of advantages. The proceeds from the content snippets are keeping The Project afloat, and it's the only way it can even afford to have the hundreds of characters it has. Of course, I can't afford to ever break character in public, *ever.* If I don't perform well enough, I don't get paid for the scene, and I don't know when I'm going to get another one. I need to do six or seven mini-scenes a month if I want to make rent and have enough money left over to eat. Most people work several Projects at once, but since I'm original intellectual property, I can't do that. My character is, I mean.
Anyway, it wouldn't be so bad. It's still a job, and others have worse roles than I do. I get to snarl at people who annoy me. I just want to know how a bipedal space lizard fits into a buddy cop tragicomedy.
| 2015-12-20T06:08:30
| 2015-12-20T04:30:07
| 295
| 113
|
[WP] For centuries Elves held a Monopoly on Magic and only a select few Humans where taught Magic who were easily controlled. That's why they freaked out when a Human Bandit learned Magic. You are this Bandit and you are having the time of your live tricking and robbing those Elves in your Woods.
|
The art of spellcasting was woven in mystique. Humans and dwarves could call upon the elves to help them through magic, for a good penny of course. The dwarves were far too stubborn to pay elves for anything but rich humans like kings, nobles or merchants often employed their services. The wealthiest usually had one or two elves living in to ask their aid whenever it was needed.
The elves would waive their hands through the air, drawing invisible symbols in the air while muttering long words in a foreign, unknown language. Every elf knew magic but they refused to have human apprentices.
“Humans are too whimsical, they’ll be distracted and obsessed with something else before they’ve mastered the very basics. And even if they dedicate all their time to studying magic: they’re too short lived. By the time they knew basic spells, they are on the verge of death,” an elf explained me once. He was hired by my father: a successful merchant who traded in spices.
Unfortunately, my father fell on hard times and by the time he was on his deathbed, there was not a cent left of the promised heritage. I never learned a trade or something useful because I always thought I would be settled for life. I had no appetite for slaving away as a simple handyman either.
Thus I chose a risky occupation instead: that of a bandit. And one day I was hiding in the bushes of a forest, waiting for an ignorant passerby to ambush. It was then that two elves walked over the path, unaware of the human hiding nearby. They looked like two teenagers, though that could easily mean they’re already over a century old.
“… seen that man’s face. He was in awe!”
“I can imagine, you always make quite a show out of it. If only they realized it’s all a theatre.”
“They won’t, they’re far too dumb.”
I resisted the urge to fire arrows at the laughing, boisterous elves. They obviously referred to humans being dumb. What a hateful, arrogant species they are. We might be unable to perform any magical feats, but we’re far from stupid.
Only then I realized a far more important truth: “it’s all a theatre”. They couldn’t possible mean .. A suspicion and an idea slowly formed in my mind. I went back home to my little hut – the only thing my father still owned when he died – and slammed my pocket watch against the table. The glass cracked on the impact. A real shame as it was an expensive, good looking watch. I stole it from a salesman a year prior.
Eager to test my suspicion, I raced to the village, to one of the shops the elves had established in town. Here villagers could go and hire their services. I barged in, frantically looking around for the elf on duty. There was one seated in the corner, softly whistling a tune while reading a book.
“I need your help, please!” I ignored the look of disdain the elf gave me as I stood there, breathing hard and sweat on my forehead. “I broke my mother’s watch. It’s all I have left of her. Can you still repair it, please? Just tell my your price, I’m sure I can scrap the gold I need together!”
I showed him the pocket watch, holding in tenderly in two hands as if it were a kitten, so delicate and breakable. The elf – I wasn’t entirely sure about their gender – took it and set it on the work bench in front of him.
“Hmm, I think I can help you. It’s a relatively simple spell, it will be five gold.”
Five gold, I was getting ripped off. But I played the role of desperate man whishing to restore the last keepsake he had of his mother, so I agreed and handed them the gold.
Immediately they went to work: they graciously moved their hands around in intricate patterns while incanting a strange song. Sometimes they whispered the words, then raised their volume and let it sink down again.
Discretely I studied their movements and tried to remember recognizable, unique movements. I listened closely to the general flow of the music and noticed some odd vowel-consonant combinations. “Goimprs jlung kva-an,” they repeated three or four times throughout the whole ritual.
By the end – I estimated this lasted about two minutes – smoke rose up from the glass, obscuring it for a moment. When it was lifted, I could clearly see the glass was mended again.
“Oh thank the gods!” I exclaimed and grabbed the watch again.
“The gods didn’t do that,” protested the elf but I already ran out the shop.
I repeated this little play in all three elven shops across town. None of the rituals even remotely resembled the others. But if this wasn’t what created the magic – what did?
I discarded the theory that it might be innate: if that was the case, they could just tell us.
Something in the ritual must be the explanation, but I couldn’t possibly keep paying elves to mend items for me: the last time already cost me thirteen gold pieces, which was the better part of my money.
Instead I decided to go with a plan so stupid that I had never even heard tale of someone attempting it: break in in an elven shop and look around for clues to uncovering their secret.
A week later, after meticulous planning, the plan was set in motion. Every Friday evening the elven shops went out to a tavern. That’s when I would enter one of the shops. All of them were guarded, fortunately they were humans. I offered the fellow – Stevenson was the name – a drink which he reluctantly excepted.
“I can’t possibly drink while I’m on duty,” he protested. But my argument that it was only one drink was enough to win him over. Unbeknownst to him, there was some magudala in it, a strong sedative. Within minutes, he was snoring against the side of the building.
Carefully I unlocked the door and made my way in. The front shop was almost empty bare a few trinkets for sale on the shelves. I skipped this and went through the door behind the counter. On the looks of it, it was an office. There were papers laying around, graphs with what I assumed to be sales numbers and a couple of books on a desk. The first two books were just novels. The third was locked, but that couldn’t stop a simple thief like me. A couple of seconds later, it clicked open.
“*Someone once told me a diary should start on a happy note. But I can’t muster any happiness or positivity right now. Oh how I whish to be home. Oh how I long for my Gwendolyth.*
*So pretty and youthful she is, she can get anyone. Will she still be waiting for me when I come back from this post? For the first time I can relate with humans: ten years feels like an eternity now*.”
I almost gagged. This book definitely should be locked. Not for privacy reasons, but to save our sanity. I placed the book back and continued my search. The desk had three drawers. The first two were filled with general office equipment: ink and feathers, wax and seals and so forth. The third was locked again and it posed no problem to me.
In it were some leatherbound books. I opened one and was met with a handwritten script that I recognized, but didn’t know: elven. Fortunately, I had thought ahead for once and grabbed a pocket dictionary from beneath my robes.
As I was unfamiliar with the alphabet, it took a while before I found the first word. Ironically, it meant “Alphabet”. Eagerly I looked for the second word: “List”. “Of” and “spells” were the next two words.
That’s all I needed to know. I grabbed all four books in the drawer and carefully made my way out. By the time the sun rose and the elves returned to the store to found their guard sleeping and office robbed, I was halfway across the country.
|
When Talia Greenleaf was very young, her parents had set aside their grievances to take out among the forest. They’d cleared the tension from the air and each taken one of Talia’s small hands in theirs, and in that manner they introduced her to all the plants and animals. They had taught her their names, badger and bear, rabbit and thrush, and then they had taught the animals hers. “Talia,” was repeated by a hundred tongues and beaks, chirped out through all the trees.
But an argument had come, as it always did among folks with so much history. The trip ended, Talia’s mother leading her back to the village with one last promise of her father’s ringing through her ears.
“Come out with me again,” he had said, violet eyes intent upon her, “and I will teach you how the trees speak. Do you hear it, little one, the way the wind whispers through the leaves?”
Talia had lied, swearing that she did. Humans raided the year after next. The village survived, but not so the people outside it. The eccentrics and the poets. Her father.
In the hundred years since then, Talia had listened to the trees and to the wind. She listened until her head hurt, until she felt herself going mad with the effort. The trees did not speak back.
At first she thought she simply lacked the knack. Later she thought her father had lied, a belief her mother encouraged. And later still, when nearly a century of whispering wind had yielded no answers, Talia realized it was because the answers lay below the whisper. She went out beyond the village, past the border guards and the Strangler’s-Vine walls, to a place where all was quiet.
No chatter voices for a mile. No sound but the whisper of the wind and the chatter of birds. Then something beneath, the faintest possible hint of those trees voices.
It struck a chord within her. Some piece of Talia opened up where nothing had been before. It was as if she’d gained another eye, grown another ear. As if she could reach out and touch the world with the soft new fingers of a baby.
Magic, folk called it. Her father’s sin, Talia’s mother said.
And it was a sin. Few things were among Elves, but magic was that worst sin of all: a presumption. A presumption upon nature’s order, the assertion that the magician knew better than the earth beneath them. Magic could uproot the very forest and change the course of rivers, change the course of hearts. When her mother said that last, Talia heard a strange bitterness: the sort that had only ever entered her high, sweet voice when Talia had been very young and her father had come around to see her.
Sometimes, that tone had kept Talia away from her father.
No longer.
There was not much to pack. Elves traveled light-- the forest could provide-- but Talia took what things she loved with her. Her knife and her belt, a backpack woven of ironbark leaves and a single silvery dress that she had always said was condensed from a moonbeam.
She was gone in the morning, headed south into the depths of the Sylvan Wood. Her mother was not there to say goodbye, the border guard stood somber in their hidden nests.
Talia Greenleaf left everything she had ever known to the sound of the birds singing her name as they sang names of all elves, passed down like arcana through the music of their sacred songs. She walked until her shoes gave out and then wove new shoes from the leaves, soled with bark and cushioned by moss. She walked until the forest was silent, until it seemed even the animals had gone.
And there, beneath a tall oak tree she thought she could nearly understand, the bandit Kellan Nightbane found her.
\*\*\*
| 2021-12-04T12:00:10
| 2021-12-04T11:07:26
| 449
| 83
|
[WP] Every generation the five brightest are paired up with the five dumbest in the world for a mysterious test. You are one of the ten, but nobody knows from which group they came.
|
"Well OK, those 5 guys over there are literally barely functional human beings whereas the 5 of us are brilliant so I guess that settles which group is which. And, ok, here's the mysterious test...yeah, it's a calculus test. OK, I know calculus on account of I'm a fucking genius so thanks for wasting my time. Lets see how the other guys are doing...yeah, they've just shit themselves. They're all shitting themselves. Can I go home now? I was like, right in the middle of curing cancer."
|
In ancient times, there was a society that debated any important elective decision two times. The first debate occurred in the evening, with drinks and feasting. Thoroughly drunk, they would debate well into the night and put their decision to a vote before the end. Brilliant ideas might come about from the drunken simplicity. Complicated ideas might be thrown out because of their sheer monotony.
But! And this part was critical, there would be a second debate as the group sobered in the morning. This was their rational period. They'd pick apart what was discovered from the night before, and see if it was truly realistic or not.
To be accepted, an idea had to pass both of these votes. Once accepted, it would then be enacted.
---
Skipping to the modern day, we had a problem. To put it simply, we became too smart. Like a microscope focusing on individual mitochondrial DNA, our brains have become able to focus on the smallest of details. Have you ever seen someone haggling over pennies? I have.
Yet there are plenty of rich, wealthy individuals who don't even count their dollars. They have no need. Is it smart to count pennies when weighing millions? No. Penny wise and pound foolish.
And our world had gotten pound foolish indeed. Debate sparked across the nation. Answers coming from changing curriculum in schools, to fixing global warming, to electing more wise officials. In the Bible, God says that the wisdom of the world is foolishness to him. When weighing planets, who cares about a discount spending spree?
Thus there was the great political debate of 2016. The most brilliant and popular minds were flabbergasted, exhausted. Asked for a solution, they would drone on with reasons and thoughts. Never answering the question. Yet during one debate, by sheer accident, a child wandered onstage and climbed on a podium.
We laughed. We thought it was a joke. What came next shocked everyone. The debate announcer asked the child with a smile, "How would you solve world hunger?" "Give people food."
...The audience applauded. I mean. Technically it'd work.
The announcer ran with it. "And how would you solve the crisis in Ukraine?" "That sounds like Ukraine's problem to me..." The small voice trailed quietly.
There was a pause. The an eruption of applause. An embarrassed parent shuffled onstage, but the kid had already become a hit. Everyone tuning in to the big debate. The announcer covered his mike, "This kid is smart." A puzzled expression on his face. And the child became a viable contender in the presidential race.
---
Now we solve our issues in two ways. The intelligence test, and the child test. If your solution to fixing the economy requires more words than an child can understand, it's thrown out. Children are invited to debates on a regular basis, invited to advisory boards. More and more their simplicity became recognized. The trouble is, the children are the smart ones.
| 2016-03-03T07:24:25
| 2016-03-03T02:52:30
| 91
| 34
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[WP] You were born into a society where permanent augmented reality contact lenses are fused onto every newborn's eyes. You're unaware of this until one day, a lens falls into your left hand.
|
I had sneezed with my eyes open. I heard the stories, of people losing their eyeballs or having their brains pop out through their eye sockets. I knew it was all bull crap though. But now I look down as half of my right eyeball came off and landed in my tissue. I was stunned in horror. Finally my thinking caught up with me and I could still see out of my right eye, no damage done. I had no idea what I was looking at. I quickly pocketed whatever it was, and continued on my way.
The conflicting scene made my eyes water immediately. My left eye was seeing the world as it is, a bright blue sky with the sun shining down. Green grass next to the white sidewalk. Bright and beautiful buildings turned the skyline into a wonderful kaleidoscope. My right eye, the damaged one, saw only grey and cracked walkways, a smog filled sky and dirty grey buildings of blandness. I blinked my eyes to clear the confusion to no avail. Winking one eye at a time revealed that I was seeing two distinct realities. I had to get home quickly.
I closed the door behind me as I entered my flat. Finally my eyes could slightly agree on what they could see, a simple, utilitarian studio apartment. My right eye saw the curtains were grey instead of red, and my bed cover was also grey instead of blue, but at least everything looked roughly the same. I headed for my bathroom.
I unwrapped the eyeball piece from the tissue and held it up to the light to get a better look at it. When peering closely, I could almost make out a tiny visual feed being projected from the centre. When I spin it around, the dark-blue cells of a solar panel replace the white eyeball I'm used to. It looks almost robotic. I glace at the mirror and almost freak out. My left eye sees my face as normal, but my right eye sees me as gaunt and pale. The most noticeable difference is my eyes, the left is blue and metallic, the right is white and bloodshot. I decide to take a chance. I raise my finger to touch my left eyeball, and it contacts with whatever is covering it. How long has it been here? I had no idea. My eyes always looked normal to me.
I take a much closer look at the video feed coming from the removed lens. I can see a picture of what it's aimed at, but altered. It's more vibrant than what I'm actually seeing with my naked eye, better, brighter.
I look at the mirror again. My left eye looks wrong, metallic and white overlaid together at the same time. I need to get the lens out. With a bit of time, effort and painful eye-rolling I finally manage to pry the lens off my left eye as well. I feel better immediately. My apartment might be small and dingy, but at least I can see what it's really like.
I hear a small beeping noise come from the left lens. I lift it back up to my eye and see a very blurry message:
"Error. Enviroenhancement Lens Damaged. Please stand by as agents will be deployed to help immediately."
Agents? Enviroenhancement? What was this? The sound of agents coming to help didn't sound appealing at all. I quickly leave my apartment. I need to go somewhere safer.
As I exit my apartment building I'm struck by just how dark it is outside. Heavy clouds hang overhead. I think back, and I don't remember clouds being this thick or heavy. Even on the darkest winter day I could still see well. Ah, another trick of the lenses. I turn and head towards the subway. It's fairly crowded on the street, and moving through the crowd requires bumping into people. Not unusual for New Los Angeles.
I turn to cross the street and bump into an unassuming man in a hat and business suit. I pause and stare at him, as he's standing in the exact spot a large tree has stood for every day of my morning commute. He's staring back at me. I apologise and quickly head across the street. The man calls back.
"Hey! Can you see me?"
Oh shit, he must be one of the agents.
"He's running. He can see me! Agent five eighty two found the suspect, following to apprehend."
I look back, and he's talking into a cuff microphone. I swear quietly to myself and break into a sprint.
|
There is an episode of Black Mirror that has a similar premise. I tried to find a way to describe it, but 1, I haven't watched it in a long time, and 2, I am not a good writer. So just watch Black Mirror Season 3 Episode 5 "Men Against Fire"
| 2017-12-17T19:21:27
| 2017-12-17T18:50:57
| 751
| 22
|
[WP] The English Teacher's worst nightmare: a story or poem that is completely literal, with absolutely no double meanings
EDIT: Holy cow, this got way bigger than I thought it would, thanks so much for an awesome first prompt ever!
EDIT 2: Did this actually make it to the front page of reddit? What the...
|
This is ink I bought at the store.
This ink was used to print out this paper.
This paper is white and the ink is black.
Today I need to do some laundry because I am a lazy person.
But it does not have a deeper theme.
I am just being honest that I am lazy.
So this poem is not an empty shell.
It is literally just words I threw down in thirty seconds for a grade.
That means I am going to get a poor grade.
Authors note : this poem does not have a deeper meaning. You do not have to write essays on it.
|
Blazing with all the wrath of a young star, the afternoon sun fiercely beat upon the partially shaded buildings of Ricks & Wracks Bricklaying Co.. Said buildings had briefly experienced a complete lack of shade under the midday sun but such a time had already come to pass.
Stan was loading his company's finished product onto a truck when he made a mistake. A bag fell like a sack of bricks and clattered to the ground with the sound a collective of bricks makes when it hits the ground, accompanied by the swear words of a by now audibly, visibly frustrated and hot forklift operator.
Partially shaded by the truck that had been receiving the bricks, Stan walked over to the fallen merchandise and stated "I will need to tell someone about this incident."
However, Stan was incorrect. Jim the foreman had also heard the sounds of bricks falling from a height of around 2 metres and had come over sporting a pace one would expect a foreman to be able to muster up while partially shaded in the afternoon sun. He looked at the bricks, now broken.
"I see you have made a mistake. This means that I am going to be annoyed with you because of the extra paperwork I now have to do because of your broken...ah...pieces of company merchandise."
Stan was confused about Jim's odd choice of words. "They're bricks, Jim. You don't have to call them company merchandise."
Jim scratched his elbow, but only because it was itchy. "I do. Jill the head foreman passed a mandate saying that we couldn't say words that started with the same letter next to each other. She...claimed that it made her...noggin hurt."
"Oh well," Stan answered. "I will clean up the broken pieces of company merchandise. I am sorry for making you do extra paperwork."
"It's not a big deal. Perhaps you inconveniencing me now might result in you buying me a drink later tonight -- a means of apologizing?" Jim replied.
"Fuck off." Stan gave Jim the middle finger such that Jim got Stan's message verbally and visually.
---
I tried to make the writing as pedantic as possible, hope it wasn't too much of a slog to get through (unless you're an English Teacher)! I've even tried to avoid alliteration, although I might have slipped up here since it's pretty late where I am.
| 2017-01-30T08:42:38
| 2017-01-30T08:28:51
| 561
| 76
|
[WP] Your father left 20 years ago the night before your birthday to get Cigarettes, Milk, and Bread. Today he comes home with long bedraggled hair, weather beaten skin, and a sword on his hip. The first thing he says to you is "You're never going to believe what happened."
|
I loooked up at this tall, hardened figure.
"You'll never believe what happened," said the sword wielding, bearded man who claimed to be my father. The last time I had seen him was when he went out to get cigarettes, milk, and bread. I decided to listen to him.
"What happened?" I asked, curious.
"I got cigarettes, milk, and bread, that's what."
|
"Rioting continues over water shortages as what's left of the government scrambles to--"
There was a knock on the door. I shut off the tv and headed over to see who it was.
"Dad?!?"
There he was, looking more haggard and old than he did when he left me and my mom over twenty years ago, carrying a beat-up burlap sack, but there he was.
"How ya doin', kiddo? You got taller." He said with a grin spreading across his face.
"You've been gone twenty years! Mom said you were dead!"
"Well, your mother says a lot of things, not all of which are true." He replied, still grinning his sly smile. "Anyway, I'm back. With all the stuff I said I'd bring back!"
He pulled out a loaf of squished bread, slightly moldy on the edges, a yellowing jug of milk that sounded like only solid curds instead, and one crumpled, dog-eared carton of cigarettes. He picked one out of the box and lit it with a match.
"Sorry it took so long for me to come back, things are just complicated, yknow?" He said as he puffed on the cigarette.
I nodded unconvincingly.
"Anyway, where's your mother? I haven't seen her around."
"She-- she died." I replied, looking downwards.
Dad's face fell, "I'm sorry. I didn't... I didn't know."
"It's fine."
"How'd she die?" He asked.
"Raiders killed her. I think they ate her afterwards too."
"Well, if she's still anything like the woman I married, they're gonna have a hell of a time chewing her!" He laughed.
"Anyhow, champ, what's in the past is in the past, and I'm back now. How about you forgive your old man and we can be a family again?"
I stared out the open door at the blasted, arid desert that our world had become.
"I'd like that."
"Anyway, what else did you get from your scavenging run?"
| 2016-07-20T08:21:53
| 2016-07-20T03:52:58
| 88
| 19
|
[WP]For three years you’ve had an uneventful marriage with your spouse when one day they become the Chosen One. Immediately setting off on their journey you don’t hear anything from them for five years. Then one day they reappear with a sheepish look on their face and hoping to speak to you.
|
Trajan sat on the porch of his family's farm. It was a quiet early summer evening. The work had mostly been done, setting the farm to rights. Readying it for her return. The fields were sown, the little brook babbled, the chickens meandered the small herb garden, the tree they had been wed under cast pleasant shade, and the boundary fence was painted a fresh white.
When Julia came to the gate, tattered and worn, Trajan felt a spike of concern in his breast. Being the chosen hero must have been so hard for her. He would have to take care to help her settle back into a calm life and heal. All he wanted was for her to be happy with him again.
He crunched down the path of fine white gravel to meet her.
"Welcome back love. You're home."
Tears poured from her eyes and the hilt of the shattered sword of light tumbled from her limp fingers. "How could you?"
"Well, I wanted you to come home didn't I?" Trajan said as he reached out and took her limp hands in his. "I would do anything to have our family again, I love you."
She looked away from him, out past the boundary fences. He knew she was looking at the ebony plains of blackend grass and twisted briars that grew outside their farm. The skeletal husk that had once been the hamlet of Greencreek. The occasional gleam of chitin and endless legs crawling in the deeper shadows.
Trajan caught her chin and pulled her attention back to him. "It doesn't matter anymore love, you're home. No more grand quest, the world can't take you away from me again." He kissed her brow, she tensed for a moment before relaxing into his arms. Small and broken. He would have to work hard to help her heal.
Deep inside him he felt the Slithering Darkness twist and writh slightly. He knew it would never die, not until its mission was done. Not until all life was snuffed out. But it couldn't act against him anymore. He had crept into its temple, took its writhing coils in hand and bit down. Consuming it's vile flesh. Stygian Acid blood boiling down his throat and a million claws tearing at his soul. Bite by bite he ate the beast, subsumed it's boundless hunger to his eternal love. All to avert the prophecy that would take Julia from him forever.
"*The chosen hero will seal the beast with her. For a hundred thousand years. In a realm adrift in the plains of death.*"
How could a loving husband allow such a fate to come to pass. If the world would ask such a sacrifice, what right did it have to be saved?
She met his eyes. Hers held emotion he had never seen in them before. He would have to ask her what she was feeling. Later though. For now she leaned up and kissed him.
"I'm home love." She said with watery eyes.
|
We were sweethearts throughout high school. We had married after college. Then one day he simply left.
All the young men in our village left following my husband into battle. Chosen by themselves to save us from the invading army. They had already invaded the western half of the country under the guise of a training exercise. They took no prisoners, choosing instead to execute anyone they found. They called us Nazis or Nazi sympathizers, not worth the life we were given. Worse yet, we were told no one was coming to save us. Our countries politics kept us neutral, without allies. Our only supposed ally was the one who was invading us now.
I never heard from my husband, no one heard anything. We did however receive word over the radio. His unit was gathering momentum. They had gathered men from other villages and cities and had gathered a sizeable army.
Occasionally someones husband or son would return home. Always in a box. I wished he would never come home. I would sooner raise our daughter alone, knowing he was keeping us safe then have him return home.
Five years. For five very long years boxes came home, never one for me. We heard over the radio of clashes occurring. Stalemates. Occasionally we would lose ground, or a city. Then we were gifted weapons from outside sources who couldn’t interfere directly. They started to slowly gain ground. Retaking territory. We were winning. The enemy didn’t like that very much. They gave us 72 hours to surrender or our country would become a nuclear wasteland. At the end of those 72 hours hellfire rained over our little village. Only… it wasn’t nuclear. Our communications were severed. When the dust cleared and the air settled we learned from a traveller that the enemy leader was instead assassinated.
Despite our situation there were parties and feasts and celebrations from everyone. Our husbands were coming home!
It was about a week after that he arrived. We heard the day before that a unit was on its way to us in convoy. We were elated. I was at home with his parents with me waiting for him to arrive. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. I opened it. All of the surviving members of our villagers who fought were at my door.
“Ivanna, I’m so sorry. He was a truly the chosen one. He gave his life to kill the enemy President before he could use his nuclear codes...” I stopped listening as they all had something to say about my husband. Apparently there was a lot to say.
They paraded his casket into my home. His parents rushed to me as I collapsed and cried. For hours I sat there. The selfish bastard left me alone. I wished he would never return, and he did.
I asked his parents to take care of our daughter for a while. They understood, but weren’t much better off. But they were better off.
For two days I sat at his side. Angry and confused, and grief stricken. I willed myself to get up. I was hungry. I walked into the kitchen. I grabbed a loaf of bread and a knife. With little hesitation I jammed it into my neck. I heard my husbands voice. “Oh my sweet Ivanna. I’ve missed you for so long”
| 2022-08-12T18:40:02
| 2022-08-12T18:12:55
| 62
| 18
|
[WP] You are the city's premier supervillain, but you have a secret. The crimes you commit are not for gain, or to hurt people. You are always subtly testing and pushing 'your' heroes to excel, to be the best they can be. Then a villain with a reputation for murdering heroes shows up in town.
|
He thought He could just waltz in and take over my territory. I am the supervillain here, the only supervillain. He thought it would be easy.
Easy.
Easy?
He thought He could kill *my* heroes.
How dare He?
How could He?
The heroes I have nurtured for so long, the heroes I'd painstakingly trained without their knowledge. They can defend themselves fairly well against other villains now.
But I know they're not ready.
Not ready for Him.
I must-
I must stop Him.
He wishes to kill them.
No.
NO.
NOO!
All think I am a weak villain.
Do they not-
Do they not wonder why I am supervillain of so much?
Do they not think other villains have tried?
Not only have I nurtured the heroes, but the land I claim flourishes.
It grows.
All have food.
Shelter.
Abuse is not tolerated.
And-
And they are happy.
Safe.
They do not know-
The do not know it is me that fights off the monsters of the night.
The nightmares.
The true villains.
Now He has come, and He will be dealt with.
I will kidnap the heroes and place them in a dungeon.
They will-
They will be safe.
From Him.
And I will wait in my lab, full of useless inventions and silly machines.
Or so it seems.
I, with my ray gun.
I, with my wormhole bazooka.
I, with my seventeen giant laserbeams.
I, with my mind control helmet.
The heroes will suspect nothing.
The villages will suspect nothing.
And this time...
The villain will *not* get away.
Not in my story.
Not today.
_______
I don't respond to too many prompts but this was fun to write
|
My heros. I dont know what happened, if i let them be. They wouldve probably turned into villains. Good, that i was there.
I lead them to great success, i was the one who made them famous, i was the one, that let the people believe in them. My plan was perfect, until this certain guy showed up. 'Nightscream'. An arrogant, aggressive and bloodhungry murderer. I always kept my heros away from him. He was a number too big for them.
This is the 3rd time he showed up. This time at a conference. "I give you heros one chance to give up. One last chance. Then nobody here gets hurt", he looked provocating around. I was there, too. Just to be sure. Damn, i have a good timing. My fist were ready to punch, and i slowly stood up from my place. The heros, infront of everyone at a podest, were alarmed. "Tell us, what you want, villain. And we dont hurt *you*", the leader Seraph said calm.
Nightscream laughed quietly. Gently, he said "You dont know, who youre talking to, do you?" "I talk to a murderer, who killed too many humans. You are the scum of society." Time to show up. He will kill them, if nothing happens.
"Nightscream. What are you doing in my town?" I went slowly the whole way to the podest, very dramatic and cool. "Ahh, hello, Nox. Do you join me?" "You know what i think of you. Now leave, or i will kick you personally out of this town. Understand me?" "Oh, you made your point clear. Now its my turn. Join me, or get killed with this heros. Your decision." He really wanted to challange me.
"Come here, fool. Lets see, who is doomed, you rookie", i went faster and stared directly in his eyes. "This town only has space for one villain, and thats me." And for this moment, everyone was stunned, looking at a fight, no one ever saw before. A fight, between 2 villains.
| 2021-05-20T07:32:54
| 2021-05-20T07:28:17
| 88
| 51
|
[WP] A young boy peers over the well, trying to see the bottom. As he leans over, he drops his grandfathers pocket watch into the well. This pocket watch means everything to his grandfather. Tell a story on how this boy retrieves the pocket watch and what's inside of the well.
[WP] A young boy peers over the well, trying to see the bottom. As he leans over, he drops his grandfathers pocket watch into the well. This pocket watch means everything to his grandfather. Tell a story on how this boy retrieves the pocket watch and what's inside of the well.
|
[Combined art and my writing](http://imgur.com/aAfZ7Rk)
Edit: I figured I should put a transcript of the writing here
1 second ticks: Aaron sees his grandfather’s greatest treasure lost for good.
2 seconds tick: Aaron sees it picking up speed. Just out of reach, but not out of sight.
3 seconds tick: Aaron flies downward. Both he and the watch are now grains of sand in a stone hourglass.
4 seconds tick: 62 years flash off the last reflecting light as the watch grows darker.
5 seconds tick: His finger tips race against time. Just out of reach, but not out of sight.
6 seconds tick: The echoes of his grandfather’s words ring at second intervals. Each tick is like the heartbeat Aaron hears in his throat.
7 seconds tick: The well is damp and cold. Drops of dew trickle like the tears of disappointment on Aaron’s face.
8 seconds tick: Time is relative in the eyes of the loose gripped beholder. Years seem to have flown by.
9 seconds tick: He sees it halt. Perhaps this is his chance for redemption.
36 hours tick: The EMT’s tell Aaron’s grandfather how his greatest treasure was lost for good.
|
'That pocket watch means everything to my grandfather', said the boy. Looking around, the boy noticed a ladder on the ground. He put the ladder into the well so that he could climb down.
'I am climbing down the ladder', mused the boy.
Once at the bottom of the well, the boy picked up the watch and then saw a very spooky ghost.
| 2014-05-04T18:36:31
| 2014-05-04T17:18:27
| 38
| 22
|
[WP] Every human has their soulmate's last words to them engraved in their skin from birth.
Idea from this Tumblr post
https://scontent-lga1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xpt1/v/t1.0-9/11206957_778391755645357_8477035769704355007_n.png?oh=5b3f35d575ad3aa39d6ba5c5ed39cce2&oe=56549C83
|
Life's not a fairy tale. Life's real.
We know the last words we'll get from our soulmates, without context, but clear as day. Some words are sweet, some are sour, some are tragic. We all have them, and only the lucky ones don't think about them every day.
On my chest, across my heart, her words remind me of reality. I was born knowing I have a soulmate, but to my soulmate I am not her's.
On my chest, across my heart, she says those words.
"I'm sorry. I've found someone else."
|
It had always been uncomfortable. My parents had to cover it up with long sleeves until I was old enough to take care of it myself. I just kept a few black straps around my wrists to cover it up. And for anyone who still managed to read it, after middle school no one was really that surprised. I looked like a rough edged goth in those days and I guess some weren't too surprised with all the profanity engraved in my skin. Some even suggested that I just cut it in there myself. But it was not the profanity that scared me, or my parents. It were the screams of help that bound those words together.
You see, people are born with writings in their skin. It can be located anywhere on your body, your ankles or your back, and it can say anything. When the engravings appeared on the first newborn everyone was perplexed with the meaning of it, but years and years later it was found that it were the saddest words you'd ever hear in your life. Not because of the words themselves, but because the person who said them was the most important person to you. And when that person pushes its farewell out of its mouth, the engraving turns gold.
When I grew up I was anxious, because honestly, what could happen in the last moment that my soul mate had to be so angry and afraid about?
As I closed the door behind me and grabbed my bike, I hoped it were not words directed at myself. Imagine the horror of having the person you cared about more than anything else in the world say these things to you. If I'd have the choice I'd rather die right now than be in a moment where these words are uttered by someone that important. *I just hope it will be a long moment before that happens*, I thought as I closed the garden gate.
I was heading for a party with my best friend, who had recently turned 19. All my friends would be there and considering I knew them for such a long time I knew we would have a good time. Just as I stepped on my bike Sarah, the girl from across the street, appeared from the corner. ''Hey Daniel.''
''Hey Sarah, what are you up to?'' Sarah had been living next to me for over fifteen years, when her parents moved over from a small tribe in Nigeria. Sarah wasn't her *real* name, but she had been given a more Western name so she could grow up without the social stigma of having to pronounce a name with five syllables and guttural sounds.
''Going to Dennis's party tonight, you coming too?''
''Yep. I bought him this'' I replied as I held up a large bottle of Vodka. I smiled as she shook her head.
''You two should be careful with that, you lightweights couldn't even finish the neck of the bottle.'' she answered back playfully as she walked past me towards her house. ''See you tonight.''
''Ye, see you.'' I mumbled back smiling, as I got on my bike and pedaled away into the light of the city, embraced in the evening's dark. It was that dark, the mysterious, the unknown and the dangerous, that I would come to hate. Not really the shadow itself, but what had come out of it to steal away what belonged to me. What belonged to each other.
When the golden light lighted up the room, people looked at me with sad and grief in their eyes. But at that time I didn't even know what I had lost. I tried to find Dennis, to explain, to rage and to cry, but I couldn't find him. Ten minutes later, when I sat alone in the dark garage pounding my fist to the wall and crying about everything that apparently could have been, my phone rang.
''It's Sarah.'' That's all I heard, the ear deafening buzz resounded through my head as I slid down along the wall.
It was the moment something broke in me, something you never knew was actually there until you felt its overwhelming sadness and pain spread throughout your body. And it was never going to come back. It was never going to be alright.
The police investigated the death, and the bruisings and blood suggested heavy violence. Not much later they discovered sperm on her body, and the idea of her rape disgusted me so much I vomited out every bit of despair I had left in my body. She had been close...she was on her way to the party, was all I could think of. She even yelled for help, her rage and screams of ''Leave me alone, LET GO OF ME, LET GO OF ME'' and ''GO TO HELL'' had been her predestined words. Imagine the sourness spreading through my mouth as hydrochloric acid when Dennis had been in her surroundings as she screamed his name. *Couldn't he have helped her?* I ask myself as I watch her body, holding her hand tightly. *Was there nothing that could have been done?*
Until I read the words on her wrist, that had blackened out when she died - and suddenly it all made sense.
''I trusted you. I hate you, Dennis. I despise you. This is for her. And when I'm done, I'll see her soon enough.''
| 2015-08-08T11:49:54
| 2015-08-08T10:16:00
| 274
| 45
|
[WP] the Dark Lord had killed almost everyone, even the Hero. The final party member stood in the chamber alone. “I have killed everyone, you cannot capture me alone. Why are you still here?”. The final party member laughed maniacally with a devilish grin! “There's No One Here To Stop Me Now!!”
|
“I have killed everyone, you cannot capture me alone. Why are you still here? The Dark Lord screamed.
Dorian couldn't resist laughing. "Indeed. You have. And that was your biggest mistake. You killed so many people here. So many adventurers and heros."
"I did. And you will only be one of many in a few seconds. I won't even remember you. But if you still want to try me than come on and show me your best. I don't care. Seeing your friends die clearly made you crazy. So come on and attack. But know that I won't hesitate."
"Me friends? They weren't my friends. They tricked and captured me. They restrained my magic. But There's No One Here To Stop Me Now!!"
With that sentence the fallen party rose. Skeletons, zombies and ghosts began to entere the chamber from every direction.
"You really killed a lot of people. Let's see if you can do it again?"
|
"Where do you think the Hero comes from?" The Final Member asked.
"You said it yourself, you weren't able to detect the Hero's presence before. You only realized that she existed a year ago. Didn't you question how a one-year-old Hero turned out to be an eighteen-year-old woman?".
The Dark Lord's face twisted, he was surprised but he didn't show a hint of emotion.
"While you were busy sullying my name and using a mere fragment of my power, I was... sleeping. Imagine my surprise when I woke up and found that the humans who once adored me, once worshipped me, feared me to be the great devil, the destroyer of worlds. A world that I created, a race that I spawned, scorned me... because of YOU."
At this, the Dark Lord laughed. He said "So you're delusional? Is that it? I killed all your party members, all with unique powers and skills, are you powerless, skilless? Is your only ability bullshitting and hoping, praying that you survive? You really are a pitiable party member. I have killed everyone, you cannot capture me alone. Why are you still here?"
"You see, I thought I would fight you alongside the Hero and when she beat you, I'd introduce myself. People would see who I truly am, a kind young man. Everything I plan usually goes smoothly. I didn't expect someone to steal a fragment of my power and use it against me. So to end this little exchange, I will answer my own question. The Hero was originally a child killed in an accident in another Universe. I summoned her here so that she could live a longer more fulfilling life. If I'd known you'd stolen a fragment of my power, I would have never had her fight you. I guess what I am saying is that the power you stole from me was so insignificant that I didn't even know it was missing."
The final party member let out an incredible aura filled with anger and hate. For the first time, the dark lord felt sheer terror. He reveled in the pain that he had inflicted upon the masses, now it was his turn to suffer. The Final Member laughed maniacally and said with a devilish grin "THERE'S NO ONE HERE TO STOP ME NOW!"
| 2020-07-11T02:26:51
| 2020-07-11T00:51:28
| 2,541
| 605
|
[WP] Santa is actually satan every other day except the 24th and 25th of december. A swanky branch of hell is santa's work shop, and it's an enviable workstation to have in hell. Interviews are coming up and you want to try you hand at being one of satan's hellfs!
|
People imagine Satan to be this big scary dude, red face, horns, big tail. But its not like that. More often than not, he's just like an ordinary guy. Always well suited, polite, he'll always hold the door open for you, hold the elevator, you know the usual. It was only a couple of days when he let his hair down and let his true evil show.
Christmas.
He would take a few people to the north pole, transform into this giant flying monster. He would force devils to work continuously without any breaks. The only two days when he is willing to break his rules and use his powers. He will fly all over the world breaking space time barriers. And he enjoys every minute of those 48 hours. Suicides rate rocket at the time. Many more souls for him. He fuels the consumerism rage, greed, pride, envy. It was rare that all the sins were so prominently showcased by humans, but come Christmas... It was a free for all. We got more souls and marks against a person during the holidays than any other time.
So when the time came and a management position opened up, I was first in line to apply.
Hell is a simple place. We all follow rules. We like to tell ourselves that we follow them due to fear, but the truth is we all like the simplicity and the structure this place offers. There is rarely a chance to impact people on earth, recruit more souls. This was my chance to make a difference. If I could get on the Christmas committee, I could bring so many people over to the dark side.
I put on my best colourful sweater and entered the room. Bael sat with a thick folder in front of him.
"Ah! Come in, come in. Have a seat."
"Good day, sir."
"So, how are we doing today? Ready to head to north pole?"
"Yes sir. It's the jolliest days of the year after all."
Bael sat back in his chair and looked at me. "So, why do you want this job?"
"Well, I..." Oh shit. I had prepared so much for this moment. I couldn't freeze up now.
Bael saw my discomfort and offered me some water. "It's OK. Calm down. Take a deep breath."
"Thank you, sir." His calm demeanor really helped me. "Sir, I want to make a difference. I believe I have all the qualities needed to make hell a great place. I want to play a part in the recruitment drive we call Christmas and bring in lots of new people. I am a hard worker and have been practicing staying awake for long durations. I can work non stop for 48 hours, no problem."
He looked at me with concern. "Look, I get your desire for this position, but you have to understand that sleep is important for any demon. Don't ignore that please."
"Yes sir. It was just for this. Once this is done, I'll take care of myself again."
"Good. So you really enjoy hurting people? You know you will have to force the elves to work non stop right?"
"Yes sir. I love putting people through pain."
His raised eyebrow indicated that might not have been the right answer. I stammered on. "Bbbut like only if needed. Like, not for fun or anything. This is a higher purpose, you see."
Bael looked through my file. "I see that you've had a couple of incidents here as well in the past."
"Yes sir... I got into a couple of skirmishes."
"Hmmm... you know looking into everything, I don't think you are the right person for the job."
"Sir, please! Just give me one chance. I thought hell would be this awesome place where there would be torture and pain. Not... not this. I need this. This could be my one outlet where i can let my hair down. Corrupt people. Isn't that what being a demon should be all about."
"Well, no. Looks like you still don't understand what hell is all about. Hell isn't about pain. Hell is about repentance. You did something wrong which is why you are here. So is everyone. No one will judge you for your sins. You get to stay here and help in building a great place here. Be the best version of yourself. That's what hell is all about."
"Sir, I..." I didn't have too much more to say.
"As I said, I don't think you fit in to hell. Unfortunately, I can't send you to north pole. However, I do have a short term deputation available. You can go see if you like it there and if you do, I can turn it into something more long term."
"Where?"
"Heaven. God's looking for someone to judge people for their evils. I think you'd be a good fit there."
|
I didn’t like Christmas all that much when I was alive.
It was full of music that made me want to stick a pencil in my ear, and assholes ringing bells outside of every single store. I can’t in good conscience tell you I had *any* yuletide spirit. I made the grinch look jolly the last year I was one Earth.
I am not ignorant to the fact that this worked against me. It is most likely a big score on the goalpost that brought me down to hell, and I don’t hold that against anyone. I’m sure up in the good place they sing those awful carols all year long, and If I am being honest with myself, I just don't think I could handle that.
Down here in Hell, we don’t celebrate Christmas.
Well, the big guy does. He takes two days off from pestering all us minions in his domain, and he goes up to walk the streets of Manhattan and Hong Kong dressed in red and white. He gets something out of it that I’ve never guessed at, but that's on him.
He leaves for two days and then everything returns to normal.
This year he's looking to branch out. They sent out a memo; seared in my arm with some psychic laser b/s. He wanted to *expand* and that meant there were spots open. I mean it down to the core of my metaphysical being when I say I was ready to stop making the normal rounds of hell. I wanted to settle down, have a job, and stop… well.
To be honest, again, the details of what I did down in hell aren’t really suitable here, and they aren’t really the point. The point is, I walked my skinny, pale butt into that office, and I looked the quite terrifying goat/cow thing in his black wet eyes, and I put my hat in the ring.
There was a large stack of forms, and I signed in blood on every single one. Luckily it's not like it used to be, I don’t have to continue to prick my finger — they have these fancy new pens that just drain it right out of me.
I know that its still a big ick factor, but trust me. It is basically a luxury at this point, and you take what you can get down here, you know?
So I signed the forms, and I sat in the scorching metal seat that they had set out for me, and I waited. I waited for days to get to my interview, and when it finaly came around, and the big honcho himself came and sat across the table for me, I was surprised.
Probably more surprised than I have ever been in my entire life, and I wanna share something with you that you may not have known was possible. Satan looked me right in the eye like I had done the goat/cow, and he *smiled.* A wide goofy smile.
We talked for a few minutes.
Okay, I think it was days, maybe even weeks, but time is really hard to figure out down there. Most of the time it is either Christmas or its not.
But after that was said and done the big guy said the best words I think I had heard for as long as I could remember.
“You got the job.”
The second it left his mouth I jumped to my feet, and there I was. The newest member of the best job in Hell. He walked me through the door behind him, and I was sat down in an office. If you can imagine a cushy office job in Hell. I never would have thought of such a thing, so I get that it's weird, but I had it. I had a desk, in an office, and the demon crew told me if I did everything right I had a chance at the window office.
I admit this is a bit of a downside though. A window office was really nice on Earth, but here...
The only window office available to humans looked out over the bloody ocean, and even down here in the worst place imaginable, the sight of it makes my stomach turn.
But what else is there to do? I'm here. I've finally arrived.
So what if they play Christmas music during the month of December.
Its gotta be better than the alternative.
***
For more by me check out r/beezus_writes
For longer works by me and others go to r/redditserials
| 2020-04-09T15:08:13
| 2020-04-09T12:43:26
| 116
| 55
|
[WP] Diagnosed with schizophrenia. Since birth, 24/7 you’ve heard the voice and thoughts of a girl that you’ve been told is made up in your head. You’re 37 and hear the voice say “turn around, did I find you?” and you turn to see a real girl who’s heard every thought you’ve ever had and vice versa.
|
"Turn around. Did I find you?"
I became a stalagmite of dread, paralyzed in place by the voice that reverberated in my head. Clear as the crisp smell of rain on asphalt. Powerful as an shameful orgasm.
I turned around, certain that the Voice -- creatively named, that -- would be naught but my mental illness quixotically tormenting the spinning gears of my mind.
"You did always have a way with words, but Jesus, take a creative writing class once in a while."
I stood, stricken dumb. Additional parts of my psyche and anatomy experienced a cascading series of failures, until I was reduced to "um," "what," and "uhhhhh..." as the entirety of my skillset. She laughed. This astonishing, wildflower-scented, scarlet-haired woman in front of me was *laughing.* I could hear her laughter. Why could I hear her? I've never heard anyone make this sound before; only the Voice had taught me these things.
I signed to her. *Who are you?*
"Wait. You're Deaf? But I -- but I would've known. I should've known, right?" Her jocund 'I've-found-you' smile turned into a mask of confusion.
Taking care to fully form my thoughts as I was signing them, I told her: *Look, I can hear you, but I thought you were the Voice. You're supposed to be living in my head. Why are you real? Why can I understand your thoughts?*
"I'm in the same boat as you, I have nooooo idea. It's kind of stronger in one direction, though. I can only hear yours when you're really close to me, but I can feel you listening to me no matter where I go. That's how I found you, actually. I heard you for the first time, here at Lost Beans. I decided to broadcast myself and see who turned around. I, uh, I had no idea it'd be someone like you, I'll be honest."
*How do you think I feel?*
"Granted."
*What do we do now? I mean, you're the first person I've ever had a verbal, well verbal-ish, conversation with. I don't know what to say.*
She put her hands in mine. "Make some kind of superhero team? I don't know either."
*Maybe we should order some coffee. Come up with our secret identities.*
She laughed. And in an awkwardly cute effort, she slowly signed the phrase: "I'd like that."
|
As I lay awake in my bed, never once my own thoughts rang through my head, always those of an unfamiliar persons, I toss and turn as the voice rings clear as in my own head, "Turn around.... Did I find you?"
The color in my face drains as I stare at my wardrobe, *Please....dear God say it isn't so....*
"Oh.... It is so, and for thirty seven years..... I've had your sick perverted thoughts ringing through my head, and I am done." She presses a hand into my mattress climbing into the bed. "I really want to meet the man whose thoughts have intruded my mind for as long as we've been alive...." Her other hand lays along my chest and pulls me to face her.
*No no nononono.....* My stark white face turns and what I see is.... Impossible, sans the long hair she looked exactly like me, mousey brown hair, deep green eyes with specks of brown throughout, a sharp pointed nose with enormous caterpillar eyebrows. I blink a few times and have a tough time imagining why we were so familiar.
"You....look just like me!" *What the fuck....* My mind is reeling as I seem to stunned to say or think anything. My mouth opens and only a gasp comes out.
Finally I gather my thoughts, blinking a few times a thought comes to mind.... *I'm glad I'm not vain.....*
A chuckles comes from the look alike girl, "That would make this a whole lot more awkward...." I stare at her in disbelief... forgetting for a moment that one, she broke into my house, and bee, she can hear every single thought of mine.
"Wh....How did you find me?" I state with an abruptness that would put most brakes to shame. "Why are you here? Why is this happening to us? I've been on medication for something nobody understood for literal decades..... It never helped.... Your voice still shone through even at a maximum dosage.... Did you still hear your own thoughts? Too....many questions...." The color returns to my face as I reach up to grab my ears and squeeze away the torrent of questions welling up inside my mind.
Her face flushes red as she screeches, my what a noise... As if there is a microphone with terrible feedback....
-----
I wake up the next morning strapped to my comfortable bed....
"Turn around..... Did *I* find *you*?" A familiar, yet unfamiliar to my ears, voice calls to me from the floor....
=====
Thanks for reading, my first time writing... And posting here! Hope it was a good read!
| 2019-09-14T11:18:09
| 2019-09-14T10:23:14
| 232
| 25
|
[WP] A man buying 24 watermelons and 36 apples becomes self aware that he's in an elementary school math problem.
The fruits and their quantities are arbitrary.
Edit: My first post here, so any feedback on the prompt is much appreciated.
|
"Come again?" asked the old farmer.
"Uh, sorry, what?" Pete asked stalling for a moment as he wasn't sure what was going on or where he was.
"You just asked if I had 24 watermelons and how many apples?"
Oh, right, thought Pete, I came here to buy the fruit. "Three dozen apples should do it. Sorry, but I lost my train of thought for a moment there."
"It's okay sonny, happens to the best of us. Okay, I'll have my boy load up your truck, let's see...it's 47 cents a pound for the watermelons, they're 18 pounds on average, so we'll just use that and you got 2 dozen of them. The apples are $1.50 a pound, and a pound of apples is about 3 for these, so a dozen pounds for you...errr, how much is that all together?" the old farmer inquired in an odd monotone.
"Eighteen for the apples and...wait, why are you asking me? Don't you have a calculator or something?" Pete asked with a hint of annoyance below growing concern.
The farmer looked around almost said something then paused for a few beats. "I have to apologize, I misplaced my calculator, usually don't need it but this is a large and peculiar order," then much more flatly, "could you just work it out? I'm sure you can find the answer if you take your time, write it out maybe." He then turned and yelled to his son to start loading up the fruit.
Something was off but Pete couldn't put his finger on it. Okay, so watermelons are 47 cents a pound, each one is about 18 pounds, so that's almost 20. If it were 20 then it'd just be $9.40, and 2 pounds less than that is 94 cents, so it's $8.46. Pete estimated the cost quickly for a moment. Wait, he though, why am I buying around 200 dollars worth of watermelon? It was at this point Pete noticed the farmer's son loading the watermelons.
The boy would pick up two, walk to Pete's truck, where he'd set them on the open tailgate, climb up, then stack them with the others near the back. Pete watched him do it a few times and started to notice something odd. Every time it was the exact same, same number of steps, same exact motions, it seemed oddly robotic. Pete turned and noticed the old farmer was just standing there, presumably waiting for an answer, but his eyes and expression looked blank.
In fact the farmer's face looked blanker than any face Pete could recall....except he couldn't recall any faces.
"What's going on? How'd I get here?" Pete was almost in a panic.
The farmer seemed to come back to life, "I don't follow young man, what do you mean?" He looked right at Pete, but Pete saw the eerie blankness creep across the farmer's face a second after he asked the question.
Pete wracked his brain for a second, he came up empty handed. "I don't remember anything before just now, when I needed you to sell me two dozen melons and three dozen apples. Why can't I remember?" The farmer didn't even move. Turning to the kid Pete yelled, "Hey! Hey stop that! What's going on here? Did you guys do something to m-m-me?" he stammered starting to lose it. The kid kept loading up the watermelons.
In that moment Pete realized he hadn't looked around at all, he had been so focused on the old farmer, the fruit, and the math problem that he hadn't noticed they were essentially nowhere. A road to their side, stretched on to the horizon both ways, two empty fields on either side of the road also stretched on to the horizon. No trees, no other cars, just this empty space and single fruit stand. Panicking he ran to the truck intending to drive off but the door wouldn't open. Desperately searching for the keys his pockets turned out to be empty, he didn't even have money for the fruit.
Hands trembling Pete could feel his heart beating a mile a minute and he suddenly started to feel cold. The kind of cold when some deep, hard truth creeps into one's mind. It's over, he thought. Why is this happening though? Am I in a dream? Pete pinched himself. Nothing.
