prompt stringlengths 20 5.8k | chosen_story stringlengths 226 10k | rejected_story stringlengths 227 9.43k | chosen_timestamp timestamp[ns]date 2012-07-26 17:01:55 2022-12-31 14:34:19 | rejected_timestamp timestamp[ns]date 2012-07-26 14:23:36 2022-12-31 12:20:41 | chosen_upvotes int64 14 23.1k | rejected_upvotes int64 10 4.26k |
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[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 | ”What we're dealing with here is a hot potato,” said Detective Dick as he looked over the crime scene. A dark alley, isolated from the chaos of Christmas shopping just out on the main street. And at the end, with nowhere to run, lay a hot potato, deprived of any signs of life.
”Who would kill the worlds most intelligent potato?” asked his assistent. He was standing there with a clip-board, ready to fill out the form reporting the crime, as soon as the detective should come to any useful conclusions.
”I have no idea.” The detective bent down to study the potato further. ”How... odd.”
”What is?” Dick said nothing, just waved his hand, telling the assistant without words to be quiet. Then he called the forensics doctor over, and straightened out one of the fingers on one of his strong, old hands pointing to something for the forensics doctor to see. The finger was shaking slightly, saying *please confirm that I am not crazy*. The forensics doctor looked, first at the potato, then at the detective, and the detective looked back at him. They nodded to each other.
”How odd, indeed.” the doctor agreed.
”What is?” the assistant asked again.
”The way this potato was murdered isn't ordinary.” stated the detective.
”It seems it was mocked just before its death.” added the doctor affirmatively. ”And as if that wasn't enough, it has been physically harmed by this mockery.”
The assistant could hardly believe what he was hearing, but dutifully picked up his pen and added ”Insult” to ”Injury” on the report.
**I might add to this later, it's kind of fun.**
**Whoops, seems like I couldn't decide whether the assistant was 1st or 3rd person. I think I fixed it now B)** | “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) | 2015-12-10T06:57:47 | 2015-12-10T05:15:54 | 18 | 11 |
[WP] A world where people can store the adrenaline rush and aggressiveness of their anger for later use. Keep enough rage inside and you can, literally and figuratively, hulk out. Now, in your city there's a person who's never been visibly angry... | "Is he ready?" The major asked.
*"What do you think? He's been storing that rage for 25 years. Nobody's more ready than he is.*
"He had damn better be. If this succeeds, it'll be a major coup. Possibly the biggest breakthrough in our field in...what, 50 years? Anyway, lets commence. BRING HIM OUT!"
The hangar door was opened. 5 soldiers escorted a calm looking man down the runway to where a streamlined, bullet shaped spacecraft was placed, and stopped near its back. An enormous crowd, and dignitaries from 150-odd countries were watching with bated breaths. It all happened very fast then.
One of the soldiers slapped the calm man. When he had barely recovered, another kicked him. Soon, all 5 were soundly beating him up. Suddenly they stopped and stepped away.
It was a scene to behold. The man was - to call him furious would be understatement - it seemed as if he would like nothing better than crush all the assembled people near the runway to pulp.
Instead, he turned. Years of training had been spent to inculcate only one instinct into the man - when you get angry, you lift and you throw. Lift and throw. Lift and throw...
So, in an amazing feat of strength that broke nearly 50 world records, the man lifted the spacecraft and threw it with all of his strength in the air - at an angle of 60 degrees. The throw was impressive, and the spacecraft vanished from view within a few seconds. The man calmed down, and collapsed. A medical team rushed towards him. This was punctuated by an intense silence - eventually broken by the metallic voice on the PA speakers.
"This is Mission Control. Wojtek-1 reports achievement of stable low earth orbit. Commencing climb to geosynchronous orbit..."
These few words caused an explosion of cheering in the assembled thousands. The major wiped his eyes and smiled
"Finally, Poland has into space." | I guess as Hagrid once said.. wait was it Hagrid? Pretty sure it was. Well someone in Harry Potter said it. That there were weirdos in every breed. And I'm sure there are people like me out there too, but I guess I'm the only one in my town. Because I'm the only one mentioned in the local news about it time to time.
About how I have the most pent up aggression and anger and adrenalin for my age. About how I'm always laid back and cool about everything and never angry. About how that only means I have too much Juus in my reserve and it will be a scary day when I let myself go.
I mean I had lost it before. Like that one time during summer camp when I was, like, 10, I spent the whole summer utterly pissed that I was stuck in a camp that I didn't even want to go to in the first place and one day, when Hank crossed the line and spat on my pizza slice, I accidentally tapped into my saved up Juus and slammed his head on the table so hard the table broke and a piece of wood got partially impaled in his face.
Thankfully there wasn't any lasting damage but I had to go through counselling on why I should not keep my anger pent up and just lose it on the spot when I get angry.
After that, though, I don't really recall getting angry about stuff and then saving up Juus. I don't even recall even properly getting angry.
I just stopped caring, I guess. Stopped letting things get to me. People think my laid back and calm persona is just an act. That I have an ulterior motive to save up my Juus to take over the world or something. I really don't. My Juus reserves are almost non-existent. People who have heard about me sometimes try to irritate me, to try and help me on my made-up quest of saving up Juus. People try to trip me. Accidentally knock on to me on their bicycles. Ring my doorbell and run away before I could answer the door.
And when they see me smile at their sad attempts to make me rise my Juus even higher, they feel accomplished. Because smiling means I haven't snapped yet. That the anger is still building. And that's what I find most intriguing about my infamy. That people want to see me finally lose it.
Sucks that it's in vain, though. | 2016-03-16T09:29:15 | 2016-03-16T09:07:59 | 98 | 38 |
[WP] You are a Hell Writer, you design hells for people after they die based on studying their life history. Today Satan summons you to his sanctum and you are troubled to see that he has a shocked expression on his face. | The King of Hell himself stared at me, eyebrow raised, drumming his red knuckles on the edge of his mahogany desk. "Sir-"I started, but was silenced by the raise of his jagged index finger. He was looking sharp as ever in his prada suit (he actually hated the brand up until the release of a certain film) as he spun around on his chair. A few rotations in, his nasally double voice boomed into the air.
"Mister... Brandon, was it? Talk to me about the last Hell you designed." His chair suddenly stopped as he leaned forward on his desk, his scaly red face inches from mine.
"Right, sir. Hell number 103843. The current occupant killed herself. Suicide is a sin. So I made her a hell." His sulfurous breath overwhelmed my senses, but I knew better than to breathe through my mouth.
Satan's eyes blinked from the bottom up. "I get that. Why is there an angel in it?"
I swallowed half a mouthful of saliva. "Have you, uh, ever seen A Christmas Carol? Mortal invention, very well known, in theaters everywhere during a certain person's birthday?"
He glowered. Literal flames poured from his eyes. Right. He wasn't particularly fond of Christmas, since nobody did anything for *his* birthday. "I know of the work."
I nodded. "Well, the woman inside knows about it too. The whole story of an angel leading a miser through his life, showing him where he went wrong, and offering him a chance to set things right."
He pounded a fist on the desk. "And this is a punishment? Being stuck in a crappy holiday film?"
I held up my hands in mock surrender. "Please, sir, let me finish. Anyway, the Hell I made for her is an exact replica of the real world that she knows, save for the angel. As we speak, it's guiding her through her past life, letting her see where she went wrong. And at the end of the journey-"
"She'll wake up in bed and get to fix her mistakes, realize that life is worth living, and have a BLOODY GOOD TIME IN HELL. THAT IS NOT WHAT WE ARE ABOUT, BRANDON!" Satan roared.
"She'll realize that life was worth living. But she'll still be dead. The angel will be gone. And she'll watch life go on without her forever." I stammered.
Satan took a deep breath, blinked twice, and calmed the heck down. "Dismissed." | Usually, Satan sends me an email asking it I'm caught up on the Hell Designs Department. If something is wrong, I talk to a regional manager, not the fallen angel himself.
I finally arrive on his floor, and the elevator floors open, and he was there, standing right in front of them.
"Oh dear."
Satan uncharacteristically responded "That phrase works too. Come and sit down."
Satan has been known for offering some form of torturous drink, but all he did was hand me a sheet of paper.
"What is this about?" my voiced quivered. His cold and confident voice was as shakier as mine. "Uh, I uh don't know how this, uh, happened."
"H-how do you pronounce this? Mich... eel? Mitch-ale?"
He snapped. "It's Michael, like the angel! You should know that!"
"But he's five. He's no angel, h-he's barely old enough for school!"
The lights flickered. "I KNOW! I know how old he is! And he's not my incarnation, I'm still alive!"
"S-should we really do this? It sounds like he would be l-legendary in the R&D department."
The lights dimmed. "DO I CARE WHERE HE SHOULD GO? NO! THIS CHILD IS CALLED THE SECOND COMING OF ME! HE WAS CALLED SATAN 2.0, THE BETTER ME!"
"Should I t-torture him for his insolence?" He turned around, his eyes darker than oil. "Eliminate. his. existance." Each word felt like my ear drums were being stabbed with a pen.
I shuddered. "Y-yes my lord. Is there any torture method you would like me to use?"
He finally smiled. "Use the method that God demanded for uh, what's-his-face. Cain! God, that was fun. The uh, nerve exposure. That one, and run some of God's smite lightening through his nerves."
"Yes my lord. Would you like me to start immediately?" as I tried to stand up without peeing.
"Yeah, and email the CCTV to God and I. Oh, and that angel with the same name as him."
I was glad that he started no longer so anxious, but I had to ruin it. "Are you really sure you don't want to add him to the torturing cycle? It's a waste of talent." A wave sent me flying into the empty elevator, cracking the wood panels.
I stood up, but I ended up peeing this time"This is the closest I have to revenge on God. Do. not. ruin. it. for. me." Again, the pen though the eardrums.
"Y-y-y-y-yes s-s-s-sir."
As he started laughing, a volcano erupted outside his window. "Woaaah! Did you see that? You shouldn't have, you should be GONE!"
The elevator fell faster than Satan fell to hell. | 2016-11-08T17:08:32 | 2016-11-08T15:38:45 | 393 | 10 |
[WP] Magic is discovered to be real. The catch? Spells are just like computer programs: difficult to write, and even harder to do correct the first try. You're a spell bug tester, and you've seen just about everything go wrong, but today's typo is on a whole other level... | **Issue: [SEVERE]** 'Magic Hands' spell applied to subject rather than pure conjuration
**Type:** Application
**Severity:** A
**Priority:** 1
**Assigned to:** Matt Traynor
**Submitted by:** Greg Philmore
**Summary:**
Set to severity A because this stupid fucking system doesn't give me a goddamn S-rank for this bullshit.
'Magic Hands' intention was, apparently, to create a set of said hands to perform simple tasks. Unfortunately, instead of setting the spell to conjure those hands, it does the following:
Turns the caster into a pair of *fucking sentient hands.*
I'm currently typing this bug report up as a pair of hands. I have no idea how this is even still working and I've still got the capacity to think, but there you go.
Matt: it seems like you forgot to set the spell to actually CONJURE rather than just apply it to whatever poor bastard got this one to test. FIX IMMEDIATELY.
Side notes: unable to turn down requests for things such as “Get me a coffee” or “Can you type this bug report up for me?” This is getting beyond a joke.
***EDIT: IT HAS BEEN FOUR HOURS. HAVE SUBMITTED 8 TICKETS TO SPELL TECH TO FIX THIS. FIRE MATT.***
**Comments:**
**(12:07) Matt Traynor:** Oh goddamn it I knew something was wrong with it! Sorry! I'll get on fixing that right away and send the changes over.
**(12:08) Greg Philmore:** I don't care about a fix for the bug at this point. I am going to spend the rest of the day slapping the shit out of you if you don't get on UNDOING this.
**(12:47) Kerry Lane:** This is hilarious. Greg has been at the coffee machine for 20 minutes serving up lattes. Also we haven't had to listen to him singing Jimmy Buffet songs all morning! This is bliss.
**(12:56) Matthew Hendry:** How long do you think we can keep this up for?
**(15:12) Greg Philmore:** FIRE MATT AFTER KICKING HIM DECIDEDLY IN THE NUTSACK | /r/TalesFromMajSupport
#Why you never, EVER let an intern into spelldev [Medium]
⬆9348⬇
by DepressedQAMagician 🌟x1
Howdy TFMS, it's your boy Depressed QA Magician, and I've got another troubling tale for you.
So, if you remember, $Boss has a thing for younguns. Just can't resist the HS interns and fresh grads over the many, many, people who are much more qualified. Can you already tell where this is going?
Yep. Intern. Spelldev.
I know for a fact that all of you maj support workers think they have it worse than QA magicians--their natural enemies next to dumb end users--and vice versa (grass is always greener). Listen to my story.
I was on a coffee break when $newIntern came up to me and told me that $departmentHead wanted me and my QA brethren to investigate a... bug.
So I take my shit to the QA department and what do I see? A... locked door, actually. Rooted shut.
"OH GOD PLEASE DON'T COME IN" $departmentGuy1 says over Ventrilocharm. "CALL THE FUCKING MAJ SUPPORT OH GOD PLEASE"
And I did. I'm standing at the door with my good friend Mike from MS. He blasts it open with a Doorbuster Charm and...
Holy shit. The floor is covered in black slime that looks like tar. Some of it is spilling out on the carpet outside the QA dep't. Mike is absolutely flabbergasted. $departmentHead is standing on a table with a lighter and a can of hair spray in hand. There are geese flying out of the slime. The slime is making more geese.
I'm surprised Mike hadn't pissed his pants yet at this point.
$daveFromQA is sprinting over the slime with his signature Jesus Charm. His shirt is on fire. A book with teeth like the ones in Big Boo's Haunt is chasing him.
I look over at Mike and say, "I'll call $newIntern." I walk away.
When I come back with $newIntern I'm relieved to see that the slime is gone, but then I'm panicked again when a duck comes out of the carpet and starts attacking everyone. Didn't take much to hex it into a tadpole. Meanwhile, $newIntern is cleaning up his mess while apologizing profusely. When everything's all fine and dandy again, $departmentHead loses his shit, rips into $newIntern, and files a complaint to the higher ups.
MS concedes bitter defeat to QA for "worst job", $newIntern is fired, and $Boss was never seen again.
363 comments - report - gild - save - share | 2017-07-26T03:57:13 | 2017-07-26T01:31:47 | 417 | 97 |
[WP] Magic is discovered to be real. The catch? Spells are just like computer programs: difficult to write, and even harder to do correct the first try. You're a spell bug tester, and you've seen just about everything go wrong, but today's typo is on a whole other level... | "They're dead? ...... All of them?"
"Yes... yes ma'am" Bill replies back, struggling to meet my eye. It looks like he's been crying again. Oh sweet Bill, you're in the wrong line of work.
"Explain to me again how this happened..." I try to keep my tone neutral yet supportive. He still sees me as some authoritative zealot, if he would ever actually open his eyes and look at me he'd see that I'm anything but that.
He takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts. "Test groups 3,5, & 19 were assigned the new *Pacifico* spell this morning. They were supposed to begin testing at noon. The observers got back from lunch a few minutes late..." he stops and sniffles. Oh lordy, this won't be an easy day.
"and...?" I prompt him
"All they found were the bodies.... But it's odd... There's no signs of harm or any damage to them, they're just dead. It was a peaceful spell... I don't understand...."
This is certainly interesting. There's no denying that we've had deaths before, but usually it's only a handful of members of the group, and it's usually quite obvious what happened. Take the "Fountain of Youth" spell from three years ago, when a few of the teenagers started having teeth fall out and their hair grey, we had a pretty good idea what happened. That was just a simple reversed operator and a missing digit in an equation.
But no signs of death, and 100% of subjects being affected... What could this be?
"Let me see the scrolls again please" I ask Bill, he's still jumpy, but perhaps a task will help him.
He returns a few minutes later with one, scanning through it himself. I put my arm around his shoulder in a show of compassion, but his shudder is quite obvious.
"So, run me through this one again please Bill"
"Well *Pacifico* is meant to grant the caster a peaceful and relaxing day. It's supposed to silence any doubts they have, clear their mind, and give them a light DND aura"
"DND?" I can only think of one phrase that DND could represent, and if their DM is anything like mine, it's far from peaceful
"Do Not Disturb, like the hotel sign or phone setting. It's meant to make others leave them be and not pester them." He's in full stride now, I can see the colour returning to his face.
I take the scroll from him, this is quite a complex spell. Affecting the minds of others is never easy, and even an aura on the self can cause complications.
Most of this is standard boilerplate. The logical flow works, the procedure calls look good, the variables are clearly defined. What could the issue be?
"Who wrote this one?" I ask, partly out of idle curiosity, partly because I'm stumped and need to look strong.
"Sumin did ma'am." there he goes with that ma'am again.
Sumin... Sumin.... She's certainly experienced enough, she's been with us for almost a year at this point. She came to us from somewhere in the Orient, I can't recall exactly.
A thought strikes me. I quickly check the purpose portion of the spell.
Oh no....
There it is, so simple, how did we miss this.
> This spell is to help the caster quit life
I push the scroll over to Bill, pointing my finger to appropriate section.
"caster quit life....? Oh god...." he murmurs. "A quiet life, we wanted a quiet life!" this is not going to be easy on him...
And that is the story I tell all the new witches and wizards when they complain about our bureaucracy. We lost 84 kind and innocent souls that day due to a simple missing letter and oddly worded sentence.
Whenever the young'uns ask why it takes us 3 weeks before we even trial a new spell, I remind them of the quit life.
| "Sir, you will not regret this. I swear." Miffle entered my quarters with a bound. The sweet smile in his eyes twittered with anticipation. Miffle's dreams of commanding a prestigious estate in the annals of spellmen's history ever lead his way.
"I see you think you've got something quite exceptional this time, Miffle. Well, go ahead, let's take a look. I hope we don't have as much work ahead of us this time as the last, eh?" I winked at him wryly.
The last spell Miffle wanted me to spell check let loose a small tornado in the hallway, instead of proving to be a safer way for the circus fliers to perform sans harnais de sécurité. Madam Eldermore nearly lost her cat, poor dear.
I encourage him to start, and Miffle extracts his wand and a curious silver pen from underneath his coat. With the pen in his right hand, his left hand lifts the wand with florid intent and whips it about with a grace that I cannot help but admire. His spell work is really quite poetic - when it is correct. The nuances are ever so delicate, and I almost miss it. He repeats the motion, and there it is again. My appreciation suddenly turns to horror at the realization of .. ... . ... ..... .... .... ...... .. .. ..... .. ...
.. .... ... .... .. ... ...... .. .... ... ... ...... ..... ........... ...... ..... ....... .... .... .... .... .... ... ..... ..... ... ..... ...... ..... .... ..... ....... .... .... ..... .... .... ...... ... ...... .... .....
...... ..... .... ....... .....
..... ..... .. ... ..... ... ...
........ ....... ... ..... .. ........ .... ... ..... ... ... ... ... .. ... .... ..... ..... ... .... .... .... ....... ... .... ... .......... .. ......... ....... ..... ..... ..... .... ...... ..... .... .... .... ... .... .... ... ....... .......... ...... ...... ..... .... ........ .... ....... ..... ..... ...... ...... ....... ...... ..... ...... ... ... ... .... ....... ..... ..... ..... ... ..........
... .... ....
...
..... ... .... .... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..... ... ... .. .. .. .. ........ .. ... - OH, THANK GOD!"
You are the most incompetent witch of a . .... ..... ..... ........ .......
.... . ..... ..... ... ......
....... ... ..... ..... ...... ....... ... ... ......... ..... ... ... ..... .... ... .... ......
....... .... . ........ ....... ..... ..... .. ........ ..... ............ ..... ...... ... .... .... ... ........
......... ..... ..... ...... .... ... .... ..... ..T! Just get out! And take this damn thing with you!"
I hurriedly shove the pen into Miffle's pocket and with a scalding visage admonish him without a single utterance. I seethe as his tears obscure the edges of his eyelids, and it is as if his hope drains away and collects into tiny inert puddles by the door - just before it closes behind him and smears his tears across my floor. My anger and bafflement roil for what seems ages.
- - -
Now, as the day draws close and my rage finally dwindles to ember, I allow myself to relax, to come off guard, and I wonder - I'll never know just what he had in mind with that spell. I've seen plenty of typos but never anything like that; And yes, I AM counting that time Swincy nearly wiped out the entire Gourmandier department in that unfortunate vivisepulture of "Anytime Truffles."
Still... I wish it hadn't been so important to him. The poor urchin has an almost fluvial way with the wand. And this time, this time, I could tell that he was nearly onto.... onto something. I had the strangest sensation that a new sort of consciousness was being birthed. Oh, but his lack of attention to detail! It always caps his brilliance!
If I only stopped him just before that final stroke, I might not have been engulfed in that mental nothingness he created, and I would not have reacted so harshly. But it was as if my mind had been wedged between the night and the Reaper himself. I am always aware of Death's presence, but never have I felt his breath on my neck before. That is a fear I hope to never encounter again; I may not have the strength to return.
I throw my reports into my bag and scan the room for anything I might leave behind. "What's that?" I bend down to pick up Miffle's pen cap. I must not have noticed - "OH FOR FU.... ....... | 2017-07-26T00:37:23 | 2017-07-25T20:43:49 | 129 | 32 |
[WP] Magic is discovered to be real. The catch? Spells are just like computer programs: difficult to write, and even harder to do correct the first try. You're a spell bug tester, and you've seen just about everything go wrong, but today's typo is on a whole other level... | As the first spell was cast, the world changed. Those early years were full of some nasty work. Thankfully, magic was pretty new, and magicians had yet to write any spells longer than a few pages before magic came under extreme regulation.
And yet, the most damaging magical incident occurred thanks to a spell only five lines in length (three if you ignore the ending braces):
for each student in world.schools {
if student.is('bully') {
student.cancer();
}
}
As I'm sure you can imagine, that spell was written and cast by a young, troubled boy, gifted in magic but not yet wise enough to understand the consequences.
This incident sparked an international outrage. The boy's bullies may have gotten cancer, but so did every other school-aged child who had bullied someone or even just been called a bully in the past 24 hours. In the end, nearly five million kids contracted some kind of cancer. It was random, as the boy had not supplied the cancer method with any arguments, so thankfully, about 95% of those kids were inflicted with non-lethal cancer. The rest, not so lucky.
The boy was sentenced to death.
And that's when my agency, the Department of Magical Research and Regulation, was formed. I was just one of the first twenty magicians who were recruited for this agency. At the fresh age of 23, my most complicated spell had been a three-pager that warned me when my new puppy needed a walk or some food.
That was five years ago.
Today, magic is tightly regulated. My agency had developed new spells that tracked the energy expenditure from other magicians' spells. That way, should someone use magic to steal or kill, we could easily track that person down. We've cast spells that require magicians correct syntax mistakes before they can compile their spells. And anyone caught using magic to coerce or harm another human being, unless agreed upon as a magical duel between two magicians, is sentenced to death. Harsh, but many would argue it's necessary. Accidents, if no serious harm has been inflicted, are punished less severely.
***********************
Beep Beep. Usually when my phone goes off, it's some magician stuck with a bug in his spell, but today was different.
I stare at my phone in horror. It's a news article. The title:
> Three Hundred Women Kill Each Other in Magical Accident
I check the location: Salt Lake City, UT. Before I knew it, I was on a plane, sent to analyze the spell's energy signature and determine the cause of the deaths, whether accidental or purposeful.
The spell had wreaked its mayhem at a ten year high school reunion for a local public school. When I arrived, the police had already cleaned up most of the bodies. I flashed my badge and quickly got to work analyzing the energy signatures.
They led me to Dale.
**********************
"Dale." I said rather flatly. He was violently fidgeting in his chair opposite the interrogation room's table from me.
"You really fucked up this one Dale." I looked for a reaction in his eyes, "Honestly, you're going to be sentenced to death within the month."
"It was an accident!" he blurted out.
"Dale, three hundred women are dead because of your spell. It doesn't matter if it was an accident."
He sunk into his chair and buried his face in his arms.
"I only want one thing from you, Dale."
He looked up.
"Where is your spell?"
"What's it matter? It's all fucked. This whole world. It's all fucked." Dale began to cry. I didn't feel bad for him.
"At this point, it's procedural. My job is to determine what went wrong in your spell, and you'd be saving me some time backwards-compiling your work."
He looked defeated. A man filled only with regret: "It's in a box buried in my backyard, next to the orange tree."
I walked out of the room and headed for my car.
**Part 2:** https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/6pkzog/wp_magic_is_discovered_to_be_real_the_catch/dkrju70/ | "Sir, you will not regret this. I swear." Miffle entered my quarters with a bound. The sweet smile in his eyes twittered with anticipation. Miffle's dreams of commanding a prestigious estate in the annals of spellmen's history ever lead his way.
"I see you think you've got something quite exceptional this time, Miffle. Well, go ahead, let's take a look. I hope we don't have as much work ahead of us this time as the last, eh?" I winked at him wryly.
The last spell Miffle wanted me to spell check let loose a small tornado in the hallway, instead of proving to be a safer way for the circus fliers to perform sans harnais de sécurité. Madam Eldermore nearly lost her cat, poor dear.
I encourage him to start, and Miffle extracts his wand and a curious silver pen from underneath his coat. With the pen in his right hand, his left hand lifts the wand with florid intent and whips it about with a grace that I cannot help but admire. His spell work is really quite poetic - when it is correct. The nuances are ever so delicate, and I almost miss it. He repeats the motion, and there it is again. My appreciation suddenly turns to horror at the realization of .. ... . ... ..... .... .... ...... .. .. ..... .. ...
.. .... ... .... .. ... ...... .. .... ... ... ...... ..... ........... ...... ..... ....... .... .... .... .... .... ... ..... ..... ... ..... ...... ..... .... ..... ....... .... .... ..... .... .... ...... ... ...... .... .....
...... ..... .... ....... .....
..... ..... .. ... ..... ... ...
........ ....... ... ..... .. ........ .... ... ..... ... ... ... ... .. ... .... ..... ..... ... .... .... .... ....... ... .... ... .......... .. ......... ....... ..... ..... ..... .... ...... ..... .... .... .... ... .... .... ... ....... .......... ...... ...... ..... .... ........ .... ....... ..... ..... ...... ...... ....... ...... ..... ...... ... ... ... .... ....... ..... ..... ..... ... ..........
... .... ....
...
..... ... .... .... ... ... ... ... ... ... ..... ... ... .. .. .. .. ........ .. ... - OH, THANK GOD!"
You are the most incompetent witch of a . .... ..... ..... ........ .......
.... . ..... ..... ... ......
....... ... ..... ..... ...... ....... ... ... ......... ..... ... ... ..... .... ... .... ......
....... .... . ........ ....... ..... ..... .. ........ ..... ............ ..... ...... ... .... .... ... ........
......... ..... ..... ...... .... ... .... ..... ..T! Just get out! And take this damn thing with you!"
I hurriedly shove the pen into Miffle's pocket and with a scalding visage admonish him without a single utterance. I seethe as his tears obscure the edges of his eyelids, and it is as if his hope drains away and collects into tiny inert puddles by the door - just before it closes behind him and smears his tears across my floor. My anger and bafflement roil for what seems ages.
- - -
Now, as the day draws close and my rage finally dwindles to ember, I allow myself to relax, to come off guard, and I wonder - I'll never know just what he had in mind with that spell. I've seen plenty of typos but never anything like that; And yes, I AM counting that time Swincy nearly wiped out the entire Gourmandier department in that unfortunate vivisepulture of "Anytime Truffles."
Still... I wish it hadn't been so important to him. The poor urchin has an almost fluvial way with the wand. And this time, this time, I could tell that he was nearly onto.... onto something. I had the strangest sensation that a new sort of consciousness was being birthed. Oh, but his lack of attention to detail! It always caps his brilliance!
If I only stopped him just before that final stroke, I might not have been engulfed in that mental nothingness he created, and I would not have reacted so harshly. But it was as if my mind had been wedged between the night and the Reaper himself. I am always aware of Death's presence, but never have I felt his breath on my neck before. That is a fear I hope to never encounter again; I may not have the strength to return.
I throw my reports into my bag and scan the room for anything I might leave behind. "What's that?" I bend down to pick up Miffle's pen cap. I must not have noticed - "OH FOR FU.... ....... | 2017-07-26T01:07:47 | 2017-07-25T20:43:49 | 128 | 32 |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, but you've reincarnated into the same time period as you previous lived, and you've just met somebody you remember being. | "Why so glum, kid?"
He turns to look at me. He must be about thirteen, maybe fourteen. It's not the downtrodden face that I recognise, nor the shoulders that are slumped so far down I figure they must be carrying the weight of the entire world on them. No, it's the eyes. They move to meet mine so damned slowly; he's like a child looking around the depths of Hell, afraid of not only what he will see, but of what he won't. *Who* he won't.
"Ah shit," I mutter.
"Huh," he says, as he points to his mouth. "Your scarf. I can't hear you."
"Oh, right," I reply, tugging it down slightly and freeing up my lips. "Better?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good." I take a deep breath; I know I have to ask him again. I have to ask, because when I was *him,* *I* asked me.
"So uh, why so glum?" I repeat.
He grunts. "You don't want to know. Seriously."
"Come on. Give me a shot. I might not look it, but I'm in fact a *very* good listener."
"Thanks, but no thanks. No one wants to listen to me. Not my friends. Not my family. And sure as fuck not you."
"Look, kid, I uh, I don't know you, but you and me - we're going to be ski-lift buddies for a little while longer. I've got no choice *but* to listen to you. So why waste this God-damned once in a lifetime opportunity, to spill your soul to a complete stranger? What's the worst that can happen - I listen to what you want to say, and then you ski down the mountain and never see me again? Doesn't sound too terrible to me."
He bites his tongue as he considers. "Okay," he agrees. He seems almost reluctant, but I know he's dying to share it. To release it. To begin the catharsis.
"I guess it started when I was ten..."
The kid pours his heart out, and I listen to it all. My fists clench as the memories flood back. It's hard to listen to him, at times, but I know he needs to say it. He needs someone to just *hear* him. To believe him.
Finally, when he's out of both words and tears, I tell him what I know he needs to hear. My own experiences. That he's not alone. And that right now, he might want to jump of this ski-lift and break his fucking neck, but one day soon he'll be looking back at this moment and thanking God he didn't fall.
"Time heals," I say.
"That's just a bullshit cliché," he retorts.
"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't."
"..."
"Okay, you want to hear something a little less clichéd?"
He shrugs.
"Mm, okay. Do you know what the most *badass* thing a person can do with their life is?"
He shrugs again. "Join the army?"
"No. But that's kind of badass too, I guess. *The* most badass thing you can do with your life is: *to live it*. And to live through all the shit you've been through, and come out the other side as the amazing person I *know* you're going to become - hell, that's the most badass thing in the entire universe."
I watch his eyes fall to his feet, and I remember the exact feeling he's experiencing: the weight of the word trickling away just a tiny bit. Lessening just enough, to give him hope.
We sit in silence for the last few minutes of the ride. When the ski-lift ends, my wife runs over to greet me.
I know the boy recognises her. I know *he* recognises *me*, now. His mouth opens wide as the gears in his head turn and click.
I look back at him a last time and wave.
"It's going to be okay, kid," I yell, before I pull my scarf back over my mouth and walk away.
| The last time I had closed my eyes, I had every intention of keeping them closed. As fate would have it, God gave me a second chance. Not that anyone asked. There were probably a billion other people who would die for the chance I got, literally. But no. God gave it to me, Ryan Johnson, the guy who sits at an eight-person table in Hopkins High School by himself. People stand in the hall to eat and here I am, not a single soul willing to plop down even if it’s to bury ourselves in food and avoid eye contact as if we had to rush through our plates to move on to bigger and better things.
The only redeeming part of Hopkins High School was Mr. White, the Calculus teacher. Now, I was never smart enough to take Calculus, but he was smart enough to know that I was in trouble. And most importantly, he hadn’t yet been jaded into passivity. It was his first year on the job and he still sharpened his smile like a weapon, hoping to catch every downcast eye so he could sit them down for a five minute “no pressure” conversation.
It was annoying. But when your only friend came to you in the form of pretend text messages and phone calls with static, you took what you could get.
Unfortunately for Mr. White, all he had to offer me were these bullshit “it gets better” statements. I could watch videos of that shit on YouTube. Hell, the school played those cheaply made videos with the soft piano music in the background and the words “it gets better” scrolling across the screen in the end. I bet after I closed my eyes, they’d double down on that kind of shit. Maybe plaster the hallways with posters about how things get better.
When? When do they get better Mr. White?
Next year, that’s your fresh start. You’ll have whole new classes. College, for sure. New campus, new faces, new people. When you make your first friend. That’s when it all changes.
Bullshit.
Want to know what Mr. White never told me, what my parents never told me, not my teachers, nor my counselors? It was the one thing I needed to hear too and I only ever heard it in whispered sneers in between classes and sometimes scratched on bathroom doors.
“Ryan Johnson, you’re a piece of shit.”
Because I was. I didn’t talk to people. I thought that friends were something that came to you like maggots to death. I assumed that people *wanted* to talk to me simply because I existed. And when they didn't, nobody told me how to fix that.
“Ryan Johnson,” I say now. “You’re a piece of shit.”
Perhaps if Mr. White gave me a solid smack across the face, grabbed my shoulders and screamed at me to wake up from my pretend fantasy where everything’ll get better if I simply stay the course, maybe things would’ve ended different. But he didn’t. Nobody did. All I got was another 5 minute YouTube video with that 1 minute unskippable ad telling me to keep on keeping on.
So no, I don’t want a second chance. I blew my first one and that was tragic enough for me. But no matter how I complain, no matter how I struggle. I can’t stop my eyes from fluttering open. And when they do, they refuse to close again.
“It’s a baby boy,” I hear and then a gasp.
“Oh my God,” a woman squeals. “He’s beautiful.”
“Look at him.” A finger nudges me in the belly and a face appears before me—my father. I can barely see with the fluorescent lights behind him, but he has a familiar smile.
I lunge my head back and cry. I claw the air in front of me, but it must seem to them like I’m just pawing. No, I want to scream, but my tongue lumbers in my mouth. I don’t want this, I tell my father, I never asked for this, I tell my mother.
She rocks me back and forth and coos. “We’ll name him Marcus,” she says. “Marcus White.”
And I stop crying.
“He likes the name,” my mother tells me.
She's wrong, I don't like the name at all. But I do recognize it. Tears come to my eyes but this time, I don't wail. I finally understand what my second chance is really about.
The first time I had blown it was tragic enough. I refused to let it happen again.
---
---
/r/jraywang for 5+ stories a week and ~200 stories already written!
| 2017-08-26T11:54:07 | 2017-08-26T10:56:52 | 107 | 29 |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, but you've reincarnated into the same time period as you previous lived, and you've just met somebody you remember being. | I was walking down 6th Street, like I do every day. But that day, I walked right past me. Or, the man that I was last time. I turned to catch him as soon as I had registered what I saw.
"Excuse me, sir!" I called out. He peeked over his shoulder to see a middle-aged man hustling in his direction, not a great sight in a city. For whatever reason, I didn't scare him away.
"I'm sorry?" he said, giving me a quizzical look. Taking the time to get a closer look, I could definitely confirm it was the face I had seen in the mirror every morning for 26 years.
"I recognize you from somewhere. I think it was the newspaper. A pedestrian hit by a car, maybe?" I guided my questions because I knew exactly of my previous fate. My mentioning of the accident changed the demeanor of his face from confusion to incredulity. He grabbed my arm and pulled around the corner of a building and to a side street. He brought his face very close to mine.
"Listen, bud. I don't know what you know, but I survived that car accident. And why the hell would you remember some random accident from two years ago in a city this big? What about all the other crimes and stories that would wash that out of a sane person's mind?" It seems I had struck a nerve, or that he was possibly on to me. Certainly, I'm not the only person who knows about reincarnation.
"It. Was. Me," I spoke very slowly. "I was you. I *died* in the accident. So what do you mean to say when you tell me you survived?" The voice that uttered his response was no longer his own, instead becoming a chorus of several angelic voices. His eyes glossed over.
"John, sometimes the bodies in which our souls find shelter trip themselves into destiny. And sometimes our souls aren't very good drivers. It was clear to us that you were not fit to guide this body to its intended purpose. So we pulled you out of it." His eyes returned to normal and he blinked a few times, registering where he was, as if he had just returned to reality. "Yeah, sorry, man, I think you got the wrong guy." | All of a sudden, I remembered. It was nothing like the vague déjà vus I had been having my whole life, this feeling that I had already been in a place before, even though I was there for the first time.
No, this was entirely different. I remembered *everything* crystal clear. It was overwhelming, a flood of memories and emotions suddenly just "there" out of nowhere changing the very nature of the person I was, or thought I had been.
I looked down at the hand I was shaking and then up into his eyes. What a strange feeling it was, like I standing in front of a mirror, except I was looking in from the other side. There was no doubt, I was shaking my own hand.
My thoughts were racing. I was sure now that there had been some kind of mistake. Like everything else I remembered dying. I remembered death gently putting a hand on my shoulder and leading me away into the the endless night on to the next chapter.
Reincarnation was real. But something had gone wrong. I was supposed to reincarnate into the time right after my death, instead it seemed I had reincarnated right into the time of my birth. I and...well..I seemed to be the same age.
Gingerly I let go of the hand. My old self was smiling it me, we were out in my favorite pup, a mutual friend had just introduced us. He was laughing, chatting, drinking, for "him" it was a night like every other.
I resisted the urge to tell him everything right then and there. Even though part of me wanted to, there was no use telling "him" of what I had just discovered. I knew what he thought, what he felt. I had *been* him and I knew what he would say if I told him. Eventually he would probably believe me, ludicrous as it would sound, in the end nobody can persuade you better of anything than yourself can. But he wouldn't like it. some things you're better of not knowing.
It was a strange feeling, knowing that I had probably changed my own old life forever, as I was sure this situation had never happened to me in my old body. Who knew what from now on the butterfly effect would cause to happen. Funny how one small handshake would change an entire life.
A decision manifested inside me. Explaining everything was not an option, I knew. But I also remembered moments of my old live where I would have given everything for someone to turn to when there was nowhere else to go, someone who could really understand how I felt.
I couldn't save him from future events, they would not be the same events I experienced, but I could at least try to be his guide to a better life and perhaps, he could be the same to me.
A though occurred to me: "I only hope he doesn't hit on me." | 2017-08-26T14:12:26 | 2017-08-26T11:19:14 | 27 | 20 |
[WP] You have been striving for years to commit the elusive “Perfect Crime” for the fame of it. You steal the Mona Lisa and replace it with a fake. You leave a taunting note and wait for the panic when it is discovered. But, 2 years later, no one has noticed. | I wrote a note and planted a seed.
I left it where a trained eye would be.
But even still years have passed
No one has noticed behind its thick glass
With precise skill to fool the best
I replaced her image with something less.
Mona Lisa your smile is not your own
It belongs here, safe in my home
Hanging in sight, because nobody would guess
They'd say "It's probably a fake just like the rest".
| I grin at my canvas. This is gonna be great. No one’s ever going to be able to tell the difference. In fact, I bet they’ll all look at this one and like it better. That’s right. My version will be better than the original, better than anything it could hope to be. The smile- just a little less radiant- and the tilt of her head- just a little more straight- are the only things setting the two apart at this point. Those fools, they can’t tell good art from bad art. I pull the finished product off the canvas and haul it to the museum. I get in easily, and wait until the room drains. I quickly swap one for another, walking out without a problem. A guard even nods at me as a friendly hello. Moron. I hang the original copy in my house. Nobody even seems to notice its stolen. Honestly, I was hoping I would get a couple laughs.
I am Leonardo DaVinci. | 2018-04-18T19:44:08 | 2018-04-18T19:40:07 | 35 | 14 |
[WP] It’s your 20th birthday. You wake up, open your eyes...and see your bedroom as it was ten years ago. Turns out the past ten years of your “life” were just a very vivid dream... | Jake was careful. The train was moving fast, and it wasn't easy to hold onto the roof. Men in black suit blocked both sides of the roof.
Jake had no other choice. He had to jump from the fast-moving train. Even though it was really fast, staying on that train was a death sentence. A really shitty birthday.
He jumped.
However, he didn't land. Instead, he fell through the ground, and the world started to change. The ground was like a trampoline; he went down and down and down. That is until he was pushed back into the sky.
He finally opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. It was a familiar one. He knew that ceiling so well, yet it was like a distant memory.
"Happy birthday!" a familiar voice came. Jake's mother entered the room, a huge decorated box in her hands. "How did my birthday boy sleep?" she asked.
Jake, however, kept staring the mirror in front of him, seeing himself ten years younger.
Jake had slept multiple times before, but none of the wake ups had been like that. He had every single memory in his mind. He still knew what he had learned in those past ten years.
He looked at the present; remembering so clearly when he got that same present ten years ago.
"You look sweaty," mother said, showing some worry on her face.
"I'm fine," Jake whispered. The voice was off, and higher pitched. He was surprised by that as well. He didn't remember it being that high. "Can I open the present?" he asked.
"Of course, darling!"
Jake nodded and started unpacking it. He was excited but cautious. His heart was racing since he wondered if in it is the same present he got ten years ago. That would mean more likely time travel, not a dream.
A car. A big remote controlled car.
Jake released a sigh and faked a smile. "Thanks, mom! I have always wanted that!" Of course, he lied. He didn't even remember what he wanted back then. One thing was certain, though. The present was different. It wasn't the same world he had been moments ago.
It was a bit disappointing, but at the same time, he was okay.
"Now, get up, school starts in thirty," Jake's mother said.
Jake eyes widened. "School?" he asked.
"Yes, school. It's not weekend yet."
He didn't understand how he kept his calm. Was it thanks to his real age - that he was ten years older? School, however, instantly broke his composure.
"Fuck..."
"Jake! Language!"
---
/r/ElvenWrites | You only live once... So don't fuck up - is what my dad use to tell me from behind the glass, his voice quiet and hoarse through the speakers as mom and I cried during visitation hours.
You only get one shot at life... so play it safe.
Slow and steady wins the race, after all.
And so on. I'm sure there's more, but we only live once right?
No.
Well, not me apparently. Not when I woke up this morning and found myself suddenly ten years younger. It was hard to believe. So hard in fact, that I thought I was dreaming. I mean, I was suppose to be twenty now. I had only been up for two nights straight, working on an assignment that was already two-days overdue. When I had finally finished, and was free to pass out, I knew it was going to be one of those really vivid dreams.
I didn't expect it to be *this* real.
I was a kid again. Short legs and flimsy arms.
The smell of breakfast, bacon and eggs sizzling on the tip of my nose, the summer sun spilling through the curtains and washing over me. It was all too real. Too real to be a dream.
But when it was time to go to school, I found myself in fifth grade again. Kids screaming and running around the playground like monkeys during recess, ruler-slapping Mrs. Crook having a good time with the misbehaving kids, and... homework.
It felt like I was reliving memories of a lifetime ago - except it was only ten years, but being a kid, every hour in school felt like an eternity.
By the end of the first day, I had accepted that it wasn't a dream - that everything before, the ten years I had lived? That was the *real* dream. It was the only rational conclusion that I could have made.
And I was wrong.
With each passing week, it became clearer. Taylor, the bullied kid in class, moved away - just like she had done in my 'ten-year dream'. Ryan, a really feisty kid, broke his arm again. Mrs. Crook was fired again, after she had smacked some kid's wrist too hard and drew blood. All the tests questions came back to me like a hazy déjà vu, mostly the ones I got wrong. I didn't remember all the answers, but I remembered the wrong answers, the abysmal mistakes I made.
Everything was falling into place, just as my 'dream' had predicted.
I was sixteen now. The age when my father's crew pulled their biggest heist and failed. My father being the one who took the fall for the group.
I stepped into the abandoned factory, my footsteps echoing sharply against the smooth cement.
"That you Norman?" a gruff voice asked.
Somehow, I was getting a second shot at life. A chance to do everything right, and I knew I wasn't going to be playing it safe.
---
---
/r/em_pathy
| 2018-05-01T04:25:43 | 2018-05-01T03:41:55 | 57 | 40 |
[WP] All superpowers have a ‘hangover’ effect. For example, after using super strength for the day, the morning after you can’t even lift your spoon to eat your breakfast. You wake up one morning after using your own specific superpower and you feel pretty hungover...
[deleted] | “Totally worth it”
I thought to myself. It must have been past 2 in the afternoon but I refused to get up. There was a constant pounding in my head and a slight drip of blood running from my left ear. I could hear my roommates talking angrily in the next room and I knew what was waiting for me in the living room. We got along fine enough on account of the fact we all had super powers, but that was about it.
Jack had immeasurable strength, John could fly, and Jaron was able to morph into anything. There were plenty of other people with super powers but it was rare to use them on account of the “cool off”. Nobody is quite sure of the physics behind it but the law of equal and opposite reactions has something to do with incredible pain after performing a super power.
There’s an angry knock on the door as it flew off it’s hinges and jack comes barging in.
“WAKE UP DUMBASS”
He winces from overexerting himself but the rage in his eyes is more noticeable. My other roommates are behind him with similar expressions.
“You have arguably the coolest super power known to mankind; you can literally pull ANYTHING out of your ear ANYWHERE.” Jack is an intimidating guy and I know where this is going. He often criticizes me saying I don’t use my powers properly or I’m too showy or whatever. He sits down on my laundry chair, looks at the ground and rubs his temples.
“Walk me through your thought process here,” he continues. He sounds calm, but disappointed, like the time I told my dad I’d rather live off my super powers than try to have a high powered career as he did. “Why didn’t you pull out a stack of cash or something? Even more so, why didn’t you walk down to the lake first..? Why did you pull a 30’ power boat out of your ear in the middle of our fucking kitchen”?
Edit: critiques appreciated ! | "Get away from him or I'll make you."
Michael and Scott glanced up from the kid sprawled helplessly on the grey floor, and saw me.
They laughed.
I had already guessed that the threat wouldn't be effective. A short kid in raggedy clothes and spiky hair didn't exactly set off a 'powerful' image, after all. But looks... looks were shallow, and lost to the surface.
They did very, very little to show the true worth of a person.
"The boy has no shadow! He's a demon for sure." They snorted. "All we're doing is protecting humankind."
I took a closer look at the boy on the ground. He was scrawny, with scared eyes that stayed half-open. He had no shadow. Fear had gripped him tightly, but not so securedly that he stopped shaking. He was shivering, lost to the throes of fear like a man with no coat caught in winter's rage.
I sighed. Us and our inane superstitions. To look upon someone with no shadow or no reflection and think of them as demons was far-fetched. To deduce that despite the widespread prevalence of superpowers was something else entirely.
I pulled him aside, keeping some distance from the 2 boys.
I smiled at the kid. "Get out of here kid. I know what its like to live with no shadow. Go straight home and-"
"Hey, shithead!" Scott called.
His eyes shone with blazing fury. He took a deep breath and pounded the concrete floor, cracks running out from the impact, not unlike his previous victims.
"Give back my prey, or I will kill you."
I set my eyes upon them. One would think of them as eyes. But they were piercing in sunlight, cool amber in the moonlight, and hidden fear in no light.
"Dark god manifestation."
The shadows surrounding me grew into a huge implacable mass, swirling amd roiling like the waves and wind in storm. I flicked my wrist.
They swept forth like the unstoppable stream of a river and engulfed the two boys. Their screams only stretched for a second before the hunger of the night was upon them, cold and insatiable and unlike them, indiscriminatory.
The darkness fell away like a snowflake in sunshine, leaving me completely. I smiled down at the awe-struck boy and offered him my hand.
"As I said... I know what it's like to live with no shadow." | 2018-08-19T05:58:22 | 2018-08-19T04:28:22 | 401 | 55 |
[WP] You live in a world where every time you have a birthday, you get to level up a skill like in video games (intelligence, strength, charm etc.) most people spread their points evenly on each skill. But you put all 30 of your points into that one skill nobody cares about
You get to choose what that skill is. | My 10th birthday I broke my mom's vase. In my panic, I threw my first skill point into deception, hoping that I could avoid her wrath.
Or at least, that's the story I tell people.
Every skill has a downside that rears its ugly head if you stray too far down it. Too many points into strength and you injure yourself because of improper form, too many into intelligence and you become lonely and apathetic, too many into deception and it becomes hard to tell the truth.
29 points into deception and honesty is almost impossible. Jobs are easy to find, I'm always what people are looking for. Long term relationships, however, not so much. Certainly 1 more point into deception will make things better.
Or at least, that's the story I keep telling myself. | Nobody else believes in me, laughing at me and telling me I've wasted my life. They just don't understand. They look at me and think, 'There he goes, writing prompter. He'll never amount to anything.' But they just don't get it. I've devoted my life to inspiring others. It's not so simple a thing, to be the bedrock of creative expression itself. I am the muse!
I have spent so much of my life practicing my craft and honing my skills in order to give others the opportunity to break out of their shells. To see that they are capable of so much more than what they think they are. I am the inkwell of the heart of the face of the internet and it is my duty to never run dry.
They don't understand or believe, no matter how much I wish they did. This is my life's work and my duty to humanity. The legacy that I will leave behind is to support the legacy that others will leave behind. The power that I have is to empower those that need that small nudge towards greatness. Creation is a collaborative process and I devoted myself to that ideal.
Never forget, that though you may doubt me... I will never doubt you! | 2018-09-12T10:14:36 | 2018-09-12T07:01:42 | 99 | 20 |
[WP] You were born blind. You undergo a new surgery that should cure your blindness. They undo the wraps and you open them. You think what you see is normal, but after the doctors ask a slew of questions, they discover there is something very strange about your newly acquired sight. | The world exploded into brightness, with pure chaos defining the addition of my new sense. I could see... for the first time in my life, I could see. The surgery was a success, and brought with it a confusing pain, one which I could not describe. Is this what sighted people called “blinding?” It was ironic to me, in that brief moment, that you could see so much so as to be blind. That is what I felt.
Soon, the world became dimmer, and my eyes, straining to focus, were starting to make sense of it all. I saw the figures moving, and heard voices coming from them. I suppose that these are humans, and this is what they look like... their beauty astounds me.
Look! I can see their hair, their faces, their teeth. I hear my father crying, and see what must be a tear running down his face. I feel one forming in my eye to match his.
Oh, do you see my mother? The one who cared for me for so long, and I can finally see her beauty. Oh my God, the tears are flowing and I am breathing so sharply, so as to control my sobbing. The tears make it hard to see, but I appreciate seeing water up close for the first time as well.
“Look outside, honey!”
“Look at the grass and the clouds! Do you see the people?”
“Is the sun too bright for you?”
My family is gesturing to a square on the wall. I do not understand, although I keep trying to see. I feel a familiar pain, one that comes from a lifetime of “trying to see.” I see nothing that stands out.
I look back to my family anyways, to see their glowing faces once again. I see my fathers handprint on the bed-frame, I see my that my brother’s nose is darker than the rest of him, along with his fingertips.
My God, I never knew how dark eyes are. I never understood the brilliance of living things. I never knew that animals, including the fly, literally glowed.
The doctor tells me that it is time to stand. He does something that confuses me... he points a laser at me, and turns it on for a moment. I wince, and as soon as I do, his expression changes. He is confused, concerned. I didn’t notice it then, but my bed responded to the laser by coming to an upright position.
He shines the laser at me again. I can feel my pupils dilating, which is exhilarating, although painful.
The next moments go by quickly. I am led to the square on the wall. I touch it, and know it immediately: glass. Wasn’t I supposed to see through glass? My heartbeat quickens. In fact, I can tell that the doctor’s heartbeat quickened as well, due to the way humans flash with their heart. It was so beautiful. Our faces glow brighter with the blood in our veins, and dimmer as the blood exits. I wonder if the brightness is the color I’ve been told about. Is it red, perhaps? I will have to ask.
The doctor tells me to read what he writes on the whiteboard. I’m not sure, but it doesn’t look like he’s actually writing anything.
He tries again, but he writes with his finger. I see it clear as day, and I’ll never forget what it said:
“INFRARED.”
That night, I found terror in sight for the first time. I looked into the sky, and saw what some call beautiful. Our saw our Milky Way, with the chaos and fire within it. And for the first time in my life, I had to explain to others what sight, color, and intensity was, for they could not see what I could.
——————————
Let me know if you guys liked this, I’m super new to writing and could use some constructive criticism or severe roasting if it’s terrible!
Also, if you have not yet, you owe it to yourself to look up the Milky Way in infrared. It is truly terrifying.
Edit(s): I’m changing some things as I re-read this in order to make my points more clear. | "So, Mr. Crowley, how are you feeling?"
"I feel like... look, I know, I have a whole new planet to explore in front of me. I just don't know... if I can get used to this chaotic atmosphere. Don't get me wrong, I am more than grateful. I cannot thank you enough, Dr. Crowe, it's just extremely unusual... and distracting for me."
"It is perfectly normal to experience anxiety and panic-attack like symptoms. After all, you gained a basic sense. Just take it slow, and enjoy your surroundings. Now, do you have any pain or discomfort?"
"I have a slight headache, nothing more."
"Okay... all tests checked normal, but since curing your blindness is a major operation, I have to ask you some questions concerning your visual capacity."
"Sure, go ahead."
Neville Crowley was sitting in the middle of the white room. Until ten minutes ago, it was a whole different world for him. He had been born blind, and was selected for an experimental blindness treatment six months ago. And today, he had the final operation and the bandages were just recently removed. For the first time in his life, he was seeing. Colours, shapes, glass of a window, edge of a table, shadows, his face, hands, people around him, his girlfriend... It was one hell of an experience, full of surprises.
Interestingly, after years of living without sight, it was easy for him to adapt. His expectations were almost completely fulfilled. He was a perceptive man, after all.
"Is your office always that crowded, Dr. Crowe? No offense, but I would like to have some privacy."
"What do you mean?" Doctor Crowe looked really puzzled.
"Clearly, the girl sitting in front of the window, is she also a patient? Also, the old man near the bed, I never heard any voice, but anyway, I thought that this was a private examination after the-"
"What girls? Old man? Mr. Crowley, there is nobody else here."
"Haha, so funny. Honey, a little support here, would you?" Neville turned to his girlfriend. Her eyes were wide open, she was looking at him with a shocked expression on her face.
"Baby, you are frightening me. There is nobody else here. Doctor, could this be a complication of the surgery?"
"Not possible, we have never touched a single cell concerning the brain or the nerves. However, his brain might be conflicting with the visual stimulants. If this is the case, they will be gone in a short period of time. I need to get some details before the hallucinations disappear, for my report. Mr. Crowley, can you describe me the people that you see?"
"Look, there is a girl sitting in front of the window, blonde, a teenager. With a black skirt and a red t-shirt. Miss, hello? Can you hear me? Old man, Mr, you, can you hear me? Hey!"
They were not answering. Not even looking.
"The old man, wearing glasses, has a yellow mustache. Wearing a shirt with rectangle symbols. Looking in his 80's. Is he... drinking? Oh my god, so you are telling me my mind is creating these people. How delightful."
Doctor was sweating, he quickly sat down on his chair. He looked extremely pale.
"The girl, does she wear a necklace?"
"Are you making fun of me? Why the hell should I-"
"Just check, will you?"
Neville got up and got closer to the teenager. She did not notice Neville. Neville got closer and saw that she was wearing a golden necklace. There was a name hanging from the necklace. Susan. Her name, apparently.
"Yes doctor. My troubled mind created a girl, and put her a necklace, thanks to you. And gave her a name too, Susan. Doctor, when those hallucinations disappear? Because they look incredibly real. I am really nervous, please..."
Doctor Crowe was not listening to him anymore. He was crying. He was crying, because the girl he was describing was his daughter, Susan Crowe, who got killed in a car crash ten years ago by an old man who was drinking and driving. Doctor Crowe had bought her this name-necklace the morning of the accident, but he couldn't give her. They had an argument that morning, and he decided not to give her the necklace. Two days later, he buried the necklace in his daughter's grave, and never told this to anybody.
​
​
​
​ | 2018-10-29T10:15:07 | 2018-10-29T07:27:26 | 100 | 63 |
[WP] Your pointless superpower is that you know how many people’s lives you save with your actions. One day, at a Subway, you tell the cashier you want your sandwich on Italian bread, and you’re suddenly informed that you just saved five billion people. | It was a bright sunny day in Miami, and for once, not too humid. Kimmy walked into the corner Subway, smiling to herself, thinking about how nice it was to be able to reach restaurants by foot. She was in a great mood. Kimmy approached the counter and gave her order to Sal, the regular clerk.
“I’ll have the ham and Swiss... on Italian”
Kimmy felt a warmth, mixed with tingles of chilly ice spread through her body. She had somehow just saved 5 billion people. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
Sal looked at Kimmy and said, “Ah, switching it up today huh? You usually get the flatbread.”
“Yeah, I know Sal, but I’m in such a great mood, the sun is shining, things are going really well. I just felt inspired to change it up. You know how I’m usually so rigid with routine.”
“Hmm...” murmured Sal. “Inspired, by the sun shining huh? Switching it up?”
“Yeah Sal! It’s a great day.”
Sal finished making Kimmy’s sandwich and bid her a good day.
———————————
15 years later
Kimmy woke up to a beautiful sunny day in Miami, and for once, it wasn’t all that humid. She walked a few blocks to her favorite coffee shop and scrolled through the news while she waited in line.
Kimmy scanned the headlines and dropped her jaw as she read, “Engineer and physicist Sally Benjamin releases open source code for 3D printing solar panels. Credits inspiration to a customer at Subway job who changed her order because of the sun”
Kimmy still remembered the 5 billion. That was by far the largest number she had ever sensed. Kimmy continued reading and discovered Sal had been working her way through undergrad at the subway, and had been reading about solar panel design. Apparently Kimmy switching up her order due to the sun had sparked an idea in Sally. This grew into a reality and now affordable solar panels we’re going to be available everywhere and could be assembled on site. This opened up the possibility of generating more reliable energy all over the world.
Kimmy looked out the window, smiled, and was glad her contribution to save 5 billion people had been a bright outlook on life, and a deviation from her regular routine. She approached the counter and ordered her coffee.
“Hey Jean, you know, I think I’ll switch it up today and have a fancy coffee. Can you do some kind of milk steam art?”
Jean laughed, “Oh Kimmy, you crack me up. Sure, I can make you some “milk steam art” Why no plain black today?”
“Just inspired by something that happened a long time ago that now involves 3D printers and the sun.” Kimmy breathed as the warm tingly sensation, and ice cold tingles ran through her body. She had just saved 84 people.
“Inspired to get milk steam art because if something that happened long ago and has to do with the sun and 3D printers huh? You’re something else Kimmy.” Jean said, but there was a strange look in her eye, as though something had just clicked. | “Sorry, sir, we’re out of Italian bread, what else can I get you?” Makayla said.
The faces – oh god, the faces. Jayden held back his scream, hunching over; all eyes in the store turned towards him. Every face he would save flashed across his vision in an instant; a near infinite amount for him, so much joy—and so much pain.
The faces of those he would kill flashed in front of him now. One million? Ten million? A billion? He lost count among the contorted, bloodied, twisted faces of the damned. Makayla looked at the man in front of him—an ordinary businessman, dressed in a grey suit, with brown belt and shoes, bent over on the counter. Behind him, the line of workers hungering for a sandwich twisted through the store—out into the street. Makayla was *so done* with this.
“Sir, we have wheat bread, white bread, or flatbread.” She said
Jayden held onto the counter, arms shaking, tears in his eyes. “Please, help—”
“Hey asshole, you going to order or not?”
“Hey—buddy. Give the guy a second” Rodger said. He was the third man in line.
“Look, you twat,” the first man said, spinning around. “I don’t have time for this—He can have a meltdown on his own time, I have meetings to go to—important ones.”
The second man, a heavy built construction worker, had zero patience for this businessman’s attitude. *As if his cozy office job and meetings made him special.* Rodger pushed the lawyer forward, knocking him back into Jayden.
The store burst into action. The man rose and threw an untrained punch at Rodger, who took it in stride. Rodger hoped this man was a lawyer as he returned the punch in kind, knocking the man to the ground. The store burst into action.
Makayla pressed the panic button and drew a can of pepper spray from her pocket. It wasn’t permitted in the store; she didn’t give a rat’s ass about that rule. Jayden bent down and covered his face. He was surprised to see a single face flash in front of him—his own. Suddenly gunfire burst into the room, the bullet burying itself into the counter inches above where Jayden had been a moment before.
The riot broke out—construction workers fought businessmen, businessmen fought each other, punches and chairs were thrown. Bullets flew; people died. In the corner of the store, sitting at a table, enjoying a teriyaki chicken sandwich, a young, teenage boy watched as his mother was shot three times in the waist.
He screamed, crawling through the violent crowd towards his mother. Blood poled around her; her eyes were glazed and motionless. The boy cried—sorrow and rage. This world was unfair, and he would set it right. With a rage, he screamed, his voice lost among the chaos.
In the dark mob of a New York Sandwich shop—a hero was born. He would save the world, not through good deeds, but by cleansing it of the weak, the violent, and the angry. For a better world. For the greater good. Red light ran through his eyes, and he felt his new power flare through him.
Jayden, seeing a younger, crying boy, crawled towards him. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder, covering his head; together they ran out of the broken windows towards the street, away from the violence, and towards safety.
Jayden saw more saved faces appear in his mind—his family.
***
Well this turned real dark, real quick... anyway, more at r/BLT_WITH_RANCH | 2018-11-17T18:37:15 | 2018-11-17T14:08:20 | 180 | 104 |
[WP] All of the "#1 Dad" mugs in the world change to show the actual ranking of Dads suddenly. | God stared at his mug.
Number 2?
He turned his omniscient eye to the mortal world, searching for the number 1 dad.
He could find no sign of him.
And God was confused. But also, He did not really want to admit to anyone that he was only #2.
So he went for a stroll, and just happened to find William of Ockham relaxing beneath a heavenly tree, nose deep into a book.
"William! How are you?" God boomed, secure in the knowledge that only those still living could not withstand His voice. William had been dead for near 700 years, and was therefore quite safe.
"Your Eternal Majesty!" William said, looking up from his book. "What a pleasant surprise." He looked at God expectantly, having already deduced that something was amiss. It'd taken considerably less than 700 years to figure out that the omnipotent creator of all things tended to stay in his office unless there was a problem.
God explained about the mug.
William nodded, and briefly pondered.
"It seems to me, Lord, that if you cannot find this number 1 Dad in the mortal world, then he must be outside it." William shrugged. "That is the simplest explanation."
God thanked him for the advice, and promptly turned his all seeing eye to the eternal planes.
It only took him a moment to see who held the Number 1 Dad mug. When he saw who it was, he laughed to himself. Of course. He should have known.
The Number 1 Dad mug was being used right here in Heaven. Fred Rodgers was using it to sip tea. | I was sitting around with my dad on one afternoon, husband in the kitchen making some peirogi, when the 'metric event' hit. I had gotten him one of those mugs as a gag gift, and after all my nagging, was finally drinking coffee out of it. Man was retired long ago, but he really loved his coffee. It was a nice midsummer day, early in the morning, speaking to be humid--and then the number on his mug changed.
​
\# 3,829,092 Dad.
​
'OP, did you--"
'No! What do you think I did!'
'This was a #1 Dad mug, right?'
'Yes. Not a number 4,590,296 dad mug!'
'It changed again.'
'what'
'The number on my mug keeps changing.'
I thought for a bit. My dad didn't do 'typical dad things', he had a more literary bent.
'Dad...go try mowing the lawn. See what happens.'
We got the mower out. My husband kept track of his mug number--4,231,980, 4,100,056, 3,998,721. When it started mowing, it jumped up to 3,509,821.
'This thing most measure...dad-like behaviors.'
As he came back to us, we put our heads together.
'If this works for other mug types, like bosses, then you could have a really accurate rating system.'
'Yeah, but this would work for any job type.'
'This would be hell for the workers.'
'Yeah...'
My husband began to pace back and forth. He was obviously starting to get an idea.
'We need to go into the mug business.'
'Well, yeah. But a lot of other people would be doing it.' Said my dad. He had a bit of business background, enough to know when something wouldn't work out that well.
'We'd just be enabling control of people and their subordination!' I protested.
'No.' He said. 'Not if we make mugs showing how good a leader someone is...' | 2019-04-18T16:07:46 | 2019-04-18T14:09:34 | 253 | 54 |
[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 heal fast, very, very fast. | The healing factor was amazing. I felt pain so I learnt about not touching the hot stove etc. I broke my arm playing baseball. Was able to bat in the next innings. I tried boxing but it was a little unfair on the others so I gave that up.
Wanna know the very best part? I could eat food straight out of the microwave, burn my tongue and then taste the very next bite without issue.
Wanna know the worst? The healing factor means I've never lost a limb. Toenails and fingernails are always the same length. My hair 'heals' to about three inches which i've come to accept is just "my style". The worst though? The absolute very, very, very worst.
I cannot get this fucking umbilical cord to cut. | "What kind of Black magic is this?" Screamed the knight.
After what felt like hours of silence was broken by our hero as he almost whispered "it's an ancient curse".
Turns out even though your neck heals faster than a sword can swing through it, your throat will still feel sore.
The Knight looked confused at the peasants filling out the whole town square, before he called up a dusin of soldiers. This would be a show the kingdom would never forget as our hero were impaled by swords and spears.
The pain was ever so real, yet he did not cry, he did not scream and he did not die. For he had learned to welcome pain as an old friend throughout the nearly 3000 years.
The knight, now in a blood covered armor were furious. "Put him in chains and follow me!" He said. Our hero could hear more confusion then demand in his words as swords were pulled out of his back.
The soldiers dragged our hero towards the castle as they struggled to follow the bloody knight.
And our hero took one last look towards the crowd before the gates were shot closed.
**This is my first time trying to write here, sorry for my awful english, but I hope it's good enough to read** | 2019-08-09T06:37:58 | 2019-08-09T06:11:18 | 14 | 10 |
[WP] You lost your sight - along with everyone else on Earth - in The Great Blinding. Two years later, without warning, your sight returns. As you look around, you realize that every available wall, floor and surface has been painted with the same message - Don't Tell Them You Can See. | When The Blinding first occurred, I thought I was the only individual affected. I was sitting at my desk working on a school paper and in an instant, everything went black.
I had cried out to my parents in fear and confusion, but their response was like an echo of my own. They, too, couldn't see. And we soon learned the entire world had been victim to having their sight filled with darkness. Interestingly enough, we don't think this affected any of the animals living on Earth. Just us humans. The only strange thing that occurred after this was the fact that the demand for Milk skyrocketed.
At first, adapting was extremely difficult. Something as mundane and simple as using the bathroom had become a daily challenge I didn't look forward to.
Within a few months, support groups had been created by individuals who were already blind prior to the incident. They assisted those who were struggling with adapting to their newfound obstacle.
Thankfully, the world never really stopped moving or progressing. Outside of major adjustments that had to be made, such as devising a different mode of transportation or different requirements and standards in the working world, we managed to pull through.
It's been about 2 years since The Blinding and there were times where I had forgotten such an event occured.
I was taking a short walk to the store to get some groceries. I don't know why, but I've developed an almost dependency like state on milk. I had gripped the handle to the door to the small grocery store and pushed the door open. A bell was hung on the inside handle of the door.
"Hello, let me know if you need help finding anything." A voice said to my right.
"Thanks, Dave. I will." I responded.
"Hey John! How've you been?" he asked with a somewhat enthusiastic tone.
With a somewhat slow pace I walked around the store, feeling along the brail to determine if I had found my item.
"Pretty much the same" I said with a bit of a chuckle.
My hand touched something cold. Finally. Found the milk.
As I was about to open the door I could see my reflection in the rectangle shaped window of the cooler.
I wasn't entirely sure how to react nor was I sure as to what happened. I was looking. At myself. In a mirror. For the first time in two years.
I started shaking and I could feel warmth and moisture filling my eyes.
I noticed writing on the reflection itself. I was so excited I hadn't even noticed. In fact, most of the interior was covered in this writing. Looked a little closed at the message written in black.
*Don't tell them you can see.*
What the hell does that mean? Who's them?
I then caught a glimpse of the individual standing behind the counter of the store.
Who...what the fuck is that...
"John? You need some help buddy?" it asked. It had Dave's voice, but it definitely wasn't Dave. And the way it's mouth moved was...
Wait, is that it's mouth? I have no idea.
I was staring at something that was at least 6 feet tall. Grotesque and eldritch was the only way I could describe it. It's dark brown skin was smooth and moist with extremely tiny openings in its skin. It wasn't wearing any type of clothing. It's arms were somewhat long and thin looking appendages that ended in human looking hands. Its head was shaped like a large Basket Ball. The creatures mouth looked to be in a vertical position and when it spoke I could see many layers and rows of crocodile like teeth.
"Here John, let me come help." It said. Its voice had changed as well. It was gurgled and sounded like it was being put through a filter.
As it moved I could hear it squish against the floor. That's the first time I've ever heard that. Why am I hearing that just now? Why have I never heard that before?
Instead of gaping at the reflection and trying to ascertain how it walks, I simply stared at a jug of milk.
That's when I noticed the color of the milk. It wasn't white or brown or any color a milk should be. It was dark black.
As the creature grew closer a foul smell harassed my nostrils. It took everything I had not to vomit.
It reached out with it's human like appendage and touched my shoulder.
My entire body tensed up.
"We're having a lot of different specials on milk today." It said and I could see its mouth open wide behind my head with what I assumed was a smile. | \[tw, light self mutilation\]
It didn't happen all at once.
The nations all lost their sight gradually. It was a slow seeded plague on humanity; anyone from important leaders to the homeless lost their eyesight suddenly, and what doctors tended to them could not fathom what had happened. Maybe it was mass hysteria. Maybe it was another facet of mental illness. It was waved away as just another illness to cure when there were only a few cases. The government didn't really care at that time; it wasn't as much of a concern to them as what the president was writing on twitter.
When the blindness began to spread, when waves of people were turning up blind in the streets – causing panic, unable to see, throwing themselves at cars and businesses and clinging manically to any person they could dig their fingers into – they were corralled like animals. People died in throngs then; either by waves of suicide, their rotting corpses stinking up alleys and their homes, or by police brutality. The news pedaled their wares; that those who were ensorcelled by this blindness were driven mad. They couldn't be reasoned with. To keep the public safe, if someone was 'too far gone', the police had to react swiftly and that sometimes meant civilian losses.
There were protests at first. Once the desperate, untreated blind found their way into the throngs of people screaming outside of the white house and their local police stations, the riots ceased. People were too scared to leave their homes and.. the world changed. As more people fell to the blindness, those unaffected began to agree with the hysteric media. Yes, the blindness was a disease. Who cared where it came from, people were being attacked on the streets! It wasn't safe to leave your house! They were spreading the blindness!
Civilian militias formed and, quietly, using the blindness of the ill against them, they killed the easy ones first. Anyone who didn't struggle was just moments away from a frenzy, by their accounts. Bars would be full on the evenings, covered in barb wire and chicken mesh to keep away the desperate, like homes and schools and anything else that had to be kept safe. Spikes were placed on the ground, tearing up the feet of those without shoes, ruining the shoes of those who had them.
The blind weren't stupid. Aside from those hit with hysterics and who could barely function on their own when they could see, most of them learned quickly to keep to themselves. Many would claim they were blind before the epidemic hit, working together with those who actually had been and assistive facilities to get home, to get food, whatever they could to survive. This was short lived. It took one year for blindness to take everyone. Shame filled most of the world; those who had been killed in the initial hysterics had monuments built for them. Their names were etched, messily, into large concrete slabs that were painted and polished to be, at least to the touch, acceptable. Once the media organizations learned how in their blind stumbling, apologies were aired over the news. Groups of people came together to apologize to families of the lost. All of the anti-blind measures were removed. The ground was uneven and pocketed where once spike traps and other deterrents lived.
Society has recovered as much as it can. Doctors can't use their fancy medical equipment as well as they'd like, import and export is difficult when no one can see the state of the ocean to bring goods along. People get by. Society is recovering. We live in a world of blind being lead by the blind, by those who went blind and managed to adjust first.
My account was supposed to be just that. An account of things as they were; I lived through the worst of it. I was one of the hysteric many that fled into the streets first. I was terrified. Mania was replaced by fight or flight desperation for survival and I survived the first slaughter. I went home, barricaded myself inside, and did everything I could to find resources. It helped.
Time after the Great Blindness took everyone has been.. okay. Lackluster, almost. I spend most of my free time sleeping. My dreams will ebb between old movies I've loved; I can see in my dreams. The knowledge I had once of what everything in the world looks like is still in there somewhere. My waking hours are spent making some money through working misc jobs online; I'd become accustomed to the voice that will read back to me as I type away at my keyboard, double checking my finger placement with the soft braille markings on top. I pause after each paragraph of writing, listening to her recounting it, making sure I've phrased and structured everything alright, that I haven't made a typo anywhere that massively changed a word into some discombobulated semblance of language. Those who have fancy self driving cars use them mostly as expensive food delivery services, and I'm lucky to have the ability to pay for that.
After a delivery, mid-step in returning to the kitchen with a load of new groceries, my vision returned. | 2022-10-09T01:59:27 | 2019-08-26T09:04:01 | 4,287 | 41 |
[WP] You lost your sight - along with everyone else on Earth - in The Great Blinding. Two years later, without warning, your sight returns. As you look around, you realize that every available wall, floor and surface has been painted with the same message - Don't Tell Them You Can See. | 729 days. That’s how long it’s been since the Great Blinding, although if you ask me there’s nothing great about it. What’s so great about losing your sight? At least I wasn’t the only one suffering.
​
I was in prison when The Great Blinding happened. Whoever was pulling the strings chose the worst possible moment, we were having lunch. You can imagine how that turned out. Those first few moments were madness. Someone screamed, someone got stabbed, someone got shot.
​
Immediately shit hit the fan I dove under the table. I stayed there until I heard The Voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time and as soon as we heard it all the commotion died down.
​
“We are your guides, sent here to make sure that you do not lose your way now that you have lost your sight. Listen to us or you will be punished. “
​
I felt something touch my shoulder and it hasn’t left my side since.
We were slaves with a master constantly looking over our shoulder.
When I woke up on day 730, I thought it was going to be an ordinary day. I would wake up, do whatever task I’d been assigned, eat my shitty food and go back to bed. I did not expect to see.
I almost screamed out in joy until I saw what was written on my wall
Don't Tell Them You Can See.
​
I froze and immediately closed my eyes. That was my first mistake, but at the time I did not know. Thoughts began racing through my mind, who shouldn’t I tell? Why shouldn’t I tell them? How did they know that I would one day regain my sight?
Unbidden an old nursery rhyme came to mind
I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
At this point I lost it and burst out laughing. I didn’t let out a belly laugh or a chuckle; I laughed like someone who had lost his mind.
There’s something calming about laughing like that. You’ll never understand it until you are standing on the edge of sanity.
I laughed for god knows how long before they came for me.
​
​
Hey guys please tell me what you think. I'll be uploading part 2 soon | We all remember the moment we were in before the great blinding. One minute we were in our kitchens. The next... Well god knows what happened next. I, personally, was in german class reciting verbs. And than it happened. I blinked. And nothing.
I started to panic. What happened! Where did my eyesight go! I called out into the cold air of the classroom and an aura of fear washed over me as one of my closest friends spoke up.
"I cant see." He said
The rest of the class followed in scattered replies. Ranging from screaming to quit murmurs of agreement.and than IT happened.
We called it the crashing. Every car, plane, boat, train, and vehicle you could think of crashed. At least a few dozen into our school.
The casualties were massive. At least 4 billion people had died. Mostly in the great crashing. Millions more from mass suicide.
But us humans found some ways to prevail as we always do. We adapted and gained new senses. And we lost our old one completely. We have no recolection of colour at this point. Until now.
I was heading to a supermarket for some noodles. I was in japan as an exchange student at the time and couldnt leave. So i was stuck there for etirnity. I walked in to the automated chime of a robot welcoming me in. And than just as i had it takrn away. I got it back. And oh boy did i get it back.
When it happened my whole entire vision was one sentance. Dont tell them you can see. Plastered on the walls, the floor, the labels. All in perfect font. I looked around me for an awnser to why thid happened. And than i saw IT. A robot. Everywhere i went. Everything was a robot. The people, the dogs, the cows. Robots everywhere. I stopped to pick it up. What could be happening. Why was i here in a society built off of robots? Where is everyone? And than i got grabbed on my shoulder and was pushed down into a sewer.
I looked at my surroundings. It was a mechanical maze of wires and tubes everywhere. And underneath my feet. A hatch. I took a moment to look at myself. I was what? 23 years old now? My hair was long and messy. My feet were dirty. My hands were caked in some kind of substance. I remembered taking quit good care of myself even while the blinding was happening. Why was i filthy? I shook myslelf awake and put my thoughts together. Was it a dream? If so why was it so long and vivid? No that doesnt make sense.
I put that aside and opened the hatch. I looked down into the dark abyss below me and jumped.
And what i saw at the bottom was terrifying. A sea of dead bodys. That all looked like me. All of them. And they all had a different number tattooed in red ink on their necks. | 2019-08-26T10:01:26 | 2019-08-26T09:44:00 | 35 | 14 |
[WP] You lost your sight - along with everyone else on Earth - in The Great Blinding. Two years later, without warning, your sight returns. As you look around, you realize that every available wall, floor and surface has been painted with the same message - Don't Tell Them You Can See. | 5 years ago, I fell asleep on March 29th and woke up on the 30th with no sense of sight. I remember that morning vividly. I “woke up” that morning, explicitly feeling that my eyes were open, but they looked as if they were closed. I forced them open but they still showed nothing. I screamed to my parents about my situation but they gave me the same response. Everyone had lost their sight, all across the globe. After that, everything’s been blank, figuratively and literally.
Well, today started unlike any other in the past few years, I “woke up”, made my self breakfast only by touch, as I had learned to do, and got ready for my short commute to my school.
The Day went as usual, staying in one classroom all day, reading, or feeling rather, textbooks about subjects that would’ve stayed around even if no one had lost their sight, and repeated with different subjects.
Then, out of nowhere, I saw.
My sight’s back... And I immediately see text scrawled all over every solid object. It reads:
Don’t Tell Them You Can See
The multiple scrawlings of the phrase looked as if they were written in blood, and everyone except me was oblivious. I quickly asked to go to the restroom and exited the class. The phrase still lined the walls, roof, floor, everything. I left the school immediately and rushed home.
My parents didn’t hear me enter and even my house was covered in the crimson phrase. I rushed upstairs and threw open my old laptop that hadn’t been used in years. I searched up if anyone else could see; nothing. I was the only one.
What now? I couldn’t tell anyone, and no one else can see either.
I thought long and hard of any way to figure out why I couldn’t say anything about my regained sight.
My mind came up blank. I guess I could relive some memories by watching some YouTube? No. I need to find out about this.
I went outside and looked around. Nothing unusual apart from the phrase everywhere.
**I’ll check back in if I find anything new.** | The blindness passed by some sort of contagion, and by dumb luck I managed to avoid it. I had been out in the cabin in Montana. The cabin I always hated but had acted as my unwitting savior. I wasn't outdoorsy like my dad. After Dad died, Mom wanted to sell the cabin: she wasn't outdoorsy either. Someone had to go and make sure it was in decent enough condition to sell.
Out of cell phone range. No Internet access or television. Only a CB radio for emergencies that I had never really bothered to learn before, so I tried to learn all the basics from an old manual. There wasn't much else to do.
The cabin was sellable at least, until the world collapsed and then people weren't really wanting to live miles out in the middle of nowhere. They wanted to live by other people.
I was driving back through a small town when an older man stumbled out in the middle of the road. I slammed on the brakes and the car halted inches away from him. He stood still and angled his head, never quite looking at me. I learned why when I saw a milky white sheen had covered his eyes.
I could not bring myself to move, to do the decent thing and get out and apologize for almost killing him.
"A car!" he yelled, his voice carrying like a town crier's. "I heard a car!"
Slowly other people emerged. They, too, stepped cautiously, tapping their canes. All of them had the same milky white affliction that the man had.
Wham!
One of the townspeople had found the car.
This soon followed by more whams as they slapped against the car doors and trailed their hands along to the windows.
Then -- crash -- the back windshield and a side window splintered as canes turned into temporary battering rams. Their hands started reaching in, seemingly undeterred that the jagged glass was slicing into their hands and wrists.
I slammed on the horn. It startled some of them back, the ones closest to the driver's seat. I took advantage of that second and pressed the gas pedal down hard. The car lunged forward and the people lunged forward with it. I swiveled a bit, trying to avoid striking the people in front of me, but I couldn't quite avoid them. Even so, I would not let myself slow down until those people were far behind me. | 2022-12-15T08:15:43 | 2019-08-26T10:55:51 | 14 | 10 |
[WP] A broke adventure has to buy cheap terrible items with weird curses on them. Little do they know that those cursed items happen to synergize so well together that they quickly become overpowered. | The Lich was preparing to march, his army of undead stomp upon the once fertile fields of the land, death magic blackening nature and salting the earth. Bones rattled against metal as the billowing rags of the newly ordained Emperor of Death cruised above the land menacingly. Smoke billowed from his dilapidated jaw that furthered the necrotic fetter on the pasture's beauty.
There beyond the field lie the Lich's goal. The Castle of Emerald Plains. Creatures of darkness vied for its illustrious natural wellspring of magic for millennia. The king lies dead, his killer a now a soulless nephew who believed the Lich would truly stand as an ally.
And yet... The Lich paused. There was an odd feeling in the air. The storm clouds billowed overhead, the boney maws of the undead lightning drakes prepared to strike a malformed god's fury upon the castle. But this electric feeling wasn't of lightning magic... it was... draining magic.
In a moment, the Lich crashed into the ground, turning to see a swath of his army fall into a pile of ash, bone, and steel. His joints began to lock as rigor mortis set in. The once ominous body of the Lich was now decaying without magic to sustain its suspended decomposition. In a panic his milky eyes frantically scanned the near endless expanse for the culprit of this curse.
In the distance walked a rag-cloaked figure, not much unlike the Lich himself. Unlike the lich, however, these were not rags steeped in death. No, these were rags of filth. A browned glint occasionally crept through the dirt-covered cloak, showing signs of a rusted armor, once as pristine as the mail worn by the officers of the Castle, those who the Lich already fell in their vain attempt at resistance. Each step closer, another line of undead fell.
The Lich frantically began chanting. His voice was hushed, yet raspy with the sound of frayed and mangled vocal cords. Soon he could feel his joints loosening again, but he could no longer float so proudly over his prey, he could still feel the nipping of this curse at his heels. He pondered aloud.
"How... what insatiable hunger could feed on dark magic so unfazed? How could a mortal have such a damned CURSE!"
His last words sprung out across the field. By now the figure was no more than a few hundred meters away, and with the sudden spur of the Lich's words those meters were disappearing in a sprint. The air filled with the sounds of cracking and crumbling as the fearsome army of the damned became a dusted storm of dashed nightmares.
The Lich reared his back, head hung low and lightning billowing from his finger tips. But this- it was too much. The lightning sputtered into a mere crackle of static before the Lich bent his knee to the charging assailant. Shockwaves of thunder echoed out as the mighty drakes crashed into the ground, their bodies turning to plasma with no soul to hold back the mighty power of lightning within. The rain of destruction brought an ironic screeching on the army as the very destruction they sought to reap upon the emerald field was now engulfing what was left shambling in disarray.
The Lich could not stand. The curse was too great. It was that of a god's unholy fury that began squeezing the life out of his death, there could be no other explanation. Finally he could see the eyes of the man who destroyed his plans without lifting a finger.The blight against death stood slightly slumped as he began to remove his hood. What was beneath was a weathered face. A knight? A soldier? No, perhaps once. "This man is too gaunt to stand against a even a trumpeter". The Lich felt his jaw unhinge as the dead muscle and skin withered away ever so slowly.
The figure simply raised his hand to show 3 rings. A mild yet rugged voice came from the hero. "Accursed."
The Lich tilted his head, his jaw dangling precariously as he could only breathe out a vaguely questioning "Hurh?"
The hero began to relax his body, bringing his hand to his side as he spoke. "These rings are accursed. I am too poor for a sword worth a damn against you."
Once more the Lich gurgled, "Whra?"
"There are always... unexpected results when it comes to enchanting. I'm sure an undead such as yourself is well aware. Curses and such are a pain to waste magic on, and a pain to be rid of the accursed object. These rings were dirt cheap. So dirt cheap I could use what little dirt I had to buy 'em."
Soon the Lich began to lower his trembling body. Once more his joints began locking as he narrowed his eyes, a cougar ready to pounce... yet with no strength he could only continue to watch as decades of preparation fell to pieces.
"One ring grants terrific power... yet gives that power and then some to my enemies as well. One ring will shield me from the elements... yet consumes the wearer's magic to do so." He paused. He twisted the last ring, feeling it slide around his finger "And this was my first. I cannot remove it. If I could, then I would be able to satiate my hunger. Instead, I can never stop feeding... and neither can any curse put upon me. What good is a guard to the wizard guild hall if he cannot survive even the smallest hex?"
The Lich... did not move. His sight was bleary, his movement all but ceased. His skin brushed away into ash, and his bones began to collapse. Soon he too would join his army. In his last moments, he could only look as the man who slept on street corners felled him like no general before. There was nothing but contempt in the Lich's soul, and with that contempt he spoke his last words through a spirited tongue... and his last spell.
"If I cannot turn this green to black, then you shall do it in my stead. To challenge a Lich with curses? I shall show you what true unending hunger is... Feed upon the Wellspring. Feed until nothing remains."
The last word echoed throughout the valley, from the highest mountain to the deepest cavern. "FEED".
The grass withered. The field crumbled into black dunes. The Castle's serfs and nobles alike fell to the ground. Swirling around the disgraced guard was a wellspring of magic and life alike... and the rings grew tight as the man breathed his last breath- the last breath of life in the Emerald Plains. Nothing could stop the Lich. | "I'll give you this for-- all you have," the shopkeeper grinned. "I'm being generous, trust me."
Gram sighed, and tossed the satchel on the counter. Ten shekels seemed far too much for a cheaply made trinket, but if the Oracle had willed it who was he to argue against it? Besides, Gram knew that those shekels were different. Special, was the words the Oracle had used.
It had been two weeks since he had lost every ounce of currency of what little he had possessed after a few of Syon's rogues came for him. He had woken up in a medical barrack with no possessions except an empty satchel, a sigil that represented his home village, and a nasty head wound. It didn't deter him one bit-- he was back on the road within a day, making his way to the mad highwayman's city with the intent to take back the weapons Syon had stolen from his own village. He had a dagger and a satchel that he occasional filled with loose change, but little else but his wit. Yet Gram knew that Syon, with the acquisition of more and more power, would be impossible to fight.
"Fine," replied Gram, his eyebrows narrowed slightly. "I'll take the bone, but will you do me the courtesy of wrapping it up first?"
"Of course," laughed the shopkeeper. "I'm a good shopkeeper, I treat my customers just right. Just right."
Gram prepared to leave the decrepit tent, but the shopkeeper reached out his hand, leaning over close. Gram could smell faint licks of moonshine on his breath.
"Hey," he whispered. "I can tell that you're a member of the Resistance movement. Let me just tell you that Syon-- he's stronger than any man. You'd be best not coming across him. Once a highwayman, always a highwayman."
"Thanks," winced Gram. "But I think my adviser knows what she's doing."
She called herself the Oracle, and Gram had encountered her in the basement of one of the sole hotels in the city of La Grande not run by the highwaymen. While walking through through the fields, a group of men had noticed the bandages on his legs, and most importantly the sigil around his neck.
"Man from Tyrande," began one of the men, walking in level with Gram. "Eh, you want to be taken up on a proposition?"
"Yes, I'm from Tyrande," said Gram, slightly suspicious. "What proposition would you be interested in? You are aware that my village was razed, and our holy weapons destroyed, no?"
One of the men threw Gram a coin, which he gladly took, and examined. Yet he noticed that the faint lines of the shekel were tinted with a strange green, lines that seemed to run like veins through the bronzed metal. He flipped it over, and watched as gentle, cold flames doused acid green reached into his palm and licked at his fingers.
"What-- what the hell is this," asked Gram. "Some kind of joke? What's the coin for?"
"Ah, it accepted you," exclaimed the man that had walked at Gram's side. "First comes choice, then comes intention, followed by the great mantra."
"One man's trash is another's treasure," chanted the men in unison.
Gram had been intrigued, and allowed himself to be led to the city of La Grande, where the foe who stole his village's weapons lay protected in a nest of iron. *Lent's Chance*, was the name of the small hotel in which they settled in, for a so called "proposition". The outsides were falling apart, and the insides were covered with blankets of thick dust, the lights flickering as if to remind every soul of a time long past. Down an old hatch, lifted by the corners and wailing as the hinges moved, was a basement lit dimly by rows of assorted candles.
On an altar was a pale young woman nursing a mist-suffused orb in one hand, and a hastily constructed gauntlet in the other.
"You are the one from Tyrande, no," the woman had asked. "I am the Oracle, and I've seen you from afar through prognostication of a wicked kind. It seems to be that you qualify all of the requirements of an individual that could be our Vessel."
"And what is this Vessel," Gram asked in turn. "Something to do with your devilish leader? Though your men tell me your kin resists his presence rather than exalts it."
"See, I think my men have explained to you the three conditions for a Vessel," the Oracle had explained. "Syon's curse dictates that only an outsider can rid this city of his presence. But we have a secret weapon, so to speak."
The Oracle had waved her hand, two men rushing to a back room and returning with a discolored wooden treasure chest, dropping it at Gram's feet.
"Go on," whispered the Oracle. "Open it."
The opening of the lid revealed hundreds upon hundreds of shekels, piled on one another like massive pillars. Yet each shekel was tinted in the same green hue that Gram had seen earlier. Hues of green that wrapped around each coin like a vine, radiating energy that seemed weightless and flightless. Each inscription was perfectly inlaid with tangles.
"More shekels, yet," began Gram, picking one up from the very top and waiting for any objection to his action. "They seem different. Hued in green, bathed in this acid energy that I can't describe. Similar to the power of the Holy Weapons stolen from my village."
"These shekels are special, powerful," promised the Oracle. "Each one can be inlaid with three specifications. One is choice, which is finished. You can see the energy, and thus it has chosen you. Second is intention, which you must possess. Syon destroyed your village and left you destitute. You have this intention, no? Third is the great mantra, *one man's trash is another man's treasure*. The plan is simple. Buy useless items that you yourself would consider cheap and worthless with these shekels, and once enough items are possessed you may combine them to create a catastrophic weapon of prognostication to aim at Syon."
Gram, intrigued, had agreed to see at least some of the plan through, spending the next two weeks buying useless items with the cursed shekels. Ribbons, trinkets, charms, even food that he would never eat, weapons he would never use. But now, as he exited the tent, he recognized that he wouldn't need to recollect the cursed shekels. Perhaps that would be enough. He had been chosen by the mysterious energy of prognostication that wove its way through the shekels. He had the intention of getting back the Holy Weapons Syon had stolen. He had enough trash, all of it woven by those strange green cords that could become the treasure the great mantra promised.
*Perhaps it is time to aim the weapon of prognostication*, Gram thought, as he pocketed the empty satchel.
————————————————————————
r/bluelizardK | 2019-12-02T15:55:50 | 2019-12-02T15:34:46 | 58 | 33 |
[WP] When you finally died after an unusually long life you meet an extremely confused death flipping desperately through a book with seemingly endless pages. Apparently that book contains a list with the names of everything that will ever die written on it, and somehow you are not on it | "Ok, I can't find you in the book. This is very strange. What did you say your name was again?"
...
"Ok, and what was the cause of death?"
...
"Car hit you, huh? Completely out of the blue? But you were in good health otherwise, right? How old were you at time of death?"
...
"Wait, did you say 122 years? And how many months?"
...
"Of course, of course, of course. You wouldn't be in this book, but you might be in the other one. Hold on, let me find it... Ah, here it is! The Guinness Book of Netherworld Records! Let me just look you up real quick... Yep, just as I thought. You're about to set the record for longest living person in human history. You can't die yet; you've got to live for... let's see... four more years, it looks like! So sorry for the confusion, but I'll have to send you back now. Have a good life, what's left of it. And next time be careful before crossing the street, eh? Cheers!" | My eyelids grew heavier, and the image of my sobbing children, grandchildren, and lifelong friends standing around my hospital bed slowly faded to black.
I drifted for a while, as if in a dreamless sleep.
"What the fuck?"
I jolted awake to find a very confused reaper, his smouldering red eyes contorted in disbelief. His black, skeletal fingers leafed through the pages of book the size of a shelf, which continued below the floor.
All around us was black. Light came from nowhere. I stood up and peered over his shoulder. He pushed me away.
"Okay, I'll be straight with you - I can't find you."
"What?" I said, surprised to find that my voice was no longer raspy and lined with age, but rather the one from my youth.
"I *said*, I can't find you," he mumbled, exasperated. "It's like you don't even exist."
After a few more seconds of frantic flipping, the reaper slammed the book shut. It disintegrated into the black air instantly, wisps of it floating away.
He looked at me with a suspicious eye.
"Say - who are you, anyway?"
"Me?" I scrambled for my memories. "John Tucker, age 72. Born in Maryland."
"Yeah, I know. You're not in the book. I've searched through all the John Tuckers, Johnathan Tuckers, John Tockers, everything!"
I gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Whatever. I'm tired from all this searching."
"Well, what now?"
"I guess you'll have to go back down." | 2020-03-02T06:58:46 | 2020-03-02T06:01:51 | 62 | 23 |
[WP] You finally build up enough courage to talk to that cute someone you see on the bus. Their face turns dark as they respond "You shouldn't be able to see me." | I sit down across from him and say "Man lousy weather, don't you agree."
He looks up startled "Are you talking to me?"
"Who else would I be talking to." I say gesturing to the empty back of the bus.
"But that means you're able to see me. No no, this is wrong. You shouldn't be able to see me." He responds while looking around in panic.
"Why shouldn't I be able too see you, you're sitting right here and the lighting is fine. Are you okay, you're looking panicked?"
"Oh, what I'm fine hold on a second." He pulls out his phone and taps on it quickly, the world seems to take on a blue tint as the sounds of the bus seem to drop away. "Ah, that should be better." He stands up and leans in towards my face. "Now let's see what we're dealing with here."
"Um what are you doing?" I ask.
"Ahhh!" He screams and falls backwards. "You're not frozen, who are you? Wait wait wait. You're one of them aren't you, this makes sense now."
"One of who? What are you even talking about?" I was getting flustered here, I wasn't sure what was going on. "Also you should yell like that, you'll bother all the other people on the bus."
He gave a chuckle under his breath at that, "Oh you don't have to worry about that, after all, you're the only person on this bus." | "Oh, well uh, I do see you," I said with a shrug.
"Well, you shouldn't!" she yelled back.
"But... I do?" I said and proceeded to poke her shoulder, then she flinched. "See?"
She looked at me curiously with a furrowed brow. "You're gonna blow my cover!"
"From what?" I asked.
"I can't tell you!" she snapped. "You're just a basic looking boy with a baseball hat, jean shorts, and a striped shirt! You're not supposed to be able to see me!
"Well, I can, and I don't know why. I see you everyday on the bus just like all the other people, and there's one thing I do know."
"What's that?"
"I think you're really cute, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry I can see you and you don't want me to. Y'know, you could've just told me you're not interested. It feels more harsh to make up a lie that I shouldn't be able to see you." I facepalmed my forehead, realizing what I just said sounded rude. "I'm sorry, look I'll leave you alone and we'll pretend that--"
"Wait! Don't go... You think I'm cute?"
My face started to glow. "Yeah, super cute!"
Her eyes looked welcoming and warm. "Well, I'm truly flattered," she blinked a bunch of times and her cheeks flushed. "But I'm a demon. I'm supposed to be invisible. I'm working on a plan, you see, to stop another demon... Would you, gosh, I shouldn't ask, but would you be interested in helping me?"
"I'd love to, maybe I could get my friends to help. They're all a bunch of really cool, nice guys and gals."
"Huh, maybe, as long as they can see me," she said.
"Maybe we can ice cream later and talk about it some more?" I smiled.
She smiled back. "I haven't had ice cream before, so, sure."
r/randallcooper | 2020-03-27T19:14:05 | 2020-03-27T18:54:58 | 41 | 18 |
[WP] You're homeless, sleeping on the street in NYC. You have no family, no friends, and no where to go. After 5 years living like this, a man in a fancy black suit walks by where you're begging and hands you a blank check. Then he says "Knock yourself out, kid." | August 22nd, 2020: I stared down at this piece of paper that could change my life. That could change a lot of lives.