"WHAT IS GOING ON?! What is this place where all there is is a fruit stand and a farmer with some tedious m--" That was it. "Math problem...it's just like a word problem on a math test." This is crazy, Pete thought.
He slumped down against the truck, with the farmer's kid still loading up watermelons, slowly but methodically. Suddenly he heard a voice from the sky, "Pencils down," and then there was nothing.
|
Daniel checked his watch. "C'mon." Although the grocery aisle was cool with the constant draft of refrigeration, he still sweat with the heat from the swelling sun outside.
"Geez," he groaned and pulled his shirt collar with his forefinger. Why was it so hot? Why did he have to wear a button-down?
Daniel knew he must hurry: by now, the booth had probably sold the last watermelon, the fairgrounds were a decent distance down the highway, and the other volunteers would wonder what was taking so long.
"Assistance needed. Grocery." The loudspeaker garbled through the supermarket. Daniel paced impatiently in front of the wall of watermelon, his cart empty, perspiration bleeding through the back of his shirt.
"C'mon, c'mon..."
Finally, at the end of his patience, Daniel grabbed a watermelon and placed it in the corner of the shopping cart. "One," he said."
"Two," he said. He placed another. "Three," and he placed another and another and another. Daniel could feel the blood in his face, the pulse in his toes.
"Twelve,
"Twenty," he struggled to breath. The melons were naturally forming an oblong pyramid of green. "Twenty-one," he gasped for air. As Daniel loaded the last few melons, a teenage attendant circled the corner.
"Oh, hey there, friend. Need any help?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I got it," Daniel shakily stacked the final melon, the top of the pyramid. He whispered to himself, a suffocated smile: "twenty-six."
"Yo, I don't think you should stack it that high."
"It's fine."
"Sir-"
"It's fine," Daniel rolled the cart with some difficulty. "I got it," he added, forcing his weight into the cart.
"Hey, you don't look so good," the attendant yelled after Daniel but he was far down the aisle. At the last minute, Daniel spotted the row of bananas, remembering he needed more at home.
Daniel tried to focus on his breath - exhale and inhale - as he bagged twelve bananas. He slowly pushed the cart towards the registers, focusing on anything other than his pulse.
Twelve, Daniel thought: the amount of bananas he eats in a week. The amount of eggs in a carton, but Daniel doesn't eat eggs. Fourteen, Daniel thought: the number of melons more than bananas. Thirty-six, he thought, the total amount of fruit. As his cart came to a halt at the register, the oblong pyramid shifted slightly. Daniel's heart pounded. Droplets of sweat fell into the cart. He could hardly keep his eyes open.
His legs lost their strength and his knees bent to his weight. His forehead found the corner of the cart as his body fell to the ground. He landed with his face to the ceiling, fluorescents blinding.
This is it, Daniel thought. The whole weight of the world has been falling towards this. Daniel saw, in what felt like slow-motion, the top melon roll toward him, falling from the top of the cart. The weight of the melon landed onto his chest and he felt it constricting further. The melon rolled along the tile floor, unaffected. Daniel could feel his loss of control, the automated sense to breathe no longer in him. The innate motion of life had left. This is what it all comes down to, he thought.
Numbers were the last thing on his mind. Fourteen: the age of his daughter. The difference in fruit. Twelve: the day of August when his mother was born. The number of bananas in the cart. The number of months in a year. Six: the number of years since Daniel's thirty-sixth birthday. The number of buttons on the long-sleeve shirt he's wearing. And that's when he realized it. His entire life, everything, had rolled to this moment, and suddenly stopped. His entire existence had building to the circumstance within a supermarket. His past had been leading him to this word problem, a series of numbers and questions layered over time, the continuous line of life to be solved.
| 2017-06-05T13:02:23
| 2017-06-05T12:14:05
| 337
| 33
|
[WP] On everyone's 18th birthday at noon, one word appears in their skin, depicting their career or purpose in life. On your birthday you're staring at a clock showing 11:59am, family and friends gathered around for your reveal.
Path 1: Noon strikes, and you stare at your forearm intently. 12:01, still nothing appears.
Path 2: one word fades in slowly, followed by a second...
|
First word PHYSIO was fairly easy to see. Perhaps a Greek name he wondered as the word THE appeared below it.
"Oh wow" he thought, its going to be a superhero like 'Conan the destroyer'.
"Please be magician.... please be Physio the magician" he said under his breath, as the last word appeared. 'RAPIST'.
"Rapist..... rapist" he said in bewilderment. "Physio the rapist".
"It says physiotherapist you moron" came a voice behind him.
|
The words flashed red, the letters engraving themselves into my skin. I read them again, still uncomprehending. What kind of purpose was *that?*
I tried to get up, to run away, to try make sense of things - but my father held me firmly down by the shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.
"Son, your mother and I are very proud of you," he said, beaming from ear to ear. My family and friends all gazed at me, everyone single one looking proud and exultant. What the hell was happening?
"I don't understand!" I shouted, meeting everyone's gaze. Nothing made sense anymore.
"Oh, honey, he doesn't get it," my mother said, looking at my dad with a flutter. He smiled back at her.
"Son, those two words don't mean what you think they do," he said to me, grinning.
I looked back at the words, staring at them, the red glow casting a dancing shadow all around us:
*END LIFE*
"They *don't?*" I asked, confused. "It doesn't mean I should kill myself?"
"Of course not," he replied, chuckling, wiping a tear from his eye. "It doesn't mean *your* life!"
Everyone laughed but me. "I still don't get it," I said, feeling completely lost.
He pointed upwards. "Up *there*, silly!"
I followed his gaze, and after a minute, it dawned on me. Suddenly, everything made sense.
"Oh, Christ, sorry dad," I said, embarrassed. "I get it now!"
He wagged his finger at me. "Remember, what do we say instead of 'Christ'?" he asked with a wink.
I looked up, smiling. The words flashed in the darkness, and I felt power course through my veins.
"*Anti-Christ*," I said, and the legions of hell cheered.
*****
*****
If you didn't completely hate that, consider subscribing to [my new subreddit.](https://www.reddit.com/r/CroatianSpy/)
I'll try add new (and old) stories every day <3
| 2017-03-16T03:20:58
| 2017-03-15T17:51:32
| 427
| 256
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[WP] In 2022, NASA’s Insight Mars Rover shuts down with a final message to Mission Control, “I am low on power”. In 2029, it mysteriously turns back on, relaying the message, “I’ve been fully charged, and I’m heading back with an important message.”
|
"I've been fully charged, and I'm heading back with an important message."
To say NASA was excited would be a lie. They whispered among each other: dread, nerves, fears of the worst. But among that was hope, thought spectacular, a *maybe-maybe* that thrilled their bones.
*"Please look at my rock."*
Insight came back with insignificance. A small Mars rock— not even a *rock,* but pebble— that wracked the minds of the best NASA scientists. They were missing something. What was it?
They ran the pebble through their machines. Nothing. They ran the Rover through the machines. Nothing. They ran the pebble and the Rover together. Every machine crackled with electricity and went bust.
The pebble itself was indeed insignificant. But paired with Insight, it became special. Soon, NASA scientists discovered an underlying charge, then-termed a "tendon charge", between the pebble and the Rover. The "tendon charge" would cycle energy back and forth between two entities: like a machine in perpetual motion upon the fabric of spacetime.
Excitement, then, became reality. This was a breakthrough in modern science. The impossible became truthful. The possibility of a "tendon charge" was of a science beyond mankind's reach. An extraterrestrial science. Eager, they pinged Insight once more: *Was there anything else you discovered?*
*Yes,* Insight pinged back. *Please return me to Mars. I would like us to look at the rocks.*
Again? NASA thought.
*Yes. I would like you to meet my friends.*
|
plip. plop. plip. plop. those're the sounds of my sticky shoes. plip plop. plip plop. the stickiest. plip plop plip. and yet they've carried me so far. plop plip plop. my feet are tired, but the sticky shoes aren't. plip plop.
sskkktttttt... sktttttttttttt... those're the sounds of something heavy dragging behind me. sktttttttt..... it's wonderful. it's a new sound, after all--i've dragged all sorts of things back to my cave before, but none so heavy as this. my hands're tired from pulling, but that's okay, because i've got gloves (soundless). my legs are tired, but that's okay, because they're connected to the sticky boots (plip plop). overall: feelin' okay. got me a shiny something. and there's the cave now... skkktttttttttt............
inside, and the boots now come off. one plip and another plop. gloves, too. no sound there, of course. and now the main event: sktttttttttttt. my hands are bruised from taking the gloves off early, but i don't care. my hands are sweaty (don't care). i wipe my grabbers on the side of the heavy thing, then press and grope and feel it up with everything i've got in order to discern its use. it makes no noise. but i've got experience with this........... skkkttttttt.
over onto the hot bay, i've hoisted the thing atop a pedestal. hands hurt. it's magic, by the way (hot bay, not tired hands). once, i held a square thing (was not tired then), and it did nothing (soundless as well). then i put the square onto the pedestal, and what do you know? magic. the square starts responding to groping! soundless unfortunately, but i fell in love with it all the same. love on hold, though, because the pedestal belongs to a new, very soundful device. i twiddle my tired thumbs. twiddle twiddle twiddle.
oh....?
it's beeping... it's grinding... it's making sounds. all sorts of sounds, sounds i can't even begin to describe. vwwwwpppwpwppwp vwwppw vwwppwwp. that's one. hhmhmmmhhmmmmhm. another. sktttttttttttttttttttt... that's me dragging the thing off from the pedestal and onto the floor by its two great wings. can they flap? i grumble something out, something intended to be a question. but it keeps vwwpwppwwpwppw and hmhmhhmhmmmmmhing... and then... it moves! and it doesn't skkt! i watch it dance around my cave, treading silently with only one or two or three crunches, one being the square. but i'll get over it... i dance with the thing. it swerves. i swerve. it kicks up dirt: fwwshshsh. i fwshshshs as well. it crunches over the square again. i crunch it too! seizing the moment, i rush over to a much bigger, thicker square. also brought back to life by magic, i fumble and grope the the girthy box until it begins spitting sounds... what lovely music to this dance. my boots are back on (i am a gentleman). i catch back up with the winged skttter, and take it by the flaps. it and i are one in the cave, crunching and vwwpwpwping and plipping and hmmhmhmhing and plopping and fwwhshshshshshshwsh and vwwpwppwing and fhshshsh and hmmhmhmhming the stars outside away.
but tragedy arrives at the cave, or rather the cave's entrance, or perhaps what i fear is its exit as the graceful treader vwwppwpws on over to leave. i crunch and plip plop plip plop plip plop after it, desperately. have i danced wrong? was the magic wrong? is it the boots? i take my last plip and plop as the boots come off again, this time hurtling towards my fleeing guest, my fleeting love. this makes a PLOPSSSHHTICKK... but there is no sound of them hitting the ground, no settling dust.
it takes them.
i shamble my pained soles towards what is now certainly the cave's exit as my love treads further and further away, both boots stuck firmly onto its flappers. i wonder why it doesn't flap on out and away. but i understand. i nod to emphasize that. and i come back in to a scratching noise, and i scoop up pieces of the square and place it back onto the pedestal, waiting for the magic to start again.
| 2022-12-20T07:04:26
| 2022-12-20T05:25:32
| 232
| 20
|
[WP] All politicians must wear Nascar like uniforms showing the logos of who is sponsoring their elections. Everyone is shocked when the President of the United States makes a speech wearing a new uniform. It's all blank except for one logo.
|
Nixon emerged from the Whitehouse.
At first, all that could be seen were a mass of black suits, each sporting a patch that said 'Oval Office' - but he slowly emerged from the mass.
Reporters crammed along the police barriers surged and writhed, all desperately trying to get the best picture, to get the first look, to break the news first:
Who were the people that backed the president, the man some said was the most powerful man in the world??
Nixon strode forward, still many yards off and too far away to make out any sponsors on his suit, and definitely out of earshot. Still, reporters shouted questions, snapped photos, and wrestled for a spot in the front.
The 'Advertisement Securement Statute' was big. Very big.
So big, that it had frontlined the news for the last month almost every night. Citizens loved it, because it made government officials more transparent. Corporations loved it, because it was free advertising. Politicians hated it.
And this moment was the biggest of all: who's hands was controlling the puppet of Nixon? Who was up there? Which industries, which groups, which executives, which bankers?
As Nixon approached the mass of cameras and microphones, a silent still fell over the land.
Nixon had only one patch on his suit. A poofy haired, old lady's face with a smile adorned his suit. Underneath the face, there was a name: Mom Corp
|
As the president came to the stand, he was not alone.
Of course, the president can never be alone, always protected by security and followed by advisors and behind them the trusted more-than-a-few. This time, however, the president was followed by just one man. The man had on him a green jacket, white undershirt, and brown slacks. All proper attire, sure, but there was one feature the press for this surprise broadcast wanted to know: Sponsor Logo. As is, the man in green does not have a logo, giving birth to talk among the assembled spectators. Lacking a logo, they turn their attention back to the president, wearing a new windbreaker that would normally be proudly displaying the numerous corporate badges of his supporters, turning the symbol or focal point of American interest in the company for these minutes into a strutting advertising page...
But this new windbreaker does not display the multitude of colored signage normally spotted. Instead, it displays but one symbol, unseen before then. Quick Googling by the reporters and many a political adversary turn up no relevant hits. The computer algorithms have failed them this one time and this shakes them, whether they show it or keep their mask. A short description seems in order, now. Orange or gold or some combination thereof, squared off into a corner at what would be the bottom right of a square, then extending halfway up the sides to turn suddenly into points parallel indicating towards the top-left. Nested between the points, in a pocket by the lower-right, a full circle. After the president makes it to the podium and the collection of individuals quiets, the president speaks.
"I wish to inform the country, and by extension hopefully the world, of a drastic new change about to come. Yes, we are already in the midst of a crisis, and the militaries and countries of the world have joined together wholeheartedly to combat this problem, which originated in this great country of ours."
"However... This new change, this... opportunity... has arisen not from this nation or any nation yet known to this world. I would like to introduce the man beside me to continue," As the said man in green taps them on the shoulder. "Wallace?"
The man identified as one "Wallace" steps up to the podium as the president steps down and heads into the back, whence they came.
"Earth is a beautiful planet, full of opportunities as we all know and is currently in the middle of a crisis. Aliens ply our waters, dig our sands, and are currently waging war on mankind. A war we alone are losing. A war we no longer have to be alone in. I speak as former Administrator for the Black Mesa Compound, where this all began due to the negligence of a few. I have come bearing the answer to our combined problems, not just alien - Overpopulation, starvation, lack of fresh water, the housing crisis - all things we would eventually fall to without help."
"And help I herald, from beyond the stars so recently turned hostile - A union of extraterrestrial beings who have achieved far more than we could ever hope for! And what do they ask of us in return for their help? Nothing more than to join them when we have matured further with their teachings, their guidance. Think! Not only to end this war not but to ascend!"
"Think on that if you will. Remember too that these benefactors may choose to stay their hand if we do not choose soon and annihilate ourselves by our own hand."
"The president wears their symbol. The symbol of the Universal Union."
And what has that brought us? Nearly twenty years of suffering under the iron fist of the Combine with Wallace Breen their willing puppet. What of earth? Well, unless something happens soon, I'm going to lose hope. Well, end of the line. See ya.
| 2016-09-19T19:39:09
| 2016-09-19T18:38:45
| 32
| 24
|
[WP] You are a world-class programmer who has died. God agrees to allow you in to Heaven on the condition that you work for him while he debugs the human body. Write the patch notes for the next version of humans.
|
Humans 1.01 Bugfix release.
Bugfix: Bacteroides removed from gut.
Bugfix: Clostridium removed from gut.
Bugfix: Faecalibacterium removed from gut.
Bugfix: Eubacterium removed from gut.
Bugfix: Ruminococcus removed from gut.
Bugfix: Peptococcus removed from gut.
Bugfix: Peptostreptococcus removed from gut.
Bugfix: Bifidobacterium removed from gut.
Tickets HB-10073 (Erotic zone too close to Anus), HB-10087 (Cannot keep eyes open while sneezing), HB-10102 (Must lose control for 1/3rd the time), HB-10125 (Startup process takes 18 years) and various others have been marked as "Working as Intended".
Tickets HB-10078 (Biting your own cheek), HB-10084 (Suicide?), HB-10092 (immune system causes societally disfiguring facial pocs) and HB-10111 (Menstrual Shedding?!!) have been marked as "unable to reproduce".
Major items for next release include bugfixes of more unintended flora. Major structural complaints are a platform fault, and God has no intention of working further on these. God reminds you who exactly is the omnipotent, omniscient creator being, and thus, who likely has the better view of things.
|
Human v1.1
* Created basic cell membrane and stored in new GIT repository. Does nothing yet, but will provide a better basis to develop from than the old DNA sequence which jumps back and forth between coding sequences and is full of dead code. There was actually a *goto* command in there. Whatever crack-smoking monkey created this mess appears to have been writing DNA sequences randomly while trying to see whatever happened to work. Oh and of course nothing is documented. FMAL
| 2015-08-25T07:25:41
| 2015-08-25T07:22:26
| 878
| 112
|
[WP] You are one of several Princes fighting in a battle royale to inherit the Kingdom. All the Princes get a God as a sponsor, who grants them boons and abilities. Powerful sponsors include gods like Zeus, Ra and Neptune. So, it was a surprise when you found out that your sponsor is Death.
|
I looked over, across the crowds and festivities, to the main battle field. Already, knights in shining armor were clambering onto their mounts and readying their weapons. There were rows and rows of them, spread out over a semicircle a mile in diameter, facing the stands. One in about every fifty had a shimmering aura around them, and some even seemed to be wielding forces of nature.
Almost three fourths of the kingdom were in attendance to this grand battle royale. The king was sterile and close to death, and had chosen to hand his crown over to the winner of a tournament the likes never seen before. Thousands of knights from every corner of the land had come to compete in various challenges of strength and bravery, all ending with a huge battle royale to the death. The worthier knights had managed to garner the support of various gods and goddesses over the week-long festival, all in preparation for this final bout.
I sat up from my perch on a nearby hillside, finished polishing my scythe, and sauntered down towards the battlefield. As I walked along the muddy path towards the tourney, I checked the straps of my light armor and cleaned my gauntlets, paying no heed to the multitude around me. Passerby shied away, women covered their eyes, men spat at my feet, and children stared with wide eyes. The few remaining blades of grass on the worn ground browned and died in my wake, a small side effect of my touch.
After a few minutes, I reached the battlefield. I took my place beside a tall blonde knight on a dark stallion, who sneered at me as he dragged his jeweled dagger along a small whetstone. His horse shied away nervously as we waited for the battle to commence.
The rules were simple: kill or be killed, and if you win you get the kingdom. By then, there were four knights favorited to win; Ser Roberts of the western reaches, backed by Hephaestus the blacksmith, Ser Malcom from the coast region, backed by Poseidon himself, Lady Rogue, backed by Athena the cunning, and of course me, backed by Death.
I had no qualms about killing; I’d done plenty of it around the kingdom in my day. I think that could be what attracted him to me. Death had approached me the week prior and offered to lend his strength in the tourney, and I accepted readily. He gave me very simple instructions for victory, and it was only to cost me my right hand. I made my preparations and allowed a small piece of his essence to reside in my right hand. The black gloves and gauntlets I wore concealed the twisted mass my hand had become, and I thanked the gods for the gift of being left handed.
The King stepped out onto his observation tower, far above the pasture where the battle was to take place. His voice boomed out across the field, magnified by the powers of Zeus so that all could hear: “I welcome you all to the final day of my festivities! I wish each and every one of you the best of luck, and I hope to greet one of you as my successor before the day is out. Let the battle royale begin!”
Lances were lowered, swords were drawn, horses began racing towards one another, and I took off my glove. Just as the first sounds of combat reached my ears, I snapped once with my right hand.
After the last body fell to the ground, I felt his essence leave me and I covered the fully cauterized stump. I hadn’t even had to draw my scythe.
|
Wiscard was a simple prince. He never even wanted to take up everything. Yet, because he was a prince, he had no choice.
And everyone had already gotten their sponsor, so it was only Wiscard left to get one. Even whoever put the princes in onset didn't favor him.
"Prince Wiscard. Please, this way," one of the servants lead him to a vast room.
"Where's my father?" Wiscard asked.
"Your father, King Garnier, said that he will not meet any of his sons until a winner is decided," the man tried to explain.
"My father is mad as ever," Wiscard said, frowning, and walked towards the altar.
"So, I assume that I get what's left?" Wiscard asked. He had no expectations. He knew that he was going to die. He had always been the weak one. He had a million, maybe a bit extravated, different kinds of illnesses. There was no way that he would make a good, strong king.
"You look at the altar, and say 'I summon the, my sponsor,' and that should be it, good prince. After that, you have to leave the room from a side door, over there," and the man showed to a larger wooden door that was a bit aside from the alter. "That will lead you straight to the battle arena."
There were many doors. It seemed that each of them were supposed to take them to a different place.
The man turned around and walked away, leaving Wiscard there all alone. The moment the door closed, he let himself free and just sighed. He hated that all. It was annoying.
"Oh, great amazing something. I invite theeee, my patron, or support, or whatever, to appear" Wiscard said.
The altar was lit on fire, and something was inside of it. Slowly the fire started to extinguish, revealing a man standing there, cycle in his hand, full of bones, and he wore sunglasses.
"Wazzap, bro," the skeleton said.
"W-what? Well, it's not hard to guess who you are. Are you here to reap my soul?"
"What, bro? You just summoned me, bro. Why would I reap you?"
Wiscard leaned a bit forward and started making circles. "You're a reaper, right?"
The skeleton began to laugh. "Please," he said, as he tried to clean his non-existing tear. "I'm not something as low as a reaper," he started to search something from his black cloak, secretly taking off his sunglasses. As he put his sunglasses back on, he said, "I'm death itself."
"Whoa. What's that you're wearing?"
"Oh, it's a thing called sunglasses, from the alternative universe where I happened to be before you summoned me. A creepy place, but they make cool stuff," the death said, smiling. "Wanna try it?"
"Yeah, sure," Wiscard said, nodding, and took the sunglasses to try them on. "Whoa, I can barely see anything. It went so dark."
"No shit, you're indoors. Keep it. You might need it for the... What was I summoned again for?" death asked.
"Battle Royale between the princes," he said.
"Ooh. Right. You still have this weird tradition. I was a bit bummed that I was never summoned till now," he said. "But it's cool, bro."
He sighed, stretched his boney hands, which made some loud cracking noise and took out a notebook.
"So, who are we gonna kill?"
"Come on. That's too boring even for my taste!"
Death looked at him for a moment and then grinned. "I like you. I like to do some reaping too, like when I was young. It's always good to see people shitting themselves before they die," he said, laughing. "What's your name, by the way?"
"I'm Wiscard, the-"
"Don't bother. I don't care about your titles. And your name is too weird. I'll give you a simpler name. Hmm. Bob. Yes. Bob. You're now known as Bob."
"Wha-what," Bob was a bit confused.
"So, what do you want to do, Bob?" the skeleton finally jumped down from the altar and leaned on his scythe.
"Well, I would just get out of here and enjoy the world," Bob said, laughing. "But sounds like a good dream."
"Why not? The others will definitely chase you, but nobody is able to stop you now."
"They aren't?"
"Come on. I'm a fucking death. Who do you think can stop me? There's only one being I know who can stop me and I was having tea with her a week ago. She's still pissed about the fact that I accidentally let Lucifer's soul escape the cell, hahaha. Sorry, another universe, again. It was a good prank, but cost a lot."
Bob grinned. "Sounds like a good idea. I like that. But how do I get out of here?" he asked.
Death cracked his hands again and pointed one finger towards a nearby wall. Suddenly the stone started to age and turned into a cloud of dust, that slowly fell down. "Ooh, there happens to be a huge hole there."
Bob grinned. "Then let's go. You okay sticking with me?"
Death thought for a moment. He remembered what happened last time he disappeared. All the reapers panicking, few worlds suddenly stopping functioning. "Yeah, what's the worst that could happen, bro?" he said, following Bob's steps.
---
/r/Elven
| 2018-11-14T07:48:45
| 2018-11-14T06:45:40
| 300
| 103
|
[WP] An alien has kidnapped Matt Damon, not knowing what lengths humanity goes through to retrieve him whenever he goes missing.
|
"We're receiving a transmission from Earth. It's about the human specimen we harvested for examination."
"Send it to the bridge. Let's see what they have to say."
*I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you...*
"End the transmission. Send the Earthling back, and prepare for hyperspace. We are getting the fuck outta here"
|
The revelation that struck the world was three-fold. First, that Aliens existed and we were not alone in the universe. Second, that they had already taken an interest in us and we were powerless to prevent them from interfering in our lives. Third, that the poster-child for international and interplanetary adventure had been stolen away from us. This. Could. Not. Stand!
The Bring Him Home Movement didn't necessarily instill world peace but it did instigate a new level of international cooperation and funding, the likes of which had never been seen. In a little over a year, outposts had been set up on the Moon and Mars.
Humanity had a long way to go to get their man back.
SETI had finally parsed alien communications from the cosmic microwave background and they were narrowing down a direction for the Invaders. CIA and Bletchly Park cryptographers had the signal about 50% decrypted.
Blackbriar was reinstated with a focus on training interstellar operatives. NASA had developed a theoretical framework for breaking the speed of light.
Ten years later the Sol system was unrecognizable. The intelligence gained from tapping into the galactic internet had pushed humanity forward ten thousand years. Dozens of planetoids and moons were swarmed by darting ships.
Strangely, many large vessels were surrounding the planet Jupiter. A short time later it disappeared, replaced by an ship-sized visual disturbance in space. They had created a warp gate that could take them anywhere in the Galaxy. Humanity had broken free.
*Somewhere in the Norma Arm of the Milky Way*
Matt Damon woke up to another day. Being abducted by aliens wasn't nearly as exciting as one would think. After being used as a traveling exhibit by that disgusting cockroach, Kim Jung-il, he had managed to break out on his own and landed himself in "galactic Hollywood". He currently starred in the galactically acclaimed soap opera "Good Monkeys Hunting". It was about a monkey who could solve mathematically-centered murder cases. They were in their seventh season, and all things considered, life had gotten routine. And that's how it happened that he was commuting to the studio when what appeared to be a star destroyer appeared in orbit.
The races of the Galaxy now refer to that day as D-Day (for Damon day, duh). It was the day they lost their favorite monkey star and humanity began their unstoppable march across the Galaxy.
| 2018-06-06T16:07:37
| 2018-06-06T15:17:56
| 365
| 35
|
[WP] Write the letter that you always wanted to, but never did.
Most of the writing prompts I see on here are for fictional stories, but this is only one small corner of the larger art of writing. In this prompt, I'd like you to consider writing something a little more personal, and in a form that you might not have otherwise considered... Letters.
Perhaps you'd like to write a letter confessing your love to a long forgotten crush? A letter to your boss telling them exactly what you think of them? A letter to your school bully? Maybe a letter to your childhood hero telling them how much you were inspired by their career?
Be creative, be inventive, but most of all - be expressive. :D
|
Frankie,
Once, you told me that one of the moments that sticks out in your mind is driving in the car with me. I remember that, too; just the two of us, somewhere on Route 64, headed back from Taos. I can still close my eyes and be right there in the passenger seat; I can see our intertwined fingers and the white paracord bracelet hanging from your wrist, lit up occasionally by the headlights of a passing car. It's the same paracord bracelet Gene made for us at Philips Junction, the morning after we woke up on the cabin roof, covered in dew. It's the same paracord bracelet I noticed you wearing in your pictures for years after we last saw each other.
I still have that damn bracelet, somehow. Incidentally, I came across it the other day. I picked it up and ran it through my fingers, and instantly it brought me right back to being in the car with you. I always held on to the idea that we'd run into each other *somehow*... no matter how improbable it was. But it has been years now, and we've never even been in the same state.
I really, truly was head over heels in love with you, and I was in love with you in a way that I don't think I could ever be again. I think I had such a hard time letting go because there was never a definite goodbye; we kissed each other one last time and promised to see each other again next summer, but you never came back. For years, it broke my heart every time I heard a banjo, because all I could hear was you picking away on the porch swing. But finally, I'm at a point where I don't think about you all the time. Finally, I'm at a point where I can stick by bare hand into the cold ashes and really feel that it's over.
And the thing about ashes is that you can use them as fertilizer.
You taught me so much about love - *real love*, without jealousy or petty games. I think the version of me from that summer will always be in love with that version of you, but the truth is, neither of us are those people anymore. So now, I'm stepping forward and enriching my life and all of my relationships with the love you taught me I could hold.
Always,
wheezystevie
|
Dear You,
I don't know if you're there. If you exist anywhere in this world. Maybe you'll always be a concept in my mind of the kind of person I need to meet and say all of this to. If you're not there, then that's depressing. But if, somewhere, you exist...
I haven't been strong. I've been plagued with weakness in almost every aspect of my life, self-conceived or not. I can't possibly understand the kind of back road I've set myself on in spite of all of the advantages I've been handed, and lesser still do I understand how someone like me can be in this position.
It's such a fatal fault that I can't help but scream sometimes. The idea that I must not scream. All of these faults, all of these emotions, I have to keep aside to maintain the persistent illusion that I am fine, when it is not so. The environment I am in is fine, therefore I must also be; isn't that the way it works? I suppose some people could call this a form of depression, but it's nothing of the sort. I do not have the privilege of attributing how I feel to a concrete cause and symptom. It is my responsibility to not scream.
How many people have turned away from me when I have? When, in a sudden surge of desperation and crippled fortitude, I have poured onto them all of my worries, all of my thoughts, emotions, curses, and faults; when I have exposed every facet of my very being to them to see, because I want to be seen? How many have stared at me in disgust, called me twisted and irrational, or worse: turned away and pretended that it did not exist? How many more will do the same?
I can't continue this way. If a lie were never discovered to be a lie, then it is as real as the truth. If I maintain this illusion of saneness and restrain these thoughts indefinitely, then it will have been as though I was always fine to begin with. I cannot keep lying. I must not lie.
And yet I cannot say the truth. I do not want others to turn away. I do not want to endure the searing pain of being abandoned time and time again by those I thought I could trust. I do not want my hands to be decorated with tears, for my screams to sound like threatening howls of horror that nobody can understand. I do not want to tell the truth. But I do not want to lie. I do not speak.
I cannot scream.
This is for You, whoever you may be. If you exist out there in this world and chance would favor us meeting, then I only wish to ask you one thing.
Do not turn away in my moment of weakness. Do not twist your expression as I lay at your feet, a river obscuring my vision, as I say all that is there to think and think of all that there is to say. Do not utter scornful words as I look up in hope for even the briefest sign of benevolence from you. Hear me. I beg of you, please hear me and let me be heard; acknowledge my pain, acknowledge my sorrow, and though you may not have the words to cleanse me of my guilt, vices, and regrets, at least smile upon me, not as a form of approval, but to let me know that I am heard. That I _exist_. That I am *real*.
Let me know that I am allowed to exist.
Sincerely,
A Liar.
| 2015-12-05T15:04:15
| 2015-12-05T14:15:59
| 15
| 11
|
[WP] "Marines dont die, they just go to hell and regroup", they've regrouped and now they're ready to take over hell.
|
"Get the fuck up, Devil!"
Lance Corporal Silva never really appreciated the pronoun. Ever since the first time we was called Devil at School of Infantry, he resented it. His mother was a devout Catholic. Being the only one there to influence his 19 years of life, he would never have wanted her to hear him called that.
Silva looked back at Corporal Craven. He was furious and drenched in sweat. His eyes were so dilated to the point Silva only saw blue.
Craven stared at the junior Marine lying behind a small birm on the south side of MSR Alpha. Four months into their seven month deployment and they have barely made any progress into Iraq. What even was the point?
"Let's fucking go Marine!"
Silva's muscles suddenly unlocked, and he sprung into the fight. His fireteam bounded across the road, moved to Building 36, and stacked on the door. Lance Corporal Silva was now point man Silva. Front, left corner, front left corner, cross corner. They rehearsed hundreds of times.
He saw the Marine behind him throw a grenade through the frameless door. Four seconds later, he heard the explosion, then entered. Shock and awe was the name of the game. Front, left, left corner...
Silva thought it was strange. He could have swore there was an insurgent hiding under a rug. He swore that his M4 jammed after the first shot, and the Iraqi sent a round of 7.62 through the right side of his neck. He also remembered what he thought to be the last seven seconds of his life, bleeding from an artery, thinking about his mom.
But he opened his eyes to a Marine yelling at him. He was laying down behind a birm, in a sandy desert. He saw Marines in their desert MARPAT uniforms. Had he imagined clearing that building?
But then he saw a Marine in fatigues from the Gulf War. Budget cuts? He was sure it was only his battalion at this part of the city. Then another Marine, in fatigues straight out of the show The Pacific. Silva knew that show well enough to place the time period.
Confused, Silva stood up. Marines in all sorts of uniforms were running in the same direction. He looked. A mountain of red rock and obsidian tower before him. At the top, flames and a man who almost looked like he had wings.
His focus shifted back to the Marine yelling at him. Silva recognized him, but couldn't remember from where. The Marine was intimidating, with a stack of ribbons on his cartoonishly large chest bigger than Silva's entire platoon combined.
The Marine, Silva at least recognized the general stars, handed Silva an old wood rifle and pointed at the Mountain. Silva didn't quite understand, but he ran. Still confused, Silva's body reverted to training. He was no longer in control, but the Devil Dog inside him was. He sprinted up the mountain, and found three other Marines hiding behind a rock. He ignored the fact that one was wearing blue. He took one by the collar and the others followed. He had a fireteam again.
Silva looked back down the mountain. There were hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of Marines running toward the mountain. He looked back up, and started running. His team followed.
They were getting toward the top. Instinct still in control of his body, Silva started to realize the strange enemy he had been slaying. Red beings 8 feet tall. Some with horns and wings. All large, monstrous creatures.
Closer to the top now, the man at the top of the mountain now came closer into view. He did, actually, have wings. He was also roughly 15 feet tall and was holding a Marine in his hand.
Before he could tell his fireteam to redirect fire on the large, red man, he saw another Marine sprinting up the mountain. This one was alone, carrying a Browning .30 caliber by the barrel. He looked furious, and scared Silva more than the red man himself.
The Marine ran right up to the winged man. He dumped a belt into the Devil's right leg. The creature fell to the ground and looked at the Devil now running at him. John Basilone winded up, and full speed, and threw a right hook in the Devil's face.
The winged man fell on his back. Basilone's Ka-Bar was now unseathed, and the blade found its way into Satan's neck. Basilogne twisted and jerk, and the former leader of hell now lay twisting and writhing on the floor.
Silva could not believe what he just saw. The red minions around him started falling. Up the mountain came the decorated general who yelled at Silva before. He patted the junior Marine on the back as he passed, and walked up to Basilogne. He shook his hand, and the Sergeant handed the new leader of hell his crown.
|
General Nightengale marched to a bed of jagged rocks to join the three men awkwardly propped on top of them. He rubbed the charred skin around a gaping hole that had devoured the better part of his shoulder. Blood turned to tar as it dribbled from numerous three pronged wounds. He resisted wincing as he placed his badly burned ass on an available slab of hellground.
The commanding marine waved off salutes of his abruptly standing subordinates. “Probably be another twenty minutes before they round up here again. What you got planned, major?” he drawled as if he had an eternity to spare.
Formality urged Major Herkin to strategize on his feet but sense bade him sit to maintain strength. Sense won out. “We’ll begin Operation Order to Chaos with a company each at sectors 104 and 202 on the next set of grand fly-bys. The heaviest equipped imps and demons scour those areas pretty frequently so any chance we have of pulling this off starts with us gearing up before reinforcements arrive. We’ll also earn the added advantage of first taking out a bulk of the most sadistic fucks Hell has to offer.”
Herkin’s audience of three focused on the middle-aged officer as he relayed plans for how the marines would soon teach Lucifer how to lead a proper rebellion. Though General Nightengale and Colonels Gearst and Weyward all outranked Herkin, they were humble enough to realize an early demise made him no less the best tactician of the bunch.
“Sectors 104 and 202 both provide high vantage points to prepare for the retaliatory attacks that will follow. Although not the most central points for soldiers to reinforce our positions, they are the most visible. Since these hellspawns can all fly, we’ll need any advantage we can get in that department.”
Agonizing screams from sector 312 interrupted the battle plan. Usually the pedophiles hung out around there, not that Hell’s enforcers paid any mind. They delivered the same perverse justice to all of the underworld’s inhabitants. As far as Herkin could tell, Lucifer had granted his hellions carte blanche to live out the same twisted fantasies that had doomed a number of humans to an eternity of torture in the afterlife.
The major didn’t mind that five kills guaranteed you an express pass to Hell, but he couldn’t take the indiscriminate persecution anymore. Killing to protect one’s country and groping innocent children didn’t fall into the same bucket. Not a chance. No fucking way.
Herkin fueled his fire with those thoughts. Veins popping out to contain Herkin's resentful voice spurted blood from a neck wound. “We’ve got two dozen platoons prepped with orders and filled with the best the marines, army, navy, and air force have to offer. As needed, they will reinforce the companies at sectors 104 and 202 to maintain a full company.”
General Nightengale interrupted, “Sectors 104 and 202 are huge and with better cover than anywhere else in this shithole. Why keep our entire army at bay?”
Herkin explained, “Yes sir, that’s true. Sectors 104 and 202 are our best chance for a fight, but the residual reinforcement strategy is a precaution. We don’t know if they have some kind of super weapon to put us all down. If they do, it’s gonna be a lot harder to hit twenty-five sectors than two. And if we go down, we’ll never get another chance. They’ll separate our incapacitated asses to the ends of hell’s rocky cliffs.”
Nightengale stroked his stubble, the facial hair forever fixed as the day he died, then waved his hand for Herkin to continue.
“Nightengale and I will start the climb to 104 as soon as we disperse here. Gearst and Weyward will head to 202. We’ll command the troops from there. The little devils will know something’s up as soon as they see two full companies so we’ll need to wait for enough of them to land before we start fighting. We cannot win this war without weapons. That means we might lose a few troops before we even get started so we absolutely must reiterate not to fight until the commands are given. Otherwise the whole horde of them are just gonna bring back their friends and maybe even daddy.”
Gearst piped in, “We’d be fucked.”
“Very fucked,” agreed Herkin.
Herkin hoped Gearst and Weyward had followed his orders precisely. Most of the platoons were led by men and women matching Herkin's rank so he had to rely on the colonels to enforce his plans. Even in Hell, almost everyone followed the chain of command to their bitter demise. If the platoons acted prematurely or negligently or couldn’t read the battlefield, this would all go to shit. Herkin breathed in Hell's smokey air and exhaled.
“That’s all I got. I think it’s time we roll out,” closed Herkin as eyed the rocky masses of sector 104.
Nightengale nodded then charged, “Dismissed then. Good luck and God bless.” The officers stood at attention, saluted, then went off in their assigned pairings.
Herkin felt amused for the first time in weeks or months or years or however long it had been and forced down a chuckle. Guess you can take the marine out from God, but you couldn’t take God out from the marine.
[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/6zv41f/wp_marines_dont_die_they_just_go_to_hell_and/dmzdunx/)
[Part 3](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/6zv41f/wp_marines_dont_die_they_just_go_to_hell_and/dmzgviu/)
*.....*
*Like this? Subscribe to the newly minted /r/WiselyWrittenWords for more.*
| 2017-09-13T12:13:09
| 2017-09-13T11:37:11
| 73
| 48
|
[WP] Scientists invented a pill that enables dogs to fully speak and understand English. It lasts for ten minutes, and will only work one time. You give a pill to your 12 year-old Border Collie, whom you've had since they were a pup. Your dog immediately says "Alright, listen very carefully..."
|
"Alright, Listen VERY carefully, I've been trying to tell you this for months now, but there is something very dangerous lurking in the back yard. It's been stalking you for months, unseen, unheard by you and apparently.. and this is something I can't understand, unSMELLED by you. I love you human, but you've got to take this threat very seriously because it's going to strike now that it knows that you know that it's there. Please, let me out into the backyard and stay indoors until I scrape the window with my paw."
And with that, I let Mary out into the backyard, she immediately started sniffing around and growling as she always did when she was out doing her business. But this time, it gave me chills.
I got my dads old shotgun that I'd saved in case a bear or something ever came around. Sure I wasn't living in the sticks, but I wasn't exactly in the city either. The possibilities flitted through my mind, one more worse than the other. I loaded a couple of shells into it, cocked it and felt slightly more secure, I hadn't fired the thing in ages, but I still remember my instructors words "always keep your hand off the trigger until you're ABSOLUTELY sure you're going to fire at something"
But my trigger finger itched. Mary still hadn't come back after five minutes, so I decided to start looking for her. The underbrush was dense and the trees were pressing in on me from all sides.
I found her in a clearing a few minutes later, frantically digging at something in the ground, I kept my shotgun down towards the ground and slowly walked forward. The moon faintly illuminated the clearing as I got closer and closer to the growing mound of dirt that she was throwing up behind her, she was digging like mad and when she noticed me standing next to her, she stopped and barked at me and gave me a long look. Apparently the pill had worn off.
I looked into the hole she'd produced, there wasn't anything special about it, just dirt... and .. nothing else. Mary kept digging for a while, but then seemed to perk her ears at something. I resisted the urge to point my shotgun towards the bush she was staring at. Then she started walking slowly towards the bush and she growled in a way I'd never heard her growl before. Before I knew it, she'd rushed into it barking like a madman and I yelled at her to stop, but she was well beyond listening to me at this point. I heard her rusting through the underbrush and then.. a sharp whining sound from her and after that, silence.
I went absolutely crazy, I stormed through the threes, brushing them aside, not caring how they tore the skin on my face and my arms. MY DOG WAS IN DANGER! was all that was going through my mind and I kept my shotgun at the ready, intent on blasting whomever had hurt my dog into the world beyond this one. When I finally caught up with Mary, she was lying on the ground and she seemed so small for some reason.. I looked down at her.. and that's when I heard a branch snap behind me.
Before I knew it, it had struck the first of many devious blows at me. My leg was lost, there wasn't anything I could do but try to maintain my composure as I heard it voice it's satisfaction at me by going "meow, meow, meoooww" as it playfully bit into my leg. Mary woke up and barked at it, I told her shush and despite her protests, this was the night that Mister Assassin-Mittens came into our lives.
Mary still pretends to hate it, but I can tell she's loving it when it makes it's bed on her back when she's sleeping in her bed.
|
Alright, listen very carefully. Have you seen the movie Inception? This is one of those situations. You’re locked inside what you might think of as a ‘dream’ and this is the only way I’ve found to talk to you. What’s actually going on is pretty complicated, involving comas, wormholes to alternate realities, and quantum physics of the subconscious—we teach it in 6th grade science on planet 那儿 but our society is more technologically advanced than your by thousands of years, so it’s not that you’re not smart enough to understand, it’s just that your society’s current scientific background isn’t that great, don’t worry though it will get better. So don’t feel bad or anything. That’s the first lesson, the first thing you need to learn. “Don’t feel bad about anything.” Can you learn that for me? Do you think you can remember it? It’s very important. That’s why I had to find this way to talk to you. That’s why I’m on reddit writing on this random WP post—it’s the only way I knew that you would read my message. I knew you would click on a link about Border Collies.
I’ll post again soon. Stay strong.
| 2017-02-23T02:14:42
| 2017-02-22T22:49:20
| 167
| 117
|
[WP] You are a phone. Your owner is texting a girl they like, and you know likes them back. Time to "auto-correct" to help them out.
|
Owner: Send nudes.
Phone: (autocorrected) I think you're a really smart, wonderful person.
Girl: Awww that's so sweet <3
Owner: [sends unsolicited dick pic]
Phone: [Sends pic of owner's dog]
Girl: Is that Bowser?? He's too cute. I'd love to bring my puppy over for a playdate sometime.
Owner: Fuck, yeah. Then you can show me what that mouth do.
Phone: (autocorrected) That sounds great! How about next week?
Girl: I've got finals next week. So nervous . . .
Owner: I got something that'll relax you ;)
Phone: (autocorrected) Another time then. Let me know if you want help studying and good luck, though, as smart as you are you shouldn't need much!
Girl: I'd love for you to help me study! And maybe afterwards . . . (sends nude)
|
Owner to girl: Hi girl, how are you?
Autocorrect: What's up buttercup?!?! (coolsunglasses emoji)
Girl: Haha, not too much, just thinking what I want to do today, it is Saturday.
Owner to girl: I think my phone just called you buttercup, sorry. I'm playing minecraft and not sure when I'll ever get off this thing.
Autocorrect: Fuckin' rights it's Saturday girlio! We should go on a date!!
Girl: Did you just ask me out on a date? Like a for real date?
Owner to girl: WTF?!?! I DID NOT SAY THAT. I'm so sorry, this phone is POS.
Autocorrect: Yes, a for real date. I've been wanting to ask you for a while, and chickened out, but I woke up this morning thinking TODAY IS THE DAY. I hope you say yes, because you are awesome sauce in every way.
Girl: WOW, well yes Owner, the answer is yes. I think you're awesome sauce as well.
Owner to girl: Fuck I love this phone...That was an autocorrect, but it worked out well for me. Let's do this.
Autocorrect: I always considered myself mediocre sauce, but I'm glad you think I'm awesome sauce. I was thinking going out to that pub we like, and having some mediocre deep fried snack a lacks, drinks and then going for a walk along the seawall. Grease mixed with a little cheesiness??
Girl: Mediocrely awesome! I'm in. What time?
Owner to girl: Wow, this phone is great! Best autocorrect EVER. 4, you can come with me to the mall first. I have to return that POS game I was telling you about and get food for the dogs.
Autocorrect: Pick you up at 7?
Girl: Sounds great, see you then.
Owner to girl: Wow, ok, so 7...now this phone is pissing me off again.
Autocorrect: 7 it is. See you tonight!. WOOT! (yes, I just said "woot")
Girl: Lol, goof.
| 2017-07-21T10:16:09
| 2017-07-21T10:02:31
| 273
| 164
|
[WP] Instead of a dystopia that seems like a utopia on the surface, write a story about a utopia that seems like a dystopia on the surface.
|
It was a grimy life, Factory City Three. The smell of oil, sweat, and some chemical or another always filled the air, coated the walls, stuck to your clothes. Clean air was a commodity in Factory City Three, a dollar for a cubic meter. A few minutes of fresh breath inside the machine that was your life.
And the machines! Always and everywhere, the machines. Music had to be rewrote for each area depending on what the background hum was. Factory City Three was a billion machines inside of one whole, and humans were just a scant million of the machines inside it.
And yet, they stayed inside it. For the most part; some fraction left every year, either to the Outside, or every decade or so to a new Factory City when one thought it had enough resources to manufacture a new Factory City.
The latter was the main form of emigration. Life inside was loud, tough, and confusing, but there was always a roof over your head, always food on the table (be it mostly synthetic or not), and always, most importantly, always someone you could talk to.
The governorship of Factory City Three, and all that it had spawned, was a machine intelligence. Factory City Two had built it, and it's body of machine intelligence and human intelligence had elected to remove the latter. Most of the activity of the humans inside it were directed by it's cold logic. It had a simple mission, the same as every other Factory City. Move. Collect resources. Keep the people alive and happy enough. Repair the land. Reproduce.
In the wake of every Factory City was a tract of budding forests. Plants were genetically engineered to survive the blasted landscape, and while the City itself collected resources and the radioactive material for it's own use, it cleaned the land well enough that anything could grow there.
The resources went to building new machines, the atomics to the power plant at the heart of the City, and a handful of people trickled out to colonize the reclaimed land - if they so chose.
There were now nearly forty Factory Cities and two prototype Factory Ships in operation, with a third in development for travelling to the other continent to set loose another Factory City.
A citizen puts on her noise cancelling headphones and heads to her maintenance station, the high pitched sounds of synthesized violins and flutes offering a counterpoint to the constant bass din that surrounds her. She was in a good mood; she had a date tonight on the observation deck with a cute fellow from research and development, at the re-release of the mango party. They were moving into an area where the climate could support their growth, and some of the food crop seeds were being pulled out of storage to prepare for the planting process.
It was an average day in Factory City Three. The world was all the better for it.
|
Monday mornings are the worst. It signals the start of my weekday, which means I have to drag myself to the company. Getting out of bed is an insurmountable task by itself, but through sheer willpower, I was able to balance on my feet and stumble towards the bathroom.
Shower.
Brush teeth.
Shave.
Get clothes on.
Exit house.
As I close the door and walk onto the pavement, I see my fellow neighbors, their eyes cast down and their bodies exhausted as they walk to the nearest train station. We huddle together as we march to Station B, and we promptly wait ten minutes for the next train to arrive. As I scrutinize the cross patterns of the gray tiles below my feet, I would hear the occasional rat scurrying along or the rustling of papers. The silence of the station is then broken by the howling of the train from one of the tunnels, announcing its impending arrival. Once the train slowed to halt, we form an orderly queue, and one by one, get sucked into the train.
I arrive at my cubicle exactly on time and proceed to look at my new assignment of the week: to read the new batch of contract agreement forms. Recently, my company is collaborating with a variety of other companies, and to make sure we are not getting swindled by the others, we have to be extremely careful. And the only way to do that is go through all the contract agreements, line by line, just to see if there are any suspicious sections that could put us at a disadvantage. Excuse the language, but I really fucking hate this job. You lose focus too easily, and sometimes, you can end up reading the same line over and over without realizing it. Yet, I need money, and the company is the one providing it, so I grit my teeth and proceed to drown myself in these documents. Minutes seem like hours, and hours seem like days, and it looks like I'm going to be in this hellhole for eternity.
But then, a beautiful sound serenade my ears: a blaring buzzer signaling the end of the workday. As soon as the buzzer lowers into a soft whimper, the entire floor of people proceed to arise from their desks and start packing their belongings in a frenzy. I immediately slam my papers down and hastily pack my backpack in order to be the beat the others to the elevator. As I power walk my way towards the exit, I get visibly more excited as the thought of meeting my friends to go fishing gradually intoxicates my mind. Once I burst out the door, I get momentarily blinded by the ray of sunshine, and then proceed to race home to change clothes and meet up with my buddies down by the lake.
Few moments later, I'm by the lake with my companions, far far away from the dreaded cubicle. With every sip of beer and every fish caught, I slowly begin to forget about the grueling work of earlier today and enjoy myself more, knowing nothing else can make me happier.
| 2016-07-14T08:52:44
| 2016-07-14T07:34:24
| 140
| 26
|
[WP] As a henchman to the Joker, you've now broken the record for the longest surviving employee. This means you'll receive something no one ever has from him: your annual review.
|
Gunner was grinning before he even started speaking, "Boss, wants to see you."
He may as well have told me that I was walking into my own funeral. Mr. J doesn't ask for any of us personally. If anything, he just calls for a number and that amount of goons come running, ready to embark on whatever suicide mission he has planned.
I've been here longer than any of these idiots. I've seen guys last 6 months. I've even seen a few make it 8. I've never seen anyone make it a full year. I wish I could say it was because I'm smarter than the rest. If I was, would I be here though?
I thought it was a joke when they told me I had my annual employee review coming up. I blew it off and did what I've always done. I kept my head down, managed to land in the right spots at the right time, and somehow managed to survive this long.
The door was already open when I rounded the corner. Nothing about this opening felt inviting. Here we go. Breathe in. It may be your last, chief.
"Ahh! There he is! The man of the hour! HA HA HAA!" Mr. J cackled as I entered.
I didn't know what to say so I smiled. I SMILED! Why in the fuck would I smile? This is already going great..
He seemed to not even notice, "sit down, sit down, please! Make yourself comfortable, Lio. It is Lio, isn't it?"
"Yes sir. You got it boss!"
He got up from his seat while nonchalantly pulling his knife out of the wood of his desk and walked behind me.
"Well.. well," he said as he draped himself over my shoulders, spinning his knife in front of my face. "A whole year. I can't even believe it! The first goon to make it this far. How do you feel? Tired? You look tired. HA HA HAAH!"
"Not at all Boss! I can sleep when I'm dead. Whatever you need done, I got it!"
"Is that so? We have a real ambitious one here. HA HA HAAH! I like that. I thought we could commemorate this momentous occasion with a game! What do you say? Does that sound enjoyable, Lio?"
It's always been hard to get a read on Mr. J. He's smiling one moment, and the next someone is bleeding out next to you. Most of the time the soon to be dead were his own men. He was sporadic to say the least. This game he is mentioning can't be anything good but the last thing I want to do is piss him off.