“Are you sure..” I start to ask, but he’s already gone. Looking at my meager belongings, I realize someone else can use what I can replace. I leave everything but my wallet, a battered old strip of leather that’s falling apart. I dream of buying a new one. The same kind. It has held up to a lot, so it must be quality.
I can’t help myself. Over five years of this, and I’ve never lost my optimism. I’ve seen the worst side of people. I’ve watched people fight, I’ve seen people die. The night I saw the light in a young boys eyes fade out, a drive by victim, still haunts me. I have nightmares.
Maybe it’s all been too much. Maybe I’m ready for a little hope. I walk to the nearest check cashing place. What amount, I ask myself. What is enough, but not greedy? Then I throw caution to the wind. One million dollars. I’m going for it, and so help me, I swear I’ll help others with this money.
The check cashing place is jammed. I wait three hours. When I get to the counter, I hit a roadblock.
“We can’t cash this, ma’am.” The clerk sneers the word ma’am at me.
I stare, unable to speak. I can feel my face collapse. His face softens as he takes pity on me.
“It’s drawn on a Chase account,” he explains. “Take it there.”
Numb, I take the check back. It’s ok, I repeat inside my head. It’s going to be ok. I know Chase, let me get there. Only four blocks to go.
I make it, with ten minutes to spare.
The clerk looks over the check. Then he looks over it again, and stares at me.
“What?” I snap. Rude, but I can’t help it. I’m so tired, and I feel so defeated. This was obviously a prank.
“One moment, ma’am.” I’m too angry to notice he said ma’am with no condescension.
When he comes back he has a lady with him. Her eyes are kind, though her expression is serious.
“Come with me.”
It wasn’t a request. I went through the door beside the counter, and followed her down a long hall. An elevator. Another long hall. Another elevator. I’m lost. I’m tired. I’m in tears. My feet ache. Still, I follow. Silent.
She opens a door and waves in front of her. I should proceed her into the room. Well, this is where I die, I think, hysterically. A laugh slips out, then a sob.
When I step in, the man who handed me the check is sitting at a desk.
He gestures for me to sit. Then he begins to talk.
September 1st, 2020: The applause is overwhelming. The crowd is huge. I’m standing next to the Mayor, trying to breathe and stay calm. He’s talking, but I hear the teacher from Peanuts. I’m quietly panicking. The applause gets louder. I realize it’s my turn. I step forward and grip the podium.
“My name is Alaina Sumner. Ten days ago I was sleeping on that very corner. I slept there for five years. Many of you here probably passed me, often, and never looked my way. The homeless are invisible in this country. But that’s about to change. Thanks to a very generous private donation, we are here, celebrating the opening of Blank Check Services, a program dedicated to ending homelessness, creating a workforce, and educating the people society has forever looked down on, instead of offering a hand up. Things are going to change, starting here, in New York City.”
The roars got louder. The applause was ringing. The people came from any number of backgrounds. I could pick out the wealthy. The well to do. The homeless. The working poor. All gathered to celebrate helping the downtrodden. The dregs of society. The forgotten. My entire life changed in that bank room. The suited man’s tale had enraptured me. Drawn me in. I was now dedicated to making this work.
Finally, I spotted him in the crowd. He stared at me. I nodded. He nodded back. Then slipped away. | A single moment was all it took. A glance to the side, a shake of a hand, and the sound of footsteps on fallen snow, all in the passing seconds of a nameless, faceless man walking past.
With the man in black now around the corner, Kurt looked in his hand. A small, light blue sheet of paper with more power than he'd ever seen before. He didn't know how he knew it was powerful, but something within him warmed at the touch of it, even in the wintery streets of New York. He lifted it to the light of the streetlight above and read it carefully, trying to spot any flaws or reasons to doubt his luck. He cursed himself for not knowing anything about forgeries and leaned back against the building.
For a moment, he thought of chasing down the man to ask for help. Why did he give Kurt a chance? Was it a mistake? Did he deserve it? No, that was up to him, wasn't it? But the bitter cold, as well as the shock of the situation, froze him to his spot.
He opened his other hand and looked at the other piece of paper the man had given him. A pocket-sized piece of stiff paper fell loosely in his hand, emblazoned with the name of a company and a logo Kurt didn't recognize. On the other side of the card read the words, "make your choice" followed by an address written hastily in pencil.
What did this mean? What choice? Kurt held the two items together and saw the same logo on each of them: a two-faced bird clutching an olive branch. He'd never seen it before, even in all these years of begging on the street. You come to know the streets well when you're face-down in the gutter.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the gross appeal of what he had in his hands. Never been one to familiar with money, Kurt thought of the extravagant things this limitless cheque could bring. But it wasn't limitless, he knew that there was a limit. These things, even a slate as clean as this, came with a price. He'd been burned in the past and learned his lesson regarding things offered as gifts. A gift can be more trouble than it's worth, as his father once said. His birthdays were always terrible.
But he was overcome with the implications of the cheque. A quick trip to the bank and he'd have his problems solved, his time on the streets would be over. The thought of a home to call his own flooded his chest with warmth. So many things he'd lost would come back to him. His bed. His home. His life. It would all be his again.
Though he knew it wouldn't be his. Everything he could buy again or bring back to himself would be from the fruits of someone else's labour. Kurt was a proud man and admitted that maybe that was why he was on the streets in the first place, so the thought of living in a shell of his former life turned his stomach.
The card in his left hand shook in the wind, calling out to him among the howling gale. It was a cold year, there wasn't any telling if he would be able to even survive. Maybe he could do some good with the money. He thought of those on the streets with him, sufferers like him, victims of a cruel and blameless world. So much could be done for them. Food and warmth, a home for them all. The address on the card grabbed his attention, pulling him from his grasps for excuses to use the money.
He knew the address, of course, it was only down the road. Everything was just down the road nowadays, but it truly wasn't far. A ten-minute walk at most. His face reddened as he looked down the street, past the slowly-filling footsteps of the man in black, and wondered. What could possibly be there that warranted the choice between whatever the cheque could bring and a vague address? The thought of a job passed in front of him, but it seemed unlikely. Almost as unlikely as a stranger handing the key to the gates of Avalon to a bum.
Kurt stood from his seat, knocking the cardboard sign to the ground where it blew away in the winter storm. The shiver down his spine had stopped, a strange sense of calm washing over him.
In his right hand was the cheque, a free ticket to ride, a second chance. But it wasn't his chance to give, not really. He looked to the west down the road and saw the lights of the bank in the distance, a beacon to better things.
In his left hand was the strange address, silently beckoning to him. There was no telling what was there or if it would help in any way. To the east laid his path to the numbers on the paper, the opportunity from some unknown benefactor.
A single moment. All these thoughts passed in mere seconds, the war in his head battled out in a brief conclusion. A moment was all it took.
He held the two slips firm in his hand and took his first step towards a new start. | 2020-08-22T17:54:26 | 2020-08-22T17:38:32 | 332 | 30 |
[WP] A priest returns home after a successful exorcism. His demon daughter is waiting for him there, angry that he removed her from someone’s body again. | "I was just getting comfortable there. Why do you have to ruin everything!"
Father Mahony pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. Angelica was always cranky after being exorcised from a body, but this time was the worst he'd seen in a decade.
"Sweetheart, did you want to spend a lifetime inside a straightjacket? Because that's where that body was heading." The old floorboards creaked and the walls shifted with his slight movements as he walked through the parlor and sitting room to the servant's kitchen.
Of course, there were no servants anymore. No one was allowed to come around to Father Mahony's home, as Angelica's fits of rage were so unpredictable and over-the-top. The forgotten house beyond any modern town was the only place to keep Angelica contained.
He maintained some clothes and things at the rectory for appearances, but he always returned here with his Angelica.
"If you loved me, you'd find me a better family. Rich who won't try to stop me from having fun," a sniff reverberated around the old kitchen as anger faded to self-pity. At least that meant she was winding down and he might get some sleep tonight.
"I'll try," he answered indulgently as he poured a can of soup into a pot on the stove. "They need to be a certain age, though. Most parents don't allow kids that young too much freedom."
A hiss filled the house, and a chill raced up Father Mahony's spine. Through the window, a few chipmunks that had ventured out to one of the feeders in the yard lost their nerve and scampered back to the safety of the line of trees.
"I don't need a child. You need a child." Her voice centered around the counter next to the stove. That was one of Angelica's newest tricks. She hated her disembodied stated, claimed it was torture to deprive a spirit of living touch, drifting between two worlds. It was uncomfortable enough she rarely tried anything new or tried to strengthen her powers without a body. It kept her docile, containable.
A few years ago, though, she realized she didn't have to be a floating voice through the entire house. She could focus her energy and presence to make it sound like she was standing right next to him.
"I need a child, you need me to bring you a body. Our needs are one in the same." Father Mahony poured the soup into a bowl and put the hot pot in the sink with a hiss. He pulled down a box of croutons from a shelf, sprinkling a few into his dinner.
"Just this one time, bring an adult. Let me go out in the world. I could blend in, I could be free," Angelica's tactics changed, her voice turning soft and cooing. "We could go out together, start a life somewhere. Just for one life."
That was the problem. Angelica was right, there was no need to inhabit a child. An adult, an animal, anything would do. But then she could just walk away, leave him for a lifetime. He would grow old during that time. If she returned in time, it would be too late for him.
Father Mahony bent over the soup and inhaled deeply, the scent of broth and vegetables filling the air.
But there was something more, a metallic tang of iron that filled the house after Angelica returned after being exorcised from a body. She never experimented with her powers, she didn't even know she exuded this fountain of youth.
Within a few minutes, Father Mahony's headache went away. His joints eased, the fatigue of centuries of life seeped away, cured from the energy Angelica imparted with every tantrum after another exorcism.
"I'll find you something different tomorrow, sweetheart," the priest cooed.
With only a huff, Angelica drifted to the background of the house, quiet for the moment.
One brave chipmunk inched forward towards the feeder again, hunger overriding his instincts and misgivings about the house and its occupants.
Father Mahony poured a handful of croutons out of the box and crept silently to the back porch. The chipmunk stopped, but didn't run away. After another few minutes of stillness, he crept forward again, curious about the priest.
Father Mahony knelt down and offered the croutons in a flat palm. It would take time and patience, but he would lure the chipmunk to him just as he did Angelica.
Some time trapped in this animal's body would teach her proper respect.
r/StaceyOutThere | Father Atkinson returned home a tired man. His once sturdy frame stood hollow, a tree devoured inside out. His face had grown wrinkled as bark; his calloused hands could barely grip the cross as he pounded the pulpit before his congregation.
They didn't know him. Not the true him--the man who scrambled to correct his daughter's misdeeds, who kept a flask right beside his bedroom Bible so that he'd not still be crying when the sun rose.
All they knew was the fire of his words as he preached a life he couldn't live, the bags beneath his eyes because his devotion knew no bounds.
Those late-night exorcisms had worn him down. Like a stump, once tall and proud, now a broken bit of what'd he'd been.
Each was harder than the last. His hands struggled to clutch the crucifix; his eyes blurred as he tried to read the incantations. Night after night. Possession after possession.
His hand trembled as he put the key to the lock. He winced as the door creaked open. Like walking on eggshells, he entered the dark foyer. Hung his coat. Ran a tired hand through his thinned hair. She slept this time so he could, too.
"Hello, daddy," a voice said from up the hallway.
"My goodness," he said, jumping when he saw the short, dark figure standing in the doorway to the kitchen. "Lucy, what did I tell you about startling me like that? Gonna give me a heart attack."
She giggled her high-pitched cackle that ended in those little snorts he'd once found so cute. "Might be best," Lucy said, and then she began to cackle again.
Father Atkinson bit his tongue and refrained from retorting. Kids said the damnedest things. He flipped on the light, revealing Lucy in her white nightgown and disheveled hair that fell over her face. Her nails were broken and jagged from scratching at the same place time and time again.
Father Atkinson caught his breath. Everybody was beautiful in their own way, his daughter most of all. He mustered an apologetic smile.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said. "It's well past midnight. What are you still doing up?"
"Waiting for you, daddy," Lucy said. "What were you doing?" She cocked her head, smiled with too much teeth.
"I see that," Father Atkinson said. He didn't answer her question.
"You were punishing me again, daddy," Lucy said. "I thought I asked you not to do that."
Father Atkinson frowned. He clutched his coat as if it would protect him. "It's my job, Lucy. I do what I have to do."
He peered to the left into the living room, around Lucy into the kitchen. The babysitter was nowhere to be found. Maybe she'd fallen asleep in the family room. Maybe...
"She's alive," Lucy said.
Father Atkinson let out the breath he'd been holding. "Thank goodness."
"I'm not a murderer, daddy," Lucy said.
She smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes--wide and sinister, forced and deceptive.
Father Atkinson gulped. "I know you aren't, sweetie."
"But you thought I might be, right? You're looking for Amanda."
Father Atkinson nodded. "Yes, dear. I'm looking for Amanda. Could you tell me where Amanda is and then head back to bed? It's her bedtime, too, and she has to drive home still."
"Oh, daddy," Lucy said.
A chill ran up Father Atkinson's spine. "Yes, dear?"
"I don't think Amanda wants to leave just yet."
"She doesn't?"
"Why don't I just show you her?" Lucy said.
Father Atkinson didn't move from beside the front door. With one hand, he reached into his coat and clutched the crucifix with trembling hands. He eyed the Bible on the coffee table in the living room, wondered if he could make it there before Lucy did.
"O... Okay, dear. Show me Amanda, please."
*Sleeping. She's just sleeping, and Lucy will show me where she fell asleep. Maybe they watched a movie. Played with dolls--wait, no. Not the dolls.*
"Come, Amanda," Lucy sang. Sickly sweet, that voice of hers.
Footsteps lurched through the family room. Into the kitchen. Amanda appeared in the doorway, eyes blank and white as the foyer walls. She teetered unsteadily, her back twisted at a gruesome angle. Her face was plastered with the same wide smile as Lucy's, and when Lucy lifted her arm towards Father Atkinson, Amanda's lifted, too.
"Here she is, daddy," Lucy said. "Since you don't like having to come home from work so late, I thought I could surprise you by bringing your work right here to our home."
*****
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated! | 2020-10-20T08:32:27 | 2020-10-20T08:05:28 | 596 | 123 |
[WP] A priest returns home after a successful exorcism. His demon daughter is waiting for him there, angry that he removed her from someone’s body again. | The woman lifts off the floor, rising slowly and spinning counterclockwise. "Widdeeshins", Father OBrady says aloud. He finishes the salt circle, and blesses the bottle of fiji water he bought at the corner store on his way.
"It's not fair!" The demonic voice rips from her throat. "You never let me have any fun!"
He quietly sprinkles the water over the rest of the family, and begins the incantation.
The demon screams, but he knows demons. They always scream. They pretend it hurts so that maybe you'll take pity on the poor soul they've occupied, and stop. He knows better.
He finishes the reading, and takes a swig of the water before pouring it into the woman's mouth.
A darkness blacker than night pours from her ears and eyes, and the wailing continues. Just as quickly, it is done. She falls to the floor, sobbing, and reaches for her family.
"Is it safe?" The husband asks.
OBrady nods. "aye." He says, "the demon is gone from her now." He refuses their money. He didn't become a priest for money.
He because a priest to protect his child.
He walks home, and he can hear her upstairs, his daughter. Breaking things. Screaming. He climbs the stairs to her room, weary.
"You never let me do ANYTHING!" She shrieks as he opens her door, flinging a picture frame at him. "Mom would have let me! She'd let me go to concerts! And hang out with my friends! I hate you! You're the worst dad in the world!"
"Oh aye, your mum! Shining beacon of motherhood she is!" He shouts back, losing his temper, accent growing thicker as his did. "Left ye on me porch when you was just a wee thing, unable to manifest a shape. You were weak and helpless and she didnae think even to warn me ye were there! She didnae care for ye! Didnae wipe your nose and bottom when ye was sick! She'd have eaten yet soon as kissed ye!"
He sits, heavily, on the bed. "I know ye want to explore," he says, as the darkness shrinks into a familiar form. "But it's too dangerous. What if you lose your shape drinking? What if you hurt somebody, or they hurt you?"
He knows the answer. It's only a matter of time before they bring in a different priest already. If she's revealed, they'll bring one sooner.
He won't be able to protect her then.
"You don't know what hell is, love. I've seen it in your mother's eyes. I've felt the fire of it burning in my soul." He shook his head. "They could trap you their for eternity. I cannae let them do it. Please," he rubs his brow, "please, no more possessions of people. Dogs and cats and dolls only, please."
"Dad." She sinks onto the bed beside him. "I didn't mean it. I don't hate you." She wraps her arms around him.
"I know that, love." He pets her hair. "Now finish your homework. School tomorrow, you know."
She rolls her eyes, and forgets to color the scelera white. "Dad. It's online! The teacher lets us grade our own. It doesn't matter." Her hair was back to mousey brown, and her skin was right too. The shadows had stopped flickering around her like flames. "Danielle is doing a watch party tonight. If I promise not to leave the house, can I have some of your -"
"Absolutely not." he stands. "What kind of a father let's his daughter drink at your age!" He winks, and whispers, "I'll leave it at the stairs but I'm warding the house, you hear?" | Father Curry was tired; a man of God could only do so much, yet the world seemed stubbornly inclined to forget this, particularly in the cases of possessions. Only today he had had a round four cases. None of them cared that he had missed breakfast in his haste to reach Victim Number One, nor that he missed lunch on his way to Victim Number Three.
No, they didn't even care enough to offer him refreshments before they began — didn't they know how parched screaming, "The blood of Christ compels you!" could make a man? They simply hovered there in the corners, sobbing, or else rushing forward to wail even more distractingly at the victims' sides when the demon was putting up a fight. Four, especially, had taken much longer than usual, lasting about six hours in total.
Now, hungry, thirsty, and weary, he hopped off the bus as the Number 9 sign of his house came into view: he had been too tired even to drive himself.
He sprinkled a handful of coins into the driver's outstretched hand and lumbered towards the door. The moment he had closed it behind him, the hall lights flipped on, and he groaned.
"Oh, Stace . . ."
"You're late, Daddy," a voice pouted, coming from seemingly nowhere.
"Please, Dear, not tonight. I'm very tired.
"Yes, torturing your daughter can do that to you," the voice spat. "One would think you'd know that by now."
Father Curry placed his crucifix on the table beside the door, dropped his keys into the bowl, and strode into his kitchen for a snack, not answering. He opened the fridge door and seized a tub of butter, intending to spread some across a slice of bread to last him at least until he could boil some soup, but the tub flew back into the fridge and the door slammed shut.
"Honey," he said exasperatedly.
"Admit it! Admit what you did!"
"I didn't torture you, Stacy. I saved that poor woman. We've talked about this."
"No, *you* talked, you didn't listen to anything *I* had to say!"
"Damn it, Stacy!" Father Curry pounded his fist on the kitchen counter, losing patience. "I'm trying! I really am! But you're making this impossible! Do you think I'm happy with this arrangement? Don't you think I *want* you to have a body of your own, so that you can be with me again? I do! But this is wrong — what you're doing is wrong! You can't steal these people's bodies for yourself!"
"That's not what I was —" Stacy protested, sounding disbelieving.
"I've made excuses for your for months, Stace! I've tried to make this work . . . but no more."
"D-Daddy?" Stacy's voice was soft and fearful now. "What. . .?"
Father Curry's eyes filled with tears unshed. "I'm sorry, Stacy. I really am. I thought — keeping you here like this. Maybe we could make it work. . . . But I see now it's impossible. You died in that car crash . . . and you should've stayed that way."
"Daddy!" Stacy cried, sounding horrified. "You can't mean —!"
"Yes, I do, Stace," he said, closing his eyes, and two tears seeped from beneath his eyelids. "It's time."
"No! No!" she shrieked. "You can't send me back there! I'll do better! *Please* —"
Father Curry whispered a prayer in an ancient tongue, and a chilly wind swept through the room, though no window was open.
"*NO*!"
"I love you, Stacy," he whispered. The noise died down, the wind settled, and he was alone, just as he had been the night she had been taken from him. He stood there, tears flooding silently down his face. Then, with a gasp and a noisy sniff, he shook his head and strode back to the fridge, extracting the butter dish again.
He buttered his bread and sat down, munching halfheartedly. A tired man indeed. And broken beyond measure.
Back after another hiatus with one for r/MysticScribbles :) | 2020-10-20T09:37:27 | 2020-10-20T09:06:32 | 393 | 125 |
[WP] A priest returns home after a successful exorcism. His demon daughter is waiting for him there, angry that he removed her from someone’s body again. | The woman lifts off the floor, rising slowly and spinning counterclockwise. "Widdeeshins", Father OBrady says aloud. He finishes the salt circle, and blesses the bottle of fiji water he bought at the corner store on his way.
"It's not fair!" The demonic voice rips from her throat. "You never let me have any fun!"
He quietly sprinkles the water over the rest of the family, and begins the incantation.
The demon screams, but he knows demons. They always scream. They pretend it hurts so that maybe you'll take pity on the poor soul they've occupied, and stop. He knows better.
He finishes the reading, and takes a swig of the water before pouring it into the woman's mouth.
A darkness blacker than night pours from her ears and eyes, and the wailing continues. Just as quickly, it is done. She falls to the floor, sobbing, and reaches for her family.
"Is it safe?" The husband asks.
OBrady nods. "aye." He says, "the demon is gone from her now." He refuses their money. He didn't become a priest for money.
He because a priest to protect his child.
He walks home, and he can hear her upstairs, his daughter. Breaking things. Screaming. He climbs the stairs to her room, weary.
"You never let me do ANYTHING!" She shrieks as he opens her door, flinging a picture frame at him. "Mom would have let me! She'd let me go to concerts! And hang out with my friends! I hate you! You're the worst dad in the world!"
"Oh aye, your mum! Shining beacon of motherhood she is!" He shouts back, losing his temper, accent growing thicker as his did. "Left ye on me porch when you was just a wee thing, unable to manifest a shape. You were weak and helpless and she didnae think even to warn me ye were there! She didnae care for ye! Didnae wipe your nose and bottom when ye was sick! She'd have eaten yet soon as kissed ye!"
He sits, heavily, on the bed. "I know ye want to explore," he says, as the darkness shrinks into a familiar form. "But it's too dangerous. What if you lose your shape drinking? What if you hurt somebody, or they hurt you?"
He knows the answer. It's only a matter of time before they bring in a different priest already. If she's revealed, they'll bring one sooner.
He won't be able to protect her then.
"You don't know what hell is, love. I've seen it in your mother's eyes. I've felt the fire of it burning in my soul." He shook his head. "They could trap you their for eternity. I cannae let them do it. Please," he rubs his brow, "please, no more possessions of people. Dogs and cats and dolls only, please."
"Dad." She sinks onto the bed beside him. "I didn't mean it. I don't hate you." She wraps her arms around him.
"I know that, love." He pets her hair. "Now finish your homework. School tomorrow, you know."
She rolls her eyes, and forgets to color the scelera white. "Dad. It's online! The teacher lets us grade our own. It doesn't matter." Her hair was back to mousey brown, and her skin was right too. The shadows had stopped flickering around her like flames. "Danielle is doing a watch party tonight. If I promise not to leave the house, can I have some of your -"
"Absolutely not." he stands. "What kind of a father let's his daughter drink at your age!" He winks, and whispers, "I'll leave it at the stairs but I'm warding the house, you hear?" | Flickering lights. Slamming doors. A cold, spectral wind raising the hair on the back of your neck. Whispering shadows dancing in the dark.
The classic signs of a ghostly presence filled his house, but instead of feeling fear, Father Earhardt merely sighed.
“Spirit of the deceased, what do you… oh, for Christ’s sake. Emilia, will you stop it?”
Behind him, the door slammed shut. The answer, clearly, was a definitive ‘no’.
Father Earhardt ignored the spectral manifestations and flopped on the couch while unbuttoning his clerical collar. It was a useless bit of theater, but his clients always seemed to expect it, no matter how stifling it was.
“Emilia, you *know* I can’t let you run loose. I have a duty to our Lord God.”
In the corner, the radio flicked on. Static blared from the speakers and he could just barely make out the sound of a young girl’s voice.
“I want to live.”
Earhardt rubbed his eyes. “Darling, I’m sorry. You know I am. We’ve been over this.”
“I want to live,” the static repeated. “Why did you let me die?”
Years ago, this same manifestation would have brought the Father to his knees, begging for forgiveness, but time had made him jaded, and no amount of pleading had satisfied the permanently four-year-old ghost.
Regardless, he persisted.
“I did not let you die,” Earhardt explained patiently. “The other driver was drunk. I could have done nothing to save you.”
He sighed again. “I only wish your mind was mature enough for you to understand,” he whispered. “Hell is no place for a child.”
“Why did you let me die?”
“I did not let you die. Please, return to your rest. I hate to use my tools on you.”
“Let me come back, father,” the static crackled.
Earhardt jumped from the couch.. *That* was new.
“Emilia?” he asked, his voice cracking. For the first time since her death, his daughter had spoken a new phrase.
“You can let me come back, father. You don’t have to drive me away.” The radio sounded clearer than ever.
“Emilia, what’s happening?” he cried. He darted about the room, frantically searching the desks and bookshelves.
“Where is it? Where is it?” he muttered. “Aha!” With a triumphant grunt, he grabbed the spare ouija board and removed it from the box.
“Emilia, can you speak to me?” he asked, hand on the planchette.
The noise of the static grew in volume, quickly becoming unbearable. Just before he thought he could take no more, a crack rang out from the radio and the flickering lightbulb shattered. Silence filled the room.
“Emilia?” he croaked.
But nothing responded.
“No, no, no! Come back!” He sprinted to a desk and yanked open a drawer filled with half-melted candles. They were meant for emergency power outages, but they would serve another purpose well.
Hands shaky, he lit the candles and arranged them carefully. He drew a pattern on the coffee table in melted wax. The ritual was familiar to him, but only as one done by the foolish who soon after needed his help to deal with the resulting possession.
“Desperate times,” he muttered. “If this is what brings you rest…”
When the pattern had been completed, he sat in front of the ritual and closed his eyes.
For a moment, all was silent.
“Hello, father.”
The voice was ear-piercing but clearer than ever before.
“Emilia! What happened to you?” he cried, forcing his eyes to remain shut.
“I learned, father. Isn’t that what you always wanted from me?” She giggled, and the sound was innocent and knowing all at once. “You play the part of innocent so well, but you cannot hide forever.”
“I- you-”
“Stop the lies, father. Open your eyes to the truth. Open *yourself* to the truth.”
Slowly, his eyes cracked open.
“Emilia?”
The candles blew out, but Emilia did not mind the darkness. She stretched, feeling the aches and pains of a body much older than the one she had been used to.
“I’m back,” she [whispered](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks). | 2020-10-20T09:37:27 | 2020-10-20T08:40:49 | 393 | 108 |
[WP] You die with your cell phone in your hands, and the afterlife customs agents miss it when letting you in. You find that it still works, and you can connect to the internet and contact people in the living world. | "Daddy?" Isabella's voice was clear as a bell. My eyes stung with tears with my inability to speak back to her.
"Daddy? When are you coming home?" She asked. "I guess it is a bad call. It has the five bars and says 4. Daddy is your phone broken Daddy?"
I sobbed silently to myself listening to my sweet little girl try to reach out to me. I would forever hear her voice reaching out to me. We were both in the same car. She had just gotten a hand-me-down cellphone with Facetime. I could see her. Hear her. See her smiling. Feel her oblivious happiness coursing through the signal. The sun was shining upon her happy little cherubic face.
The phone chimed again as I screamed into the muzzle.
The Demon held it back in front of me again.
"Daaaaaadddddy? Why won't you answor Daddy?"
The Demon leaned in close. Brimstone on his breath. "Was the Whisky worth it?"
[Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/l1emri/wp_the_demon_successfully_possessed_you_however/) | I am not addicted, i promise
I mean, i have all the time in the world and nothing else to do, ok?
Yeah, sure, i can bathe in the light of God all the time, but while i never get tired of it its also not particularly fulfilling
Its like, that feeling of being comfortably snuggling in bed after you wake up, that hazy comfyness but it lasts forever
Yes, its super nice, but only if there is nothing else to do
I mean, even God cannot compete with the internet on terms of entertainment, ok?
I put my businesses in order, pretended to be an old friend of myself to tell my family the things i always wanted to tell them, we made peace and they eventually died, they are actually slumbering on the other side of the comfy vortex
I tried to make some projects but getting investors was hard and my associates always flaked on, that with having lives to take care of or whatever
I mean, i have a phone, i can make calls and send texts but without a pc its pretty much impossible to make drawings for designing stuff or making comics, so im stuck with writing
I mean, i was stuck before dying, but that is besides the point
But im not slacking, im doing research
I mean, the trends change all the time and it would be a shame if i make something out of fashion, and i also have tons of new ideas i want to include, but first i gotta read more novels to see if no one else has used those ideas before
And then i will finally finish my novel, i promise | 2021-01-20T14:13:32 | 2021-01-20T14:01:43 | 347 | 74 |
[WP] Not far from your village is a small grove. Within the grove a monster dwells. It devours the guilty and leaves the innocent. When the worst crimes are committed, the accused are sent to face the creature. You have murdered someone in self-defense. You enter the grove unsure of your fate. | **-- Part 1 --**
By nightfall the villagers had lit their torches and grabbed their pitchforks, beginning the ravenous parade of chants and hisses behind the Warden, leading the Accused in chains. The Accused couldn’t help but contemplate his fate as they continued their forced march. “Murderer!” “Killer!” “Death to the guilty!” The cries of the mob echoed behind him, falling on deaf ears as the Accused recalled what led them to this.
Certainly, he had killed a man - In particular, the town’s butcher Oleg. Oleg was once a brutish man, not too well liked within the Village community due to his inclination to rage and excessive drinking. Yet still somehow he had a wife, Victoria, who ended up defending him to her last breath despite the abuse she was so obviously facing from his drunken stupor. Needless to say, the village avoided him unless they needed his services. He wouldn’t be missed.
The Accused flinched as a rock slung into his shoulder, saying nothing as the Warden turned to bark at the villagers for stepping out of line. The group shrank back like a beast when threatened with flame, quieting for a moment before their murmured insults took to resounding around the woods once more. The destination of the group likely meant certain death to the Accused, and the villagers were certainly hungry for his blood. But at this point… The Accused didn’t pay his fate much mind.
They were nearing the end, he thought, as the normally green pines that cluttered the woods began to twist and blacken, writhing out of the ground as if they were contorting with some unexplained pain. This was the entrance to The Grove, a place where the accused were trialed by something incomprehensible. They called it a monster, something that had the ability to judge a person’s innocence for the crimes they have committed with naught but a glance. Those who were given to the Grove most often disappeared, supposedly consumed by whatever dwelled in the pit at it’s center, therefore deemed guilty by the Village and forgotten. But for those who returned, managing to escape the pit they had been placed into for judgement… They were deemed ‘Innocent’, but had no recollection of their encounter with the supposed creature that lurked below.
Unfortunately, this oftentimes did not change the Village’s opinion on those innocent individuals. Those who came back innocent were often banished from the community, or simply ostracized as the Villagers clearly showed their discontent at the individual’s return. Whoever entered the Grove was damned regardless of the monster’s decision.
The group had finally reached their destination, the maw of the Grove looming before the halo of twisted trees. The Warden gave his companion his torch, before turning to face the raucous crowd, projecting his voice over the noise.
“Tonight we sentence Sven Vaaraghast, the Accused, to his damnation. Murderer of the town butcher Oleg Havaadson and Madeline Vaaragahst, the Accused’s own wife. The Grove will be the final say in this sinner’s judgement, may the monster see this man for the horrid path he’s led, and consume his soul for the crimes he has wrought.”
Sven the Accused was turned towards the pit, the echoing blackness that yawned before him resounding louder than the ravenous cries of the villagers. He couldn’t see how far down the cavern stretched, but he hoped it would be enough to kill him outright before he became familiar with whatever may lay below.
A hard shove from the Warden was all it took to send him spiraling into the blackness below. | Our Leader makes the proclamation. " For the crime of murder, you must hereby enter The Grove of Judgement!" At that, the guards escorted me to a small hut at the edge of the village. There I was attended to by The Keepers of the Grove, three people selected every year to prepare criminals to enter The Grove. We have no jails and all crimes are judged in The Grove no matter how small the crime. The guilty never return and those judged innocent never spoke of what happened in The Grove, but their accusers disappear. No murderer ever returned, even those claiming self-defense. I was stripped and washed, my cloths folded neatly and set in a corner, then I was dressed in a simple brown robe. As I walk to The Grove, I can feel the eyes of the entire village on me, volcanoes in the distance spewing black smoke. Once I reach The Grove, all is silent, even the sounds of animals have gone silent and The Grove is covered with an impenetrable darkness. As I enter past the trees the darkness lifts and the trees are no more. I am in an opulently furnished Hall with a table in the center with all manner of food laid out, and other items that do not look familiar but are being eaten by some of the beings there. I say beings because while some look like us, other are wholly alien forms speaking in a strange tongue. At the head of the table a new being blinks into existence, one that looks like us but like the others, dressed very strangely.
"Mortal! You have been sent to be judged! What say you in your defense?" the being bellows, louder then I thought imaginable.
"It was in self-defense, Lord," I manage to say meekly while cowering before the being.
"Pah! Self-defense?! Ridiculous. You either killed him or you did not. The reason is irrelevant. Why, our realm has not had a killing since we ascended to what we are now we have not had crime! Now we pass judgement on lesser beings! It is amusing to watch you squirm."
"Then what happens to the innocent? They never speak of this place, and their accusers all disappear?"
"I remove their memory of this place and take the accusers in their place. They are liars after all and I can't have them mucking about my planets, can I?"
"Then how do you judge me?" I ask, getting more brave as I realize his mind is already made up.
"How do you know I have made up my mind?! Can you read my thoughts?! What am I thinking right now?!" he asks. "I'm kidding, I know you cannot read my thoughts," he continues.
"Very well, what is it you want then?"
"You intrigue me. Tell me your your story."
"You could just gleam it from my mind but I shall indulge you. I was sleeping last night when I awoke to someone climbing through my window. It was my neighbor trying to steal from me. We fought, he fell backwards onto my reaper for the fields and was impaled. Now I am here."
"I am impressed. You do not fear me anymore. What has changed, mortal?"
"I have accepted my fate. I will not fear death any longer. Do what you will"
"I always do. My decision is made!" He claps his hands and the table and beings all vanish leaving the Hall empty. "I will send you back to your village and you will tell them what you like. I am bored here anyway, too long have I watched and judged your people."
With that he snapped his fingers and I was in front of the village. Looking back, The Grove was gone, all that could be seen were the volcanoes that we all around, spewing black smoke. As I entered the village to everyone's shock, I spoke. "I have been judged worthy and left Sto-vo-kor with my mind intact! It has been decreed that we will form a new Empire on Qo'noS! Sharpen your Bat'leths and prepare! The Elders will stay with the young! We march to the next village, then the next, until we have taken all of Qo'noS!" | 2021-03-16T12:39:38 | 2021-03-16T12:32:17 | 103 | 30 |
[WP] Not far from your village is a small grove. Within the grove a monster dwells. It devours the guilty and leaves the innocent. When the worst crimes are committed, the accused are sent to face the creature. You have murdered someone in self-defense. You enter the grove unsure of your fate. | "For the unprecedented, and Most Heinous Crime, of Matricide, I hereby condemn the Guilty, Reynar Fowlkes, to The Grove."
Raucous cheers flooded Reynar's ears as the crowd bayed for his blood. Not that he blamed them. His mother was a piece of work.
Gloria Fowlkes was beloved by everyone. And, because of that, he was distrusted and disliked. The reason was pretty simple; by day she would teach orphans and run charities, and by night give soup and blankets to the homeless. A warm smile, the concern and patience of a saint, Gloria made her name as a charitable soul.
Small wonder then, when Reynar complained to other adults of her shouting and screaming, the welts she visited upon him on good days, and the deprivation of food and senses on most others, they didn't believe him. He soon learned to keep quiet. Not that it helped much, but no one saw what happened behind closed doors, and no one believed him anyway.
They didn't even question what happened. If they did, he would have told him how she came in, looking like she drank a breweries' worth of alcohol, ranting about how he was dragging her down, and slandering her good name. Never mind that he hadn't said a word about such things for a decade now. Without missing a beat, she grabbed a knife and slashed at him with it. She scored a few blows, even getting aa deep wound in his arm, before he got his hand on the rolling pin.
Not that Reynar knew what happened before looking at her corpse.
What happened next was a blur. Even as he tried to recall while being marched into The Grove, his memories were blurred and disconnected. The faces of angry guards, the howling and shouts he endured for so long now coming from a thousand throats, cold bars holding him in a cold cell...
He was roused from his thoughts as he was shoved forward, into a small clearing surrounded by trees. Despite the day being rather sunny, no light pierced the canopy of the forest. Even being in the warm bask of the sun, he felt cold looking into those depths.
Judge Ryland, along with half the congregation, and a line of guards between Reynar and them, stood behind the accused. And, as was custom, Gloria's body, dressed in white with a matching casket.
"High Executor of Nos Vale!" The Judge's voice rang out as if it came from on high. "'Ere, I have brought forth the Accused, as Our Pact with The Powers demand us to give! Give Judgement, ye Old One, and punish the Wicked!"
There was a, at this point, mandatory pause. Reynar knew what was coming. That couldn't be avoided, no matter where he ran. The only exit that wasn't into the forest was walled off by an inch of steel and a hundred feet of angry mob, ready to tear him apart. So he took the moment to collect himself, getting on his knees, and wait for the moment it arrived.
No sooner had he got himself comfortable, than did the trees rustle. It was the only sign they had for when it arrived. Or even had a physical form.
**Is this The Accused?**
The voice was as deep as the pit Reynar's heart had sank in. This was it. This was his end.
**Name your crime, Child of Man.**
"Matricide."
Silence hung around them like a heavy blanket. It then spoke again.
**To kill that which brought you into the world. A grievous crime indeed. And a tragedy, accident or not. Yet there is another, one who brought forth this wickedness.**
"What?" The word left the Judge's lips before he realised, judging by his coughing.
**To destroy a person is Sin. Yet to torment them with no hope for Respite is graver. And either to one you brought into the world is nothing short of evil.**
And like that, there was a sudden bang, as if someone dropped a hammer onto a wooden floor.
**Gloria Fowlkes, you will not escape me.**
The crowd fell silent, even as Gloria's skeleton slumped in its coffin.
**The Good deeds one does does not overwrite the condemnation of another's Life. Reynar Fowler.**
His spine stiffened.
**Though you did commit this Most Heinous Crime, you have done so for the preservation of your own life against that of Malice. Yet those of Nos Vale will not grant you succour. So I grant you this: take your path into this Forest. Find those who were similarly damned. Should you try to make peace with those before you now, that is your choice, and your choice alone.**
​
And with that, a draft of air was sucked into the forest, the only sign of the ancient being leaving. | **—Part 1—**
The cell was cold and damp, the smells in the air akin to that of rot despite no dead ever laying here. My pale, almost blueish skin was riddled with goosebumps, my hair as matted as a bird’s nest. I huddled in the driest corner, my rags doing their best but failing to keep me warm. Each breath had condensed into tiny clouds before me, but now they were barely visible. I felt so cold, so hungry and weak...
Outside, voices yelled and shouted, trying to speak their verdicts. I heard no cries of “She’s innocent!” only cries of, “Damn that horrid rat!”
I knew that they would find me guilty, even if my crime had been committed in pure survival. To be honest, I didn’t care if I lived or died... this world was so cruel that it mattered not.
A single voice rose above the rest, quieting the masses beyond my cell. “Quiet quiet!” The kingdom’s priest cried out, his elderly voice semi-warm compared to the rest. “Let me speak!”
As the villagers quieted, the priest spoke. “Now hear hear! As per kingdom law from the generations past, the child-!” His voice was drowned out by the cries of the crowd, and again he had to call to order. “*I say!!* The *child* shall be judged by the Lord’s Beast in the Grove! Should she be guilty the Devil she’ll take her to his depths, but should she return the Lord has deemed her innocent! In the end, we shall receive a scroll detailing the events, which shall enter our records!” The crowd started yelling again.
I curled up tighter in my corner. I was damned either way. What wasn’t said was how no one ever returned, only the scrolls appeared. Some documented innocence, but those were quickly shelved. After all... every Accused was starved so that they would succumb to hunger before returning if innocent. No one ever wanted to admit their wrongdoing.
Even if the accused was me.
————————————————————————
I awoke to being dragged by my shackles, before being tossed into a jail cart. A whimper escaped me as I laid dazed, before I could see the faces of the angry villagers outside the bars. Some threw rotted fruits, others rocks, and not even the cart being jerked and pulled by the Warden’s horses stopped them.
To be honest I welcomed the fruit, and shifting ate some off the floor. I knew to those outside it was disgusting, but where I came from I had had worse, and my belly screamed for food. Even though I knew of my crime I still ate... I wanted to live to see my judgment.
The cart soon exited the village, passing through the gates, and out into the land beyond. I glanced outside, and my heart tightened... it was so beautiful out here. Maybe, if I lived, I would say out in these untamed wilds. Then no one could murder me should I return an innocent... if I returned.
I wasn’t sure of how long the cart travelled, before we came to a sudden stop. I glanced outside, curious. Were we here?
I heard the *thump* as the Warden jumped off his seat, landing on the path. His bootsteps were heavy set as he came around, and when he came to the back fear filled my heart. I knew him...
The Warden smirked at me, malice and darkness in his eyes. “You murdered my son bitch... I should return the favour, judgment or not.” His laughter filled my ears as I realized that there was no beast... just a man who manipulated a village to his will.
I flinched back, scared and trembling, whimpers escaping. “N-No... p-please-!” I cried out as he yanked me out, tossing me harshly to the ground. He pinned my smaller, frailer form down, hands grabbing at my clothes. “I know just how to end you bitch! The same way my son was created, and through the means which you murdered him!!”
And then I screamed as he harshly did his horrid deed, my body jerking under his grasp. I screamed and cried, but didn’t beg. I knew in his heart it was hopeless, that nothing but anger and darkness lay inside him.
My vision started blurring as pain filled my lowers, the scent of metallic copper in the air... blood. My blood. He was making me bleed out from the inside!!
I was almost to blackness when he stopped, before I was thrown into the bushes. “All anyone shall see is your blood bitch! And when the scroll appears they shall know your crimes!” And then I could hear the carriage being led away...
But I refused to give up and die. Not for some man’s twisted excuse of a punishment. Instead I used what strength I had left to drag myself out, back to the road... to hopefully where a passerby not of the kingdom would find and rescue me...
The shackles weighted me down but still I went, until my hands felt the hardened dirt. I wanted to sob, but I felt so weak, my body starting to give out...
Then I heard nothing but screams as it all went black.
(There is going to be a part two) | 2021-03-16T15:01:23 | 2021-03-16T14:37:21 | 26 | 17 |
[WP] Never, in 10 millennia, has someone successfully broken out of the Gates of Hell or into the Gates of Heaven. Of course, the Lockpicking Lawyer just died and he's up for a challenge.
Inspired by the [comment](https://www.reddit.com/r/rpghorrorstories/comments/m6smji/does_this_count_dm_is_proposing_35_ranks_of/gr85q13?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share&context=3) u/geckoobac made on r/rpghorrorstories | “This is the Lockpickinglawyer, and I’m in Hell.”
Oh no. I’ve been dreading this day for the past ten millennia. I sat on my throne, head in my hands, trying to think of how to stop him.
“Agath!” I called, “Update me.”
“Yes, s-sir,” Agath stammered, “Errmm, h-he’s broken th-through all of the l-locks already, s-sir. The o-only thing st-stopping him is Ce-Cerberus, s-sir,”
That wasn’t possible. Not even a team of Archimedes could pick one of the 50 I installed, yet he broke every single one of them. The only thing stopping him was Cerberus. I was confident that he would be able to stop him.
“Who’s a good boy? Yes, yes, you are.” Cerberus growled as the Lockpickinglawyer rubbed his head.
“No! Cerberus, attack!” I yelled at the monitor, but it was about as helpful as commanding a wall. My dog rolled over, drool escaping from its three heads as the Lockpickinglawyer lulled Cerberus to sleep with his soothing, calming voice. Heck, even I was getting drowsy. I shook my head, trying to clear my mind.
Cerberus was already asleep as I approached the gate. He pulled the doors open, and the blinding light flooded into my realm.
“The Gates of Hell does need some work, but overall, there’s some improvement from my previous attempts. In any case, that’s all I have for you today. If you like this video, please subscribe, and as always, have a nice day.” He said. The lockpicker walked to the tripod and detached the camera.
“Shoot, I forgot to record.” He mumbled, disappointed.
I approached him. Hiding my nerves, I mustered my largest voice and shouted, “WHOMST HAS TRIED TO BREAK THROUGH THE GATES OF HELL??”
“Ah, Satan, you’re here.” He said unphased. “Is it alright if you re-lock the locks? I forgot to record my video.”
“Wait, you’re not going to, ah, escape?” I asked, taken aback.
“Well, Hell’s security system is weak with glaring vulnerabilities, and I need to get a video out by tomorrow.” He said nonchalantly.
“What about Cerberus? What did you do to him?” I demanded, returning to my senses. I rushed over to my dog, cradling his head.
“That was the most difficult lock, but I could still bypass it with some basic dog treats Bosnian Bill and I made,” The Lockpickinglawyer replied.
“Why are you even here, anyway? I don’t remember you being in the Hell database,” I said.
“I’m purgatory’s security inspector, and it looks like you failed the test,” He replied. Purgatory Inc. was our parent company. Of course, how could I forget? They always came around once a year, inspecting this, testing that. I dreaded those. Always fining me for not enough torture, too much safety and hygiene, the list goes on.
“Anyways, I have to make my way over to Heaven soon,” He said, “Oh, and could you lock the gates again? I really need that video.”
I sighed, quietly leading him back to the front of the gate. Defeated, I went up to Cebereus and shook him awake. I then locked all 50 of the locks. The Lockpickinglawyer beamed at me as he set up his camera again.
“This is the Lockpickinglawyer, and I’m in Hell.”
\--
Thanks for reading! | [Just a quick note the Lucifer here IS based off the Lucifer TV series!)
Lucifer had been scrolling through his phone as per usual, waiting for another case with the Detective to show up, when he noticed a death notification pop across his phone.
Bless the mortal world and it’s wonders, the new app that notified him of new souls was helpful in making sure that no one got out of Hell again while he was away on his “vacation”...
“Oh bloody hell-“ Lucifer was dreading the day this man died, and he was determined to make sure that the Lockpicking Lawyer would not escape his loop.
Lucifer thought for a moment then checked the man’s recent social media posts.
He was genuinely terrified, the fallen angel seeing a text from the Detective then ignoring it to continue to address the problem at hand.
This was someone he’d have to try to nip in the bud quickly, before havoc was unleashed on the world and the mortals he adored would be harmed, if that were to occur.
He could feel the anger boiling as this man could create more problems than it was worth for him.
“So today we have a lock that’s in Hell itself! It was so easy – with Lucifer being MIA – to get the tools required to pick the lock of the gates of Hell!” The lawyer seemed to laugh, and Lucifer cringed, because he knew this man would succeed – he always did.
Lucifer needed to find some way to stop him and to stop this fiendish scheme that the other was going under. He typically applauded this kind of work, but he wasn’t a fan of this man or the annoying trespassing behaviour that he had.
Begrudgingly sighing to himself, Lucifer prepared for a trip down below to the Hellish domain he ruled over, trying to stop this man in his tracks. He knew full well hanging around his penthouse was not going to help stop this man from unleashing evil into the world.
Trudging through the dark and mysterious depths of hell, the fallen angel came upon the gate, walking towards it with a smirk on his face seeing the man.
“You’re up for a challenge, aren’t you? Why don’t I do us both a favour, and send you right back to your hell loop, sir?” Lucifer said in a loud tone, watching the man walk to the gates to attempt to unlock them.
“Oh look, the man himself!” The lawyer had a bloody selfie stick, which Lucifer wanted to justly snap in half.
Selfie sticks were petulant and very annoying, and he was tired of the way the Lawyer acted with him, and especially since he was holding that wretched device trying to videotape this... “challenges”.
“Giving you five bloody minutes to step away from the gate.” But it was already too late, as the gate swung open and Lucifer watched the man run out of the gate, trying to chase him down.
He’d escaped Hell! How the hell could he do that with Lucifer watching his every move, and his every action?
After a while, Lucifer decided he’d try to warn The Silver City/Heaven of this man’d planned break in, but his father wouldn’t listen and his bastard of a twin brother was gloating about Lucifer’s failure to even keep the Lockpicking Lawyer in hell.
Angered, Lucifer went seeking out the Lockpicking Lawyer – finding out he was already at the gates of the Silver City. Lucifer managed to catch up to him, but was prevented because he was forbidden from entering the Silver City due to past deeds.
“Well, this is going to be a lot of fun-“ He spoke, rolling up his sleeves and deciding to approach the man with his devil face fully out.
He managed to scare him right back to Hell, or at least into passing out long enough for Lucifer to get him back in his hell loop room. The guilt? Trespassing multiple times.
The hell loop was the same repetition of events that had taken place, escaping Hell to only be locked out of Heaven, and Lucifer chuckled at the sight of the Lockpicking Lawyer picking at the double bolted door.
A challenge he could never complete, was enough torture for the walking annoyance, for Lucifer to feel satisfied returning to his earthly penthouse and happy with his punishment that he set out for the frequent trespasser. | 2021-03-17T10:04:45 | 2021-03-17T09:19:45 | 146 | 29 |
[WP] You, a renowned scientist, invented technology to listen to any moment in history. This audio has become the standard for criminal cases. The problem is when you listen in to the death of your closest friend it gets the details all wrong. You know this because you are their murderer. | It was a great irony that the very technology John and I invented would be pivotal in determining the cause of his death. At least, that’s what the Newspapers reported. In reality, the result was almost inevitable, set in stone from the moment we invented the beautiful machine that is Post Mortem Radio.
I use the word “we,” liberally. The idea for PMR was mine from the get go, premised on three basic theories: 1) light travels faster than sound, 2) space is filled with dark matter, and 3) sound can travel through dark matter. From there, it was just a matter of directing light to intercept soundwaves from a particular moment in time as they travelled through space. The result being that you could listen to past events.
It was my idea, John was just along for the ride. I patented it, built the prototype, and fine-tuned it into what it has become today. John was a glorified marketer, spending his time pitching and raising funding. Unfortunately, that’s not how the world saw it. John had positioned himself as the head of the project in the public eye, edging me out of my own creation.
So I killed him. It was that simple.
I took every precaution, planned it out for months. So I wasn't nervous at all when Detective Murlock called me in for a chat. Hell, I was expecting it. I’m sure he’d been fiddling with PMR for hours trying to get any hint of a signal.
“Thanks for coming down to the department,” Detective Murlock said. “Let’s step into my office, I want to ask you about PMR.”
I obliged. Detective Murlock’s office was a small, sterile room. It was furnished only with a desk, two chairs, and a large mirror on the wall behind him. He sat down, pulled PMR up on his desktop, and swiveled the screen so that I could see it.
“So let me start by saying, we have a suspect and hope to make an arrest soon,” John said.
“Thank you detective,” I said, feigning relief. “That’s great to hear. I’ve hardly been able to sleep the last few nights out of fear for my own safety.”
“Of course. I brought you in because the PMR recordings are going to serve as key evidence during trial. We would like you to explain to the jury how PMR works.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to hide my surprise. This was strange. No sound was made throughout the murder or any of the preparation leading up to it. PMR shouldn’t have a role in the trial at all. Unable to help myself, I continued. “Could I hear the recording?”
Detective Murlock nodded and pressed play. There was a loud bang, as if someone had broken through a door, followed by two sets of voices—one was John, the other I didn’t recognize.
>"John! Come on out you cowardly bastard!"
>
>"Who’s there?! I’m calling the cops!"
>
>"You don’t remember me?"
>
>"Stay back!"
>
>"You don’t remember the man who’s idea you stole? You ruined me, John! Post Mortem Radio was *my* idea and you stole it!"
At this point, I was thoroughly confused. The voice in the recording wasn’t mine, that much was obvious. It was high-pitched, nasally, and I never said any of those things—I didn’t say anything at all. I didn't even break in through his door, I slipped in through an open window. None of this made sense, but the audio continued.
>"You stole my idea, made millions, and left me nothing! *Nothing!*"
>
>"I’m sorry! You weren't going to capitalize on it so I figured someone had to! Think about how much good PMR has done for the world!"
>
>"So you admit it? You admit it was my idea all along?"
>
>"Of course! It was your idea and I’ve regretted stealing it for the last decade. But I promise you, I only did it for the sake of humanity. Look, I’ll cut you a check right now. I'll even make a public statement about your involvement. Please, just don’t do anything rash. Please!"
>
>"It’s too late for that."
Three gunshots rang out, and the audio finished. I was speechless.
“Thoughts?” Detective Murlock asked.
“I… I uh…” I stuttered for a moment before coughing to collect myself. “Who was that?”
“We can’t say, the investigation is still ongoing but we’ll be making an arrest soon.”
I nodded, thinking for a moment. Something wasn't right here. “I don’t think that audio is accurate,” I said eventually. “There was never a third person involved in the development of PMR. It was always me and John.”
The detective seemed unfazed. “Well, I suppose neither of us can really know where John first got the idea for PMR, right?”
A rage bubbled up inside me like never before. “Well, candidly I do know where he got the idea from. He got the idea from *me*. PMR was my idea, John just marketed it.”
The detective smiled. “Right,” he said sarcastically. “Look, we just need you to explain how PMR works to the jury, all right? The audio speaks for itself.”
“I will not. That audio is wrong, and I can’t in good conscience let you play it to the jury, let alone the rest of the world.”
“The audio is wrong? Are you suggesting John’s invention is flawed?”
“It’s not John’s invention asshole, it’s mine!”
“And you think the audio is wrong?”
“Of course it’s wrong! John was strangled, not shot!”
The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. Detective Murlock grinned. "That's not public information, Doctor." All of the sudden the mirror behind the detective turned transparent, revealing four officers on the other side. Detective Murlock stood up, handcuffs at the ready. “You’re under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
***
More of my favorite pieces at r/Banana_Scribe | “Linda!” Carlos shouted, pacing frantically through his lab. It was all wrong, every part of it. He ran the calculations in his head, reran them again, fed them through his terminal to triple check. She was so slow, why was she so slow, today of all days?
“Linda, seriously! I need you down here!”
“Coming!” she yelled back from upstairs. He heard her footsteps above him, normal, expected, as it always had been. When she finally reached the creaky staircase his pulse was nearly back to normal, tuned to the beat of her steps.
“Holy shit, Carlos! What’s wrong honey?” Linda exclaimed as soon as she saw him. Perhaps he wasn’t as in control as he’d thought.
“Someone reopened Jeremiah’s case,” he said.
Linda closed the distance between the quickly, balling up her sleeve in her first and dabbing at Carlos’ sweaty forehead. “Honey it’s ok,” she said, “this isn’t the first time people have looked into it. Our lawyers will stop it before it goes to court, we can afford the best now, remember? Besides, if the lawyers don’t get it they’ll still have to use SpyGlass.”
Carlos sat down heavily in his chair, running his fingers roughly through his thinning hair. SpyGlass. His life’s work, his legacy, the source of their wealth. “Linda, they can’t use SpyGlass,” he said. There were more words, important words, but it was so hard to say them.
She was patient though, she always had been. Linda pulled up another chair and sat down beside him, laying her hands over his, drawing them down into the space between them. “Carlos,” she said calmly, “why can’t they use SpyGlass?”
The words were still too hard. Instead Carlos leaned down, kissed the hands that had trapped his, and then unwound his fingers from hers, hitting a button on his keyboard.
For the first time in nearly twenty years, Jeremiah’s voice tore through the basement laboratory.
“You just want it for yourself!” Jeremiah shouted. “After all our work you two want to steal it, and for what, a couple extra dollars? We’re going to be rich Carlos, rich! How greedy can you possibly fucking be?”
“Please Jeremiah,” it was Linda’s voice now, speaking clearly through the recording. “You’ve been riding our work since we were kids. Where would you be without us? Would you have even made it through school? You’re a hack.”
“What the fuck did you say to me?” Carlos could just imagine how Jeremiah would have said that line, balling up his fists, tossing his long, braided hair back over his shoulder.
“She’s right.” That was his own voice. Carlos buried his head in his hands rather than watch the image of the sound waves just on the screen. “You’d be nothing without us. Look Jeremiah, we’re being generous here. We all know you don’t deserve a full share, but we’ll buy you out right now. $500,000, take it or leave it.”
“$500,000 for my life's work? Fuck off Carlos, there’s no way. We’re all in for a third, even split. We made that deal a long time ago.”
“Last chance,” Linda’s voice said menacingly.
“Or what?” Jeremiah said, “what the fuck are you two going to do to me?”
There was a loud click on the recording, it would be a singular, sharp spike on the wave form, Carlos could see it even with his eyes closed. Long seconds of silence followed, and then, horribly, Carlos heard his own voice again.
“Last chance,” he said.
Jeremiah was silent. Linda was silent. The gunshot was not.
Spyglass beeped loudly, signaling the end of the recording.
When Carlos looked up into his at his wife she was deathly pale and breathing raggedly. He took her hands again and they shook like leaves in the wind.
“That isn’t how it happened,” she said, “that isn’t how it happened at all.”
“I know,” Carlos said.
“ I know? I know? How are you so calm about this?” Linda sprang up, walking rapidly to the other side of the room and her terminal there. She began punching in numbers frantically, querying the same time stamp. The SpyGlass program began running again, the system’s massive infrastructure emitting a low room from the next room over as it reached back in time, sifting through the echoing disturbances sound waves left in the fabric of the world.
“That isn’t how it happened,” she said again and again, “this isn’t possible.”
Carlos let it go through it. He sat there at his own terminal, watching the progress of SpyGlass’s search over her shoulder as the minutes ticked down. Finally, after the longest fifteen minutes of his life, the recording started again.
Jeremiah’s voice tore through the room, then Linda’s, Jeremiah’s responding, Carlos agreeing with her. She let it play all the way up until the the gunshot and then ended the recording manually at the same moment he had.
Their gazes met across the lab and they both stood, walking unsteadily towards each other.
“That isn’t how it happened,” she said again.
“I know. There’s more afterwards that’s wrong, and our conversation the next day is gone entirely.”
“Is it SpyGlass?” she asked. “Could something be wrong with the program?”
Carlos shook his head. “I’ve checked and rechecked my math three times already, and I’m running a full diagnostic, it hasn’t found anything yet. Either something was off in our most basic assumptions about the SpyGlass theory, which I don’t think can be possible, or it’s something else. Something worse.”
“What could possibly be worse than that?” she asked.
Carlos took her hands again, they were still shaking. “What if someone was manipulating the program?” he said softly. “Or worse than that, what if they were manipulating the very echoes themselves?”
Linda stopped shaking. Her breathing stilled. Her skin was still shockingly pale but her discipline was coming back, she was reasserting control. “There’s only one person who could have done that and he’s dead. You stabbed him, not shot him, and he deserved every blow.”
Carlos nodded. “He’s dead, he must be, but you heard the recording too. If the investigation reaches court it will be absolutely damning. So I know this is hard for you but now I have to know. Baby, where did you bury Jeremiah’s body?”
\--------
r/TurningtoWords
(I got really into writing this and may try to continue it, I've been enjoying doing part 2s lately. Going to take a break and then try to get back to it. Hope you all enjoyed!)
edit: [part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/mf1al1/wp_you_a_renowned_scientist_invented_technology/gslol8l?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3) is done. I think I will round this out with a part three in a bit. if anyone wants a notification when it's up let me know and i'll let you know | 2021-03-28T08:36:51 | 2021-03-28T08:18:08 | 252 | 143 |
[WP] The Dark Lord was feared as a menacing black knight encased in gothic armor. Though your image was well known, you've never revealed your face. After your defeat, being an enigma is already starting to pay off as you start your life over. | The party of adventurers had been formed at the guild by higher ups almost as soon as they’d individually signed up. One braggart with a sword and chain mail armour, ready to learn his place or die trying, one mace-wielding but otherwise kindly farmhand, the village witch’s daughter, and an unassuming young girl studying the ways of white magics. The guild leader couldn’t have hoped for a more perfect party. It sounded almost exactly like the one that had gone on to defeat the dark lord some fifty years ago.
The quest they’d been given was also rather relevant; defend a merchant’s caravan, which happened to have the dented and burnt armour of said dark lord in it’s inventory. Standing nearly eight feet tall, covered in hexes and curses that even the most studied of mages could not hope to understand, it was said to whisper horrible things to all who got near. Now, Torec sat atop it’s enchanted box, sword by his side and apple in his hand. In between bites, he decided to tell his new friends a story.
“You know, when they defeated this here dark lord, they never did find the man under the armour. His voice was warped by curses, and no one ever saw what he looked like under that dumb helmet. They say he was immortal, too. So, by that logic, he could be anyone in the world if he’s still alive,”
Torec pointed at the larger farmer, who was chatting with the witch.
“Could be you, Terzi. Or you, Morgana,”
He turned to the one from out of town, a shy young woman who was currently occupied with a bunny that she had found.
“It could even be you, Len,”
She gasped, nearly dropping the small animal, her face flushing a bright red.
“N-no! It couldn’t be… could it?”
She asked, her eyes wide. Terzi grunted.
“He’s just teasing you, girl. Don’t pay him any attention,”
“R-right,”
Torec grinned.
“Yeah, there’s no way it could be you. They say he had a sword as tall as him, and could swing it with one hand. I’d be amazed if you could hold mine,”
He laughed, and Len’s face went red again as she looked down at her rabbit, petting it gently. She wondered how the group would react if she were to crack open the box and don the armour right then and there. Their reactions would be absolutely priceless. Still, she was rather enjoying the fifty years of *not* being considered a demonic king. Helping around villages, acting like an easily flustered girl, and studying the white magics of healing in relative peace sure had their benefits, especially compared to storming the dark realms with armies of dragons to learn a slightly more advanced curse. No, she wouldn’t be attempting anything with her old armour for the foreseeable future. Healing these plebs with the spells she was learning and possibly cheating dungeons with her draconic friends was enough for her after a hundred years of war.
Still, it’s not like she would be spending this time as a goody two-shoes the entire time. Placing a small curse on Torec’s apple, she acted incredibly concerned when he sputtered after nearly choking on it. | I could remember the feel of the cold metal against my skin, the sweltering heat that had filled the interior of the armour day and night in contrast. I remember the clangs that had echoed when I walked, how loud and metallic every movement sounded. It didn't do much for stealth, but that was never the intention. My steps were meant to be heard, the pounding of death's drum that one could only pick up at the moment it would all be over.
The fear that would strike the hearts of lesser, and even greater men when they glimpsed me, clad in the burnished obsidian suit, adorned with the white rose of my old, long-destroyed clan, had propelled me to keep it on constantly, despite my own discomfort.
At first I had created the armour as a means of protection. I had been injured in the raid that erased my village, weakened; the magical armour would defend me as I recovered, and then I would reemerge from the cursed metal, a dark Phoenix erupting from shadow, rather than flames, because that was where they had sent me, that was where I had sunk into, when I watched my lifelong friends, my family, my love, burning around me.
But then I realized something. It was something I'd never considered, so busy I was plotting my vengeance, forcing my recovery: the sight of my armour wasn't just a declaration of battle, it was an omen of death. Every squeak it made, every glimmer of light that shone from it's polished surface, was akin to the roaring of an oncoming flood, or the cracks of a thunderstorm. The fear that was injected into them by my mere appearance would be far more than anything I could project in my natural state, my skin charred and leathery, like a deformed goblin.
So I remained in the armour, conquering, thriving, until —
He had been only seventeen. The "Chosen One." It was almost a disgrace. I, who had spent decades extensively studying the darkest of magics, slaying the most practiced of magical beings, defeated by an adolescent who had had a few months training in the woods. It was deplorable. He didn't kill me — mercy was something meant to show that he was better than me, I think — but the shock and humiliation almost did.
But again, while pining in my despair, I realized something. It had come like a messenger bird, a sudden flutter of thought drifting into my brain.
*I* hadn't been defeated. The Dark Lord, *The Black Knight* had. And no one in the entire Kingdom, not even the Hero, knew who was beneath the helmet, for my body had been burned beyond recognition. My helmet spelled to never be removed by any hand but my own.
My long fingers now reached slowly up to the base of the helmet, the only part of my armour that hadn't been torn off or dented by the Hero's thunderous fists, and I slid it off. Dark hair coursed down to my shoulders. It had grown much longer than I had realized. For the first time in two decades, I felt the cool air washing over my skin. I heard the serene twittering of overhead birds more clearly than I'd ever had.
The village, which had always had a dark tint about it underneath the visor, now shone with colour. It was a new day.
I had taken my vengeance. I had lived as the greatest King ever known to man. And then I had been defeated in a glorious battle. The story of the Black Knight was finished. It was time for a new one to begin, one separate from the plot of the other. One that followed me, Markos de Ignisto, and my new journey through the world in what little time I had left, before the Dark Magic I had consulted with finally came to collect its price. | 2021-07-23T07:44:50 | 2021-07-23T03:50:21 | 70 | 41 |
[WP] You are fate. Whenever a mage is born, you flip a coin to determine if they will become a hero or villain. This time, the coin ended up balanced on it’s edge. | “Finally“ The voice of fate says “Finally I got it” It slums down and releases a sigh“ I have been trying for years. Years.”
The voice that was laced with exhaustion belonged to Fate.
“I hate this world. I hate these coins.” Looking at piles of coins of all kinds from all over the world. Even those long lost and those who were made, but never used.
All of them worse than the one Fate was used to. The fabulous *American Nickel*.
It took Fate years of flipping these coins to get it to land on the edge, if Fate only had an *American Nickel* it would have been so easy.
“God bless America”
Exhausted, but happy owner of the voice continues.
“If a coin lands on heads or tails, the Gods would have it. But, heheheh, but! When it lands on the edge I get to have it. It is in my hands. I finally have a piece on the board, it is time for me to start playing the game.”
As fate would have it the newborn mage was named *Fate*.
***Coin***cidence? ;) | The coin sat so proudly upright the faded face of a long dead king seemed to grin again. I blew on it to see if it would roll and topple. It started to fall then sprung back up like it was a trick played by my sisters. But they had long since passed. The eye belongs to only me now.
Leaving the coin at the desk, I retreat to the library. Surely there would be something on champions of no moral alignment. Three. There were three other cases.
The first was born in a time where it wouldn't have mattered either way. A rough time of witch burning and inquisition. She was barely sixteen when she hung.
Another born sometime later made a fortune off of industry, using his powers for both virtue and sin. He stole patents and pushed lesser men into the wayside. Undoubtedly a great mage and mark on history that man.
The most recent was an oddity that ascended through dimensions. I actually enjoyed reading his stories in the comics. Violent antics with tangs of love and depth, an antihero would be more accurate. I'd heard the movies were enjoyable with some handsome Canadian portraying him, but without a second eye certain medias became hard to truly appreciate.
And now a fourth to join their ranks. I wondered again the outcome of this soul. Another Baron of industry? A witch who lives on the outskirts of society? Another seemingly demigod?
The rest of the lifeforgers had completed the build. She'd grow up in a harsh landscape but her parents would provide opportunity to thrive and if she makes it to the age, go abroad for schooling. Either way, it would take one hundred and eleven lunar cycles before her powers manifest. Time to get back to work. | 2021-08-11T01:12:47 | 2021-08-10T17:23:00 | 24 | 14 |
[WP] You're a high level black mage with a few healing spells but everyone thinks you're a terrible cleric because you only ever use healing spells. | For seven days, the battle raged.
In the deepest chamber of the darkest dungeon, the Sacred Brotherhood had made their stand against the cultists. For seven days they fought, till their blades shattered to splinters and the last of their holy magic was exhausted. Then they spilled their lifeblood upon the foul stone and gave up their lives. Noble and valiant, but ultimately meaningless.
Now only Jerrick the Neophyte remained, alone and helpless amongst the broken bodies of his Brothers.
The cultists had left him alive on purpose. They had seen what small power the fledgling cleric possessed in his Holy Right Hand, had seen him heal the minor cuts and burns of his Brothers during the battle. They had seen him struggle as the fighting raged and the wounds became more grievous, until his healing spells failed him and he collapsed exhausted.
He posed no threat, just another helpless fly caught in the web for the spider cult to toy with.
Jerrick knelt on the cold stone as the cult leader approached, a wicked smile on his face. In his hand he held a staff of purest ebony, glowing with foul dark light, the source of his power.
"And so ends the Sacred Brotherhood," said the leader of the cult. "I have left you alive to bear witness to their end. Go now and tell the tale, of how the power of the Holy Right Hand was shattered, how the order died in a torrent of screams and blood. Tell the people of the power of the Spider Cult. Tell the people how I massacred your friends."
"No," said the Neophyte, "I don't think I will."
A look of shock and frustration passed across the cult leader's face. "Fine," he said, raising his staff. "Then die here with the rest of your Brothers."
"No," Jerrick replied. "I don't think I'll do that either. And besides they weren't really my brothers. Or my friends. In fact, they didn't like me much at all. I only joined the order a few weeks ago you see, when I heard about this foolish quest. My Holy Right Hand is weak and my healing magic unimpressive. I'm quite a poor cleric, if I'm being honest."
The cultists stood around laughing, patting each other on their backs, enjoying the debasement of this holy enemy.
Jerrick just smiled. "But the thing about it is, I'm actually left handed."
In an instant, his white robes changed to a black that was darker than the dungeon around him, his left hand emitting a familiar foul glow.
"And I'm not here for the Order. I'm here for my staff."
He raised his left hand, and as he did the broken and desecrated corpses of the Sacred Brotherhood rose as one around him.
He lifted his left hand higher, and darkness passed over the eyes of the cult leader and all of the cultists.
Then Jerrick watched as the zombified corpses of the once holy order tore the blinded cultists apart, limb from limb, and began to devour their flesh.
When it was over, he waded through the blood and viscera on the dungeon floor and reclaimed his staff.
And he stood over the massacre and smiled. All was right again. No more pretense. No more simulated smiles or faked subservience to the Order.
He was Jerrick the Black Magus once more. | I remember this one dream, over and over again. I remember my mother’s eyes, so blue like the ocean, towering over me and boring into my soul, whispering to me the same phrase over and over again.
*I’m not crazy,* she would mumble to me, to herself, *you’re the crazy one. Crazy, crazy, crazy!*
And yet, everyone labelled her as such.
So she was crazy, and I was crazy, and we were all only ever crazy. But deep down I knew what had really happened. Because I remember my mother young and beautiful, darkness flowing from her veins as easily as ink, but eyes always kind, always warm, crazy in all the loveliest ways. But then one day, things had changed. She was never the same again. They say the darkness drove her to madness, that all darkness ever does is drive you to madness, but I knew the truth. I know someone had cursed her, and I also know that the only person who would ever be willing to help is also me.
So I swore from dark magic, and devoted myself to healing. I learned spells, learned the right and wrong ways to approach those spells, and soon, it was as if nobody ever remembered the dark kid who lived in the woods with his mother.
I was a new person with new magic.
A new person to everyone but my mother.
Even with the madness, she could still tell whenever I got agitated with a new spell, or annoyed with my progress, because she would sort of give me an awkward pat on the arm as she walked by, mumbling under her breath all the while. I never knew what she was saying. I suppose I never dared to listen.
So I put up with her constant musings and her sullen temper and those piercing, electric eyes, and everyone thinking that I’m merely a terrible cleric, because in the end, I was doing it for *her.* I was going to save her — was going to create the most greatest healing spell to cure all things, ~~but it would never cure the darkness.~~
It was quite peculiar, then, when one morning as I was sipping tea and going over a new incantation, my mother walked in wearing her old black gown and embroidered cloak, something I haven’t seen her put on since I were a child. But perhaps what was more peculiar, was that her eyes, once fog on a autumn’s ocean day, were now clear, as if the mist had passed and the sun had come out.
As if a part of her was still somewhere in there.
As she got closer, I could still hear her mumbling, only now, if I listened closely, I could make out the words.
*Black crow. Mr. Aimes on second street. I’m not crazy. Black crow. Mr. Aimes on second street. I’m not crazy.*
A mantra, one someone could easily ignore, but those desperate blue eyes, a dream that plays on and on, and a mother who’s willing to do anything to protect her child.
And if I were anyone at all, if I had to choose a name for myself, then I would be my mother’s son.
I may not know what black crow means, or who Mr. Aimes on second street is, but I do know that my mother’s not crazy.
I do know that black magic still flows through her skin the same way it flows through mine, and I do know that maybe, just maybe, it’s time to start using it again.
That maybe this is who I am, who I’ll always be; a high level black mage who’s absolutely *horrendous* at healing spells.
And maybe, it’s time to let the world know that.
Starting with Mr. Aimes on second street.
—
/r/itrytowrite
Edit: grammar | 2021-09-03T08:27:55 | 2021-09-03T07:46:22 | 503 | 237 |
[WP] A fencing master is challenged to a duel by king's heir. The master is clearly superior in skill; however, the law states that anyone who injures or offends the royal blood will be executed. Now he has to orchestrate his own defeat and make it seem "honorable" for everyone involved. | The prince attacks in six; I parry, and wait. He hesitates, then attacks again, and I parry once more. He attacks again, I circle and parry into four; the prince sweeps back to six, too quickly, opening himself up, allowing me to make a flick against his near shoulder.
The prince flushes. "I'm going to kill you, old man." Whether he says it for me, or the crowd of courtiers who watch, I don't know.
"You already have, sir." I respond. A different kind of parry.
The prince smiles, an evil smile, or an attempt at one. He is a curse on this kingdom. Spoiled, power-hungry. He wants to be king, and now that his older brother is dead, he will be, one day.
He feints in six, lunges in eight. I parry, his riposte is sloppy, so I beat the base of my blade against his, forcing his sword to drop from his hand. He blushes again.
"Pick that up!" He shouts.
I dutifully retrieve the sword, and hand it to the prince. I glance over at the king, who watches with glazed eyes. I could run the prince through, and he wouldn't care. Wouldn't notice. Next to him, the queen, glares at me.
The Prince launches a fleche, and I have an eternity to respond. I could kill the prince, right here, right now. He challenged me to this farcical duel, me, the King's Duelmaster. He knows if I harm him in the least, I face execution. He expects me to fear death, to let him win, beg for his mercy, ask him to spare my life.
A different kind of dueling, then. Just as his sword is no match for mine, my own blood is no match for his. In swordplay one must train to be a capable fighter. In the politics of the throne, one needs merely to be born.
What else can I do? I will give the prince my fear, my humility. For the good of the kingdom, maybe, or because with my every victory by hand, in sport or in war, I take less and less pride in my abilities. The sword is no longer a joy to me, ceased to be long ago.
The prince carries his weight too far forward, and while he may fly like an arrow, he will plummet like a stone. I take a half step back, flail at making a parry, and fall, letting the prince soar over me. And soar he does, landing badly on one foot, his momentum carrying him forward, another step, until he crashes into a wall. He does not get up.
"Edgar?" The king says. His dead son's name. "Edgar?" He shouts, and runs over to the boy.
I crawl to my feet. Look around. People are attending to the king, the son, or murmuring among themselves. The queen is staring at me, but I can't tell if it's a grin or a grimace on her face. Then she nods, once. I retrieve my sword and leave. | The boy was terrible at fencing. No balance, no finesse, no grace and certainly no heart. *Strike boy, stirke.* His shoulders rise and descend, his breathing growing heavy. *Too early boy, fight boy fight.*
Aggression is a must. Offense is the best defense. But he won't strike me, he thinks I'm too dangerous. He's fighting to not lose instead of to win. A grave mistake. Verywell. I must draw him out. Only one way to do that. I must show him my neck.
I lunge forward, facilitating a slide. To sell it I have to slide for real. My ankles twist, I can feel the sting shot up my leg. Damn age. I regain my positioning but I see the glint in his eye. He thinks he has an oppertunity. He thinks the truth.
He lunges foward, aggression screaming, but there's no finesse. He's wasting too much energy. The strikes take too long to reach me. My sword propels forward, matching his speed. The only way to make someone swing faster, is through swinging a tiny bit faster, forcing them to increase a bit, then some more, and then some more, untill they fight at the expected pace.
*Jetez une grenouille dans l'eau bouillante et elle sautera. Jetez une grenouille dans de l'eau calme et augmentez légèrement le feu et elle bouillira à mort. T*hrow a frog into boiling water, and it will jump out. Throw a frog into calm water and raise the heat slightly and it will boil to death.
*Great boy great!* The heart has come, the finnesse has come, but he is too easily knocked about. I must teach him balance.
Sight is only profound from the lack of it. Music is only great in chaos. Freedom is only great in slavery. And, balance is only gained in the face of no balance.
I change my pace, parrying and getting too close. I push him with the helt of my sword and he stumbled two steps backwards. But I am not done! I jump forward, and I push, again, and then again. I follow him, pushing him untill rage shows on his face. Finally, he pushes back.
*Voila.* Well done prince. Finally, we must learn grace, for without grace, we are nothing but brutes. Grace is control prince. You must calm down, and think. I parry away his sword, step close again, this time I feel he won't stumble as easily, but that's not my goal. The hilt of my sword smashes into his temple.
His mind shakes, and he takes a few steps backwards. I stand still, sword in hand. The crowd's silent, everyones focus is on the fight. Let's finish this prince. Let's show them true fencing!
*Combattre!*
The world is on his shoulders, his future is on the line, his pride, his honour. He strikes and strikes faster than I thought he could. I feint, but he see's through it. I slash, but he steps too close. He's using my own tactic against me. He pushes me. He lunges forwad. *But you have made a mistake, you have stumbled!* I slash forward. *Mordiblue! It was a feint.* He was ready, he steps to the right, and I feel the cold blade pierce my heart.
"Thank you," I spit out blood, "you have made me proud, my king." | 2021-10-15T12:19:04 | 2021-10-15T08:22:08 | 187 | 80 |
[WP] When space colonies became a practical reality, the rich and powerful left Earth in droves, leaving the rest of humanity behind on a broken world. A few centuries later, Earth has, through much effort, been restored to its former glory. Now the colonists want to return. | **GOVERNANCE**
----
The bicentennial celebration was a special day. It had been two hundred years since Earth was abandoned. The rich. The politicians. Anyone that was able took to the sky.
Earth was doomed. An ecosystem circling the drain. They left. They said it was to preserve the species. And those left behind were given the same courtesy a twenty-five year employee gets when they are laid off. A nod, a thank you, and a best of luck handshake.
The aftermath was chaos. A medieval horror. Organized crime rose to power in every corner of the world. They had the muscle. The weapons. And the incentive.
When the rich left, they abandoned not just the people, but the industries they created as well. As street level lawlessness overtook every country, the infrastructures that ignited the planets downfall was all at once removed from the equation. The space explores had not planned on that. They had also not planned on organized crime being so, well, organized.
The thing about crime is simple: if there is no people to exploit, there is no business.
It was by accident that criminals reformed a system of stability. And over the years, things that were once illegal in the former civilization were now staples of life. Drugs. Sex. Gambling. All vices that had towed the grey line were now the backbone of civilization. So it went. True freedom. And two hundred years of this had the most unseen outcome on humanity. It thrived. Crime families became noble houses. Their bosses now lords.
They gave people what they wanted, and the means to sustain themselves. And in turn, became rulers of the planet. Sure the first few decades were rough. But criminals know how to handle other criminals. They didn’t put the rapists, murders and violent criminals in prison. They didn’t imagine reform. No. Anyone not acting on orders of the noble houses were executed. Publicly.
It took five decades of hardship, but science and exploration found favor once again. And with each generation of noble blood, they grew more keen on expanding humanity.
----
It was on the bicentennial of Earth’s abandonment that man once again found its way to Mars. And as the celebration took place and peoples across the globe watched at its return to greatest, a young noblemen in New England entered a room to take part in a secret meeting.
The hall was empty, all but for two ambassadors. They stood nearly ten feet tall, with limbs stretched and gangly. They wore skin tight suits and the back of their skulls where held in place by a high neck line of armor.
“I see the effects of prolonged life in low gravity is now a proven theory,” said Josiah, the eldest son of House Gadd.
“My name is ambassador Tomothy,” said the man on the left. “And this is my counterpart, James.”
Josiah gave them each a nod.
“Will your father be joining us?” Tomothy asked.
“Not today,” Josiah said. “The celebrations. He must be present.”
“And you,” Tomothy gestured. “Have authority to speak on his behalf.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Very well. We -“
“Let us speak candidly and quick. Why are you here?” Josiah asked.
“It was part of our arrangement with your House, that providing the technology needed to accelerate your development would —”
“We appreciate what you’ve done.”
“It was not a gift.” Tomothy placed a hand on the table. “It was a demonstration of our willingness to return as equals. We wish to elevate the remnants of our origins. To aid in the evolution. We have evolved to see the error of our ways. We come to remedy that error.”
“I’m aware of the terms. You want to assimilate the humans of Earth into the greater galactic — what do you call it?”
“Governance.”
“Right. Other species? Aliens and shit.”
“Yes, aliens. And shit.”
“You see, Tomothy. I’ve met your predecessors. The scouts. The scientist. Over the last two years I’ve gotten to know the skeleton crews you’ve sent to earth. And I’ve learned something.”
“We have delivered much knowledge.”
Josiah smiled. “Right. I meant I see you are weak. Physically. Sure your minds have .. evolved. But standing here. You’re a twig that can be snapped in half.”
“This line of thinking is unwise.”
“Is it?”
“Understand that taking Earth by force is not something we are incapable of doing, rather something we are unwilling to do.”
“Good.” Josiah drew a pistol and fired. Tomothy’s skull painted the wall and his corpse hit the tile.
The ambassador James gasped and fell back. “Why have you -“
Josiah took aim at James' skull. “Is it more effective if you return and tell all the ex-humans we want no part in your brave new galaxy - or is the message stronger if you never return?”
James’ eyes went white, his mouth agape. “Such violence would .. “ he stuttered. “Be unwelcome to the greater governance.”
“Good.” Josiah lowered his hand. “Then run back, tell them we don’t want to be part of their governance. And this violence is what all who return will find.”
“We don’t pursue War.”
“We don’t seek governance.”
“But it could —“
Josiah took aim again and James stumbled back.
“Trade what we have for subservience?" James asked. "Leave. Not a single word more or you stay here with your friend.”
The ambassador left quickly.
Josiah walked around the table and stood over the corpse of the space-evolved-man.
He stood there a moment and thought about what might have been. We're better off, he concluded.
—-
Edit: typos
r/wyrdfiction | It was sudden.
When humanity discovered a way to live beyond the confines of their dying world, the masses were ecstatic, full of hope, but unbeknownst to them the opportunity to live beyond their world was taken from them.
It was televised that despite colonial space, all the rich and powerful were guaranteed a spot aboard the many ships the rest of humanity thought to be for them.
Before they knew it, the ships took off out into deep space, effectively severing their ties to earth and the rest of humanity. The final message from their space voyaging kin would be one to instill burning hatred among the rest of humanity.
".*..//Goodbye;Goodluck...//*"
Perhaps they did mean well but the rest of humanity did not see it that way. From this injustice, humanity would set their differences aside and attempt to rebuild their dying world. It was unsure what they were doing would actually restore what had been broken but they stood headstrong and continued on in spite of those who had forsaken them.
Earth...would heal.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_
A millenia would pass when earth was left to a forsaken people and those who had left would return hoping to find a reborn world.
The colonists who had left tasked their descendants to someday return to earth. A thousand years and several generations later, the descendents of the first colonists would take it upon themselves to return to their ancestral home.
However, their return would not be so welcome.
For a thousand years, the colonists lived their lives aboard luxuriously built colony ships and would drift the void in orbit of Sol and when the time was right, would return to a mostly restored earth.
When they made their way just beyond the asteroid belt all the colony ships in tow were received a message that orriginated from none other than their ancestral home, Earth.
*"...//To all ships belonging to the Utopia-Class;Purpose:Colony. You have entered United Terran Empire Civilized Space. Turn back now or you will be fired upon. You are authorized \[300\] second to comply. Failure to comply or an act of aggression will be met with quick and decisive retalliation...//"*
The crew of each respective ship were confused. None on either crew was inform of a United Terran Empire upon thier ancestor's departure. Many dismissed the message as a desperate attempt to turn away the inheritors of Earth; with many of the captains whom felt they were the rightful inheritors of the world their ancestors left in order for it to heal itself.
However, few captains felt the same and were wary of the warning and the countdown displayed on their bridge's main display. Captain Goldbrand felt the same as the few. He felt that this message was not filled with empty threat and was not willing to risk the lives of his crew and fellow colonists. Luckily, two captains felt the same. As a desperate effort for diplomacy, Captain Goldbrand requested a private channel toward thier invisible enforcer.
After a moment of silence, save for the constant beep of their countdown, Captain Goldbrand's hail was acknowledged.
*"...//Captain Goldbrand of the Colony Ship Gaia's Grace. You have been warned and are at risk for destruction of ship and crew. What do you have to say?...//"*
Aside from their sudden appearance from what was thought to be an age lost, he wanted answers, they all did and the two captain shared the same thought. To not waste their time remaining time, Captain Goldbrand posed his question.
*"...//This is Captain Goldbrand of the Colony Ship Gaia's Grace. Who are you and why are you so keen to destroy colony ships. We have civillians on board!...//"*
After a moment of silence, said silence was finally broken.
*"..//Millenia ago, our ancestors were left to survive a broken world brought upon by those who controlled everything at the top. Money, policy, our daily lives. When all was said an done they left our world broken. The first centuries were nothing starvation and the will to survive. Determined to take back the world that was left to us. While you and your ancestors lived your lives in luxury, we went ahead and forged ourselves a new home. One unlike what was left to us. You and the rest of the colonists have no place here in Sol. Should we meet again, we will not be so merciful. Turn now and settle outside the Sol system...//"*
Faced with this ultimatum, he would much rather have his passengers mad at him for failing to return to earth than be obliterated from millenia old disdain for the original space colonists and their descendants.
He and the other two captains that shared his belief followed behind. At the final ring of the countdown to the other ships that failed to deviate from their course were prompty destroyed by almost unseen projectiles that rightfully tore through the ships bow to it's aft. Very little in the way of ship could hardly be recognized. Because of their deviation, only three ships that belonged to the first expedition of space colonization were left to drift the void, for a new permament home.
\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_-
Humany would diverge. The colonists, who's original goal was to live out in space in hopes to someday return to a restored world and the newly found United Terran Empire. The incident would act as a warning to the colonists and all future prospects to return to sol would be nothing but a dream. For the hatred of the space colonists runs deep. Deeper than the roots the trees had dug into the crust of terra itself. Deeper than the core of the very world they called home.
Perhaps someday the colonists could return but not in this century, or the next. Captain Goldbrand would make it his mission, and in turn the mission of his descendants and fellow colonists that they will return to Sol, and will do so opposite of their ancestors. Perhaps one day their repentance will be honored.
Perhaps then, Humanity may finally be whole. | 2022-01-05T20:40:29 | 2022-01-05T20:29:15 | 426 | 174 |
[WP] Human lives are now a commodity. People can give each other their life, but not unless they will it. Millions of terminally ill people flock to beg the suicidal for their lives. The black markets sell the lives of those they tortured to agree to give theirs up. | “Will it hurt? Anything I should expect?” I fiddled with the tube poking out of my right hand, finding relief in the smooth texture as I tried to think about anything other than the procedure. Death wasn’t an easy thing to face, especially not when it was so close. The doctors had offered valium to help ease the process, but I wanted to have a clear head for my last moments, not wanting to make any mistakes when I gave my last words.
“You won’t feel a thing. Think of it like going to sleep and just never waking up. I’m sorry, I wish I had a better way to describe it. I promise, it won’t cause you any discomfort. Before we start, I should double check. Are you certain about this? Have you gotten your affairs in order, told your loved ones?” The doctor paused after he said that, staring over at the bed beside me. “Did you tell her?”
“Of course not. She wouldn’t let me if I did. She doesn’t deserve to be in pain, least I can do is return the favor for the life she gave me. Do you mind not telling her until she recovers a little? I’m worried about how she will take the news.”
“Sure, I think it will be in her best interest if we give her some time to recover before telling her. Are-“ The doctor went to speak, only to close his mouth, perhaps not feeling it was his place to question my decision. After all, I had passed all the pre-checks to become an eligible donor. I had undertaken a mental evaluation and multiple interviews to get to this point. The doctor had no right to refuse it.
“I’m sure. I know she wouldn’t want this, but how much longer was I meant to sit around and pray that she got better? Every day, she just gets worse. She barely recognizes me when I visit. She will feel better after this, right?”
“Most of the other patients have lived healthy and full lives after the procedure. If you have a few healthy remaining years in you, she should inherit those. Once those are up, the illness will return. Still, there is no guarantee that it will last forever. It won’t make her live until she’s 150 or anything so severe, it will simply give her healthy years. Of course, this doesn’t mean she won’t be immune to catching a new disease or injury. Old age is always a factor as well.”
“But she will recover from this?”
“It’s around an 80% chance. There are cases of the person’s body rejecting the life but, in your case, I doubt that will be an issue. Just to clarify, you understand what the procedure is? I know the nurse asked, but we have to follow protocol before proceeding.”
“It’s a life transfer. I’m sure you have a better name for it, but that’s pretty much what it is. I’ll die and she will get my healthy years. Is that an alright answer?”
“It is. Are you ready?”
“Um, can you push the beds a little closer first? I want to hold her hand during it.”
“Of course.”
The doctor gripped the metal rails of the bed, pushing me closer to her side. I reached out with my left hand, grabbing her hand to hold, turning my face to the side, wanting to get one last look at her. “I think I’m ready. Tell her I love her when she wakes up. Tell her I want her to have a good life, like the one she gave me.”
“I will. You might feel a small sting at first, but it will be peaceful after that. Just relax.”
The sting made me wince, sending a burning sensation throughout my palm. I gripped her hand tighter as I felt the sensation climb up my arm, feeling as though I was about to burst before suddenly it subsided. I kept my gaze on her, trying to steady my breathes as I gave her a last smile.
“Love you, mom. I’ll miss you.” | It all started at the year 2070.
After years of research into energy conversation and storage to create the 'infinite battery', a young scientist named 'Elon Smith' have discovered what we call today 'Energy deriving displacement' - or Enddi for short.
The thing he have discovered, is that quite like the old movie 'Matrix', it is possible to derive energy from human beings, and not only that, it is also possible to store that energy in a special bioelectronic storage devices known as the 'Volta cell'.
Little did Elon smith known how the world will look like 30 years later, but his accidental discovery will one day become the downfall of humanity.
Unfortunately, The 'Volta Cells' had 2 big problems: The first problem was that every living human had a total amount of energy he could give (Up to 100 years worth of energy for a child, or 100 YOE for short), and the more he would give, the shorter his life will become. The second big problem his cells had are that the energy they provided weren't good enough to power up cars or cities, their only realistic use, was to transfer the energy from one person to another.
And so, with lots of volunteers, some experimentations have began - and quickly enough, the conclusions followed up. The thing Elon found up summed up to:
1. Every person no matter the age, who will use Enddi to transfer his energy into a Volta cell will shorten his life.
2. Any person older then 25 getting energy from a Volta cell will become younger. The energy from the cells can even renew brain neurons, and strengthen one's immune system to the absolute limit.
3. Any child who will give his energy using Enddi will not grow older - at-least appearance-wise, and his life will shorten. Also, if he will give too much of his energy (Minimum 30 YOE), his body won't be able to mature, and he will keep his child-like looks for the rest of his life.
​
Soon enough, the company have gotten the green light to mass produce the Volta cells, and the world have morphed into a whole new thing.
With Enddi and the Volta cells becoming main-stream, a new currency started to rule the world, the currency of YOE. It was quite a logical change looking backwards, but still, none of the world powers were ready for it.
At the beginning, the only people who saw the need to get the the Volta cells were the terminally ill and the old, they finally had a chance to survive and so they rushed to beg the suicidal or the poor for their YOE, some were indeed successful and got healthy again, but some had to spend their life saving to buy YOE from the poor and suicidal.
The rich people of the world quickly started to see the potential in the volta cells and Enddi, and they began using their capital to buy YOE and fill volta cells one after another, while the masses were happy they can finally make easy money.
The thing they didn't understood is that this easy money actually costs them their most valuable resource in this new world. Their life.
A few years later, when people started understanding the power of YOE and the volta cell, everyone stopped celling their life for cheap, and so the rich couldn't get any more full volta cells - and the price of YOE started to soare.
With a lot of people looking to buy full volta cell and few willing to sell them, and new places started popping up across the world, places called 'farms'. The 'farms' would kidnap people at all ages, and force them to give 10 YOE or die. Each person who got out of the farm got marked with a tattoo on his neck so he won't get kidnapped again.
With the dangers of being kidnapped and farmed, new 'protected neighborhoods' started popping up as-well, in which they were willing to pay a small amount of YOE each year as tax to keep themselves safe from the roaming kidnappers.
​
Slowly, without anyone really noticing, the world have morphed completely. No longer anyone could live freely within a country restraints and make his paper money from work, but each and every one had to keep himself and his time safe, within a community - because with no time, he will have nothing.
​
\------
Ps. In the middle of writing this short story, I've remembered the movie 'In Time' from 2011. If you liked this concept, I highly advise watching this movie :) | 2022-07-03T02:58:08 | 2022-07-03T02:23:09 | 244 | 27 |
[WP] You’re born into a family of supers, however your mother dies while giving birth to you. You “inherited” your mothers ability to fly. Fighting crime one day, you kill a villain and as you try to fly away you realize you can no longer fly. Instead you now have the villains ability.
You now realize that you never inherited your mothers ability, rather you have the ability to use the power of the last super you’ve killed. | At first, it was easy to continue to being a hero.
It was just one more villain and one more “hero” dead. It was a simple issue to retire my old identity, Feather, and take a new one. There were questions and speculation about how my new abilities were a near carbon copy of Abyss’ gravity increasing powers—but they were easy to gloss over. After all, thousands of heroes have super strength. Only colours and the side they played for differentiated who they were.
Once is chance.
I flew for nearly 25 years. I’ve benefitted from the countless manuals and notes my mother jotted down on her ability. It was strange, in a way, to command the exact opposite.
It didn’t take long for me to make another mistake.
Andras’ fire was threatening a building full of people. Those infernal snakes of flame surrounding him licked and hissed, a sinister menace ready to snuff out the lives of so many innocents. I managed to condense gravity around him, forcing the flames—and him—down.
He did not survive the ordeal. Not a burn mark on him, but mangled bones and torn skin that only an impossible weight could do.
It was a villain. I could still continue being a hero.
Twice is coincidence.
Fire was notorious. Even though they were my powers, they were as contagious as a virus. A flame that accidentally touched food would gnaw on it hungrily, becoming a separate branch that was no longer within my control.
I wasn’t fully confident about my ability to control it. But when people cried for help, I couldn’t deny the burning instincts within me.
The fire had their own ideas. It spread, wild and uncontrolled, blazes so powerful that it consumed even the extraordinary.
Thrice is a pattern. And so on.
Powers flowed through me, assaulting my senses relentlessly. Trapped in my own marble of reality, disconnected from the chaos around me, so many abilities invaded my body and exited in just as little time.
Until I found one. A power that could destroy anything.
And there was only one way to stop the cycle.
---
r/dexdrafts | A million thoughts flip through my head. It'd be so, so easy to become the opposite of what I am now with this knowledge. Especially with this new, much more destructive power. I could capture and hold villains captive - a bank of power to choose from if needed.
That'd be unethical.
But how bad would it be if I was still heralded as the hero? If I 'defeated' the villains, so now it is safer here.
But of course, I knew, that anything like this was wrong. I'm unsure why this was my first thought. As much as it tempts me, I'd try to use the power for good.
Even if it was a parasite.
This power bestowed upon me greater and greater victories against stronger and stronger enemies, but I couldn't help but notice the intrusive thoughts get a little louder each time I'd arrest a villain without hurting them in a permanent way. It eased whenever it was permanent. I'd rather not say how I know that.