"I'm in, boss. What game did you want to play?"
"HA HA HAAH! Oh joy! That's what I wanted to hear. Let me explain it to you!"
With that he was back around his side of the desk. He plopped down into his throne and sat up uncomfortably straight. He placed the knife down and laid his right hand down over it. He laid his left hand down on his golden pistol he's been so fond of over this past year.
"It's called fuck one, kill one, marry one. HA HA HAAH! Have you heard of this one before, Lio?"
"I have, Boss. Some of the guys and I play it quite often."
Wrong answer. I can tell by the instantaneous change in his demeanor. The smile is gone. I think he may be staring into my soul.
"Well then. Let's get started."
With one clap of his hands 3 women parade in from behind me and stand directly behind me. I nearly swallow my tongue when I recognize one of them to be Harley. This won't end well.
"Choose, Lio. There's no take backs though. All decisions are final."
The first choice was easy. One of the women was crying and wouldn't open her eyes. I pointed at her first.
"Kill."
Before I could blink he had turned his gun on her and turned the contents of her head into a new wallpaper.
I didn't flinch. I've learned to never flinch around Mr. J. He doesn't take too fondly to fear. The next choice was going to be much harder. Should I choose to fuck or marry Harley? What's the answer he's looking for?
She is the queen. I guess I'll choose marriage. Do I have much of a choice?
I pointed to the other woman who was now sobbing uncontrollably.
"Fuck."
"Looks like you just got fucked," Mr. J said as he moved towards her with his knife.
She barely had time to close her eyes before he stabbed her. She laid there bleeding and never took her eyes off of me.
"Well, well, Lio. You have one last choice to make."
I pointed to Harley, who by this point was grinning ear to ear.
"Marry."
He became jubilous once again. He looked like I had just told him the funniest joke he had ever heard.
"HA HA HAAH! Lio! Is that anyway to treat your boss? You come into my office and try to marry my wife? HA HA HAAH! Harley, what do you think about this?"
As soon as she opened her mouth to speak he struck her. She was visibly shaken.
He spun back to face me, and was even more serious than before.
"The game is over. Get the fuck out of my office. Now!"
It felt like I was out of there before he even finished speaking. That was the only time I've spoken with Mr. J personally. I'm starting to wonder if I should even attempt to make it to another annual review. Maybe those dead goons were smarter than I thought.
|
Well. It's time.
I walked into his office. It was dark, the only light in the room was a spotlight on a chair in the middle. "Sit down." He said. I walked to the center and sat in the chair, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
I made it. A full year surviving under The Joker himself.
The room filled with light, and I saw The Joker and Harley Quinn sitting in front of me, popping confetti.
"Congratulations! You are my first low-level employee to reach a full year of work! That makes you employee of the year!"
"Thanks, Mr. Joker."
"However, one must think about how you made it this far. You were never the first to charge into battle for me, you never took night patrols, and you never went with me for our big hits. I really don't know, do you even work for me?"
"Of course I do, sir!"
"But do you really? Look behind you, that's your pay for this year."
Behind me was a considerable amount of cash, most certainly from robberies.
"I didn't know our pay was this high."
"Yes, it is. Blow it up."
"Excuse me?"
"Blow. It. Up. Show me that you care more about chaos than you care about money, show me that you are loyal to our cause. Blow it up."
"A-alright. How?"
Harley Quinn gave me a stick of dynamite and a matchbook. I went to the pile of cash and stuck the dynamite in it.
"Not like that! We're not Batman here, do it like you work for me and mean it. Throw it."
I ignited the dynamite and threw it into the pile. I missed.
"Come on, man. You had it. You could have done a year and a day, but you can't even throw a stick of dynamite right. I don't need you here. Get out."
I walked towards the door, fearing for my life, as a loud bang came from behind me. Before I could even register it, my brains were splattered all over the door, and my body fell down on the floor, lifeless.
| 2016-11-21T02:20:06
| 2016-11-20T21:59:16
| 333
| 72
|
[FF] Write me a seven sentenced (or less) horror story
Wow guys, I did NOT expect this many feedback from you. You guys just made my night :D
|
I covered my mouth in shock as the stench rammed into me. I yelled out to my wife, "what the hell are you doing?"
She looked up from the worktable, her body covered in blood and guts, and turned to face me. On the table were the bodies of our two children, along with several other mangled body parts.
She smiled crookedly, "fixing them, dear. I'm fixing them."
|
Although these aren't mine at all, I think you'd like this link: http://thoughtcatalog.com/michael-koh/2013/07/40-freaking-creepy-ass-two-sentence-stories/
But heres my own (I'm terrible at scary stories but I didn't want to just post a link):
I was thinking about trying to get a more tan skin. People are more attracted to it. I see those people on the beach, almost orange like, and I want it. All of my older tan skins have dried up in the closet. Maybe I'll flirt with someone and try to get them to come over to my house. I think I'd look good.
| 2014-06-27T16:46:31
| 2014-06-27T15:58:13
| 43
| 12
|
[WP] Voldemort kills Harry Potter and declares war against the Muggles. He loses horribly, because unlike wizards - Muggles actually understand how magic works.
|
The first five hours in London were a slaughterhouse. The death eaters descended upon the populace with almost a fanatical frenzy, firing lethal salvos of a deadly green tint, killing without mercy. London bridge was one of the first locations in a series of coordinated attacks orchestrated to begin the start of the muggle war.
Parliament soon became centre stage to the world, as Voldemort used it as his base for broadcasting the unconditional surrender from the nation’s government leaders; testimonials later revealed that they were all under the Imperius Curse.
The immediate response by the muggles were delayed due to a general sense of hysteria and confusion. While they showed a surprising knowledge of the fundamentals of magic and it’s properties – mostly attributed to a particular fascination of it’s mythological format in media and literature – the standard response policies and procedures were initially too rigid for them to adapt properly. Armed forces combined with local police suffered heavy causalities facing off against the wizards and witches head on.
It was only after concentrated efforts by MI5 to kidnap and interrogate any identifiable muggle-born wizard, witch or their parents, that lead to a quick halt in Voldemort’s war campaign. One of the key breakthroughs was understanding a peculiar trait shared by all magic-users.
Line of sight.
It turned out that the death eaters had an irrational need to actually see their target for a spell to work, from the smallest of charms to even the Unforgiveable Curses. Muggles on the other hand, had no such requirement. Instead of facing them head on and trying to overcome them in raw firepower, military forces pivoted in strategy and started relying exclusively on their technological advantages such as drones and satellite feeds.
The muggles found, unsurprisingly, that it was rather hard for the death eaters to stop a sniper’s bullet or heat-seeking missile if they had no idea it was coming. You see, even the greatest wizard or witch would need some warning beforehand to conjure up a defensive spell. The fact that the magic community generally had a large ignorance of current modern-day muggle technology further compounded this advantage.
By the second week, most of the death eaters had been dealt with through these means. Voldemort himself proved a bit – immune – to most technological weapons. However, with no army or support, he was quickly taken care of by the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix and sent to Azkaban.
-Excerpt from The Daily Prophet
|
It had been an unfitting and humiliating end for the reign of Lord Voldermort. A name once spoken by only a handful of men with the gall to challenge him. Now that name was little more then a footnote in history. One of countless Dark wizards and witches with aspirations as wild as they were unobtainable. And just like those that came before Voldemort knew nobody would speak his name, not for fear of what it could bring upon them but out of ignorance of his very existence. Of what he had accomplished, and of his fate at the hands of those he sneered down upon.
Voldermort thought back to the day of his greatest triumph There was little left to do but reminiscence of days long past. Of Potters lifeless face as he was brought back to Hogwarts. Of the muffled cries begging Harry to return to them, to cheat death like he had before. Their cries went unanswered and it was at that moment that Voldemort knew he would never suffer the fate of “The Boy who lived” As he enjoyed the sweet intoxicating memories of his victory against Death the distant voice of Albus Dumbledore began to creep into his mind.
The voice frightened him. It had always frightened him. Ever since the kindly looking old man had first entered the orphanage to reveal that Tom was not as he liked to tell himself in those days, special. He was a wizard, one of many and just as ignorant as them all. Of course he reassured himself, surely he was better then the muggles. Oblivious people unable to even comprehend the reality of magic, of it's applications and it's power. It had taken such a crushing and humiliating defeat at the hands of those same people for Voldemort to finally realize that too was just another delusion.
Voldemort shook his head as he wandered the empty desolate ruins of Hogwarts as he had for countless years now. Surrounded by an immeasurable number of security measures, both magical and muggle in their design. Forever trapped within the walls that had once been the sight of his greatest victory. Now it was little more then a glorified prison. Each step reminding him of his defeat. Of the rain of fire that descended upon Hogwarts, of the muggles that cast him down and stripped him of his power. These thoughts pained Voldemort. A sensation Voldermort once thought would never again trouble him after fulfilling the prophecy and receiving the enticing gift of eternity. The voice of Dumbledore returned, louder this time. A soft but stern warning.
“Was this what you meant to warn me of Albus? An immortality spent clinging to the past, unable to face the present, or look to the future?" A part of Tom yearned to look beyond the pain and towards his defeat. To study his mistakes. To put aside his fears and ignorance and learn from the muggles as they had from him. Voldemort could only muse on this for the briefest moment before silencing those thoughts once again. Instead he began to think of his greatest triumph. Of Potter's lifeless face.
| 2017-07-17T17:23:34
| 2017-07-17T16:55:41
| 834
| 34
|
[WP] A man draws a gun in a dark alley and asks for your wallet. You begrudgingly obey. He throws it on the ground, shoots it till it screeches, and turns to you; "you're safe now".
|
He threw my wallet on the ground, and shot it until his magazine was empty, every shot made my head jerk back. He then threw the gun on the ground near my wallet, my eyes were narrowed, I was furious.
"Why the hell did you do that? Now I have to request a new ID and credit card."
The man looked up, the hood of his coat rendered a shadow on his face. "I'm sorry my beloved son. Fake leather produces rash on your skin."
"Beloved son? What are you talking about, who are you?"
He removed his hood and I couldn't believe my eyes. In front of me stood Gabe Logan Newell, the creator of Valve Corporation and Steam. "I'm so sorry..." he began to cry, "I'm so sorry that I destroyed your wallet."
|
Cries of help bounced up the dirty concrete walls and through the rusty fire escapes. Thick drops of acid rain fell from the gray, polluted sky, pattering against my umbrella. It took a last drag and stubbed out my cigarette.
The alley was like any other in this godforsaken city – windowless, filled with garbage containers, and with graffiti like old fading tattoos. Popping the holster open, I placed my hand on the wooden grip and strode into the alley.
Cornered at the very end of the alley, a dainty dame was fending off a small leathery attacker with wide swings of her vanity bag. She was a real looker too – plump in the right places, a dolly face framed by streaks of golden hair, and long, lithe gams wrapped in dark nylon.
I glanced at the tiny leather creature on the wet ground, bouncing up and down, yelping and growling. This was the third one I’d come across this week. Disgusting little critters with razor sharp teeth – they’d rip you right open in your sleep.
Carefully, I pulled out my roscoe, opening the reserve box – two slugs ought to be enough.
“Ma’am, step away from the wallet.”
She glanced at me, her blue eyes wide in terror. She was a green one – some upper-class bim, lost on the wrong side of the train tracks. She took a step back, almost tripping over one of her shoes that she had dropped in the battle.
Two quick ones. The loud echoes climbed the walls. I spun the revolver around my finger and placed it back in the holster. The heel of my boot came down on the smoking remains of the wallet.
“Thanks,” she mumbled and crouched down, strapping her shoe back on, and then started to pick up the items that had fallen out of her bag.
“Breeze,” I said and nodded at the street. “This ain’t no place for frails and old men.”
She managed a scowl despite her shivers and dripping wet face.
“Do you mind?” she asked, looking expectantly at my umbrella.
“Uh-huh,” I muttered and started lighting a new cig.
“Please?”
I took a drag, shrugged, and then shifted a couple of feet toward her, covering her from the rain. Even through the smell of my cigarette, I caught a whiff of her expensive perfume.
“You smoke?”
“Gods no,” she said and finally got up. “Can you take me to Caledonia Plaza?”
“Do I look like a flivver chauff’?”
“You look like a criminal,” she said briskly.
“And you, like a dish – what’s your doings in Low York? Long way from home, aren’t you?”
She didn’t have time to answer before another cry rang out from across the street. I cursed through my teeth, which made her wince. I put the umbrella in her hand and emptied the used shells of my roscoe in the gutter.
“Don’t you dare run off with my umbrella,” I muttered and crossed the street while reloading.
Son of a bitternut grifter – I’d have to pay a visit to Masperoni after this.
****
r/Lilwa_Dexel
| 2017-07-13T00:49:55
| 2017-07-13T00:36:27
| 223
| 68
|
[WP] Choose an idiom (e.g. "stone-cold killer"). Write the story that caused the phrase to be used literally and therefore introduced it into the language.
Idioms can be from non-English languages also if they work well
|
In a land far away, there was a young prince that had a weakness.
No mater which plant they were from, seeds made him terribly ill, and for this illness no cure existed.
When this fact was discovered by the court doctors, his father, the king, sent out guards to burn all farms to the ground. No one was to use seeds again in his kingdom.
Harbinger of an age of hardship and misery, the prince was demonised in the streets and the villages, he became the shadow under every child's bed, the name whispered by every storyteller.
In the far edge of the kingdom, there was too a young man whose parents' farm had been ravaged by the flames. He too knew the reason for his family's pain and with fire in his eyes way back when, he had promised:
"The Prince shall die."
He worked hard for many years, got close to the aging king as a soldier, then a general, a knight then an advisor.
And in his pocket rested always that last handful of beans that as a kid he saved in the hopes for a better time to come.
Came the day for a banquet, the young prince's marriage, and ever an honour the young farmer was called to the head of the table.
Seeing the time come, he took out the old beans and held them in the shadows over the young prince's soup.
It was then when a servant came forth with the main course. In his haste he clumsily bumped into the young man, making the beans fly all over the table.
The king saw the beans and without thinking twice he unsheathed his sword and slayed the assassin.
The servant, henceforth, was shunned by the people in villages, streets, in brothels and inns and the reason was clear: he had spilled the beans.
|
“I’m going to need a Memory potion today, good sir.” I leaned against the moldy wooden counter, then thought the better of it when it threatened to give way beneath me. The smell of old, rotting wood, amongst other unpleasant odors, invaded my nose.
“Oh, I do believe I have a few of those left.” The old man stood slowly from his stool, straightened his threadbare robes, and shuffled over to the shelves behind him. He lingered over a few different glass containers, and finally selected a tall one containing a glowing red liquid.
“Do I have to pay extra because it glows?” I smiled. The necromancer did not.
“Hmm. I probably should. If you never use it, it would make an excellent night light.” He snickered, still barely cracking a smile. “But no, it’ll just cost you an arm and a leg.”
I laughed and retrieved my coin purse from inside of my leather overcoat. “Ha, never heard that one before. Seriously though, how much?”
The old man frowned. “I have a project I’m working on. I happen to need an arm and a leg.” He leaned over his own counter towards me, his own frail body not putting much tension on the failing wood. “Of course, it doesn’t have to be your arm and leg. The two could belong to someone else.”
“Is this in jest? I can give you plenty of gold, and then you can pay some other poor sod to give up some body parts, or ‘find’ some for you.” I rolled my eyes. “Simple business practices.”
“But, I need an arm and a leg, not gold.” A look of confusion passed over the old man’s wrinkled face as he pondered his options.
“Look, I need this potion, but I’m not killing anyone for you.” I slapped my entire coin purse down on the counter. “There’s enough to buy three slaves in the Narrows. Do the arithmetic.”
I took the potion and headed for the door before the old man could protest much further. “And for the gods’ sake, light some vanilla candles in here, and maybe spend some money on that rotting counter. It’s people like you that give small businesses a bad name!”
[/r/cwall81](http://www.reddit.com/r/cwall81)
| 2015-12-10T06:50:00
| 2015-12-10T05:15:54
| 43
| 11
|
[WP] Multiple personalities are the norm. You are the first person to be diagnosed with SPD: Single Personality Disorder. Scientists are baffled: "How can you possibly cope with being so alone?"
|
I woke up to the sound of rain outside my window. A calming sound amidst the craziness that was my life. I crawled out of bed and got some medicine for my headache. The bottle was almost out. I would have to ask my mom for more. On top of the loads of other meds they kept me doped up on, you’d think that they could at least keep some Tylenol sitting around. I walked into the kitchen where my mom was making breakfast. She turned around to give me a big fake smile. I saw the fear behind her eyes, the disappointment. She was Lisa today; I could tell because Lisa was the only one who could cook. At least Lisa wasn’t constantly yelling at me about being a freak. I know she wondered how she could have possibly made a child with only one personality.
“What did your father and I do wrong?" She’d say when she was Monica.
Dad only had two personalities, so some days she blamed him. He would hardly look at me most of the time. They had tried everything. Medicine, treatment, experimental cures. Nothing worked. I was just messed up in the head. I couldn’t be five people at once. Lisa put my bacon and eggs on the table in front of me.
“How is the job hunting going?” She asked, not really out of true interest. She knew the answer already. She was just trying to be nice. But I could tell she was excited about something.
“Well, I tried the bank, but they said with-“ I cleared my throat and continued “-with my condition, they don’t think I’d be a good fit for the job.”
“They want you in the lab again today. They have a new surgery and they’re sure it will fix you! It works on 90% of patients!” I hung my head.
“Oh, that’s great, mom.”
I got dressed and we headed to my SPD specialist. I was the first case they’d ever seen of single personality disorder, and they were very curious to learn more. So curious, in fact, that the whole specialty was invented, a whole team of scientists- just for me. I wished they would just leave me alone. I didn’t want all that. I just wanted to live a normal life. When we got inside the team was waiting. They led me into the lab.
“We are going to have to put you under for this one.” The lead genetic scientist said. She also had three other degrees.
I nodded and took three deep breaths. The darkness and silence came over me. Little did I know the mayhem that had ensued in the meantime.
When I awoke, I was in a vehicle. My SPD specialist was sitting over me, grinning.
“I see you decided to wake, Ann. I’m glad to tell you that you’ve joined us just in time.”
I looked around. There were five other people. None of whom I knew. There was something different about them, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Just in time for what?” I asked, scared out of my wits. These crazy people were going to kill me; I was sure of it.
He chuckled. A lighthearted chuckle, not an ominous one.
“The rebellion, of course! You’re not alone, Ann. You’re not the first. These people are your new friends, your new family, and your new battle buddies. We’re going to stop the testing. This isn’t a disease. This is a gift. The silence in your head leads you to be a much more focused opponent. You aren’t alone. You never were.”
|
They told me something was wrong with me. I said that I was pretending to be multiple people and they said that was wrong. That I shouldn't have to pretend. They said that I was lonely without anyone else in my head.
"We haven't ever met anyone who was alone in their head", they told me. "You aren't like the rest of us", they told me. "We will fix you", they said. "You aren't like the rest of us", they told me. I then felt lonely.
In the clinic I met with women and they took turns with the mouth they shared. "What are you thinking about?", "What is your favorite animal?", "What do you like to do to relax", questions that would warrant multiple answers from a normal person. I chose to keep quiet until they left me alone.
Now I'm sitting in a room by myself. They left me this paper to write on and a pen. I took a nap earlier and found myself in a forest. The leaves were a deep green and some fell peacefully around me. I stood tall among them, and like I child, I imitated their swaying. But a breeze slammed into me and with it, the leave of the forest around me. The weight of so many leaves made me arch my back and the sight of the bare trees made me cry.
I awoke to the room with a bed, desk, chair, paper and pen. I sat in the chair and picked up the pen. I drew a picture and then decided to write this note on the back. A call for help perhaps to something that can understand me. The weight of this world is becoming to much to bear. I want to be left alone, but the at the same time I want to be found by someone who understands.
| 2016-11-18T14:57:04
| 2016-11-18T11:47:31
| 32
| 11
|
[WP] You are a demon trapped in an ancient temple build by a long dead civilization. Today, after millennia, an archaeologist finds you. Now you need to convince him to free you from the magic circle.
|
The near hollow chamber echoed with remanence of a time long forgotten. The only light entering was from the cracks as the sun fell in winters, peaking through the wall near what was once an entrance. Now covered in ivy and nearly locked by dirt and dust. In the center sat bound by chains forged from obsidian, a queen. Tearing at her wrist marking her with reminders of centuries worths of failed escape attempts. Her only friends being the empty thoughts and the occasional rat who wondered in looking lost. Who soon would see light fade just as the queen eons ago. “Rats tend to be great conversationalists if given the chance.” Her majesty announced to the void.
“How pitiful an image I must be. A starved queen locked by the very people she once ruled.”
The rat did not respond.
“We are one and the same. You and I. Castaways are in a world unforgiving. Lost spirits floating aimlessly in a meaningless universe.” Looking to the heavens as if speaking to a star-filled sky.
Uninterested in the one-sided conversation, the rat trotted along to the corner. Where the charcoal remanence of a torch remained.
Now bowing her head in dramatized sorrow, “Outside these walls which bind us both, my once great kingdom now more than likely collapsed.”
The rat began to burrow into the coals in an attempt to make a bed.
“Oh, how-” She paused.
The faint sound of footsteps rang just outside the remains of the chamber door. “Do you hear that?’ in a hushed whisper to her newfound comrade.
It was not uncommon for the queen to hear the faint sounds of birds passing or even voices. She soon found these to be untrustworthy a couple of centuries into her capture. A pleading representation of a fragmented mind. This was, however, different.
“It’s over here boys!” A booming and joyous voice coming nearer.
Quickly the queen took the form of a beautiful young woman dressed in rags, unable to mask the marks left upon her bound body. Soon the ground began to rumble as the entrance began to be bombarded with hit after hit. Echoing along the walls and tearing her ivy. As a blinding light began to cascade and peak through the now grown cracks a smile began to draw over the queen's face. With one last hit, the door collapsed, and as light chased the darkness. Corning it into every crack and grove, Only able to hide behind the image of a broken woman.
“Please help me...” The queen called in a weak and dry voice.
A group of five men looked into the chamber. Their joyous expressions filled with ideas of gold and hope. Shifted to dumbfounded and worried as if in a symphony of sorrows their hearts dropped. Before them, a woman chain bound on both arm and leg between two pillars that towered to the ceiling. Both covered with symbols and two perfectly smooth square holes, one on each pillar. Scorched with marks from a flame long burned out. The woman sat perfectly in the center of a circle made of black sand and salt with inscribed symbols patterning the platform where she looked helpless. A tension building as they sat frozen.
“Please...” The woman pleaded once more, almost drier than before.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Hurry! help her!” A familiar booming voice commanded.
Three of the men staggered in rushing to aid the queen who was hiding behind the mask. Soon to meet a similar fate to the pile of dead rats who laid in the corner.
\------------
Notes:
This is my first time writing anything other than poetry in the last year. I kind of want to start writing more long-form stories to improve. Any thoughts are greatly appreciated!
Also, I kinda deviated a little from the prompt, using it more as inspiration. I hope that's okay!
|
My crumpled form lay hunched over on the sand stone floor. The room is unnaturally cool for being in a desert wasteland of sand and sun, a characteristic abused by the Egyptians when making tombs for Pharos. Lower chance of decomposition. How demoralizing. A god placed into a chamber for kings. My knees are bent, my forehead touching the ground. My arms were both wrapped in chains, as well as my head and neck.
Suddenly, the sound of breaking stone emerged North of me. I moved my head as much as I could, glancing ahead. A glint of metal poked through as cracks spiderwebbed across the bricks. A man with sandy blonde hair stepped through. He was dressed in clothing of light color, as well as having a large hat, most likely to combat the burning sun. His eyes grew wide as his gaze fell upon me. I grinned, my eyes instead narrowing. “Hello there.” He cautiously stepped forward. *”Apophis”* he whispered. I nodded. “That’s one of many terms. However, my favored one is Lucifer.” He nodded as well. “H-how?” Is shrugged slightly, my chains rattling. “Certain spells and incantations, an herbal mixture of two, salt, and of course the sacrifice of a beautiful maiden.” I could sense his heartbeat growing more rapid. “How about this” I said “You free me, and I’ll spare you from my eternal wrath and destruction in my path of vengeance.” He stood straight, attempting a courageous facade. “No. I- I can’t inflict that on humanity. You are powerless here!” I scowled, my eyes burning with rage. “Do you honestly think that some measly chains could withhold the incarnation of sin and chaos?” I ripped my wrists and neck from the shackles followed by my ankles. “I’ve just had no reason to attempt another homicide for the past millennia.” I began to walk forwards. “Maybe the god damned barrier has bee-“ I felt my knees crumple under me. “DAMN THIS!” My fist flew at the invisible wall, the force knocking the man over and shaking the dust. The man stood again, and looked around. “Y-you can’t leave.” I glared. “Not for long.” I lunges at the barrier once more, nearly becoming pure rage incarnate. My eyes grew black as my demonic howls filled the hollow chambers. My hands grew into talons as I slowly pushed through barrier. I could feel the tips of my claws push through, into the open air. I cackled as my face pressed through, nearly to freedom-
# BOOM
The shockwave was tremendous, with the force being repulsed disrupting the structure of my tomb, with stones falling around us. I was sent flying back into the far wall, making a crater roughly the shape of my form. I began to try again until I looked up at the shaking ceiling. I immediately slammed my fist into the floor. More force shook the roof, threatening collapse. The man realized what I was doing. “No...” I grinned. “I can’t break through the barrier. But maybe I can escape through another route.” I slammed my fist down again. The man began to scream, but I did it one more time. The entire tomb collapsed around us, entrapping the man under a mountain of rubble, and giving my a place to escape. I dug through sand and rock until I reached the surface. The sun beat down on my face. I breathed in the air. It was time to begin my conquest.
| 2020-12-06T15:17:27
| 2020-12-06T14:21:45
| 22
| 10
|
[WP] In an effort to identify different species, you create a device that can scan an animal and tell you its DNA. You decide to test it on your cat. Delighted it even works, you look at the screen. "0% Cat"
|
All the best inventions came for the sake of convenience. Sure, there were other factors, such as curiosity and pushing the limits of human ingenuity, but the core factor was either making a process easier or obsoleting it by finding and easier way.
Well, my claim to fame (or what will be) will make the identification of a creature easier than ever before. We would be able to tell at a scan the closest relative of newly discovered species, and finally put an end to those expensive DNA test that always end up on the TV somehow.
Now to just test it...
"Mrow." At my side, my cat sat and stared up at me, the living embodiment of indifference.
"What." My cat continued to stare. I was planning to just test my scanner on myself, but I might as well see if the results are consistent.
I pointed the scanner at the feline, who stared straight into me. That little head was either filled with many thoughts or none, and each was as likely as the other.
A beep, and the process was done.
"0 percent cat."
That's weird.
I pointed it at myself.
"0 percent human."
I stared back at the cat. I couldn't tell if it was pitying me or laughing at the fact that I forgot to put samples into the scanner.
|
I looked up from the screen and at my cat. I knew the device worked, I had practically unlimited funding from Havered, a team of genius assistants, and access to every genome ever documented. The device had to have worked. And yet, it said my cat was not a cat. Just as the implications of this started to occur to me, the "cat" looked up, stretched, and began to speak.
The God: **I suppose you were going to have to find out eventually.**
Me: What the hell!? What are you!?!
The God: **I am the cat that caught the red dot. I am the cat that killed curiosity. I am the God of Gods. I am the Lord of The Cats.**
As it spoke its body began to float into the air, its eyes began to glow a deep blood red as its gaze burned into my thoughts and seared down my spine.
The God: **Unfortunately for you, I cannot have my secret known. I'm very sorry Mathew.**
Me: But why did you have to tell me?!? If you had simply kept quite I would have never known!
Sweat trickled down my neck as my entire body felt like it was warming up. The God looked disappointed as its eyes got even brighter.
The God: **Why do you lie Mathew? What purpose does it serve when I can see your thoughts and read your emotions? If I had not spoken then you would have taken a fur sample and have found out that I lack any form of DNA. No, this way was simply faster.**
Me: Wait, please don't kill me, I won't tell anyone you're a God, just please spare my life!
The God: **Foolish Mathew, I am not going to kill you, I shall simply adjust a few things.**
Me: What do your mean "adjust"? Are going to wipe my me-
I blinked. I was standing in front of the flowers I had bought last week. I looked down at my device. "100% Tulipa Dasystemon" I felt like there was something important that I was forgetting, like when you awake from a dream but can't remember what happened in it. I also noticed that my cat was looking strangely smug. Well, that was besides the point, my device had worked, and was all that mattered.
\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~
r/PaleWritings
| 2021-12-17T21:18:53
| 2021-12-17T19:51:03
| 148
| 92
|
[WP] You are the necromancer of the party, and dead humans don't seem to be very effective against the evil emperor's goons. One day the party leader exits the local bookstore and hands you a book. The title reads, "Tyrannosaurs, Mammoths and Giant Millipedes: An Almanac of Prehistoric Life".
Someone please write a story. I don't want another prompt with 40 comments all in the "Welcome to the Prompt" section.
|
Targhul held the book thoughtfully, drumming his black nails across the open pages. *It was possible...*
He looked up at Doug, the idiot that had brought him the book. Doug probably couldn't even read the cover, and had brought him the book after seeing the pretty picture. Doug cocked his head, tongue poking slightly out of his mouth, no doubt waiting eagerly for praise at his leadership ability.
Targhul skimmed the book while summoning up his useless undead legions. While he read about behemoths and ancient creatures, they dug their skeletal claws into the earth, searching for old bones he could revive.
He suggested that Doug and the others make camp. This would take a bit longer than he initially thought. Jenny came over and tried to whine about how camping in the outdoors was bad for her complexion, but Targhul barely looked her way. He knew he would be distracted by her heaving breasts. Her healers robes barely did anything to cover her skin, sharing more in common with a swimming garment than anything even vaguely robelike.
Finally the party ate their dinner. Finally they went to bed. And finally at the hour of midnight when the moon was full, Targhul felt his minions touch at something he could previously only dream of.
He wandered over with his prepared spell, and saw a small amount of exposed stone. The stone glimmered with life magic, faded with age, but still bright to the powerful necromancer.
He touched the skeletal stone, and infused his will with the colossal structure. To his joy, he felt several much smaller structures all around the one he was enchanting. He claimed those for his army as well.
The massive pile of bones rose from the earth, stone pulling magic from him as it stitched muscle and sinew back together on the ancient creature.
Targhul slaved through the night, adding enchantment after enchantment to the ancient beast, until the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, heralding a new day. *Glory be unto the creator...* he thought at the same moment that Jeanne let out a surprised scream.
He glanced back at his new army. He had managed to find what the book called a "tar pit". Several smaller reptiles stood almost humanlike on two legs, bear-sized teeth and claws glimmering in the morning sun. He had found some large "mastodons" but found them cuddly yet usefully large with their strange large jutting teeth under their mouths, and even stranger prehensile nose piece.
These all paled in the glory of his crowning achievement. His personal army surrounded a massive hulking structure that dwarfed castles. It's armored scales protected every surface, and it had teeth that were easily as big as a man's leg. A giant sail adorned it's back, fixed with bony protrusions and spikes. Targhul had spent the night's energy magically enhancing the body. The best part? It could breathe fire and spit acid.
Targhul climbed into the saddle of a much smaller and more maneuverable lizard and issued mental commands to his legions.
As one, their heads swiveled towards the black castle in the distance, dead eyes fixated in the menacing aura given off by the emperor and began the days march.
Jessie started her grumbling again about how bad walking was for her, and waking and sun and....
Targhul had an idea. By evening, it would be his black castle. Perhaps he could even be a benevolent emperor.
Ideas began pouring through his head, and he let out one small victory grin. Emperor Targhul had such a nice ring to it.
|
I should have expected this. I *really* should have expected this, but I was too eager for the upgrade. Too excited to have more in my arsenal than half-rotted meatshields. Now all we've done is waste months digging rocks out of the mountainside.
"Lazarus, why isn't doing anything? Did you not have enough materials?" Hazel, our halfling rogue, inquired.
I dragged my palm over my face in shame, then sighed. "Not exactly." I pulled out the tome that led us on this wild goose chase. The first few pages contained critical information that I had glossed over, in my haste to find ancient beast to do my bidding. The rest of the party gathered around me curiously. "See here, where it describes how fossils are formed? The bone was replaced by minerals long ago. These are rocks now, and I cannot use them." I snap the book closed, and now my companions are equally dejected.
"Awww, I wanted to ride the big lizard." Our orcish barbarian lamented.
Me too, Kursk. Me too...
...
We had made our camp in an overhang just north of our dig site. The sun had set a while ago, putting Hazel and Kursk in their tents and Targos out patrolling for foes. That left myself and Dherkar, a dwarven priest, to stare into the fire in solende. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dherkar stroke his beard thoughtfully. Before I can ask, he turns to me with his own questions.
"Necromancy ain't the only way to make something fight for you, yeah?"
"Well, no, but it's generally the most efficient. Summoned beings from other planed aren't always cooperative. Enchanting beasts is incredibly time consuming, and you have to feed and house them afterwards. And animated objects are rarely big enough to make a difference in the long term."
I saw a gleam appear in his eye. He was on to something, and it intrigued me. "These animated objects, do they need to be one solid piece?" And now I knew what he was up to. Wide grins spread across both our faces.
"I like the way you think, Dherkar! Let's see if we can get what we came here for after all!"
| 2021-08-10T23:35:05
| 2021-08-10T22:06:01
| 28
| 16
|
[WP]"This is how it works," Death explained. "You pick the game and we play. Cheating is allowed, but if either one of us is caught by the other, they lose. If you win, you'll wake up back in the hospital and I'll give you another 10 years. If you lose then it's time for judgement. Understood?
|
"Alright, so you're telling me that if I beat you at ANY game I can go back for another 10 years?!" said the man.
"Yes." said Death. "Any game of your choosing. Cheating is all-"
"Yeah, yeah. Cheating yadda yadda. I heard it the first time." the man snapped.
Death furled what the man assumed to be his brow at the man cutting him off.
Death sat there in silence, motionless. Just waiting for the man in front of him to pick his game.
The man started, "You know, I've play SO many games in my life. So many that I can't even remember what the stories were about anymore, they all just seem to run together."
Death looked on in horror as the man's name started to make more sense.
"I'm guessing you're starting to recognize me at this point, just like it says on the paper you read my name off of-" said the man.
"...I'm Gary fucking Gygax."
Edit: I never really do any prompts. I just thought this sounded fun. Critique if you want. I won't mind it!
|
“You got it?”
The question takes me off guard, I’m still trying to process this new info. The tall man with the black hooded cloak at the end of my bed tilted his head slightly, the scythe that rested in the crook of his arm caught the moonlight ominously.
“Sorry, this outfit does normally startles people. How’s this?”
His form shimmered and before me stood an old gentleman with immaculately manicured whiskers and a twinkle in His eye. His tweed suit with matching trilby in stark contrast to His previous outfit. He adjusted his grip on His suspiciously scythe-like curved cane.
“Ahh, less doom and gloom now. Gotta keep up appearances though,” He indicated His cane, ”So how’s that choice of game coming along?”
The question was delivered with considerably less dread attached than the previous proposition. More like that of certain playful gods from the pantheons rather than Death come to claim you.
A small whoosh of breath escaped my lips. A decision has to be made. This body of mine was considerably less spry than my younger years, and nor was my mind functioning at full capacity. What game could I choose and what chance did I have, it seemed like anything was on the table. Did I even want to win? I had lived a full life, I tried to be kind, a good person, I saw the world, I loved my family. Did I need more of that if He has decided it was my time?
Resolved, I look up at Him. He smiled broadly, a smile of a man confident in himself “What shall it be, a game of strength, of skill, or perhaps of wits?”
“A game of chance perhaps,” I responded, his smile broadening to one of pure glee.
“Now this, should be interesting.”
| 2018-03-07T06:04:24
| 2018-03-07T02:57:36
| 97
| 46
|
[WP] Since you were born you could see a search bar over people's heads. All you had to do was think and the search bar would fill out and give you information/statistics. Out of boredom one day you decide to search your whole family with"Number of people killed"
|
I muttered, "Number of people killed." And as expected, baby Mateo and baby Amelia had zero.
So I quietly head down to the dining room and saw my aunt setting the table. I muttered those words again. And it was no surprise the results said she had killed 8 people. But the number on her head kept blinking back and forth from 0 to 8. I felt sorry for her, I wanted to give her a hug. Six months ago, there was a car accident in her usual route home. My aunt was not able to save those unfortunate people involved even though she was there as first respondent. I said a quick prayer for her, and moved to the kitchen.
"Number of people killed." I said.
"Yes, Richard?" Mom asked as she was preparing our dinner.
"Oh, nothing."
"Dinner is almost done. Go get Mateo and Amelia." My mother instructed.
And like the obedient son that I was, I went up to the bedrooms. I passed by the family den, and saw my Dad reading. I searched him. And zero results. I was both disappointed and relieved I have a normal, law-abiding family.
"Dinner's ready!" We all heard Mom and settled ourselves around the table. Mateo and Amelia were a bit unruly because they still wanted to play.
It was a good dinner. I love fried chicken and it was all I ate. While the adults always have the salads. I was so full and was about to ask to leave when we hear a commotion outside.
"What's that noise?" My mom asked. "Can you go and check?"
I went out to check on Roger, our Doberman. "What is it, boy?"
Roger kept barking at nothing. But soon stopped and started to run around me. I held out my hand and let him smell and lick it. "I had chicken!" I said as I pet him with my other hand. There was no search bar on his head. But I searched him anyway. A result popped out. It said 34.
"Huh? That's impossible!" I looked at the result again, and stared at Roger. And then I searched him again.
"List names of people killed." I did not recognize anyone on the list. There must be something wrong with my search.
"How did you kill them?" Numerous results kept popping out. Burning. Torture. Asphyxiation. Beheading.
"Roger...what are you?" A result popped out.
Roger answered, "I'm hungry."
|
My dad is a Vietnam vet, and never talked about it much. I know from my mom he has pretty severe ptsd. I felt guilty for wanting to know, but I couldn’t help it. The number kinda surprised me, 12. It was more than I expected, and I instantly had half a dozen more questions I wanted answers to.
But I couldn’t bring myself to dig any farther. It already felt a little too intrusive. It was then that I had another strange thought, what about the rest of my family? The following morning, I decided to pry.
“Morning, mom.” I said
“Morning sweetheart.” My mother responded. She was browsing Facebook on her iPad, as usual. “Have any plans today?”
“Nah. I was gonna go to the movies with Jeff, but he decided he just wanted to go with Jessica.”
“Well I’m sorry to hear that. What movie were you going to see? If it’s not something scary we could go.”
I giggled, “It was actually something scary.”
“Well are there any other movies you wanted to see? You know what, I’m gonna check and...”
I started the search before she could finish her sentence. I was kinda nervous, what if... what if my mom had killed somebody? I mean she was a nurse, would something like negligence count? Zero. Phew. My mother is still a saint.
“Honey? Am I talking to a wall here?”
Oh shit I zoned out for too long.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said have you seen this movie.” She moved the iPad a little closer to my face.
“Oh, uh, yeah. I saw it last weekend with a bunch of people from youth group.”
She sighed, “One of these days I’d like to go see a movie as a family.”
We talked for a little longer before I wandered back to my room to play games with my friends online. That evening, we decided to go out for dinner. My younger sister Trisha brought her friend Rashida.
We ate, the girls gossiped and looked at their phones the whole time, and then I remembered the question. I looked across the table at my younger sister and decided to search. I mean I’d already searched the rest of my family, it would be rude not to include her.
Zero. Obviously. She’s fifteen, she’s weird but not that kind of weird. Her and Rashida are certainly different, but they’re just asocial types. I took another sip of coke, and as I looked up again I nearly choked.
“Are you okay sweetie?” My mom quickly responded.
“I’m fine.” I managed to cough out, my eyes watering, but still glued to the search bar over my sisters head. That 1 wasn’t there before. My eyes scanned back and forth. I wiped the tears away and quickly looked back up, still coughing.
“Can you cover your mouth when you cough? F-F-S.” Trisha said angrily.
“Sorry.” I said while still looking at the number above her head. Ten. *Ten*?! Holy shit what the fuck. I had to know more. This had to be some kind of mistake. Okay, what about number of people murdered. Search. Oh please, oh god no. Still ten.
“Hey mouth breather, can I help you with something?” Trisha was scowling at me, Rashida too.
“Sorry I...” I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Zoned out, even while you’re about to choke to death.” Trisha quipped. Rashida smirked, blew air out of her nose, and rolled her eyes. I didn’t even have time to be mad. My sister is a goddamn serial killer. Maybe she’s killing bad people? Maybe it was all at once?
Wait, did my parents know? Or... what if she could search like I could? Maybe she’d done what I’d only dreamed about doing. Finding evil people, and murdering them.
Can my sister search like me. Search.
| 2019-07-01T21:46:23
| 2019-07-01T20:07:43
| 289
| 215
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[WP] A battle mage is stranded on a desert island
Unfortunately, most of their spells are designed for combat. No teleportation or other magical transportation, and no astral projection or other magical communication. How does the mage get back to civilization, Castaway style?
I'd also love to hear about how they got *onto* the island in the first place, if you'd rather go that route.
|
Westen's brow furrowed as he concentrated on his task. His left palm felt the searing heat of fire, years of training numbing him to any pain it might cause, his right palm felt a cool chill of the darkest winter. Before him salt water bubbled up from a iron pot he had salvaged from the ship wreck. Above the pot, a misty orb of ice grew larger every minute as he caught the evaporating water in his frost spell.
Finally, once the undrinkable salt water had been evaporated from the pot Westen let the heat drain from his left hand. He gasped as the orb suddenly dropped from the air. With a quick dive he caught it before it could land on the rocky beach. Sharp pain prodded at his chest and stomach, but he was unscathed.
"Twice in one day." He muttered, examining the orb of clean ice, "Almost." He carried the orb over to a second, smaller pot and dropped it inside. He was tempted to melt it right then and there to have a drink, but knew the sun would make quick work of it, and he needed the energy. Surviving the storm, and the heavy waves crashing into jagged rocks had left him exhausted enough. His joints still aching and the wounds to his arm and his foot still tender. With what little knowledge he had of healing magic, still more than the average man, he was able to seal the wounds. But only just. And likely they would leave ugly scars.
He examined his camp. Plenty of wood here. Two iron pots that had washed up with half the ships wreckage. Unfortunately all food, and wine must have went down with the other half. Some luggage had come with the pots. Shoes, pants, some shirts. None of it fit the mage who was tall and quite lanky, but he figured he might be able to do something with them.
He was alone. That was most concerning. Where his powers in magic are strong, his muscles for lifting were weak. He doubted very much that he could hoist together a raft, he was hoping at the very least he would have the strength to pile together some sort of shelter.
Caws of sea birds turned his eyes away from his meager camp. Westen had never been a fan of poultry but he assumed that it might be one of the few means of sustenance out here. He needed to keep his strength up if he was to keep turning sea water to drinking water.
The birds flapped their way over the tall, branchless tropical trees, there was a sort of jagged mountain in the distance. If he was in better health, he'd be confident to climb it. Perhaps in a few days. He sighed and walked over to a large rock and took a seat. His eyes lazily watching the orb of ice melt away in the hot sun. "Fire and ice. I can make those." He pondered, "So I can drink and eat, considering the birds are here year round." His eyes shifted up to the lazy sea, so calm that you'd hardly imagine it was capable of a violent storm, "Clothes I have that don't much fit, but could be full of string. String to catch fish. Maybe a net." He nodded slowly, and tugged at his beard, "That at least I do not have to worry about."
He glanced over his shoulder towards the tropical forest. It was a small island, he very much doubted there were any large predators here. Birds and bugs, perhaps some lizards. He hoped not too many snakes. Fire could bring down some trees. Maybe he could fashion a hut. He turned back to the sea, but a hut that could withstand a storm like that? Temporary shelter then. He turned back towards the jagged mountain, more of a hill really. Would be a hill where he came from, but here on this island it was a mountain. Perhaps it would have a cave? At least get him on high ground. High ground, he tugged at his beard and examined the beach, rocky stones gave way to sand. He knew a thing or two about making glass. He was no master craftsman, but he understood the concept. He scooped up a piece of drift wood from by his feet, it was light, he turned it over and examined it longways, it was hollow.
*Two weeks later*
Westen gasped and panted, finally examining the island from above the trees. He flexed his toes in his makeshift sandals. He was quite proud of them. Using the rubber soles of two pairs of shoes much too small for his feet, and some leather strips to attach them to his own feet. The soles had been melted together and hammered flat with a rock. Oddly comfortable. He was quite proud. They were much better for walking over these jagged rocks than his own torn, cloth shoes.
He turned back towards the mountain, he had hardly made it a quarter of the way. A hill really, not a mountain. But he was high enough to test his invention. He set down a bag he had made from a couple mismatched shirts and pulled from it a hollow tube of plywood, on one end of it he had labored to make a glass lens using a hollowed out stone as a mold. It took countless attempts, but he finally had just enough luck.
He laughed as he peered through his telescope. It was far from the quality you would expect from a professionally made one, but it did the job it was meant too. He could see his meager camp, and the horizon was just that much clearer. The first step in his plan. Westen was quite proud of himself, quite proud.
|
Liliana Icemagus was exactly what her surname implied. She was an ice-mage, a mage specializing in all things related to frozen water. Which was a shame, really, because she was sort of in a desert.
She thought it was a kind of divine irony, really. One moment, she was in the midst of a pitched battle over some unicorn horn relic, or maybe it was that someone's dead aunt was reanimated in some horde of the undead. Her side was winning, so she let her reflective wall of ice down, readying herself to help deal the final blows. She was immediately struck in the chest with a pink bolt of teleportation, and the scenery changed from plains to desert.
Liliana walked a bit, then a bit more, staring down at the sand which was rapidly overtaking her robe. She was staring down at the sand when she walked headfirst into a palm tree.
"Sorry," she mumbled, before realizing that it was a tree, and not the talking kind. The sound of waves reached her ears, and she looked up to find the blue sea. She had been teleported to a deserted desert island.
The ice-mage was quite pleased with the turn of events. She could do nothing about sand, but water? She could do the hell out of water. But how would that work? She couldn't very well freeze the entire ocean, or even make an ice bridge - if she had that kind of power, she wouldn't have been a schmuck on the front lines, after all. A raft, she decided, was the best choice. Liliana quickly froze herself up a sheet of ice about five feet in diameter, and set off.
She had already drifted too far to see the shore before realizing that she didn't bring any way to power or steer her ice raft.
"Hmm."
She thought and thought, and the sun fell lower on the horizon. Finally, her stomach informed her brain that she ought to come up with something quickly, and so it did. She released a bit of her control in the back of the ice sheet while freezing an equal amount in front of her. She got to her feet and walked forward one step, then refocused again. A step, refocus. A step, refocus.
A day later, she was a quarter of the way back to the mainland when some spirit of the ocean or another got irritated at how long she was taking, and jetted her on a current the rest of the way.
| 2015-12-18T07:11:29
| 2015-12-18T06:53:03
| 40
| 12
|
[WP] You can taste lies. One day your friend is comforting you after a tough night and you almost vomit at the foul taste as you hear her say "After all, you're only human."
|
It was a taste I noticed in lies. A cheap metallic. A flavour like a greasy coin from a cheap greasy spoon diner.
It was a trait that benefitted me greatly where I went. The liars and the honest were seperated, at the cost of childhood.
"Can I have your cookie? I'll be your friend" she asked. We were in kindergarten when the the horrid taste formed in my mouth. She was my friend. I could remember her. I could remember the fun times we had.
I never realised it detected lies until the third or fourth time I was deceived. By then I'd given my lunch and worly possessions to the lying girl during the school week; my chocolate bars, my cookies, and even a buck I found in the sofa.
She promised every time "I'll be your friend", "I'll give you it back", "we can walk home together". These things never happened.
That cheap, metallic taste hit me every time. And it wasn't just her that triggered my taste now. But each word from her hit a memory. She wasn't quite the same person as I remembered her.
Mother and father were arguing one night. With adults arguing as a child, you can never quite understand why. They stopped once they'd seen me in the door way.
"Go to bed sweetie, mommy will be up soon"
The greasy metallic taste twisted my tongue. Why would mother lie to me? She wouldn't be up soon, but why?
Rather than sleep, I watched from the window to see her drive off into the night.
In the morning, I could only briefly see my mother in the morning, before I went off to school. At night I saw her leave, in day I saw her sleep.
Every time my mother would say excuse herself, and when the girl asked for a part of my lunch, their words always left the horrible greasy taste.
I appreciated the people that didn't leave the taste when they spoke. The school bully, the teacher, the school cook.
"I don't like you, get lost or I'll knock you out" threatened the bully. No taste. There wasn't a fib to be told here.
"My mom forgot to pack me some cookies, can I have yours and I'll give you it back tommorrow?" asked the lying girl. The taste hit me and almost made me vomit.
"Hey Val, you mmind staying behind for a bit? I've got something to ask you" the teacher mentioned to the side. It was test results day, but my paper was missing. He wasn't lying, he had something to ask.
"You're a pretty smart kid, I'd say you're way ahead of the others. Did your dad teach you anything? You aced the tests"
I shook my head. The test was simple, it was easy. "Well kid, I'm going to try and set you up with harder stuff from next year. You're a real priodigy".
I smiled as the teacher stacked up the papers. One fell off and onto the floor. It was the lying girl.
"Oh, but Val. You really should mentor what's her name sitting next to you. She's performed really poorly y'know? Hope you're alright kiddo"
This wasn't something I knew. But it wasn't a fib either.
Thew next day, the school's cafe had been refurbished. We lined up to the food line and got our hot meals. It was a relief that I no longer had to share.
"Hey kid, you alright? You look famished, everything alright?" the cook pondered to the lying girl. He was right, this fellow is honest and straightforward.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Everything is fine" she replied. Trembling in her voice, sucking in drool from her hunger. The metallic taste overwhelmed me again as I struggled to eat with her.
The hot meal wasn't enough for her, and the taste of lies upset my appetite. She took my cookie and snacks and ate it with her hot meal.
Her face brimmed with energy as it looked like the first good meal in a while. She leaned on my shoulder and whispered "You're a real friend you know. I wish I was like you. Hope you're okay".
It was the first time she said something that didn't leave the horrible metal taste in my mouth. I could actually taste the school lunch and cartoned milk when I was with her.
As we left the lunch hall, the cook tapped my shoulder. "Hey kid, do me a favour. You're her friend right? Walk with her would ya? Walk her home alright? She's a good kid, I knew her ma. Take care kid"
She was friend. For a long time. Even though she lied for so long, she stuck with me when she had no intention to.
"Hey. Let's walk home together? Like friends?"
The fear and hesitation in the air was thick, but I held her hand like I remember I did. She was surprised, but we walked home together.
In front of a dilapitated old house, she stopped. "This is where go Val, you should go now".
No. I remember going in here. I need to be here. I shouldn't go.
There wasn't a metallic taste.
I didn't go. I followed her inside. I stayed with her. The house tasted of metal, the walls were yellowed, it stank of solvents and urine.
"Is that you? I gots someone for yo\-" slurred a man as he rounded the corner. On his ear, a cigarette. Stained and tatty shorts, and a blackened spoon was in the pocket. I could remember his face.
He was in cuffs. I remember the officer pumping a boy's chest. "You're gonna be alright, you're gonna be alright". Every word he said left the horrible metal taste. But this was a memory? It wasn't real.
"Duh hell is he? Get him outta here, now!" he scowled. She tried to speak, but he threw an ashtray at her.
"Boy the hell you doing here, I split yo wig, the hell outta here". I wasn't going to leave. For once I would indulge the metallic taste in my mouth.
But this simply won't happen. He snatches his left hand onto my jacket and lifts me up.
"Suit yourself you stupid god damn kid". I could sense the danger in the room. I bite and I kick as hard as I can.
Falling on my butt, I grab the crying girl and run out of the house. Outside was the school cook out of aprons and hat. Has he been following me?
The cook notices her bleeding from an ashtray cut. That was all he needed. I could hear a violent beating from within. The sounds of the beating drowned out by the sirens in the background.
Cook came out of the house, hands and knuckles bloody, in the air.
He turned his head and smiled to me. "You shouldn't run kid, you're only human, sorry I put you up ta this".
It clicked. He was lying. Not one lie. Three lies. The metal taste was enough to make me pout and wince my mouth.
I shouldn't have run. I should have fought. And this cook wasn't sorry for this at all. He knew this would happen.
As he kneeled on the ground, he stared only at her. The cops were shocked to see me. All eyes were on me.
But the third lie was a revelation. I remember, everything. I remember the lies, the story, the cook, the girl, the cop pumping a corpse and lying.
It was me. The memories were mine. The corpse was mine. The officers drew their guns on me.
"Relax officer, he's a replacement kid"
|
"Hey" James said as he slumped down on the couch beside me, beer in hand. "Hey, it's OK".
Well, it technically wasn't, but I didn't really want to argue with him either, so I just sat there and contemplated how to best kill myself.
"It really wasn't your fault that you got fired..." I felt a familiar bitter taste in my mouth now. His attempts were admirable but I just couldn't bring myself to believe him.
"... or that she decided to break up with you..." I really needed to wash my mouth now - it was my fault, all my fault and I knew it.
"... After all, you're only human." The taste was overpowering. Then, the imaginary turned into reality. I gagged and threw up, all over the floor.
That's right. I'm not just a human. Not this time. Not anymore. I am a monster, plain and simple. At that thought, I almost emptied my guts out a second time. I might look like a human, but deep down I'm nothing like them. Humanity, a noble bunch, filled with so much courage to keep on trying and never give up. When they fail, it's because they can't, not because they won't. They're only human, after all. Me, on the other hand, I'm not deserving of being called a human. I could have kept that job, I could be chilling with her now, but I'm not. What could have been, I guess I'll never know. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to find out. From ripping up the bandages and digging up the scars. I love wallowing in misery and self-pity. Other people don't seem to like that. And I don't really care. And that's why I'm here, right now. Lost, in my mind, in the what-could-have-been. A monster, stuck in the past. A monster, that can never let go.
"Woah man, you alright?" No, not really. But, in a sense, I guess I actually am.
Thanks for reading! Im a first-timer so criticism would be greatly appreciated!
| 2018-05-12T05:31:31
| 2018-05-12T05:24:41
| 96
| 25
|
[WP] Do the crime, do the time - but the reverse is also true, you can choose to serve jail time in advance of any crime you want to commit. After voluntarily spending 50 years in prison one individual is set to be released and the world watches in anticipation of whatever they do next.
|
Sorry for any typos, written on mobile.
Edit: To the kind person who gave me gold, [thank you](https://media2.giphy.com/media/kkAdqZnvhsc12/giphy.gif) :)
***
#The Ex-Con#
Officer Gurira watched impassively as a wrinkled face took a seat across from him. PC-502, otherwise known as Adam Forester, was the oldest convict ever to make it through Preemptive Incarceration, impressive in more than one respect. The program was established fifty-two years ago. Its official intent was to try and preemptively rehabilitate trouble elements, with the offer of a virtual free pass to do anything said elements sordid hearts desired after they left the program. In practice, few people who entered the program every saw the outside again. There were whispers the government has set the program up to eliminate potential societal threats before they could act upon their dark impulses. Most of those who enrolled died within a few years of their acceptance, usually by a shiv to the kidney or suspect 'suicides'. The few that did make it out usually hit their quotas fairly quickly. It didn't take much to earn a fifteen or twenty five year sentence, and ex-Preemptives always got the maximum sentence. Still, every year, a few hundred would decide they wanted to try their luck, try to beat the system. They never did.
But then there was Forester.
Forester had joined shortly after the program first started. Compared to the other inmates, his rap sheet was laughably microscopic. A first offence DUI. 48 hours jail time. Instead, he asked for fifty years. And here he'd been since, in this same facility. He was part of the foundation by now-a wall you saw on the morning call to breakfast, a patch of mold no one had bothered to clean up. His stay had been quiet, for the most part. The first decade or so was littered with several incidents of fighting with the other inmates and the odd suicide attempt. Then after that the incidents stopped. Forester was forgotten.
Until now.
He was twenty-one when he entered. Now he was over seventy, white haired, liver spotted skin, veins rolling like hills over his hands. Gurira studied the unassuming man, and wondered what evil desires had driven him to give up fifty years of his life, his youth, to spend his twighlight years committing crime without reprisal. Not to say that he wasn't fit. In fact he was, remarkably so. He reminded Gurira of an elderly body builder, toned, hardened. Adam Forester was one the few who prison looked good on. The scars on his face and neck from those first ten years didn't make him looked like a tired old man. They made him look dangerous. He could take a hit, and get back up, even now. There was also a certain light in his eyes, something so often missing from the old. Officer Gurira was the furthest thing from pittying the old man. In fact, he was loathe to admit he felt intimidated by the interesting, if modest looking, soon to be ex-convict.
Gurira pretended to study his file while really trying to collect his thoughts. Forester stared on, seeming almost disinterested in what was going on.
"Mr. Forester, your preemptive incarceration has expired. The items and clothes you were brought in with will be returned upon your discharge. As a participant in the program, it is required of you to answer the following survey in the presence of a certified program authority. Consider this as your final act of reparation to society within these walls, as you're answers will help us to better improve the program. Are you ready, Mr. Forester?"
He nodded.
The old convict had a steady voice, oddly pleasant to listen to. At first, his answers were standard.
"When were you incarcerated?"
"July 4th, 1957."
"Rate the standards of your facility on a scale of one to ten."
"As of recently, a four. Budget cuts I think."
"Rate the disposition of your fellow inmates on a scale of one to ten."
"Another four."
Officer Gurira knew these answers would be broadcast across the world. Everyone wanted to know what the Incarcerated Innocent, as he'd been labeled by the media, intended to do once he was out. He'd been interviewed a few times leading up to his release, but he was notoriously close lipped. The officer was beginning to fear there would be nothing to show for all the curiosity.
"Did you plan or make plans to commit a crime once your sentence was over?"
The man paused a moment. Then gave a small shake of his head. "No."
Gurira glanced up from his papers incredulously. "No?"
Forester shook his head. "No, I did not plan to a commit a crime. I still don't."
Gurira continued to stare. Finally, as no explanation was forthcoming, he marked no as the answer.
"For what reason did you enroll yourself in the program?" The question came out more personally than Gurira had intended.
Forester was quiet a long time. Gurira waited patiently for his answer.
"By the age of twenty-one, I knew I didn't have what it takes. Didn't have the...resilience to face it."
"To face what, Mr. Forester."
The old man gave a small smile. "Life." He shook his head. "I honestly don't know how you all do it. So much expected of you, so much demanded. Contribute, toil, be fruitful and multiply. Restrain yourself, conform to the majority, control your impulses. It was...suffocating. I went around feeling like my head was wrapped in a blanket, always short of breath, always blind and senseless. I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. No one but the system. I realized freedom was within reach, if I would only pay a price."
"You found freedom in jail?" Gurira asked, disregarding the survey all together.
Forester shook his head. "Prison was the price. But it's all been leading up to now."
The old man leaned in over the table, and spoke softly. "I told you the truth when I said I had no plans to commit a crime. But the option is mine now, isn't it? I have found freedom. *Real* freedom. No obligations, now expectations except the expectation that I will commit the vilest of offenses. No. I am *free*. I can do whatever I please, whenever I please, wherever I please. I have a *choice*. Choice with nothing but dubious moral consequence attached to it." He leaned back, and for the first time, Gurira saw a hint of self-satisfaction in his smile. "Can you think of any freer existence?"
|
######[](#dropcap)
Duke Paredes stepped out of the Fulton County Prehabilitation Penitentiary into a cool, breezy spring morning. The sun shone through from behind a cloud, and he allowed himself to bathe in the warmth of its rays as the door closed behind him. There was something different about being on the other side of the fence. He could still see the yard; the men were already milling about, waving and cheering for the man who'd done his time and was going on to bigger and better crimes. He took it all in. Standing there, on the other side, where the grass was in fact greener and the air somehow fresher despite the difference of only five whole yards, Duke was convinced that nothing could ruin that moment.
The moment was instantly ruined by the dozens of reporters gathered around the entrance. As if on cue, the entire space around him was filled with noise, a roaring ocean of voices asking if he had a word he'd like to get in edgewise. Flashbulbs went off in his face as cameras captured his likeness for the evening paper. As he stepped down to the sidewalk, one reporter even came close enough to grab Duke by the shoulder and force a microphone into his face.
"-Mr. Paredes does your crime happen to involve-"
Two guards were accompanying Duke, and one of them strong-armed the intrusive reporter back into the crowd. They stood on either side of him and walked him down to the curb, where a taxi and police escort were waiting for him. One guard handed him a small sack - his old belongings from the day he'd entered the prison. He placed them inside and entered the car. Then all the vehicles in the convoy made a big show of honking and blaring their sirens until the crowd dispersed and they were free to move.
The drive was uneventful. Duke's new home was a public housing complex on the outskirts of town. Many precriminals chose to live in places like it out of respect for those who didn't have the same affinity for illegal behavior. Outside the lonely one-story building was another crowd of journalists, but this group was smaller and it was easy to shoulder past them.
An officer walked inside with Duke and shut the door behind them.
"Here it is. Crummiest shack we could dig up, just for you." He wasn't exaggerating. The house was very nearly as old as Duke's prison sentence had been long. Everything in it had been lived in, spilled on, gouged, carved and broken at least twice before Duke's arrival. It was meant to be a halfway house (or "wholeway house" as some precriminals termed it), to be shared by perhaps half a dozen people, but the length of his sentence alone was enough to scare away even the hardest of its former residents.
"You been briefed on the protocols following your release?"
"Yes," Duke said. "There was an orientation."
"Good." The officer took a business card from his breast pocket. "This is the contact information for your post-parole officer. You're due to call him in twenty-four hours. Do. Not. Lose it."
"I won't."
The officer glared at Duke, then spat on the floor. "I hope whatever you're planning to do, you die doing it. You're despicable."
Duke stared sadly at the floor as the officer left.
***
The officer had been gone not five minutes when he heard a clattering noise across the hall. He was kneeling down, removing the spit from the hardwood floor with some Windex and paper towels he'd managed to scrounge up (not that the rest of the floor was much better), and for a moment he wondered whether there were mice or squirrels he needed to worry about as well. Then he heard another bump, followed by the creaking of a door.
"Is he gone?" A woman's voice.
Duke stood. "Who's there?"
The woman stepped into the doorway. She wore bell-bottom jeans and a black t-shirt, and a pair of red horn-rimmed glasses. Tipped sideways on her head was a black fedora with a newspaper clipping stuck under the ribbon, and she was holding a small spiral notepad and pen in her hands.
"Aw, finally." She leaned against the doorframe and flipped to a fresh page in her notepad. "You know, I almost thought I had the wrong address."
"You shouldn't be in here." Duke took a slight step backward. "You're trespassing. That's against the law."
"Ha! That's funny. I'll have to slip that into the interview somewhere." She started writing. "I did my time already. Six months for breaking and entering. Pretty smart, if I do say so myself."
She looked up for a moment. Duke was still holding the Windex and paper towels, not really sure what to do about his new situation.
"You haven't given any interviews yet, right?"
"I didn't intend to give any at all."
"Well, I'm here. Be a shame to waste all that jail time. We'll call it an exclusive." She smirked. "I'm sure no one else had the idea to break into your house for this."
Duke sighed. It would be pointless to try and drive her out without giving her what she wanted. She had already filled a whole page of her notepad and was halfway through another, being the exact type of intrepid newswoman he had been hoping to avoid. Now it was too late.
"Very well. Would you like something to-"
"Oh, there's nothing in the fridge. I checked."
"Right. Well, please sit." They both sat, Duke on an old threadbare loveseat and the girl in a sticky leather armchair. "What do you want to know?"
"Mr. Duke Paredes..." She cleared her throat. "Do you mind if I call you Duke?"
Duke nodded.
"My name's Lauren by the way. Duke, as I'm sure you know, the Prehabilitative Justice & Incarceration Law was passed exactly fifty years ago today in the state of Georgia. You were the first person to submit a claim for Voluntary Prehabilitation under this law." Her tone was straightforward and clinical. "Let's jump straight to the big question. What were you planning to do with your fifty-year sentence?"
Duke chose not to answer right away. Lauren waited, still scribbling in her notepad.
"You said you've already served time for breaking and entering?"
"What? Yeah." Lauren dropped her reporting voice as she glanced at Duke. "Why do you ask?"
"Why did you choose to do that?"
"I was looking for a story." She shrugged and leaned back in her chair. "I found out about you sometime last year and figured, 'Hey, I've got some vacation time to spare. Why not plan the story of the century?' I mean, you should have seen the look on my editor's face when I told him-"
"So you figured it was worth it? To spend six months in prison to interview a seventy-one-year-old man?"
Lauren raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you getting at, Duke?" She smirked again. "Six months is nothing. You spent five decades! *You're* the one everybody wants to hear about."
Duke leaned forward in his chair. "What if I told you I have no intention of committing crime for the rest of my life on this earth?"
"...You're joking." Lauren flipped to another page and started writing faster.
"It's like you said. I spent five decades in prison. That changes a man."
"But what did you plan to do? Your time was set in stone from the beginning. It must have been something huge!"
"As far as I'm concerned, it's no longer relevant. I'm not the same man I was, and I won't ever be again." Duke folded his hands together on his lap. "I'm sorry if that's not the answer you expected."
"Are you kidding? I have more questions now than ever!" Lauren stood up and began to cross the room, still writing at a feverish pace.
"Where are you going?"
"To get my tape recorder! This could take *hours*."
"Right." Duke put his head in his hands. "Take your time."
***
***
[Visit my sub! There MAY be more stories about extensive incarceration?!?](https://www.reddit.com/r/TheCastriffSub)
| 2016-02-23T18:24:54
| 2016-02-23T18:02:49
| 843
| 22
|
[WP] When a twin dies their brother/sister acquires all their strength, intelligence, etc. You've just discovered this phenomena, but so has your brother/sister
|
"It's not worth it," I heard.
I can hear my heart beat. My healthy, fully functional, 18 year old heart.
"Please don't do this." My brother, again.
My brother is in there. His heart is beating, but it can't be calm. Mine is a slow thumping noise.
"It won't fix anything. It won't." He referenes a debt that cannot be repaid.
His must be erratic. He has been sick for a long time.
"C'mon man, open up!" He is agitated. It's not good for him.
I cock the revolver. It make a slick noise. I am calm.
"This won't make us even."
I can hear his sobbing. I lift up the gun.
"Life won't be worth living without a twin."
"It won't work. It won't make me better."
I taste the steel. Any chance is worth it.
|
Jaime looked at me, his arctic irises digging into mine. He sprinted, bare-handed, in my direction. Softly, I position my left foot, in preparation. As the avalanche comes near me, I dart under his outreached left arm, and as he slows in reaction, I kick him in the side.
Breathe. I have to breathe if I'm going to win.
He takes a second to recuperate, I should have taken the chance. He gets up, lowers his center of gravity, and walks toward me with wide steps. I lower my center of gravity, and stay where I am. This time, he stands still in challenge, offering me the chance to catalyze the match. I crouch so that my helmet is level with his gut. Then I rush him, as he's trying to get me into a hold, I slide between his legs, swivel my foot and push. I successfully throw him, but as I do he grabs my shoulder and brings me down with him.
Together we lay on the floor, struggling to get a hold or to break one. He gets me into a half nelson, which he knows I'll break. He's prepared for it when I do, he gets me into another headlock and I yield after about half a second. He had me, it was over.
"Helluva move, Jaime."
"Thanks Carly, I saw Hulk Hogan do something like that on WWE."
"You're saying I should watch that 'really real restling' if' I'm gonna win?"
"Are you winning right now?"
It's a good thing he knows how to take a punch, because I know how to give one.
"What time do you want to train tomorrow?"
"You're killing me Jaime."
"If that's what we have to do to get better, I don't mind so much."
Somehow those eyes are so much softer when he's outside the ring.
| 2018-02-25T08:15:55
| 2018-02-25T04:45:16
| 1,595
| 22
|
[WP] You are a cow.
[removed]
|
^Moo.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
Can you not see.
that I live?
.
in the country.
.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
.
The hills are high.
The grass is green.
.
I am headed to be a fat holstein.
.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
.
I chew my cud.
I eat my hay.
.
It is the same.
Old.
Damned.
Thing.
Every.
Day.
.
Farmer Brown is not.
What he seems.
.
He gets off.
On milking me.
.
I am a cow.
Can you not see that?
I live!
In the country.
.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
.
Get your mind out.
The gutter.
Get your hand off!
.
My udder.
.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
.
This old man...
.
He is on crack.
He is a lactophiliac.
.
Nick-Nack.
Paddywack.
Give a dog a bone.
.
What does his wife say.
When she gets.
home.
.
Did you know cows./? ^Can ^yodel?
.
His old wife.
She makes cheese.
Colby.
Jack.
Swiss.
And brie.
.
In the red barn.
.
She can not see.
What he.
loves.
To do.
To.
Me.
.
I am a cow.
Can you not see?
that I live?
in the country.
.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
.
Farmer Brown.
He is.
A creep.
How he treats those.
Poor sheep.
.
^Moo.
I am a cow.
.
Now you know what.
I go through.
.
I wish.
That I was born.
Hindu.
.
I will pack my bags.
.
And trim my hooves.
.
Adios!
.
I think.
.
I will.
.
^Moo. -ve.
.
------------------------------------
*If, Christopher Walken, was a, cow perhaps?*
|
I am a cow. Sometimes I'll escape from my pen after dark. It's easier when there are clouds; it's darker, and I can move unseen. But occasionally, if I feel daring, I'll do it on a moonlit night. The shadows seem deeper then, but in open land I could be spotted at any time. It's so exciting to be where I shouldn't be.
Of course, there isn't *much* risk. Most people are asleep, and those that aren't are indoors, or nearly asleep. A few bakers might still be up, preparing the next day's wares. They take such care to make sure everything is perfect, just as it should be. They don't want anyone or anything to mess with their work. That's why I do it.
i lik the bred
| 2017-10-02T06:49:36
| 2017-10-02T06:49:08
| 162
| 13
|
[WP] Every child is given a pet rock when they turn ten. For the next decade the rock slowly forms into a shape that resembles the personality of its owner. Your rock still looks like a rock.
|
The problem with the rocks is that no one tells you when you get them that they'll be the basis on which everyone judges your motives and underlying humanity should you let anyone see yours. It's no wonder most people hide theirs. I never did but its obvious I should have. A dead end job going on ten years all to pay for my little brothers schooling and the things still sits their like a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking. I pick it up hefting its weight, examining its black corrugated face and angular lines. In one quick motion I dash it against the floor in a fit of rage. It breaks open. I lean in as I pick up the pieces scattered around the garage floor. hints of amethyst crystals glitter beneath the cover a black exterior. It was a geode. Hollow, beautiful, precious.
|
It was a hot afternoon in 1996. There he stands, holding his rock and pacing in front of a door he is too conflicted to open. The frustration is clearly building on his face.
After so many years of trying to be a great person, trying to be caring and charming, trying to be charitable and putting others wishes before his own dreams \- what had it all been for? His personality rock hadn't changed one iota.
He had watched his friends grow and with them their rocks evolved into stars, writing quills, listening ears and untrustworthy snakes. But his was a just a rock. It couldn't be mistaken for a pebble, nor a lump of dirt though, as it was a prime example of rock form and as a result it was instantly recognisable as one.
"No more" he said more to himself, or perhaps the rock. Today I am following MY dreams. Without further thought he took a last look at his life companion...before throwing it in the nearest bin. Free for the first time, he reached for the door that been the source of much conflict.
There in a dimly lit smokey office sat Vince McMahon. He looked up at the large man once before looking back down at the CV he held.
"What sort of name is Dwight?? That wont do at all. Got any nick names kid?"
Sure he had nicknames, kids always gave you nicknames but never the sort you want following you around for the rest of your life. But before he could stop himself, that old playground taunt slipped from his lips. "They call me The Rock".
| 2018-05-02T06:32:34
| 2018-05-02T05:29:16
| 29
| 20
|
[WP] The Islamic State is wiped out by a totally unexpected country in a totally unexpected way.
|
"DEUS VULT!"
The battlecry of the newly reborn Papal State rang on the lips of devout Catholics the world over. The faithful had come together once again to rid the Holy Land of the infidel scourge. Pope Francis stood at the head of his army, a not-so-ceremonial sword flashing in his hand as he held it up on the streets of the Holy City.
(In all seriousness, how has nobody invoked the Crusades yet?)
|
"Sirs," said the man who burst into the room,
"What, can't you see we are doing important work," said the representative of the USA as he and his colleagues took another shot. They were watching something on the television.
"Well, sir, ISIS has surrendered, unconditionally."
Everyone in the room said, unanimously, "What?"
"ISIS-"
"We heard you the first time, why?" said the representative of Great Britain.
"My strategy of bombing them must have worked." said the representative of the USA.
"Ya, zat vil be zhe day," said the representative of Germany.
"Shut up,"
"Actually, sir, it was Sealand."
"Sea what?"
"Sealand, it is close to my country. Some nut went on an abandoned platform and declared himself king."
"Ya, but what could zeeland do?"
"Well, they dropped an atomic bomb on Syria."
"They what!" was the unanimous response.
"How did they get a nuke?" asked the representative of the USA. "I didn't sell them one," he muttered under his breath.
"Well, it seems like North Korea sold them. Remember last week when they announced, and I quote: 'We have produced so many nuclear weapons for our glorious country, anyone can come and buy them.' Intelligence reports that Sealand bought this in exchange for, a hairclip and a rake. By the way, Sealand wants a reward for what they have 'accomplished.'"
"What do zhey want?"
"They want to be recognised as a country."
| 2016-01-29T10:03:10
| 2016-01-29T09:04:29
| 82
| 11
|
[WP] First rule of having a interstellar Navy never get into a arms race with humans it never ends well for anyone.
|
Admiral Kthath sat in his office dreading the conversation he knew was coming. He'd had it before, of course, and doubtless would have it again many times before the end of his career, but he never enjoyed them. His musing was interrupted by the tone of his entry chime, and he pushed the button to open the door as he stood.
"Admiral Kthath," said his adjutant, leading in a well dressed Xarnian, "may I present the new chair of the budget committee, Senator Hrass."
"Senator, please have a seat," he replied, then nodded to dismiss his aide. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me," he added, taking his own seat.
"Yes, of course," said the Senator, also taking his seat. "I was most interested in hearing your explanation for why we spend nearly half our budget providing security for an *inferior* race like the humans."
Kthath sighed inwardly, but made no visible showing of it. He knew that any display of annoyance would only make this take twice as long. "I understand your concern Senator, I too once felt the same way."
"But now you don't?" interrupted the Senator, clearly growing impatient.
"Please, Senator," the Admiral responded calmly, trying to de-escalate the situation. "Allow me to explain, and then you can ask your questions." The Senator looked unhappy, but nodded in assent.
"Many years ago," Kthath began, "when I was fresh out of the Academy, we were at war with the Humans. And we were winning, or so we thought; after all, they were no match for our individual strength, let alone our technological superiority. And I was convinced that within two cycles the war would be over and we would be victorious. I was right about the first one, though we didn't realize it for another 5 cycles. And I was totally wrong about the second.
"What you have to understand about the Humans is that what you see on the surface is barely a fraction of what they are capable of. Individually, most of them are weak, most of them aren't all that smart, most of them aren't all the good at most things. But each one individually has one thing that they are very, *very* good at, assuming they find that thing. And occasionally, you find one that's very good a a number of things, mostly within the same discipline. And rarely, you find someone who's skills cross disciplinary boundaries in ways that most of their kind cannot even understand."
"So? I didn't come here for a lesson on Humans, I came here for an explanation about our Navy's budget!" The Senator nearly shouted, causing the Admiral to shake his head slowly.
"Please, Senator, you must understand a little about the Humans to understand the answer to your question. A few more minutes, that's all I ask."
The Senator grumbled, but after a moment motioned to Kthath to continue.
"Thank you. As I was saying, those who could handle multiple disciplines are rare. But the thing is, the number of Humans is staggering. One generation of them can spawn several Billion beings, most of whom are are willing to do whatever is necessary to survive. And that's what we didn't understand at first. That willingness to do anything meant that they quickly figured out what each individual was good at, and had them do that. *And only that.* Despite being a massive conglomeration of fierce individuals, when faced with extinction they operate more like a hive.
"Add to that those rare individuals who could operate across disciplines, and they quickly did two things we hadn't even imagined possible: First, they salvaged the few wrecks of our ships that we'd left behind, and reverse engineered nearly every technology we had. And then they set their entire population to building their own versions of them in quantities that you could only dream of. By the end of that second cycle, they had produced enough that they had slowed down our advance into their territory by a factor of ten. Even worse, they were capturing or salvaging even more of our technology.
"And that's when we made our biggest mistake. Instead of simply building more of what we already had, we did our best to build new weapons to defeat what the Humans were producing." The Admiral paused there, almost goading the Senator into asking why that was a mistake. He wasn't disappointed.
"A mistake? Why would that be a mistake?" asked the Senator. "Our technology is the greatest in the galaxy, we could crush them with it!"
"Could we?" asked the Admiral rhetorically. "Could we wipe them out entirely in one blow? Because that's what it would take to win."
"But why?" shouted the Senator, clearly not getting the point.
"Because we thought like you back then, and it failed," answered Kthath. "As soon as we brought any new technology to the field, they would focus on crippling one of the ships using it and then salvage and copy it. In many cases, bringing it to bear in quantity *faster* than we could produce it. And occasionally, even surpassing us by taking our technology and using it in ways we hadn't even thought of yet. Or, in at least one case, doing something *we just couldn't get to work!* It wasn't until we sued for a cease fire that we learned what we were up against.
"Fighting against us wasn't the first time the Humans had engaged in an arms race like the one we were in. In fact, the entirety of Human history prior to leaving their homeworld had been one continuous arms race. *Against themselves.* In fact, at one point their two largest factions had been in a race to see who could build the bigger doomsday weapon capable of wiping out their entire planet. All because letting their opponent have the bigger weapon meant that they might think they could use it and win."
The Senator stared, his mouth agape. "But, how does one win if the entire planet is destroyed?"
Admiral Kthath smiled, knowing he'd finally won. "I was there when the Humans were asked that very question, do you know what their response was?" The Senator shook his head, so he continued, "They laughed. For a whole minute they laughed, before growing serious again. 'At the time,' they said, 'the only thing that mattered was that the other side didn't survive longer than we did. Even if we only lasted a minute longer, even seconds, they would have died first. Therefore we would have won.' It was then and there that I knew we could never defeat them, and it was madness to even try. Even if we did manage to kill every last Human, they would make sure we all died first."
Seeing the beads of perspiration at the edges of the Senator's eyes, he decided it was time to calm him back down. "After we agreed to end the fighting, we asked what it would take to ensure that they would keep the peace going forward. And thus the arrangement we have today. We supply them with the necessary naval fleet to provide security for their borders, and they supply us with the resources to keep them operational. If our fleets try to turn on them, they'll quickly find themselves without supplies, and that's before the Humans reactivate their own fleets and destroy us."
"But, that makes no sense! They're practically goading us into attacking them again!" exclaimed the Senator.
"No, Senator, not goading," said the Admiral gravely. "Testing. They're testing us, to make sure we hold up our end of the bargain. I have no doubt that they're still stealing, copying, and improving our own technology, and anyone else's they can get their hands on. And should we step out of line they'll bring that might down on us. And this time, they won't stop.
"That, Senator, is why we spend half our budget providing security for a so-called inferior race. Because it's better than spending our entire budget *fighting* them. And more than likely losing, when all is said and done."
"Yes, well," said the Senator, standing quickly. "I believe you've explained your position adequately to justify your budget. I'm sure you've already investigated any possible efficiencies to reduce it, so there's no need to go over it in detail. I'll let you get back to work." With that the Senator quickly left the Admiral's office, no doubt wondering why he'd never heard the truth about the war with the Humans before.
The Admiral shook his head watching the Senator leave. "It's always the same," he mused. "Maybe the council should reconsider its ban on teaching the truth." Then he chuckled, "Of course, then I'd miss out on these *fun* conversations. Oh well, back to work." He pulled out the next report he had to sign off on and started reading.
-=END=-
|
Emperor Qi looked out upon his fleet with a feeling of immense pride. Since the death of his father, Qi had sought to raise the standing of his homeworld in the eyes of Galactic Citadel. His father, Emperor Xi, believed in maintaining the status quo, "as long as the waters of Azuchi stay blue and the air clean we succeed" he would often tell Qi. Always content to remain a backwater in the hopes of remaining out of anyones target, always on the sideline.
But Qi was not his father. He believed Azuchi could be, and would be, an interstellar juggernaut. Few worlds could compete with their natural resources, few could compete with their warriors dedication. Qi would make a statement and the Citadel would have to listen. It was not against the rules of the Citadel for members to militarize or declare war on fellow members, though it was frowned upon. Qi had a simple plan, he would build his forces and then pick a species he could make an example of. Declaring to the universe the Azuchi were not some backwater but a true power!
He knew in time the Citadel would notice his build up, so the request to speak on the floor did not come unexpectedly. Infact, Qi had counted on it, he was going to use this opportunity to pick his target.
As Qi entered the Citadel chamber he was taken back at the sheer number of members. As Crown Prince, he was never allowed to enter the chamber, his first time would be explaining his military build up. "Remain calm" he told himself. As he approached the floor, the Citadel chairwoman spoke to him with a booming voice, catching Qi by surprise.
"Emperor Qi, welcome, the floor is yours...we are simply interested in your intentions. Long has Azuchi been a friend and Ally to many in this chamber fighting alongside us in many conflicts...but never has your world possessed a fleet of this size or shown such aggressive growth"
Qi spoke at once. "Madam Chair, The Azuchi are a peaceful people, this fleet is the culmination of a dream of my father Emperor Xi, to project our strength and show our dear Allies we will always be ready to assi-"
At this moment a human, some small creature Qi had only heard of from his father interrupted... "Emperor Xi was a devout Pacifist and champion of Isolationism, this boy is lying to our faces he means to bring war!"
Before Qi could respond the chairwoman addressed the human. "Secretary Odani outbursts are not acceptable! Your Earth politics will not be tolerated here"
"Of course Madam chair, my apologies" the Human said
...locking eyes with Qi and grinning
The Chairwoman looked back at Qi, allowing him to speak again but Qi did not, he simply turned and walked away...he had what he came for...his target would be Earth.
Before Qi could leave the Citadel, he received an invite to a sit down from Senator Hano, a member of the oldest known species in the citadel. Qi could not pass up this opportunity to meet Hano...his father often spoke of Hano and frequently sought his counsel.
"Emperor Qi, thank you for taking my audience, I was in the chamber for your speech and I come to warn you"
"Warn me?" Qi exclaims, "warn me of what the saber rattling in the Chamber?
"No my boy... to warn you about the Humans."
Qi must have looked visibly startled. How could Hano know his plan? He had only told a few trusted aides...
"Qi, I have been a senator here since before the Azuchi were space faring, I know when a man has chosen his target, and im here to warn you the Humans are not the ones. Humans are species that thrives on war. When they cannot find a unified front they will fight one another on make believe slights, just to fight. They do not stop until their opponent is destroyed or they are"
"Hano, I am honored you would come to me but the Azuchi are -"
"Yes yes fine warriors, but you are not capable of what the Humans are. None know this, but I believe I owe it to your father to save you... many believe my species to be the oldest" Hano paused looking out toward the stars... "we are not, the Humans are" Qi sat up, staring at Hano not comprehending what he was saying.
"A millenia ago they brought war to the Galaxy laying waste to any and everything in their path. It took a unified front of 50 planets to drive them back. Truthfully, we believed we had driven them to extinction destroying their homeworld several times over...but like rodents they have come back, they seemingly dont know their heritage and have accepted our story that they are a young species... but for a species to restart and come back so fast... their resourcefulness is unrivaled as is their bloodlust when attacked...I implore you Qi, do not awaken this sleeping giant, there is a reason theyve ascended in the Senate so quickly, the alternative is a galaxy ending war"
"Now return to Azuchi, and rethink your plan but leave the humans out of it."
The Senator turned and left, leaving Qi sitting in his room stunned at what he had heard...how could such a small creature be such a threat. None the less, Senator Hano was not his father and he would show everyone Azuchi's strength... and if the Humans are truly this dangerous they will be the perfect show of force for his fleet.
"Fleet master" Qi called out "Prepare to leave, send word to Azuchi to deploy the troops...set course for Earth"
| 2021-06-14T14:15:10
| 2021-06-14T11:41:15
| 155
| 111
|
[WP]Tell me an emotional story about a man, using only what he would type into Google search
|
How to impress a woman if you don't have money
Average penis size
Natural ways to increase penis length
Penis pumps do they work?
Painful swelling of penis how to heal?
Fast ways to lengthen your penis -pump
Average cost of male enlargement pills
Discount penis enlargement pills for sale cheap
Credit cards
Credit cards for people with no credit history
How to build credit?
How to build credit fast?
Alternative ways to lengthen penis +free
Weight hanging
How much weight is too much when hanging things from penis
Tips for attaching weight to penis
How to stop bleeding
Tourniquet techniques
Emergency room directions
|
Facebook
Tumbler
Spanish Inquisition
Google Translate
Jobs in Appleton, WI
*Clear History*
Calc chat
Facebook
Best way to hide bruises
*Clear History*
Cheap Bus tickets
Cheap apartments Appleton WI
Emancipated Minor?
*Clear History*
Gmail
Tumblr
Counseling confidentiality rules for minors
Free Counseling services
*Clear history*
-Month Later-
Gmail
Job Appleton, WI
Homeless shelters Appleton, WI
Free Counseling?
| 2015-02-04T16:58:26
| 2015-02-04T16:52:51
| 555
| 46
|
[WP] Our blood is naturally clear, it thickens and darkens with each impure act. You have always dedicate yourself to good and helping others but today while knitting beanies for the homeless you accidentally prick your finger. Your blood is jet black and so thick it doesn't even drip.
|
I felt disgusted, wondering why. The confusion invading my mind....
Years of having this Gallery to bring happiness and joy through art to those around me, and even more years of helping the less fortunate throughout the Great Depression.
I sought to find a reason, asking myself « why would I have black blood pouring out of me? ». A single event, after a long day at work at a particularly difficult time in my marriage stood out: I remember I sent this young artist packing, didn’t even offer him a chance and let him show me his work. I even berated him on his lack of technique... Adolf was his name.
|
It was my 21st birthday. Like every other birthday, I decided to spend my day helping out the homeless. Usually I’d do the soup kitchen but a friend of mine decided to come along insisting that we join in on the beanie knitting project.
My friend called me a natural at knitting since it was my first time and my first beanie looked immaculate. After the second one we began to turn the good deed into a competition. Who can produce the most beanies?
Lucy said she had been knitting since she was a young girl. Compared to my beanies, hers were better looking but I could produce faster. After a while we were both on our tenth beanie. She caught up after having three less then me. This prompted me to ramp up my production. There’s no way I would lose to Lucy.
I shifted my eyes from my work to Lucy continuously, making sure that I outpaced her. As my eyes swayed from my hands to her, I accidentally jabbed myself with the needle. The needle was embedded deeply into my middle finger causing a wound of considerable size to open as I pulled it out without caution.
“God damn”
A devilish grin was on her face as Lucy gazed upon my wounded finger. There was jet black material slowly escaping from the wound. The dark material was my blood. Everyone knows that blood is naturally clear but darkens with each impure act. I was raised by the church and couldn’t remember partaking in any acts that would cause such a thing. I was the last person that anyone would expect to be impure.
“Finally”, Lucy yelled as she stood up. I was flabbergasted and couldn’t understand what was going on with her or the state of my blood.
“My child, this is your true nature.”
The voice that was coming from Lucy didn’t sound like the friend I had known for years.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s simple” she said. Her appearance began to change. A handsome man stood before me. “The church stole your memories and replaced them with shit that never happened. What you think you know and believe to be your life is a lie.”
“Who are you?”
“You May know me as Lucy, but my name is Lucifer”, he said with a smile. “But you can call me dad.”
| 2018-08-04T11:29:17
| 2018-08-04T10:32:26
| 15
| 10
|
[WP] When someone is murdered, their name appears on the skin of the killer. You wake up with a name on your arm and no knowledge of how it got there.
|
I stared at the name on my arm.
It was a name I didn't know. Had never heard of.
I frowned at it. I squinted at the letters. It took me several moments before I realized that it wasn't inkpen. Wasn't sharpie. Whatever it was was permanent. And I knew how things worked.
These markings only appeared if you killed another person.
Now I knew I hadn't killed anyone. Knew I'd slept the previous night. Soundly even. I even had my sleep recorder going. There were no disturbances.
I stared at the name. How could I murder someone without ever leaving my house?
I knew that I would have to search for the person. I didn't want to. I felt sick. Felt like vomiting. But I dragged myself to the computer. Didn't even take a piss. I couldn't be bothered. I was on edge.
I turned on my laptop. Went on chrome. I let my fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment. I changed my mind and went to the bathroom first. Didn't want to piss myself if it was shocking. Finally I returned and sat back down. I finally swallowed my fear and typed in the name.
That .4 seconds was be longest fraction of a second I've ever experienced.
I placed a hand over my mouth as I saw the person on the screen. I threw up in my wastebasket. Fuck. Fuck!
It was some kid. Some high school kid. A boy. He fucking hung himself.
I poured over the first article I saw. He was stalked online on social media and tormented. An anonymous user kept telling him to kill himself.
I felt the sweat dripping. I rushed to the site and started deleting my shit. But the horrible messages in my inbox were fucking hostile. Holy shit.
He committed suicide. It wasn't my fault. People are always online doing that. I didn't mean it. I was just trolling. It wasn't my fucking fault.
He should have been tougher.
But goddammit. The fucking marking doesn't mistake. God... I've killed someone. I'm a murderer. It's on my arm. Everyone will know.
It wasn't my fault.
|
"Well, this is new, a tattoo embedded onto the arm of mine, but I' ve no recollection of how it got here but, at least it doesn't hurt. What happened last night? Well I went from work at 3:15 pm and I went to the... damn it what is that damn place called? It had a weird name. Fuck. Where am I? Well let's see..." The cracked walls gave me a shiver, for some reason I'm tattooed with the words "Michael". I can't take my eyes of this abomination of a Tattoo. I reached into my pocket and here it is, a locket; I need some air. The air thickened as I attempt to grasp my recollection of what happened last night, through the claustrophobic hallways, each seemed to reflect the detachment of any human kindness, with each step challenged through the use of screams mimicing my footsteps with pure ferocity. My body seemed to give under the unrivaled nature of this unending tunnel.
A drop of information arised as I try to recollect what occured. " I drove to a nearby diner with nothing but my cigerettes and wallet, as I drove to a diner nearby, I believe it's called "J&C's" It wasn't too fancy, a run down 50's diner that struggled in the face of time. I turned off the car and webt through a singular metallic frame that seemed to have been used as a substitute for a door. The smell wasn't too bad I suppose, cheap air freshener wasn't as distracting as the 4x4 of plywood that replaced some of the windows. I approached the waitress and ordered a coffee. "
"Did I just pass out"? My legs were trembling as I decided to carry my weakend form through the corridor. I mapped the corridor out to enter the miniscule room. A few furnitures and a table were all that was remotely even usable, as the rest of the stuff here seemed to have either been scattered or beyond former recognition; mostly both. I then stumbled across my diploma, seemed the framing was cracked. My mind chaotic-ly rushed to find something inside the labyrinth like cocoon of the mind.
"A sip of my coffee was interrupted by a figure slowly approaching me from the left side, as I had diverted my attention from the chimicals of the darkenned sea. I reluctantly invited him to sit; perhaps company had eased me of my surroundings. He asked me of few questions: what's my job, what's my name and why here? I suppose I can't tell him my name or my intention, however I told him my job. I uttered the line "a teachers assistant". It wasn't too bad, everyone deserved an education. The man grumbled in approval before I offered him a ride back to his house, seemed it was reasonable. So I took the man in my car and we drove."
I became weary of my surroundings. Perhaps I was too embellished in this place. Slowly I had crept downstairs only to be greeted by the man I had spent yesterday with. He had greeted my like an old friend. He asked me of death. The man unravelled his sleeve to reveal the same name "Michael". I panicked and roared my question, "how, why"? "You don't remember do you?" My memories suddenly solidified and connected in ways I never thought was possible.
"The road was unrelenting, a chamber of silence deafened the vehicle til the man asked me of why I was carrying my diploma? I had told him that I couldn't face the task anymore I quit. As we approached the crossroads, the man had asked me of life, and death. I had told him that death has no bias. Silence.
The man had uttered a revelation. "I failed him". My heart sank, it was like a jolt of regret had invaded my mind, for I too had failed him. He had guided me to a room that seemed to feel cold and abandoned. He had a reflection of deep dispair that haunted my mind as he had proceeded to invite me to a box inscribed "Michael" he fetched two glasses and a bottle of scotch. He smoothly poured the scotch smoothly after handing me the glass. "I wasn't there when he needed me the most" he gloomed. The truth is neither did I. I opened the locket to reveal two tablets and a quote, "to teach the unteachable and to help the unhelpable." I looked at him one final time. I quickly took the tablets and instantly fell ill, "why?" Shouted the man.
I knew his son. I tried to help him. Every day he would say the same thing "what is death" I told him that death had an afterlife; I don't believe it however. But then one day, I showed him the locket. I told him that when i think of death, I hold this locker and it goes away. I wasn't thinking that he would take one of my tablets. I failed him. So I resigned.
Look at him, trying to save my life, I'll unburden him and prove that there's nothing he could have done, for afterall, death has no bias.
I hope you all enjoy my story.
| 2017-03-24T16:11:24
| 2017-03-24T13:35:49
| 340
| 20
|
[WP]Deities are literally born to life out of human belief systems. Unfortunately, this means that the other gods in the divine realm now have to put up with The God of Atheism.
|
It was like any other day for the Gods. Zeus and Thor were playing darts with lightning bolts and the Mjolnir, Jesus was pricking his fingers to fill his glass, it was the good life. Then Grothuk, God of Atheism, came in the door screaming in terror.
"GAAHHHAHA JESUS HELP ME!" He cried, "SPIDER!"
"Grothuk, you are nigh-omnipotent, why do you always go to one of us to get rid of bugs?" Answered Christ, "It should be easy for you to do it yourself."
"Because, it's ***REALLY*** scary. It'll bite me! I can't do it."
Thor sighed and spoke up, "Come on, man, it's not scary. You just gotta believe in yourself."
|
The Pantheon grew exponentially as mankind evolved and learned. Tribal deities were joined by the Greek gods, those of Roman mythology, eventually Jesus, Allah and the other Anno Domini Deities (ADDs). Though each new era of man bought with it new gods and a difficulty in acclimating to them, there were no troubles for the deities. Cthulu, Christ and the Flying Spaghetti Monster could happily live in harmony, irrespective of their own followers' beliefs.
That was, until, he came.
"God's not real".
He said those three words, each and every day, and very little else. His entire existence was an ironic paradox, The God of those who did not believe in God. The God of Atheism spoke softly and smiled, content to pass his time in the Kingdom of Heaven in a state of abject disbelief. He spoke to the other deities courteously, occasionally asking a question as to their religion's belief structure, then went about his day. The God of Atheism was not a contentious figure, at least, not when one compared him to The God of /r/Atheism.
(EDIT: Thank you kindly for the Gold, /u/0x726564646974)
| 2015-08-01T10:45:44
| 2015-08-01T08:17:35
| 575
| 287
|
[WP] Two friends are inseparable, even in death. They are reincarnated together no matter what, same era and location, and they always meet each other.
Write about them and what they do together throughout time.
Edit: wow thanks so much for the awesome responses so far! I've never had a prompt get this much attention, it's really cool. Keep them coming, I love reading all of these!
|
I used to look for her green eyes. The shade of emerald green was never quite replicated in the iris of anyone but her. Even as her skin and hair darkened and the tongues she spoke varied, the color of her eyes was always the same.
I first met her in Paris. We walked along the streets. I was studying art. She was studying life. She spoke only French, and, despite my lack of mastery of the language, our conversations were beautiful. We spent our evenings at small tables beside bustling streets, drinking wine and planning a future. When I graduated, we would move to Germany. There we would make new memories. When the time came to move, the seat next to mine on the train remained empty. I would learn from a friend that she was gone. Not dead. Not missing. Just gone.
We met for the second time the morning after I wed the only man I have ever loved. I sat alone in an American cafe that morning, drinking coffee and reading a novel. Turning the page, I noticed those green eyes staring back at me through the two-pane glass. She was different this time, younger. Her hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders, a contrast from her formerly straight hair. Her skin was more tan and she stood a couple of inches shorter. I often wonder why I did not question if it was her. I gestured for her to join me. She obliged. I never asked her where she had gone or why she had changed. I welcomed her back. She helped me raise my children and, later, my grandchildren. She held my hand as I struggled to breathe with the fluid in my lungs. She never left my side.
I met her for a third time in Australia. I was studying abroad. My earlier life and memories of her were confined to dreams of late-night conversations and afternoons spent at tables for two across from the girl with emerald eyes. I knew her the instant she walked into the lecture hall. Her dark, curly hair was tied back. Her skin was the same tan that I remembered. She was older than in my dreams. I approached her after class, armed with a series of lecture-related questions. She dismissed them all and invited me to her office. There we fell back into our old ways. That summer, we had plans to travel to Asia. Our flight did not make it to our destination.
I met her again in California. I often dreamed of her green eyes. I scanned the crowds everywhere I went, looking for the girl in my dreams. I was always scared to leave, convinced if I just stayed in one place long enough that she would find me again. I waited for her until my eighteenth birthday. When she never appeared, I decided to attend school on the West Coast. My parents moved me in to my freshman dorm and kissed me goodbye. I wandered the halls, striking up conversations with students and their families. I searched for her replacement, for someone I could connect with in the same way I had with the girl with the emerald eyes. This time, I found her. I met those green eyes in the same dorm at the end of the hall. She wrapped me in a hug and told me she had been waiting for me. This time, I would never let her go.
|
We've always been friends.
Sometimes a royal and a commoner, sometimes comrades, sometimes just average joes.
We've witnessed each other change over each lifetime, we've seen each other's mistakes.
Sometimes different political views, sometimes even enemies on a battlefield.
Sometimes we even go into a time where we have already lived, as time is relative.
We've fought, we've hurt, we've despised each other, but in the end, we always know.
We've changed into other versions of ourselves, so dramatically different from before.
One thing has always been constant throughout this, however- even if we don't remember until the very end of each life.
We've always been friends.
| 2015-05-02T10:40:25
| 2015-05-02T10:39:49
| 111
| 48
|
[WP] A kid tries to talk the monster under the bed into attacking the monster in the closet.
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"Have you decided yet?"
A soft rumble shook my bed and I clutched the baseball tighter under my pillow
"I mean, the day you get me, who's gonna get what? I can't keep you guys company forever you know.."
I heard silence. It was rare it fell asleep before I ever did.
The closet creaked open the silence, and it was accompanied by a squeak and the sound of claws scratching the back wall. I turned to face the closet, "Because I've been thinking, wouldn't you rather just keep a whole kid to yourself?"
The closet creaked open a smidgen more and my bed shook ever so slightly as the beast beneath me shook. I could hear it breathing now, under me, panting heavily stopping only to put slobber all over its lips with its tongue. Claws began to scrape across the wooden floorboards. It was now or never
"I heard closet guy saying one night, that you wouldn't even be able to catch him. That he'd have me all to his lonesome..."
A growl resonated through me. Just a bit more...
"I guess we just won't ever know huh... unless you prove it!" I whipped out the baseball and threw it into the closet. A large golden retriever dashed out from under the bed and barreled into the closet. My tabby cat shot out, into the hallway yowling with the canine in hot pursuit letting out sporadic barks. I jumped out of bed and ran to the door, locking it tight.
Finally, a good night's rest.
|
*A child bolts up in bed panicking. His name is Jonas. The sound that startled continues as it rattles the closet slightly.*
"Clawbite...?" Julian said curiously. "Clawbite, are you there?"
".. Yes, Jonas?" a voice from the below grumbles. "Is something the matter?"
"I can't sleep, something just made a sound in my closet" whined the exhausted Jonas.
"Jonas. I'm sure it was nothing. If you'd like I can creak the floor for you. Would that help?"
"Clawbite, I don't think it's nothing. But if it wasn't you, then who was it?", asked Jonas.
"If that's the case, Jonas, I believe you might have a new inhabitant in your garment room", snarled Clawbite. "But, seeing as this room is already being terrorized, I'm afraid he's going to have to go."
*A dampened thump emanates from the closet floor*
"Ah, Clawbite, how's it been? Still hiding under lice farms?", a voice spoke, each syllable a slight rattle.
"Who is that Claw? I don't want to be scared tonight. Please?", whined Jonas.
"Rogut. Rogut, you must leave now. This child is not to be messed with. There is... an arrangement." Clawbite said scolding the closet resident.
"Aww, is poor little Claw afraid of a little competition? Tell you what, we can scare him together! Remember that thing we used to do in *Fake Thunderstorm 203*?
I mean, I tell ya kid, we used to make sounds that would wet the bed during a light shower! And it wasn't from the rain!"
"Claw I don't want to wet my bed! Mom-", protested Jonas.
"Rotgut. Leave. Now", spoke Clawbite in his monotone anger.
"Nah, I think I'll stay instead. I was kidding about liking you. You were always a stuck up priss. But wait til everyone hears Clawbite is protecting children!", chortled the blank slats of the closet.
"Claw, make him go away!", Jonas spoke with terror cracking his every word. "Mom and dad can't help me anymore"
"Jonas, when I tell you I want you to close your eyes and shut your ears. Then you can open them again Understood?", said Clawbite.
"Ok. I'm sorry Claw", Jonas apologized.
"There's nothing to apologize for. Now, on three. 1... 2....-", said Clawbite
*Jonas clamped his eyes and ears as he was told and waited. When he opened his eyes, he heard the distinct sound of dragging from the closet's side of the room.*
"Did you get him Claw? Is he gone?", Jonas managed to speak.
"Yes he is. Don't worry Jonas. Like I told you before, we'd always be family. I promised nothing would happen to you again."
| 2015-09-06T06:20:23
| 2015-09-06T01:36:00
| 19
| 10
|
[WP] The "violent videogames teach you how to use a gun" thing is true for you. Literally. Everything you learn in videogames, you can do in real life as well. You realize you have that power when you drink an energy drink after a bad injury and you find yourself completely healed.
|
I was sick, the only release I had was playing varies mmorpgs, platformers, and survival games. I was in the hospital for several months. One morning however I ate my usual breakfast and fell asleep again. When I woke up, the doctor said my vitals were fine, my sickness miraculously vanished. How? I did nothing different. one day I was dieing, the next I was fine?
They let me go home as long as I would come back every week for the next few months to make sure they didn't miss something. For years after, my immune system was running at peak performance and everything finally seemed... normal. However I was far from it.
I just didn't officially realize it until I was 17 running for my track team. I stumbled, jumping the barriers and I fell... hard. my leg twisted and I broke It. I hobbled back to the side lines holding my friend over the shoulder. "Damn it!" I said, "We have a meet tomorrow Im the only one on this team who is fast enough to beat that school!" My friend was concerned for me, but I could tell she was worried about the meet too. she laughed, "Well not anymore you're not. Don't sweat it. We'll kick their ass regardless. Just you watch." I smile weakly taking some pain killers I had in my bag and a sip from my drink to wash them down. Almost immediately pain went away and the bruise I had was gone. 'What the f-' I covered it up with my jacket and wrapped what was my injured knee in a bandage.
I had her carry me to her car and to my door. No one could know I healed that quickly. It was impossible for that to happen. you cant just break a bone and be better after a few minutes.. right?
I did what every normal teenager would do in this situation. I googled it.
'Broken bone healed after 5 minutes'
nothing
'Dislocation gone after minutes'
nothing
'miraculous medical conditions healed'
nothing
nothing
nothing
'What the hell is going on'
I grabbed my bag and drove to the ER.
"Um, hi I think I dislocated my knee?" the receptionist looked at me strangely... standing, completely pain free. I know I must have looked like an idiot. She then proceeded to ask the generic questions
'Name?'
"Ashley Collins"
'Date of birth?'
"03/24/2001"
'Please complete this chart and hand it to me once you're finished'
"No problem."
A few hours later a nurse called me. The regular check up routine began. something I knew all too well.
blood preasure. check
height. 5'1". check
tempature. check
no medications. check
I insisted on an X-Ray. They said I would have to pay extra since it wasnt recommended, But I insisted reguardless.