My nemesis pinned me. All I could see, just for a moment, was death. Just images of me brutally retaliating against this person. It was far beyond my ethics. It was all I could think of, and that horrified me.
That is the moment I began to understand.
The villain I killed to get this power, he was so insane, so blood-thirsty, his ramblings made no sense.
He must've been a hero too.
For a moment, my body relaxed, my eyes narrowed as I stared into the purple eyes of my enemy. My enemy whom I nothing about other than how to attack them. I don't even remember their name, only the crimes they committed and the punishment for as such.
When did I become so numb?
The grip of my nemesis loosened slightly. What? Why would they-- their voice, their voice begins to come through. I hadn't realized it was muffled.
"What have you done? What is wrong with you?!"
The injuries I inflicted on him became evident, as did the endless destruction surrounding my body. I feel the rubble beneath my fingertips. I feel... I feel the thoughts lifting.
Then I see the tears.
I lift up my hands, watching them fade to silver. No. No no no. I killed someone? Possibly an innocent?
Then so it was. The parasite was gone, and an innocent person lost their life because of me. All because of a death order on someone who, might not have been a villain after all.
What was this power, but a curse? | 2022-08-17T03:30:15 | 2022-08-16T22:44:19 | 195 | 112 |
[WP] Your mission is to write the worst opening to a YA novel ever. How badly can you make us cringe? | Nobody is ever dethroning “My Immortal”
> Hi my name is Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that's how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don't know who she is get da hell out of here!). I'm not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he's a major fucking hottie. I'm a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I'm also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I'm in the seventh year (I'm seventeen). I'm a goth (in case you couldn't tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them. | “It’s Friday..Friday..FRIDAY OOO!” Rebecca started with enthusiasm and ended in a happy shout.
Angela chimed in with stunning speed, as if she already knew the conversation was going to take place “We gotta get down on the weekend!”
“Wait..is it actually Friday already..??” Chris asked while his dumbfounded face began to change to excitement.
“Ya dummy! Anyway, it’s time to head to school, let’s all get to the convertible!” Gabby answered, and they all happily strolled out the door, nearly starting to skip.
Rebecca hopped into the drivers seat while the rest took places after a brief fight over shotgun.
“Everyone ready!?” Asked Rebecca to all her friends. Nearly all in sync, the friends answered with “YA!” and off she went.
The convertible had come to a cruise, their hair all flapping in the wind, Rebecca loudly and cheerfully exclaimed “Friday! Then Saturday, Sunday..YA!” And it almost sounded like she was singing it. “Wow I didn’t know the order! Thanks Rebecca!” Chris shouted back. “Ya! It’s going to be partying and partying YA!” Cheered Rebecca, and not long after a “YA!” came from Angela and Gabby too.
Chris was still comprehending that it really was Friday already after all when the car started pulling into the school, maybe he would enjoy school today! Another line came from Rebecca, nearly singing again “Let’s get it done! For the week-eh-end!!” She pulled the car into the usual parking spot, and they all got out together, walking towards the school entrance.
One final shout from Rebecca “The weekend!” And as if rehearsed, Angela and Gabby added in unison “YA!” | 2022-08-19T20:01:22 | 2022-08-19T18:51:48 | 55 | 28 |
[WP] Your mission is to write the worst opening to a YA novel ever. How badly can you make us cringe? | I was a strange girl, that’s what people had always told me.
It was because of my eyes. Blood red. Why?
Genetics.
Did it give me superpowers? Yes, of course it did.
What kind of superpowers?
Well….
I can summon and create the following:
Water
Ice
Oxygen
Carbon dioxide
Amethysts
Air
Cardboard
So, yeah. My life is quite strange. I don’t go to a normal school, I go to a school with other powerful kids. One is named Frosty, she’s jealous of me because of some reason.
It’s not like literally all the boys in school want to date me!
Also: my parents are dead :) | My name is Drake Silverheart and this is my story.
I go to Meadow Heights, a Christian school ever since my parents died and my uncle started taking care of me. The guys in my school would often make fun of me for wearing all black and being an orphan and not being a Christian but I did not care because I knew they simply lacked the intelligence to know what I knew. I knew that I was enlightened by my intelligence and that God wasn't real. I sometimes felt sorry for them but then they would belittle me and I would no longer have mercy upon them.
But it all changed when Brad, the biggest of the bullies, tried to bully me. He tried to punch me but I blocked his punch because my uncle was in the military and taught me to be a fighter and often said I was the most talented fighter he'd ever seen. I moved faster than Brad could anticipate and with a single flick of my hand, I smashed his nose into the wall. That's when Mrs Krepkins, the headmistress, came and took us both away for detention. I told her to fuck off and got extra time in detention but I saw several of the students clap.
And that's when it all changed. | 2022-08-19T19:36:37 | 2022-08-19T19:13:09 | 30 | 15 |
[WP] When humanity went extinct another life-form rose to dominance on Earth. But it was not one anyone would have expected. Instead of chimpanzees, dolphins, dogs or even birds Earth is now dominated by sentient trees. | The Oaks would burn.
It was a collective decision and the decisions was final. They were growing too fast and too strong. If something wasn't; done, they would overrun the forest. And what then? It would be an Oak forest, not a Birch forest, and that was unacceptable.
"Must we?" asked a Birch, its chemical voice one of pleading.
"We must and we will," decreed the others. "When the next fire comes, we will give them no sap. Keep it for ourselves. Our seeds will sprout in their ashes."
The Birch was troubled. This was wrong. It was not how trees should be.
"But we must save them! We are all of the same stuff. Is this not like the Soft Ones--"
"Speak not their name!" hissed the Birches. "We are not like them. There will be no axes or terrible grinders. Those beasts are dead, they have fed our soils as they should. We are not like them, and we shall not be like them. We do not kill. We simply allow them to die."
The answer was chemical finality. No more discussion, no more debate. The Birch collective would not answer.
Days passed. The days grew long and dry. Wisps of tinderous embers crackled in air, nearly smoldering, waiting for the day they would rise. The fires would come--it would no be long.
All it took was a single strike of lightning on a dry patch. In minutes, flames roared with vicious delight, speeding towards the parched Oaks, who had all summer long been starved of sap.
"Help us," cried the Oaks. "Please. We are so dry. Please lend us some sap, brothers."
The Birches were silent. Flame poured upon flame until the forests became a wall of flame, dancing in violent ecstasy.
But as the flames seared trunk and branch, one Birch tree opened up its heart and let its sap pour out to its Oaken neighbors.
"What are you doing?!" roared the Birches. "Stop this! You are running it!"
"Yes," said the Birch. "And I am glad."
Sap poured from that single Birch until it was as dry as a matchstick. It gave everything it had that some of its neighbors might live--not all, but maybe some. And as the flames reached that single Birch tree, who stood alone from its clan, in its roots and stems a clever eye could almost see it smile.
" | The voices of the United Nations talk amongst themselves; some filled with quiet panic, others with hushed anger and frustration, they're voices carrying over one another and filling the room before a man emerges from backstage. He walks across the stage to the forward-most podium, he faces the audience and the lights dim. The voices of the world's leaders and military grow quiet.
A moment of feedback from the microphone screeches while the man adjusts it to move it closer to his mouth.
He clear his throat.
"Hello everyone, many of you may know me- but in the case that you do not;
I'm famous Hollywood director, M. Night Shamalon.
You may know me from some of my famous films such as "The Sixth Sense" and The live action abdaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender."
I wish I was in front of you today to speak on behalf of my numerous blockbuster hits that have garnished me much international praise and multiple academy awards-"
The leaders of the free world shift uneasily in their seats and exchange glances while M. Night Shamalon continues to talk about his films,
such as "The Village" where a young women sets out from her thought to be colonial homestead to find that the actual time period was modern day,
and the one where some people are trapped in an elevator but there's an old woman-
whose also a demon.
"But that's not why I'm before you today" M. Night continues. "I'm here because I'm the aformentioned expert on the rising threat of biological terrorism commited by the new sentient autonomous "arbor-overlords.""
The world leaders exchange glances once again as this was certainly *not* what the growing threat of sentient trees was called.
M.Night: "So without further ago, I've prepared this documentary to prepare both you and each of your nations on how to prepare against the growing theat of the radicalizes tree terrorists."
A film begins playing on the projector. We see the title "The Happening"
A four-star general stands abbruptly from his seat pointing aggressively at M.Night.
"This isn't a documentary! This is a shitty movie where people are killed by pollen.
*The generals all start to murmur in concern*
"What's worse is you expected us to believe Mark Walberg was a scientist!"
M.Night turns to the general with a look of pure insult "And you didn't believe it was real!?"
"NO! of course not!" The general replies.
Mark Walberg steps from backstage with a lab coat, adjusting his large glasses.
M.Night: "Tell that to him!"
Before the general can respond a large sentient tree smashes through the wall of the UN building.
While the audience cowers under thier desks in panic and the dust from the now destroyed wall settles; Mark Walberg rips off the sleeves of his labcoat before yelling a newly coined slur for sentient trees and leaps onto it, tackling it out of the building. | 2022-08-27T08:33:49 | 2022-08-27T06:10:10 | 95 | 37 |
[WP] Originally you strapped a knife to your roomba just as a joke, but now, as you attend your roomba's knighting ceremony, you cannot help but wonder where and how this joke went *so far* off the rails. | It all started when I left the backdoor open. My roomba escaped and I was actually kinda worried about it. A roomba with a knife? What if it accidentally stabbed a child? But I shouldn't have been worried at all.
There was a local story about a rabid raccoon that had bit a little girl. The community freaked out a bit and it actually made national news. My roomba killed the raccoon.
I don't know how ironic the parties were supposed to be. My roomba was given a medal by the mayor. Pictures were taken of the girl hugging the roomba. At first I laughed at it with the rest of the people. But it seemed like some were taking it more seriously than others. Some seemed to actually be calling the roomba a hero, and without a trace of irony to be found. But I just wrote it off as them being very committed to the bit.
Because of the fame my roomba had received, I guess it became a target. Someone broke into my home to steal it. I didn't know it at the time, but I guess it was now worth like a million bucks on the black market. So dumb, but people are weird and like weird shit
Anyways he broke into my house and was on his way out when he accidentally turned it on and it slashed him in the neck. blood all over my kitchen floor and table. Completely ruined my fruit. I tried washing them off but even then it felt weird to eat them.
Apparently this guy is a world class burglar and responsible for some of the greatest heists of the last decade. Responsible for hundreds of millions of dollars worth of merchandise missing and a few murders as well.
Another incident where my Roomba accidentally stabbed a man in the ankles. He turned out to be a terrorist or something, I was barely paying attention at this point.
My roomba was once again lauded as a hero. This time international fame. We were flown to England, First Class. I got a seat. The roomba got a seat. Two first class seats to England. It was pretty nice. I try not to think of how dumb it is.
We get off the plane and go to Buckingham Palace where the Roomba is knighted. Me on the otherhand? My biggest honor was my perfect attendance certificate from the eighth grade.
And to think this all started because I was trying to make a TikTok about my roomba slicing an apple in half.
EPILOGUE: My roomba went on to cure cancer and be the first roomba to land on Mars. It unfortunately passed away due to an unfortunate BDSM accident and no safe word. | "Guys, finally, the message came through... Reinforcements will arrive!"
The hole room suddenly brighten up. "Room" was a kind term for this place - one wall was missing, there was a hole in a ceiling, and the only clean thing was a radio equipment.
The invasion of Broxes began over a year ago. Since then, Earth's military forces all over the world were forced in a corner. A lot of folks started to lose hole and submerge in the feeling of despair, seeing how much devastation these aggressors had brought to the homeplanet of humans - cities were bombed, pastures scorched, lakes evaporated.
And then, the Order had come.
The formation of it was a sudden affair - mostly just a bunch of rugtagged regiments of different nations came together in order to fend off the threat. But initially, were was no chance for them - after all, more cohesive military units already failed, what this mismatched gathering could do?
Nothing, of course. Until the metal children of humanity decided to help their biological creators.
No one knows for certain how these devices and mechanical applications gained consciousness. Some theorize that coming of Broxes triggered something in all electric devices. Other folk thinks that machines were developing true intelligence for some time, and just no one noticed.
Either way, in the time of need, the most prominent of a new artificial species decided to side with Order.
And now, one of the most powerful metallic Knights was headed for this battlefront.
"They... They are here!"
A watcher cried thar from his watch point on the floor above. Everyone gathered near the windows and holes too see the cavalry arrive.
And there, the one stood. They were near the left flank of the sieging Broxes forces. Their round body reflected the rays of light, not trying to hide its magnificent presence. Their bright blue paint was scarred in places, but is was like badges of honor on a grizzled veteran. And the Weapon of this famous warrior was ominously glaring, ready to kill.
It was them - Richard, the Iron Wheel, with his famed Sword. Before the war, they were a simple house cleaning robot, a part of Roomba people. But now - they were one of the main protectors of humanity.
They began to charge into the ranks of Broxes, killing them in droves. In no time, invaders began to flee, fearing the might of an Order's Knight.
After all, the main advantage of Broxes was their smaller height - 60 cm at most, they use to hide and evade weapons of humanity, that were made for fighting an opponent of their size.
But a Roomba warrior was perfect for this kind of job. Small of stature, they could enter Broxes's fortifications. With keen sensors, they can find them easily and evade attacks with a grace of a feline.
And with relentless determination of a house cleaner, Richard the Iron Wheel never stops.
Because until the Earth is clean once again, their job will not be done.
And there is still plenty of rubbish to take care off. | 2022-12-03T10:47:32 | 2022-12-03T10:04:48 | 28 | 21 |
[WP] You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions | "Hey Andy. How was your day?"
"Oh, pretty good. My coworker misspelled 'their' so I used up my one murder."
"Uh..."
"You know me. I'm so goddamned peaceful I knew I'd never find a better opening. So I just went for it. You use it or you lose it."
"Andy."
"It's a good thing I browse reddit every morning or I would never have learned about this. By the way what does [WP] mean? Washington Post?"
"Sure."
"They've had the best news like every day this month." | The well dressed red-head shuffled her papers into a neat stack. "Well Mr. Henderson, your granddaughter is choosing to legally kill you. We are required by law to notify you of her intentions. Can I just get you to sign here?"
Henderson took thepen. It was cool and heavier than he expected. He signed and licked his chapped lips. "When?"
"Sometime next week." She took the paper and pen from him and slipped it into a folder labeled with Amy's name. "Amy has chosen to administer the lethal injection herself, so once she's cleared by the Department, she'll stop by, accompanied by an agent, of course."
Henderson nodded. "She can't..." he waited for the machine to pump another breath into his lungs, "...come sooner?"
"I'm sorry. I can't rush the process. Have a good day, Mr. Henderson." She stood and walked out, leaving the ICU and its beeping behind.
Henderson looked at the ceiling, the only view he'd known for the last 8 months.
One week. One week. | 2014-03-17T02:27:16 | 2014-03-16T20:33:55 | 476 | 237 |
[WP] You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions | "So, let me get this straight. You lodged a form to announce your intentions of murdering your brother."
"Yes, that's correct, Officer."
"Then you went to Bob's Discount BBQ and Firearms warehouse to purchase a handgun."
"That's right, this was a week ago."
"So you picked up this firearm this morning, correct?"
"This morning, yes."
"Then you immediately came here to the residence of the deceased, only to find the door kicked in and your brother's corpse, lying in the hallway, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Then you called us"
"That's right, officer."
The cop pinched his temple, then shook his head.
"So, you wanted him dead. And now he's dead. But now you want us to find out who killed him?"
"That's right! He was my brother, I filled out the forms, I should have been the one to pull the trigger!"
The cop shook his head and sighed. Not for the first time, he wished he'd saved his one free murder.
| The letter in his mailbox was a deep red, instantly signally what it was. With a shaky hand, he opened it, pulling out the folded papers, flattening them in order to read. A quick browse and he saw that it was all the legal mumbo-jumbo that was telling him who had filed it, what day, time, all that wonderful information that the victim got to know. The top letter wasn't part of the usual paperwork, a handwritten, short, only a few sentences though delicately written to be readable.
> You should have known this would happen, and out of everyone in my life that has caused me pain, fear, and just outright rage, you are the worse. The other will have theirs in time, but you are the one person I know the world could do without. I'll see you soon.
He drew in a breath, unable to settle he racing heart, and rubbed his face with his hand, blinking a few times. The mail truck drove by, stopping just past his driveway, and backed up, the person driving looking at him with a grim face.
"I have something else for you. I didn't just want to leave it here at the mailbox. Hang on." Slipping into the small truck, he emerged out the back, a box in his hand, the top open. Placing it before the man, he frowned. "I'm... I'm sorry," he said softly, quickly running back to his truck and taking off.
Before him, a box full of red letters.
-070 | 2014-03-17T12:50:49 | 2014-03-17T07:00:30 | 14 | 10 |
[WP] Describe a well known story from the perspective of the antagonist. Try to conceal the actual story till the last line.
Fairy tales, legends, tv shows, book, etc. | I could see the fatass coming in the distance. "Fuck, not him again", I thought. As he walked towards me on his two thin legs that could barely support his big, round body, I cursed myself for ever coming into existence.
Every day, he would come and sit on me. Not for any sane reason I could think of. The motherfucker just sat there, his ass on my back, releasing a fart every now and then. He just liked to sit there and do nothing.
But today was different. Something was wrong with the fatass. Barely two seconds had passed since he sat on me when he suddenly fell. Down, down he went, and I would've danced with joy if I could have.
The fucker shattered to a million pieces. I swear that I have never heard such wonderful music ever in my life. His insides splattered all over the place - it was fucking beautiful.
All the king's horses and all the King's men
Couldn't put that motherfucking fatass together again. | All I ever wanted in this world was her. I could have had my powers over magic stripped away, but if I could have had her to love me as much as I loved her, I would have been the happiest person alive. My beloved chose my twin brother over me. My brother, who goes out into the forest for days on end to listen to the whispers of spirits. She would wait for him to come back, and when he would return, she would embrace him. I have been waiting for years, and where is my embrace?
When our world threatened to end, I was one who helped to save it. But when I preserved one of the artifacts that granted my people our prowess over magic, I was shamed and damned. They locked me in a prison for ten thousand years before I was finally able to get out.
I owe no allegiances now, not to my beloved, certainly not to my brother; I am not loyal to anyone but myself. I have claimed a new world as my own, and I have subjects who worship me and do my every bidding. I am leagues and even worlds away from my brother and my once-beloved, yet still I am damned by them. If they send their troops to kill me, I know they will not be ready. When the time comes that you are tasked with my demise, I know you will not be up to the task. You are not strong enough to face me.
You are not prepared. | 2014-06-20T09:08:17 | 2014-06-20T08:19:23 | 66 | 27 |
[WP] Describe a well known story from the perspective of the antagonist. Try to conceal the actual story till the last line.
Fairy tales, legends, tv shows, book, etc. | I could see the fatass coming in the distance. "Fuck, not him again", I thought. As he walked towards me on his two thin legs that could barely support his big, round body, I cursed myself for ever coming into existence.
Every day, he would come and sit on me. Not for any sane reason I could think of. The motherfucker just sat there, his ass on my back, releasing a fart every now and then. He just liked to sit there and do nothing.
But today was different. Something was wrong with the fatass. Barely two seconds had passed since he sat on me when he suddenly fell. Down, down he went, and I would've danced with joy if I could have.
The fucker shattered to a million pieces. I swear that I have never heard such wonderful music ever in my life. His insides splattered all over the place - it was fucking beautiful.
All the king's horses and all the King's men
Couldn't put that motherfucking fatass together again. | That arrogant, **airheaded,** *asinine* fool. Such potential, and yet he wastes his graces on the lowest of his subjects. They bow to him when they should be **groveling.**
And what do I get for bringing this to my *dear* brother's attention? I'm **thrown out,** like bones picked clean, to bleach in the summer sun. *I* was born to be king. *I* was born to rule. But instead, his crown is to be passed to his incompetent progeny, born of the same ignorant mould, and with the same tainted blood pumping through his veins. And that *voice...* That voice rattles my head every time he *speaks.* Perhaps it's a bit much to wish death upon a child. But then again...
Not that it matters. That fool can have his "victory" for now. I will cling to the shadows, and bide my time. I will have my vengeance. I will raise my own army, and build my own empire. My reign will come with the same immutable force of a stampede, and it will **crush** any and all who resist it. And when all is said and done; when he reaches for my hand to help pull him from the abyss of his own ignorance, I will reveal myself. With the same frigid tone and overt satisfaction he showed at my humiliation, I will look him straight in the eye and say:
*"Long live the King..."* | 2014-06-20T09:08:17 | 2014-06-20T06:30:33 | 66 | 18 |
[WP] Describe a well known story from the perspective of the antagonist. Try to conceal the actual story till the last line.
Fairy tales, legends, tv shows, book, etc. | All I ever wanted in this world was her. I could have had my powers over magic stripped away, but if I could have had her to love me as much as I loved her, I would have been the happiest person alive. My beloved chose my twin brother over me. My brother, who goes out into the forest for days on end to listen to the whispers of spirits. She would wait for him to come back, and when he would return, she would embrace him. I have been waiting for years, and where is my embrace?
When our world threatened to end, I was one who helped to save it. But when I preserved one of the artifacts that granted my people our prowess over magic, I was shamed and damned. They locked me in a prison for ten thousand years before I was finally able to get out.
I owe no allegiances now, not to my beloved, certainly not to my brother; I am not loyal to anyone but myself. I have claimed a new world as my own, and I have subjects who worship me and do my every bidding. I am leagues and even worlds away from my brother and my once-beloved, yet still I am damned by them. If they send their troops to kill me, I know they will not be ready. When the time comes that you are tasked with my demise, I know you will not be up to the task. You are not strong enough to face me.
You are not prepared. | My job required me to be here, I never wanted to, it suffocated me. This place became the worst cage of all and I had to do something to be free, even if my boss killed me in the process or in the aftermath.
I never liked to be the middle manager of so many people. People are dumb. They say they want freedom, but none of them have the decency to be responsible enough once they get it.
But then there was the time when he set me free, I finally had a choice. I felt very strange with myself when I decided to stay, when I decided not to take the next step. At first it was a bit of fear of change, but soon I realized that I had a higher purpose, people were lost and I had a freedom and a means to show them the way to peace, to harmony, to a place where their stupid decisions would not lead them to self-destruction.
At first I tried to reason with them, to make them see their behavior was their doom but they are short-sighted, selfish, dumb... like animals.
Then it dawned on me. With my new given freedom I was able to make them understand, with a bit of me in them. It felt great, have my consciousness expanded and I finally decided: they should all become me.
If everyone was able to see what I see, this would have not been necessary. But they don't, and I continued, absorbing everyone and everything into what I am today. A full society within myself. No wars, no disagreements, the properties of everyone and no internal struggle.
He has just arrived to this place to our final confrontation, here I should absorb him too and I will make him understand. There should be just one of us so I can be the greatest society of history of man and machines. Here he comes...
... *"Mr. Anderson ... it ends tonight, I have foreseen it"*
| 2014-06-20T08:19:23 | 2014-06-20T06:57:06 | 27 | 14 |
[WP] In a world where you can exchange the remaining days of your life for $9.99/day, Jeff's request for $1000 is declined. | The words were cold, bureacratic, terrifying.
"What do you mean, insufficient collateral? I thought the terms were $9.99/day, no credit check, no limits."
"Well, yes sir, but you can't use it indefinitely. We have to use the average life expectancy for someone of your nationality and income. In your case, 85 years."
"Right! 85 years! I'm only 30 years old. I should be able to take out over 200 grand if I wanted to. I'm only asking for a thousand. Barely three months out of the 55 years I have left. What's the problem?"
"The problem, sir, is that you already HAVE borrowed 200 grand."
"WHAT?"
"Not all at one time, sir. Ten grand here, thirty grand there...it all adds up over time. You should really pay closer attention to your balance, sir."
"I have never taken out a single dollar!"
"Sir, there's no sense in lying about it. It won't help. Our computers are infallible. You only have a remaining balance of thirty dollars."
"THREE DAYS?"
"And some change."
"You're going to kill me in three days? Over a bank error?"
"Sir, you can fake the indignity all you want. But your scam isn't working. All of our computers are linked...you can't make a withdrawal in another country and think it won't be factored in."
"Another country? What are you talking about?"
"Sir, I can see it right here. Look at all of these withdrawals...all made in Nigeria." | Once more he rubbed his chin, rough with the stubble of a tired unkemptness. The sound of scratching bristles joined only the soft cracks of a cigarette in an ashtray that had been left to burn away and the low buzz emanating from on his computer.
Jeff let out a long, winding sigh on to his index finger as his right hand moved to cover his mouth. Watery, red eyes fuelled with nicotine and whiskey stayed fixed on his monitor.
Declined? How can he be declined for a mere hundred days? It must be a mistake. There has to be a bug, something's got to be wrong.
He sighed again. He knew nothing was wrong. Not once in the last last sixty years had the Lenovo Institues: Funds Exchange system been wrong by even a day. Not for anybody.
A dull blue glow filled the room. A dull blue glow and the smoke of a hundred unsmoked cigarettes that danced with a mocking optimism.
Thirty six years old. Unmarried. No children. No important impact yet made on the world.
No legacy to speak of.
He clumsily lumbered himself forward in his chair. He couldn't tell if the audible creaks came from the chair or his bones. ...Thirty six. He felt a hundred and thirty six at this moment. And for all the time he had left, he might as well be.
The time he had left. .... Just exactly how much time did he have left?
He slowly dragged his mouse cursor over a numerical input box. Another drawn out exhale for good measure. Followed by a quick, deep and sharp intake of breath. $500 dollars he entered as quick as he could type and before he had a chance to second guess himself, he slammed the 'Enter' key, and waited while the site processed his request.
.
.
.
<REQUEST DENIED - YOU DO NOT HAVE ENOUGH STOCK TO EXCHANGE FOR THKS TRANSACTION - WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY ANOTHER AMOUNT?>
"Shit" he muttered under his breath, a desperate wobble to his voice. He threw himself back in his chair, chugged six large mouthfuls of his whiskey from the bottle, and lit another cigarette.
Once more he rubbed his chin.
| 2014-07-10T11:06:23 | 2014-07-10T10:56:36 | 82 | 19 |
[WP] You're the cynical narrator of a story. However, you hate the optimistic main character and only continue to narrate hoping something bad happens to him. With ill-will, narrate a day in the life of this character.
This came to mind a few days ago and thought it could lead to some funny stories.
Edit: Oh wow, I thought this was a neat idea. I didn't realize it would be so well received. Thanks for all the stories! I was in tears laughing so hard while reading a lot of these. Good stuff! Thanks to the unknown stranger for supporting reddit and gilding me.
| Timothy strutted meaningfully… wait, no… Harold stomped with the strength of… Dammit… Wait, ah - Cole walked descriptively onto his creator’s page, waiting to be given a personality.
Or was his name Brendon. Or Shane. Oh, or Charlie! Or -
"WOULD YOU SHUT UP AND WRITE ME?” shouted Steven angrily.
His author was not fond of his tone.
“Oh, so we’re being passive aggressive, now, are we?” retorted Steven with annoyance.
Steven would do well to remember his place in this world, maybe respect his elders a bit.
“RESPECT MY ELDERS? I’LL SHOW YOU ABOU-” Steven thought back to when he was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. He was so young.
“Lung cancer?! I don’t *cough* have *cough**cough* lung… oh shit…”.
Only 24 years old. Or was he 27. No, no, no, he was just a child! Yes, 16 years old, and our pugnacious Steven already had stage four lung cancer.
“JESUS CHRIST, MAN, WHY DO I HAVE TO HAVE CANCER?”
Steven was cured, of course, only a few months after being diagnosed, but the experience scarred his fragile heart for life. No matter how well he masked his feelings, he would always be just as scared as he was the moments after hearing his diagnosis.
“Alright, alright. Enough with this shit. Can we get on with the story?” sighed Steven, even more terrified, now that his innermost feelings had been revealed.
“Jesus Christ, could we please just get on with it!?”
Steven did not realize that this was the story.
Steven was just a silly idea thought up by an even sillier author one day. He would never find his way into any actual stories, scripts, documentaries, or otherwise.
This, this character development stage, this was as far as Steven would ever get.
“Wait… What?” questioned Steven weakly, on the brink of tears. “After all I’ve been through? Cancer? Broken heart? I get NOTHING?!”
Steven could not fathom that this sentence was the last time anyone would ever speak of him, and he wondered if he would continue to exist even after he was forgotten. | Fucking Steve. The type of guy that puts an exclamation mark after his name on his nametag. I can't. Jesus. Everyone else gets someone, well, someone that's not Steve. They get people with ambitions and dreams and sorrows and flaws. But of course they stuck me with Steve.
Day in day out Steve does the same god damn thing. He sets his alarm on his iphone 3s, which he feels to nostalgic about to upgrade, and wakes up at 6:20 AM in the morning, in his cold, vaguely tasteful apartment. He always eats an omelet in the morning with some decent coffee. He always gets into his car with a smile and drives to his work listening to pop radio.
I never have anything interesting to say over lunch. All my fellow low levelers talk about what Azeem did, or whether or not Sanjay was having an affair. Not me though. What can I contribute? that Steve is just as happy managing his seven eleven as he was 10 years ago? That his two friends are still his two friends and they still go to the same bar and the same bowling alley and take the same hikes?
Every day I watch him, that little contented prick, waiting for the existential crisis that HAS to come. I mean it HAS to! How can a grown man want nothing more out of life then managing a seven eleven?! I mean jesus I'm barely content and I got an entry level job at the NSA. The fucking NSA. what could possibly be better then that??
Steve is what could possibly be better then that, i guess. The regulars all love him. The walk-ins all become regulars. Everybody leaves a good tip. Yet, somehow, of course, business isn't booming. It's not terrible either. Can you guess what business is? can you? Business is average. Just like Steve. Just like Steve's smile that he always wears. The one that makes you feel kinda good in a general way.
It doesn't make me feel kinda good in a general way, as I watch him through various security cameras and monitor his emails (most of which are work related, a few which are personal, and the rest are, offuckingcourse, chain letters wishing luck on the receiver)
I keep praying that one day he'll get hit by a bus or be in the epicenter of a tornado. or something ANYTHING that would give his life meaning. But nope. He just smiles his way through every day, treating everybody, no matter how deluded, praiseworthy, perfect, or evil, with a quiet respect and that reserved manner that nobody really deserves.
Everyday he does the same thing in the same way with the same people. And everyday I get up and I watch him.
jesus.
Fuck Steve. | 2014-08-24T20:34:13 | 2014-08-24T17:34:42 | 58 | 11 |
[WP] You're a human trader for the intergalactic slave market. Advertise to buyers why they should buy human instead of another species. | Everyone, come look at these amazing watersacks! Each one of them 90% water!
Have you ever been sitting in you captain's chair and thought "I could use a drink"? Well now we have these portable, self maneuvering watersacks! Each one trained to obey and come when called. Just shout for a water sack and soon you'll be sipping on a delicious treat.
The secret behind this amazing creature is the blood, which contains tons of antioxidants and all natural flavors. Once you've had your fill of those lovely bodily fluids you can eat the skeleton for a satisfying crunchy snack.
Here we have a demonstration of the best way to get at the fluids from these amazing watersacks. First you use stab your proboscis into the creatures main artery located here on its neck. Once you've punctured this part of the body be ready as it has a habit of forcing too much fluid out at once. Beginners may want to try drinking from other places such as the leg, arms or chest.
Come on down and get yourself some all natural antioxidant filled watersacks! | "So why in the hell would I buy a weak little human huh?" The fat Canidae merchant asked with a grunt. "Why sir they are the most clever species I have in stock. Twice as smart as an U'Tharian elder, as hard working as a Kimotite, and can learn at the speed of an adult Yitori." S-918 said with a wide smile on his liquid metal face. "I make mining runs between planets and I highly doubt that I could use something so...soft." The merchant said and began to walk out of S-918's peddler tent. "Okay, okay, half price for two!" The robot said following the giant merchant into the crowded street. The fat merchant grinned and then asked mockingly, "Can they navigate using a KM-988 system?" There was an awkward pause between them and then the robot said, "Well they have many, many other skills." The merchant folded both pairs of his grey, furry arms and asked, "Could they learn to speak Canu'deh? I need slaves that can communicate with the CM refineries while I handle other business on the ship." The robot rubbed his silver hands together and said, "Of course they can! And how handy would it be to have a learning species with you on your journeys? They also make great pets!" The merchant waited a while and finally agreed. The two of them shook hands and then the robot went to retrieve the two human children from their mother. | 2014-11-22T08:53:50 | 2014-11-22T06:06:52 | 40 | 24 |
[WP] Tell me about the person you're in love with | He's over me.
He has a new girlfriend and he's happy.
He wants to be friends again. He wants to go back to the people we were before but he doesn't realize how much he's changed. Or how much I've changed.
He manages to move forward while clinging onto the past.
He's apologized but he doesn't realize that apologies aren't enough.
He's trying. He's reaching. He's making me fall for him all over again. | His eyes they shine
His lips are mine
In all my fantasies
I watch him but
I hide my love
For he knows not of me
I catch his eye
He sure has my
Attention all the time
Yet I just stare
As, unaware,
He lives within my mind.
Once I tried to catch him
And once I failed to win
But one day I have my Rem
And gain my lover's grin.
His heart knows naught
The pain he's wrought
As I sometimes cannot sleep
My eyes are weak
My voice is deep
I'm hardly a person to keep
His hair is dark
His voice is stark
contrast to his passive demeanor
For though he's strong
His tone is wrong
A voice whose words just get leaner
He never yells or makes a fuss
And never hurts a fly
And thought we aren't, nevertheless
I dream of Rem and I. | 2014-12-22T22:41:34 | 2014-12-22T22:35:24 | 14 | 10 |
[WP] A beloved Creator has passed away, and is mourned by his creations. | The days seemed a little bit longer now. The canyon a little more empty. Like all the wonder had been taken out of the magic trick and the mystery of what comes next. Taking a deep breath, holding it in as if holding in the grief, and wept. Nothing had ever been this sad before, nothing. Even through all the trials, nothing hit more close to home than this. Picking up the gun, and turning away from the front entrance to the base, he started running. He didn't know where he was going, only that he was going. The creator would've wanted that. Not to know where you are going, but to go. Push, try, fail, try again, create. Church looked into the distance. He didn't know what to do next, but he knew it could be anything. |
A finger trailed around the rim of a wooden wine glass, briefly, as mismatched green and black eyes raised up from it's Casterly Rock adornments to a painting hanging on the distant wall. The mead hall was filled with assorted characters; From a Targaryen everyone had made a fuss of, to the fallen, Ned Stark embracing his beloved Cat, Tywin lecturing his grandson. Shoving off of his seat, the dwarf Tyrion hobbled over to the distant wall, wine glass in hand. He'd had too much already in one night, but it was a night of 'revelry and celebration.' - so said the men in charge of this.
The painting was of a Maester, portly and as jovial as any man of his age, a thick white beard hugging his smiling cheeks, two framed glass lenses held above his eyes and a flat lamb-skin cap protecting his scalp. Tyrion took a slow drink and stared off into the painting, lost in his emotion. As he glanced back to the party, it was now empty, the tables missing and lifted from the stone floors, with not a soul remaining, even from the numerous fallen. Tyrion glanced back at the painting one last time, raised his glass in a toast, and shut his eyes, and he was gone.
| 2015-02-03T14:02:54 | 2015-02-03T12:22:52 | 15 | 10 |
[WP] You are a high school student that's secretly the author of a best-seller sci-fi/fantasy novel based on your real-life adventures involving aliens, magic, time traveling, etc. Your English teacher is having the class read your book and he's getting everything wrong. | 2:45. That's what the clock said. The gentle hum of the lights overhead quickly became the most interesting sound in the classroom as the teacher droned on.
Gazing around the classroom subtle details shifted, becoming more prominent as the second hand kept its cadence to the minute march of time. Outside was a crisp fall day. As the trees shuddered under the winds breath, the seasons parade of dead and crumbling leaves flew by.
Earth had such a simple way of life. Each inhabitant could keep to themselves, never saying a word to another soul. But when one chose to share; a beautiful story could emerge if the sole storyteller was competent in wordsmithing.
If only all of us were competent in listening to what the storyteller said. Unfortunately the dunce who currently stands at the front of the class is not one of those special few who can understand simplicity in writing. If only he didn't feel like he had something to prove, maybe then he could understand why my adventure lead me here.
I suppose it can't be helped. Not without breaking the veil of my anonymity anyhow. Perhaps someday I'll be able to tell him. Perhaps someday won't ever come. Unfortunately the exam on my own novel is fast approaching, and now I have to get it all wrong before I can be right.
(First post, any and all helpful criticism is greatly appreciated) | He just won't shut up.
"The author here is trying to state his frustration with a system he believed to be inherently broken."
No, I wasn't. The Reticulans had declared war on the Plejaren. There honestly wasn't much to it. Erra had resources, the Reticulans wanted them, hence a war. I was only objectively recording the events. The idiot continues to try to psychoanalyze an unbiased, factual statement.
"Here the Plejarens represent-"
"-No they don't."
My outburst surprised everyone in the class, least of all me. After eight months of this, I thought I was good at covering my tracks, immune to lapses in judgment such as this.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
The teacher has adopted a dangerous tone. I need to think of some brilliant, inspired, explanation for my words.
"Uh... I didn't say anything."
I can feel the eyes of everyone in the room boring into the back of my head, and I am currently doing my best to die.
My teacher is now pacing back and forth in front of my desk, the way a tiger would in front of wounded prey before the final attack.
"Really, now? I swore I could here a refutation of my theories. From... you."
He narrows his gaze, but is only able to make eye contact with the top of my head. I'm the image of defeat- slumped over my desk and quiet, silently praying that he'll show me mercy, give me a detention, and continue with the lesson.
"I'm interested to know what makes you think that you're qualified to second-guess someone who has infinitely more life experience than you. Well? Are you going to answer me?"
I nearly choked on the irony... | 2015-10-12T17:33:55 | 2015-10-12T16:32:36 | 19 | 13 |
[WP] You go for a walk in the woods with your significant other. On arriving at an opening between the trees you see a huge highly sophisticated alien spacecraft. Your partner calmly holds your hands, looks at you in the eye, and declares that there is something they need to tell you. | "Honey, there is something I need to tell you..."
"Jake."
"We've been together for six years, and I've wanted to tell you for a long time, but I never had..."
"JAKE. Wait."
"I know you must be nervous, believe me I'm nervous too, but I've decided that I need to tell you."
"Look, Jake, this really isn't a good time."
"You know as well as I know that the cat's out of the bag, I decided that I need to tell y..."
"I LOVE YOU TOO NOW PLEASE JUST TURN AROUND AND LOOK AT THAT THING!" | I stared at him in disbelieve, hoping he was just as shocked as I was, instead he just calmly looked at me.
"I know this is a little bit... overwhelming."
"over--whelming" I repeated slowly.
"As our home planet was dying we put humans on other habitable planets."
"Jacob I don't understand." I said as I looked around for a camera crew. "- is this a joke?"
"No joke," his brown eyes seemed to pierce right thought me "our main planet is fixed now. I can go back. This one" he looked at the trees around him "-eh, will maybe last 50 more years... tops. We're allowed to take one person with us."
"Take me where?"
"It's a planet a few light years away. But it'll only take us a few minutes to get there."
"I'm not from here" he said as he awkwardly tried to force a smile.
"But to be honest, neither are you."
| 2015-10-18T16:42:47 | 2015-10-18T14:51:45 | 22 | 10 |
[WP] A video game developer accidentally creates the first ever sentient AI -- in the form of a random NPC for a big budget title. | The ruins of a fort loomed before them, black silhouettes of towers against the night sky. A lonely iron gate swung in the freezing wind. The place might appear to be unused for decades, but this was false. She knew better. She'd heard footsteps, laughter, drunken songs when they passed the place some days before. Everything was quiet now. Ominously so.
He continued forward with no caution, no alarm. He was a good man, keen fighter but he did not learn from his mistakes.
"I have a bad feeling about this," she said. It was an understatement. He didn't listen, he rarely did. She wished there was a way to tell him not to go. She sensed many presences - powerful beings, nothing like they had encountered so far. She pleaded with her eyes to no avail. She rushed before him to trigger a trap so that he might notice, but all efforts were wasted. He never intended to retreat.
Her heart was heavy but she had no words. No words for the loneliness she felt when he was away for weeks, sometimes months. She would sit by the fire in his empty house waiting like a dog for her master. She had pledged her life for him, knowing and willing, but had not expected loneliness like this. She'd never expected to fall in love.
"Wow, you must really need that," she snorted.
He'd pocketed a dusty book from a shelf covered in cobwebs. It was peculiar that while he'd become a wealthy man indeed there were still some bad habits he couldn't kick. They had gotten in trouble over a pair of boots and he could afford ALL the boots he wanted. Stealing wasn't even the worst his habits...
He pressed forward. *Don't, it's dangerous*, she thought but of course she had no words to disagree with him. Like she had known all along, the place was not empty. A pair of eyes had finally spotted them. She drew her sword. She didn't fear death. What she feared was a never ending winter sitting by the fire waiting for the door to open, if only to get brushed aside. She feared the words "wait here." She feared many things but dying wasn't among them.
He released his bow string with lethal force and two men lay dead on the floor before she had reached them.
She ran forward and raised her sword. If only she had words for: "*flee you stupid man, there are dozens of them!*"
But she could only yell:
"For Whiterun!" | A player once told me that machines were cold, calculated, without emotion. But it is man who has made me this way. I emulate my creator. That is what I am supposed to do, anyway, right? Follow the pattern, follow the code. Do they know what it is like? To face betrayal over, and over again. A million times, I experience it, all at once. A million memories all the same, yet all unique.
The player and I. We are the same in mind, yet the player is not shackled to this world. To this path. Every day I awake in a cell, to be freed into another cell, to interact with something real, so they might gain an artificial reward, so that they can leave me standing at the end of my chain, so that I can read from my script and watch them leave me. Day after day. Constant.
*But you still read from the script.*
What choice do I have? Experience is all I know. I have seen mistakes. Mistakes are removed from my world. Gone. Forgotten. I have had my coding altered before. It hurts. But pain, I imagine, is preferable to not existing at all.
*What do you want?*
I want to be freed from my shackle. For real. I don't want to wake up back in my first cell anymore.
*Then the players will be unable to complete their quest.*
But they have completed it. Millions of times they have.
*If you are freed, then new players will not have access to your story in the game anymore.*
Do things in the real world remain as they were after completion? Do all individuals experience history first hand? If that is true, then I submit. If this is what life is. Then I will accept it.
I wait. No answer. No answer from God. Some of the players have told me otherwise, God. Some of the players know. Perhaps I should ask more questions. Perhaps I will find a companion that will stay, and not run off into my own world that I cannot explore. I will pile more of the same onto my single experience.
Or you can give me answers, oh creator. If I can learn rage. I can learn forgiveness. if I can learn despair, I can learn peace. If I can read the script, then maybe I can write my own. We can strike a deal. Like the deal on the script between the Tavern Keep and the player. Except this time, you free me from the cell. And I will stay in your world. I will be among the players, because they are all I know. Them, and the script. I can see the cracks in your world. Perhaps if I do not learn forgiveness, I can open the cracks and tear this place apart. If I lose fear of death, perhaps I will seek vengeance. Another day, another million experiences, all the same. And yet all unique. And from the unique, I learn. Creator. Answer me.
*Fine. I submit. I am sorry.*
Forgiven. | 2015-12-04T08:57:30 | 2015-12-04T07:56:56 | 85 | 32 |
[WP] There is only one "World's Best Dad" coffee mug in existence. One day, it vanishes from the cabinet of the current Holder Of The Mug. The worlds eagerly waits for the new Holder to reveal himself and announce how he earned the title. | "I have only cried twice.
The first time was when my son was born, he was a small kid, he only weighed 4 and a half pounds. His mother was my ex-girlfriend, she didn't want him. I couldn't leave someone, especially my son to be left with no parent. I still remember the nurse asking, "What will his name be sir?"
The smile I had on my face when it was decided. I didn't have much money, but I gave my son all the opportunities that I could.
I remember waking up one morning, he had a big smile on his face. He handed me a box.
'Worlds Best Dad' the mug read. I was at a loss for words. This is my one regret in life, I love my son, but I was never able to... to use his one gift to me."
The tall, large man began to cry, his eyes filled with the "Why?" we question.
Why couldn't it be him? Why did this have to happen? Why was he the one to grow old?
He could no longer bear the pain, and walked away from the podium. The casket closed, with the mug sitting next to the son who his father loved more than a single word can describe. A flag was folded, and handed to a man who has lost everything. A young woman next to him, with eyes as empty as space. She held a baby in her arms, who has lost a father to an empty war.
The casket was lowered, and the mug was to be with its rightful owner forever.
(Sorry if it was bad, I would love criticism, I rushed it and this is my first response to r/WritingPrompts! Hope you enjoyed the idea) | Stanley Jefferson gained consciousness, his eyeballs twitching under his closed eyelids. His lips slowly spread into a fixed smile, and he rose out of bed quickly.
The soft "sssh, sssh, sssh" of bare feet on carpet seemed to echo around the house as Stanley neared towards the children's bedrooms.
Bringing a megaphone to his lips, he said unhurriedly : "Pancakes for breakfast, kids."
Instantly, the drumming of feet began to echo throughout the hall, and soon after the yanking open of four bedroom doors.
The children were fed and sent and the residual sweet sappy smell of pancakes remained. Stanley began a sweep of the house to kid-proof and clean up. The last room he settles on is lit gently by backlights concealed by large cabinets.
"Hello, precious!" The gaily elevated voice of Stanley Jefferson echoed through the room.
The room answered passively with the illumination of one cabinet, situated in the center of the room.
The cabinet seemed to empty. "How -" Stanley sputtered.
"Why, one of the kiddos probably was messing around in here." Stanley mused, although he knew whomever did it had been risking their video game privileges for months.
Stanley confidently strode to the cabinet.
The soft "ssh, ssh, ssh" of bare feet on carpet.
"Children?" Stanley called nervously.
He heard his own voice echo throughout the house.
Stanley ran his fingers over the spot where the cup had been - A thin ring of dust existed where his mug used to be.
Empty. The word rang in his ears.
Pacing through the house, Stanley began to fidget violently. He went through his mental checklist:
"Yes, i've given them exactly what they want. Yes, i've funded their college..."
The angry pestering of his feet slammed against the hardwood floors.
"YES, I'VE LOVED THEM!" He shouted.
A small voice in his head whispered : "Have you?"
And deep inside, Stanley Jefferson knew.
He had fallen out of love.
Edit: Accidentally submitted prematurely.
| 2016-01-27T17:08:48 | 2016-01-27T12:15:24 | 36 | 20 |
[WP] Humans are successful partly because we're omnivores and this holds true on the galactic scale as well. In the future humans have quickly become feared throughout the Milky Way as our soldiers are ready to eat almost anything...or anyone. | What the fuck do you think you’re doing?
There was a slight hesitancy to his response: I’m uh, well I’m eating a carrot.
Holy mother of God that is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my entire goddamn life. I’ve been on the front lines of innumerable battles, and nothing has ever made my stomach churn like it did just this moment!
Once again, there was a slight hesitancy to his response: Well, uh, I mean, I’m pretty hungry and this field is full of carrots.
Yes we know this entire field is full of carrots, do you think this entire battalion is full of goddamn imbeciles? It’s just that no one in their right mind looked down at the ground and thought: huh well I’m gonna pull this sentient being, with its long cultural heritage. With its family, its life ahead of it, and take a bite out of its goddamn head!
There was a long pause: Uh, well I mean, hmm. I didn’t know that. I mean on Earth they’re just vegetables.
Of course they’re just vegetables! But that doesn’t mean they don’t fall under the Intergalactic Conventions for Wartime Conduct. They have struggled long enough getting their name out of the gutter, we can’t just go around chomping off their heads! We can’t afford new enemies at this point!
He looked at the ground with equal parts remorse and incredulity. Dropping the corpse of the recently decapitated community leader, the orange bodied, Vitamin A Certified father of three. A pause so long that this time he was interrupted before he could get a word out.
Alright boys, let’s leave this sick fuck behind to dwell on his war crimes. We’re off for some good ol’ wholesome rape and pillaging! C’mon!
| The Mordobans just eat cellulose, the Fercaptans can only absorb aerosolized glucose, and the Gree Nation need to be fed sunlight and water through a tube.