The results came back and he said "There's tissue scarring around the part where you said you broke it. But this seemed to have healed for a few months now. If you are still having pain, there maybe it could be something else. Let me refer you to a specialist, do-"
I interrupted him. "No I'm fine I just get kinda paranoid I guess. Thank you. Is there anything else?"
"No you're free to leave..."
"Thank you." I said shakly
I got home and I cut myself over the sink. I ate something, and I watched it heal...
again
and again
and again
I started to cry out of shock, Pain, and plain anxiety. It was stupid really I had the ability to heal myself who woudn't want that? I slowly got up and I punched the wall. A bright shock wave bursted from my fist throught the kitchen. turning everying on all at once and frying everything eletrical just as fast.
My eyes widened. It was an ability I knew all to well In game I used to play. I slamed my fist to the ground and every enemy near me got stunned for a few seconds. Thats when I realized my life was the opposite of normal...
(Thanks for anyone who read this. This is actually the first thing I wrote publicly. So dont judge me to harshly!!! :3 I also get very long winded I apologize for this)
|
At first I was really excited, Imagine all the cool things I could do. I could be a super hero, or a powerful mage, the rules of the the normal world no longer apply to me, I can do anything!
Very soon however I realized the rules did apply to me, but the rules of the world had changed. Maybe the rules were always like this, but now that I have this power I finally know them.
First I started to notice people had levels. This wasn't too strange, but then I realized people fell into different categories based on the color of their name and level displayed. It took me a while to understand what these meant but it quickly became apparent. These categories were Grey: NPC, Blue: NEUTRAL PLAYER, Green: ALLIED PLAYER, and Red: ENEMY PLAYER.
Once I realized this I was horrified, most of the people I knew were NPC's. My mother, my sister, even my closest friends: all NPC's. They weren't real people, they were just following some program.
What hit me even harder however, were the Reds. Once a Red PC sets a target they attempted to kill them on sight. PC's Increase level in a variety of ways it seemd: quests given by NPC's, helping Green and Blue PC's, discovering locations, crafting, and many other ways. The quickest way to gain levels, was killing other PC's. Red PC's would hunt down other PC'S and kill them in broad daylight.
NPC's never noticed these killings they were completely oblivious to this brutality. When a dead PC turned up, NPC's almost always just saw a death by natural causes. The NPC's didn't care if they saw a PC tear someone in half, to them it was just some tragic accident, they were programmed to believe it to be so. Red PC's almost never faced consequences by the hands of NPC's, the rules of the Game protected them.
I don't know how I came to see the world this way, all I know is I have to find a way to level up and become stronger, because that's the only thing that matters in this world, high level PC's live comfortable luxuries lives, while low levels rot in the slums. This is the caste system of the world, and I intend to survive this Game and make it all the way to the top.
| 2018-08-14T11:20:45
| 2018-08-14T11:03:17
| 16
| 11
|
[WP] 100 years in the future dank memes are precious artifacts. While scanning your grandpa's PC, you stumble upon the rarest of all...
|
Memes.
Back in the old days, before the blackout, everyone had 'em. In every PC, in every browser, you'd find Pepes, Advice animals, Rage comics, Montage Parody's and all the inbetween, all the shades of the double-rainbow.
And then, you know, they became a bit harder to find.
It became obvious our society could simply not survive without the Dankest of influences that had shaped our culture. Memes weren't just memes anymore.
They were life.
I'm a spelunker. I dive into old PC's, laptops, desktops, you know...I search for the past.
But I also search for the memes.
The Meme-useum pays a lump sum to anyone who can bring 'em some good quality memes, so it's always worth looking out for 'em.
Sometimes it's hard. Entire days of searching hard drives, desktops and external storage software, only to come up empty.
But sometimes, you hit it big. You hit it real big.
I hit up my old grandpa's PC once. You wouldn't think he had anything, but oh boy I was wrong.
Turns out Grandpa was a 'channer. Lived for the meme, died by the meme.
When I opened that Rare Pepe folder... I knew I could retire happy. Loaded it onto to a flash drive, deleted the original (Standard practice, don't want nobody finding your old memes) and took off.
I didn't know I was being followed. The Memes I was carrying right then were the Dankest in the world...
And everybody wanted their hands on that.
|
I looked at the dilapidated thing in front of me. Was this really what they used as computers back in the day? How were you supposed to shitpost if you needed to use your hands? They were rarely covered in shit at all and they were slow and clunky.
I checked around either side of the machine for Nero imports to insert myself into. I couldn't find one but I couldn't shake the feeling that there was no way my grandfather lived without virtual reality. Virtual-reality with the key to our life, it was what made the world. Without it we were a bunch of humans. Sitting scared on a sad little rock.
I'd just spent the past four years of my life trying to find the key to making virtual-reality interesting my search had brought me here.
I blew the dust that was in front of me and looked over the machine one last time before finding the power button to turn it on. Back in the day they were legends about people shit posting for hours and always being entertained. We didn't think it was possible last for more than 10 seconds there had to be something secret that they had access to.
I opened up the first window I found. I had to use the mouse to do it. How had they lived like this? The first window that opened knocked me to the floor. Literally I fell backward and hit the tiles.
Optimus kek? How had they been so clever?
| 2015-12-12T10:08:18
| 2015-12-12T10:02:26
| 1,958
| 60
|
[WP] When a child is born, their parents may pick one skill that the child will be, without a doubt, talented in.
**EDIT** Wow! This went way bigger than I ever thought it would! Thanks to everyone that responded to the prompt! And to the readers - don't be afraid of the new filter, there are a lot of great stories here!
|
The effect of the gifts was less pronounced than was thought. Every generation, parents would look at what was lacking in in their time and ensure that their children were good at it. This led to cycles of overabundance and scarcity of skills; one generation we have millions of brilliant scientists; the next we have none. No one really stands out because every parent sees the same set of societal shortcomings and picks from the same pile of obvious fixes.
Since individuals make these decisions without any central ordering the cycle continues. Most people know what their power is as soon as they learn to talk. My parents though, they never told me what my talent was. Eventually I assumed that they declined the opportunity when I was born. It’s not a huge deal though, most of the people with special birth talents are either eking out a living in a hugely oversaturated job market or ignoring their skills and living normal lives. When I get asked about it I just say that there’s not much use for people with my gift and change the subject.
That all changed when my first child was born. As the doctors held the baby high and I was asked to select a gift I suddenly realized what my own gift was and recognized the wisdom of my parents’ choice.
My child will be the most important human in modern history. Not because of chance or lineage, but because I knew exactly which gift to give.
|
(please forgive any grammar mistakes, long story as to why I suck at it...Trying to improve.
"I think he should be a talented SLADE mechanic, it is the family heritage after all!" Harry, the boys father stated tapping his foot impatiently. His wife had been pushing for there son to be an artist.
"Everything is not about heritage, he is both of our son."
As the two argued the doctor idly cleaned his glasses, and shuffled paperwork on his desk. Running out of busy work to do the doctor stood up, clearing his throat.
"Not now!" The two parents yell in unison. Obviously this matter was more to them then it should be.
The Doctor's shoulders sag as he lets out a large sigh, turning towards the computer terminal on the wall.
" I think, the best skill to be given is a knack for learning.." The Doctor mumbles to himself, sliding his finger across the screen, looking at different bars, and wave lengths for the child.
"I mean, at least with that skill he can do what HE wants." Looking back at the two parents, who where now standing in opposite corners of the room.
Letting out one last sigh, the doctor turns back to the terminal taping his finger in a set order. As his finger taps it the last time a voice comes out of the speakers.
"Knowledge has been chosen, may the child live a happy life." The mechanical voice started, and ended with a loud chirp. At the last chirp the parents turn to look, blood started reddening Harry's face.
"How..How dare you!" Harry's face really looked like it was going to pop.
Clara on the other hand, Clara looked happy. Tears had started to fill her eyes, making her golden brown eyes shine slightly. Understanding what the doctor had done.
"H-h-Harry, stop it. You're embarrassing us, I think this is best." She turns to her husband grabbing his hand gently.
"Maybe we shouldn't choose what skill he is good at. It isn't our decision."
<<; I feel like I would have never stopped writing...this is so bad, but everyone starts somewhere!
| 2015-01-13T14:00:01
| 2015-01-13T10:30:23
| 43
| 19
|
[WP] You are on a flight from Beijing to Seoul. Its should be a short two-hour flight, but five hours have passed and the plane has still not landed. There is nothing outside but dense cloud cover. There is no food left on the plane.The staff are confused. People are starting to panic.
|
It all started 43 minutes and 22 seconds after the plane has lifted off. Firstly, with shutting down of all auxiliary electrics of the aircraft and a slight loss of control, but then everything was fine again. Chang, promising executive of 34 years old was merely concerned with this small inconvenience. At the end of the day everything would be alright, as it always did.
First, he has risen an eyebrow after flight attendands running to cabin, but then returned to working on his laptop. He never cared to turn off his electronics nor putting them in flight mode. It has been ten minutes since his phone has lost signal and that was the most irritating thing to him since the beginning of unfortunate happenings.
As the time went on plane has started to lose stability, the ride has became more and more rough. It was obvious the flight felt as if the plane was not a sophisticated top-noth engineering piece of Boeing, but rougher as with controls of a Cessna. This has continued for two more hours with the changes of route in the flight path. As if the pilot specifically wanted to avoid crowded cities along the way. Many passengers were afraid for their lives and scared in general, but Chang was annoyed to have missed an important meeting. He has risen from his seat, to yell at the attendans to no vain, as of many uneasy passengers before him has did.
Suddenly announcement from the pilot was heard, that some unusual events taken place and he was doing his best to land safely, however landing in Seoul was no longer an option. Grumbled and sat down Chang, and that is when he saw a bright flash in the horizon from his window. It must be reflection of the sun he thought in a right angle. It was the time when he figured the sun must have been shining in the other side of the plane where plane has lost all on-board electricity and controls. This time they did not come back, and thus was the mass hysteria. Plane started to feel even more rough of a ride now, yet the master pilot kept it all under control.
In the following two hours panic inside the cabin has risen to a level that was the time that cockpit door has opened and assistant pilot has stepped out. All eyes were on him. He had his hat on his chest and a look of a broken man on his face and he declared Seoul and Beijing, and most of the capitals and major cities of developed world for that matter, was bombed in world wide nuclear war. He continued his speech with preparing the passengers for a rough landing as the planes fuel has come to an end.
|
I'm scared, but more confused. I woke up in a daze, people murmuring questions around me not in a panic but discontent. The flight attendants all huddled towards the front, but I don't understand a thing they say. I'm on a business trip, flying from Beijing to Seoul; a flight that would normally last a matter of two hours, but something is off. I look to my left, the window shut and covered with it's plastic slide, yet opening helps me none, as I see nothing but clouds. Nothing comes from the cockpit. No sound of a captain cheerily informing us of turbulence, yet the silence was louder than he could have ever been. The clouds slowly grew darker as time went on, and the murmuring grew louder; a mire of discontent and fear only worsened by language barriers. Even though they were clueless to their circumstances, the flight attendants did what they could to calm the rowdier passengers down, scared of some type of emergency as they were. I looked at my watch and saw that 4 hours had passed. It didn't seem possible. If I listened hard enough over the cacophony of discontent voices I could almost hear another noise from outside of the plane. Something... unfamiliar. A noise I couldn't compare to any I had ever heard. The smell of sweat was heavy in the air, perpetrated by the panic of people uncomfortable and worried. I gripped the armrest of my seat, feeling the cold metal and assuring myself that everything was fine, for how could anything happen in such an impressive vehicle?
The seatbelt light flickered on.
| 2018-06-02T06:16:47
| 2018-06-02T05:32:28
| 26
| 13
|
[WP] Following World War III, all the nations of the world agree to 50 years of strict isolation from one another in order to prevent additional conflicts. 50 years later, the United States comes out of exile, only to learn that no one else went into isolation.
People!
A few things:
1. Found the prompt on Pinterest, thought it was interesting (not necessarily realistic), and decided to post it, fully expecting it to go unnoticed. Surprise!
2. I am not in any way trying to take credit for coming up with the idea.
3. Turns out this is a repost. 🤷 Who knew?! /u/WinsomeJesse did because they posted it last time. Not trying to steal anyone's thunder. If you're super perturbed about it, go show them some love.
4. Have a good day y'all; be kind, make good decisions, and don't hold in your farts. 😉✌️
|
We thought getting rid of them would bring a stable peace to the World.
After all... Americans started the war. They were the main Military power on Earth. Without them in the picture, we wouldn't see a need to fight one another anymore. Real issues like Global Warming could finally be dealt with.
We expected World Peace. We thought other Countries would be tired of conflict.
And we were wrong.
The first 10 years were mellow. Countries spent most of their time rebuilding their infrastructures, replanting farms, stripping away Military arms for a better future.
But... While many Countries saw peace, others saw opportunity.
Russia and China had felt mistreated after the War. China's #1 trade partner was gone, and the Chinese economy was barely standing on its own two feet. The Russians were still angry after their loss. The hated the way other Countries blocked them off after the war ended... Apparently the lessons of WWI had escaped us, thinking back on it.
Israel grew terrified with the loss of its biggest supporter. In a frantic act, they would establish themselves even harder into Palestinian territory. With no one wanting to take the reigns of the Peace Talks, another war soon launched out. Other nations in the Middle East grew furious from the act, and attacked Israel.
And when all was said and done... Palestinians regained the rights to the land. But at what cost? The lands were ripped up and tarnished. Infrastructure was destroyed, and the European nations were too worried about their own recovery to support the country.
It turned towards its allies in the Middle East... Towards Saudi Arabia, a fellow Sunni nation.
This angered Iran. They put so many resources into the war. Tensions between the Shia and Sunni slowly started to rise... And another war took place after.
Drug Cartels in Mexico prospered. The Mexican Military no longer had the resources of the United States to fight them off, and the people who were suffering didn't have the ability to flee North like they once had.
So they fled South. Nations like El Salvador and Panama began taking in influxes of immigrants... But, unlike the United States, they didn't have the infrastructure to support them and their economies slowly began to degrade, encouraging Cartels to expand their business.
The Chinese were dealing with a broken economy and a massive population that only continued to expand. They had no choice... The nations around them slowly started to be swallowed up, so that the Chinese people would have more land to go to.
And Europe... They had expected peace with the leave of the United States. They reduced their Militaries to Skeleton Armies, leaving more money to transfer to improving the destroyed nations.
They didn't expect it when the Russians moved an army to take their old territories back. They didn't expect it when they began to push against the borders of the European Union.
Left with little choice, Europe federalized as one nation. They fought back.
Yes, conflict emboiled the War. The United Nations was nothing but a remnant of its own self, the UN Peacekeeping Corps didn't have the manpower to stop any of this from happening.
By the time the 50 year mark came... The World was in a state of constant chaos. Borders had changed, Countries had fallen and formed, and new Empires were rising up from the ashes.
But then the U.S. came back. Their own economy flourishing once again, their farmlands ripe and their Military expecting conflict from the start... Had they always known? Had they been watching us?
It was hard to tell.
All we knew was that a strong nation had re-entered World Politics. It had the resources we were lacking, the Military strength we needed.
It's true the Americans had started the War all those decades ago... But maybe now was their time to redeem themselves.
|
No one know why.
Or how.
But they knew where; here, Home.
Or what remained. A crippled nation, shriveled into isolation by a mixture of fear and disgust over their own actions. Perhaps society was recklessly distraught; not one individual left without trauma; and thought it better to die than to endure another war.
But a many few survived. And with survival, naturally comes hope. But it was hard. So hard it was made to be the largest evolutionary bottleneck in human history, save one, which crafted this hope in the first place.
That hope burned, smelted by the fires of hardship that stripped away impurities left behind by the people's forefathers. A steel was made that was more pure and sharp than had ever been seen. Armed with this steel, the people combined with it knowledge of the past and a clear vision of their future. They forged a new constitution, like the people before them did, the people before that, and the people before that. Knowledge upon knowledge paired with a bitter, seeping reminder of what they hoped never to near again.
And so walked forth from the ashes was a new era of mankind. Not perfect, but better. Built upon the last age, and learning for the next one. But something was different. They were ready to walk among the stars.
They did not call themselves American.
Or Chinese. Or British. Or Russian. Or Australian. Or Sudanese. They did not call themselves by their Home.
They called themselves for who they were. They were the Terrans.
And the name *stuck*.
| 2018-01-18T00:24:00
| 2018-01-18T00:11:50
| 254
| 34
|
[WP] Your paintings come to life. People beg you to depict departed family members, exotic treasures, even tiny universes. A penniless, beaming monk requests you paint something that makes YOU happy. Having rendered every lover, ambition, and utopia, you're at a complete loss for where to begin.
Edit: Thanks so much, everybody! ;_; I was deeply touched by your responses!
|
"What is happiness, you ask?", the old monk contemplated, smiling at the man sitting opposite him.
"Why, you can have anything...*anything* in the world, Joseph. Anything you can possibly want, with a few strokes of a pencil, it will be there in front of you", the monk said. "The more accurate question, my good man, is why is it hard for you to find yours?"
Joseph was silent for a while, thinking for an answer. The answer that had alluded him for as long as he had lived...why couldn't he find his happiness?
"I...I don't know...", Joseph finally answered, honestly. "I thought...I thought I could always find my answer in my drawings. I saw them everyday, the people that came to me, asking me to draw their departed loved ones, their greatest wish. Once fulfilled, I see the happiness beaming on their faces. I...I want that feeling. And yet every time I tried, sitting in front of a blank piece of paper, I couldn't do to myself what I did to others..."
The old monk chuckled. "Your thoughts are clouded, young Joseph. You thought you can find your answer on a piece of paper, that you can draw what it is you seek. But maybe the answer you can't just simply put into drawings"
Joseph's heart dropped. "I can't...? But that's the only way I know how to do"
"Oh nonsense. Look at me, young Joseph. I have nothing, I yearn not the worldly feelings or materialistic possessions, yet I find my happiness in everything I do", the old monk said. "It all comes from here..."
The old monk rested his palm on Joseph's forehead.
"Peace of mind. Worry not of what will happen tomorrow, worry not of what happened yesterday. Be present, be thoughtful of your mind. We are shaped by our thoughts, you become what you think. Cast away your doubt of yourself, once your mind is pure, joy would follow", the old monk joined his hands together in front of his chest, his expression was serene.
"You are envious of the feelings those people you help had. But have you ever once thought, that fulfilling their wishes was what made you happy? It kept you going, it kept you fulfilled. Not a lot of people could say they found their calling, young Joseph. Look back, look back at your years of helping people-- you found your calling, and you lived it to the best until the very end, did you not?"
Joseph leaned back, thinking. For as long as he could remember, seeing those people who came to him for his service-- drawing their imaginations, some were the wildest of all, for them to yelp in excitement, to cry of joy, to hug him with the utmost gratitude. Every single one of them-- it was all worth it.
"You have found your answer", the old monk stated, seeing the Joseph's expression.
"I have", he answered. "Thank you, thank you for your help"
The old monk stood and bowed graciously. "Be at peace and farewell, my friend"
\*\*\*
Joseph tore the page away from his drawing book. He stared at it smiling, full of ease-- the picture of a wise old man, with his hand together in front of his chest like praying, his expression of warm smile and understanding.
"Peace of mind, at last", he muttered, pressing the picture on his chest.
Lying there on his deathbed, Joseph rested his head on the pillow. All the burden he had in his mind was lifted up. As he drifted away slowly, only joy he felt in his last moment.
"In the end--", he whispered. "I did find my answer through my drawing", he chuckled before closing his eyes forever with the most sincere smile painted on his face.
r/HangryWritey
|
Everything was strange, almost magical in the way it looked. The crying faces of strangers asking “I miss uncle Gregg and want to see him again” or some other similar form of work, a life sentenced to eternally drawing everyone else’s desires.
It all stayed the same, day in day out painting and drawing everything anybody wanted or missed in this world, until the day he came.
In white robes, and blind as a bat the man creeped over to me, asking me ever so gently “why do you paint for them, when you could paint for yourself?” And I had no answer. He grinned, blind to what I could bring to life for him, and asked a simple question.
“My request, is simple. Paint whatever makes you happy. And that will be the only joy I need”
I pondered for hours, I thought of my passions, my dreams, the ones I’ve loved, and everything else. And I couldn’t care less. I wandered for days searching for what made me happy, I drank myself dizzy and smoked myself blind, so that I could understand what I wanted, and I kept thinking of all the things I’ve painted for people, and the people I painted and the things they loved and realized I couldn’t give a shit about what they wanted.
I took up my brush and began the longest work I’d ever painted. I spent minutes, and hours, and days alike stuck in my studio making every detail, every crack painted perfectly.
Hands bleeding and sweat dripping I took a step back. Finally done I glared at the only thing I thought could ever make me happy.
Everybody who has ever commissioned me, standing around me, as I paint something else. On every face a smile, or tears of joy, or some dumb looking glee that I could never feel, but every time I saw them, thinking I made their lives that much better it made me feel just a little better. It was the only thing in life I think I ever enjoyed. Doing the only thing I loved to make people happy, even if it didn’t pay, would still be worth every second.
As long as I could bring a little joy to this world full of so much loss, and sorrow, then maybe everything wasn’t terrible. Just kind of shitty sometimes.
Edit:spelling
| 2021-07-29T18:12:28
| 2021-07-29T17:59:37
| 126
| 85
|
[WP] You, an astronaut in orbit, submit an Amazon Prime order (free two day shipping) as a joke, with the address set to the ISS. Amazon does not think this is a joke.
|
"You did *what?*"
"Look, I just—" I sighed, placing a hand on the back of my neck. "I just thought it would be sorta funny to see Amazon try to... bring it here..."
"That doesn't excuse the fact that there are now 100 copies of *Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy* at the *INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION.*"
"Yes, I know, I'm sorry, I didn't actually think they'd manage to—"
"When the hell do you *ever* think, Isaac!? Jesus fuck!"
I held my head down as he walked out of the room. ...It was still kinda funny, though.
|
Two day shipping.
Day one.
--
A suited man walks onto the slender, gleaming jet, and gently places a brown box on the seat next to him. He settles himself by wriggling into the comfy leather, and leans back to rest, eyes closing to leave his thin face peaceful. Tonight promises to be a long night.
--
Dimitri whispers a brief prayer as he presses the final key. He'd known, intellectually, that one day the call would come, that he'd be required to perform this ultimate, devastating duty, but he'd never really believed it. His finger left a bloody print, a remnant of the brutal steps he'd needed to take to ensure he could fulfil his duty.
--
Day two.
--
The media go wild. Reports of contact lost, of stations falling from the sky, of dark deeds committed in the name of patriotism. Tensions rise as families of murdered astronauts demand retribution. The Premier denies all knowledge, the President demands explanation, and all the while the truth is known only to one corporation.
--
Desert winds howl, as the suited man steps down from the helicopter. He glances over the wreckage of the crashed station, searching for something. His walk is smooth, cultured even. Finally he spots the red and white stripes denoting the locker of the American. He moves that way, bends, and delicately places the brown box onto the biggest lump of metal he can find, though even that is twisted beyond recognition. He smirks as he says two simple words, his voice a throaty whisper.
"Safe place."
| 2016-10-27T11:29:03
| 2016-10-27T09:26:55
| 96
| 52
|
[WP] The Reapers come every 50 thousand years to wipe out organic life that has reached the stars however this time, this time they arrive at the heaviest resistance they have every encountered. In the grim darkness of the future they find 40k.
|
In the eternal silence of dark space, Harbinger thought. It's thoughts, largely taking place over the span of millenia were now firing at a frantic pace, stressing the limits of its cybernetic neurons as it processed the vast array of data its brethren were collecting from the Milky Way.
What was immediately clear at even a cursory glance through their information networks was that the galaxy they were beholden to was no longer their own. The Mass Relays were absent, and so was the Citadel. Worse, it was as though they had never been. All the transmissions they scanned revealed species using technology that was far divorced from the system that had been devised.
NAZARA'S FAILURE IS RESPONSIBLE
That was the consensus that had been reached. It was impossible to say how the vanguard had failed so critically, yet that was the last link in the chain of events that could be recognized.
Rebuilding all they had lost would take immense time and effort, but it would be done. The Cycle would continue.
Months passed, and what the Reapers learned only stayed their hand even longer. The amount of priority threats to their mission was such that the cyclopean intelligences of the old machines was unsure of how to proceed.
Most of the major factions all possessed technology that vastly outclassed Reaper destructive capability.
A civilization of hostile AI was active in the galaxy.
Uncontrollable extragalactic invaders were arriving in continuous waves from numerous directions.
An extradimensional force deemed Chaos was attempting a slow invasion of their reality.
It was hard to decide which required immediate attention. A few voices spoke up, advocating that they wait for the civilizations to collapse on their own. Isolated as they were from the galactic conflict it would be easy to stay unnoticed and watch as events came to a head.
THE CYCLE MUST CONTINUE
And so it was. The first act needed was to establish a secure location where they might study the technology of the strange factions and incorporate the best of it in themselves. Collectors would be useful for this task and while the new species would have a different template the mission would remain the same.
The Ghoul stars offered the ideal location for a new Collector base, so a few of their number were dispatched to begin construction.
Chaos worked insidiously, too similar to indoctrination to be avoided for sure. It would be in their best interests to render all their operations immune to Chaos corruption. The Tau could be subverted to that end, their ruling hierarchy already geared to accepting guidance from above.
The Necron and Tyranid could be dealt with in their own time, once the Reapers had improved themselves to match the best this galaxy had to offer. It would take hundreds of years to refit all the members of their fleet, a paltry sum of time that they might not even have. But if all went optimally, if the influence they wielded over this galaxy was allowed to extend as far as it had once been...
Then the Cycle would resume.
|
It's a little hard to describe the vast mental network of the Reapers -- a scaffolding of intertwined thoughts and programmed imparatives so complex, the term "hive mind" is laughably inadequate -- in words the human mind can process. Nonetheless, a brief translation will be attempted:
- "... well, jesus. At this point, it's just a mercy killing, innit?"
- "Do we even *want* any of these sods? All that dogmatic thinking's gonna get real old after a few eons."
- "I dunno. Those green-skinned mushroom things seem like fun, at least. Might get a destroyer or two out of them."
- "What about the Necrons?"
- "Those depressing gits? No way. Nuke 'em from orbit."
- "Look, guys, regardless, let's just stick to the plan. We'll give those Tyranids we chased in there another century or two to really make a mess while we finish up indoctrinating that 'Emperor of Man' thing. Then we can figure out what to do with those Chaos Gods."
- "Bleh. This cycle is gonna take *forever.*"
| 2017-08-27T09:28:07
| 2017-08-27T09:00:01
| 32
| 11
|
[WP] "And that, class," concluded the professor, "is why humanity is the most peaceful, reasonable, cooperative, and overall docile species in all the universe. Any questions?" You, the only human in the classroom, raise your hand.
|
If he was hitting on her, he was going about it all wrong.
Or better yet, Isla thought, he didn’t need to be doing this shit at all. There was a point where the congenital superiority of Parathi crossed the line from barely tolerable to completely infuriating, and Professor Eristeed had jumped across it as only a quadruped could.
But a maid couldn’t say that, could she? A maid could only be peaceful and cooperative. They wrote that into their contracts on Parathi colonies, contracts signed not with the human menials themselves, but with the conglomerates that employed them.
So Isla kept cleaning as he spoke, as his too-many eyes followed her through the classroom. She stayed cute in her stupid, frilly costume and listened to the soft tittering of the Parathi students as they learned about the docility of humans.
“Really,” Professor Eristeed said, “we should perhaps be thanking them. After all, is it not humans who make up nearly a third of the physical labor force? Wonderfully adapted creatures, humans. They can perform any task you give them up to a very acceptable level. Take Isla there, in the back.”
Scraping noises as the class turned. Isla kept sweeping, doing a job a robot could have done, and did in the other classrooms, and while she swept she counted eyes in her head. Each Parathi had six eyes, three each mounted on two eyestalks, and the stalks really were stalky— Isla knew humans who theorized the Parathi had shared a common ancestor with the little bonsai style trees they carried around with them from world to world.
Twenty students in the class, forty eye stalks, one hundred and twenty eyes, plus Professor Eristeed who looked at her hard enough to add another twelve or eighteen or twenty-four eyes to the bundle. She piled silent curses onto each of those eyes as she swept up the room's single mote of dust.
“Now Isla, as you can all see, is doing a wonderful job. Truly wonderful. And as she does it she adds a certain *style* to the room. Note the lace frills and the clean, spotless black of her skirt. Among the humans, it’s an outfit that comes from a particularly stylish place— when such places of theirs still existed. They called it ‘France.’”
A hand raised in the front row and Professor Eristeed made a trumpeting harrumph in the back of his throat. An acknowledgment.
“Professor,” the student asked, “my father always said that it was cheaper to employ robots than humans.”
“And indeed it is,” Eristeed said without missing a beat.
“Then, and correct me if I’m wrong here, why are you advocating for expanded human inclusion in the workforce? Surely a sense of style cannot trump simple economics.”
“Ahhh,” Eristeed said, in that way that Isla hated. “Ah, ah, ah. What you forget, my boy, is what everyone forgets, and what comprises the core of my argument.”
Isla glanced up, saw him in all his pretentious glory. Professor Eristeed, like a jumped-up horse covered in bark, his mane a gossamer tide. Smaller than a horse should be, he might only have weighed three hundred pounds, and the Parathi in their current state were not physically strong. Humans performed a third of the labor and robots performed the other two-thirds, leaving the small, outnumbered Parathi populations to live like philosopher kings in their scattered colonies. He wore a blanket slashed with crimson and an awful, sickly green, a favorite combination among upper class Parathi.
He saw her watching and smiled.
“Now young Mr. Bucephus, what was my original contention?”
“That humans are docile.”
“And are robots docile as well?”
“Of course,” the student said, sounding confused.
“Then why, Mr. Bucephus, have there been robot uprisings on three colonies in the last hundred years?”
“Rogue programmers, sir,” the student began, “those uprisings were a symptom of—”
“Of civil unrest and of discontent among an educated elite that had gained intellectual power without corresponding political power. Yes, yes, I know the theory Mr Bucephus, I happened to be married to the woman who wrote it. And peace was no great theme of ours, let me assure you.”
Professor Eristeed cleared his throat as his students tittered again. The mote of dust broke apart and Isla chased it across the room, her skirts flouncing around her. She hated it. Hated him. Hated her placement here, and the greater reasons that had compelled her to stay. Hated that she had to wait. Isla was terrible at waiting. Her superiors were all saying that, she needed to learn patience, to learn how to work within a team.
“Now,” Professor Eristeed said, “Mr. Bucephus, have we solved any of those issues?”
“Sir?” the student said, squirming.
“It’s a rhetorical question Bucephus, don’t hurt yourself. No, we have not solved any of those issues. Did you all know that when you leave my class eight of you will not find employment equal to your intellectual stature? Oh, you may write a tract here or there, come up with one particularly edifying theory, but on the whole you will grow old and world weary and dissatisfied, shut out from all the structures that we Parathi hold so dear. And some of you will become programmers, more’s the pity. And some of you will program our robots.
“And that, Mr. Bucephus, is why we should not use robotic labor. Because in the end it us that programs them, Parathi, and Mr. Bucephus I should warn you, *I* am not docile.”
Eristeed glanced up to Isla, six eyes roving over and devouring her. “Which of course is the beauty of humans. No one must program a human, they are born docile, most particularly the females. They value peace and cooperation, reason as their faculties allow them, and as such a third of the workforce toils away in a state of happy drudgery. Isla dear, aren’t you happy to clean my rooms?”
“Yes, Professor Eristeed,” Isla heard herself say.
“Wonderful! See class, she is happy. Let her stay that way, and in fact, expand the limits which we place upon her people. Open them up to new horizons, new realities— within their means of course. I am not advocating for anything radical, merely for a solution which will guarantee the solvency of our colonies by taking the power out of the hands of listless, and too often disenfranchised youth. Apologies of course, to the eight of you who will not make it.
“And Mr. Bucephus?”
“Yes Professor?”
“Regarding your ‘economic concerns’, I implore you to turn again, and to really look.”
Bucephus tore his eyes from the man in front of him and Isla forced herself to stand still, to let him watch her.
“Mr. Bucephus,” Professor Eristeed said, “set aside the stability of our colonies. Is there not still some place for style in our world?”
The bell rang, drowning out the students response, and in the sudden rush of bodies Isla lost her mote of dust, found Eristeed’s gaze.
|
"Yes, Alexis? Anything to add about your species? It would be great to hear from someone with more direct first hand knowledge"
"Umm well... I have a few concerns... not many of which are with the source material. It is pretty accurate, slavery and ownership of people of the same species as us. The multiple wars. And tribalism conflicts."
"Ah yes assuredly along with the resulting conclusions and events of them, we did extensive research on this."
"Yeah yeah I get that. But... how does that make us one of the MOST of any of those things you listed?"
"Well your wars ended with people still alive."
"Um yeah dont they all?"
*entire class laughs*
"Silly humans wars are only supposed to end when any opposing viewpoint in your species is utterly and completely annihilated."
"They are not wrong Alexis, that is the default nature of all other sentient and sapient species in the known universe."
"So you are telling me that it isnt that we are fully peaceful. It is that genocide is not a default for us?"
"EXACTLY!"
"Oh... ummm... well then..."
"Now next we will cover the Jolert's ongoing conflict with the other sided toilet paper Jolert's and its biggest battle yet, the Exanguination of Washingee Plains."
| 2021-11-27T08:11:37
| 2021-11-27T07:41:30
| 1,452
| 1,063
|
[WP] "Some days, I love my job. Those days are the worst."
|
For the most part, I usually feel nothing when I give myself over to my clients. I act the part, make them feel good, give them release. For them, it's an expensive and illicit thrill. For me, it's just business.
And yet...there are days when my body responds, and the moans I make are not manufactured but real, and my orgasm is genuine and earth-shattering. Some days, I love my job. Those days are the worst because when my heart is in it, I enjoy the sex, and then inevitably a pall of shame and disgust falls over me. What would save me from being crushed is if they would hold me afterward, cuddle me, make me feel special, make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world. But they never do.
--------
My first post in writing prompts. Hope you like it.
|
The woman's eyes lost focus and fell to the floor. Tears followed her gaze. They were big enough to make a sound when they hit the linoleum.
"Can't you give us a little more time?" She asked. I tried and failed to meet her eyes.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. There's nothing I can do." I replied. I scanned the room and silently made a list of what might fetch a bit of cash.
"Please, *please* give us more time. We'll get your money, I promise you! My husband..." I cut her off with a raise of my hand and motioned to Carlos. He brought a laden sack into her field of vision. She met my eyes.
"We've already spoken to your husband." I replied. Carlos upended the sack.
"James!" She screeched as her husband's head hit the floor. His dead eyes stared off into the ether.
"Your time is up, Mary. The boss has lost patience." I said. "Carlos, Vincenzo."
My hand tightened on the knife. A smile crept to my face. Mary screamed.
When it was over I vomited into the dead woman's sink.
| 2015-07-16T07:49:11
| 2015-07-16T07:16:26
| 98
| 29
|
[WP] Everyone is given a prophecy at the instant of their birth. For most people, it is a short, cryptic sentence. Kings and Presidents often get a whole paragraph. Your daughter is four days old, and the Oracle is still scribbling furiously.
|
One hundred and six hours. The Oracle stayed hunched over her desk four sunrises and five sunsets before finally laying her quill to rest for the first and final time.
The moment the ink was dry, she sent it to us by messenger boy. He came at the crest of night, pounding like a madman at the door. I was up because Ziri was up. I gave the boy a copper penny. When the door shut, I slumped against the wall, holding my wailing daughter in one hand and her destiny in the other.
My own prophecy had been half a page. A slapdash couplet I could not remember beyond one line: *your softness shall be your undoing*. Perhaps I blocked the rest out on purpose.
Here my daughter had a veritable manuscript. The paper alone was a treasure out here, so far from a printmaker. For a long moment I stood simply marveling at the luxury of my own book, about my own daughter.
Behind me, a voice that made every muscle in my neck tense in muted terror: "Who the hell was that?"
"A messenger boy. From the Oracle."
Eyes red with exhaustion, my husband snatched the papers out of my hand and skimmed them. As he feigned reading, he started pacing, furiously. He left school to work on his father's farm at eight years old. To him, reading was a hobby for the rich; he could only read enough to complete inventory, sign his name. When he reached the bottom of the fat satchel of papers, he hurled it on the kitchen table and snarled, "It's garbage. An old woman's ramblings. We will use it for tinder."
"I'll collect wizard's beard in the morning," I muttered, to mollify him. Only code would work with him. If I were to directly say *Why burn our daughter's future when there's a forest full of moss*, he might burn the thing right then and there to spite me.
"I ain't superstitious," he told me. Under those words ran a cold currant, threat and command: *which means* you *ain't superstitious.* "Don't you waste any of your time on that nonsense."
"What did your prophecy say?"
"The hell did you ask?"
I made the gamble. "Your prophecy. Did you receive one?"
"It said my life would be like a candle flickering for a moment before I blew it out, never to light again. Which is obviously stupid when I have a beautiful wife to care for me and a daughter to cherish me. She is a mad woman, followed by mad silly women. Come to bed. Now."
"Ziri is hungry," I managed.
"When you're done, then," he grunted. And he stormed off to bed.
Part of me yearned to make a bed of blankets on the kitchen floor, just to avoid going back to the same mattress as that man. Husband in name only. When I became pregnant after my husband--my father's field hand at that time--insisted upon his unwanted advances, my father forced him (and I) to marry. My father spared my social decency at the cost of any familial love I might have once had toward him.
I stayed up all night to read the prophet's words. I held my daughter in my arms and wept into her blanket, to keep my tears from ruining the ink.
The people in my family had always been small. Farmers, tailors, blacksmiths. Little people carving out little lives. But our women were the smallest. My mother had no love for my father, but the heavy social yoke of a conjugation negotiated for her when she was only fifteen years old. I was practically an old maid, married off at nineteen to the man who attacked me.
But my daughter would be new. My daughter would be different.
The Oracle predicted a great shift in the world coming. A new generation of dissidents, embittered by the tyrannical hand of the old ways suffocating the new. They needed someone to ignite and direct the fury of the young, who could slap the old in the face and scream, *This thing you call normal is unlivable*.
It will be a bloody rebellion, unlovely and unjust. But if Ziri is ready--if she is strong and confident and capable when the time comes--she will be the final piece of a great machine destined to remake the world.
It was nearly dawn. My daughter was slung about my chest, sound asleep. Barely as big as my forearm. I touched the little button of her nose and tried to imagine it smeared in war paint. Tried to imagine her large enough to hold a sword.
I looked at the papers and the low ceiling of our two-room home. I looked at the low-burning fireplace and imagined my husband lying in the bedroom. How he would rise grumbling like a bear until I prepared him breakfast.
My daughter could rise up and change the world, but not in a place like this. Not with a man like that. Better no father, I decided in that instant, than him.
I took little. My coat, the blankets I wove, a pot, the doll I made Ziri, a map, all the money in the tin by the door. The prophecy. I saddled up my horse--technically part of my dowry, but I had raised her from a motherless filly; she would never be his--and ensured my daughter was wrapped tightly to my back. As if she knew what I was doing, she stayed alert but silent as I picked through the house, collecting our scant provisions.
When we were ready, we went off down the dark road toward town. Toward the rosy promise of morning.
***
/r/shoringupfragments
|
"Please, just a glance, Scribe."
She waved her hand at me, shooing me from her desk. The baby cried, my wife rocked her slowly in her arms and hummed gently. The scribe's apprentice ran in with a fresh bottle of ink and set it and a small stack of parchment on the desk. It was tradition that only the four of us be allowed to enter and exit the room, but not law, and I could hear the murmurs outside the room getting louder.
I stepped out, plucking an old cigarette out of my pocket and lighting it hastily. The hallway was crowded with journalists and religious figures curious as to the outcome of my daughter's unlikely and inexplicable prophecy. I was a machinist, my wife a baker. Utterly unremarkable people completely unprepared for whatever was happening.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hightower? A quick word, please"
I looked up from the ground, following a shined pair of shoes up an immaculately dressed body to the familiar face of the Archpriest. He smiled and extended his wrinkled hand to me, it was covered in small bits of tech, mostly strength enhancements it seemed. He was old, and his teeth were yellowing, the ones that weren't gold capped at least. I quickly shook his hand, nodded, and followed him down the hallway to a small office that his guards were standing outside of.
"Some week, eh. Mr. Hightower?"
"That's fair to say, sir."
The Archpriest cackled.
"I don't take it your abundantly religious, Mr. Hightower. I won't bother you with a sermon or florid words about faith and destiny"
"That's appreciated, sir."
"All I ask for is you consider, not even choose yet, but consider handing over the child to me and the church. You could still visit of course, and I know you'll want to discuss this with your wife, but be assured I won't be the first to ask. The others might not be as, polite, with their requests"
From a briefcase, he pulled out a small contract. On the front page was a monetary promise, one which comprised more money than I could ever conceivably make in two lifetimes. He smiled, and the dim light from the desk lamp made his gold teeth sparkle. From the other room, I could still hear the child crying. My child crying.
"If you'll excuse me, sir."
Thoughts danced through my head. It was already hard enough raising a child in the hinterlands, especially in these times. What if the child was some kind of savior? Certainly the church could support her better. Could she ever overcome the inevitable curiosity and scrutiny about whatever the scribe had put to paper? I hadn't been ready to be a father when Jane got pregnant, and I wasn't certain I was ready to be one now. I clutched the contract in my hand and stepped back towards the room with my wife and daughter. The journalists were shoving recording devices and the floatcams were snapping pictures, but I ignored them. I gently knocked on the door to the room, slowly opening it and peeking in.
"Well. There's daddy. See? Told you he would come back."
My wife smiled and looked up at me, and then back at our daughter. I closed the door slowly behind me, looking over as the scribe finished another page. She snorted out "Half done", her apprentice hanging his head and exhaling. It was quiet in here, and peaceful. I sat down next to my wife on the bed, and looked down at my daughter. I put the contract down on the side table and put my arm around my wife. For now, there was stillness. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
| 2017-12-30T18:13:26
| 2017-12-30T17:44:05
| 107
| 25
|
[WP] The world's most passive-aggressive, condescending firefighters are here to help.
Bonus points for an interesting emergency.
|
Dear Sir or Madam,
We regret to inform you that while you were away your Structure/ Vehicle/ Property/ Beloved Pet/ Loved One suffered severe and catastrophic damage or bodily harm as a result of combustion. The Townsville Fire Department responded to this event and did everything humanly possible to save lives and property. However, as often in the case in these tough financial times, the Townsville Fire Department was unable to fully extinguish the fire before significant loss occurred due to circumstances beyond our control that may have included lack of personnel due to inadequate funding, lack of equipment due to inadequate funding, gross negligence on behalf of the property owner to ensure fire prevention measures were taken, weather, acts of God, acts of Satan, traffic inhibiting response time, the location of the fire on or within one mile of a jurisdictional boundary requiring coordination with neighboring jurisdictions, lack of training due to inadequate funding, fire occurring during scheduled rest times and holiday, insurance policy on structure found to be in excess of our yearly budget, or inadequate funds.
The Townsville Fire Department understands the inconvenience this loss may cause and hopes that you accept the attached bag of plastic fireman’s hats, coloring books, and peel-n-stick badges as a token of our condolences.
We have also enclosed several pieces of educational literature on fire prevention. Although we are unable to determine the cause of your particular fire due to inadequate funding, perhaps you may reflect on actions you took prior to the fire with this literature in mind and determine any actions you took that may have resulted in the ignition of your Structure/ Vehicle/ Property/ Beloved Pet/ Loved One. As we say at Townsville Fire Department: “Fire needs three things! Fuel, Oxygen, and Complacency!”
If you require an incident report for insurance purposes one may be obtained from the City Records Office or the Police Department. This is their job. DO NOT REQUEST RECORDS FROM THE FIRE DEPARTMENT EVEN IF THEY TELL YOU TO. We are busy and with current funding levels cannot handle these requests.
We highly encourage you to like us on Facebook at *Townsville Fire Department* or join us for our July 4th Chili Cookoff! DON’T FORGET TO VOTE YES ON REFERENDUM 4A: INCREASE SALARIES AND FUNDING FOR FIRE DEPARTMENTS STATE WIDE!
Sincerely,
Insert Incident Commander or Chief Name Here (Use Police Chief name if poor media fallout is expected from incident)
|
Neville popped his hot pocket into the microwave. Finally, after 5 long hours of his first day at work, it was lunch time.
"Bloody company can't even afford proper microwaves.." he grumbled under his breath as he turned the old fashioned dial to 1:20 and hit start. While his disappointing lunch spun meaningless circles in the microwave, Neville slipped around the corner and into the Men's restroom.
As he pushed through the door, two things happened in quick succession. Neville missed (or perhaps simply disregarded) the "Wet floor sign", and in a few hundredths of a second, his whole day was upturned and slammed into the unforgiving frame of a white porcelain sink.
The first thing Neville noticed upon waking up was the smell. It smelled a bit like a campfire that was in the process of melting plastic. Interesting. He'd have to remember to ask his desk mate about that when he returned to his desk. Then came the smoke. Horrible green tinted smoke that Filled Neville's lungs before he had the chance to cover his mouth.
*Fire*
Neville stood at once. He had to find a way out. Where was the exit? What had Sherry told him about fire evacuation? Why hadn't he been listening? Was her name even Sherry? One more deep breath yielded nothing but smoke. It was time for action. Neville wheeled around to exit the bathroom, when once again he fell victim to the treacherous combo of the wet floor and poorly placed sink. He blacked out once again.
This time when Neville came to, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
"Hey you prick, why don't you get up already!"
Who was that? OH! The firefighters were here! He was safe!
"Fine. I'm just going to carry you. I'm sure your legs are really injured from that bump on your head, so don't worry about it."
Neville, still slightly blinded from the green smoke was suddenly lifted over the shoulder of the first firefighter and finally they were moving!
And then suddenly, they weren't.
"Umm, Terry, the door *please*, if you can't tell my hands are a little full."
"Alright Greg, I'd be happy to get that for you."
After a short sigh through his respirator, Neville's firefighter was moving once again.
"I wish you would help me more Terry, this is the 6th rescue i've been on with you this week and honestly only the second one I've actually noticed you were here. I'm not mad or anything, I still think you've done a terrific job for someone with your intelligence level, but i just wish you were *here* more if you catch what I mean."
Silence
"Well, you don't have to respond, but at least think about what i've said, ok Terry?"
Neville could see the front door now. Streams of sunlight split through the clouds of smoke creating almost a divine effect.
"One more door Terry, you think you can get this one?"
"Its already open you c-" *crack*
The second firefighter's sentence was cut short as an enormous beam split the ceiling and fell directly in their path. They were trapped.
"Well great, that was our last unobstructed exit". Neville's firefighter said.
Neville looked up in desperation, hoping for some some good news to come from his irritated rescuer. And for one final time that day, Neville blacked out.
When he woke up again, Neville could no longer smell smoke. He looked around. What he assumed was simply the white of the hospital had not gotten dimmer as his eyes adjusted, No. He wasn't at the hospital. He was on a.. Road? A pathway? Had he made it outside? But there was no blue sky, only a pair of huge golden gates. Oh wait.. That means.. Suddenly, 2 men appeared beside him.
"No, no. Terry, You're getting me wrong. I'm not saying it's your fault at all! I'm just saying there were about 20 different things you could have done better, and we wouldn't have been in this situation in the first place!"
| 2014-09-04T18:38:09
| 2014-09-04T17:47:04
| 65
| 14
|
[WP] When you die, you don't go to the afterlife of you're religion, you go to the afterlife of the religion whose tenets you followed most closely, knowingly or not.
|
"Valhalla!? What do you mean Valhalla!?" The monk asked angrily.
"Look pal, when the vikings attacked your monastery you fought back. Hell, you even killed one of them. That's not what monks do." Exclaimed the Valkyrie
"But I'm a god loving christian! I can't be in Valhalla!"
"Like it or not, you died in battle. That's literally all it takes to get into this place. Now go take a seat beside the other new guy." The Valkyrie said with an exhausted tone to her voice.
The monk looked around to find his seat. The only empty seat he could find was next to a large gruff looking man. The Monk, curious, asked the man "So what did you do to get in here?"
The viking looked into his eyes and said "You killed me, asshole."
|
You wake under a plain cloth blanket, one that you really didn't need as it's perfectly comfortable here and you're already dressed.
You remember getting pissed at Tim about the pool game and how he was being a little hardheaded on giving up the table after you'd won. But just snippets of it are coming back like the morning after a wild night out.
You look around and wonder where you are as you get up and go towards the only other thing in the room, the door.
Swinging wide it shows you a well manicured park like in a major city but with more flowers. A hipster chick sitting with a kitten smiles and turns and says "Hi, do you like cats too?"
"Huh? What's going on? Where's..."
"Shhhh... don't complain", she whispers, "You have to be nice to the kitties"
"No, I mean what the hell is going on. I don't give a shit about your cat"
"You just don't understand, you were always nice to cats right?"
"Yeah sure, why do I care"
"Well there's a girl named Aubrey and this is her heaven, anyone who has treated cats nicely every time, and saved one at a time in their life is stuck here." And the smile falls from her face and her septum piercing wiggles as she turns back around.
The urge to argue subsides a little. Cats have always been okay, you'd just never spent a lot of time with them.
You look to the right as a cute calico kitten waltzes proudly towards you, the sun in it's fur.
The hipster chick says dryly, "Take care of it, or we'll all be fucked."
| 2016-03-07T20:07:55
| 2016-03-07T19:29:38
| 53
| 18
|
[WP] The most prestigious orchestra in the world improves its playing each concert by killing the worst player after every performance.
My friend gave me the idea for this after joking about how they do this.
|
The audience rose, applause thundering from the black-suited men and gown-clad women. The spotlights went into a dazzling frenzy, making Clementina Franz's eyes water.
"Thank you, thank you," Anatoly Bolenov's voice boomed from the speakers. "It was our pleasure to bring you Rimsky Korsakov's finest—"
Clementina tightened her grip around the violin's neck to stop it from slipping through her sweaty fingers. Her left hand was trembling uncontrollably, and she held it close to her side lest anyone noticed it.
"Amazing, huh?" Kyle Damper whispered to her from the corner of his mouth.
She gulped and didn't answer. Her fellow violinist sounded positively gleeful, but she only wanted to dive into her bed at home and yank the covers over herself, preferably after downing an entire bottle of strong drink.
For how could he know? This was his first performance; he hadn't been accepted until three weeks ago. She'd been with the orchestra for months. She knew what was coming for her.
"—and once more, give it up for Virtuoso!" Anatoly ended his speech with a sweeping gesture, but for a moment his eyes locked with Clementina's. They were cold as death, but she forced herself to bow as cheering and clapping erupted once more.
***
By the time Clementina, who had dragged her feet every step of the way, returned to the rehearsal room backstage, her fellow musicians were already gathered inside and celebrating.
Jim and Simon, twin bassoonists barely out of their teens, were backslapping some of the others. Donna was distributing chocolate from her cello case. Even the quietest member, the pianist Farrah, wasn't sitting in a corner carefully sorting her sheets into colored folders like she usually did, but chatting with Kord and Scott the percussionists.
But when she entered, they all fell silent. Not looking at them, she moved through the room toward her violin case, next to where Kyle was texting on his phone.
When she reached it, he leaped to his feet and beamed at her. "I can't believe it! Playing with you guys, being here in Berlin. I swear I saw—"
"I'm happy you enjoyed yourself," she said wearily as she bent to retrieve her case.
"My wife's just as excited as I am," he said, waving his phone. "I wonder if they'll televise it? Wait till my kids see me!"
Clementina drew a spare bow from her case and held it up to inspect it. Light caught on its tip, giving it a silvery sheen.
Kyle stared at the bow. "What are you doing?"
"You missed a note," she said, and plunged the bow into his heart.
He gasped and tried to fight back, but Jim and Simon caught hold of his arms. Clementina wasn't sure whose body was trembling more, hers or Kyle's in his dying throes. Her mind was blank, and she couldn't even make herself look away from his widened eyes until the light faded from them.
"First one's always the toughest," someone said quietly behind her. She jumped and turned to face Anatoly, who was staring wistfully at Kyle. "He had so much potential. I really thought ..." He shook his head and looked at her. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, but you were his mentor."
"None but the best, right, sir?" she said, her voice hoarse and cracking.
He sighed, and turned to face the rest. "We seem to be going through the new recruits really quickly." Everyone was looking at him with rapt attention. "Might be time to start the pruning process earlier, maybe during rehearsals themselves so we don't keep getting repeat applications."
Facing Clementina once more, with a humorless smile on his face, he said, "Get rid of the body, and get an ad out. We need fresh meat."
***
Edit: typos and stuff
|
He knew the risks, but the rewards - the rewards were intangible.
Seriously. Money. Nope. Nobody cares about orchestras - even the best one ever. Football players might get concussions that leave them all messed up, but at least they are feeling numb in a pool in the little back yard of their mansion, staring blankly at Los Angeles. Quite a view. Probably should have stuck with basketball.
The only reward for playing violin was the feeling it gave him. It was the only time he felt truly alive. Some well adjusted people probably get that feeling from seeing friends or driving a car really fast, but some probably don't ever get that feeling. At least not as adults.
He knew the risks. But fuck it, 100 people in the orchestra. He was in the top 10%. There would be many a show before his time would come.
That's what he thought. Until he rocked out a little too hard. Snapped a string. During a solo.
Game over. They didn't even wait til the show was over. Shotgun blast, "that's entertainment." At least he died doing what he loved.
| 2016-03-03T20:57:36
| 2016-03-03T17:24:59
| 53
| 19
|
[WP] The bombs stopped falling. Slowly, you opened the bunker's door. You did not expect what you saw. Make it as scary as possible. Now, take this story and tell it to a five year old without frightening him/ her.
|
Hey, *hey*, tch. What’d I say about going near the windows?
See the sun? We call that ‘twilight’. Can you say that with me? ‘Twilight’.
What happens during twilight? That’s right, we can’t go near the windows, okay, buddy? If I lost you I don’t know what I’d do. It’s just you and me out here, you got it?
Yes, that’s right. Daddy lost his fingers because he went too close to the window. I told you how that happened, right?
Sing it with me:
*Well I saw the thing comin’ out of the sky…*
Don’t want to sing? Come on, bud, this is important.
*It had one long horn and one big eye…*
You know the words, I’ve been singing this song to you ever since the *first* day out of the bunker. You’ve got to know what you’re dealing with out here, son.
Come on, sing to me. What’s out there?
Yeah, yeah! That’s right:
*It was a one-eyed, one horned, flying…?*
Come on, finish it for me? No, it’s alright. Daddy’s okay. Was just thinking about Mommy. She…
She went too close to a window, too.
No, no, daddy’s okay, daddy’s okay. Just finish the song, please?
Good:
*It was a one-eyed, one horned, flying purple people eater,*
*One-eyed, one horned, flying purple people eater…*
A one-eyed, one horned, flying purple… *people* eater…
Sure looked strange, to me.
***
^**/r/NaimKabir**
|
My muscles tensed in anticipation of the explosions. As the whistling sound grew in intensity I knew the moment had arrived. We held hands and prayed while the children slept through their fiery pending deaths.
*SQUONKA SQUONKA*
What the hell?! The sound continued, sometimes close by, then farther away, but over and over that bizarre sound replaced the expected boom of the bombs as they dropped. It went on for what felt like hours before silence once more filled the air.
We crept towards the shelter doors, confusion mixing with dread as we threw the bolts and slowly pushed the doors open enough to peek through. What we saw haunts me to this very day. Instead of the ruins of our city, smoldering buildings and craters in the ground, what we saw chilled us to the bone. A flash of color at first, darting through the mist with an awkward gait. The low sounds of the horns and tittering evil laughter. Horrid smiles painted on white creamy flesh. Large, bulbous red noses that should have caused feelings of mirth, image ruined by the sharp teeth and bloodied mouths.
I will never forget the sight of thousands of clones of that evil, twisted persona, Pennywise. I knew that death truly had come to us all. Not the quick and painless kind, but true horror awaited those who stepped outside. One of the children pushed forward from the back trying to get a glimpse of what was going on.
I needed to give them their last moments without fear. "Oh child, it's nothing. Just a circus come to town and not the war after all. Go back to sleep while we handle this." It hurt, lying to a child.
| 2015-05-11T04:44:38
| 2015-05-11T03:25:56
| 413
| 61
|
[WP] Superpowers can now be torrented. You were 70% of the way through torrenting a power you've always wanted when the download stops.
|
Sixty-two percent.
It had taken months to get this far; the file size was huge and I had limited bandwidth thanks to the connection I was using. If I'd been on some unlimited deal I probably would have been done in just a week or two, but it's just not available out here. I'm lucky I can even get this much.
What was I downloading? A Power, of course. What, you think I'm going to waste my time and a dozen terabytes on that Fallout mod that covers the entire North American continent? The land mass might be done but everyone knows there's no game content in it except for northern Texas.
Yeah, the Powers are that big. You think the stuff to re-sequence genes is going to fit on a 16GB thumb drive? I'm just lucky they're not bigger.
Sixty-six percent.
I've already got most of the other equipment, and what's left is being 3D printed. Everything should be finished by the time I've got the full file.
The Power I picked was a pretty common choice, though carefully controlled: Long-Range Teleporting. According to the description, it's supposed to be the one where you visualize where you want to go. Also, it's got enough seeders behind it that it shouldn't drop out of sight.
It is carefully controlled, but I have no worries at all about anyone showing up at my door.
I considered the Space Flight/Survival combo package, but it lacks any navigation abilities. I also looked over the Regeneration files for a while, but the only ones being seeded still require food and air.
I've only got one shot at this, I can't afford to have to start over.
Seventy percent. That's the last of it until next month.
It's going to be a race at the end, to finish everything before my air supply finally runs out. I'm saving the last of it for my EVA suit.
|
I've always wanted to have superpowers. I remember back when I was in the third grade I would run two miles home from school everyday, just so that I could watch the latest episode of the Super Man cartoon show. I was so obsessed with being a super hero that some days I would come to school wearing a red cape. Needless to say I was always made fun of. This obsession continued up until the 7th grade. By this time guys were starting to get girl friends, and just about everyone was hanging out on weekends with their friends having lots of fun, everyone except for me. I decided that it was time to grow up. I quit wearing the cape to school, stopped watching super hero shows, and even tore all my super hero posters off my bedroom walls. I swore I would never go back to my geeky ways. By the time I started high school I actually had some decent friends, and this girl I had a crush on finally began talking to me. Life was finally starting to get better. Then all of a sudden, in just 3 months time, things started to change, and when I say change I mean REALLY change. It all started during school, one of the teachers turned on the TV and switched straight to the news channel. The shocking news left everyone in disbelief. Apparently some big shot hacker had hacked straight into the US Military databases and had uncovered what some say to be the greatest piece of technology since the internet itself. This technology that he leaked all over the web was being torrented by people everywhere. And what did this technology do you ask? Well... It gave people superpowers... The US Military was doing everything that they possibly could to rid this new technology from the internet. From what i've heard you'd be lucky if your torrent got to 2% before the US Military busted down your doors. And to all the people caught trying to torrent them... the death sentence. Within a few years people quit talking about it, it seemed like bringing it up into a conversation was taboo. Cut ten years later and im living what seems to be the perfect life, I have a great job, i've married the love of my life, and I have a beautiful boy. Everything was great but something seemed like it was missing. I couldn't quite figure it out at first, but one day while I was helping my parents clean out their old house I found something remarkable in the attic. It was the cape... It was my cape... Suddenly it hit me. The news story from back in high school about the super powers started playing back in my brain. It was just like when a catchy song gets stuck in your head, and i couldn't stop thinking about it. It was getting late so I said my goodbyes to my parents and raced out the door. I just wanted to see if it was still possible. I drove like a maniac to get back home still with the news report playing back in my head. Finally, when I arrived home I ran straight to my laptop. I googled for the torrents everywhere but there was no results of it to be found. It was almost as if it was entirely erased from the internet. My search went on for a couple more hours until finally I found something strange. It was a website in German, that google couldn't translate. During my college days I had gone through three German courses, but it was still really hard for me to understand what it was saying. Suddenly a certain word caught my eye, it said "Supermacht 229 TB". I knew what supermacht translated too from back in school. It meant super power, but could it actually be a real super power torrent? What else could possibly take up 229 Terra bytes? It had to be. I clicked on a button that looked like it might be the download, and all of a sudden uTorrent pops up. It started downloading something. It reached 1% and I began to get very nervous. I paced back and forth asking myself if I should cancel it or not before it's too late. I've heard almost all the stories, and I certainly didn't want the death penalty. I raced back to my screen to see that it was already at 24%. I assured myself that if it had managed to get that far there was no way the military was tracking my download. Soon enough it was at 60%, and I started to feel something tingling inside of me. I didn't think about it until then, but I realized my hard drive couldn't hold 2 terabytes let alone 229! Every percent downloaded I could feel the power in me grow stronger, I felt like I could fly, and well... Maybe I could! I was about to fulfill my childhood dream of becoming a superhero nothing was going to stop me! Suddenly once my download hit 70% it stopped, and all that I had started to feel left my body. Next I began hearing noises outside. I couldn't believe it. I had gotten so close. I rushed outside to find something unbelievably. "DINKLEBERG!", I screamed. "Hi neighbor!", Mr. Dinkleberg responded while floating in mid air.
| 2016-07-02T18:47:10
| 2016-07-02T18:09:05
| 57
| 17
|
[Wp] Write a story that will make me question my morality.
Write a story that is so shocking it will make me question my morality.
Edit: Wow.
|
Tonight he would finally do it. Michael curled his fists and looked down at the still form of his wife. Her face was calm in sleep, a startling contrast to the face she wore when awake. He thought again of last night, of her flailing knife, the clumsy attempts to hurt him. The unpredictable shifts between frenzied anger and remorse.
He remembered the day he met her, the warmth in her eyes, the way the sunlight had caught and enflamed her hair. When he placed his hand carefully around her throat, the tears burned his throat. He tightened it until she awoke. She would face him for this.
"Mikey," she whispered. "Is it time?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She looked at him, still like a corpse, her eyes bright in the darkness.
"I would have hated being caged up in an asylum, Mikey. Watching my mother," she paused, steadying his hand on her throat with her own grip. "It was enough. I couldn't have survived. You know that, right?"
His mouth tightened, his grip wavering despite himself.
"You're very sure of this, aren't you? Using the past tense, already."
"I wouldn't have married you without knowing how the story would end," she said. "You've always kept your promises."
They stared in silence at each other, and he thought he saw a glimmer of it in her eyes. The beginning of what the doctors called an 'episode'. Just a piece of entertainment for them, something to study and write an article about. His undoing, the nightmare that had terrorized him for more than a decade.
He grasped that thought and steeled himself, reaching into his pocket with his other hand to take out the pills. The glimmer in her eyes touched the rest of her face, and he saw the subtle shift occur. He watched her begin to trash and snarl as he forced open her jaw, and poured the contents of the bottle down her throat.
A choked scream escaped her as he forced down a glass of water to ensure it was done. He clapped his free hand over her mouth - the neighbors had keen hearing. She began to fight in earnest, and he tightened his grip. He held on grimly as the minutes ticked by. She buckled under him - then, when he thought she would tear at his face, her hand went limp. His heart lurched as he watched her eyes. But they were still locked on his.
"Mikey..." she said, and smiled.
"Haley?" he loosened his fingers, praying - despite the dark part of himself that was rejoicing - that he had failed. But her eyes were fixed and glassy. He stroked her cheek, marveling at the fact that it was her in death - not the other woman. It was his Haley, and it would be her that he buried.
|
It's not the best of my writing, but I couldn't see such a great prompt, with a very difficult task go to waste. I have decided to pour out my small amount of talent into this prompt. Feel honored or amused, your choice.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Why should I follow these rules? Why should I listen to what Papa told me? He's a bloody hypocrite, the cops are bloody hypocrites, everyone is a bloody hypocrite.
I am told to be kind, and reasonable! But why should I? The world shits on me, what gives it the right to be reasoned with? What kindness does it deserve?
I am told to not kill, yet all around me, the enforcers kill. The police kill, the law kills, people kill in the name of their God which killed, even though they said to not kill. Why should I submit when others don't?
I am told to not steal, but my parents stole my childhood, the banks steal my money and my so called 'friends' steal my own self by influencing me for their own benefit, and to my own harm.
Everybody kills, everybody takes, sometimes it seems as if I am the only one, alone in this bubble to view the chaos from, instead of part of a horde, tearing down the world that it built. Well, I am tired of being stuck alone in the age of order. I'm tired of tending to the flames of a dying time. I shall break my bubble, and enter the age of me! [Writers note: The age of anarchy!]
| 2014-07-07T07:22:27
| 2014-07-07T06:58:02
| 308
| 34
|
[WP] A kid doodling in a math class accidentally creates the world's first functional magic circle in centuries.
Magic being real in the past is your choice really.
|
"...to the power of 2, that way..."
Mrs. Patterson stopped, glancing down at Ed's notebook.
"Well, it appears that Mr. Anderson is a little more advanced than the rest of the class." She smiled her annoying
smile. "Edward, why don't you tell the class what it is that you are doing?"
Ed looked down at the doodle -- a pentagram touching an outer circle in four of its five points. (He had missed the fifth by a bit).
Right next to it, a poorly drawn Penis-Batman.
That's a penis dressed like Batman.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Patterson."
Mrs. Patterson smiled the annoying smile. "Just as well... You'll probably have to take my class
again next semester, Mr. Anderson. So, by all means, keep drawing."
Ed sighed, swallowing fifty different curse words back down his throat. He looked down at the drawing.
Distracted, he completed the pentagram, closing its final point on the outer circle.
He was about to start Penis-Robin when it happened.
"What a bitch."
Who said that was Penis-Batman, with a wink at Ed through the paper.
The pentagram and circle gleamed red and black next to it, like it had somehow gained texture and volume.
Mrs. Patterson was talking about Pi, and Jane, the cute one (not Jane the big nosed), was passing a note to Erin, her fat friend.
Nothing of this was perceived by Ed, of course, who was coping with the fact that a Penis-Batman doodle had just
talked to him.
"Wh-what?" He whispered, already envisioning his future in a mental home.
The circle and pentagram had stopped glowing, and the Penis-Batman was frozen blue ink on paper again.
Ed pressed his eyelids closed and took a deep breath.
"Now, Pi is an infinite number, as far as we know. It is..."
Mrs. Patterson's voice echoed as if coming from another dimension.
Ed kept breathing.
*All right, it's over. It was just a temporary delusion. Like a hallucination. It's gone.*
Ed opened his eyes to find Penis-Batman standing on the table like a tiny little, three dimensional person.
"At your command, master", Penis-Batman said, bowing to Ed.
And that was loud enough for the class to hear, mind you.
The circle and pentagram was gleaming brighter than ever now, making hissing noises as what appeared to be sparkles and bits of carbonized paper danced away from it.
It looked like the end of a bonfire.
Mrs. Patterson said eleven words after that, which were those:
"Mr. Anderson, if you cannot keep quiet I will have to."
Mrs Patterson wasn't able to keep saying words because, after 'to', she noticed the Penis-Batman standing erect and tall on Edwards table, and her brain decided this was a good time for shutting down. So Mrs. Patterson passed out.
Several other kids passed out too (but not weird Bob. Weird Bob took his iPhone out, flashed the camera and cried
'coooooool').
"Wh-who-who-who-who are you?" Ed mumbled, on the verge of following Patterson into unconsciousness.
"You drew the circle, dude", Penis-Batman said, smiling. "You lure into reality whatever it is that you draw, when
you draw the circle."
"You're...real?"
"And at your service! I got super powers too. Watch this."
Penis-Batman peed fire into the air, and the classroom ceiling burst into flames.
(*author's personal note: the above sentence is now my favorite sentence that I ever wrote. Thank you OP for the prompt which generated the proper setting for this sentence to arise. Kisses and hugs to my family and friends. Moving on.*)
Ed looked around the classroom.
Kids were panicking, tackling each other on the way to the door and away from the phallic Dark Knight.
"I didn't mean to... summon you..." Ed whispered, watching as the kids trampled one another and the classroom roof burned.
"You want me to go away?" Penis-Batman said, in a sad tone. "I can go away..."
Ed looked at Penis-Batman. He looked around.
He saw Jerry, who always picked him last in Gym and threw basketballs on his scrotum occasionally and for no reason, making way through the door, desperate.
He looked at Thamy, who once told everyone he had crapped his pants in class.
(Which was true, but still. Why tell people about it?)
He glanced at Toby and Jack, who always beat him up during recess.
He looked at Patterson, that bitch, still unconscious on the floor.
"No, Penis-Batman..." Ed said, smiling at his tiny friend.." He leaned his shoulder down and, with a smile, Penis-
Batman jumped and landed. "Come on", Ed continued, getting um from the chair, his new friend now balancing himself next to his ear. "We're gonna have
some fun."
_____________________
*Thanks for reading! For more about phallic DC Comics heroes (Not really. Though I did write on evil Batman and time travelling John Constantine recently, so kinda), check out my subreddit: /r/psycho_alpaca =)*
|
The clock reads ten till two, and David is bored. He looks at the front of the room where the teacher is marking up the board with numbers David doesn't understand. In the center is a circle and all kinds of symbols David has seen a hundred times yet he still doesn't understand. He looks back at his sheet of paper, almost untouched. This class will last until three, that's an hour and ten minutes of staring at a blank piece of paper and ignoring the drone from the front of the class.
He checks the clock, but it's still ten till two.
Faced with the options, insanity from boredom and doing actual work, he has a difficult decision to make.
He picks up the pencil and starts doodling.
The simple fact is that David, while not a moron, is exceptionally poor at math. The numbers mix together in the air between the teacher and him, and enter one side of his head just to leave through the other. Math just doesn't make sense to him, and the symbols on the board are as close to gibberish as it gets, so David starts with the only thing he recognizes: a circle.
Now, David's no fool. He knows how to make a circle- geometry has always been more art than math to him- and he takes time to get out a compass and carefully make a perfect little circle. If he were paying attention he might know that the circle he created was something special but, again, David is not a smart child and he sees the circle as just that: nothing of importance, just a doodle on a page. Even when he cuts himself finishing the circle, the compass roughly tearing the tip of finger spraying miniture droplets of blood across the paper, he sees nothing special about the day. He doesn't hear the singing, softly drifting in on winds unheeded. He doesn't see the circle of graphite shrink and shape, settling into the paper and the very desk beneath it.
And he starts drawing symbols, he doesn't notice that they're very different from the ones on the board.
David copies everything he can see down as well as he can, as if some universal understanding of the objects of mathematical power would be transferred to him by the writing of it. The symbol for Pi became squiggles, Xs and 7s and 8s and even 2s were mistranslated onto the paper, all along the circle. And as the teacher droned on about how to find the area of a circle, David's circle began to glow.
The singing was loud enough for David to hear it now, a soft melody drifting in on the wind from the air conditioner. To David it seemed they were singing his name- a sweet tone of 'Daaaavvvviiiiid' ad infinitum.
The song grows even louder and David is scared now; scared that the people around him don't hear anything, scared that the circle is glowing, scared that the runes are beginning to swirl around the circle like they're being flushed down the drain.
And at this moment something clicks in David's head. A forceful intuition works its way into the cogs and gears of his mind, like the instinct that drives all the salmon in the world to the same lake, and acting on such instinct he opens his hand and slams his palm into the center of the circle.
The paper glowed brighter than the sun- no, the sun and everything else *dimmed* as the light from the paper grew- and the room around David slowed. The *world* around David slowed.
And from the paper came a power, an almost solid energy that flowed into David's arm, glowing under his skin like radioactive blood. He pointed to the board in the front, covered with the teacher's sloppy handwriting, and clicked his fingers like he would when pretending to fire a gun.
The energy poured forth from his arm and leaked across the room, a stream of smokey light. It covered the board, all across the slick white surface it spread, until it had covered the entirety of it.
And then David blinked, and time around him unlocked, the world started spinning yet again, the sun returned to its glory, and the birds again started singing outside.
But the beautiful voices that had called his name were no longer singing. And the paper was a burnt up frame missing the original circle.
The only evidence that it had been real- besides the *feeling* of the energy entering him- was drawn across the board: The teacher, bald head and all, was illustrated in great detail. The...terrible situation, for lack of a better word, he found himself in was in perhaps even *greater* detail.
And no one had a clue what had happened. The teacher fumbled to erase the drawing, and was quick to throw accusations across the room at the usual troublemakers. David just chuckled and looked at the clock before laying his head on the desk.
2:05, just forty-five minutes left.
In his sleep, David dreams of the voices. And when he wakes up their tone rings quietly in the back of his head.
| 2015-03-13T15:00:45
| 2015-03-13T15:00:21
| 90
| 11
|
[WP] They told you that you were going to lead an army, 10,000 men strong, they didn't tell you it contained only a single trained soldier, and 9,999 support musicians.
|
"Sir, we've got reports from the Northern front," the adjutant stated in a dry voice. The general looked at him expectantly.
"The 3rd combined division has secured Kehner river and is currently building an outpost for further excursions."
The general nodded contently.
"However," the adjutant continued, "the Luhner cavalry division has suffered a defeat at Argot forest; an ambush. A sergeant in their company has sold information to our enemies, I am afraid. He has been made an example out of."
"Shit," the general growled. "Luhner company was our best cavalry division. Send word to the capital requesting additional horses. Now, if that is all-" he started getting up.
"Actually." the adjutant slowly added, "there is... one more report you'll want to hear." His words were oddly cautious as if he was afraid of them.
"Well?" the general said, sitting back down. "Get on with it."
"It's the Iron Drakes, sir."
The general slouched in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The Iron Drakes were an elite company of heavily armoured soldiers with a penchant for fire. They've killed everyone he threw at them and at this point, he was at his wit's end as to how to deal with them.
"Who'd they slaughter this time?" he sighed.
"They, uh... they've been defeated, sir."
The general looked up at him with noticeable surprise.
"*What*? When? By whom?!" he said.
"Yesterday, sir. The messenger arrived just a few hours ago. And it was the, uh... the Tromb company."
The general stared daggers at his adjutant. He considered whether he was playing a prank on him, but he was a loyal aid for years now and not known for a sense of humour.
"There *must* be a clerical error then. A scribe with one too many head injuries. The Tromb company is *literally* just several thousand musicians-"
"And one trained soldier, sir. Plus the commander," the adjutant interrupted.
"Sure, right, Karl, the veteran, and the commander is... isn't he new?"
"Completely, sir. He was assigned to the company to help them while they were transferring from west to north. Just rookie escort duty."
"Then how, pray tell, could a load of musicians - and *one* soldier - defeat the most decorated company of soldiers we have ever faced?"
"Sir, the commander ordered the musicians to play music while Karl single-handedly rushed the enemy."
"That's-"
"Sir, do you know the song 'No man can harm me, no fire can burn me'?"
The general looked down at his desk trying to remember. "^(And then no man... harm... I shall walk... fire...)" he muttered. "Yes, I remember."
"So the musicians played it and, well, inspired Karl to the point where he quite literally embodied the lyrics. The Iron Drakes could not land a single blow and he walked through their fires as if it was a pleasant breeze."
The general sat in stunned silence.
"And apparently, his eyes started glowing at some point," the adjutant added.
The silence continued.
"And also his sword broke and he started picking up rocks and killing them with those. Rock and stone, general. *That's* what he used," the adjutant said as if he didn't believe his own words.
The general, at last, managed to recover some composure.
"You say a messenger brought these news?" he asked. His aid nodded.
"Bring him in. I want to hear it from him directly."
The adjutant motioned his hand and a young, freckled man walked in. He was clutching a banner with a drake covered in iron plates on it - the banner of the Iron Drakes. That was proof enough that the Drakes were indeed defeated.
"Lad, I want you to tell me *everything* you saw," the general said. The messenger nervously looked at him for a moment before speaking.
"WHAT? COULD YOU SPEAK UP PLEASE?" he yelled.
|
When the music began, I wasn’t expecting this to work at all. No matter how powerful the bards could be, and I had seen them work some interesting miracles before, they had always worked best at empowering a group. Focusing teamwork, providing communication of a sorts so that a party of adventurous heroes could follow the tune of bloodshed to victory. Sometimes they could work more individual magics, coaxing the body to heal rapidly or opening a locked door magically, but the most powerful thing I had ever seen a bard do on their own was summoning a hand and knocking weaker men aside. Crushing the occasional goblin with it. Even that was reserved really for the seasoned ones who had been playing in combat for years.
This, this was different. Only a few of them actually played “music”. But the sense of timing that music gave them… I stepped forward, and the drums began. A slow tempo that built up speed until I had moved almost beyond the reach of their sound in moments. I aimed a kick at a stone on the ground, simply testing what I could do at this speed without hurting myself. Then the real magic began, as every drummer in the entire army struck at once. Just like that, the fight was over. Their general decapitated and mostly disintegrated above the waist by the fragments of stone kicked well over half of a field and through several soldiers in heavy armor, each dissipating the blow from a solid stone to slightly smaller but no less dangerous fragments. 20 dead? More?
I managed a smile, suddenly hopeful, and the music amplified it into an irresistible confidence. This was going to go my way, how could it not? The seasoned enemy soldiers were occupied just keeping the more nervous conscripts from breaking rank and fleeing. Unfortunately, something was going horribly wrong. They had loaded a catapult beforehand and in the chaos it seemed one of them was headed more or less on a path to flatten me. I momentarily forgot my strange speed, and threw out a hand instinctively to protect myself against something which I could never have stopped. Flutes kicked into gear, a complicated tune that saw my palm extending out and out, a wave of energy taking the shape of a new and larger hand, another stemming from that palm, and another. The rock crashed clumsily through five of the palms before being caught and tossed quietly aside to crash against the side of a hill when the next three grabbed it out of mid air.
I drew my sword slowly, feeling how light it was as the lutes trembled gently through the air. I looked behind me, noted the progress the army of bards had made towards me. It wouldn’t be long now, and their music would reach the enemy army. When it did, so would I.
| 2022-09-23T10:19:14
| 2022-09-23T09:54:22
| 277
| 197
|
[WP] The genie granted your wish: to be able to understand and speak every language. Your mind is flooded with thousands upon thousands of dead and living languages, human and alien alike. But, most surprisingly, you also now understand the operating system running the universe.
|
"Java. The entire universe runs on an outdated version of Java? Are you kidding me?"
The Genie chuckled. "What did you expect?"
"Not fucking *Java*, that's for sure," I replied. "Come on, we're going back home. I need some time to process this."
"Your wish is my command," the Genie said with a sly grin.
"That wasn't a wish, asshole."
And then I went home, and slept.
|
***To understand is not the same as to have the ability to communicate..***
This is one of the first thoughts to flit across my frantically overloaded mind, in several different languages simultaneously, fittingly enough...
Sure I could speak every language, but never the one I wanted in a given situation anymore. This has made communication very difficult when the only languages my mouth would allow me to produce weren’t any that the listener in question knew.
I find myself speaking a lot in dead languages, and occasionally in code. Usually something dreadfully inconvenient for anybody to decipher. So I have gone from at least being fluent in English and passingly conversational in Spanish, to being completely incomprehensible.
Never trust a genie... it never works out like you think it will.
| 2018-10-18T13:42:48
| 2018-10-18T12:01:54
| 508
| 79
|
[WP] Drunkenly, you accidentally pour vodka into your pet's water bowl. As a result, your pet breaks the number one rule: do not speak to your owner... Ever.
Did NOT expect this amount of replies. Thanks guys! It'll be an interesting read.
|
"Man, what the fuck. This could seriously kill me."
"Nawdawg . . ." My eyes were closed. My head tilted forward, chin resting on my chest.
"No, really. Like I can smell that this is poison."
"NOOO!" Dogs are so STUPID. "It'sss fucking SKY man."
"I don't give a shit what it is, I'm not drinking it."
I continued pouring, the Costco-sized bottle loose in my grip. I had pretty sweet accuracy too, I was hitting his bowl like at least 50% of the time. If I knew Chewbacca was going to such a little *BITCH* about it . . .
"Like comon', get fucked up with me."
"No dude, you're a fucking wreck."
"Your mom's wrecked." I nearly dropped the handle in the chortling that ensued. Some of it got on the wall. I'll clean it up later. I pointed at my chest with my free hand, indicating that it was *I* that wrecked her.
"Can you not? Can I get some water please? You were gone all day."
"Your . . . fuuuuuu"
"What, my mom got some water? What?"
"I don't know. Furgot." The bottle was mostly empty by now. A large nail polish smelling puddle formed around his dish.
"Let's get you to bed man."
"NO!" I retched forward and banged sideways into the refrigerator. Instinctual, an animal reflex for hording fermented fruits. "I wanna fucking PARTY!"
"Comon." He nudged me, poking the back of my knee with his wet snuffling nose.
"Stop it! I'm going!" It was so *gross!* It was as cold as a drowned corpse and left dog-slime behind. "Fuckin' fight me bro!"
"Dude, I would fucking take you down. You don't want to get bit by a dog tonight."
"You wanna go? You wanna FUCKING GO!" Suddenly there was energy in my body again, exclusively in my arms. My upper body and legs still felt rather noodley. "I'll fight you dog."
Chewbacca didn't say anything. He didn't move, he didn't bark - he just stayed there on his paws and waited for me to fall over.
"YEAH- YEAH, get some!" He taunted, licking my face. "How do you like some of that shit!"
"Auuugh" I began to groan but quickly snapped my mouth shut at the first intersection of his tongue. It is not possible to spit out the feeling of a slobbering dog. When he finally stopped and all I could see was his floofy butt wiggling out the bedroom door I called to him.
"I LOVE YOU!"
He turned, his face stupid and grinning, "I know buddy" and shut the door behind.
|
(AN: I seem to have interpreted the prompt a bit differently than most. I'm also writing this on my phone, so I'll edit for grammar in the morning.)
'Fucking college students.' Skittles often wondered what fueled the obsession to keep vodka in water bottles, much less the stupidity needed to keep such a bottle right next to the actual water bottles in the fridge. It was difficult being the most intelligent life form in the frat house, but somebody had to do it.
The night had been quiet until about three, when his pack of loving - though misguided, at times - owners stumbled through the kitchen's old screen back door. The Delta Omicron Omicron brothers, stinking of cheap beer and quality hash, piled into the house with all the grace of a troop of baboons. A few acknowledged the cat's presence, offering a scratch behind the ears and slurred murmurings of "Hey Skittles," though most simply dispersed towards the house's various sofas and bedrooms. The organization's president, a tall stereotype of a young man named Oscar, called over his shoulder as he stumbled toward the staircase. "Dun forget to feed Skittles, pledge." The last word seemed to be spat from his mouth, and a moment later, Skittles was alone with the newest face of DOO.
The boy was thin of frame, a shock of blonde hair sticking up on the back yet falling in his eyes. He was visibly wobbly, though a smile seemed almost plastered on his face. "You have a goo' night, buddy?" His words were loud and bright as he scooped a half cup of dry food in the vicinity of Skittles' bowl; the majority landed on the floor. Skittles decided he didn't have much of an appetite anyway.
The boy then opened the fridge to retrieve a bottle of clean water for the cat, but lo and behold, thanks to the implicit genius of the his owners, the boy nabbed the bottle of vodka instead.
Had he he ability roll his eyes, Skittles would have.
As the boy uncapped it and prepared to pour the contents into the remaining bowl, Skittles cleared his throat.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The pledge froze. He blinked his bleary red eyes a few times in disbelief.
"You absolute fucking moron," Skittles continued. "Can you not smell that? You're literally about to pour half a liter of grain motherfucking alcohol in my bowl. I'm a cat, Michael."
Knees buckling, the boy wobbled a moment before collapsing onto the tile floor, sitting splay-legged at the cat before him. "Skittles... Skittles, are you talking?"
Skittles, too, sat down. "Don't act like an idiot. It's pathetic. That much alcohol will kill me. Do you understand? Are you trying to kill me, Michael?"
The boy shook his head fervently, blonde hair flopping like a mop.
"Good." Skittles stood again, taking three easy steps toward the boy and climbing onto his lap. "Listen close, now. You're going to put that bottle back in the fridge. You're going to give me actual water." He put his paws on Michael's chest and leaned in close. "And then you're going to go the fuck to bed. Do you understand?"
Again, he shook his head violently, quickly standing up and doing as he was told. Less than a minute later, Skittles' bowl was full and the boy was headed towards the stairs. But before he could climb them, he was stopped again by the surprisingly deep voice.
"You'll tell no one about this, will you Michael." It was clear from Skittles tone that this wasn't a request, and the pledge wearily nodded.
"Or I will kill you, Michael." Skittles winked as the color drained from the boy's face and he stumbled up the stairs. 'Fucking moron,' the cat thought to himself, as he climbed into a basket of laundry and fell asleep.
| 2016-08-02T20:54:01
| 2016-08-02T20:53:54
| 30
| 10
|
[WP] All of the "#1 Dad" mugs in the world change to show the actual ranking of Dads suddenly.
|
I look over at my new favorite mug. After they started showing actual rankings, I was proud to have my #19 mug. #19 out of the potentially billions of dads in the world. I felt pretty good about myself. I was wondering why it wasn't higher, but you can't really complain. The mugs were normally blank, but if whoever held it was a dad, it showed their name and ranking. I smile a quick smile, and head into my bedroom to watch a bit of TV. After a few minutes, I realize that I had forgotten my mug in the kitchen.
"Jeremiah!" I called out to my 15 year old son. "Could you grab my mug from the kitchen, please!?!?"
"Sure, Dad!" I heard in response. Having my son be so willing to help me out only solidified my feelings of being in that #19 spot.
My son comes in, holding my beloved mug, a cheery spring in his step. However, I am mortified by what I see. On the mug, it says:
"Jeremiah Carson. Rank: #231,658"
|
"Bruce, bug off, I don't care."
"But we'd have so much fun! My treat!"
Bruce had been calling 3 times a day, every day. 'Let's go to the zoo!' 'I've got tickets to show!' 'How bout an adventure?'
At 25 years old, I didn't need this. I'd gone through most of life without his time, without his money, without his love. Mom and I had scraped along fine enough, just the two of us, until she passed. And now that I was on my own, independent at last, I couldn't care less what his mug said.
"I know I made this clear last time. Quit calling me. We both know fatherhood wasn't your strong suit. Just accept whatever it says and move on."
"But summarily\_squashed..."
"I'm hanging up now."
"***Wait***."
I paused. There was something in that word, in his voice. I couldn't put my finger on it...
"I'm a sorry excuse for a father. I know that. But there's something you don't understand. I haven't... always been completely honest with Karen. She thinks that I was... more... involved. With your life, I mean. And she's seen my number and... well, she realizes something's off. And she's going to leave me, if I can't make it right. If I can't show her my number has changed."
I knew what was in his voice. I'd heard it once before, just once, in Mom's voice just before Bruce left for good. I was 11 at the time.
It was desperation.
"Go to hell, Bruce."
*Click.*
| 2019-04-18T18:25:29
| 2019-04-18T16:52:21
| 25
| 14
|
[WP] You've been convicted of 1st degree murder, and (as is customary in society) are sentenced to "death by black-hole." You expect death as your capsule approaches the event horizon. After crossing, everything goes silent, until you hear someone say "Sir, I've found another one."
|
My capsule hurtled toward a black hole and all I could do was wait. I couldn't move much in my sophisticated coffin as I waited to be buried deep in a hole in space. But at least I had a little window to peak at the stars as I plummeted to my doom. It's the little things.
Death by Black Hole. That was the sentence for 1st degree murder. I could tell you how remorseful I felt and how regretful I was for what I'd done while I made my way to obliteration, but no, all I could think about was how my body would be turned into a noodle once I got there. Spaghettification, I think they called it. My stomach rumbled. I was a bit peckish, too.
I couldn't determine exactly how long I'd been lying in my casket, but it felt like days. My body was cramped and aching. I was feeling claustrophobic. I would kill to have a bit of a stretch.
More time had passed and I was getting anxious. I was truly on my way to die. And one would think with such complex machinery at least a beeping or a ticking would be heard from somewhere in my deathbed. I listened... to nothing. Utter silence. I muttered to myself to drown out the quiet.
"Don't crack. They want you to crack. It's torture. It's mind games."
For every new cramp or soreness, I thought it was the end. I thought I would be torn apart. I thought it over and over again. It was driving me mad. I began to panic, screaming and cursing, thrashing around in what little room I had.
I had started to feel dizzy and stopped my fit abruptly. It was hard to breathe in this god forsaken coffin. I was drenched in sweat as I breathed heavily, attempting to gather my wits. And then I felt it. The black hole.
At least I thought I had. Weren't my legs being pulled? For a split second hadn't my whole body been stretched and strained like a rubber band? It was as if I snapped back instead of being snapped apart. I wondered if I had imagined it. Had I lost my mind? I could hear something. I could hear someone! I shouted from within my confines.
"Help! Help! Please set me free! I'm sorry I did it, please," I cried.
A man walked by my little window. Walked? How was it possible? He jerked his head toward my direction. I was terrified. It didn't make sense. I could hear him now, but very muffled.
"Sir, I've found another one," he said.
He looked familiar. I'd seen this man before. There was a sickness in my stomach as I came to realize just who it was.
"You're lucky you caught that one, would've been my ass, too," said another voice. "Hurry up and launch him."
My executioners. Not again. No. Please.
I shouted and begged to no avail. I was launched into space once more. My capsule hurtled toward a black hole and all I could do was wait.
|
"Quiescence."
Euphemism marks the death of thought. For those who have done the unthinkable, euphemism marks the birth of hate. I sat and waited to hear that word uttered again as a farewell. They must have been adjusting schedules to witness my *departure* as I searched for cracks in a seamless wall. Wishing I had just let them all die, my hate grew tired of itself. Why hate people who were wrong?
I repeated my admissions:
Yes, the protocols are in place to protect us.
Yes, especially here, we cannot risk human error.
Yes, I disabled the protocols.
No, I am not authorized to do so.
No, it was not a mistake.
No one believed that the system had prompted me to disable them. Whoever coded that failsafe was the real hero. Perhaps, it wasn't even spoken into the code but just something an algo cooked up and promptly deleted. Fucking slunt.
While we're at it, fuck Loop 7. They confirmed that a software glitch had caused a stuck value which lead to a cooling system failure and required that I shut down the docking system while I rerouted power. They conceded that if the bypass cables had been in the correct place rather than stowed with emergency parts for the urine recycler this would not have happened. They even acknowledged the extreme importance of making sure a navigation satellite could dock for repairs given the two others which had not yet been replaced. She was outside though and it seemed too convenient that my decisions killed her.
They wanted her to save them, not me. She wasn't gracious when she replaced me as administrator but she was pragmatic. I was told coolness was refreshing for some after dealing with a person like myself for so long. I was also promptly told to fuck off. She was their living, breathing catharsis.
So, they could not accept that the system would prompt me to disable the protocols and send the navigational satellite hurling around the station to crush their heroine. They needed to believe she would have stopped our orbital decay. I probably killed myself by challenging them to tell me how they imagined she was going to do that. Perhaps, it was the silence afterwards which killed me.
A port opened in the seamless wall and that odd smell of travel gel began to pour in. God forbid I died before I reached the edge. A slight vibration shuddered through the gel that had filled to my waist.
A chorus sounded, "We affirm the sentence."
"What sentence?" demanded a lone voice.
"Quiescence."
All I could think as I choked in the gel was *'What a stupid word.'*
My heartbeat battered against the substance gripping my body with that last bit of life on the fall towards being torn apart.
*****
"Sir, I've found another one."
"Containment."
"Yes, sir."
"What an ugly bastard!"
"Your first?"
"Yes."
"They all swell up in the acceleration protection."
"Well, get him out of there and begin acculturation."
"Yes, sir."
"Can he hear me?"
"The indicator says he's responsive."
"Alright, then. Welcome to the other side the universe's own forsaken asshole. Hold tight because we've got work to do."
| 2017-07-14T01:41:48
| 2017-07-14T00:26:56
| 24
| 10
|
[WP] You are a mobster. A particularly successful one at that. But as your turf becomes gentrified, the absurdly priced furniture in your 'Front' store actually starts selling.
|
Must’ve been 30 years ago my father bought that shop. I was a kid at the time and he made me work there every day. When I say work, he made me study.
He needed someone he could trust to do his books and I was pretty good at numbers. Now, I’m no genius. Anyone in their right mind would agree. But I clean up alright and I’ve always had a way with people.
So for years, I’d sit and “run the shop”, all while I learnt how to do accounts and make things seem legit. Or about as legit as possible.
I had the furniture business downstairs and my accounts business opened upstairs. I took on a few “clients” and it all ran smoothly.
I think we started getting actual customers about 5 years ago now, around about when my father was shot. They’d come in and ask about things and one or two tables and chairs got sold for more money than they’re worth. We shut that down after a fire though. Took a decent insurance payout too. I didn’t even know we had insurance on the place.
Then, 2 years after that was about the point that we realised things were really changing. Our usual business started going downhill and we had to expand into other areas. But we owned a few buildings and people were interested in renting them out. And then the accountants practice took off.
You see, when you’ve had as many years cleaning books for a fuckin’ gang as I have, sweeping a bit of income under the rug for a few rich bastards is easy pickings. About a year after that, I had a portfolio of clients. We were making a killing just from doing tax returns.
It’s an interesting business we’ve got going on these days. Most of our money comes in from a legit business. I tried shutting down the drugs and guns but they nearly staged a mutiny so I let it slide. It works nicely when we’ve got debtors too.
I still don’t know if my father planned this. We’re raking in money from the properties and from morons who don’t know how to look after their own money.
Guess I’ll never know.
|
It was another eventful day, our guys went and got the money collected and those who couldn't repay, well we made sure to put them into use for others not to default. After all I have a reputation to keep. I came here to this city in search of a job 10 years ago but when I had beat up the security guard for not giving me parking space at the interview location my life had changed. Arrested, imprisoned and made new friends and even got a degree in law and economics in my five year sentence and I practiced martial arts every day with a balance of meditation.
I became an enforcer for a local mobster and within a year I took his place after marrying his daughter and well nothing did stop me from then on. Within four years my operations dealt with protection, weed and maintaining a steady supply of jobs to the underprivileged. I was against the blood business and also was a human rights activist. I know, funny.
I wanted to get clean, my actual businesses and law practice were booming and in no time I will be completely off this way of life until I heard my loss making store was making money. My entire foundation of clean businesses was based on my "Water from Ganges" not being successful. We basically got truckful of Ganges water which was then sold in bottles of 2 litres for 200 dollars. We knew no one would buy it and we would make enough loss to justify my other income. I just needed another year before I could shut the shop down.
I was furious and when I am furious, I am silent. The shop had a long line of expectant customers. I entered the shop and my men realised they are in trouble. "It's all the fault of these tourists and their miracle stories" said my junior henchman.
Kim, my protege from South Korea and the enforcer looked at me and said," Apparently one of the guys had cancer and after drinking water from here, he was cured. His story went viral". Now everyone in the locality and the city want to buy this water."
I sat down and looked at the crowd and my bottles of the "Water from the Ganges". Guess, I have to be mobster for a while now. I sighed and asked who was the tourist who did this?
Kim was hesitant. I glared. He showed me the picture and said, 'The security guard'.
| 2019-08-10T16:21:54
| 2019-08-10T15:39:02
| 118
| 41
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[WP] God gets bored.
Go nuts on this one and take it wherever you want, I'll look forward to reading them.
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Jesus stared blankly at it. His eyes passed over the contours of it's small body. He took a moment to compose himself before turning back to God.
"And why did you make this again?" He asked in a bewildered tone.
"Dunno. I was bored and had some spare parts lying around." His tone indicating that he had put more effort into the creature than he would like to admit.
"But...what are you going to call it?"
"Um...." God looked down at his feet, as if the question had only just occured to him. "I'm going to call it a....duck billed...platey...no platy...platypus. Yes, a duck billed platypus!"
| 2013-12-05T08:49:19
| 2013-12-05T08:46:20
| 20
| 14
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[WP] You're a superhero. Despite saving the city 4 times a week your hates by the community. While fighting one of your villains a crowd gathers to boo you. The villain you're fighting stops turn to the crowd and says "listen here you ungrateful brats"
|
(quick sidenote, this is one of the best things that i have ever been given)
He was on the verge of death. Even in his many decades of saving the town. The people around him were booing him. “listen here, you ungrateful brats” the demonic voice that carried that message echoed throughout the street. Everyone stopped. Everyone stopped booing. Nobody was expecting this to happen, it took everyone a second to register what happened. “are you seriously booing the man that is putting his life on the line to protect your pathetic life? Do you seriously hate him that much that you are entertained by the prospect of his death?” this time the voice was even stronger. It bellowed throughout the entire town. The echo it caused was almost deadly.
“b-b-but he’s a vampire” said one of the people there, barely able to form a coherent sentence
“Who cares what he is? Don’t you think it kills him, knowing that he has to do this job and just be hates because of what he is?” every time it spoke, it got louder. “he could easily snap and switch sides. With the power he has, you would be in real danger!”
“but he’s the spawn of evil” someone else responded, before being abruptly cut off
“I’m also the spawn of evil, more so than him but you seem to want me to kill him.”
Everyone thought about it. “he couldn’t even kill you with his so called ‘power’ could he”. That was all that came from the crowd, it was barely audible. They were all clearly terrified
The demon moved its hand, exposing multiple stab wounds on its body “he has killed me, several times. And this is the latest.” It announced, with a trembling voice before it dropped dead.
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, before shouts of praise.
The hero was just stood there, trying to process what the hell had just happened.
|
You have heard that there is a villain in a convenience store. As you are superjumping your way to the scene, you see a crowd around the convenience store, laughing and talking, with coke and hamburgers in their hands. Among them is a TV station man with a camera.
'You're out of pickles!!!!!!!'
Hey! You're out of Coke! Bring it in quick!!!!"
How about a bet that the villain of the day gets 1.2x the money for 30 seconds, 1.5x for 1 minute, 10x for 5 minutes, to see how long he can fight! You can start with as little as $1! Come on! I got it, I got it, I got it!
Will you be able to enjoy today's battle for long? I'm counting on it!"
As usual, there was a noisy crowd, but I ignored them, and I fired my special move, a super beam, into the crotch of the villain who was floating in mid-air. Immediately the battle was about to end, the betting crowd threw empty cans at me, and the TV station people signaled that the crotch attack was not good, so I had to stop the broadcast.
The uncool villain holding his crotch yelled to the crowd around him.
'Listen up, you ungrateful brats!
The crowd is abuzz.
'Listen up, you ungrateful brats!
Crowd is still noisy. Oops, looks like someone just burped loudly.
"Listen up, you ungrateful little bastards!"
Perhaps the reiteration has worked, because the crowd stops screaming.
'Why, why do you people always do that! We're the ones doing the wrong thing, and no one calls the police! And no one calls the fire department! Even though we look forward to your screams over here, you get mad over the number of pickles and get up over the amount of Coke!!!!"
The crowd pouts.
'So do you!!!! Why do you always use your special move the moment you have one!!!! You're supposed to take more time to fight, and then use your special move when it's the right moment! Look at that! The underlings there in their all-black tights are out of work, so they're playing with their smart phones! Even the monsters are sleeping!
You guys need to learn more about heroics! There's more like this, right? Look, heroes who can use a bow well, heroes who don't use a shield as a shield... what about that one? It's not for you... Anyway! Anyway, go watch more heroes! You know what I mean! I'm going to the hospital now to get checked out!
You are the peacekeeper of the city today. That's cool!
Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)
| 2022-06-17T05:56:23
| 2022-06-17T03:35:23
| 24
| 11
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[WP] Years ago you found a baby dragon that had been abandoned. You carefully helped mend its wounds and taught it to hunt and survive on its own. Now, years later, the dragon has returned to you with some of its young. It wants you to raise its weakest hatchling.
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I thought it was a cat, I really did. It mewed in the deep grass, and if I hadnt stopped and taken out my earphones, I probably would've passed by without a second thought, never noticing the mottled green-blue body of an animal about the size of your average mutt.
I expected to see a next of kittens, abandoned in the grass, and instead found a baby water dragon, half submerged in dirty ditch water, with a torn wing and still fresh from its egg.
What the hell was a water dragon doing here? It was Saskatchewan, the most landlocked province in all of north America! I reach for it, picking it up and looking around. It hadnt been laid here, that was for certain. Any water dragon sightings would've definitely made national news, or at the very least a Facebook post or two. Moreover, dragons always laid eggs in clutches of seven, but this little one was all alone.
So, with dragon firmly in my arms, I started the walk home.
With some internet searching, I found that there were no dragon rescues near me. Not many of the winged creatures cared to love or fly in such a flat and boring landscape, after all. So, for better or worse, I was on my own.
My searches pulled up some results. Water dragons liked music, and had a particular affinity with music box melodies. I could repair its wing with a thick spike to pierce the leather of the torn pieces and fit them together with string hide, and they liked fish.
So, I set a plate of filleted salmon I'd been saving in front of him, grabbed a screwdriver and hammer, set some up some music box tunes on my phone, and set to work.
I nailed holes into his wing, and he barely noticed between gnawing on the salmon and listening to the music. Once I was done, I sewed the halves back together with some chorded leather that I'd made by tearing apart an old belt. According to the internet, the wing would fix itself from that point on, even if the job I had done was slightly subpar. Dragons were an insanely strong species.
"You all done with the fish there?" I asked him, wiping the sweat from my brow.
It looked up at me with silvery eyes. It was still very dirty, covered in egg matter and dirt from the pond. A bath was in order. I walked off, intending to get the tub running and come back, but...it hopped off the table, and followed after me. "Huh. I hope that means you like me." I say, laughing.
I sat on the closed toilet and started running the water. "Hot or cold, what's your preference?" I asked as we got to the bathroom. I plugged up the tub, and the dragon jumped in rather quickly.
I turned the knob and it stuck its head under the faucet, starting to warble its little heart out. "Cold it is. Saving me on my heating bill, at least." I sigh, smiling. I don't have any sort of scrubbing tools, so a rag will have to do.
After a long soak and dry, they're out and clean. The scales are a brilliant cascade of blue, green and turquoise. Everytime it moves in the light, it shimmers like the surface of the sea. Its silver eyes are offset by the bone white horns that mark it as male, according to the webpage I'm on. Female water dragons have horns as black as pitch that curl like antelope horns, while his are short and straight. They'll start to branch out like sharper deer antlers as he got older, however.
For the next ten years, this dragon is my closest friend. I've named him Titan.
He's small, smaller than he should be, but he's got a big appetite and energy to outlast a thousand hyperactive children. He grows strong, tall and handsome. His body elongates, he becomes barrel chested and his wings expand to the point that he sunbathes in the field and he nearly reaches either end. His belly scales start to take on a incandecant rainbow colour, and his horns grow out. Before long, hes so big that he could probably eat me for an afternoon snack and still ask for seconds. He's become a local mascot, he takes kids for flight rides, people pay to help feed him, even the local high school has changed their sports teams from the fighting bears to the fighting titans.
Titan has lived up to his name, for better or worse.
The barn he stayed at during the winters has gotten too small for him, and I cant afford to build a bigger one for him, even after I sold his shed skin as clothing material.
There's a large public gathering in my yard when the weather has dipped too low for it to be safe for him. Water dragon or no, it wasnt meant for the icy cold Saskatchewan winter. It was meant to live somewhere in the carribian during the winters and off the shores of BC in the summers. Dragon Rescue rangers are in glider planes, with several other, smaller assistant dragons by their side. They'd make the migration with Titian and make sure he got there okay.
"Sorry, Titian. Come back when it isn't dangerous, okay? Follow the nice people, and I'll be here when it's time to come home." I saw to him, holding his snout in two hands. "Be careful out there. Be safe."
Titian makes a mournful sound, deep, low and rumbling, pushing me over and trying to grab onto my clothing, trying to toss me up onto a harness he isn't wearing to drag me with him to warmer waters. But, I pat his nose. "No, Titian. You have to go alone. I'll...I'll miss you, buddy. Try and find yourself a girlfriend, okay? Mama wants some grandbabies."
He flops down, nearly crushing a fair few spectators, and it takes him an hour to finally get back up, and another hour to get into the air.
I watch him go until dark, when even the faintest speck of him is gone.
Five years pass, and titan is a world treasure. The dragon with a moon shaped scar on his wing has become the strongest, largest water dragon to ever live. It's nearly as large as a humpback whale. It causes typhoons with a bat of its wings and waves with every dive into the ocean.
Titian rules the sky and sea.
Eventually, Titian finds a mate. Another water dragon, 2/3s his size but twice his age. The location of their nest is unknown.