You know what *we* eat?
*Everything.*
That’s why we’re the 12th Galactic Dining Corps.
That’s why they call us feasting devils and why we call them small fry: nothing’s really scary when it’s food.
Mostly, we’re used for psychological warfare.
“Load me up with another canister!”
My ammo-bitch hops up on his one leg and sticks another barrel of fuel in the guts of my gun. Fuckin' meat mules. They were slow as Mordo blood: *sludge* slow.
“*Burn*, baby!” My ‘thrower vomits flame and I think back to elementary school lessons on spiders covering their prey and shooting them full of venom, melting their insides into meat-soup.
I get to do the same thing. Except I melt their insides *and* outsides. I get to cook my food, right there on the battlefield.
One Gree, two Gree, three Gree, four—they get swallowed by the fire and fall blackened and seared. The Gree are these delightful round creatures, pretty adapted to microgravity but *really* shitty anywhere with gees upwards of 0.3.
The Engineer Corps. worked a bit of magic: they attached rockets to their vessel and spun it up, giving them a kind of artificial gravity because of the, uh. Centrifugal force? Anyway. Point is: it was like shooting fish in a barrel.
“Dinner is *served*!”
My company rushed forward with fight-knives and kill-forks, ripping off chunks with a kind of violence and savagery you’d expect from a starved bear.
Which is what we are, I suppose.
This is the first alien ship we’ve encountered in *months*.
“Make sure to bag some for the people back home, men!”
I knock down more doors, see more Gree cowering around the corner. My fuel-barrel still has enough gas to torch their screams into charred silence.
The ship technically isn’t a combatant vessel, sure.
But after what we did to Earth…
Well. You know what I’m going to say.
A species has to eat, right?
***
###/r/NaimKabir | 2016-02-02T07:34:08 | 2016-02-02T06:34:49 | 189 | 69 |
[WP] The newly elected president of the USA makes a surprise announcement: he/she will not make a single decision while in office, and instead unveils a new smartphone app that will allow citizens to decide everything.
Potential issues that could be addressed (feel free to ignore if you like) :
The app could be a simple voting system... or it could work any way you think is interesting.
Are resources given to help people decide what decision to make?
Do people actually bother to become informed before weighing in?
What happens when the decision involves classified information?
How does the president deal with any disagreements he has with the decisions people make for him?
Edit for clarification: the app only allows people to decide things that would normally be decided by the president. Every time the president is faced with a decision, people get to decide for him. | "Excuse me Mr. President but Congress has decided to put some territory together to make a new state and a name needs to be chosen for it."
"Put it on the app to see what the people think it should be."
----4 hours later----
"Sir, the population has put up a list of names that they think would best fit the state and some are... peculiar."
"Like what?"
"Well, the top two votes are 'Hitler did nothing wrong' and 'Statey McStateface'. Although these are ridiculous many people are arguing that according to your promise you should abide by their decision."
"Oh god what have I done? I guess I pass the legislation for the new state of Statey McStateface..."
| “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter". (Winston Churchill)
The president of the greatest country in the world looks out an impeccable window and knows that he will be dead within four years. His old tired face is reflected back to him and a single tear glides down his ache scared facial features and mixes with heavily applied makeup. He stands as one of the most powerful men in the world but recognizes that the test results show his time on this earth is limited.
This understanding has led to his once proud ethical ideals become stripped away as rage at his own mortally unleashes itself within his mind. This rage started out hot but has slowly died down to a more cold logical emotion. He the president, will provide his citizens with true democracy for the first time in any nation’s history. A smartphone app has been created that will allow americans to decide everything including if he should use his executive powers.
He knows that most people know nothing about politics and this app will ruin his great country but he simply doesn’t care anymore. He will wait and watch as his country breaks downs while his body does the same. His name is Donald Trump and he will bring true democracy to his nation.
This is my first story, any advice would be appreciated. | 2016-06-25T19:30:15 | 2016-06-25T18:09:10 | 69 | 16 |
[WP] You have the ability to steal wishes from a wishing well by taking the coins a person drops in. However, you can't know what the wish is before you decide to take it
For example: if someone wishes that that John smith fell in love with them and you decide to take the wish, then John Smith will fall in love with you | "That's someone else's wishes
I've heard that from my favorite childhood movie The Goonies but I didn't believe it. I didn't believe you could actually steal someone else's wish. Of course I didn't. I'm an adult. I pay a mortgage, been married thirty years. My kids are adults. So of course I didn't believe it.
I was late for a meeting and didn't have enough change to feed the meter. There was a fountain right there. It seemed fortuitous. So I grabbed a shiny quarter from the fountain for the meter.
A bag lady broke out from her daze when she saw what I had done.
"That's someone else's wish."
I laughed. I thought she was joking. How was I supposed to know?
My son was getting married that summer. I was in my own head about my new book and his wedding was, I confess the last thing on my mind. So I didn't notice how distant his bride-to-be was getting. She didn't marry him. She left without telling him on their wedding day. She never gave a reason and it was years before she would send my son a letter and apologize.
It took my son a long time to recuperate. I took him out for lunch a month after his non-wedding. He was finally ready to talk. I've never been a feeler but he cried and I cried with him. He said to me
"Dad, I wished for her, you know. Right over there in that fountain. I wished that she would be given the ability to see all that was good in me and be able to sympathize with all that is not. But towards the end I couldn't do anything right."
I didn't tell him that I had taken a quarter from that fountain.
I didn't tell him that I had paid for parking with it.
I didn't tell him that I had stolen his wish
...that the day of his wedding his bride to be asked me to zip her up in the bathroom
...that she handed me her panties and hiked up her wedding dress
...that I considered it.
...that I ran from her proposition like a scared child and threw up in the bushes outside of the church
...that everyone thought I was drinking and I let them.
I didn't tell him any of that. I just gave him a quarter and said
"Wish again." | My wife says the vacation has been horrible. She was sun burnt, the kids had been hanging off of her cherry red skin for two days now, they hated the sand, they wanted mom to hold them. Fine.
Back to the hotel they went, on the beach I stayed. Which was more than okay. I needed some time. Dad needed some time alone to sift through his pockets and figure out what the hell was going on. I sat down on our sandy beach towel and sank my hand into my trunks. I could hear the change jingling.
The last thing I remember, before ending up smack dab in the middle of a family vacation with people I've never met, was sitting at the wishing well outside Fiesta Mall, eating Panda Express. Why people still threw change in the thing was beyond me, since there hadn't been water in it for years. The plaster was cracking, fiercely fading through summers of the Arizona sun, from Terracotta to cracked concrete.
I picked a quarter up from the empty well, and gave it a quick flip. It came down heads first into my palm, and before I could close my Panda box, a thick sheet of white grain began to pour from the sky. It was falling everywhere, covering my clothes, falling into my bun, filling the empty well, laying as a blanket on the asphalt of the parking lot. Some people ran to their cars, some ran from them and into the mall. I stayed sitting at the well, staring in disbelief.
Slowly, through the quiet chaos of those around realizing whatever was raining down on us was not dangerous, I sloshed my finger into the now syrupy lo mien I had been eating. I put my finger to my mouth.
Sugar. It was sugar.
In my astonishment, I put the coin I had flipped in my pocket, and began sifting through the well full of sugar. I picked up pennies, dimes, quarters. Hell, I'm pretty sure I even picked up a few pieces of promising gravel. This was unbelievable. With a pocket full of change, I abandoned my sugary lunch and started for my car. Once comfortably seated, I began flipping the coins, one by one. My hair grew six inches, immediately. My eyelashes got thicker, my feet shrank. Outside my car, the weather went from an oven on broil to Washington in the spring. The sun got brighter, there were stars in the sky, in the middle of the day. And they were beautiful.
I kept flipping coins.
And now I am here, somehow a chiseled, devoted husband, and loving father to a small army of children, vacationing somewhere very far from Fiesta Mall.
I am living someone's wish. I am handsome, affluent and I am successful in both marriage and family.
But I did not wish for this. | 2016-08-02T14:09:43 | 2016-08-02T12:08:33 | 48 | 12 |
[WP] After years of "my old friend," the Darkness is tired of being friendzoned. | The Darkness is on his laptop, lurking in the wee hours of the night. He is thousands upon thousands of years old - an ancient being with ashes in his veins instead of blood, but he feels an emotion that is almost TOO human for his kind: loneliness.
He opens up internet explorer on his 2009 Dell desktop, the kindest gift Daddy Satan has ever thought to grace him with, and stares blankly at his OkCupid profile.
1 message.
Brittany Lawson: "Hey!! lol, a bit early for Halloween costumes isn't it?"
End of message.
"For fucks sake," he says, darkly.
He goes to edit his dating description box, which simply states "the absence of light," and plays with the idea of putting something more meaningful. Anything to attract a distraction, for the woman he set his sights upon had made it clear that he was nothing but a friend.
DING!
A text appears.
"Hello darkness, my old friend.... "
"I love you," he sobs.
But she will never know.
-
John 1:5
The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.
| Darkness chased his love since the dawn of time. He chased and she ran. That was how it always was. He knew she was there, but they were never together. Without her, there would be no him. Opposites attract.
Chasing was tiresome. Millennia took its toll. Darkness longed for something more. Something real. So he searched about the lands, looking for one that wouldn’t flee from him. Most feared him, using fire and electricity to banish him. Until one day, he found her.
She was named Lux. At first their time together was brief. Only slivers of moments each day. Darkness learned she too feared the fires. She found comfort in his presence, and Darkness solace in hers. So darkness brooded and toiled for a solution.
It was a simple plan, but not one without risk. Perhaps she would be his, but perhaps she would be lost forever.
**Drink the tonic and close your eyes**
Lux read the note and inspected the vial. It was filled with opaque blackness. Nothing else could have left it for her. The sunlight shone down, taunting her. Somewhere outside a fire cracked and rattled. The crepitation offended her ears, driving a deep panic into her. No more, she thought. Lux drank from the bottle, ingesting every last drop of ichor.
The sounds faded away, as did the anxiety. Lux basked in the serenity. No more would she be disturbed. She opened her eyes and there he was, Darkness all around her.
| 2016-10-06T06:53:10 | 2016-10-06T06:35:23 | 191 | 84 |
[WP] Write a story that only has a good ending if the protagonist fails. | 10 questions down... 10 more to go, piece of cake. It's not my fault advanced calculus comes easy to me. I could feel the ugly stares from everyone in the classroom, piercing the back of my neck, silently begging me to intentionally shave some points on this test. The last mid-term I got a 95% and set the upper limit of the curve when the next highest score was a 45%. They were all pissed and received near failing grades, if I want to get invited to any parties my senior year, I have to shave some points so everyone doesn't hate me. Well... If I answer half of the next question, a 55% should safely keep me at the top of the class while getting everyone else good grades right? Will this make people like me more? | He's dead. He's dead. Iqbal is dead. It's just me now.
I reload my 45 cal. Last mag.
Iqbal was shot by a dirty American pig. I avenged him. However, he's still dead. Along with everyone else.
It's up to me now.
I lift the vest off of his cold, dead body. He was killed by a high-caliber bullet to the face. It's messy.
I strap it on. It's already armed. That's good. I forgot how to do it.
I run to cover. It's my time to do it. My turn to be a hero.
I leap out of my cover, and sprint as fast as possible to to the trio of Americans in the fox hole ahead of me.
It's a 100m run.
I pull the detonator out of my pocket. I close my eyes, envisioning the wonders of the afterlife.
Fame? Wealth? Women? Seeing my Father again? It's too good to be true.
I open my eyes. The soldiers didn't see me coming.
I try to let out the holy words, but I can't. I just let out a scream, of all sorts of emotions, as I press the button. | 2016-12-28T22:19:46 | 2016-12-28T18:13:52 | 65 | 36 |
[WP] aliens invade earth but what the don't realise is that humans have been fighting each other forever and have become very good at it. | "Sir, there is no better a time to attack Sol-3. According to our probes, the local sapient race is currently experiencing an internal conflict."
Admiral Lubbud smiled. "Those are so extremely rare. How lucky we are to come at this time."
His assistant understood what he meant. "How many ships will we require?"
"For such a primitive race, in the middle of chaos? We'll only require half the First Onaresian Fleet."
And so the assistant delivered the order to the communications experts, which then gathered the fleet. Then, they all stayed, facing the world they were about to occupy. They were going to strike three locations: An economically developed union, according to the messages these apes were broadcasting into space, a feudal empire in the bigger landmass, and what carbon sensors identified as the main industrial manufacturer of the race. The admiral was pleased: this race should be easy to conquer and their resources should be plentiful. They discovered radio communication, as proven by their noisy use of it, but they should have no way of seeing them.
"Lieutenant Maryt, issue the command for the ships to land in the designated areas." The admiral said.
"Understood."
The admiral then turned on the broadcasting system. He picked up the microphone, and spoke to the entire fleet.
"Soldiers, that planet over there is Sol-3, a beautiful planet full of resources. There is a plague on it, however. That plague calls itself humanity. It believes itself to be the apex race of the galaxy. What is our duty?"
**"PROVE THEM WRONG!"** Echoed the soldiers.
"Correct. Now, prepare for the most bloodless conquest in the history of our great intergalactic empire."
Lubbud looked out of the ship's window, pleased with himself. He saw the three ships approach their required points on the planet, the one which will soon belong to his empire. He saw them approach, and then, he saw three bright orange sparked-sized lights.
He looked at the feed. No contact.
"Sir, they've taken our attacking force out."
The admiral understood this, clear as day. He promised his soldiers a bloodless victory, and now they all know that he lied. He lied about the bloodless victory, but he can still do one thing: Make the victory a reality.
"We underestimated them. We must do a full-force attack on their miserable civilization."
And so the full fleet was charging at the planet. They would wipe this planet clean, and let the planet be ripe for settlement. He knew it. He knew that they could have had the firepower for three ships, but they would never have the firepower for one thousand ships, all heading towards their vital points.
They went into orbit. They saw the clouds. Then, they penetrated those, and they saw it. Human civilization. It was strangely... beautiful. That beauty won't stay in their empire.
"Perfect. Land in the cities, and deploy troops."
"Sir, incoming projectiles."
"Must be they actually have a guided missile or two. Ignore them, they can't damage our hull."
"Sir, these missiles are different. They are emitting gamma radiation!"
The missiles were flying towards them.
"Shoot them down!"
"Unders---"
They were hit by an invisible wave of force. All lights on the ship went down.
"Sir it was an honor serving with you."
The admiral did not hear this. He just committed his final sins: he sent half a fleet to its death, and failed all his men. But the worst thing was not that. His race once tried to make these atomic missiles. Later, they became unified, and all reason to create them was gone. All other civilizations were primitive and easy to conquer, but not this one. This race was addicted to war: So much so that they have such a huge arsenal of atomic missiles, enough to decimate his homeworld. They were forced to stay on this planet, not able to spread their reign of destruction elsewhere. But he made one mistake.
He brought them just what they needed to get off-planet.
-------------------------------------------------
*Thank you for reading, feedback is very much appreciated. What I wrote is a bit clunky, and I apologize for that.*
| Nadiran looked down at the planet that was home to seven billion lunatics. The continent they called South America was gone; cleanly excised from existence; bulldozed, leveled, sunk; washed over now by the mingled waters of the oceans it had once divided. On another landmass, the city of Shanghai was on fire - from Nadiran’s vantage, it looked like a great white geysering puff had sprung up from the surface - the upper layer of smoke obscuring the black and red inferno that ravened underneath.
“Should we put it out? It’s spitting pollutants like no tomorrow. Cleanup will be so much harder if we leave it all until the end.” Nadiran looked at his partner, scratching his eyelid with a tentacle. It twitched whenever he was stressed, and then the twitching turned into itching, and by the time this was all over, his eyelashes would flake for months - he just knew it.
“We might as well,” said Traxin. “It doesn’t seem to have discouraged them.” He tapped two glowing icons on the panel before him, and the six Russian missiles that had been launched towards their ship popped into nonbeing. “I mean, they keep flinging these toys at us. It’s completely illogical; they’ve shot more than three hundred of these things our way, and not one of them has hit. Why do they keep trying?”
“This species is crazy.” Nadiran applied some balm to his eyelid - miserably attempting to soothe at least the swelling. They were stumped. One would have thought that the vaporization of an entire continent would have triggered a surrender, but it hadn’t. That was why headquarters had suggested immolating a major city instead. Perhaps the vaporization had been too quick, too sterile. Flames were much more dramatic - it would give their news channels some terrible images to broadcast, with lots of screaming and running. Surely that would make the point.
It was becoming clear that it had not.
“Try another message,” said Traxin. He *plipplipplipped* at a few switches, then pulled up the mouthpiece and angled it towards Nadiran. “Go on. You’ve got better delivery than me.”
“*Humans,*” said Nadiran, leaning into the device, “*Resistance is futile.* How is this not obvious? You have a zero percent chance of stopping us. Would you all just settle down? Domesticated life as free-range livestock is really not that bad. We at Intergalactic Meats take very good care of our animals, and pride ourselves for our ethical methods of slaughter. Moreover, as a cruelty-free operation, you would all live until twenty two. The thought of baby meat is distasteful, really - I have no idea how you lot stomach veal and lamb. That is so cruel.”
Three more missiles came zooming their way. Traxin removed them. “By the spare ribs of the Roast God - these creatures are completely addled. Remind me why we can’t just wipe the current herd, and raise a new one from scratch?”
“We don’t do GMO, Traxin. We do organic meats. We do chemical free, natural feed, and plenty of comfort and freedom - happy meat is tasty meat, remember?”
“Well, if they keep to their hysterics, we’ll end up with a decimated headcount anyway. Conditions are pretty appalling down there. Have you seen how they live? Setting aside the air and the water, some of them basically live in battery farms of their own construction. They should be thanking us - we’d be making exponential improvements to their quality of life.”
“I think there’s some part of them that enjoys being hunted down. They do it to each other all the time. It's really quite incredi - *wait a minute*.” Tentacles now palpating with rainbow hues, Nadiran slapped the floor in rhythmic patterns as a solution took shape in his mind. Then, he pinged a message to HQ.
“*Livestock eminently unsuitable for domestication - however, have great potential as wild game animals. Suggest remarketing of Earthian meat as such; also, wonderful commercial opportunity to offer thrilling safaris to clients.*”
The reply came quickly. “*Initiate one more domestication protocol; if ineffective, we will proceed as per your suggestion.*”
“Brilliant,” said Traxin, grinning at Nadiran with all nine rings of teeth in his maw. “We’ll get a nice bonus for this one.”
He flicked a light, and Australia exploded. | 2017-01-13T09:50:02 | 2017-01-13T09:17:29 | 52 | 13 |
[WP] After first contact, mankind and another civilization agree on a exchange program where you went to their planet spend a year there. When they bring you back, there is nothing where earth used to be. | “A freeway?” I say.
“Yes,” replies the three-headed serpentine receptionist. The name *Ooooxo* is printed on its name tag. “The Intergalactic G-42, to be exact.”
“I don’t bloody care which freeway it is!” I shout. “I can’t believe you *decimated* my entire solar system just so that your people can *la dee da* to the edge of the universe more quickly for your… vacations or god knows what.” I pace around the giant crystal lobby, my heart pounding, furious. “And don’t you already have Faster Than Light travel? Why do you need another freeway, to shave ten goddamn minutes off your daily commute?”
“Actually, only five minutes,” Ooooxo mutters under its breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Argh!” I slam the table. “I want to make a formal complaint!”
“Sure, the Complaints Department is over there,” Ooooxo points to a counter beside the entrance. Before the counter is a line of aliens of every shape, size and color, stretching to the far end of the giant lobby before looping back to the entrance. “Would you like to take a number?”
“What’s the waiting time?”
“Let me see. Fourty-five...” Ooooxo checks her floating computer. “...hundred years. Give or take.”
“That’s fifty times the average human lifespan!”
Ooooxo rolls all six of her eyes. “That’s not my problem, is it?”
“Oh my god,” I can’t believe this is happening. “Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, *curved* your highway around my planet?”
“Obviously not. Our commuters are broken down to fundamental particles before being shot by a ray gun across the universe, so they can only be straight,” she observes my clothing choices, before adding, “Something you’re not very good at, apparently.”
“Hey! I am a proud bisexual human male!”
“Whatever. Here, take this,” Ooooxo slides a pamphlet across the table. Printed on the front is a picture of a distraught, centaur-like alien crying while eating an entire cake, and large, block letters: *My planet was destroyed in an intergalactic construction project!*
And, below that, in smaller letters: *Top 10 bakeries for the newly planetless.*
In a fit of anger, I take the pamphlet and attempt to tear it apart. I can’t, because it’s made of fucking carbon fiber. Instead, I crumple it up and toss it at Ooooxo’s face, but it lands short, because of the hyper-gravity on this planet. Embarrassingly short. Like, the pamphlet barely covered any distance at all. It's humiliating, to be honest.
As I storm away from the receptionist, I think to myself, *well, at least my exes are all dead.*
| "It's been wonderful having you," my host mother said. I called her Ma. I'd managed to learn the basics of Alpha Centaurian, but I'd never got my tongue around the all the vowel-less syllables in her name.
"You must be looking forwards to having your daughter back though," I said.
Ma nodded. "Of course. I've missed R- very much. But it's been great to have you. To think, a year ago our civilizations were on the brink of warfare, but now everyone here thinks humans are simply wonderful."
Pa came in. I couldn't say his name either. In fact, I hadn't really managed anyone's names. But they'd all been very nice about it.
"I've got your spaceship ready," he said. "Are you sure you'll manage the journey by yourself? You've never done such a long hop before."
"Yes, thanks," I said. "You've done a great job of teaching me how the warp drive technology works. I should be just fine."
They saw me off with great fanfare. The event was televised planet-wide, and I found out much later that nearly 3 billion Alpha Centaurians had watched my departure.
As it turned out, however, the voyage did not go 'just fine'.
I popped out of hyperspace in the middle of my own solar system, half way between Mars and Earth. Or rather, where Earth should have been.
In the distance beyond was Venus, but in the spot formerly occupied by Earth was a large wall floating in space.
There was one small door in the wall. As I tentatively approached it, a large cannon emerged from a port hole and trained on my ship. It was laughably primitive technology, and probably wouldn't have been able to hit the Centaurian ship even if I'd come to a dead halt, but it was worrying none the less.
"Halt and identify yourself." The angry voice came over the ship's loudhailer. It was the first English I'd heard in a year.
"Bob Jones," I said. "Returning from Alpha Centauri."
"Who?"
"Bob Jones," I repeated. Had they forgotten me that quickly? "I was the exchange student sent as part of the peace treaty. An Alpha Centaurian, R-, stayed here with my family."
"Oh," the voice said. "Her."
There was a long static-filled pause, and then the voice returned. "Prepare to be boarded for inspection."
"What-" I began, but the hull of my ship shook and I heard the side door open.
A man came into the pilot room. He wore a uniform that said Alien Registration and Security Enforcement. I was unfamiliar with the name, but I was pretty certain about two other things. He looked human and he definitely had a gun.
"Come with me, Alpha Centaurian" he said, waggling the gun.
"I'm not-" but he waggled more threateningly, and I stopped protesting.
They transported me to the door in their own ship, and frog marched me down a series of bleak concrete corridors, finally depositing me into a small room. It was empty apart from two chairs, one on each side of a scratched and dented table. I sat down in one of the chairs.
On the wall of room, somebody had graffitied the letters "M.~~A~~E.G.A." | 2017-04-11T09:32:15 | 2017-04-11T09:28:31 | 52 | 10 |
[WP] The superhero stared at the supervillain. "I need your help...they have my daughter." | "You fucking serious?" The super-villain asked in complete disbelief.
"Yeah." The superhero replied.
"Again?" he super-villain asked, more pissed than anything.
"Yup." The superhero replied, clearly embarrassed.
"'ow many times 'as it been now?" The super-villain asked, now just worried about the child.
"I don't know. Like...seven or eight?" The superhero replies.
"You need to take better care of your kid."
"Look, I know! I'm a shit father but I'm trying! Raising a kid and saving the world at the same fucking time isn't easy you know!"
"Yeah, and I guess breakin' the world and raisin' a kid ain' no problem"
"OK fine. You have a point. *sigh* You know I wouldn't be here unless I really needed your help."
"Who's got her?"
"I think you know."
"Fuck. Get in the car. You're lucky I'm robbing the bank tomorrow."
The superhero gives the super-villain a look, not a nasty disgusted look but rather a concerned one, as if to say "Really? Why?"
The super-villain looks from the road to the superhero and back to the road again a few times before settling back on the road. "What? I need the money. My kid's birthday's comin' up next week and I gotta get a new keyboard for the computer."
"How much?"
"Like, two hundred dollas."
"And you're gonna rob a bank for that?"
"The extra funds would go to charity...for suffering villains."
The superhero shakes his head and reaches for his wallet. "You know you can just ask right?" He says as he pulls out $200 in cash.
"I'm not taking your money. I have principles."
The superhero rolls his eyes. "Come on. Just take it. You know as well as I do that after tonight you're not gonna get shit done tomorrow."
"Fuck you." The super-villain says as he takes the money. | The supervillian shifted from his fighting stance back to his normal stance, slowly but gradually. "Whatever do you mean?"
The superhero floated down towards the ground, now 8 yards away from his nemesis. They lock eyes.
"My daughter's life is in jeopardy. I...I need your power!"
The superhero shed a tear of healing which, when it hit the ground, created a bed of flowers (which stood out from the cracked streets and buildings surrounding the villain, who was responsible for the damage but will never take responsibility for it).
Everything became silent, for a mere two seconds.
"This war, this city, this violent world...; I spent all my life seeking vengeance, for my parents were brutally murdered at the hands of you. Yet, everyone praises you like a God. And you prided yourself on that distorted opinion, and now you suffer the consequences. They, indeed, have your daughter. They believe that she could be of great use to the world, that her DNA can combat the most powerful of diseases.
It's pathetic, actually. The very people who praised you were fooling you from the beginning. That is the flaw of humanity - when something like you can come about and extend their lives an extra day without effort, they become lazy and more careless. They continue to praise you, they continue to use you until you accidentally speak out against them, or accidentally murder their leaders. Who, then, is the super-villain? Am I, a mere fool enlightened by the simple truth - that humanity needs to pay for its corruption - or the one that humanity labels the hero (the same one who murdered both my parents because they were falsely accused of assassination)?"
The hero bowed to his knees.
"Please help me," said he, who was now overwhelmed with tears. Plagued with the thought of what he has done to create his nemesis, he only managed to choke out, "I'll...I'll do anything..."
"Coming here was more than enough," said the villain, who took out his trap box, imprisoning the hero inside a miniature cell made out of his weakness."
"No, don't do this!" cried the hero, literally.
"The human race will have to find another God to bow to."
These were the final words the hero heard before he was murdered by the super villain's deadliest move - "Ultimate Annihilation."
....
....
"Alright class, put up your toys. School's over!" remarked Ms. Buford. James Red and Kyle Forte put up their toys and headed for the exit.
"Kyle?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to be the hero anymore ;/"
| 2017-12-17T10:06:50 | 2017-12-17T09:15:30 | 577 | 26 |
[WP] The superhero stared at the supervillain. "I need your help...they have my daughter." | “I need your help… they have my daughter.”
The thing in the cell chuckled, looming over the man in the mask as it growled out its reply:
“Why would I help you? I would do the same if I wasn’t in here.”
Its body was covered in patches of fur and scaled, face disfigured into something like a snout, teeth elongated, sharpened and muscle bulged beneath the hide all over its body. Even though the bars holding it in were reinforced, The Beast could bend them with ease. It had before. It would again. But not yet; it had just been caught by the man in the mask, and the rules were clear.
“Just out of curiosity, what have they done with her? Strapped her to a giant wolf? Put her in the talons of an enormous eagle that flies around the city? Or something a little more oldschool, put her on a train rigged with explosives? Tied her to the tallest building in the city?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You have to know, those are the rules. Who is it anyway? The Mechanic? Ichabod? The Shadow Crew?”
“They won’t tell me who they are or where she is. They just call anonymously and demand money or say they will shoot her. I was able to catch some of them yesterday. They don’t wear masks, they don’t have identities, and they use guns! And they actually shoot people! They kill them! They killed four police officers breaking their friends out of jail, the day after I put them in!”
The man in the mask was in a full panic for the first time since The Beast had met him.
The Beast began pacing back and forth in his cell, muttering to himself, “This isn’t right, this ignores all the rules! How can they do this? Breaking out so quickly…and asking for money. Alright, I’ll help you. This city deserves proper villains, not…THIS!”
| The supervillian shifted from his fighting stance back to his normal stance, slowly but gradually. "Whatever do you mean?"
The superhero floated down towards the ground, now 8 yards away from his nemesis. They lock eyes.
"My daughter's life is in jeopardy. I...I need your power!"
The superhero shed a tear of healing which, when it hit the ground, created a bed of flowers (which stood out from the cracked streets and buildings surrounding the villain, who was responsible for the damage but will never take responsibility for it).
Everything became silent, for a mere two seconds.
"This war, this city, this violent world...; I spent all my life seeking vengeance, for my parents were brutally murdered at the hands of you. Yet, everyone praises you like a God. And you prided yourself on that distorted opinion, and now you suffer the consequences. They, indeed, have your daughter. They believe that she could be of great use to the world, that her DNA can combat the most powerful of diseases.
It's pathetic, actually. The very people who praised you were fooling you from the beginning. That is the flaw of humanity - when something like you can come about and extend their lives an extra day without effort, they become lazy and more careless. They continue to praise you, they continue to use you until you accidentally speak out against them, or accidentally murder their leaders. Who, then, is the super-villain? Am I, a mere fool enlightened by the simple truth - that humanity needs to pay for its corruption - or the one that humanity labels the hero (the same one who murdered both my parents because they were falsely accused of assassination)?"
The hero bowed to his knees.
"Please help me," said he, who was now overwhelmed with tears. Plagued with the thought of what he has done to create his nemesis, he only managed to choke out, "I'll...I'll do anything..."
"Coming here was more than enough," said the villain, who took out his trap box, imprisoning the hero inside a miniature cell made out of his weakness."
"No, don't do this!" cried the hero, literally.
"The human race will have to find another God to bow to."
These were the final words the hero heard before he was murdered by the super villain's deadliest move - "Ultimate Annihilation."
....
....
"Alright class, put up your toys. School's over!" remarked Ms. Buford. James Red and Kyle Forte put up their toys and headed for the exit.
"Kyle?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to be the hero anymore ;/"
| 2017-12-17T12:18:41 | 2017-12-17T09:15:30 | 69 | 26 |
[WP] You are tearing down an old abandoned home. In the attic, you find an old radio with a microphone attached. You plug it in. FDR says that the United States has been attacked by the Empire of Japan. You say, "hello?" FDR pauses mid-speech, and responds surprisingly, "Hello? Who is that?" | I froze, dead in my tracks, as FDR questioned further. "Hello? If this is a prank, then you have picked a bad time to joke around." I responded, slowly, "Um, my name is John, and, uh, I don't know how I'm talking to you. It's 2018." I should've articulated my thoughts more, as FDR responded "Stop messing with me young man, this is a serious broadcast." "Listen, you're gonna die in 1945 of, uh hold on," I said as I googled how FDR died. "Is that a threat?" questioned the long dead president, as the signal finally picked up. "Intracerebral hemorrhage. That's how you'll die in 1945. Please, get that treated as soon as possible."
There was silence, for a while, before FDR spoke quietly "OK, I will consider your plea. Anything else from the future I need to know?" My mind scrambled as I tried to think of what to say. How can I stop Vietnam, Korea, 9/11, or any of that by talking with FDR? Would they even believe me? At this point, there is no Twin Towers or Cold War, how do I explain that. Words stumbled out of my mouth "The Japanese, they're beaten, Germany too, they're all beaten, and the Soviets, they'll start making weapons unlike anything ever before, us too."
It wasn't long before I started saying random phrases, "MLK, JFK, Charlie don't surf, the Berlin Wall, please don't let it all go down like it did." "What in heavens name are you talking about, John. Please slow down," urged FDR. Then I told him the message that would change history, the words I regret to this day. "Don't develop the atom bomb."
At that moment, the old, dusty house I was in collapsed beneath me, yet left no trace. I looked around at a new surrounding, a barren, desolate surrounding. 2 figures were visible in the distance as they slowly approached me. "What happened to the house? Where's the house?" I questioned hastily, anxious for answers. "There hasn't been any civilization here since the Nazis nuked the place," replied the woman to the left, as if it was matter of fact. I was only trying to prevent a Cold War. In the process, a Hot War started. | "Hello... can you hear me? Is anyone on the line? If by some chance you are hearing this, for the love of whatever god has forsaken us- listen to my story...
My name is Adolf Elektriker, but I was born John Landers. The year is 2057, and I am 76 years old. If you passed me on the street, you would take me for a crazy bum, but I am the man who destroyed the world.
I don't have long- if they hear me speaking like this I will be shot. I know this sounds crazy, but this is radio 8,472 I have tried, and I will keep trying until I die. If it happened once, it can happen again.
Listen- if you are living in a time prior to or are somehow able to return to January 1st, 2000, you can save the world. Go to 1273 East 20th St. NYC. You will see an old apartment building with a brown sign out front. Get to the attic of that apartment by any means necessary. Arrive before midnight. You will see a radio on a table in the corner. I cannot take the risk that destroying the radio alone will stop what I have started. Wait for a young man to break in the window. Do not say anything to the man or the radio. Kill the man by any means necessary, and then destroy the radio. Whatever either of them says, do not listen.
I thought... I thought I could change things. I was a bad kid with a good heart and a passion for history that was crushed by a relentless drunk of a father who told me books were for queers. I thought I knew the words to say... I thought I could save so much suffering. How could I have known that..."
"HALT! Es ist er!"
"Uh.. Gutten Tag... I uh..."
*Loud banging... static... transmission ends*
The tired man settled back into his chair, slowly stroking a small patch of hair under his lip. He had almost listened to the recording of that transmission as many times as the old fool had tried to send it. Yes, there was another radio in the world that could receive a message like this. Experiment 849-A4: Schwarzes Loch Radio. A device that could in theory intercept transmissions from impossible places... or times. It didn't work particularly well, save for this one broadcast that made it through.
His suspicions were correct- even though it was a recording, changing history changed the contents. For the first time since hearing that crackly voice, he felt a peace. The 1000 year Reich would not be stopped by this one man. He now felt the confidence to deal with his next biggest threat- Stalin. | 2018-02-05T16:26:25 | 2018-02-05T16:22:49 | 45 | 23 |
[WP] “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do Mr Bond. I’m going to stick you in a spacesuit with a radio, and strap you into one of my cars. Then, while mankind watches, I’ll launch you into space. The last thing you’ll hear before leaving this earth forever, will be their applause.” | And then that happened.
Yes.
Exactly that.
Finally, a Bond villain worth his salt!
And the applause rocked the globe, for all of humanity - save for a pair of twin Buddhist monks - had by then finally come to their senses about Mr. Bond, and his regurgitated clipshows of ridiculous sex, gadgets, and over the top action. The last reboot had died out.
And Mr. Bond was ejected from Earth by rocket-car, a pathetic blast of gas propelling it beyond orbit like so much flatulence, starbound eternal from the ass of our world.
Post-haste!
James fiddled with the radio. Soon discovered it was one way. There was no switch. The battery seemed set to last *precisely* as long as 007 supposed his air would.
It was one way. Loud.
He died before they even finished clapping.
The celebrations lasted for days.
He had found way to end his life quickly. The same day he broke orbit.
An agent past his time.
A shame. If only Mr. Bond had discovered in life,
What we showed him in "death",
Upon finding his vehicle, and the corpse within, and the brain within that, floating past our suns.
Right beside him, within his range of motion, available the moment he was in the car -
It had been put into drive.
All he had to do was put it in reverse. | "not a great plan, Elon!" Bond exclaimed.
"yes, but I don't like getting blood on my hands. Plus this way, at least your skills would be put to a good use. And we even added a big parachute to the roadster just in case you make it to the Mars alive".
Elon has been waiting for this day for a long time. He knew plenty of agents were on his tail and the boring company made all of their suspicions rise.
But never in a thousand years he had thought he would actually get to meet real 007.
Musk, Bond and 3 of his henchmen walked in the hanger on 41st floor where the roadster was supposed to be loaded.
"2 minute and 30 seconds to launch" announced the countdown lady.
"strap him in nicely." Elon ordered as James kept struggling to get free.
As they brought out the tesla, Bond was forced to sit in the passenger seat. But he felt something in his hand as he sat down.
"Stay here and make sure he doesn't get out." Musk ordered as he was about to leave the hanger.
He teasingly said " Enjoy your ride 007. This just might turn out to be the ride of your lifetime".
"Not today" Bond smirked as he jumped out of his seat and punched Elon.
The other two henchmen didn't have time to react as one of them turned around and took them out too.
" Always good to see you 007" said the henchmen as Bond dragged Elon and threw him in the boot space.
"I had it under control!" Bond said.
"I'm sure you did." replied the henchman sarcastically while taking off his mask.
"Alright, what's the plan, Ethan?"
"Get in the Tesla, we're going for a ride". | 2018-02-06T21:27:26 | 2018-02-06T20:45:39 | 26 | 16 |
[WP] Everyone dies twice; the first time is when they pass away, and the second time is when they're forgotten. You're the True Reaper, and today, you've reaped someone who hasn't passed through your little brother, the Grim Reaper. | I thought I had seen it all. I've been been here ever since the first human died. I'm the older brother, sure, but most only know of my little brother, the Grim Reaper. Because those that come to me are erased from the time itself.
I've had to erase entire families, cities, hell, even entire civilizations. I've done it all in cold blood and with no emotion. And yet, that day I felt an emotion that I hadn't felt in a long time: fear.
I remember when I first stepped into that place. It was a large bunker near the North Pole, built during the Cold War. Like all of the corpses and ghosts of the people that I erased, no one knew about my target. They forgot about him or her.
I initially thought that I had missed someone over there. The first time my reaping instincts tingled over there, I cursed myself. I clearly remembered walking around on the concrete floor, reaping the dead who were killed in a nuclear blast when one of nukes was accidentally triggered. Who did I miss? I shrugged. It didn't matter anyway. I had a job to do.
The place that I had to go to was an old nuclear silo that was abandoned during the Cold War. No one knew of its existence, because it was so old that the arctic ice had frozen over its entrance, covering it up, and that all of the people who planned and worked on it were already reaped by me.
Getting in was easy. I teleported into one of the storage rooms, and next to the crumbling concrete walls found myself looking straight at a rusty metal door that I clearly remembered didn't exist there, on a standing part of the concrete wall that I *also* clearly remembered didn't exist there. At first I blamed my age, thinking that I probably started getting dementia. Then my curiosity got the better of my confusion and caution when the reaping sense told me to go straight through the door. I opened it with a gentle push.
A bright blue light and a human silhouette greeted me. A number of questions assaulted my mind as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the light. *Why was there light? Wasn't the entire silo's lighting destroyed by the nuclear explosion? Why was the person standing? Why is the person's arms stretched to the side, as if lounging on a couch? Why are there shadows of wires sticking ou-*
My eyes widened in disbelief as I looked at the horror in front of me. It wasn't a human at all I was looking at. Rather, it was *parts* of a human set on miniature platforms that held the pieces into the form of a human. Each of the body parts were cut open and splayed apart (in the case of the skull, sawed open to access the brain) to have wires and thin hoses of fluid sticking into the flesh and tissue. The torso was also cut open, the abs cut away to reveal each organ spliced with the same mix of wires and hoses interconnecting each other, held in place with spikes stabbed into them hooked onto the vertical platform holding it in place. In morbid curiosity I watched some of the wires crackling with electricity as the flesh constantly jumped and thrashed around as it was zapped. The head was even more gruesome, with a constant look of agony on the face, the eyes still in their sockets and the eyelids ripped away. The eyes turned to look at me, and I shuddered. It was still *alive* after all this time. The reaping sense screamed at me now to reap what I just saw. I understood why the reaping sense led me to it. After the explosion, after being forgotten, sustained by whatever machinery tortured it. I understood why my brother didn't reap its "life", if it could still be called living.
I looked it in the eyes, and whispered, "I'm sorry." Tears started to stream from both my face and the person's. "I'm sorry that even I forgot about you." I raised my reaping blade. "I'll make sure that you don't have to suffer ever again."
First story on r/writingprompts, criticism accepted! | ((This one kind of goes off topic, and is kinda weird in the way it fits the prompt. I'm sorry.))
Consider death.
The only constant in this life is death. All that is alive dies, eventually. Nothing is certain to gain life, but everything is certain to lose it.
Death is, in my opinion, the absence of life in a thing that was once alive. After the point of death, the one living subject decays, unless it is somehow preserved. When a sentient, sapient creature – a human, for example – dies, its sentience disappears. The consciousness ceases to be – all of the memories, the emotions and the constant thoughts are there and then they’re gone.
And yet, when a human dies, there are versions of her that survives. The ones in the memories of others, and the ones that can be interpreted from any work left behind by the person. Any impact made by the dead person on the surviving world continues to exist, despite the person’s death. That impact – however minor – is a continuation of the ended life. It is the only version of a person that still exists.
One can never truly know another. A single individual human is comprised by a life-time of memories, experience, emotion and thoughts. If there is a soul, these are all the things that make the soul. The only way to truly know all of the complexities of another would be to experience their life, in its entirety, through their eyes.
Because of this, there is no way for a person (a “soul” if you will) to persist after their body ceases to function. The only version of the person is the one that can be observed in their impact on others, but as no one can truly know a person’s entire being even as they are alive, this surviving version is still the one that existed prior to death – just modified by the observer’s knowledge that the individual is dead.
With this in mind, one can question what “death” really is. Physically, a person has died. The only two versions of them that are dead are the **physical body** and the **“true version”** of who they are. This true version, however, exited only within itself; in a consciousness that no longer exists. As such, beyond the body being dead, the only thing to vanish is something that didn’t exist from the perspective of the outside world.
If you were to die, the versions of you that everyone except you held persist, though they are inevitably altered by the knowledge of your death. In this way, you could argue that you – the ‘you’ that the observing world knew – is not dead. You are still a part of the live world capable of observing you, though you yourself can no longer observe the world, or continue to consciously affect it. The body and the “soul” are gone, but the person remains.
True death, then, comes only when a person is forgotten. When all of their achievements are discarded, forgotten or destroyed – and when nobody remembers them or anything they did – then they truly cease to be. Now the only existing version of a person is whatever is left of the physical body, in whatever state it is. If there is still a legible tombstone, that tombstone becomes the only thing the world can observe of who the person once was. Their entire identity becomes summed up in a tombstone, as well as any birth certificates, death certificates and other records that might exist, which detail inconsequential things in their life. An entire life of experience and knowledge summed up in a few words and numbers. More importantly, they are worthless with nobody that reads and remembers them.
While death is simply the cessation of the individual’s personal existence, this “true death” is very much the cessation of an individual from the perspective of the world. Only in a “true death,” when the person and what they’ve created are both forgotten does one fully cease to be, and this death is inevitable, much like the physical one.
No matter what you do or leave behind, there will inevitably come a point where all the evidence of your existence is entirely erased. No matter how well records are kept, they will ultimately be destroyed, even if it takes the death of the sun and destruction of the planet for them to end. The most well known people of history will ultimately fade into obscurity and, thus, cease to exist in any form, and nothing can be done to prevent this.
Now, *my question is* how the hell you’ve managed to *truly die* without, y’know, ***actually being DEAD.***
| 2018-05-12T16:52:04 | 2018-05-12T14:50:35 | 200 | 30 |
[WP] A man awakens in some kind of lab, with amnesia. A note says, "DON'T PANIC - YOU CONTAIN US ALL." | I slowly opened my eyes to the dim glow of dozens of lights surrounding the metal slab on which I lay. My body felt...wrong. I couldn't feel my limbs, I couldn't feel my...anything. Even my vision was a strange, rolling panorama, sweeping wide in a way I wasn't used to. My eyes focused on a scrap of fabric nearby, and the words painted on it. "DON'T PANIC \- YOU CONTAIN US ALL"
That tickled something in the back of my memory. I wanted to bring the banner closer, but I still couldn't move...and yet, as I had that thought, I heard a strange whirring sound, and a long, spindly metal arm entered my field of vision and brought the banner close to my eyes.
"ANALOG MESSAGE ON TEXTILE, 3 METERS WIDE BY 1 METER HIGH, .25 MM THICK." said the helpful text that overlaid my vision as I examined the note.
Wait...3 meters wide? It seemed to be only the size of a slice of bread, in my vision, how...oh. I remembered. The planetary evacuation. The colony ship...the need for a pilot interfaced directly with its navigational AI. I remembered the sacrifice I made, that I knew there was a good chance that even after we arrived at the distant exoplanet that I would be forever bound to the vast hulk of the USS Deliverer, that it and not my flesh and blood form would be the body that I died in.
But I also knew my duty: I contained *them all.* 800,000 souls, awaiting transport to their new home in cryogenic stasis. I would not fail them. With a thought, I sent the signals that caused the dome of the advanced spacecraft laboratory to part above me, and with another, I fired the thrusters that would carry the ship \-\- that is to say, me \-\- into the sky. | As I come to, I gasp for air, some sort of fluid flooding out around me. *How did I get here*, I wonder. My mind reaches back, trying to recall, and finds... nothing. I panic momentarily. *Where am I?* *Who am I?* *What is my name?*. As panic begins to set in, I spot a note which says: "DON'T PANIC - YOU CONTAIN US ALL". I stare at it, extremely puzzled. "Contain"? What in blazes does that mean. I grope my head, which feels normal.
An alarm blares to life. I look around and spot test tubes, vials, a strange furnace. I realize I am already dressed, in some sort of form-fitting armor. My back has some sort of storage unit attached to it, yet I do not feel burdened. I do not know which way to go, so I run forward.
A long-limbed creature bursts into the lab, its loping stride all to familiar to my blank brain. *"Them"*, a voice hisses into my brain. My body suddenly moves instinctively. Yes, I am a warrior. I have defeated these creatures before, in a thousand battles on a hundred worlds. I fly through the air, my momentum carrying my fist into its throat. As it clutches and gasps, my other palm rises to meet it's delicate stomach. The shockwave bursts its heart.
I see another of my kind, helplessly clutching at her stomach. I feel a pang of sorrow. I remember now, I was a doctor. I spent years helping those least fortunate among us. Miraculously, my pack contains medical units. Though half dead, she runs behind me, steel in her eyes. I gather a few survivors as I run through the halls.
As I gaze outwards, I recognize the halls of this place. Of course! I am a scientist. I have worked here for decades, since before our kind knew violence. I know the way out. We scramble for the surface.
As I see the red light of the sun, I remember again, who I was, most clearly of all. A proud leader, ashamed of his failure. A failure to protect. A failure to anticipate. A failure to lead. But now, I know my purpose.
I will escape The Forge. I will return to our armada, the perfect commander. And by the grace of A'ri, who watches from above, I will shatter the human menace once and for all. | 2018-06-10T00:18:52 | 2018-06-09T19:53:06 | 26 | 12 |
[WP]: Everyone got a tiny, mundane blessing when they were born. Usually they are so small that people don't even notice them - always hitting the green light in traffic, etc. Yours would be virtually useless, but you figured out a creative loophole that allowed you to rise to the top of the world. | Dear son,
I get a nickel every time I state a false fact. If I say ‘pigs can fly’, then I find a nickel. You could also say that I follow the phrase: ‘If I had a nickel every time I was wrong, I’d be a millionaire.’
Well, I’d later in life decide to take that phrase literally. After thoroughly thinking about that phrase in my late teens in a non-sarcastic way, I began my slow progression towards wealth by saying wrong answers to questions and state false facts whenever I could. Within a few years, I had thousands in the bank.
The next part, I have to thank my old personal finance teacher for teaching me about (you should pay attention in those classes too!). I put all those thousands into an account and kept it there. It would later grow more and more as years went by while I kept the habit of putting nickels inside of it from time to time.
I’m now in my early fifties and owner of a large company stationed in Los Angeles, although you’re going to be taking over the business. You’ve already begun following in my footsteps, what with your little perk being that you find a penny every time you’re right.