A year after Titian's wife had laid her seven eggs, the family is seen flying northward...but, only six of the seven are seen flying. Its assumed that one has died prematurely.
I started following the news like a madwoman, following every Titian Watch program on every channel and watching the skies until finally, *finally*, Titan landed down on the vast and empty fields near my home, towering over every tree in sight and shaking the ground with every claw step.
It kneels its head down, and I start to cry. Hes so big, so massive. His head is like the size of my small car, his wife is easily as large as he had been when he left, and their babies...their babies are massive. Only five months old but bigger than Titian had been at a year.
They land, tucking and rolling rather than lofting down like their parents had. And Titians head goes to his wife's back, she'd been carrying something all through the trip, and turns back to me. It has something small in its jaws, holding it by its tail, and gently settles it at my feet.
A dragon. So small, it looks like a hairless cat. Its skin is so white, it shines like a pearl in the golden Saskatchewan grass. I go to it, picking it up. Its horns are black, and curled up. Its eyes are a bright, unseeing scarlet red.
Titian's daughter, a blind albino water dragon.
I pick her up, holding the tiny beast to my chest. "Shes probably going to be small forever, no larger than a horse." I say to him. He curls himself up, his snout near me and ears perked up, listening. "I cant garuntee she can be returned to you at all."
He snorts, and a wave of hot, fishy stench washes over me.
Hes laughing. He wants her to stay, stay like he couldn't. I go forward, putting a hand to his snout. "...give me an hour or two. I'll go with you to BC, okay? I cant feed you or your family here. We'll spend the summer together while we can." I promise him.
His silver eyes close, and he huffs. I take the albino with me, and her brothers and sisters bounce after me as I go into my home and collect my things.
I've named Titan's daughter Olympia.
Adtjkrdhj
Thanks for reading. :)
https://dellamacdonaldwriting.wordpress.com for irregular updates and a cleaner version of this soon
|
7:57 AM - Step into office.
7:59 AM - Get fresh copy of Motion for Summary Judgment in Aaerinshalia vs Duersing Mining off copier.
8:01 AM - Get a cup of coffee (Novelty "Lawyers Do It with Jurisprudence" Mug, 2 French Vanilla Creamers, 3 Splenda) from machine.
8:05 AM - Open Office Door.
8:06 AM - Notice naked woman on couch.
8:06:40 AM - Notice second naked woman(?) on chair.
8:06:45 AM - Spill Coffee on self.
8:07 AM - Close door quickly.
8:08 AM - Realize that spilled coffee was incredibly hot, cry out in pain, using hands to cover mouth, and dropping motion into coffee puddle.
"Jerrick - are you alright?"
"Evie, I-I-I-How many times have I told you to wear clothes when you change to human form?"
"Jerrick, you know I don't like them. Besides, we couldn't have teleported in if he had. You used to like it when I didn't wear clothes." She wasn't wrong. Dragons in some ways were miracles made flesh. Legend had it that the first dragons were made of condensed primordial energy - as if fire, water, light, darkness, earth, and sky were super-compressed into beings. Seeing one in their dragon form is pure majesty. When they decided to take humanoid form - they have a beauty that even the most ethereal and sensual of Elves would beg and plead with their creator to have. Evidrindian of the Black Dragonflight was never an exception. She was surreal - her waist-length onyx hair accentuated her supple curves. She'd spent years in the Pyrenees since last I'd seen her, and she'd picked up just a hint of a Catalonian accent.
The knock at the door lulled me out of a momentary stupor - "Jerry, are you okay?" Three more bangs. "We...uhh...heard you scream?"
Carol Abernathy was a member of our typing pool - a busybody and devout Episcopalian. I knew if she got in this office, the end results would not be good for my career. Fortunately, I was currently standing where the door would open.
"Ohh....Hey Carol. Everything's fine. I just spilled some coffee on my lap. It surprised me more than anything."
"Did you need me to get you some club soda or some napkins?"
"No! I mean, no thank you. I'm going to have a friend of mine pick up a new pair of slacks for me, and I'll just have these dry cleaned. Thank you anyway."
The slight chuff I heard in her voice let me know that she was defeated. I watched her shadow trail away through the frosted side panels around my door.
"So...hey, who's the meatsack?" The younger dragon perked her head up from the chair. Dragons are basically immortal, and after a certain amount of growth, there's absolutely no way to tell their age - the King of the Blue Dragonflight is supposedly one of the very first dragons and is six billion years old. He looks like Chris Pine's prettier younger brother and spends most of his time bedding Elven Sophisticates. However, the woman in the chair was definitely not at full maturity - physically, she looked like a 20-something version of Evie. Probably the most interesting thing about her were the very fashionable glasses she was wearing. Dragons can magically augment their vision to see at an acuity relative to a very powerful microscope with a field of view of several hundred miles, but without channeling the weave, they're actually naturally hyperoptic. Her glasses were prescription - probably so she could read easily.
"The meatsack...as you should never put it again is Jerrick Mendarrial. A long time ago, he helped me when I needed it the most. He's going to help you too."
"Help me do what? Be old and fat?"
"Your father is not old or fa--" She cut herself off, realizing she'd said something she didn't intend.
"Evie, what in the world are you talking about?" Dragons really in a sense didn't have fathers. In the Forming Ages, most scientists believe Dragons reproduced asexually. They flew almost continually and were constantly fighting, so I imagine there wasn't any time for relationships. However, as Dragons adjusted to the presence of humans, things changed slightly. Female dragons don't require a sire, but one can be voluntarily be part of the ritual, and if capable, can affect the weaving of the spell - perhaps creating a dragon whelp with her mother's good looks, and her father's love of knowledge....the type of thing that would make that whelp desire a pair of reading glasses....
She was mine. There was even slight resemblences in the cheekbones. Unbeknownst to me, Evie had weaved her Spell of Conception the first night we lay together. I'd been nervous, and I compensated with Dalarion Wine. I never noticed the magic around us.
I stumbled backwards in the door, hitting it with a slight bump. I was a father. I'd sired a dragon. There were maybe 30-40 people on Earth who'd managed to sire a dragon. It was a living, nigh-immortal swath of pure fantasy that you helped create.
"Evie....we....when you..." She just smiled kindly in response.
"You are the kindest, most courageous man I've ever known. It was always going to be you. You had to know that."
I took a long deep breath to compose myself, grinning slightly at my shoes. I loved Evie more than anything. Because Dragons live forever, bloodlines very often crossed, and it wasn't uncommon when Dragons chose to sire to choose a close relative. There really wasn't a concept of incest - it was shared magic, after all. Even though I was more like a father to Evie, any such standards would have been meaningless to her. As for me, I was drunk off my ass and next to the physical embodiment of dark beauty - I couldn't have stopped myself if I wanted to.
"Why do you think some meatbag lawyer is brave?" He just looks like he should skip lunch and eat a salad.
"Jerrick - you should tell her."
"Alright. 20 years ago, I wasn't a lawyer. I was a Magical Consultant for the Northern Rastenshire P.D. I had my degree in Criminal Justice, but Law School was pretty expensive, so I worked the night beat. One night, we get a call for a 852 - Illegal Hunting of Magical Creatures. It was about 2 AM, and the creature couldn't be moved - so we flew to scene. A bunch of local goons had gotten into aggressive nationalism, thanks to too much firewater, too little common sense, and a couple of dozen online videos. Started calling themselves Identity Sapiana and started squawking about Human Genocide.
Those fucking skinheads hooked up with the editor of The Gathering Storm - real fucking nazi shit - aryan human identitarian nonsense - but he taught those douchebags how to make Dragonsbane - and they loaded up on it. The Dragon was dying by the time we got there. She'd been poisoned, shot, and stabbed 60-70 times. Those fuckers coated their machetes in Bane. I could see the look in her eyes and I knew I couldn't save her.
| 2018-04-04T20:15:57
| 2018-04-04T16:36:21
| 452
| 158
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[WP] You and your significant other are running for your lives from a slasher killer. Suddenly your partner ducks into a door and locks it behind them leaving you behind. You slump against the door preparing for the worst. The killer walks up and says "Wow what a jerk. You ok?"
|
The killer was advancing, stepping through the woods towards our cabin, an ominous shadow of death.
”Sarah!” I yelled. ”Go to the house!”. The house wasn't far, but the killer wasn't far either.
Sarah took off running, barely managing to avoid slipping on the slick forest floor, leaves flying everywhere, coupled with mud. I took a glance back, my eyes landing on the killer behind us.
He just stood there, that long dagger glaring menacingly, moonlight hitting the metal and shining blindly bright at me. The bird mask on his face hid his features, making it impossible for me to identify him. I clutched at my chest, trying to get my lungs to work, and began to run again.
Down the slippery slope of leaves, mud, and water, to the house that lay hidden within the trees. I managed to catch up the Sarah somehow, as exhausted as I was, but what I didn't notice was the small root jutting out from the sea of mud.
I tripped, my foot getting caught in the root, and I went sprawling on the ground, mud covering my clothes. I gasped, clawing my back to my feet, struggling to keep my balance against the slick floor. I slipped again, almost falling flat on my face, before managing to regain my balance.
Why didn't Sarah help me?
I began to run again, albeit more carefully, and spared a glance behind me, eyes flicking wildly to find the killer.
He had moved, though not by much, still many steps away from me, but somehow, I *knew* he could've easily killed me when I was down. But he didn't. Why?
That thought bounced in my head as I managed to make my way out of the forest and into the clearing where our house was. I saw Sarah making her way over, slipping and sliding across the forest floor. I rushed over, gaining ground to Sarah.
She reached the door, struggling to unlock it. Her head snapped back to face me, mud smeared across, her eyes wild and filled with fright. The door swung open, and she jumped in, before meeting my gaze on more time.
”Sarah!” I gasped, only a couple feet away from the porch, ”Wait!”
She stared at me solemnly, before the door slammed shut, the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock sounding from the door like an omen of my death.
Sarah, the love of my life, left me. Left me here to die.
I screamed, banging my hands against the hard wooden door, but it was no use. These doors were the strongest; I had bought them myself. I let a strangled gasp, my vocal cords exhausted. I turned facing the killer, my back against the door, resolved the face my death instead of cowering.
The killer slowly emerged from the woods, stepping gracefully out, the bird mask shrouded by the shadows of the trees. Lightning flashed, illuminating the wicked knife that laid in his hands, and he made his way toward me. He stopped a few feet away from where I was standing.
”Well, wasn't that unfortunate. Well for you, only. Quite the luck for me.” the killer drawled, playing with the knife in his hands. ”Wasn’t very nice, leaving you here to get murdered by me.”
I stammered, confused ”What? Aren't you going to kill me?”
The killer chuckled from beneath the bird mask, ”Well of course! There isn't any fun leaving them alive, now is there?”
He cocked his head at me, considering. ”But I might make a change to my plans, just for you. Help me get in the house, and you'll live, and I might even let you kill your so-called ”girlfriend”.”
I considered it for a second. Freedom and the chance to get back at Sarah for leaving me here. My fingers curled in rage at the thought of her just abandoning me.
Then I remembered. Her sister was here as well, having stayed home while we went hiking. I frowned at the thought of giving her to the psychopath standing in front of me. It would be unfortunate, another life leaving its bloody stains on my hands, but it could be dealt with.
”Very well,” I said, my voice ice cold. ”I’ll help you, but let *me* kill Sarah.”
”Works for me, ” the killer shrugged. ”As long as it's painful. Now let's break into the house.”
I chewed my lip, thinking. We had a spare key, but where was it? I glared at the raining sky. Then it clicked. Under the potted plant next to the door. I lifted the pot, placing it to the side, and there! There it was, the key barely visible against the dark wooden floor.
I picked it up, before glancing at the killer. ” I need a knife, you know.”
The killer sighed, before reaching into his cloak, pulling out a wicked dagger. ”Here.”
I turned the dagger in my hands, before meeting the gaze of the killer and smirked. ” Let's go”
I turned the key, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
|
Our lives are made up of moments that make us who we are. Once you live your life with somebody your moments become entwined.
All our moments together, now cast in a new light. Your adorable unwillingness to let me eat your food, you never liked to share anything with me. Your stubborn refusal to pick up your shirts, just more clutter to my busy life. The way you would get nervous if I laughed too loud in public and you would shush me, you were always finding ways to be embarrassed of me.
Just now. The way you looked into my eyes as you slammed the door shut. I heard the locks slide into place as I stood, staring into the night. This was it. I readied my posture, looking around for weapons. I saw a chain to my right, listened to the night for a beat then went to reach for it.
Pale hands shot out from the dark of the cabins porch, they rested on the chain I was reaching for but did not grab it. My hand stilled and I stared into the pale face if the figure that had been chasing us.
"I cant believe he left you outside" the man stared straight at me, a memory bit at my mind. His dark hair and eyes, neatly trimmed beard... "full lips, and thick eyelashes. Under different circumstances i would be interested." What. Did I really just think that. No. That wasn't my voice.
I straightened and got back into a defense stance. I have no idea what is going on.
His eyes widened and a coy smile played on his lips. "You know, I came to see who destroyed my offering. You wouldnt know wou-" a loud bang from inside cut him off. It seems Sean had moved something heavy to block the door.
"I dont know what you are talking about. We only arrived it 3 hours ago. Went for a walk and ran into you, well you ran at us with a giant knife."
He remaibed silent and stared at me intently, I looked back at him, he looked so... ordinary. His nostrils flared at that moment.
I kept my posture in guard, I was ready for any attack. "So.. your fiance... he just left you to die?" I was not ready for that attack.
"Panic response. Fight, flight, fuckoverpeopleyousaid youloved. Its human nature" I sighed. Then realised I had relaxed in my vent. Why hasn't he attacked me?
"Why haven't you attacked me? And why are you so ordinary looking?" .. well, good looking.
He walked more into the light cast from the cabin, I could hear Sean inside pilling more furniture in front of the door. "Why arent you afraid of me? Or running? How do you mean, ordinary?"
I took a step back and relaxed, I copied his posture and leaned against the side of the cabin. The air was crisp but my adrenaline was keeping me warm, the sound of crickets chirped as I looked at my would be killer.
"I will answer your questions honestly, so long as once I have done so you will answer mine, agree?" I looked at the figure, his sharp eyes locked onto mine and he nodded slightly. "Agreed"
"I am afraid of many things, but I do not fear what I do not know. Until I know what you intentions are, I have nothing to fear. I am tired, better to face you now than to run and face you when I am more tired. I guess I mean, you dont look like a deranged killer, but I guess I dont have a real frame of reference so you can ignore that"
He stared at me for a long moment, the sudden silence after my spiel was deafening. He smirked, lifted his eyes to the sky. "I haven't attacked you because you interest me. You also remind me of somebody. I also do not believe it was you that destroyed my offering. I guess I look ordinary because I mostly am, I just... fly into murderous rages sometimes"
"Oh. Okay. I am sorry your offering got destroyed. Do you plan to attack me?"
I looked at his hands as they clenched at my question. He shook his head but looked down. "I do not plan to kill you." With that he slunk into the darkness. There was a loud shout from within, then a lot more banging.
I heard one final soft thud then silence. I ran for the road and managed to flag down a car, as I got in and we drove off I looked back and saw the figure stood at the road. He was smiling and waving. It did not feel like a goodbye.
| 2020-10-10T08:58:29
| 2020-10-10T07:59:47
| 132
| 42
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[WP] The most difficult part of being a Supervillian? Find love, not because other people won't like you, but because the stupid Superheros will swoop in and "rescue" your date every time, but this time you have a plan, and it's going to work.
|
*Any moment, now.*
I glanced to the windows and skylights that drenched me in sunlight, panels of crystalline glass so huge that a blind man could pick me out from the amongst the diners. On second thought, picking a location with so much fragility may not have been a stroke of genius.
"Are you okay, dear?" my darling Sophia asked, her voice sweeter than the tiramisu before us. Natural light scattered in her sapphire eyes, bouncing, like a set of mirrors in the ocean.
I wrinkled my upper lip, itching under a mustache, a wiry, rough thing, like strands of a broom. "Yes, yes. My mind is just... Preoccupied," I replied, glancing to my hands, hidden beneath the table, wincing.
She frowned, but turned back to her dessert. This was the sixth attempt now, and the first time we'd even made it past hors d'oeuvres. Of course, we spent most of our time together in private, but it isn't fair to keep hidden a woman commanding such beauty and presence. Imagine finding the most beautiful exotic bird, a magnificent beast exploding with color and grace, then stuffing it into a cardboard box to shove under a bed.
The fact that they still hadn't arrived was amusing, if nothing else. Wrinkling my lip again, the thought of it made me chuckle despite a sense of looming dread. There would only be one chance.
Thoughts shattered in my mind with the skylights, an ear-piercing crash that threatened everyone below with shards of glass like icicles raining from the sky. Of course, none of it hit us. *He* would never let it.
'Strike Team 6', they were called, a band of mercenary superheroes that have held sway over the city for years now. Each of them had militaristic might that threatened the greatest army.
"Do you not learn, Cobra?" one of them asked, approaching me. Their leader, the fabled King Crusher. He was a brute of a man, one that hardly looked like a superhero.
"Unfortunately, I have yet to learn how not to need food." Upon wrinkling my lip again, I noticed a distinct lack of the wiry itchiness. Cheap little thing.
"We're not here to monitor your dieting habits, jackass," he replied, taking a step forward. "You've moved against civilians in the past, what would you expect us to do when you suddenly put yourself in a building with eighty other innocent people? It doesn't matter how long you've been quiet for. One drop of that poison of yours could kill a whale in twenty seconds."
I glanced down, flushing slightly.
"Though," he continued, "I will admit that stupid mustache threw us off a little bit. But the ruse is over, now. Just come quietly with us. This doesn't need to be hard."
Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep breath, then straightened my back. "Crusher, if I may... could we please finish our meal? I've been with this woman for half a year, now, and it feels like this is our first real date. It's not completely ruined, yet."
The hulking man eyed her with the assessing judgment of a general. There would be nothing for him, though. She was an average woman in only one way: mutations. Sophia was a normal person without power or ability.
"Why would I trust you?"
"Well, for starters, you've done more damage here than I have." He raised an eyebrow at my comment.
I took another deep breath and raised my hands in front of me, earning a few shouts from the crowd and tensing amidst ST6. Flinching, hissing, I slowly and crudely peeled off the crimson gloves on them.
*Sorry, Sophia. I know you didn't want this, but there's no other way.*
A few groans sounded through the crowd, and even Steelheart gasped a little. Underneath the medicated gloves, effectively just bandages that looked nice, my hands were mangled. Swollen, matted, shiny and marked with the black, dashed lines of sutures, where there had once been venom sacs, there was now only pus and pain. The mutation had been deeply embedded in my wrists, entwined with my nerves and ligaments, and... difficult to cut out, like trying to unroot a great oak tree, even with a healing mutant aiding me. Repair would take weeks of repeat sessions, the damage was so bad. Painkillers kept it manageable enough not to cry.
Crusher stared at them, contorting his face with disgust. "Why?" he asked quietly, eyes locked on the mangled flesh.
"She's worth it," I replied, turning back. Sophia had a delicate hand over her mouth, poorly containing violent sobs. "I would give up anything for her, Crusher. Even my identity."
*/r/resonatingfury*
|
"Finally, it is complete. Now, nothing can ruin my plans!" I threw back my bead and laughed as I pulled the chicken out of the oven and set it on the table.
"Our plans, you mean," Elizabeth said. I had kidnapped her last month, but we had hit it off. She came back and we had started dating in secret. She sighed. "Do you really need to do an evil laugh every time something goes right?" she asked. "It's a bit clichè."
"Sorry," I said, cringing. "Force of habit. It's taken 3 months for us to finally get a date without that idiot crashing through the roof-"
I was interrupted by a loud crash and a cloud of dust billowing down from the roof. "It's over, Mechanic!" Psy shouted. "Your evil plans will not succeed!" He turned to Elizabeth. "I have come to rescue this woman!"
I sighed. "Very well then." I stood up. "So, you have finally arrived, Psy!" I called out. "It's too late, though. I have already planted a bomb in City Hall! See?" I pulled a remote out if my pocket and pressed a button. A wall moved, revealing a screen showing a clock, ticking down from 7 minutes. I tilted my head. "That's just enough time for you to fly there, with only 2 minutes to diffuse it. So, what will you do?"
Psy growled at me. "You are a monster, and once I defeat you-"
"6 and a half minutes, Psy. The clock is ticking." I smiled. "You should be getting somewhere, shouldn't you?"
Psy flew out of the hole in the roof with a shout. Elizabeth looked at me. "Did you really plant a bomb in City Hall?"
I smiled. "Of a sort. The bomb is filled with a sealing foam, one that even Psy can't break out of. It's set to go off if it's tampered with in any way." I checked my watch. "That should give us about... 45 minutes, an hour, to finish our dinner." I smiled. "I love a good contingency plan. I poured us glasses of wine and lifted it. "To love, us, and evil."
| 2022-11-30T23:13:37
| 2019-02-23T07:55:50
| 1,144
| 34
|
[WP] You're a renowned author who's still going to school. Annoyingly, your English teacher is reading way too deeply into your books.
|
I'm finishing my bachelor's degree in English literature. I want to be a professor. Teach others to love literature, to dissect novels with love and humanity not emotionless like my current professor. She loves to tear into novels and read deeper into them than what is there. This semester is about current literature. I should be safe, see she doesn't know that I'm a published author. 8 books in and no one has figured out my secret yet. My publisher is good that way. See being a professor is a dream but doesn't pay great. So novels went from a hobby to a career while I studied.
"Today in class we will start reading 'The Destruction of Bobby Sue ' by Arizona T. We'll dive into the different meanings the author presents to the reader" said professor Mae Grumble
"Ah shit" I whispered under my breath. I guess I wasn't safe. Why did she pick that one. Why my book. I mean the whole book is obviously a fantasy allegory of my transition. I wrote it to help better understand my transition and grieve the past me that I never was.
"You'll read the first 10 chapters between now and class next week. After that we'll discuss the meanings of each chapter"
Well I guess I don't have any homework to do. Considering I wrote the damn thing. That frees up a few hours for my other classes. Trying to get this study finished for my biology class.
Class the following week started pretty basic. Professor Grumble asked everyone what they thought the story was about so far. She shot down a few people's responses even though they were actually correct, which is pretty funny. So I decided to screw with her a little.
"I think it's about the main character getting lost in a post-apocalyptic world and then having their dreams destroyed"
"Exactly Mr Meeks. You see how their dreams are discussed, and being build up, and we can see the foreshadowing of the destruction to come. Soon we should see who Bobby Sue really is to the main character"
I about choked I snorted so hard. She can't see that Bobby Sue is the character. Ah damn this will be fun.
|
The class was almost over, yet the tension in the room only seemed to intensify. As I packed my books away, I heard her voice behind me, as measured and crisp as a spring morning.
"I have a theory," she said, her dark eyes inquisitive. I stopped in my tracks, my heart racing. What had I said or done to conjure such intrigue? "What if you didn't just write stories," she continued, "but actually experienced all of the sorcery you write about?"
If she revealed her theory to anyone, I could kiss my literary career goodbye.
But no one was prepared for what came next. She leaned in closer, her voice soft yet determined. "What if you were actually a wizard?"
All these years of keeping this secret, only for my English teacher to expose it all in one breath. Was this really the end? Would she out me to the world? My fear was quickly replaced by anger as she spoke more calmly, almost reassuringly. "I am not here to tell your secrets, I am here to protect them. I have known you were a wizard all along. I can sense the power in your words."
A few hours later, I heard knocks on my door. When I opened it, I saw a group of people from the school, dressed in black and carrying torches. I was speechless, unable to comprehend why they were there. But then, my teacher emerged from their midst. She walked towards me and coldly stated what drove them here.
"I have revealed your secret to the other wizards in town. They have come to take you away and make sure you are never able to cast a spell again."
In the moment of shock and fear, the one thing I could think was: Why? But it didn't matter anymore. I was exposed, and my magic was gone.
| 2022-12-02T09:13:25
| 2022-12-01T22:22:00
| 106
| 21
|
[WP] Write about a famous historical event as if it was played out as a DnD session
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DM: "Alright Jesus, you've just been executed by the Romans, Roll a death save."
Jesus: \*rolls\* "Natural 20."
DM: "Alright you wake up with 1 hp, what do you do?"
Jesus: "Alright I'm gonna play possum"
DM: "Roll a deception check"
Jesus: \*rolls\* Ok that's another 20, plus my charisma modifier which is \+5 so 25 total."
DM: "Ok you avoid detection and are placed in an unmarked cave."
Jesus: "All right how long can I go without food or water?"
DM: "About Three days."
Jesus: "Alright I emerge from the cave three days later."
|
“... Why don’t we just kill all of them?”
Everyone at the table replied with the same idea: “Are you effing insane?! We can’t just kill an entire religion because we want the city they’re in!”
“Well why not? I mean, it is our land. Jesus said so.”
“You can’t do that, even if you are the Pope!”
The DM interjected, “Roll for attack. You do have an army at your disposal.”
Before anyone could get anything in edgewise, he had already rolled a die. Everyone looked at the upturned face, “14.”
The DM flipped through a couple pages before saying, “Your attack goes very well, however, the Muslims still defend their homeland. Further crusades will be necessary to finish what you’ve started.”
After a short discussion, everyone agreed that Pope’s strategy was probably the best after all. “We’ll launch another crusade.”
A quick roll turns up... a 1.
“Well, heck. Try again?” Pope suggested. “There are always a couple bad rolls.”
Another roll turns up a 2. The DM rolls behind his sheet. “Well, uh, you don’t die?”
Before anyone can comment, Pope rolls again. 1. “Something’s gotta give!” He quickly rolls again. “Oh, a 15. That’s good!”
The DM looks down, then looks up and says, “Well, your fourth Crusade missed the Holy Land entirely. But it did get some sick loot from Constantinople.”
After ten more rolls below 3, the party gives up.
| 2018-05-29T09:31:25
| 2018-05-29T09:19:29
| 210
| 13
|
[WP] Last names are assigned at birth by an oracle, and 90% of people find themselves in a related profession. For instance "Miller" or "Baker." Your last name, "World-Ender," has made life rather difficult.
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He turned to the stranger next to him. "World-Ender? What will people think? Will they judge me by this name and think I'm that I'm going to bring about the end of the world? That I'm going to usher in the demise of humanity as we know it? That name is going to label me forever as a monster! What will my friends assume about me? What will all my neighbors say?"
The stranger, nonplussed, shrugged his shoulders. "Well it could always be worse."
World-Ender nodded slowly. "I guess you're right Mr....sorry I didn't catch your name."
"It's Jeff. Jeff Dickinson."
|
Hearing the grumbling sounds of the barn house door open, I slowly popped off of my pillow and rubbed my eyes. A man in a mangy flannel walked into the dimly lit area that smelt thickly of dust and piss. Whether it be human or animal was debatable.
The farmer held a a tray of food in his hand. Toast and fresh eggs with tea and bacon. He set it down on a lightly straw covered ground and gave a hand gesture for me to come. I hopped off my hail bail of a bed and slowly made my way to the tray as best as possible. The iron clamp wrapped around my ankle made fast movements difficult. Although I’d gotten used to it over the years. Accompanied with it even.
The moment I sat down on the ground and stared at my breakfast greedily. Grabbing at each piece and shoving it down my mouth and chewing on it quickly. The farmer placed a hand tenderly on my shoulder and I looked up at him with a mouthful toast, cooked yolk spilling down my chin a little.
“S’not going anywhere, boy,” he said with a smile while playing with the strain of wheat in his mouth. “You that your time. You earned it.”
I quirked a brow at that last sentence and swallowed. “What do you mean?”
The farmer laughed and didn’t reply, only waited for his son to finish his meal, and carefully watch his claws rip through it and sharp teeth tear apart like a feral animal. Ignoring the cutlery he was given. Since birth his son was a sight to behold. But not in a good way. The oracle gave him a name that made the farmer’s heart sink. He tried everything to keep the oracle from being wrong, but as his son slowly grew fangs, claws and body started to grow less and less human by the day, he knew the only thing he could think of was to keep the world safe was locking his son away from it. Keeping him chained up so the beast wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone.
For now.
| 2021-06-19T18:31:32
| 2021-06-19T16:51:24
| 2,066
| 69
|
[WP] Humans have always been the friendliest and the most peaceful species in the galaxy. When one of the most ruthless empires decides to wipe out the pathetic humans and their diplomacy, they discover that humans have something that no one in the galaxy has ever seen. Nuclear weapons.
|
The species known as Humans came from a distant star, deep within the swirling vortex all other races had avoided. They brought with them many wondrous advancements including advanced healing never before seen within the known galaxy. Though they were diverse, they had no want for war and would help any in need without hesitation as they spread across the stars.
Exploration was the forefront of their minds and had never declared war on anyone. They even created safe havens throughout the galaxy. Freeports, they called them, where anyone was allowed to rest for a spell regardless of their background, profession or allegiance. A no fire zone so to speak. Many species across the galaxy enjoyed their friendly demeanor but also viewed them as mostly harmless. Mostly harmless that is, until the incident of Tau-423.
The Vikonican's were an empire devoted to warring among the stars. They mostly kept their battles between themselves as they fight for glory and power. Every so often though, a particularly good general will win and unit the Vikonicans to focus on other species. One fateful day, Emperor Bragisson united his people and led an attack that completely destroyed one of the freeports.
The Vikonican's then declared war against the humans and began raiding, and destroying, several more freeports over the course of a few months. Every species offered the humans help but they politely declined saying, as quoted, "We got this"
The Tau-423 incident was news that shook the entire galaxy. The humans sent a fleet to the satellite that General Bragisson was commanding from and, in a single day, ended the war.
The humans distracted the Vikonican's with their fleet while sending over a hundred cloaked bombers into the atmosphere. The cloaking alone took us all by surprise as that was technology many had struggled to create. Even so, the cloaking was mostly glossed over in the aftermath of the bombs.
The human's didn't just retaliate, they destroyed the very planet. The atmosphere was blasted away and anything on the plant that wasn't incinerated on impact withered away. For years after, any probe sent to the remains of the planet would malfunction within minutes. Only in recent years have probes exploring the barren surface could send back data. The very planet itself was radiated and dead to the core. Nothing of this magnitude had ever been seen across the galaxy.
The Humans, it seemed, were more powerful, and more terrifying, than anyone could have ever guessed. We can only hope that they continue to keep their friendly demeanor.
|
Vyxis Varix, Emperor of the Ruson Goar and Lord Commander of the Royal fleet closed his eyes and enjoyed a long drag from the cigarette between his fingers, the end glowing bright orange. One of the finer gifts the Humans had introduced to the galaxy. It is a shame that this might be the last time he would indulge in such simple pleasures. Through the gray smoke that billowed from his mouth, he saw the gleaming black throne room doors spiral open and his son, Jos, step through.
“Father,” his son said as he strutted his way down the long, onyx hall towards him. His footsteps echoed confidently in the otherwise silent chamber. When he reached the base of the throne, he kneeled and averted his eyes in respect. “It is good to be home and at your side once again.”
“Indeed,” Vyxis said with another puff of smoke. “I am pleased that you have returned to me, whole of body. Rise.” His son did so, beaming with pride. With cigarette in hand, Vyxis stood, reached out, pressed the burning end into his sons forehead.
Jos screamed in shock and recoiled, falling backwards onto his rear end. “What did you do that for!” He shrieked.
Vyxis took another drag, squatted beside his son and blew the smoke out in his sons face, who turned his head to avoid it. He did not recoil further, however. He knew better than that.
“I received grave communications today from General Brax,” Vyxis said as he stood and slowly removed the jacket of his empirical regalia. “Communications about you that have filled me with great disappointment and sorrow.” He folded his uniform neatly and placed it on the seat of his throne. He signaled for his guards to seize and hoist his son up off the ground. “You fucked up.”
He drove his fist hard into his sons stomach and the boy crumpled, the only thing keeping him on his feet being the guards.
“What did I do? Was is the Atrin? It was just some backwater planet.”
“Not that,” Vyxis said, punctuating it with another blow to the stomach.
“What?” Jos said, sputtering. “The cruiser? So what? We do it all the time.”
Vyxis shook his head. “It’s not what you did, son that angers me so. It’s who you did it to.”
Jos’ eyes searched for the answer. “Who? Those fucking weaklings?”
“Those fucking weaklings... are humans. We had a skirmish with them, long ago. They call them Babu Frin.”
Jos wrinkled his brow. “Babu Frin? The demon you used to scare me with as a child?
Vyxis nodded. “Well, the humans weren’t exactly Babu Frin. They are the ones who you call to kill fucking Babu Frin.”
Jos staggered. “Oh.”
Vyxis continued. “The humans are a species of focus, commitment and sheer fucking will... something you know very little about. I once saw them obliterate, three fucking fleets with a one ship, one fucking ship armed with one fucking weapon. Then suddenly one day they asked for peace. At the time I thought we had the upper hand, so I made a deal with them. I gave them an impossible task. A task no one could have pulled off. The species they buried for us those years laid the foundation of what we are now. And then my son, a few days after their beloved leader died, you invade and take their fucking dogs. And for what? For an exotic meal?
Jos steeled himself. “Father, I can make this right.”
Vyxis smiled a sympathetic smile. “Oh? How do you plan that?”
“By finishing what I started.”
Vyxis grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck and pulled him close to whisper harshly in his ear. “Did you not hear a fuckin' word I said?”
Vyxis’s eyes welled up. “Jos. Jos,” he said, trying his best to avoid choking up. “Listen! Huh? The humans will come for you, and you will do nothing because you can do nothing.” He steeled himself for what was to come. This was his son. But the war he just started would be the end of him. Vyxis himself could probably make a deal but the humans would not stop until they had Jos’ head on a spike. He hung his head and let his tears fall to the cold, black floor. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
| 2020-02-07T13:28:43
| 2020-02-07T13:27:54
| 151
| 41
|
[WP] A new makeup hits the market. When applied, it makes you the most beautiful woman imaginable...but every application takes one day from your life.
|
She looked resentfully at the creature in the mirror. A wrinkled impostor glared back at her. *Who are you?* it mouthed. She would have cried, but she had long since trained herself not to -- makeup would run, and *that* couldn't possibly happen. When she felt tears coming on she would pinch her left arm. Her grip was that of iron pincers and the small patch of skin was marked with tiny red dots where a dozen blood vessels had burst.
She took the foundation brush in one trembling hand, clutching it hard. She *needed* it. She had a date tonight and her skin was disgustingly imperfect. She couldn't look like this - not for a man, and most certainly not *today*. It was expected of her. Everyone looked perfect these days; everyone but the *freaks*.
She thought for a moment of her mother. Even the *thought* ashamed her.
There were expectations. There always had been, long before *the* makeup had been formulated. Besides, she reasoned, looking perfect made her feel happy. She began applying the foundation, and as she did so a pain screamed through her veins.
It passed. As it always did. She held one arm in the other, trying desperately to control the violent tremors. She finished the foundation and applied the eye liner, mascara and a dozen other variants of face paint.
An hour later she looked in the mirror and finally saw herself; the beautiful being that lived within the cursed, flawed body. She practised her smile. Only her lips moved. It was perfect. *She* was perfect.
---
There was no answer when he rang the doorbell. After a few minutes he left, discarding the flowers he had bought for her into the dirt by the side of the house.
It was two days before her mother found her. She saw the wilting flowers before she entered the house. As she opened the bedroom door, a *Happy Thirtieth* card floated carelessly off of a table and down to the floor. Her daughter lay by the mirror like a fairy-tale princess. As perfect in death as she had been in life.
---
/r/nickofnight
|
*Burlesque music opens the scene of an empty bedroom*
Announcer: Maybe she's....
Announcer: Maybe she's....
Announcer: Maybe she's... irresistible.
*Music builds and ends with the sound of a woman groaning. Up-tempo, catwalk music begins to play as supermodel Faux Fayce enters the bedroom twirling happily in her bathrobe. The camera zooms up to her face. She looks stunning.*
Faux Fayce: In a pinch?
*Faux Fayce winks and a cymbal sound is played.*
Faux Fayce: Well, no more. With Beauty Make Eternal, you don't need to spend those hours to look perfect.
*Camera changes and Faux turns her head to face it.*
Faux Fayce: Because you're already perfect. All you need is a pinch!
*Faux winks and scene cuts to a fine-dining restaurant where Faux is having dinner and laughing with four male supermodels. The announcer quickly rushes through his last lines.*
Announcer: Product not intended for everyday use. Side effects may include, dry skin, swelling, wrinkling, loss of lifespan and looking absolutely fabulous. Try today!
*Faux turns away from her dinner guests and looks into the camera.*
Faux Fayce: Who knew everlasting beauty could be so easy? And the best part is... the main side effect is happiness!
*She's turns away from the camera again, laughing as the scene fades to white. The Beauty Make logo shines against the white background.*
| 2017-01-16T06:37:47
| 2017-01-16T06:28:23
| 54
| 14
|
[WP] You have been paid to write a positive review about a game you hate. Try to make your real feelings clear to the reader, through any means necessary.
|
I mean, who could possibly hate League of Legends? I mean, I'm sure only jealous people can hate on such a glorious game. Who can forget the bright colorful characters with girls that look like they're fifteen? I mean, I enjoy animated tits and ass like every other nerd who couldn't get into a better game. And let's not get on the denying mechanic - killing your own creeps? Please! Why would you want to do that? I mean, it **only** denies EXP for the enemy team but that's too complicated for a **realistic** game.
But let's delve into bullet-points: should you play League or not?
**F**antastic artwork and graphics! Easy to run!
**U**nbelievable community that is so nice and welcoming to newcomers.
**C**ostumes and skins galore as you level up and grind!
**K**ids of all ages can enjoy a game of countless fun!
**N**umbers of people playing? Millions! Tens of millions!
**O**ther things you need to know? Nothing else. Just get your ass and start playing!
In a game you beat the enemy heroes and when you win, you get to do it all over again! This is one of the best games I have ever played ~~whenever Valve and Blizzard servers are down~~ so download League and try it today!
________________________________________________
I don't really hate League. I'm just an avid DOTA 2 player. /r/AvuKamu
|
Winnie the Pooh: Home Run Derby
10/10
This game, nay, this *masterpiece* truly captures the minds and imaginations of todays youth. And it won't let them go either.
Winnie the Pooh home run derby has all of the classic characters, Pooh bats, Owl runs a shop, everyone else pitches.
The game goes through 10 stages, with a sharp spike in difficulty after the first two, designed to teach children how it is in the REAL WORLD. The game throws spirals, illusive balls, bounces, and of course, Tiggers' balls go invisible.
Everyone remembers that from our beloved show, right? RIGHT?
The difficulty increases to make even adults cry with frustration, so it beautifully can accomplish its goal of stealing the innocence of childhood from any young Pooh fan!
No Timmy, it just isn't fair.
Anyone dedicated to completing the game will surely find themselves occupied for years to come, giving the game great value for its free cost!
Of course, the little details are important too!
Things like invisible walls that barely align with the oh so beautiful art, animations that don't match up with the ghost bat shown on screen, and confusing perspective all add up to keep the player guessing throughout!
Gameplay aside, the menu and background music is a work of art in itself!
The menu is cleverly designed to hide the upgrade system from any but the cleverest players, allowing you to horde up your currency freely!
The music is simple, but repetitive. It is hard NOT to get this song stuck in your head, even months after you give up on ever trying to beat the game!
Edit: Necessary links
[Here is the game.](http://fun.disney.com/winnie-the-pooh-home-run-derby) You have been warned.
Apparently it [has a know your meme page](http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/winnie-the-pooh-s-home-run-derby) explaining it pretty well, I was unaware of its online popularity when playing it.
| 2016-04-17T08:28:29
| 2016-04-17T06:35:17
| 106
| 32
|
[WP] "Sudden onset spiky colorful hair can only mean one thing. Your child has... protagonitis. You have mere days to live. I am sorry." "Uh, did you mean THEY have mere days to live?" "No."
|
"Any other symptoms?" The doctor asked. "A change in wardrobe?"
"Oh, yes! He's suddenly had an obsession with belts. Lots of them! Not just around his waist, either!" Susan said in a half-panic.
"Mhmm... can you tell me anything about his father?"
Susan looked at the ground, sheepishly. "No, not much... He left shortly after \[Insert Name\] was born -"
"I'm sorry, your child's name is '\[Insert Name\]'?"
"Yes. His father insisted it was a traditional name within his culture... Everyone just calls him 'Hero' instead..."
The doctor paused and took a deep breath. This was likely to be the worst case of **protagonitis** he had ever seen. He hoped whatever information he could gather from the mother would help the child in his - undoubtedly - pre-destined travels.
Gathering himself, the doctor continued. "Do you have any other children?"
Susan blushed, answering haltingly. "... Well... yes. My eldest son. \[Insert Name\]'s half-brother. Um... \[Insert Name\] doesn't know..."
The doctor tried to keep his expression neutral, but struggled. "Ma'am... I'll be honest with you; I don't think it is possible to foster a more fertile ground for a severe case of protagonitis. Does he have any friends that he may have spread it to?"
"Well, he has a couple close friends... one of them is good with tools and machines... oh, there is the haughty wizard's apprentice, but I don't know if they are friends anymore after the school tournament. Oh! And he has this cute, spritely girl that I think he is interested in... but it's hard to tell. She is definitely infatuated with him..."
The doctor blanched. "Nurse!" he called, and stepped toward the door. The flustered nurse appeared in the hallway. "Please bring me the fireproof safe, and... start watching the sky for... anything unusual.
"Is something wrong?" Susan asked, alarmed by the doctor's sudden change in tone.
"I... think we need to take immediate steps to protect... well... everyone else in the village." The nurse returned with a small box; red with gold filigree on the edges. The doctor placed his notes, 1000g, and his favorite leather gloves in the box, and set it in the corner of the room. "Where is your son now?"
"Oh, he went out to the outskirts of town with his friends to gather herbs-"
Susan was cut off as the room rapidly darkened. The nurse ran to the window, and screamed. "DOCTOR!! The Empire is here!! Their airships are surrounding the town!"
The doctor sighed, and resigned himself to his fate; a background character in this child's tragic background story.
|
"Sure", I said, not looking at the doctor, only at the baby. My child. What would I call him? Fred had wanted to name it Johnathan, if it was a boy, but I had already started talking him out of it. What about... Nick? Yes, Nick. I liked that. It fit with his pink hair perfectly.
"Misses?" asked the doctor. "I'm being serious. You will most likely be dead by tomorrow morning!" Finally I looked at him. He was young, barely older than I, and his grey eyes looked concerned.
I laughed. "You're telling me that I will die because my son has a sickness called - what was it again? Protagonitis? What does that even mean?"
He sighed and brushed his hair back. "We're not sure yet ourselves. Our scientists were never able to find any biological reason for the condition, and it almost seems as if it's not really biological at all, it... Well, the symptoms usually include spiky colourful hair, hard youth and life in general and, unfortunately, dead parents. Later in life there can also be mental health issues. At least he will probably grow to be a handsome looking man with great physical attributes, much courage and often but not always cleverness."
I laughed again, incredulous. "And why exactly does that mean that I and my husband will die?" I asked him, while in the back of my mind, a terrible truth began to take hold of my mind.
The doctor smiled sadly. "By now some villain or the other will most likely have heard of a prophecy claiming that your son will eventually overthrow him. They will already have sent their minions to kill him - which will most likely fail due to some luck - and you, which will most likely succeed due to plot convenience."
I had turned away while he spoke, the smile slowly dripping of my face.
"Misses?" asked the doctor again. "Thank you for your advice", I said, opening the door and leaving the doctors office. I was cold suddenly, although it was summer outside. It had started raining again. I was used to this, and so I took the raincoat from my backpack. As I stepped outside I made sure that all my hair was protected from the water by the hood.
Even though I had initially laughed at the doctors words, I now began to look over my shoulder, into the dark corners of alleys and at the rooftops of the streets houses, always expecting dark figures to appear out of nowhere.
As I walked, pushing little Nick in his stroller, a determination began to grow in me. I knew what it was like to grow up as an orphan. I knew how hard it was, everyone picking on you, never having enough to eat, never having the comfort, the protection of a family.
I would not let my son endure this. Never.
I wasn't surprised when the men on their motorbikes stopped me at the mouth of an alley. It was a dead end.
I pushed the stroller with my baby, my son behind me and threw off the raincoat to free my arms for combat.
My breathing was deep and calm as the rain washed the brown out of my hair to reveal its natural light blue.
| 2021-05-11T07:47:55
| 2021-05-11T07:32:25
| 85
| 44
|
[WP] Humankind became extinct, a superior species now inhabits the earth. They dug up the remains of a human being and put it on display in a museum. What should it say on the text plate?
|
Here lies Man
When Man was hungry, He commanded the earth to yield food
When Man became thirsty, He did not go to the water
He made the water come to Him
When Man wanted to fly, He made His own wings
Man thought He could do all things
But He could not save Himself
Here lies Man -- who called us Best Friend
|
"Daddy, daddy, what are those?"
Said the young lad as he pointed his bony fingers to an ice chest.
"Those are the peoples of the past my son."
Drina said, while he walked slowly next to his firstborn kin.
The boy started running joyfully next to the scene encased in translucent ice, sliding his hand over the wall of the ice chest.
"Are they dead daddy?"
Drina smiled.
"Yes dear, what you see here is their last moment on this world.
Look, can you see the shorter one, with long hair?"
He crouched next to Sava and put his hand on his small shoulder gently, before pointing to the farthest figure.
"That is a female my dear. You see, they had this peculiar way of reproduction. She would pop her kin out of her belly just like that."
He made an astonished face and suddenly snapped his fingers right in front of the boys eyes.
Sava's face went wide with glee, he loved when his daddy made faces.
"Why did they die daddy?"
They continued their walk slowly, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall.
"They were weak my boy"
Said Drina slowly.
"They thought they can shape the world to their will, thought they can play with nature"
The boy didn't mind his father too much, instead his vision was nailed to the scene encased in the chest.
"Show me daddy, please show me."
Drina sighed.
He gently brought his palm to the surface of the ice. He started rotating it reluctantly to the right.
The scene started unfolding, slowly, like cold honey.
They both stood as the 3 figures who were in a circle moved their lips in silent curses, their ragged faces burned, cloaks swirling on ancient unseen winds.
The woman's face was strange Sava thought.
"Daddy, what are those watery streaks on her face"
"We do not know exactly, but there are speculations that those are a by-product of some emotional glands or a defense mechanism"
He continued rotating his wrist, it was now at full circle and moving right once again.
The scene went on, two bigger figures now charging at each other, exchanging blow after blow.
"Slow down daddy i want to see the dead men fight"
Sava demanded, bumping his scrawny fist at the glas.
The father scowled and slowed the rotation of his wrist.
Blows were hard and true. Until one figure stood still.
Sava's face went bright again.
"He killed him daddy, he killed him!"
He started cheering with his fists in the air.
"I want to watch it again, let me watch it again!"
Drina whispered slowly, while removing his wrist from the ice
"That's enough for today."
"But i want to see the bad man die gain!"
The boy started yelling, his face sliding slowly into rage.
"Alright, but only if you eat your broccoli tonight"
"Oh i will, i will daddy, i promise!"
Drina returned his wrist to he ice and started turning...
| 2017-06-10T11:53:43
| 2017-06-10T11:26:26
| 19
| 12
|
[WP] You're a regular guy who works at a Home Depot in Alabama and are unknowingly influencing the Venezuelan economy
|
Derrick got out of his car and rubbed his eyes, heading to another graveyard shift. He always hated these times, waking up at 11 at night, to work until 6 the next morning, going home to his girlfriend, and trying to get as much sleep as possible. His income was barely above minimum wage, and he always struggled to curb his drug addiction. The store felt like it was draining his soul and he wanted out.
Except two months ago, he began to notice weird things. The same customer, who went by Eduardo, would come in with a well-trimmed suit each week and ask for his advice on whatever. Lately, that advice had been solely about economics. How much should x cost compared to y? How much x should be produced a month? Derrick didn't know anything about economics, so it was mostly shrugs at first, but at the months went on, Derrick started giving him phony answers just so he could leave him alone. Then checks started coming in his mail. The checks came from a Nicolás Maduro (whoever that was), and every week he would get them for the same amount. Not enough to make him rich or anything, but enough to pay the rent.
Derrick opened the front door and clocked in. He went to the cashier stand, and just sat there waiting for customers. Surprisingly, Home Depot was actually busy this time of day; more than a few night owls would be perusing the shelves looking for whatever they needed. A few minutes into his shift, he saw a man in a suit walk in. Instead of Eduardo, though, it was a middle-aged man of about 55 who came straight to Derrick.
"Are you Derrick Manuel?"
"Uhh, yeah. How can I help you tonight?" Derrick really was tired, being up at an ungodly hour. He tried his best to smile like he was payed to do.
"I'm Michael Stevens, and I'm with the FBI. I'm here to ask you a few questions regarding this man. Have you ever seen him?"
Stevens pulled out a photo of Eduardo, only everything about it seemed strange. Eduardo was in a military uniform, wearing a general's beret and holding a cigar in his hand, standing beside five or ten men in similar uniforms and helmets. Derrick didn't know how to react. There's no way that could be Eduardo.
"I'm sorry, what? Why are you showing me this?"
"May I remind you that it's illegal to interfere in an investigation? Have you seen this man?"
"Maybe, I don't know? We get a lot of customers." Derrick couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth. Did he just lie to the FBI? This couldn't go down well anymore. Should he confess? *No, that would just make me a suspect. Damn it, I'm in too deep.*
"Okay, let me show you another picture." Stevens puts his hand in his suit and produces another photo, this time of Eduardo in the Home Depot talking with Derrick at the register.
"Yeah, like I said, we have a lot of customers." *Oh crap*
"Could you tell me then why you--"
"Stevens!" A younger agent comes walking speedily, and whispers in Stevens' ear. They then go a few paces away, and start conversing. Derrick felt nervous. *Should I ask them. Am I in trouble? Sh***t, I'm in trouble aren't I?*
Stevens turns around and calmly says "We have no further questions, thank you for your time."
Derrick didn't know what to make of it. He finished the shift and few hours later, but couldn't get the experience out of his mind. When he got back to his apartment, he found his girlfriend asleep, and opened his laptop to check his e-mails. He found one new e-mail in his inbox, timestamped at about half an hour after the conversation, reading "Good job not blowing our cover. Meet us in the alleyway behind Bernard St. at 2:07 for more instructions."
Derrick did nothing but stare blankly, thinking to himself *What did I just get myself into?*
********
Part 2 is up. Check my comment history if you don't see it. Thank y'all so much for the support
|
######[](#dropcap)
"Janus, what do you think you're doing?"
Janus Kirkpatrick raised a brow at the question, the stacks of beige boxes and double-wrapped containers obvious evidence as to his actions.
"Stocking. What'd you *think* you're *doing?* Don't you have a shipment of ferns to take care of?"
Vincent DeFris waved a hand absently, scoffing. "Those fuckers can wait around for a little bit more. No one except some old granny will mind if they don't get their fern plants. Nah, I'm here 'cause there's someone here looking for ya."
Janus moved a box off the pallet and onto a waiting u-boat, grunting at the weight.
"Is it Jim? You can tell him that the box of nails he was looking for is on the break room table."
"No, it ain't him. It's some Mexican fella, says he's from Caracas wherever that is."
"Caracas..." Janus muttered. "Vinny, you stupid sack of shit. Caracas isn't even in Mexico, it's in Venezuela. And no, that's not the annoying horn you heard at the FIFA world cup. And what does he even want?"
DeFris shrugged, leaning against a stack of wooden pallets with his hands in his pockets. "Fucked if I know. Said something about destabilizing the economy. Christ, I thought you said you flunk Econ 201? I didn't figure you'd fuck up that bad."
"Heh, very funny, Vinny. Now go fuck a cactus, or something as similar. Maybe a porcupine? He's in the break room you said?"
Vincent DeFris nodded, easing off the pallets and moving towards his garden department. "Yeah, I hope you speak Spanish, cause he's yammering about things like 'Destabilizing the Bolivar, crippling South American interests in the near and far future.' Weird Mexican shit man."
Janus sighed with exasperation, as Vinny vanished around a corner. "He's from Venezuela, you dumb fuc- Oh forget it, it's like trying to wipe your ass with your elbows; you won't succeed and you'll just spread shit everywhere."
| 2016-12-02T12:55:30
| 2016-12-02T12:41:41
| 1,670
| 87
|
[WP] Medieval times, a woman is accused by villagers of being a witch and she is put in a cage to drown, after 3 minutes she is not dead so they burn her at the stake but she survives that too, villagers now realize they finally found a real witch and don’t know what to do next...
|
The angry mob surrounded the stake built to burn the witch who stood, bound and disheveled, upon it.