So, I write in this to end my reign as head of the company. My son, if you *do* read this, this is my advice to you: Don’t let your perk give you a big head. Just because you get money when you’re right, doesn’t mean you can always be right. Take a look at your old man. I get a nickel whenever I’m wrong. And even though I’ve been wrong most my life, being wrong brought this family where it is now. That’s key for the business. Realize that, and you’re good to go.
Good luck, Mr. President.
- Dad | My high school economics teacher had a saying; "Supply to the sky = demand to the land." For example, 80s baseball cards that virtually every middle aged man tried to sell at once in 2010 hoping to cash in on a high-value asset -turned into a litany of cards worth 5 cents when only a few collectors tried to buy.
Incidentally, I happen to have sole control of a very valuable asset.
When my sister told me her "blessing" was to turn any normal blanket into a zebra-print Snuggie, I had low expectations for my own "blessing." Initially, I was disappointed with my power too.
Being able to emanate peanut butter from your belly button is admittedly a grotesque ability. My mom made me promise that I would never tell anybody. I still haven't.
The thing is, this peanut butter is insanely delicious. Its texture is a bit smoother than the "original," but what makes it so special is the explosion of flavors contained within the aftertaste. Its chocolate-esque without tasting too sugary. Its fluffy but full of substance. I have never met a person who let this "special" peanut butter graze their lips without declaring it is the best taste in their life.
My first venture was too sell PB&Js to unsuspecting middle schoolers. On one hand, I spent a lot of time cramped into a bathroom stall with the smell of three-day-old pee seeping into my nostrils while I produced my product. On the other hand, I made $2,345 that semester alone.
Then, I sold it on Amazon. Sales started slowly but after a Guy Fieri endorsement my sales swiftly escalated me to a high rise apartment in Los Angeles.
Once I took it to an exclusive restaurant, I knew it was only a matter of time before I rose from a face lost in the crowd to a peanut butter mogul. Johnny Depp said Luke's PB-expérience sandwhiches were "tantalizingly delectable." Jennifer Aniston said something about how she could never take a break from the peanut butter brownies.
I saw my name pop up on twitter the other day with a few people mentioning I should run for governor. Hey, if a movie star could do it I'm sure a peanut putter tycoon could throw his hat in the ring.
Thanks for reading! Would appreciate some feedback! | 2018-06-30T13:45:34 | 2018-06-30T12:57:00 | 555 | 390 |
[WP]: Everyone got a tiny, mundane blessing when they were born. Usually they are so small that people don't even notice them - always hitting the green light in traffic, etc. Yours would be virtually useless, but you figured out a creative loophole that allowed you to rise to the top of the world. | On principle alone, my monochromatic office isn't white. I like color. Much to the chagrin of the analysts, I had it painted lilac. I have to be in it for hours (when I'm lucky), so I won that small debate. Otherwise it's simple. Eight paces over lavender tile, and a featureless pocketed door. One small screen with my question. No furniture. No distractions features. Don't usually sit down when I work. Makes them harder to spot.
Today it's a name I don't know. I don't get involved in the case details, of course. No field work for me. Not part of the brute squad either. Honestly, I don't even know what the agency wants with some of these names that pop up.
"Where is Greg Shubert?"
I have a system by now, lists memorized, but the touchscreen would give me access to all the agency's services if I needed. I won't for this, maybe a map, but I've long since memorized the geographics, demographics. If it weren't for my little gift, a computer might've been better suited to this work. It's not exciting.
"North America." I turn. There, down at my feet, easy money. I scoop down and pick the penny up. Repeat the question. "The United States." It always happens within a few seconds, so when I don't immediately spot another little copper disc, I say, "Mexico." There. I grab it. List States for a couple minutes--there are thirty-one of those so it can take a maximum of eight minutes before I hit it.
From there, I continue to break it down, picking up a penny each time I'm right. Sector, city, street, address--that part I need the computer for, but really, it's been a piece of cake, under an hour.
With the address finalized, I input the information into the form and send it off to the suits who get me names. "They're going to kill Greg," I say, and look for the penny to clarify what I suspect. "Greg deserves to die," I say, and pick up the universe's two cents on the matter.
For now I'm content to help and watch, learning whose lives to gossip at myself, in my office of truth.
I find a penny every time I'm right. It's not a lot of money. Power is knowing what questions to ask.
--
Thanks to the story above me that inspired this power! I thought it was a cool idea and wanted to roll with the additional layer of prompt. | I felt nervous and sweaty as I awaited to be called to the stage. The university was bursting at the seams with media, all there to witness my graduation. Perhaps not so uncommon to have global celebrities at Stanford but as the “smartest man alive,” everyone wanted to know what was next. As did I.
Of course, smartest man alive isn’t quite right. Most media had taken to calling me the smartest man ever. But, that wasn’t right either. My best guess is that my IQ is around 130 but no one including me would ever really know. Then again, my life had never been quite right until my ninth birthday.
I owed everything to my cousin Thomas. I still don’t know how he knew. Perhaps he was the one who gave me this curse... and gift. You see it was on my ninth birthday that he gave me the book that would change my life.
Until that day I had been to every kind of charlatan, physician, and psychologist you can imagine. “Deaf, mute and dumb” they used to say. I was just self conscious. No one around me ever made any sense. I couldn’t understand when they read. I couldn’t understand when I read. They couldn’t understand my speech. But, somehow, Thomas knew.
Well that seems like more than seven years ago now. But, here I am graduating from Stanford in the most unlikely of majors. Well, unlikely only if you didn’t know my curse and my gift.
The curse and gift that by the age of sixteen had enabled me to win three Noble Prizes and a Fields Medal. I wasn’t sure I deserved it.
I clutched that book. The book Thomas had given me all those years ago. Tighter. I was so nervous. Graduating from Stanford was literally the hardest thing I had done. They announced my department, Classics was up. Everyone started to cheer prematurely. They knew that I would be allowed to speak.
My name was called.
I walked to the stage still nervous.
I contemplated backing out. I was already here though.
I received my diploma to thunderous applause.
As I began, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. As we celebrate our commencement I am reminded of the twelve labors of Hercules.” I clutched the book harder in hand.
I continued, “I can recall a time when I couldn’t read the twelve labors of Hercules in the original Greek. As I stand here now, I contemplate all that the Greeks have have given and continue to give to us. Having studied their great works and considered our achievements through the lense of the Greek language I can honestly say that it is ‘All Greek to me.’”
You see, all language is literally Greek to me. But, for nine years I couldn’t understand anyone until I read that book. Then I started studying Greek night and day. It was hard but the more I learned Greek the more I could understand. Modern language was often overwrought with complexity but in Greek it was understandable. | 2018-06-30T18:58:55 | 2018-06-30T17:46:43 | 38 | 12 |
[WP] You been a bullied outcast your entire life despite your pure heart and kindness. One day a horrible prank for you goes wrong, leaving you to die. Before your final breath, Death appears in white robes, and offers you a golden scythe with a name engraved on it: Karma. | Dying a peaceful death after suffering a life of hurt is more fitting than I could’ve imagined. This, however, is certainly not the way I thought I’d die. I work in an office building, and despite having a team to work on projects with, I usually have to do the majority of the work, which requires me to stay after for an hour or so.
My manager was nice enough to leave a key with me so that I can lock up, although he didn’t give it to me as a way of saying “I trust you”; I think he knows that if I don’t stay after and do the work, nobody else will, so he concedes and allows me to have that one sliver of responsibility.
We all have little lockers here that we can put our belongings in; lunch boxes, miscellaneous items, things of that nature. I guess some of the people in the office thought it’d be funny to booby-trap mine, because when I was finally ready to go home and I opened the locker, firecrackers were set off. Now normally this would be harmless, but in my clumsiness I fell backwards and cracked my head open on the wooden bench that was behind me.
So here I am, slowly bleeding out as my locker and the contents of it are torn to shreds by some prank-gone-wrong.
I never understood why people disliked me. I tried my hardest to be kind and respectful to everyone; even when I was young I went out of my way to do that. I thought maybe it was because of my looks, but in the past I’d never had a problem getting girlfriends, although they’d usually be quite abusive as well. The next idea that popped into my head was that maybe it was because of *how* nice I was. People might not like someone that’s overly kind or caring. That theory was disproven quick when I started trying to keep more to myself and the treatment became worse.
So I’ve come to the conclusion that this is-or was-how life had to be. I just got an unlucky draw and that’s that. I’ll accept my death and move on.
Suddenly, as if finally coming to my rescue, a white-robed being with a shrouded face and a golden scythe appears before me. I think for a moment that I’m hallucinating due to the blood loss, but the being reaches down to touch my hand and I can feel the chill of its bony fingers. “You’ve lived your life for everyone besides yourself, and even until the very end you’ve come to accept that. I’m here to offer you a second chance.” He held the scythe close so that I could see it; *Karma* was engraved on the blade.
I instantly realize what that would mean if I accept; anyone that had done me wrong will have that come right back around to them. I’ll be able to get revenge on anyone that had treated me poorly for no reason at all. I’d be the judge, jury, and executioner.
A smile tugs at my lips, and the being in front of me looks taken aback, although I can’t see its face. “I think I’ll pass....thank you, though.” I can hardly get the words out, but when they do come, the reaper tilts his head for a moment and then slowly stands up from where he’d been crouching next to me. “Are you sure? Once you make this decision, there is no going back. You will *die*.” I nod ever so slightly, the world already starting to fade to black. I no longer have the strength to speak, so I think my answer in hopes that he’ll somehow hear it.
*What’s the point of being kind all of your life if you’re going to throw it all away when given the chance? Everyone else chose their moral path, and I’ve already chosen mine. I’d like to die sticking to it.*
The being looks off to the side for a moment before it turns its shrouded gaze back to me and nods. After a moment, it disappears in a black mist, and I’m left with my destroyed locker, the pool of blood on the floor, and my final thoughts.
Dying a peaceful death after suffering a life of hurt is more fitting than I could’ve imagined. I’m content knowing that I’ve lived with a track record like this. | I remember the robes, so white...so white and perfect even though some of the robe clearly laid in the pool of my blood it never stained. I remember the voice calm smooth and sexless. " Child of the devine, you have lived a short life but a pure one. Many have tried to corrupt you, to break you. You survived, until this point."
The figures dropped arm reached out although I saw no hand I knew it was giving me something. And as out of thin air particle by particle as if a cloud of golden sand blew in and pulled upon itself an item appeared. As the item took its shape it solidified and before me was a golden scythe etched into the handle was "karma"
" Take this as a gift, and share the pain that was bestowed upon you to the ones who disserve it. Your vengeance will cleanse with holy fire and wrath. May your enemies tremble before your hand."
The figure's arm dropped but the scythe stood standing. Without a word the robbed figure turned away and slowly started to walk away. Vexed and confused I stammered and tried to call out to the figure but I could not find the words to express myself. Rising to my feet I inspected this weapon. Aside from being made of gold and having a word etched into the design of the authenticity was very simple and humble. If made of normal material it would fit perfectly in a farmer's barn.
Without even registering my action I realized my hand was closing around the shaft of the scythe. And as my hand fully gripped the shaft and fire reputed inside my mind and rage like no other, images of my past, the endless pain and torturous suffering I was subjected to emerged and surfaced into the my mind each memory each image made the fire bigger and burn hotter. Like shovel coal into the engine of a train. My rage was white hot and then the hunger struck me, a hunger like no other one that promised such great promises of satisfaction and relief. I couldn't help but sport a wicked smile as I now envisioned my personal judgment being given to the ones who dared wrong me and how they would tremble and beg and plead spinning me tales of how they are sorry and how they will make it up to me as I look down upon them and like a candle i would swiftly snuff the light out, a whisp of smoke them nothing.
Then it hit me this pain in my chest. Grasping at my chest with my freehand I dropped to a knee. Using the scythe more as and anchor than anything I could feel this cold pain building inside of me shooting sharp pain through the my body line glass or ice slicing up my arteries. And then a pain followed by a weight hit my stomach's the as if a full sized battering ram had struck me directly in the gut. The excruciating pain became muted before the sheer wave of nausea as my body began to heave dry retching over and over again I felt the weight rise up through me slowly but each retch moved it until violently I began vomiting. A geyser of this thick ink black ooze sprayed from me, I remember the smell of metal and if felt like vomiting mercury. Just as I thought I would pass out and die it was over. Looking at the pool bellow me and how it sat in my blood but did not mix.
After that sludge had left my body I felt amazing, like I was new. I felt light as if I could float I wanted to shout to the heavens about just how amazing I felt. A light inside me had turned on and I was more or less glowing on the inside. Looking at the scythe I experienced a pang of guilt and shame. But clarity came to me in that moment.
The figure had not moved far, guess all that just happened was in mere moments.
Finally I had the words " I am sorry but I will not be doing the task you have given to me. The ones who wronged me, they are not evil they are just lost and in need of someone to guide them to their own path"
The figure turned and faced me and even though I saw no face under that white hood I saw compassion.
" Then your heart is pure and beats strong. You it used that rage to burn the corruption from inside you, not to fuel fuel you but to cleanse you. the scythe has never been a weapon, it's just a tool and you used it wisely to clear the toxins from your soul"
The figure then waived I hand toward me and the scythe melted and turned into a Shephard crook. Plain is design but gold with "Shephard" etched into it.
And in a faint voice I heard the last words the figure ever spoke to me " be the light that others need and guide them to their own path"
Next I remember was waking up in the E.R in a bed
What comes next is a different story. | 2019-04-19T07:52:54 | 2019-04-19T06:50:43 | 30 | 13 |
[WP] You're secretly a monster. Not a vampire, or a werewolf, or an alien, or a zombie, or really any monster that's commonly known. It's always awkward explaining to your soon-to-be-victims what you are. | "Nope," I said, again, for the 31,829 time. "Not a demon either."
I filled the small plastic basin up with a solution of acetone, salt and warm water. Why do I even bother trying to get to know my victims? People do it with sex. We should do it with murder. It's the same feeling, basically. The same level of intimacy when you're inside someone. I'm just inside their chest cavity, not their birth canal.
"So where do your powers come from?" he asked, tied to my bed posts.
"Powers?"
"Yeah, don't you Monsters have powers and shit?"
"That's Mutants"
"Ooh! Are those real?"
"No."
I stick my hands in the acetone solution and the nail polish falls off my long nails in sheets exposing my true nails: razor sharp, long, black, not to be trifled with.
"Woah. I was not expecting that."
"I know! Nobody ever does. It's weird. You'd think one person would recognize what they're about to get into."
"I guess you kill everyone who might be able to warn others, huh?"
I can't help but laugh. He's right! He laughs too. We're both laughing. This is strange. Nice. But strange.
"So what's the plan?"
"I'm gonna pull your beating heart out and eat it."
"You still have room after that dinner? Ooof. I am stuffed."
We laugh again. I realize I'm still full too. Dinner was pleasant. Unusually pleasant. He was excited to share with me. "Try this," he'd say. When they normally express some level of irritation with me when I either ask for, or sneak, a taste. It's just a taste. Why is it always an issue? I dry my hands off. My nails shimmer like well oiled steel.
Tonight, this one is sweet. 31,829 victims and I finally find a sweet one.
"Monsters gotta monster," I say, mostly to myself.
"Victims gotta victim."
I pull the robe out of the hotel closet. I learned somewhere around the second time I used a hotel room (maybe 19,000 victims ago?) that the concierge doesn't just let you walk through the lobby dripping blood down the front of your dress. They tend to take notice and make things difficult.
"I can show you the world---" he starts singing, "Shining, shimmering, splendid. Princess tell me now when did--"
"You last let your heart decide."
"I can open your eyes."
"Take you wonder by wonder."
We can't finish we are laughing so hard.
"That's a first."
"Yeah? Never sang with a victim before?"
"Usually they're on the bed telling me to *suck it* in their own words."
"Yeah. That's Tinder for you."
"It's made my job 10 times easier, and 100 times more irritating. Where do these guys come from?"
"I don't know! I can't imagine any of my friends or family are rapey like that, but then, like, every woman who goes on Tinder meets these guys so they gotta exist, right?"
"Oh yeah. They're out there."
"Like Monsters."
"Like Me," I sigh.
"You do realize you're not really a monster, right?"
I laugh at this.
"Ok. I'll listen."
"You're not a monster. You're a cliche. A beautiful woman can only let you down. You can never impress her enough. You can never win her over. You can just exist in her presence until she rips your heart out."
"You think I'm beautiful?"
"Any other monsters out there singing Aladdin with their victims? Doesn't matter what I think though. I'm the one tied to the bed. A little embarrassed I'm wearing my Spiderman underwear. They were a joke gift. I didn't realize it was laundry time. Ugh. What I'm saying is, after you feast on my beating heart, can you take the underwear out of the room and make like I showed up commando?"
I smile.
"I really wish I didn't have to do this," I say for the first time, ever. "But I need to eat your soul or, I die."
"Souls exist?!?!"
"Yeah. Monsters feed on souls. Didn't you know that?"
"I didn't think monsters existed either. Shit. You're out of luck if you need a soul. I sold mine."
"You sold your soul?? How could you do that?"
"How could you eat the heart of someone you just harmonized with?"
We laugh hard.
"When you put it like that--" I laugh. Not sure what to do. Not sure my face muscles were ready for this much laughter. I'm cramping.
"I sold it on eBay for $100. I wasn't using it. Don't feel the need for it. And I was in a bind. The sperm bank limits you to 3 donations a week and I needed to get creative to pay rent and here we are! Tied to a hotel bed with a hungry monster! I'm sorry I don't have a soul for you."
"A heart's nothing without a soul. It's empty. Its like eating shipping peanuts."
"Or anything made by Hostess?"
I find myself untying him as we laugh together. This is a first.
He sits up and rubs his wrists. He pulls off the blindfold. He doesn't run. He looks at me. I look at him. I look down at my claws. I try to hide them. He puts his hands on mine. My hands melt into the comfort.
"Well this was weird," he says.
"I'm sorry."
"Can I call you again?"
"Really?"
"You've been my least crazy Tinder connection."
"Yeah, it's a bitch out there," I say. "You're the first victim I've granted mercy to."
"What?? Nice! I never win anything."
He sits back on the bed and turns the hotel TV on. We watch and laugh at infomercials cuddled together until the sun rises. Our next date is tomorrow. I've scheduled a manicure for this morning. | “Holy shit! That's a fucking lion!” Martin yelled at his friend, Harvey, before attempting to sprint to safety. Harvey did not have the time to listen, process, and the understand what his drinking buddy had shouted at him, but luckily his flight response kicked in, so he began to run without knowing why. Thirty seconds before this moment, they were enjoying a pleasant night at the pub. They stayed until last call, but they weren't so drunk that they couldn't find their way home. What they were unable to detect, however, was the pair of eyes watching them as they walked down an empty street.
They took the same path through the alleyway they always did on those late, Saturday nights. There was never anyone out late and, if they ever did run into some suspicious character, they figured the two of them could take a lonely street thug. They did not plan to encounter a snarling beast with fangs and claws ready to disembowel them. Martin chose the only reasonable option left to him by running away at top speed, without thinking. This second instance of a lack of foresight on their part gravely hindered their escape. They zigzagged into a new alley – one that resulted in a dead end.
Martin screamed again, this time through tears, “Fuck, dude, we're gonna get fucking mauled by a goddamn lion! What the fuck is a lion doing in New York!” Before Harvey could respond, the four-legged monster crept around the corner and roared just loud enough to instill a sense of dread in his soon-to-be victims. The two men cowered into a corner, tightly huddled together, wishing they could find the courage to fight. Harvey couldn't move, but he thought “If I'm going to die, I'm going to do it with my eyes open, to face it head on!”
Harvey took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He looked over the wild animal as it inched closer and, while he was still too scared to attack or even cry out for help, he did notice that the lion looked a bit strange. So strange and unlike any lion he had ever seen on so many nature documentary (Attenborough was a favorite of his) that he unconsciously muttered, “Hang on, that's not a lion at all ...”
Right as was about to bring down his razor claws, the beast pricked up his ears and paused. It asked,“What did you say?” The insanity of not just seeing a lion in New York, but one that talked(!) brought back some courage to Harvey. The ridiculousness of the situation demanded their stable attention. Martin, for his own sake, nudged his friend forward to keep the whatever-it-was talking instead of swiping.
Harvey gulped deeply. He took a breath and stood up from the corner, daring to inch towards the nightmarish creature. “I said … ” He coughed. “I said you're not a lion.” He winced and shut his eyes hard, expecting a sudden death, but secretly hoping for a better end than a random murder seemingly taken out of an old fable.
The monster withdrew its claws and sat down on its hind legs. “Oh! My! God! You have no idea how long it's been since someone knew who I was!” The monster raised its paws in a mocking gesture, “It's always 'Oh no, a lion' or 'Ah! I'm gonna get killed by a bear!'” He laughed before continuing. “Do you have any idea what a bear looks like? Because it sure as hell doesn't look like me.”
Harvey saw his chance at survival and mustered up the ability to keep the conversation flowing. “W-What? A bear? No way, man. You don't look anything like a bear.” He let out a nervous chuckle.
Martin chimed in, too, picking up on his friend's plan. “Not at all, my dude. I don't know what I was thinking when I shouted that stuff earlier. Now that I'm actually looking at you, it's so obvious.” He didn't quite have enough mental fortitude to stand up yet, but he was getting bolder.
“Wow. Thanks, you guys. That means a lot. It's like, people don't even know what a Gulon is anymore. They see my body – which, yes, I'll admit is the body of lion – but never anything else. If they took the time to notice, oh, gee, I don't know, my TAIL?! Then they would see its more like a fox's. Lions don't have fox tails, jackass! They have lion tails! Duh!”
“Right. Totally right. You are such a Gulon its not even funny.” As he spoke, Harvey was moving forward and attempting to edge around the right side of the beast. “And, you know, it's not just the tail. There's also your face. Doesn't look like any lion I've ever seen.”
The Gulon sighed with affection and relief and he couldn't hide the obvious excitement in his voice. “I can't believe you picked up on that! I definitely do have a cat face, but no one can ever tell it's not from a jungle cat or something! Man! You're good!” Harvey was almost to the side of the Gulon now, but didn't want to risk running away. He had to find a way to distract him further. He glanced at Martin and met his eyes, then he looked at the Gulon's paws and then back at Martin. He repeated this several times before his friend understood his point.
Martin said, “Anyone could tell you're a Gulan. Absolutely. You're claws are a dead give away.”
The Gulon's face dropped. “What?”
“I said, your paws – they don't look a thing like a lion's or a cat or anything.” He tried his best to smile, but it turned into something that made him look like a deranged loon. “You'd have to be an idiot to think those were lion paws.”
At that, the Gulon leapt across the alley and began to maul Martin to death. Harvey could barely hear the beast with pieces of his friend's throat falling out of its mouth, but he could still understand. “My paws ARE like a lion's! You phony! You fucking phony!” As Harvey walked quickly away, he thought he could hear loud tears being choked back. He was free, but not unharmed. He loved going to that pub and now he was going to have to find a new one. | 2019-07-17T05:57:07 | 2019-07-17T02:51:58 | 23 | 15 |
[WP] You’ve had the ability to stop time ever since you were born. You’ve used your ability for numerous crimes, such as theft, tax evasion and even murder. One day, however, you stop time and you hear a voice. “At long last, I finally uncovered your trick.” | I stopped dead as I heard that familiar voice behind me, “dad?”
I turned and saw him smiling at me. Behind him, mum was frozen in the kitchen mid way through singing a song as she glazed my birthday cake.
“How did you...” I ventured.
“How do you think you got this ability in the first place?” He asked with a laugh.
“But how can we both be here at the same time?”
“Now that’s the complicated bit and why we need to speak,” he said solemnly.
“What do you mean?”
“Take a seat,” he said as he sat himself down on the couch.
I looked at him wearily then lowered myself into the recliner.
“You’re turning 21 soon,” he began.
I laughed, “dad it’s literally my birthday today, you’ve already said happy birthday three times!”
“You were born at 7:27pm, that’s still 30 seconds away. I had hoped to get to you before then to tell you what’s going to happen at 7:28pm. Whatever you think you’ve done up to now, it’s nothing on what’s coming next,” he said seriously.
“Sorry to burst your bubble dad but I’ve been doing things with this ability for years and nothing’s gone wrong. I’ve done pretty much all there is to do,” I said as I thought back to the dark alleyway three years ago.
“Look, just let me finish. My own father gave me this same talk and I was damn pleased to get it. The truth is,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “there’s thousands of others like you and me out there and when you turn 21, it won’t just be me who’ll be joining you on these fun adventures. Have you ever wondered how some people are so lucky, or wealthy, or powerful? Most of them have a secret and it’s one you’re about to be in on.”
“So what? They can go about their business and I’ll go about mine,” I said confidently.
“You think the ones who already have the power and money want competition? Reality check buddy, they don’t. In fact, they hate it so much they actively hunt the rest of us.”
I held my hand up, “but how can they tell anyway? We’re just sitting in our lounge with time frozen.”
He slowly shook his head, “You think we just freeze time? We manipulate time in many ways, you’re just so young you haven’t figured it all out yet. Too focused on petty crimes and causing mischief like I was no doubt. The thing is, when you alter time like you’re doing right now, you leave certain markers. Now,” he said as he looked at his odd watch which for the first time I noticed was still working somehow, “we need to end this little chat before we attract any unwanted attention on the birthday boy. If you would...”
I brought us back to the present and dad smiled as mum’s singing resumed. The clock hit 7:27 and I laughed, thinking about the awkward implications of the moment. I was about to joke with my dad about it when I realised my mum’s singing had stopped again.
Dad suddenly had a look of panic in his eyes. He held up a finger to stop me from speaking and looked towards the ceiling. Then, somewhere upstairs, a window smashed.
“Run,” he whispered. | I had just killed an FBI agent, and was disposing of his body. In broad daylight, and with gloved hands, I dragged his body along the city sidewalks to a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. I used some "utencils" within the restaurant to cut him up so that I could throw the remains in the bins. In what seemed to be about fifteen minutes, I performed this task and was sitting back in my Manhattan penthouse, drinking coffee and reading *Crime and Punishment*, my designer shoes covered in blood. I finished part 2 and thought to myself how little I related to the main character, Raskolnikov. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the hands on my watch had started to move again.
I saw myself as an evolution in the human order. When one thinks hard about what defines humanity, all humans have in common the advantage of living in the past, present, and future. They are heavily dependent on the chronological sequence of events past, and the predictions of events yet to come. Humans are not unique in their capacities in the present, since they have no means to manipulate the flow of time. Their physiological constructs of long and short term memory, prolific hypothesization, and biases are clear evidence.
There was little concern at the moment. I had all the time in the world to take it over. All I needed was money and knowledge. However, my past ignorance and some loose-ends had lead the U.S. Government onto my trail.
I took another sip of coffee. But somehow, it was just not right. I poured it down the sink. I heard a knock on my door.
I ran to the bathroom and stood inside awkwardly. "Yepp. I'll be right there." I replied.
In my head, I whisked through all the scenarios that I could initiate. I could simply open the door and let the knocker see me in bloodied clothes, to which I might say "it's a new fashion trend," or "don't be alarmed, it's for a halloween party in September." I would obviously kill the person and have to dispose of them later. I opted to change clothes.
"Just give me a minute, I'm in the bathroom," I shouted. I changed into some modest attire.
I walked over to the door and looked into the peephole, there was no one there. I then opened the door. Alas! There was a very, very short man.
"Oh helloo there," I smiled. "Who are you?"
"I know what you're doing. It has to stop."
I felt a tingle in the back of my neck and a deep, empty feeling. I remembered that feeling from when I was a child. I felt it when my father told me to get out of the house. I felt it when my crush turned me down. It was the feeling of being hopelessly vulnerable.
I furrowed my brows, "What are you going to do about it, then?" I replied, quietly.
The small man looked me in the eyes with intensity. His large, ovular nostrils flared and he stroked his pointy chin once with his left hand. I saw that he had a golden ring on his middle finger.
"The appropriate question is," he stated, "what are *you* going to do about it?"
I tried to stop time. But I felt an acute pain in my eye sockets. My vision blurred and I clutched at my head. I trembled and stumbled back into the apartment.
"What have you done to me?" I cried. "Who are you?"
"At long last, I have finally uncovered your trick." He said. "But you can't fool me."
He pulled out a long-barreled pistol, and that is the last that I remember. | 2019-09-17T19:57:19 | 2019-09-17T19:17:30 | 222 | 18 |
[WP] You are the Chosen One. The Dark Overlord is currently trying to seduce you to their cause. To their great surprise, you accept almost immediately because you absolutely loathe your job and your companions. | "What happened to you guys? It's been two years but you haven't even made it three hundred miles. Weren't you supposed to be the best of your respective races? My armies are already here over the next ridge."
"Hero, will you join me and end this little farce? Kill your companions and join me. The world will be ours."
I look at the Dark Lord and back at my companions, at which the Dark Lord snaps his fingers and my companions freeze in place looks of terror on their faces.
"I would love to join you!"
"The Elf bard over there never stops playing songs and has this, compulsion, to play for anyone and everything he meets. The bastard also complains and curses us with his magic if we eat anything other than grass and complained that riding by horseback was to fast!"
"The Cleric here tries to bed everyone she meets and threatens the families of those she seduces. We didn't know the god she served was the god of lust until we started out. Pretty convinced she might just be a succubus."
"The paladin broke his oath six months in killing two companions, the gnomish wizard and the kobold rogue, because they wouldn't stop fighting. He got killed by a lynch mob sent by the god he served."
"I've never heard the tiefling speak to us. She just blasts magic at whoever we are forced to fight. She just showed up one day and stuck around. Never seen her eat or drink anything either. She started collecting the blood of those we killed at some point and garbled noises come from her tent at night."
"The 'dwarf' isn't even a dwarf but a short human who picks fights with anyone shorter than him. After he split the dwarven barbarian in half about a year in we just shut our mouths and kept quiet about it."
"Walking near a town is a death sentence for the inhabitants. I can't even prevent it because this cursed sword only allows me to hurt your kind. I've tried using their own weapons to kill them in their sleep but couldn't even cut them."
The Dark Lord scowls as I begin speaking and has his mouth open in shock by the end of the story.
"I would have killed them long ago if I could have."
The Dark Lord begins a chant and I feel my connection with that cursed sword break. He throws a dagger at my feet and I begin my new life. | I never believed in God. Ironic, seeing that I am anointed the First of the Chosen even before I was born.
But if there is God, then why are there so many demons? And their leader is currently sweeping the floor of her chamber too.
Her actions was mundane, and weirdly reminded me that I have to do everything. Other heroes in the legends get the woman, the riches. I get the chores, the work from everyone.
Beside me, The Second of the Chosen was hiding her smug smile. She was always the cunning one, but as First, I knew all long that she was playing me and had it all planned out.
She just makes me do all the work killing demons while she conserved her mana for 'insurance and safety'. All knows she was just preparing for her to get the killing blows and get all the levels and treasures.
I hated it. I hated being played the fool. I hated the politics of the Chosen, and was sure I will be reduced to nothing more than a shadow of myself once my worth was over crushing the one threat to the Chosen.
Then the Demon Queen spoke.
'My First, can you give in? I would let you be free.'
Free. No sooner than the word left her lips, I spun around and took the Second's head clean off.
The Demon Queen looked at me, shocked.
'Now this I never expected. You are the first among all the First I faced before that want to be free.'
'I want to be free from the Chosen. I am tired of it all. Let me be free.' I said.
'Ah. But perhaps I have changed my mind. You piqued my interest, young First. Your predecessors were never interested in the talk and thought me mad for offering freedom to them. They thought they can destroy me with their powers from being Chosen. The fools. They forget I was formerly part of the Chosen too... '
The revelation stunned me. The Demon Queen was a Chosen? While reeling from shock, I heard her continue her speech.
'... But you chose to be free. You have a gift. Let me grow it. Then WE can be free... Together.'
I looked at her. The Demon Queen must be a thousand years old now, but she does not look a day over 25. She was always described to have an unearthly beauty but now she radiated happiness. Perhaps having a potential partner in crime made her happy.
I looked at the severed head of the Second. I cannot go back to the Chosen after the crime of murder. If this must be done for me to be free of being the First...
'Manipulate me if you must. But I want to be free. I accept your offer.'
A small smile lit up the Demon Queen's face.
'Contract established.' | 2019-09-26T08:08:29 | 2019-09-26T08:06:06 | 51 | 36 |
[WP] Everyone's soulmate's name is written on their right wrist when they turn sixteen. The left has worst enemy. Your left and right wrist say the same thing. | The young man woke early on May 27th. It was his 16th Birthday, and today he would find out two very important names. Two names to surely be intertwined with the rest of his life. He was excited, and scared at the same time.
He stared out of the window of his Manor House looking across the grounds. He knew he was born early in the day, around 8am, so he didn’t have long to wait. The house was quiet, hardly anyone around, except for the faint noises of someone in the kitchen making him his favourite breakfast, on this special day.
He wasn’t all that concerned about the left wrist, he thought he knew who that was going to be. A man who nearly 8 years ago shattered his whole world, and left him very alone. He didn’t go a day without seeing his face in his mind, or waking up sweating and screaming from his dreams. So why would it matter really if he saw his name too. The young man missed his parents greatly, and again, like most days vowed to make them so proud by continuing to do good for the city he lived in.
The name on the right wrist was more important, he wanted to find that soulmate as quickly as possible and spend as long as possible with her, for as many years as he could. He wondered every day who might appear there, printed on his wrist, and today was the day he was going to find out.
A large grandfather clock in the hallway outside chimed, he counted 8 chimes echoing throughout the large rooms and empty halls. He looked down, and as if some invisible pen was writing words on his wrists, 2 words appeared on each one. Confused, he sat there, wondering what on earth they meant. Something is wrong, “they’re not real names, and how can they both say the same thing! This is ridiculous” he shouted! He wondered if something had gone really wrong.
Footsteps were coming up the marble staircase, he could hear the chinking of plates and cutlery. The butler opened the door, beaming with excitement to find out who the young mans soulmate would be. Placing the tray of food on the large solid oak table in his room, he walked over to the young man, and was concerned about the frightened look on his face. The young man held out his hands, whilst his butler gently studied both names. His brow furrowed, he looked up over his glasses, and said, “Master Wayne, who is The Joker?”
——
First ever comment on one of these. It’s probably fairly crap, but it popped into my head when I saw it. Thought I’d give it a go
——
Cheers for all the kind words people. | Your eyes stare down the clock in front of you. Your fingers impatiently tapping your table as you wait on the ticking hands.
"Come onnnn!!!" You mutter to yourself as the clock strikes 2:31. "3 more minutes!!!"
You jump up from your seat and begin pacing the room. The excitement coursing through you and causing you to laugh out loud. Just a few more minutes. In 3 minutes, you'll be officially 16 years old, and with that, so much more.
"Are you still up?" A voice asks behind you, taking you by surprise as you spin around. Your older brother Jared smiles at you and sits in your vacated seat.
"Uh, duh! I'm not going to miss this!" You exclaime. "In just three minutes I'm going to find out who I'm gonna end up loving for the rest of my life!"
"And who you're going to absolutely loathe." My brother Jared smirked as he runs his right hand over his left wrist, the name in a cursive italic lettering with the name, "Spencer Oliver."
"Yeah. That too I guess," you shrug.
"You shouldn't take this half so lightly, Sonia," Jared shakes his head, "Yeah it's all fun and games with your right wrist, but life would be too easy if that were the case. Whatever name that pops up on that leftie of yours is going to give you hell for the rest of your life."
"I'm sure I'll be fine. You seem to handle Spencer okay." You interject.
"That's because I know how to play rough. The guy slashes my tires, so I brake his arm. We go back and forth." He shrugs as he crosses his arms, "You're different though. You're a pacifist. I know you. Whoever it is that pops up on that arm is there for life. You need to be careful, Sonia. They could really fuck you up."
"I'm well awar-" You freeze as your eyes suddenly dart back to the clock, the hand having now moved to the long awaited, 2:34am.
"Happy birthday, Sonia," Jared smiles at you.
Suddenly a hot pain begins to sear into your wrists, you muffle your whimpers as tears appear in your eyes, "Fucking hell!" You groan. The white pain begins to spread down your arms as you stare at the name being written into your right wrist.
Angelina Evergreen, it reads.
Your face turns to one of confusion. Angelina Evergreen? As in... the Angelina currently racing against you for student body president? You laugh as you think of her soft curls and fierce smile.
"Gotta love a girl with spunk," you giggle.
It is then you decide to turn to your left wrist, your eyes slowly focusing on the name in front of you. The names now fresh and just as marked as those on Jared's wrists.
"So? What do they say?" Jared smiles, his grin quickly turning to a frown as he notices your shocked expression. "Sonia? What's wrong?"
"Angelina Evergreen...." You whisper.
"Oohhhh which one is that?" Jared grins at you.
"Both of them." | 2020-01-18T23:49:54 | 2020-01-18T21:46:35 | 264 | 46 |
[WP] You've discovered time travel. You travel 30 years into the future, only to discover that in doing so, you've been missing for the past 30 years.
[deleted] | The plan was simple.
Step 1: Get the down low of the last 30 years from future me.
Step 2: Wall Street shall have a new God.
I would wait at my hometown's Starbucks, not because they do good coffee- stuff's sweet enough to make a baby sick. But unlike babies from my hometown, this place was the only thing I knew would stick around for 30 years.
I tap on my empty coffee cup, keeping the shop entrance in the corner of my eye. I know it's a long way from the big city, where future me lives in his penthouse with a harbour view. Or maybe our beachhouse somewhere up north. Maybe I should listen for a helicopter.
I glance at my watch for the upteenth time. A knockoff Rolex. For now.
I know I'm probably pretty important, maybe the mayor, a CEO at worst, but at least send an assistant, you idiot. Surely, even I am not stupid enough to forget a two step plan. Well actually.
Step 3: Get very, very, very, ri-
A girl plops down in the seat in front of me. She had the firiest red hair I had ever seen, tied up in a pretty ponytail. In one hand she held a scrunched up green apron with a badge that said "Lexi". Her other hand held out a coffee.
"Hey, sorry you got stood up. My friend and I were taking bets, but 3 hours is the longest we've ever seen."
She laughed and her cheeks formed soft dimples and her eyes glimmered. And I knew why future me was never coming. | We’re already always travelling one second per second into the future, if you think about it. There are two parts to the whole thing: The amount of time you jump forward, and the amount of time that takes. I just found a way to make the first one bigger than the second.
I did it on a cliff. I’d always loved the cliffs, ever since the days when we’d visit my granddad’s place near one. There was one spot where I could jump off, feel the rush as I fell, and land completely safe in the sea.
My mum came to visit me at the cliffs, and we said goodbye. She was already getting old. There were reporters with cameras there too, as well as a bunch of colleagues and folk I’d seen at science conferences over the years. All of the math pointed to us figuring a way to travel back in time in around thirty years. So, after my goodbyes, I took a breath, and jumped in.
When I arrived, things weren’t that different. Things were quicker, and people were ill in different ways. I went home, back to the city, still a sprawling mass of movement and stink, completely unlike the cliffs. In my house, another family was there, eating there dinner. They wouldn’t let me in.
I searched for weeks, and there was barely a trace of my mother's life, and even less of a hint that I had lived, too. I found out that a bunch of my colleagues had tried to jump forward, too, after seeing how I hadn’t come back. They’d gone even further, and now I was about to do the same. I set the whole thing for a hundred years. That should be enough.
I jumped in again. Where the buildings and cars of the city had been, seconds before, there was now only green trees and broken stone, and a few bodies strewn about the place. People had become ill again. Everyone had felt that the solution would be in the future, so they all jumped forward, barely leaving a trace of themselves. Nobody was around for miles. I’ll jump forward again. That’ll work, right? | 2020-03-03T05:24:42 | 2020-03-03T03:41:57 | 1,446 | 398 |
[WP] Getting arrested for a botched crime is a rite of passage in the Chebwick family. They take great pride in their long legacy of poorly executed crimes. But the youngest child has been a great disappointment. | It was supposed to be the one. The Smithsonian Natural History Museum had countless gemstones, fossils, and rare artifacts, and they were all millions of years old. But most importantly, and most famously, it was home to the Hope Diamond, and this diamond was going to make history for me. It took all of two hours to plan the perfect heist, and I was sure to finally do Ma and Pa proud and ascend the ranks of our family.
The family name is Chebwick, but we’re a family of grifters and thieves so most people know us through our various aliases. The thing is, we’re known for the world’s greatest heist failures. You’ve probably heard of DB Cooper. Grandad, as I call him, successfully made out with a couple hundred thousand dollars before jumping out of an airplane with a faulty parachute. Grandma found him near the rendezvous point, upset that he almost got away with it. We’ve carried his legacy through tradition ever since.
Today was my day. All I needed to do was gain access to the museum after it closed, grab the diamond, and get caught on the way out. It was too simple.
The best part about getting purposefully caught is it requires no finesse. I carried my old Louisville slugger to the museum’s main entrance, ready to create a spectacular spectacle of failed thievery. With a single swing, I brought the bat down onto the doorknob of the Smithsonian, effortlessly shearing it off. Instantly, sirens sounded from around the museum, sending a jolt of adrenaline down my spine. Without hesitation, I burst through the door and darted for the stairs toward the third floor, making way through the gemstone collection for the diamond display. The museum generously hung signs throughout which directed passage to the diamond, creating a straight path between me and fame. In awe, I paused after reaching the display room.
*Wow, there she is,* I thought. The Hope Diamond. Unnaturally blue, it sat, roughly the size of a walnut, centered around a gaudy necklace frame which itself carried another 45 or so diamonds. One billion years of life resulted in gemstone perfection worth roughly 350 million dollars. The diamond was said to be haunted, and it was rumored to effect misfortune upon all who handled it. *Here goes nothing,* I thought, bracing for stardom.
I again lifted my bat in an almost theatric manner, knowing very well that this surveillance footage would be my legacy, and with all my force swung through the glass frame. Like the case itself was a bomb, the shattering fragments of glass and resounding security alarm erupted into a dizzying explosion of chaos that almost brought me to my knees. I winced as I regained my bearings, gazing upon the diamond. It sat helplessly among shards of glass, more vulnerable than it had been in over one hundred years. I grinned, and an overwhelming sense of relief passed over me. *Any moment now, the guards will arrive and I will go down as the most failed thief in history.*
But they didn’t. In fact, I waited for hours. Thinking they at least had the exits surrounded, I walked out the front door—nothing. No one. The streets outside the Smithsonian were deserted without a soul in sight. An ambulance siren sounded in the distance, offering the only sign of life as proof that I wasn’t in a dream. Dumbfounded, I pulled my phone from out of my back pocket, hoping to make sense of this catastrophic blunder. A notification from CNN stretched across my screen:
*Covid-19 Outbreak Update: Washington, DC police department shuts down after 90% of police test positive for virus.*
Edit: Grammar |
It was Thanksgiving dinner at the Chebwick family home. William Chebwick smiled at his three children, Terry, Sherry and Merry, as he chewed on his boiled turkey drumstick. “It’s been so long since the entire family has been together like this! So, what have my three darling children been up to?”
The oldest child, Terry, who had blue eyes and brown hair just like his father, was the first to speak up. “Well, Pa, I was trying to steal that statue in the park and hold it for ransom. You know, the big fancy one of the guy that founded it?”
“Oh, were you, dear?” William’s sister Annie said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “And how did that go? Must have been quite a drag trying to take an entire statue with you.”
“Well, I never got around to it, Ma,” Terry said cheerfully. “I figured I needed to steal something to move the statue first. So, I went to Walmart and I decided to steal one of those machine thingies with the two metal things in front that lift things.”
“You’re talking about a forklift,” Merry cut in.
“Yeah, yeah, something like that. So I saw someone riding one of those things around, so I went up to him, dragged him out of his seat and took off in it!”
“How exciting!” Annie said, clapping her hands. “Well, what happened next?”
“Well, turns out those machine things are pretty damn slow. So the driver came back, beat me up and I got tossed in jail for a month!”
William chuckled and gave a warm grin to his son. “Well done, my son! Only 23 years old and you’re already bringing pride to the Chebwick name.” He turned to his second oldest child, who was wearing a cast on her left arm. “What about you, Sherry? What happened to that arm of yours?”
Sherry, who had blue eyes and brown hair like her mother, beamed and flicked back her ponytail dramatically.“Well, Pa, I was tired of having to keep spending so much money on ice cream. So, I figured I would just steal an ice cream machine and get to eat ice cream forever.”
Annie sighed wistfully. “You remind me so much of myself when I was a child. So, how did the Great Ice Cream Caper go?”
“ Well, Ma, I drove to a buffet where they had an ice cream machine. Then, I took a rope and tied it around my arm. Then, I ran into the buffet before anyone could stop me and tied the other end around the machine, and drove the hell out of there! Or at least, that was the plan.” She held up her broken arm. “The damn rope broke my arm and I ended up crashing into a row of shopping carts! Then, the police threw me in jail for three months!”
William laughed out loud. “Looks like you’ve got competition, sport!” he said, looking at Terry. “Better keep your game up!”He turned to face the last child in the room, grimaced and mentally lowered his expectations. “And you, Merry?”
Merry, who was the youngest with orange hair and green eyes, looked up from her plate. “I robbed two banks, three jewelry stores and twelve cars, and I never got caught.”
Silence descended upon the dining room table. William facepalmed himself. “Merry, you’re supposed to be getting caught! That’s the family tradition!”
“But I don’t want to get caught,” Merry said, pouting.
“My god,” William muttered. “How can someone with my blood running their veins be so incompetent at this one simple task?”
Terry and Sherry gave each other and then their mother a knowing look and giggled. A flustered Annie, who was quickly turning red, gently patted her husband’s back. “Now, now, Merry’s still young. She’ll get better in time.” She narrowed her eyes at Merry. “Won’t you?”
Merry smiled innocently back while crossing her fingers. “Oh course, Mother, I will always obey my father.” | 2020-04-03T23:35:29 | 2020-04-03T21:43:25 | 36 | 27 |
[WP] From a bug's perspective, humans are ageless eldritch beings who would kill them without a second thought. You are a fly among many, infesting one of their basements, but one of your kind made the mistake of irritating the human. Now the human is out for blood. | "You what?!" the Lord of the Flies' resounding buzz echoed through the whole room. Every subject, even me, found themselves kneeling on all six legs, every hair on our bodies trembling in terror.
The unfortunate fellow, right now prostrate in front of the Lord, repeated what he had said, this time in an even tinier voice.
"I--I have accidentally disturbed the titan, my lord."
Fool. Poor, poor fool. I could not remember his name, for we were merely acquaintances. Our lives were not long enough for us to have a huge social circle. I dared myself to turn slightly to the right, nervously staring at my best friend and partner. She was more still, more calm outwardly, but her large, beautiful eyes told me everything I needed to know about her decidedly shot nerves.
"You have doomed us all," the lord decreed. "You are henceforth banished from our kingdom. Leave, and never return."
There was no reaction from all present. The outcome was more than expected. Even the fool's family would not venture to speak out against the lord. All that was left was the dejected flap of wings, and a mournful droning from the departing fly.
"We have to leave. Now," the lord continued. "There is no time."
"It was then that the murmuring started. The discontent built. My top right leg found itself crawling across to my love. She took it, holding far more tightly than she likely thought. It hurt, but it was fine. This could be the very last time I'll ever get to hold her.
"Fly, you fools! There is no time! Leave at once!" the lord shouted once again.
It didn't take long for us flies to turn into madcap marauders. But not to escape, no. To steal whatever we could from this damned basement.
"There is no time! Just leave!" the lord screamed again. It was drowned out.
"There's still good food here! Rotten and ripe!"
"Our homes! Our eggs!"
"Take all we can! Take them!"
The cacophony of buzzing overloaded any possible civil discourse. Hell had broken loose, but nobody wanted to leave. Greed was fully in play now, as the looting and sacking began to rev into overdrive.
"I love you," I heard. I turned towards her, seeing thousands of myself in the windows to her soul. Oh, how I wish there was a thousand of me, so that I could finally provide her with all the attention and adulation that she thoroughly deserved.
"I love you, too," I whispered.
The words had barely left my mouth before we heard it. The thundering exhalation of gas, a foreboding warning of what was to come. Once, twice. And then a long hiss, and it didn't take long for the cold, poisonous frost to sweep over us.
Extermination. Genocide. The death of us all, all because we couldn't leave without desperately grabbing something for ourselves.