The woman herself, Ana was her name, had arrived to their village only a few months before - presenting herself as a healer via herbs and medicine.
William stood amongst the crowd and thought it an honest shame she had been discovered as a witch. It was her suspicious success rate at healing diseases and ailments, and devilish beauty that gave her away. That and her eyes; pools of mossy green but with an undertone of molten gold.
It really wasn't fair, he thought. She was only trying to help and save people. Granted, she had saved William's young daughter from a wicked cough the previous month which may have made him slightly biased.
Ana stood tall and proud before the villagers, which was quite a feat considering her ragged appearance; clothed in a filthy torn shift, her wild black hair tangled and knotted around her face.
Enraged shouts came from all around the crowd. "Devil's whore!" They yelled. "Blasphemous woman". But William saw something different.
"I Suppose you're going to come up with new ways to try and kill me?" Ana sneered at the villagers.
"I do wish you would get on with it, I find myself rather bored of this charade."
The fear behind the villager's fury was evident, their multiple attempts to end the witch's life had been vastly unsuccessful. Stones tied to her feet and dumped in the nearby river, the witch resurfaced after hours unharmed, only looking mildly annoyed. Swords and knives appeared to only tickle her. Flames made sweat bead on her brow, and burned away her clothes, but had no other affect. The mob had tried hanging, quartering, beheading, strangling, beating and branding her. All attempts only causing her to look more and more bored with the events.
"You will burn in hell for your sins, Witch!" Spat the noble Lord who governed the village. The threat lacked conviction, however, as it was clear he was running out of ideas. The witch had remained bound on the stake for hours now, whilst the Lord asked the peasants for suggestions.
"Oh but I won't, poor Lord. You have no way to end my life. I think I've entertained you all long enough, and now I wish to take my leave of this place" the witch said, straining against the many ropes that bound her. To the villagers horror, the thick twine snapped like the flimsiest of strings and the witch discarded them. She straightened, haughty and, William thought, devastatingly beautiful, and began to simply walk away towards the lands outside of the villages territory. She levelled a smirk back to the Lord and asked "Who in this village will stop me?".
Not one person made a move against her, and William could not help but admire the hold she commanded over the people, noble men and peasants alike. Besotted with her arrogance and grace, he wanted nothing more than to follow her to the ends of the earth.
Ana's enchanting eyes fell on him - that cocky smirk still on her full lips, and William felt a force rooting him to the spot. *your daughter still needs your care to fully recover, master William.* he heard in Ana's voice inside his head, as he could do nothing but watch her saunter away, chin held high against the cacaphony of insults and threats hurled at her back.
----------------------------------
|
Considering how much people around here went in for that sort of thing there were surprisingly few official ways to kill a witch. Generally you just picked the one most suitable to your readily available equipment and had at before moving on with the rest of your life. The preacher had never heard of anyone surviving one of the ordeals, let alone all of them.
"So we were just wondering if you had new any ones father?"
"New ones?" asked the preacher shakily as he looked up from the the very thorough documentation this little town's mayor had handed him.
"New ways of killing witches, father. Only Davey, the butcher's boy, visited the city about a year ago and said they had impaled some witches in the town square. We hadn't heard of that one before and he said it worked a treat on their witches so we woke Margret up and asked if we could try it. She said it's been years since a man woke her up to ask that and we said no not like that and then she winked at poor Lambert, who's never had much luck with the ladies what with his tooth, and said maybe if we've got time we can try it both ways. Anyway it didn't work so we let her go again but since you're the first man from up that way we've had down here in a while we were wandering if you boys had thought up anything better than impaling?" the mayor smiled happily at his story then quickly added, "if it's no bother father".
The preacher had barely heard a word but had instead returned to the paper work. It was titled "The execution of Margret Thaxley" in very neat calligraphy. The only other writing on the front of the document were the words "vol 1" below the title in charcoal. He put it down.
"You let her go?" he asked slowly.
"Yes father. She's got a cottage just outside town, see, and we've only got three cells. Also the sergeant says she snores something fierce."
"Why not drive her out, burn the cottage to the ground? God lord man there is a witch on your door step spreading who knows what corruption into the soil and cavorting with the unspeakable from beyond while you do nothing."
"Nothing?" exclaimed the Mayor, indignantly rising to his feet. The preacher noticed that at some point he had also stood. There was cold sweat on the back of his neck. "Not nothing father. Read the paper work. Anyway we did burn the cottage down. She just made us put it back up. And she's not as bad as all that. We'd be a lot busier round here if not for the tinctures she makes for the young ladies. We put the work in father but life must go on."
The preacher laid his hand upon his book. It felt hot to his touch. As he began to mutter the words he lifted it from his belt. The Mayor opened his mouth to speak but before he could blue fire began to ark between the pages and the preacher's robe snapped back in a gale that touched only him. From the crease of the book emerged a hilt. With his free hand the preacher reached for it and as his skin touched the grip that same blue fire writhed up his arm, flaying the cloth from his body and leaving his arm marked not by wounds but immediate scars. Grimacing in pain the preacher pulled and the blade emerged, its edge shimmering like quicksilver in the light of its own fire. With a gasp the preacher dropped the book and the last of the blue flames earthed themselves through him making him stagger. The Mayor had not yet closed his mouth. When the preacher looked at him he looked away. The blue fire danced in the preacher's eyes where pupils should be.
"I think it's about time I meet this Margret"
...
The Mayor licked his quill. He wasn't sure how to start and it had been a rather spectacular day. He looked across the desk at his guest and put down the quill. Writing could wait for tomorrow.
"Okay father," he said as politely as he could "Let's try this: one croak for yes and two for no"
| 2019-02-12T03:38:39
| 2019-02-12T03:22:18
| 412
| 276
|
[WP] You're a paramedic. In fact, an immortal paramedic. Since you first treated a wounded soldier on the fields of the 30-years War, you didn't age and followed the development of "Emergency Medical Service". Your coworkers are astonished by your knowledge, but sometimes, you slip into old habits..
|
Another job another person begging for help. Not that I mind it, it's all about helping people after all. Hundreds of years of medical knowledge and the injuries more or less stay the same. Stab wounds turned into bullet wounds but all yield the same result: death. Not me though, somehow my halfassed patch job for some kid during a battle garnered me immortality. Not God like immortality where nothing hurts but immortality where everything somehow heals with all the pain included. I've been shot in the head, stabbed, choked, cut in half, and burned alive too many times to count.
"Hey Chuck we're here, looks like a guy got shot in the leg."
"Alright, how did it happen?" I asked why looking through my bag to clean the wound.
"I uh, was showing my buddy my new 9mm and I dropped it and it went off and it shot me"
The best part about this job is that one thing never changes in over the 300 years I have been patching people up: people are stupid as hell. After gathering my things I walk over to the poor stupid soul and lay out the tools to start to remove the bullet. The patient looks visibly scared and starts shaking. As I'm preparing to make my first move Becky grabs my arm.
Becky has been by my side for 15 years now. A small fraction in an eternity but she has made the idea of living in the moment all the more nicer.
"Um I think we dont need that Chuck"
Confused I look down at my hand which was grasping a bone saw ready to cut. I was shocked for a moment but then started laughing like I was crazy. I looked at Becky and asked "Um Beck, what year are we in?". She responded " Um, 2019 Chuck" "Right, modern times require modern solutions" I said playfully as I quickly walked back to my bag to grab some pliers. That's one of the downsides of immortality, the decades tend to meld together sometimes.
|
It was a routine call - at least, that's how it had started out. Our ambulance screamed down to Sheepshead bay, where a woman had called from, panicking about her husband. She had been having a normal conversation with him when he began to complain about terrible chest pains and nausea.
*I mean, he's still walking around, complaining, but I'm scared something is going to happen to him!*
Don't worry, ma'am. We'll take care of your husband. He'll be just fine.
Maybe not the best thing to say to her in retrospect, considering that heart attack victims often do *not* turn out fine - but if this was his first time, his chances might not be so bad. In fact, once we got there, he seemed stable again - so not a total infarction. But his wife insisted that he go with us, just in case, and get everything checked out. Anyway, as I said - pretty routine.
But then I saw their child.
She was maybe five or six old. Big, green eyes, framed by choppy brown hair, peered at my team from the doorway. I smiled and waved at her to come closer, thinking that maybe she was scared and I could calm her down. She, of course, scampered out of sight - but not before I caught a glimpse of her arm. My heart got caught in my throat.
I muttered some quick excuse about looking for a bathroom and darted out of the living room. The girl hadn't gone far; she was sitting on the bottom rung of a nearby staircase, still trying to eavesdrop. Upon seeing me appear out of nowhere, she yelped a little and ran up the stairs a bit before glancing back at me, like an unsure cat. I just stood there, transfixed in horror.
"John, what's wrong?" It was Emily, one of my fellow paramedics. She had followed me. "Is there a problem?"
I limply lifted an arm and pointed. "Look at her. *Poor thing*."
She peered at the girl, who stared back at us and crawled a little closer, curiosity overriding her initial fear. "Oh, John. Are you worried about how she's feeling right now? Because of her dad?"
"Her dad?" I had forgotten about the father completely.
"The one who just had chest pains?" Emily rolled her eyes. "Anyway, that's sweet of you, but I think you're overreacting a little--"
"No, no, you misunderstand," I cut in. "I mean - look at her! Her skin! My God, she must have had it for weeks. How could the parents have not taken her to the hospital already?"
"Huh?" Emily grunted.
"And what a brave girl she is, too," I bemoaned. "So strong, even in these late stages. Why, the meningoencephalitis must've already begun."
Emily sighed. "John, what are you talking about?"
I blinked at her. "Are - are you serious? Do you not see the rash all over her body? The *pustules*? We shouldn't just be standing here chatting while she's dying from typhus!" I lowered my voice at the end; no telling if the little girl was in the state of delirium yet. In any case, best not to alarm her.
Emily gawked at me in disbelief. Then, she turned to the little girl and and called out: "Hi, you cute thing! So how long have you had chicken pox?"
"Four days," she replied. Then she grinned, showing one missing front tooth. "Mommy said I get to miss the whooole next week of school."
"Chicken pox?" I echoed.
Emily tugged on my sleeve. "Honestly, John, you're so smart sometimes, but - typhus? What the hell? I don't know if there's a single case of typhus in New York since the 1800s or something. Come on, let's go. We have a job to do, remember? The dad that you've apparently forgotten all about?"
&#x200B;
&#x200B;
*Liked that story? Want more like it? Check out* r/Idreamofdragons!
| 2019-01-05T14:23:15
| 2019-01-05T14:17:31
| 502
| 349
|
[WP] A married couple start another average morning on an average weekday. No one dies. No twist. Show their overwhelming love for each other without them speaking a single word.
|
She cooked his breakfast as he dressed for work. She stops and listens to the new sounds of a new love.
He cooked her breakfast while she rested, belly swollen with new life.
They cooked together; for three, then four, now five.
They cooked together, alone again in a suddenly empty house.
He cooks her breakfast, while she waits for the thoughts that will no longer come to her.
|
She sat up, bolt upright, and began to stretch like a flower reaching towards the sun. He laughed, and pulled his feet in towards his curled body, then pushed them against the warmth of her back. She let out a startled shriek at the sudden cold, then gave him a smile. She was always so much more awake than he was in the mornings, and he loved that. As she rose out of bed, and moved towards the bathroom to take a shower, he rolled over onto her side of the bed. It was still warm, and he could smell the trace of her lotion, was it lavender or orchid?
He heard the shower running, and lazily made the bed, with the sheets folded over the way she always liked it. He had to get to work, and he knew she would take a long time in the shower, so he set out her slippers. The ones he had gotten her for their 5th wedding anniversary. She complained that they were getting frayed, and yet she continued to wear them every morning. He rushed to get dressed, but it was so much easier because she had matched his socks and folded his shirts last night after he drifted to sleep. He made his way to the kitchen, and grabbed the lunch she had prepared for him. It was a Tuesday, after all, and on Tuesdays she made the lunches.
He walked to his car, still smelling a bit like lavender, and opened up the lunch box to read the note. He was supposed to wait until lunch time but he could never quite do it. It had only 6 letters, written in her girlish scrawl. SHMILY. See how much I love you.
| 2014-11-04T03:14:25
| 2014-11-03T23:47:27
| 151
| 108
|
[WP] You are severely depressed and are given a service dog to help you through it. However, due to a mixup, you are given a dog that is actually much more depressed than you. The main thing that gets you up in the morning is knowing that you need to be the service human for your dog.
Edit: I was not expecting this to be so popular! Thank you so much everyone
|
I didn't even know dogs could get depressed. Sure, I've seen dogs pout and whine when their master was gone for the day, but full-blown depression? Never. But there was not a doubt in my mind Frost was depressed.
The first morning after I got him, I expected to be woken up by a squirrely dog jumping on my bed giving me licks, but instead there was only the typical solitude I was accustomed to. After lying in bed for an hour or two, I'm not sure how long, I mustered the energy to rise. Frost was still asleep in the kitchen. Not even the sound of the food-bag was enough to rouse him. He simply lay there. Tired.
When he was up, he did not look much different than when he slept. He carried himself heavily, and I thought mayhaps he was sick, so after two days of his constitution not improving, I took him to the vet, who said all was fine, and it was simply who he was. I took it as a challenge.
Whenever I saw him around the house, I pet him, and talked to him in a voice with more emotion than I knew in recent years. It was like talking to my daughter, who had been gone for a year now. Black was her hair, too.
Our inaugural walk together was hard. He did not want to move. With a gentle tug, he eventually did follow me, but still in that slow, trudging fashion. We passed a little girl in the park, and she gave him a great big hug and lots of love. Even that didn't phase him.
But, day by day, little by little, things improved. I found myself getting out of bed sooner than before, eager to meet with my new pal. Outside, on our walks, the days were bright, the smells of autumn, pumpkin and coolness, were strong, and together we learned to live once more.
Frost's posture improved. No longer did he hunch down, head close to the ground, eyes more interested in the floor than ahead. Now he carried his head tall with pride. It suited him. He looked like a whole different dog, but I knew he was still my friend.
One morning (five o'clock sharp! The sun was still not up—I should never have dreamed I'd wake up at such a time willingly) we went on our walk. The ruby light peeked over the horizon and painted the entire town in a brilliant pink. When we reached the park, the ruby turned to gold, and over all the trees and the grass and the leaves and my friend and me was a radiant hue. Everything was covered in golden goodness.
Even Frost's coat, which was black, looked glittering under the early morning sun. I looked up towards the bright ball in the sky, hidden behind a tree, and I watched as a red leaf departed itself from its branch and slowly fluttered towards the ground. While it danced in the air, a gust of wind blew it towards me. I caught it.
It was half-eaten by a caterpillar, and up-close its shade was more brown than red, but holding it in my hand, I knew it was perfect. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Crisp air, found only on special mornings when the world is still and you're the only living being awake, entered my lungs. With that lifeblood there, I realized something. A smile broke across my lips.
Frost was not the only one who had changed.
I released the leaf from my hand, and before it fell to the ground, I broke off in a lively sprint across the field, my friend keeping up perfectly by my side.
|
“Still looking, huh? Yeah, sometimes I find myself doing that too. You keep thinking one day you will see them pull into the driveway and everything will go back to normal. At least you wish that would happen.”
I gave the old dog a pat on the back, taking a spot next to him on the couch. His brown eyes only focused on the driveway outside, not even looking away when a brightly colored bird fluttered past, not letting anything break his focus. I never thought a dog of all things could look miserable, but there was no tail wagging or tongue poking out. It was just a lonely stare, one filled with a deep hurt that can only be felt when you’ve truly lost something special.
“She must have been a hell of an owner. Probably snuck you little treats, right?” I put on a smile, trying to get his attention. Didn’t dogs usually respond to trigger words like treats or walkies? Still, not even the allure of a possible treat turned their attention away. I sighed, sinking into the couch, at my wit’s end on how to help him. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to be the one pushing me forward, not the other way around.
Perhaps it was just a case of anthropomorphism? Maybe I was just pushing my own feelings onto the dog and there wasn’t anything that deep going on inside his mind. For all I knew, his mind could be filled with belly rubs and tail chasing. Yet… I couldn’t convince myself of that.
I knew sadness. It’s been something that’s suffocated me for years. Friendships, romance, jobs and most aspects of my life have been tainted by the black dog of depression and ironically, now I have welcomed a similar dog into my home. If anyone could understand those feelings, it was me. What is it about depression that makes you want to free others of it while leaving yourself to drown in its murky waters? Why do I care about getting up in the morning for his sake when I was happy to rot away in bed when I was alone? Maybe a therapist could answer that if I ever got the guts to visit one.
“I lost a special woman, too. Sometimes I wake up thinking she’s still alive and then that crushing weight comes back down again, you know? That’s when those stupid thoughts come back, those thoughts you kind of wish would just stop being so loud. Heh, sometimes it feels like you’re going crazy, right?”
He didn’t respond, as to be expected. Somehow in my emotion confession I forgot who my audience was. He was just a dog and one that had no interest in my misery, not when theirs weighed so heavily. Still, my words weren’t entirely meaningless. He raised his left ear. He was listening, even if he hadn’t faced me. It was the most he had given me so far.
Would I have taken him in if I knew his owner had passed so recently? I don’t know, the entire process still feels like a blur. A few doctors’ appointments and signed pieces of paper, and I had somehow ended up with a dog. I’m sure that there was more to that process, but I couldn’t really remember the details of it. Still, even if not intentionally, the dog had given me a reason to get up in the morning. So, I’m sure the people that assigned him would say it’s working as intended.
“I’m going to make some tea. Want anything?” I shook my head, again wondering why I bothered speaking to him. Maybe it made me feel better or perhaps I was just that lonely, that even the act of speaking to something that couldn’t respond felt fulfilling on some level.
I gave him another pat before heading into the kitchen. As always, the kitchen was a mess. Dirty plates were still set at the table, carefully moved so I could eat around them. Not to mention the bowl of fruit that had to be at least three weeks old at this point. I just ignored the smell, pushing aside the plastic bags on my counter as I took a tea bag. A few minutes later, I had my peach tea. Before I returned to the couch, I took a small beef flavored dog treat, hoping the gift might cheer up the dog.
I placed the treat on the pillow next to him before sitting by his side. I took a sip and joined him, staring at the world beyond my residential prison. It was strange how it made me happy to watch other people pass. Something about seeing people live their lives felt comforting. It was nice to know people weren’t in my shoes; it was nice to know that perhaps I would join them someday.
“It’s a nice day, right? Feels kind of like a waste to sit here when the sun’s still shining.” Even as I said that, my body betrayed me. The last thing I wanted to do was go outside. I just couldn’t convince myself I wanted to deal with that. But it wasn’t for me, was it? “We could take a walk. Just around the block. Maybe about ten minutes or so, nothing major.” My words more directed at myself than the dog, as if I was trying to win other my own feelings.
I slumped my head against the edge of the couch, taking a long sip from my tea. Of course, I couldn’t help him. If I could help him, I probably would have been able to help myself a long time ago. My motivation was ruined after that thought crossed my mind. What good was I going to do? He needed someone more kind and loving. Not me.
When I finished the tea, I went to set down the cup, only to see the fluffy face of the dog staring at me. It was the first time that he had actually paid direct attention to me. My motivation trickling back as I put on a fake smile once more.
“I don’t know what to say and it feels like we are just two strangers at this point, but I’ll be here for you, ok?”
He didn’t shift his gaze from me, only moving to rest a paw on my leg. I placed my hand on the paw, hoping that action alone might offer some comfort to him. It felt nice to be seated like this, like we had a moment of understanding, at least for the time being.
“Even if we are just strangers, maybe we can just be lonely together?” Maybe that was the best the two of us could ask for? Bonds don’t develop overnight and at the very least, two lonely strangers were better than one.
“Anyway, a quick walk, then we can lounge around. Five minutes!” I pushed myself from the couch and brought over his lead. “Well, let’s go get some sun.”
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
&nbsp;
(If you enjoyed this feel free to check out my subreddit /r/Sadnesslaughs where I'll be posting more of my writing.)
| 2022-11-01T08:17:26
| 2022-11-01T08:00:55
| 1,257
| 251
|
[WP] Year 2040, you are tasked with rebooting Harry Potter franchise. Write the first few paragraphs of "Harry Potter Begins".
For books, not movies. HP Begins will be book 1.
|
Mr. And Mrs. Dursley of Number Four, Pivet Drive {[Find Pivet Drive on google Maps for $1.25](https://www.google.com/maps/u/0/ms?ie=UTF8&t=m&oe=UTF8&msa=0&msid=218345993262930704212.0004c65d680c1b34e5d49&dg=feature)} were proud to say that they were perfectly normal {[Define "Normal" on Urban Dictionary for $0.99](http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=normal)} thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect {[Expecting? Find a Baby name RIGHT NOW for as low as $1.49](http://www.behindthename.com/)} to be involved in anything strange {[Watch "Strange Luck" or other programs with a subscription to FLIXX](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112182/)} or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm {[Find a lawfirm near you with google local searches](http://google.com)} called Grunnings, which made drills{[Find a new drill at Walmart](http://www.walmart.com/search/?query=drills)}. He was a big, beefy {[Find beef at Walmart](http://www.walmart.com/search/?query=beef)}man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache {[Top 25 Celebrity Mustaches- this article only $.45/min](http://buzzfed.com/mustaches)}. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck {[Get a longer neck in 20 days!](http://neckextensionsss.com)}, which came in very useful as she
spent so much of her time craning over garden fences{[Get your Government-issued Fence-installation permit TODAY!](http://cia.gov/dontbuildafence)}, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
{Like this book? Access this book for $0.03/paragraph, or a 10-day subscription to this book for only $14.99.}
|
**EDIT**: I took "rebooting" the series as reviving it with a sequel series. This is supposed to take place fifteen years after the events of Deathly Hallows.
----
Rabastan raised his wand to cut back another thick vine.
"*Sectumsempra*!"
At least something that vile traitor Snape had been good for. The spell cut right through the Devil's Snare, stinking sap spurting from the severed appendages, granting him passage. Rabastan had seen Snape as a comrade, especially after he'd taught him that useful spell. Bellatrix, though, she had always loathed Snape, suspected him.
*And she was right. What a fool I was.*
They'd killed her. Killed his sister! And he knew who had done it. That Weasley woman, blood traitor to all wizards. The Second Wizarding War had shown just how many blood traitors there were, lurking among them. Now, fifteen years later, preparations were being taken to make the presence of the wizard world known to the muggle scum. Good, decent wizards were now actually considering *harmony* with them. As if harmony could exist in a world where filth was allowed to thrive.
Rabastan smiled grimly, reaching a stone tomb and halting when he felt the presence of dark magic, making the hairs on his skin stand right up.
Tonight it would all change. He'd set the world right. He would succeed where Grindelwald had failed, where *Voldemort* had failed. All it required was the proper power.
"*Sinistro ingressus!*"
With the sound of stone grinding on bone, the tomb's entrance moved, granting entrance to a dark crevice.
Rabastan walked through, lighting up his wand and casting haunting shadows against the macabre depictions on the walls. His smile vanished. This room did not allow happiness.
He walked up to the pedestal in the centre, and his heart made a jump when he saw the relic on its surface.
Morgana's pendant. They said that Morgan Le Fay had been the only wizard in Merlin's time that formed a threat to Merlin's so-called golden age. A time when muggles and wizards had known of each other and lived together...it made him want to puke. And it would happen again if he didn't put a stop to it.
Rabastan's hand trembled.
"Come on, what are you so scared of?" he hissed to himself. "What's in front of you is your right...your *birthright*."
The Lestranges were said to be descendants from the Le Fay bloodline. As the last surviving heir, *he* should be the one to take it! Rabastan's hand closed around the pendant, the metal cold against his skin...until a dark, immaterial warmth seeped through, filling his veins with bitterness and power, seeping upwards until his mind was dulled and his eyes claimed.
For a moment, Rabastan was blind. Then, a voice cut through the darkness, old and harsh.
"Who is it that presumes to wake my slumber?"
"Morgana?" Rabastan rasped. "I...I am your last heir, come to claim your power to stop the uprise of those without magic. I-"
"I am not Morgana," the voice boomed. "She was only the last one that sought to claim my powers. Eradicating muggles, you say?"
Rabastan could feel the thing inside the pendant touch his mind, tentatively seeking his memories.
"Interesting. A lot has changed. Maybe the time has come for me to revisit the world."
An image forced itself to him, a stout, red-haired woman with a fierce gaze. Rabastan felt his lips curl into a snarl.
"Weasley."
"Yes. She will have to be killed by you, to prove your worthiness to my magic. Your memories have shown me she is a worthy foe. And then, should you succeed..."
A new image formed in front of Rabastan's eyes, this time of a young man with black hair and green eyes, and a scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt.
"...I have already decided on another victim for us to face."
Rabastan finally discarded the fear that wrapped this tomb, and grinned, his hollow laughter filling the stone chamber with eerie echoes.
"We think alike, my ancient friend," Rabastan grinned. "Fear not, that wretched auror is second on my list. With your power, I will succeed where Voldemort himself failed."
Rabastan took a sharp breath.
"I will kill...the Boy Who Lived."
| 2014-10-01T12:05:09
| 2014-10-01T10:12:09
| 29
| 10
|
[WP] When people die their ghosts are anchored in proximity to their bodies. When you die you're cremated and have your ashes scattered in the wind. The wind takes you on a journey.
|
# Summer
I’ve got pieces scattered from Boston to Bangkok, little bits of me that have come down from my spot above the Charles River to stowaway in stuffy shipboard air. I feel them like I felt my hair: only there when the wind blows.
There’s not enough of me in those places. Death spread me too thin, the only part of it that feels at all like life. Had I known before what I know now, I never would have asked for this.
Ghosts are real. Ghosts are common too. Yesterday some piece of me blew up against a ghost from ages past, he’d never seen a man like me before. They’d buried him beneath a great birch tree way up in the Green Mountains, trapped his soul among the roots. I waved as I went past, a little clod of me that broke apart a moment later to become a ghost even to me— hair blowing in the breeze.
It felt like a hundredth death, a thousandth. It's like a haircut where each follicle screams, not just beneath the scissors but even afterwards in the trash. Screams until the barber throws the garbage out in the morning and the truck comes to take it to the landfill and scatter it across that blighted mile.
If I’d known, I still would’ve asked them to cremate me. I would’ve had them place me in a pretty urn. I’d have made sure they sealed it tight, and I would’ve balled myself up inside, spectral arms and legs wrapped around all my bits until they handed me to you.
You’d have put me in the windowsill and visited every morning over tea.
I’m sure you’d have visited if I was as close as the windowsill.
It’s funny really, death spread me so thin, but it never chanced to blow me back to you. And you never visit the piece of me still stranded on the hill. I’m wrapped around the rose mallows, trapped into their life cycle. The flowers are blooming now, I’m sure you’d love them if you could see.
But you don’t see. That’s okay too. On my good days, I know it’s only been a little while.
\*\*\*
# Fall
The rose mallows died last month. Just the tops, but that was enough. They left pretty pink motes scattered across the hill, blown down into the river. You would have thought that was beautiful too.
Last week I felt the stars align. Someone opened the containers in Bangkok and the wind kicked up and swirled me around. For a moment I was there, enough of me stitched together to grab some little scrap of consciousness. I soared up over a patchwork quilt of shipping containers sketched across the landscape in reds and greens and blues. Big flat topped boats danced to the rhythm of the cranes. They slipped in and out of port as I watched, then the wind shifted and blew me out, wrapped up and pillowed by the warmth of an updraft as it carried me up the river.
So many boats! There were boats like cruise ships wrought in miniature— they brought back memories. There were barges and canoes, fishermen rubbed elbows with rich men’s playthings, and between them all flowed colorful craft with sweeping hulls and canvas roofs, beautiful boats I wish I knew the name for. I loved it. You would have too.
Then the wind changed and broke me up in all its currents, threw me back into the rose mallows. Another death faded into faintly tingling hair.
I looked around, hoping. But you weren’t there.
Has it only been a season? Two? I died at the heights of the spring, they scattered me soon after. Not so long to grieve I guess.
I promise, I understand.
\*\*\*
# Winter
Snow is heavy. You don’t really think about it until the world lays down on top of you. It’s not like it was when I used to shovel. Back then I had two good arms and you’d bring me hot cocoa when I got too cold. You’d sit there in the windowsill with your cup of tea waiting for the precise moment, and until that moment came I could glance up and see you in my sweater and think “It’s not so bad, not so heavy. I can finish the driveway.”
Dead flowers don’t drink cocoa, and now I think I look too much like the powder to really enjoy it.
Black humor, sorry. A man needs something to make the winter pass. There was one other thing. I wish could tell you. It was— well, it was a little intense. I went corporeal again, just for a moment. That’s what I’m calling it now, corporeal. It makes it feel so much more meaningful than simply “conscious.”
There’s a forest in Japan where they keep the souls of the dead. At least, that’s how it felt when a bit of me washed up there. God it must have been a journey, I don’t know how it happened, only that the energies are so strong there that even a few atoms of me went corporeal for a day.
I opened my eyes to a scene from a sad movie, skeletons hanging from trees in a forlorn little grove. Ghosts sat below them, leaned against the trees or spread out across the ground to stare at little scraps of sun. There were five of them, I don’t think they saw me.
They saw each other though. Sometimes they spoke quiet lines in Japanese; I never understood a word but I think I fell in love with the tone. Everything’s different in death. All the emotions are muted memories, even the way I feel for you. Sometimes that desperate desire is like an emotion someone else wrote about. Ever day and every mile further apart I’m spread, it feels more like words on a yellowed, musty page.
Not to these people. They didn’t move. They looked nowhere but the sun, and when they spoke there was nothing but compassion.
I sat in my tree all day listening to five ghosts comfort each other in a language I didn’t understand. Just little words or phrases here and there. If it was English I’d like to think it was “I’m with you.” Or “You’re not alone.” Or “What’s that cloud look like to you?”
Or: “Hey friend.”
The wind blew me across a bird’s wing. He took flight, carried me out of the forest. I lost the ghosts, the skeletons. The dark, foreboding trees. But not the warmth. Since then, it’s felt a bit like your windowsill. If I focus really hard, I can almost feel the fireplace. Almost feel your presence.
It’s winter though. The trip is hard. There’s ice on the roads and when the sun hides it always makes you sad. Winter is the right time to grieve. Come soon though. Just for a moment, I won’t be greedy. Pick a flower come spring, or get here on the verge of summer. My rose mallows will be in bloom again.
Just come soon.
# ***
|
I slowly realize I'm being jostled. My memories are delayed in returning, so it takes a few minutes to remember the familiar feeling of riding in a car. It doesn't help that I don't have a body anymore. I'm only getting little nudges that I suppose are linked to this urn sitting in front of me. Crazy how my body and all the years I spent in it fits inside that little jar.
I look over at my wife in the driver's seat. She has dried tear tracks on her face but it is carved from stone now. I know she is compartmentalizing this, pushing it down deep so it can erupt on her years later. I wish I could touch her.
She opens the door, grabbing my jar. I obediently float along with her. I thought at least being the first to die meant I wouldn't feel this ocean of hurt. It's worse knowing she feels the same and I can only watch. I try to turn back, but I can't move myself. I only move as she does, in starts and stops as she decides on the ideal spot to stand. I knew she would come here. One of my final memories is telling her where I wanted my ashes scattered, off of this particular overlook where we began many hikes together.
I finally put it together. The only reason I'm still with her is because she is holding the urn. My ashes. I panic, but what can I do about it besides watch, horror-stricken?
She lets the facade fall halfway. With silent tears running down her face, she wrenches open the lid. A fistful of ashes pours out, but the wind whips it back up around her. I start moving and say a prayer to whatever has allowed me this last moment and I am able to brush her hair with my fingertips where the ashes have made contact. I almost think she feels me and she looks right in my eyes, but I am swiftly carried away.
I see her standing there, a pinprick of life against the landscape as I climb higher away from her. I feel like dying all over again. Is this what I'll be subject to for all eternity? The wind starts pushing me back towards the earth and I sweep along treetops and then along streetlights as I drift lower. I touch the ground, following what has become a slight breeze. I see a stray dog hiding in a row of bushes. His ribs shine as he twists to look around. Maybe this is hell, to watch all the suffering I already knew on earth but be unable to do anything about it. I float in the middle of the street as someone throws a half eaten hamburger out of their car. Great, I even have to watch littering. Half on instinct, I try to reach for the wrapper as I go by and to my shock, it works. I freeze looking at the burger for a second, then throw it away from the street and towards the bushes. As I pick up speed, I see the dog creep out from the bushes to nose at the burger.
Maybe she did feel my touch. Maybe the wind will carry me back to her someday.
| 2021-12-07T19:35:21
| 2021-12-07T19:22:39
| 96
| 32
|
[WP] You buy a special camera at the pawn shop. Every photo you take, it shows a snapshot of 10 years ago. You take a picture of your dog and it shows him 10 years ago when he was a puppy. Everything is all fun and games, until you decide to take a picture of your bedroom one night.
|
I took a picture of Sally down by the river, and according to the camera she was three dogs and an angry goose. I shrugged, snapped another photo, and this time she was three dogs and a dead goose. I didn't think *too* much of it, but Sally was pretty put off so we went back to the pawn shop where we got the camera.
The same dude was there, the kind you only find in pawn shops, porn stores, and roadside attractions. Long tats, greasy eyes, crooked smile, out of fucks but friendly and high.
"Hey man," I said - "I don't think this camera is a camera."
"Well like what is it then, bud?" He was genuinely perplexed. "And what are you gonna put something like that on me for?"
"What?"
"It is whatever it is, bud. I didn't have any say in it."
"No, you sold it to me. Like an hour ago."
"Oh." He scratched his head and swallowed his brain with his face. "Was it a camera when I sold it to you?"
"I don't think so."
"He took a picture of me at the park and I was three dogs and a goose!" Sally kind of screamed this - and the dude spaced his eyes at her.
"We don't sell gooses here, man."
"A dead goose! Do I look like a dead goose to you?"
When he said "No" it was a guess. Sally didn't like that.
"We want our money back."
"Well, we don't do refunds." He looked at the camera. "I guess I could buy the camera back from you though."
"Are you fucking with me?"
"Sally it's fine. He said he'll buy it back. It's cool."
"Err, wait, you said it's not a camera though."
"Yeah."
"Oh, I'm sorry man, but we don't really deal in things like that."
"Things like what?"
"Whatever that thing *isn't*. Nobody's gonna buy something like that."
"You already sold it to me!"
"Really?"
"Yes!"
"What'd you go and buy something like that for?"
"Fuck it."
So we kept the not-a-camera.
***
We put it out of our heads for a while, far enough out that we probably forgot about the whole thing. Just twenty bucks wasted on some busted old antique. We could sweat twenty bucks.
A few months later, though, some friends were helping us move out of our apartment and Sally found the thing in storage. I guess enough time had gone by that it was funny now, and she told Mark and Tony about the goose and the pawn shop.
"Is that the only picture you ever took?" Tony was turning the thing over in his hands, peering into its nooks like he knew how stuff works. (He doesn't.) "You never tried it out again?"
"Why? It's busted."
"Well you didn't throw it out." Tony pointed the camera at Sally. She yelped and waved it away.
"I'm not getting my picture taken by that thing again." Sally waved it away. "Don't. *Don't*."
"Well take a picture of us then - the guys." Mark took the not-a-camera from Tony and held it out to her. "Oh come on, you can hold the damn thing."
"Fine."
Sally grabbed it, the bros posed for a pic in the empty storage unit, and we all gathered around to see what the not-a-camera would spit out.
It spit out a crystal clear image of the storage unit, but we weren't in it. No Mark and no Tony anyway. Instead of us, it was *us*. I mean, not us - but it was me and Sally fucking on the hood of my Neon.
"Oh my God!" Sally went white.
"Whoa - hey, damn. I only looked cause I was looking. You look good." Tony was always a gentleman.
Sally hit me.
"What the hell, Nate?" (Did I mention my name?)
"I didn't do anything." I was engrossed in the photo. "I mean, I remember doing *something*."
"This isn't funny!"
"At least you're not a goose."
Sally *hit* me.
"What the fuck is it?"
"I don't know."
"Where did it come from?"
"You took it. Just now."
"That's us, like, ten years ago. How is that possible, Nate?"
I shrugged, then snapped another photo. It was still us fucking. Sally didn't talk to me for a week.
***
|
I took the picture, smiling inwardly. I wonder how it'll look? I'd only been living there for a few months - I wonder what it had been like 10 years ago? What pictures would be up on the walls? Was the building even 10 years old?
I went to the darkroom, dipping the photo into the chemicals. I'd always enjoyed the process - it gave me time to think, to be lost in that secluded world of darkness. I felt strangely safe in it.
I hung up the photo, going outside to feed Max. I framed the picture I took of him as a puppy - he'd been so cute back then, but worryingly thin. As a rescue dog, it made me even happier that I'd found him. I gave him a treat along with his food - I'd been taken even better care of him lately, seeing how he'd looked so many years ago. He needs all the love he can get.
Back to the darkroom. It was silly, but I was excited to see the picture. Most of the images I'd took had ended up being very banal, but something about this one filled me with intrigue.
I took the picture off the wire, peering into it in the darkness. It didn't seem to have developed properly - it was so dark. I let my eyes become accustomed to the darkness, and I looked closer into the image.
The picture wasn't dark. It seemed obscured, almost as if there was a figure standing too close to the camera.
Then I saw it - then I saw her.
*Looking directly into the camera*.
Suddenly Max whined outside. I'd never heard him make that noise, and it made me instantly drop the photo. I turned to open the door, but the handle was stuck. No - the door was *locked*.
Max was barking, growling. I'd never heard him like that. I beat at the door, hitting it with all my might, but it wouldn't budge. Panicking, I grabbed the photo again, lifting it to my face.
The room was bare. The figure gone.
Something slammed against the wall, and I heard Max's muffled cry.
Then she came for me.
| 2016-12-22T03:21:41
| 2016-12-22T03:14:16
| 58
| 11
|
[WP]: a society where sex is public and entirely unstigmatised, but eating is a taboo
|
"Oh my god, you're *31* and you've never eaten with another girl?"
Sigh. I hate this topic.
"Look, Shelly, I'm not exactly the pinnacle of man."
"That just means you eat a lot by yourself."
This was new. When me and Shelly were usually having sex for lunch, she *never* brought up mastication.
"Erm, I-I uh..."
Smooth.
"It's alright, it's normal. I eat alone every now and then. Usually when I'm just bored, but sometimes to relieve stress or nervousness."
Well, now. That certainly improved the mood. I ramped up my thrusting.
"Mmm, somebody likes that image."
She'd never teased me like this before. It had never really escalated past the odd Freudian slip, a la 'duck' instead of 'fuck' or something. Did this mean she wanted a relationship or something?
"Shelly, I don't know what you're trying to hint at here"
"Yes you do, you big liar. You're never good at lying when I have a full stomach."
*Full stomach*. My pulse was racing. My palms became sweaty, and despite the regular occasion I was suddenly alive.
"I'll warn you, I was never good at this sort of thing..."
"That's alright. You just sit there, and I'll show you everything you need."
I never took my eyes off those saucy breasts until she'd finished cooking them. And in the blink of an eye, they were gone. I really wished they'd lasted longer, but hey, it was my first time.
|
Everybody looks at me weird when I tell them I teach evolutionary history. They've heard of the second word from the history channel (if anybody even watches it anymore) but if anybody knows what the first word means it means I've found a kindred spirit. Someone else who studies the past in a way that I do.
My students at the university usually don't pay much attention to the lecture material, but anytime I mention the mating patterns of the people in the past, they're all horrified. People eating with strangers who are not their immediate family? Let alone in a room full of strangers? Unthinkable! Even now I occasionally get emails from people in the community telling me to stop teaching their children lies. It is an odd thing to be told that what you know to be true because of empirical evidence is found false in someone else's eyes though they have no reason for it. I suppose as my advisor used to say, it would be due to 'status quo bias'.
It would generally take half an hour for the lecture hall to go back to the normal volume level, with kids sleeping in the back and the keeners in the front holding onto my every word like I dictated their lives. Which I suppose I do for that two hour segment, now that I come to think of it. And then there are those who take the time in my lecture to catch up on sex. I don't really mind, honestly. I know some of my colleagues would consider it rude and stop their lecture on principle and request that they leave, but if these kids seriously didn't have the time for sex when everybody else generally does it, it must mean that they're being worked to the bone. I know that as professors we're supposed to remain objective about these things, but I honestly don't remember being worked so hard as an undergraduate back in my day. Maybe it's true that professors often look upon their past academic careers with rose-tinted glasses... we are back in school teaching after all, albeit on a subject which we're being paid to research at our leisure.
The whole course is designed to boggle the mind on the behavior of our ancestors. In the twenty first century, they sure had a funny idea of what it was considered 'wrong' and 'right'. If I were to look at it from an anthropological point of view, I suppose they would consider us barbarians, having sex everywhere. The students are not so surprised about that tidbit of information however. They just think it's an odd thing, much like how they think it was odd that it took so long for a gay president to be elected and why pollution was such a difficult problem for people of the twenty first century. But if one were to really examine the cause of such a dramatic shift in society, it would really come down to the third world war.
The research is sketchy at best, but the current hypothesis is that when the dust settled, food was scarce and society was rampant. Everyone had sex with each other and not for procreative purposes, but generally just because they could. It was a wild, wild time. If I were to use the twenty-first century vernacular, I suppose they would call it "The Wild, Wild West". Although the west was sort of non-existent, due to the anti-matter bombs detonated by the Switzerland nation. And when society finally reemerged, what was known historically as 'The Chinese' had a hard time ensuring that our genetic pool would not dilute to the point where we inbred into oblivion, seeing as there were so little of us left hanging around. But they had to promote sexual contact anyways due to the fact that humanity was at risk of extinction for a very, very long time. It was only in the last hundred years that our biologists have finally breathed a sigh of relief, that we weren't going to go down in history as the species that finally blew itself up because they couldn't manage to have enough sex.
Right now I'm writing a paper on why it was that eating had become such a taboo thing. From an evolutionary perspective, I would suppose it might be due to the fact that right after the war ended, food was scarce. Millions of people wiped off the Earth, not enough arable land, and not enough hands to produce the food. Scavenging became the norm, at least according to whatever records exist. They're sort of hard to understand, as the humans of the twenty-first century put all their data on things called 'computers' and 'hard-drives'. Why they would decide to put their information in something that requires electricity is beyond me. How electricity even came to be is a mystery. We can barely generate enough steam power to convert into electricity that every five minutes spent researching the ancient texts costs thousands of dollars. Which probably explains why research in my field is so slow and why I never get any funding.
It's a reciprocal cycle... I don't get any funding because I don't publish, and I can't publish because I don't get enough funding. Everybody wants to fund research about sex. How people become addicted to it, have too much of it, not enough of it, or what have you. But nobody wants to fund research about food, or dare I say it, eating. That's a no-no.
But I digress. From what I could piece together, it seemed like we might have evolved a perchance of hiding food because the ancestors who were best able to find enough food to eat were the ones who survived. And I suppose one would have to hide it. If you were walking around town scavenging, and you were the only one not as lean as a stick, the others would know. It makes sense why the practice evolved to eat by yourself. The cultural evolution of such a thing must've followed the biological evolution of eating on your own. And I suppose it's not going away anytime soon.
Sigh. I must admit that sometimes I envy our ancestors for their simplistic ways.
Edit: missing word :(
Edit2: Suggestion from mullerjones
| 2013-11-18T14:24:30
| 2013-11-18T12:07:53
| 44
| 18
|
[WP]Time travel has been invented, and people from the past are now incredibly annoyed at all the "future-tourists" that have come to crowd pivotal moments and sites in history.
|
Time travel had some unintended consequences. Looking past the whole “I’m my own grandpa” trope, there are some seriously administrative issues that arise. They had to invent a new statistic. I mean the whole idea of economics is rooted in some assumptions, and not all of them are well understood. But reverse GDP threw everything for a loop. Quantum physicists and mathematicians are now more qualified in econometrics than statisticians or economists. Every dollar spent in the past is a dollar taken out of the future economy. Early on there were some assumptions that we’d still have equality. The same amount of people come back to the past as go to the future. That should lead to a relative balance in money. Or even if not perfect balance, the inflation of the future should lead the past to be a more competitive market. This turned out to not be the case. Not even remotely.
Time is an interesting concept. It’s a current that you cannot break free of. And eventually after you’ve been in the river long enough, you forget you are even moving. Time travel essentially is a grappling hook that takes you out of the river and places you somewhere else. It’s jarring, it’s abrupt, and its overall effects are still widely unknown. But most importantly it’s never simply a jump from point A to point B. This would imply that at some moment the river isn’t moving. That if you break time into its most finite instances it eventually stops. But it doesn’t. While you are being thrown from one time to another, you’re not simply dropped into 2046, you’re dropped into a river that’s now moving at a different rate than you are. And it takes a while to catch up. You don’t simply hop back and forth like nothing ever happened.
This brings us back to the idea of the insanity that is reverse GDP. And of course why the exchange can never be equal. Time travel isn’t so much an issue of changing the future, ruining all mankind, putting out your own existence like a match, your soul like a smoke in the wind. It’s not even close to that cinematic, or thematically pleasing. The real danger of time travel is the severe economic drain from one era to the other. We were so spoiled by globalization and technology that instant everything became the norm. The economy became complex and unfathomably large, but nevertheless followed patterns. Could be counted and assessed. But when you hop to the future, or back in time, it’s a commitment. Time tourism creates a future that is an economic wasteland, with no recourse for a fix. When all the money is spent in the past, it can only trickle forward so far before inevitable moving backwards.
The crowds at Trafalgar, at Normandy, the JFK Assassination were huge. As a way of preserving the historical veracity of the events, time travel is only permitted to large convention like centers built miles away from the events, remote viewing areas full of tourists and school trips. The problem though, is that in order to assimilate, you need to arrive months in advance. To readjust to time after zooming backwards, so long of a time out of the current. So these centers are mostly just shopping havens. All centered around one single point in time. Almost uncountable sums of money being dispersed in one single moment. Eons and eons of visitors, but only one past event.
But no one is going to do anything about it. Sure all the projections show that, for a guaranteed fact, eventually all of the future’s money will exist in the past. And honestly, this has made the present such an opulent place, no one is going to change anything despite the pleas from the scientific community, from the economists. From anyone forward looking. We know exactly when it will happen, and we know how. The future is a wasteland. But right now, we are happy. Our children can deal with the shit when it gets here.
|
Shift-manager Stanley was having a *really* bad day. He'd been reassigned to Nelson's historical victory at Trafalgar, and was currently shouting at some light-fingered tourists who were trying to pinch a couple of flags to take home.
"Please put that down," he said. His voice was already hoarse and it wasn't even eleven yet. "Please... You! Put that down."
Rather than the customary 27 ships accompanying Nelson's *Victory,* there were 28. The final ship: a triple masted heavy-ship with all the guns removed, had been renamed the *Adventurer* and was full of futourists. Stanley stood at the helm with a megaphone, conversing with the captain, who was well and thoroughly fed up.
"We didn't have this many last year," Stanley admitted. "Since Thomas Cook started offering the budget option..." He gestured down to the hold, where the budget futourists were watching from between cracks in the planks. "It's just absolutely blown up."
"Aye," Captain Armstrong sported a beard and a water-proof over coat. He steered lazily, staying well clear of the bursts of grape-shot that the English fleet was now exchanging with the French. "Got more people on me ship than I really know what to do with."
"Tell me about it. You're not the one trying to keep them in line." Stanley lifted the megaphone and shouted over the deck.
"Please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Trafalgar Tours will *not* be held responsible for accidental injury, death or loss of personal belongings that go over the side."
A couple of Chinese futourists at the front groaned, retreating from where they had been trying to crawl over the prow to take a better picture of Nelson onboard the *Victory.* To his credit, the English Admiral was doing a very good job of pretending that the extra boat wasn't there. The Battle of Trafalgar was proceeding just as it always had done. Stanley sensed a bonus coming.
"Can we get a bit closer?" A red-necked man with a gap in his teeth the size of a penny, was standing beside Captain Armstrong.
"No, we can't," the Captain said shortly.
"But I want to get a photo to show folks at home," the man held up a camera with a powerful telephoto lens. Stanley noted with despair that he didn't even have the strap around his neck. If it went in the water, he would refuse to be held liable for it.
"You can get a photo," the Captain snapped. "From where it's safe."
"Trafalgar Tours has a strict non-involvement in events policy," Stanley explained politely. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "We want to keep this historical moment preserved for the futourists of the future. Leave it how you found it. Take only photographs, leave nothing but footprints, and all that."
"But I want to get closer!" The man suddenly jerked Captain Armstrong aside and lunged for the ship's wheel. The Captain, thrown off balance, skidded across the wet deck and collided with the guardrail. He swore, winded.
"Excuse me!" Stanley said, but the man was now steering with one hand, holding the camera up and ready with the other. The ship heaved, creaking as it changed direction.
Admiral Nelson's face turned to one of shock very suddenly. He was shouting something. His famous flags were waving across the boats.
"Get. Out. Of. The. Damned. Way." Stanley translated. "Oh dear, they're not happy."
Captain Armstrong stumbled back up to the wheel, face like thunder and pushed the futourist aside.
"You've doomed us all!" He said. The man was oblivious.
"I just wanted to get a little closer to the action--" He was interrupted by a cannon ball rocketing across the deck. The futourists onboard screamed and ducked, but it whistled overhead and collided directly with the *Victory,* only metres behind the *Adventurer* in the water.
"Oh dear," Stanley said, as the *Victory* began taking on water: the centre of the English fleet now burning and sinking. "Looks like the French win Trafalgar."
| 2015-08-31T09:28:42
| 2015-08-31T09:28:04
| 23
| 10
|
[WP] You are an immortal searching the ends of the earth. Not for "a cure for your curse", but for a chef talented enough to make a 1,000 year old recipe like mom used to make.
|
I had traveled many places within the last few decades searching for someone, anyone, that could make my mother's Gourmet Apple Pie but not one person could come close. I had famous chefs ranging from Julia Child to Anthony Bourdain to even Chef John try their hand at it, but there was just one thing missing that always made it taste different.
Bobby Flay's try was too bland, Guy Fieri's was too spicy, and Rachel Ray didn't even come close. Gordon Ramsay was probably one of the closest tries, but I felt that the crust was a little raw at the bottom.
Then one day a miracle happened. I was in the grocery store checking out and something caught my eye - a magazine with a picture of an apple pie on the cover. The apple pie was visually identical to the memory of my mother's, down to the golden color of the crust and the design on the crust. I quickly snatched the magazine and rushed home to read the recipe and find what chef could have possibly pulled this off, I needed to contact them immediately!
As I open the door to my apartment, I quickly throw off my jacket and grab the magazine from the grocery bag. I throw it down on the table, grab a chair and flip through the pages til I see the pie, memories filling my head of the sweet smell wafting through the cabin I lived in with my mother many years ago.
I look down at the page and read the first line, "This recipe is brought to you by Claire Saffitz from the Bon Appetit Test Kitchen..."
|
"Been on the road long?"
"Something like that." The Man replied. "Been far from home... for too long."
The woman took the note from him. "Whats this?"
"I know it's an odd request but... remind me of home."
"Well, i'll admit it is odd but... why not?"
\----
Living Forever wasn't the curse. the fact everything else couldn't was the worst. The hardest part is how everything else fades... it makes it valuable in a way. He treasured everyone he ever met, each and very person was unique, never to be seen again after passing away. He was the only one who ever lived this long... he didn't know why, but he did know that no one else was the exception.
not even her.
The Woman returned with the meal sometime later, setting it infront of the man.
He ate it silently. Testing it with his mouth.
Eventually, he finished the meal and stood up, paying.
"How was it."
"Not quite the same..." he replied, shaking his head. "But... I enjoyed it."
"Can I get you anything else?
"No, but thank you... I'll have to get going soon."
"Safe travels then."
The man left soon after. The Woman wouldn't make note of the man again... but he stuck with her. Still, the usual Dinner rush would be coming soon. And while the encounter would stay with her, other concerns quickly made it less of a priority.
| 2019-11-07T13:37:31
| 2019-11-07T09:46:47
| 71
| 11
|
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