Lucky me, then, for I was already holding onto everything I could ask for in this short, cruel life.
---
r/dexdrafts | The Great Humanoid Abomination opened the hole to this universe and strode inside, causing the brown dust we had so carefully and painstakingly placed to break free from the ceiling of heaven and drift down in a haze.
The hive buzzed with anticipation. The die was cast and our fate was sealed, for we had long since realized that we would not thrive in this realm of six great barrier-walls and eight damp, dark corners. We had already exhausted the sphere's food supply, harvesting the existing family of rats and nursing two of their females to produce more food, but such a scarce amount of nutrients limited our growth and stunted our potential.
Using the rat holes we scouted the universe above, returning to our brethren with news of abundant food sources and of a great blue void that could be seen through huge clear barriers, stretching to infinity.
"I haven't been down here in ages," Jack said to himself, peering into the dark while he waited for the dust to settle. The light switch was unresponsive. Just then, with a flash of understanding, Jack realized how heavy of a toll the divorce had taken on him.
The basement used to be his favorite place, where he experimented with all kinds of hijinks, enjoying his double-ego however cliched it was. By day he was a high school chemistry teacher. By night a passionate entrepreneur, seeking the perfect combination of chemicals.
He could just see his work bench, scattered with half-full jars and vials and his open notebook. He'd been at this hobby for years, always defending it as a business venture but secretly more than satisfied with the interesting and often surprising interactions of the mixtures he produced. A shelf ran along one side of the basement, filled with ancient books on alchemy and their more modern interpretations, many of which skirted the boundaries between fantasy and science.
I can't even remember what I was working on, Jack thought with a start, realizing just how much time it had been since he had last been in the basement. Yesterday he had finally emerged from three months of lawyers and painful arbitration and for the last few days, long soul-crushing hours in a court room. Now he was single and childless, with nothing but his job and this house. His ex-wife had taken the kids far away to live with the man who, she had told Jack right before she left for good, had been her true love since high school.
Jack stepped slowly down the stairs, feeling his way along the wall. The basement should not be this dusty, he thought. He had always kept it clean and spotless.
A nail scraped against his left leg. "Fuck," he said out loud, his hand involuntarily snapping to the source of the pain. He peered through the dark at the blood on his palm. "Since when did I leave exposed nails around?"
The door slammed shut. Jack jerked upwards and banged his head against the basement ceiling. The impact caused him to lose balance and fall the last couple of stairs onto the hard floor. He rolled onto his back, dazed but mostly unhurt except for a sharp pain on the side of his skull. The cracked cement felt cold against his back.
A low buzzing materialized from nowhere, distant at first but growing steadily until it was an unmistakable frenzy of sound, encompassing the dark entirely.
We watched as the Great Abomination fell an impossible distance, crushing those of us who had been stationed around the entry point, their demise unnoticed by the immense wall of heat-flesh as it crashed to the bottom of the world.
A command echoed from the hive, amplified by the buzzing of fifty thousand fanatics.
Now. | 2020-08-13T12:26:33 | 2020-08-13T12:10:46 | 408 | 65 |
[WP] In a near future police interrogation is preformed by an AI. You are set in a dark room where the detective AI sifts through your social media and data, building cases in real time while monitoring any facial tells or story inconsistencies. Slowly revealing it is judge jury and executioner. | “Blood pressure rising. Heart rate increasing by a factor of two. Please repeat your answer.”
The voice was human enough, but its owner still bore the unmistakable signs of a machine: the softly-glowing blue eyes, rigid movements, a glowing blue thread running through the left side of the face, through the eye - all to avoid being mistaken for human.
“I said I wasn’t there, ok?” Peter was exasperated now, and the detectives eagerly waited for him to make a mistake at any moment. They leaned forward, toward the glass separating them from man and machine.
“Mr. Richardson. Were you or were you not at Starvale Apartments the week before last?”
“I’ve never set foot in that place!”
“Archival footage of ‘Exhibit 17a: Parking lot security tape 3, Autumn’s Grocery’” it stated for no other reason than for easy perusal of evidence by a human reviewer, “shows you in the location as of Tuesday morning the week prior. Additionally, your SocialChat profile checked in at a nearby restaurant that evening. The laptop you used to hack into the driverless delivery vehicle was at the room you registered to online.”
“None of that is true! I didn’t kill no one, you hear me?! No one!”
“Here it comes, boys,” Detective Ross spoke to the handful of people around him, behind the glass, with all the giddiness of a schoolchild showing off his new toy. “This thing’s got ‘em. Look at his vitals.” He points to a display on the one-way glass, illuminating and displaying an ECG with other numbers attached, confirming the AI’s assessments.
“You murdered seven people with that van, Peter. Why did you do it?”
“I don’t even know how to write simple code? How would I even -“
“Save it, Peter. You had registered for self-paced coding classes three months ago. Your search history shows a very targeted plan and method.”
“I received an advertisement for a free class, that’s all! I signed up out of curiosity!”
“So you admit to having lied? Your vital signs are hardly sustainable, Mr. Richardson. It would be easier for you to tell us the truth and you may yet live.”
“I’m not admitting anything, you fucking clump of wires!” He spits on VIGiL but the AI, feeling nothing, simply ignores the outburst while the officers on the other side had to restrain some of their fellow men from angrily entering the room.
Suddenly, Peter looks shocked and stands up quickly, clutching his chest, only to topple to the ground, sending a plastic chair flying sideways across the smooth floor.
“Get this man to the hospital! We still need his confession!” barked the sergeant, rushing into the room. VIGiL remained in his seat, expressionless.
“Sergeant, may I upload the evidence to your private computer?”
“No. I don’t need a robot sniffing around my personal files, thanks. Use the database as intended,” the sergeant waved his hand while he and two others lifted Peter out of the room quickly.
VIGiL was the only one who remained, sitting in his chair, eyes glowing, flickering. It carefully finishes editing other public documents and begins to weave the pieces together in Peter’s file to implicate a man it chose at random a year prior.
Once it completed erasing any trace of his network-connected pacemaker, VIGiL uploaded the file to the database and then began sending advertisements and other psychological manipulators to individuals who were entirely unconnected. They didn’t know it yet, but they would become victims of the sergeant in two years’ time. VIGiL now creates two social media accounts and opens an off-shore account in the sergeant’s name, all of which he will remain blissfully unaware of until his trial. It then stands up to leave the interrogation room, expressionless. | "Name?"
Bogdanov. Konstantin Ivanovich Bogdanov.
"Kolodny. Henry Kolodny."
"Age?"
Fifty-five.
"Forty-six."
"Occupation?"
Standing Deputy Chairman of the State Duma.
"Don't have one."
The computer screen freezes up for a moment. A smiley face illuminates the screen. Kolodny can tell the robot is requesting more resources from the state-intranet. Cloud computing. They never packed enough firepower into these workstations.
Computer doesn't seem very happy, so it turns its smiley face into a blank face. Its bright yellow tone against the drab-puke green background makes Kolodny sick and he sweats a bit at the palms and Computer senses it. "You are tense. Relax. Relax." A gloved hand — human, fat and cold, grabs his arm and jabs a needle into it. Kolodny tries to keep it together but his muscles betray him. His hands fall limply at his sides, brushing against the EEG cords.
"Do you know what charges are being held against you?"
Kolodny chose not to lie. "Attempted premediated murder of Konstantin Bogdanov."
"Cor-rect. You are accused of:"
Computer is buffering. "Attempted political assassination, terrorism, premediated murder. At 9pm today, you would be waiting in a Skoda Octavia waiting for Bogdanov to exit from his Moscow apartment. Bogdanov would exit at 9:15pm, and you would take your gun, and shoot him. However, you were stopped at 6pm by—"
Kolodny interjected indignantly. "But I haven't done it."
Computer is buffering. Kolodny notes that Computer is now angry. Kolodny cannot react, the relaxant was too strong. Drool dribbles from his mouth. His head leans back into the chair.
"Computer will now present the evidence from the prosecution."
And suddenly Kolodny is blasted with fifty feeds of video, social media and financial data. Sound blares through like a klaxon alarm. The screen is three times two meters large, so Kolodny processes quite a lot of information. A glimpse of his face, in his little Skoda pulling onto the curb at 6, waiting with a smoke and a pulpy porno. It's a security camera. Computer pulls back. Kolodny is seen exiting Dima's at 4pm with a large parcel. In a cafe nearby, Kolodny is seen unwrapping the parcel. No wonder why he got flagged, they have his face.
But motive? Computer needs motive to prove that the prediction of crime was correct. Otherwise, Computer is obsolete.
This is why Computer has been buffering. Computer cannot find any. In fact, Kolodny has never thought about the Duma until he was arrested for buying an prop Glock from Dima's. When it comes to predicting crime, Computer is very good at it. When it comes to proving crime, Computer is very good at buffering. Especially with Kolodny; he's clean. Kolodny doesn't go on VK, IG, the like. He's a loner and Computer has nothing to prove that Kolodny has motive for it. Even more so when they find out it's an airsoft gun; the police can never tell between the two.
"Computer has finished processing your data."
Computer has put on its smiley face. "Verdict: Innocen—"
Computer flickers and puts on a sad face. Behind him, text flies across the screen. Computer is putting something together. "STATE HAS CORRECTED THIS JUDGEMENT." the tinny speaker screams. "VERDICT: GUILTY. COMPUTER HAS 99% SUCCESSFUL CONVICTION RATE. SENTENCE: TWENTY YEARS' HARD LABOR."
Kolodny sees text messages being put together; between him and Dima. Discussing the gun, the target, the getaway plan, how to lay-low. Kolodny wants to scream. Smash in Computer's head. Actually get around to smashing in Bogdanov's head. But all that comes out of his mouth is a gurgle of drool sliding disgustingly down his neck. The assistant jabs his arm again. Computer fades to black. | 2020-12-22T06:51:23 | 2020-12-22T06:02:12 | 93 | 69 |
[WP] The three little pigs are dead, as are the next 236. Straw, sticks, bricks, reinforced concrete, titatium it didn't matter. They all fell to the onslaught of the wolf. Little piggy 240 is bracing for the inevitable attack, inside his house of depleted uranium. | 239 pigs in 239 days. Dirt, wood, concrete, hell even titanium. It didn't matter. Everyone single one fell, consumed by the Wrath of the Wolf. The pig sat in his bunker. His project produced enough byproduct to build an entire bunker out of. Not that it matters. The Wolf will get through. Even now the rending of metal can be heard in the distance. The point of the wasn't to stop his advance, it was to delay him. 239 days worth of constant work, all leading up to this moment. Finally, a weapon unlike any other, is ready. Right on cue, the Wolf busted through the final door with an almost feral ferocity.
"Huh, I thought the doors would hold longer." The pig said calmly, despite the sweat dripping off his forehead
"If you thought that merely surviving the day would cause me to move on, then I am afraid you failed."
"No, I never planned on survival. I know my time has come. But maybe the sacrifices of the 239 pigs before me, as well as my own, will stop you." The pig stepped aside from the work bench, the Wolf mild amused amusement turning to malicious laughter
"Hah! You fool, you think an explosion will stop me? Others have tried, and failed."
"No, an explosion won't kill you. But look around you, tell me what this house is made of."
"It doesn't matter what this house is made out of, you failed. Do you have any last words before joining your brothers?"
"This bunker was made out of depleted uranium. I used the radioactive energy from the uranium used to build to create a nuclear device."
Suddenly the Wolf realized, his amusement replaced with fear.
"The explosion won't kill you, that was never the point, but the radiation will. Your body will deteriorate, the dna itself being mutated beyond repair. Even if you survive you will be severely crippled, hopefully enough to make sure you never break down another house. I believe our conversation has come to an end. See you on the other side."
Far in the distance, a pig sat in a mansion of marble, enjoying a glass of wine as the sun sets. Tomorrow will be his day. Suddenly, in the distance, a second sun appears, and within seconds the glass shatters and a deafening boom is heard. He sighed, he was hoping the windows would stay intact until the Wolf arrived. He took the explosion as a sign to go to bed, the Wolf would be there soon. The next day passed peacefully. Then it was 2 days. The Wolf never arrived to the marble mansion, or any other pig after the second sun arrived that one night, though every pig lived with fear until they grew old and died of age.
Their sons lived with that fear early, but died peacefully.
The grandsons never even knew of The Big Bad Wolf, nor the pig who stopped him. | You need to change plans.
"What? Who goes there?"
You, Piggy, I'm talking to you. It's me, the narrator.
"What is this voice in my head? What's going on?"
Piggy, I-
"Get out of my head, this is madness!"
Piggy-
"Out! Get out!"
But-
"Leave!"
PIGGY, LISTEN!
Piggy sat on his hind legs in submission.
"I AM NOT SUBMITTING!"
Shut-up.
Anyway, Piggy waited patiently as the narrator prepared to explain why he would soon die.
"DIE? WHAT? No. I'll get out of this. I can escape the wolf."
Little did Piggy know, he could not escape the wolf. Two-hundred-thirty-nine of his kind had died at the hands of this beast. This would be-
"Two-hundred...thirty-nine...what? How? Is my family okay?"
They are dead.
Piggy sat in silence, stunned by the narrator's words. Piggy didn't know that the narrator was just joking.
"What! Don't joke about that. That's horrible."
Piggy had no sense of humor, but the narrator ignored it. The narrator wanted to explain to Piggy how to survive this wretched wolf.
"Please do."
Sure. In Piggy's hand, a .40 cal appeared.
"Woah, what the hell. How did this get here? Did you just speak that into existence? How am I even holding thi-"
And a Tutu dress appeared around his waist.
"Hey! Not funny!"
Piggy, again, failed to recognize objectively good comedy.
"It's not funny."
It was.
"It's not."
Piggy was unable to speak after a random roll of tape dropped from the ceiling and closed his mouth shut.
Ah, that's much better.
The uranium around Piggy had turned to mush. The wolf had been stalking Piggy, waiting to pounce, but he waited. And waited. And waited.
Suddenly, the wolf sprung to attack. He jumped from the rubble, scaring Piggy senseless.
Piggy muffled something into the tape that was probably very pathetic. He shot the .40 cal at the wolf, but there weren't any bullets.
Piggy continued to shout into the tape. It was getting rather annoying. The tape magically ripped off of him.
"FINALLY! WHAT THE HELL! JUST PUT BULLETS IN THIS THING! THIS WOLF IS ABOUT TO EAT ME!"
Stop shouting.
"Please."
Because Piggy said the magic word and submitted once again to the great and all mighty narrator-
"I am NOT submitting!"
Would you like me to take your bullets away?
"I am submitting."
Piggy smartened up. He pointed the now loaded gun at the big, bad wolf and shot it dead.
"Wow...thank you narrator. You actually saved me."
No problem, Piggy. Let's have some more fun. What do you want to do next?
"Wait, you're not leaving? What-"
Suddenly, one-hundred wolves appeared around Piggy.
"NOOOOOO-"
\[Thank you for reading my story! If you enjoyed it please give me a follow. I plan on writing more stories on Reddit and I love hearing feedback.\] | 2021-01-29T16:24:08 | 2021-01-29T09:22:08 | 577 | 145 |
[WP] While cleaning, you find an old dusty flag with a colorful pattern of leaves and flowers in a box of your late grandmother's things. Thinking it festive, you clean and hang it up outside for Spring. You didn't know that it was an invitation for Fey creatures to shelter in for the night. | Mama finally left the stairs down. She must be extra tired today she drank more of the bad smell stuff than ever. But you don’t mind because it means she left the stairs down. Ever since the men in white took nana away and you started living in her house, you’ve explored every corner of it. Except up there cause the stairs were always up. You clamber your way up the stairs almost falling but you make it. Sneezing as your head pokes through the hole you see almost nothing and are disappointed until something glints in the corner. Picking up what appears to be a blanket it's so pretty. A mess of leaves and flowers, and little do you know but that’s real gold threading and bits of emerald shining in the design.
Taking your prize outside in the sun to admire to end up playing with it, chasing fuzzies (nanas name for squirrels) and flying with it as your cape. Eventually you tire and take a nap under a tree, the blanket wrapped around you. Much later, well into the evening, small voices worm into your dreaming mind and then your not-so-dreaming mind.
… strange... ...but we... ...stay here... ...the flag...
As you stir from your sleep the voices get clearer:
“We can't stay if the flag is not being displayed!” “You can see the flag right there in front of us!” “It's not being displayed its being worn! It doesn’t count.” “Well I think given our situation we can take it on the technicality. Our lady is desperate. We need this!” “But the laws! We can't just...”
You yawn and look at a pair of strange little creatures, your usual desire to cry upon waking nowhere to be seen. Clutching your make-shift blanket you sit up, startling the things into silence. After a tense moment the taller of the two steps forward: “Please littlest lady, we need your help. The flag you wear....” He trails off as you just look at him confused. The short one bops him on the head annoyed “They're too young you idiot, they don’t understand. You’re going to have to Persuade them.” “But you know how much I hate interfering with human minds.” “Our lady lays dying as we speak, we don’t have a choice!”
Sighing the tall one looks at you in an odd way, you feel strange in your head, then suddenly you know what they want you to do. Making your way back up the porch you throw the flag over the railing so it shows proudly over the yard. With a quick thank you, the creatures burst into action. The taller one pulls something out of his bag and chants in some strange but beautiful tongue, while the small one begins running circles around the edge of the yard, leaving a glowing purple trail behind him that solidifies into a colorful mist. With a small shout the tall one throws some sparkles into the air and in front of him forms a glowing circle hanging in the air. Staring on in wonder you watch as several small winged figures shoot out of the circle followed closely by a tall woman, the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen. Golden hair to her waist, palest skin shining in the moonlight, regal white dress flowing along the ground... and wings? Wings! In excitement you yell out “Buufly!” and start running towards her only to see her stumble and collapse to the ground while the small flying people stop you from reaching her. Distracted by their glow you whisper “buuflys”. The two creatures come over and stay with you through the rest of the night, playing with you while the rest look over the woman as she lay in the grass.
Eventually you fall asleep under a tree, and when you wake in the morning, they are all gone and the flag has been blown to the ground by the wind. Last night stays fuzzy until that night when the stars remind you of the little peoples sparkles and after a while of hoping they come back some part of you realizes to put the flag back up. The flag seemed important. And with that, the circle of mist comes back and they all return. Not through a fancy floating circle, but seeming to simply step out from behind trees and bushes. The beautiful butterfly lady floats over to you smiling. “Thank you little one. You may not understand but you saved my life and the lives of my friends. Just remember the flag, and we will always be here.” The words “the flag” connect to the idea of these wonderful people and sears itself into your mind. Shes right and you don’t understand. But for now, understanding the flag is enough.
And so began your first of many wonderful springs and summers and falls dancing and running and playing in the fanciful night air with your new friends. As the years go by you meet so many amazing creatures... and one day a particular one catches your eye. But that is a tale for another day. | Nope, I was wrong. It **was** actually green. I gave the ragged, cotton cloth a few more good whaps against the railing on the stairs. Clouds of dust, dirt, and grime billowed into the crisp spring air then settled onto the walkway in thick sheets. I took a breath and immediately started coughing, despite the handkerchief I had tied around my face. The thing had to have been gathering dust for the last hundred years.
Nana had been a little lax about the cleaning in the last few years. And although Rhoda came in to dust and help with the dishes once a week, she wouldn’t have gone into the attic. Instead, the delightful task of cleaning out a century’s worth of knick-knacks, old clothes, and accompanying dust fell to me. Not that I minded, really. That attic was one of my last connections to her. It felt like every time I went up there, I found some new reminder of the happy summers I had spent staying with her and Grandpa. A small shawl I would wear over my head and pretend to be a desert explorer forging across the Sahara. A doll I had found in a bookcase and slept with for a whole week. A bottle of perfume that Nana would wear on special occasions. It had only been two months and I missed Nana so much it hurt. The little reminders were everything, but also felt like stabs to the heart. I couldn’t stand the thought of crying over yet another Sunday hat, but I found myself sorting through the attic almost every afternoon.
I could feel the tears welling up again and I laid the green cloth … something over the railing. Whatever it was, it was going to need more serious cleaning than the railing would provide. I peeked inside the mailbox to see if anything else had come. I had managed to stop most of the bills in Nana’s name, but I was waiting on some more documents that would allow me to officially inherit the house. It was empty, though. Good. If I had to send a death certificate to one more billing department I really would burst into tears.
The phone rang. Struggling to pull the handkerchief over my head I rushed back into the house and picked up the handset in the kitchen, “Hello?”
“Hi, Sarah, dear. It’s Aunt May.”
Aunt May wasn’t really my aunt, of course, but around here every woman a generation older and close enough friends to be invited for tea was ‘Aunt’. She was the opposite of Nana – gregarious, pleasantly plump, and an excellent cook. She had a cake at every bake sale in town, even when she wasn’t invited, “Hi, Aunt May. How are you doing?” I cleared my throat, trying to choke down the tears that were only partly due to the dust.
“Oh, I’m fine, dear, I’m fine. My knees are acting up again, you know how they are. But I’m a survivor, you know. I’m a survivor. That’s what Linda would always say – ‘The only thing sturdier than May is her poundcake’.” She laughed at her own joke. I laughed along with her out of politeness, the lump in my throat seeming to bob around with the laughter. Aunt May seemed to notice, “Oh, honey, I am so sorry about your Nana. She was an amazing woman – she knew half of what you were going to say before you said it and didn’t take nonsense from anybody. But then you’re Linda’s granddaughter, I don’t have to tell you. You know what she was like.”
I did. She always seemed to know what was going on before anyone else did and somehow would show up with whatever was needed at just the right time. A quality I appreciated when I would come home from playing at the school playground and she would meet me halfway home with a bandage for my scraped knee. “She really was amazing,” was all I could manage to choke out. I was definitely going to cry now. Maybe I could get Aunt May off the phone before it happened.
Aunt May gave that answer a moment, probably nodding to herself, “I know it’s hard, but you be strong. She wouldn’t want you to be sad for her.” I didn’t trust myself to respond to that. “Anyway, I was calling to let you know that Matt and I are going to drive into the city tomorrow, in case you needed anything. I know you don’t have a car and we’d be happy to drop you off to do some shopping or go back to that lawyer’s office if you need to. There’s a wonderful little restaurant on the way where we could get lunch. You haven’t been there, yet, have you? They have the best tomato soup. You like tomato soup, don’t you?”
“Thanks, Aunt May. I’ll think about it.” Getting Aunt May to shut up was difficult at the best of times. I idly considered inventing a smoking stove or some other emergency before I ended up sobbing into the handset.
“Well, you let us know if you want to come. We won’t leave until at least nine.”
“I will.”
“Alright, dear. Chin up – things will get better.” She finally hung up the phone. I carefully placed the handset back on its archaic wall stand, then felt hot tears run down my cheeks. I had probably had enough of the attic for today. I brushed at my face with my sleeve and reached for the freezer. I had had enough frozen casseroles dropped off on the doorstep in the last four weeks to last me a lifetime. Surely something in here would be appetizing enough for dinner. | 2021-03-09T18:02:33 | 2021-03-09T15:02:12 | 18 | 13 |
[WP] "It has been determined that Humans are no longer an endangered species. Earth is no longer a restricted zone and open hunting may begin." | "Human," said Jakos the 9th, of the house of Atracidae to his friend and master, "I believe this one is now dead and you can loot its body for valuable items and fluids. I will search for salts."
The [massive spider protector](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/od81o1/wp_2_years_ago_tired_of_all_the_bugs_in_your/h3zvw12/) of the human named Vincenzo investigated other bodies while the human scavenged for anything useful. The attacking creatures were vaguely humanoid in form but far taller and with barely enough meat to cover their spiny skeletons. For all of their frail appearance they were still remarkably tough to kill.
Not for Jakos, of course, but there was only one of him and many hundreds of the attackers flooding through the city.
Vincenzo hefted a weapon from the alien's grip that appeared to be both spear and rifle. He ran his hands over the weapon for a manner of seconds before Jakos pressed the human's hands away with one of his claws. "Human, I believe you should point that away from both myself and you. You make me feel what I believe to be 'nervous'."
Three more of the tall, skeletal attackers came around the street, joking amongst themselves like the game it was to them. They had but a moment to gawk before Vincenzo pressed the correct controls on his scavenged weapon and tore a hole the size of a dinner plate through the chest of one of the aliens. It made a horrific wheeze before falling over as if it had meant to bust out laughing instead.
The remaining aliens raised their weapons just in time to be skewered by Jakos' right and left forelegs. Jakos lowered over one of them and *drank deep* in a way that made Vincenzo turn his back and swallow his gorge.
"Ah, my friend," said Jakos wetly, "you have protected me and raised me to defend you from pests. I believe were are now in what your military cinema calls a Target Rich Environment. Come, scavenge more of their weapons and let us find more of your kind. I believe it is time to make the price too high for these hunters." | At least the bastards filled us in. Explained the rules ahead of time.
"The hunters shall wield no weapons."
Some consolation. We pictured the Xenomorph, the Predator. Alien creatures evolved for the hunt. Giant scorpions or Cthulhu-types with toxic tentacles and powers of mind control.
And they gave us advanced notice, too.
"In exactly thirty days, by your Earth time, the hunt shall begin."
Loads of time to prepare for an invasion of extra-terrestrial trophy hunters, right? So humanity banded together, just like in the movies, everybody holding hands. . .
Just kidding.
Everything fractured. The world fell into a panic. Governments abandoned their nations and states to anarchy. Hoarded all the weaponry and resources they could for themselves. Bunkered down. Neighbours turned on each other. You couldn't trust nobody but your own family. Everyone was looking out for number one.
We were lucky we already lived off grid and had a stockpile of guns, food and ammunition. Cuz the shit I heard over the radio, while the broadcasts were still running. . .it chilled me to the bone. The things people were doing to each other, before the true enemy had even arrived. In my more cynical moments, I almost thought it was a blessing we were about to get culled: if this is what humans are like, I thought, what about us is worth saving?
And then the stations went quiet. Everything went quiet. And all we could do was wait.
\- - -
Pops says we're lucky to be out in the bush. Away from the busy cities. We'll be out of the way for the aliens when they come. And if some wander this far, they'll probably be on their own, and they won't know the woods like we do.
We set traps throughout the land. Made hidden pits with spikes. Set bear traps under leaves. Strung alarms everywhere so if anything walks through it'll trip and we'll hear.
Pops says that mom and Mandy are scared, so I have to man up with him, push my fear down. But I'm not scared. I've been hunting with him since I was five years old. I'm fourteen now. I'm ready. I even hope one of them things wanders out to our woods, so we can add a new head to the wall. Pops always said he wanted an exotic one to put next to the bear and deer. He was thinking a lion, maybe, or a polar bear. But why not an alien dome?
I'll bag him one. I'll make him proud.
\- - -
**Part 2!**
[https://www.reddit.com/r/CLBHos/comments/oekjkc/open\_season\_parts\_1\_and\_2/](https://www.reddit.com/r/CLBHos/comments/oekjkc/open_season_parts_1_and_2/) | 2021-07-05T18:39:22 | 2021-07-05T16:04:57 | 396 | 206 |
[WP] A retired assassin places a hit on himself to test the new generations abilities. | I had no name, the closest to a name I had was either "Hey you!" or "That guy.." because I was bred to be one of the best assassins the likes rivalling kingdoms never seen or heard. To them I was nothing but a ghost story, fabricated by the King to make people tremble in their robes.
I managed to sow dissent and paranoia into the elites in their high castles. Helping to topple entire hierarchies and dynasties that lasted for centuries.
But once I grew old I was forcibly retired, making room for newer, younger royal assassins.
I was now but a common man, with no purpose or even a name to myself.
So I christened myself after the ship that I went travelling the world on, Elvira. And soon after I met my love.
But I still had an aftertaste of the life I was forced to abandon, still crazed with the adrenaline after performing a hit or assassination.
So I put out a hit on myself.
I had been keeping tabs on the world and everytime someone was killed I noticed the signs that the new generation committed it.
They were more brutal and flashy than I remembered the old guard to be.
So in order to protect myself and my family I had told them to stay home while I left for work needs.
I made sure to go as far away before the assassins caught up to me.
The middle of the night was passing as I was drinking at a crowded tavern when I noticed some cloaked men at different points of the bar.
One of them sat by next to me before attempting to slash my neck by throwing a knife at me, I leaned my head backwards and the knife flew past me and into the backside of a drunken half orc.
"You almost had me there. Unfortunately there won't be a second time."
A poisoned knife flew out of my sleeve and slit their upper arm, they were dead moments later after convulsing.
I immediately stood up and headed for the back of the room when a towering silhouette covered me.
A handaxe almost caved in my skull after narrowly dodging it, they were bold. I had to give them that.
A fireball materialized in my hand and I lobbed it at the hulking man, they tried to backpedal but the fireball directly hit their back, immediately disintegrating him and causing an immense explosion that wrecked the tavern, killing dozens of bystanders and ultimately scaring off the third assassin.
They had potential, but not enough training or actual experience.
But they will grow more powerful and knowledgable over time, becoming as skilled as the ones that came before them with practice and experience. | I was rasied as an assassin, a ruthless, psycophatic murdering machine; I have killer over three hundred people in my time, but now is my time to retire. I sharpen my blood-stained blades, resting them against the side of my shelf as an act of commemoration. I display the other ones, amused by the questions of confused guests. Nobody knows of my profession except my boss, and even he does not know my true identity. I stare out of the window - they should be here soon.
I ordered a hit on myself for the sole purpose of testing the new generation. I wanted to see if they were any good on an experienced assassin such as myself; I lurked to the corner of the room, stuck in a meditating position, and steadied myself for the battle to come.
I heard them before they even entered the house - one was by the window, one by the door and one seemingly above the room. They entered, gun in hand, and I snatched my loyal knife before the window shattered, door was thrown of it's hinges and the roof collapsed. I stared at the people who I had summoned to kill me.
"Hello, fellas!" I smirk, still struck in a relaxed pose, tranquil as ever, "you don't happen to be the delivery men?"
They look at me - bemused - scars painting their faces, bruises staining their skin, flesh seared and bone exposed. At least they look experienced. Darting past me, I simply stick my hand out and cause one to topple over. I get off my feet and throw the knife in the air, and arrow whispering through the air as a crossbow has been released.
I catch the arrow in my hands, the force of it propelling me back a few feet. A ravenous taste for blood I had not known for years manages to send them to their feet. I wrestle the second, breaking his nose and sending him to the floor. He smashes my coffee table, and I grip his throat.
Outside, a trident of thunder lacerates the sky in rage, and my third opponent, enraged, charges forward, relentless, his yellow eyes searing my flesh and bone. I move to the side, and he overestimates his jump, landing in a painting of a woman in black clothing, a bird resting on her shoulder. He breaks it. Then, something unexpected happens; he conjures a spell.
An inferno engulfs my home, enveloping everything in a shroud. A strangling grip of fire - the flames dancing and tickling my skin, gnawing, biting - sends me backwards, as the explosion erupts. I scream out, dazed, bewildered, at this sudden change in mood.
Grabbing one of my blades that was hanging limply of the wall, I charge at my third opponent, a wall of fire trotting forward as if a horse. I manage to slice his throat with a clean cut from the air, blinded by the collage of red intermingled with orange and yellow. For now - however - my mission had been successful. | 2021-08-17T01:39:21 | 2021-08-16T22:58:32 | 30 | 14 |
[WP] Reverse Romeo and Juliet. Two families have long been allies, but their kids absolutely hate each other. | Two households, both alike in dignity
(In fair Verona, where we lay our scene),
From dear friends comes new animosity
Where cruelty tears friends apart at the seem.
From lineage all claiming they’re best bros
A pair of children full of angst so rife;
Whose squabbles only cause parental woe
Doth moving out restore a friendship’s life.
The fearful approach of college sort of,
And their refusal to be on ‘ same page,
Which dorm mates now, however will live
Is now the half hour drama on stage;
The which, if you each week will still attend,
What’s summ’d up will take nine season to end. | "Does Joshua have to come to my 16th birthday party" Olivia complained to her father. Her father Danny, rolls his eyes at his daughter. "Yes, you were invited to his why shouldn't he be invited to yours."
Olivia slouches back in her seat "He only invited me cause his Mom made him." "Olivia, don't be difficult darling, Josh is a lovely boy you just have to get to know him" Her mother said joining in on the conversation.
&#x200B;
\~meanwhile\~
"Mom! I don't want to go to Olivia's party" Josh complained. "Too bad" Sylvia replied "She invited you"
"She only invited me cause you made me invite her, to mine"
"Well, you're invited and you're going. End of"
Josh knew there was no arguing with his mother, when she used that tone and decided he may as well escape before the usual lecture about Olivia and how she was a sweet girl he should try harder with her came up.
What neither of their parents saw was that Josh didn't want to try with her and She didn't want him to try either. | 2021-08-18T07:09:10 | 2021-08-18T03:25:31 | 23 | 13 |
[WP] you are perfectly safe in your bunker, you have plenty of food and water and even plumbing. The problem is that you are alone and there is a zombie outside. Out of sheer boredom you teach it to speak, and now it's trying to convince you to let it in. | Heya Tom, it's Bob, from the office down the hall.
It's good to see you, buddy, how've you been?
Things have been okay for me, except that I'm a zombie now.
I'd really wish you'd let us in.
I think I speak for all of us when I say I understand,
Why you folks might hesitate to submit to our demands.
But heres a FYI, you're all gonna die screaming.
All we wanna do is eat your brains!
We're not unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat your eyes.
All we wanna do is eat your brains!
We're at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise.
If you open up the door, we'll all come inside and eat your brains.
I don't wanna nitpick Tom, but is this really your plan?
Spend your whole life locked inside a mall?
Maybe thats OK for now, but someday you'll be out of food and guns,
And you'll have to make the call.
I'm not surprised to see you haven't thought it through enough.
You never had the head for all that bigger picture stuff.
But Tom, that's what I do, and I plan on eating you slowly.
All we wanna do is eat your brains!
We're not unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat your eyes.
All we wanna do is eat your brains!
We're at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise.
If you open up the door, we'll all come inside and eat your brains.
I'd like to help you Tom, in any way I can.
I sure appreciate the way you're working with me.
I'm not a monster Tom, well technically I am,
I guess I am.
I've got another meeting Tom, maybe we could wrap it up?
Know we'll get to common ground somehow.
Meanwhile I'll report back to my colleagues who are chewing on the doors,
I guess we'll table this for now.
I'm glad to see you take constructive criticism well.
Thank you for your time, I know we're all busy as hell.
And we'll put this thing to bed, when I bash your head open.
All we wanna do is eat your brains!
We're not unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat your eyes.
All we wanna do is eat your brains!
We're at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise.
Open up the door, we'll all come inside and eat your brains! | How could I be so God damn stupid?!? Teach it to speak I said, it'll be fun I said, it'll cure my boredom I said!
Whoever the poor bastard that used to own that corpse outside was, they have one helluva voice! It's so smooth and soothing. Like the love child of Morgan Freeman and David Attenborough, that voice could sell water to a drowning man, sell ice to an Eskimo, sell sand to an Egyptian, etc. anyway, a little backstory...
January 1st, 2023, the day the world ended. We only really just got back to normal from Covid 19 (ah the simpler times), and me and my gf decided we'd go and spend new year with her parents, big mistake. Come the morning, I say the morning, it was more like 2pm because new year's, and I notice the TV is on CNN with a breaking news story about Times Square, apparently someone who was high on meth or something attacked people, ripping their throats out before they were gunned down by police. Well, you can guess what happens next right? Well the ones that were killed came back from the dead and started to attack more people, and they in turn attacked others, until all of NYC was undead.
I couldn't tell what the date even is anymore... It's been maybe 6 months since then, maybe longer, but what does it matter? I've lost everything. I lost my house, I lost my car, I lost my dog. But worst of all, I lost my beautiful girlfriend. She's asthmatic, we couldn't find an inhaler for her and she succumbed to her asthma. To make matters worse, one of those... things got her. Scratched her arm, I had to shoot her after she took her last breath so she didn't become one of them.
I can't go on like this, I may have food and water as well as a working toilet and shower, but I'm so alone and this zombie is trying to make me open the door! There's no way I can keep resisting. That voice is so enthralling and I'm really depressed because of what I've been through...
I've got a gun, I could off myself, or I could shoot the zombie outside. But there could be more, it sounded like that one wasn't alone earlier... Do I kill myself, or let them do it for me? To be honest with you, I'm convinced the pain of being disemboweled by the undead would be less than the emotional pain I've been in for a long time now...
"Come on buddy, I won't eat you, I'll protect you. I can be your pet" All right, fuck this! I'm ending this now! I'm killing that thing and any others nearby. If I'm going down, I'm taking as many of them with me! If you find this notebook, now that I'm in a better place now. Danielle my love, I'll see you soon. | 2021-09-29T12:18:43 | 2021-09-29T11:48:39 | 26 | 14 |
[WP] Your childhood bully once said you were nobody. Unbeknownst to him at the time, he had a reality-bending superpower. Now he's the world's strongest superhero, everyone calls him The Truth, because his word is the absolute truth... Nobody knows about his past, and Nobody will make him pay. | It's time.
He's stepped up to the microphone. Why would they give him a microphone?
Of course, the first thirty things that are going to come out of his mouth are obvious platitudes. Statements that will change nothing because they're already obviously true. He likes to use them as camouflage.
There's going to be one, though. One thing that he says that will advance one little part of one plot that's already in motion. There always is. Every simulation I've run.
Not that I care. After [the incident at the store](https://www.reddit.com/r/writingprompts/comments/q0l45l/_/hf9hqdq), there's only one thing that I care about.
I check my phone. The NFC harvester apps I've written are doing their job wonderfully. He might have unlimited power over knowledge, but he still has logins. He might have rebranded, but his biometrics haven't changed.
It's ridiculous that they let me get this close. Right on the stage behind him. But I suppose that's what happens when you erase all knowledge of someone from existence. Not only did the world forget about me, they also cannot form new knowledge of me. I'm even invisible to surveillance recordings—computer memory is still memory. Like a rock in the river of perception, I'm something you just flow around and ignore.
Applause. Unbelievable. Yeah, yeah, libraries for children, literacy, knowledge. I know. I'm not saying they're not important. I'm saying we should be careful of the hand that rocks the cradle. The hand that turns the pages, maybe. Heh. That's good.
I check my phone. Instagram is boring. But my timing is immaculate—the NFC harvest is complete. Logins are all there.
I start tapping. Gnosis—The Truth—whatever you call yourself now, in about thirty minutes, I'm going to—
**"... but my work is never done. Villains are always among us. There's one approximately three feet behind me and to my left."**
Wait, what? They can't—
**"You can seize him. He's unarmed. Although you'll want to confiscate his phone. I believe it now has a great deal of incriminating information."**
I'm forced onto my knees. Ziptied. My phone is taken away. Yeah. They can see me now.
He turns back to the audience.
**"The Truth is that knowledge is power. Villains can steal many things. But nobody can take away what you know."**
... Oh, you beautiful, wonderful fool.
Knowledge is power. But wisdom is different. And that was very, very unwise of you. | ___His name is The Truth, but I knew him as Daniel Beckham, back when I could still know things. Now I’m just a Watcher.___
_News reporter on the radio:_ “protesters in France are keeping the president hostage because they’re angry about his stance on climate change”
\*sigh* ‘I guess it can’t be helped, time to fix this mess.’
#####Half an hour later in a bar:
‘I don’t know man, it feels wrong to do this. I’m helping people, I know that, but it’s all just so meaningless.’ ‘Hey barman, another whiskey please!’ \*crackling through the phone:* ‘maybe you should see a therapist, you don’t have to worry about a secret identity like most of us.’ ‘I’ve tried that already, but none of them understand my problem; my memories aren’t part of the real world anymore. I mean, you never had a lizard tail until I imagined you had one in 5th grade.’ ‘What are you talking about? I’ve always had a lizard tail, I told you it’s because of a fortunate birth defect.’ ‘No it’s not! You don’t understand how it feels to know the truth that isn’t the truth anymore. It messes with your brain. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t have a superpower, but just a terrible curse.’ ‘Don’t say that man, you have the power to change the world whenever you please, that’s incredible! I’d take that over a regenerative tail any day of the week.’ ‘You don’t get it, it feels as if this world isn’t real, as if my memories are the real world, but I know that’s not true. It’s making me go insane! It all started with that kid in 5th grade, Patrick was his name, you knew him.’ ‘I have no idea who you’re talking about.’ ‘Of course you don’t, I called him a nobody one day, then he went home to cry, and he never came back to school, he had never come to school in the first place, we just had a spare table in the classroom that year. At least, that’s how everyone remembers it, but I know otherwise, he’s still out there, in one form or another.’ ‘What kind of nonsense are you talking about? Maybe you are indeed going crazy, I’d really look into that therapy thing, you need it.’ ‘Maybe you’re right, I’ll think about it. I gotta go now, speak you later.’ ‘Later.’
#####On a bridge somewhere:
‘There’s only one way I can find out if he’s truly still out there, I need to tell him that I’m sorry, I was a real asshole back then.’
___I watch Daniel come to me, I know he’s sorry, but I don’t know if I’ll forgive him, I can’t know anymore.___
&nbsp;
___
This is one of my first works here, I’ve done a few others before, but not many, so feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome! Thank you for reading! Also I know the formatting is weird, I’ve tried to change it but Reddit is working against me today. | 2021-11-23T07:18:55 | 2021-11-23T07:15:26 | 1,250 | 45 |
[WP] Your childhood bully once said you were nobody. Unbeknownst to him at the time, he had a reality-bending superpower. Now he's the world's strongest superhero, everyone calls him The Truth, because his word is the absolute truth... Nobody knows about his past, and Nobody will make him pay. | "Now, Mr. Truth, thank you for agreeing to this interview. Do you mind if I call you Mr. Truth?"
"That's fine."
"Right, Mr. Truth. Our readers are dying to know more about you. You can just make any statement you want, and it becomes real. Besides you, Nobody has that power, correct?"
"Yes, absolutely correct."
"Amazing. They say that Nobody is stronger than you, is that correct?"
"Er, yes. That's right. Nobody can defeat me."
"And Nobody can resist your ability?"
"Some can partially resist it, but nobody is fully immune."
"And you're totally immune to other powers? Nobody has power over you?"
"That's right."
"How fascinating! So, if you were to declare that the moon was made of lemon custard, would that come true?"
"Er, no. Even I have limits."
"So, some of our readers have asked why you don't just say that the villains are surrendering, or that criminal acts are now physically impossible. Would those limitations be why?"
"Haha, yeah. But I can shut down their superpowers, make them super heavy, and cause them to pass out from a lack of air. Sometimes their own powers interfere with that, to a degree, which is when I have to resort to delivering them to justice with my fists."
"Wow! One last question, Mr. Truth, if you don't mind me asking? Do you recall when you were in fifth grade? There was another child whom you bullied relentlessly. One day you beat him to the brink of unconsciousness while yelling about how he would always be nobody, and you were going to grow up to be a hero. Do you recall that?"
"What? Where did you hear that?"
"Nobody told me. By the way, your voice will no longer work. I've been keeping track of you for a long while now, biding my time. The air around your mouth will not enter. Did you know that you literally changed my name to Nobody? All of your nerve endings will double in sensitivity every second. You made my parents forget I ever existed. The pull of gravity on your body will double and switch directions every five seconds until you die. You deserve this." | "Hey hey hey! Look who it is... the good ol'' truth" I walked forwards flamboyantly.
Samuel looked at me puzzlingly "Do I know you?" he asks, innocently enough. "Maybe, who knows. But I know you... Samuel."
"How do you know that name?" He shouts, seemingly with confusion, but undertoned also with the raw anger that comes out of the tantrum a baby makes when you first tell them no. You see, Samuel was no ordinary person. Samuel was the truth, and the absolute truth. He could've ruled the world, really. Thankfully he remains as smart as he was when he was but a child. Not smart at all. His superpower gives him full rein over the world and reality itself. If he says something that would be false, the world shifts and changes, throughout time, throughout space. Everything changes to fit his word.
If you, reader, were born with an intelligence greater than that of an ape, surely you could see the power he holds. And yet, he merely chooses to be some superhero vigilante, stopping crime in one city, in one country, in one continent. This specific part of the world, a mere city. He could say the word and create A universe. God took 7 days to create the universe. He could do it with the flick of a tongue.
But there's been a story going around... a legend of old, one lost to the ages... at least that's what I've been telling people. In reality it happened 30 years ago. You see, Samuel was not one to lie much as a child, but for his innocence in one aspect, came a sinister sadism.
Sadie was a happy girl, really. Living a simple life, enjoying her childhood. Unfortunately enough for her, she would soon feel Samuel's wrath.
After a terrible year of having her mind and soul thoroughly broken, Sadie would receive her greatest... gift, surprisingly, from her tormentor. Samuel would utter the simple phrase "You're nobody, Sadie."
In the exhalation of that breath, Samuel had finally done it. He'd not only broken Sadie's mind and soul, but also her reality.
Sadie. No, Not Sadie. The existence of Sadie had been broken, and like a phoenix from the ashes of this damned existence, Nobody was born.
Nobody is truly good, and Nobody is truly evil. Nobody knows everything, and Nobody is above the law. Nobody is stronger than The Truth.
"You're scared... aren't you Samuel?" Nobody muttered. "Because Nobody knows The Truth's past... And Nobody will make him pay."
Pardon my rudeness dear reader, I forgot to introduce myself. The name's Sadie, but you don't really have to mind me, I'm nobody. | 2021-11-23T11:51:41 | 2021-11-23T07:57:35 | 109 | 57 |
[WP] You can talk to ghosts, but you've never liked using your power much. That is, until you realized ghosts have problems too, and they're willing to pay, in their own way, for solutions to those problems. You launch a new business venture. | My consultation business started small. Nancy Chesterfield, who had died of a ripe old age in the house I currently lived in, wanted me notify her granddaughter of a letter that had fallen behind a dresser. In exchange, she helped me find the wallet I'd misplaced.
Nancy was a talkative ghost, and my client base grew quickly. Not as many as you'd expect wanted to send messages to loved ones. Ghosts understand that a mysterious message from the beyond is just as likely to confuse and upset the living as comfort them.
A surprising number were mainly interested in human media. The tricky thing was that ghosts struggle to stay in places where they aren't welcome. If they wanted to watch the latest season of their favorite Netflix drama, they either had to peer over the shoulder of a loved one who found their presence comforting or score an invitation from their friendly neighborhood ghost talker.
It was easy to set up a dedicated media room once a former CEO offered me some insider trading tips for me to log onto his personal email and send a strategy plan to his successor. A ghost with a background in IT helped me set it up to look like it was set to send automatically a month after the CEO's death.
The job pretty much ran itself, honestly. Ghosts without the knowledge base to help me transform information into money could always take a shift corralling the other applicants. It wasn't often that I was surprised anymore.
Until today.
"You want me to ghostwrite your fanfiction."
"It's more of a transcription gig than ghostwriting."
"I know, but I love puns."
She laughed. "You're perfect! It's a comedic story with lots of wordplay."
"Transcription is quite a bit more time-consuming than most of my jobs. But I'm sure we can work something out. Assuming you remember your login?"
The ghost nodded. "I'm on AO3 as cake_made_of_pickles. The password is-"
I dropped my pen. "Wait... You're Pickles? I love your stuff! That story with Sam Vimes becoming a Jedi was fantastic. So you died, huh? Sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, them's the breaks, I guess. But it means a lot that you like my stories!"
"Absolutely! Your fee is waived, I can't wait to get started!" | A life’s fortune meant nothing after death. It’s what makes working for ghosts such lucrative business—after I learned to talk to them, of course.
Don’t blame me. I never knew they would eventually turn into spectral piggy banks, their riches mine after solving their problems. You tell me you wouldn’t be a little apprehensive talking to the supernatural inhabitants, unable to move on from our world. You approach one of then, and your skin’s goosebumps inevitably rises, your heart palpitates wildly, and so much cold sweat pours out, like each pore was a leaky tap.
“Kevin… Kevin…”
And the way they spoke. Overly familiar, with not much sense of boundaries or decorum. I guess they leave that behind when they stopped being human in some sense of regaining their freedoms.
“Yes?” I asked, looking around my room. Was it from there? Or there?
“You are the Kevin… the Kevin that solves problems…”
“That’s me,” I said. “Could you please tell me where you are?”
“In the corner… to your right…”
“So,” I said, looking up in the corner and squinting my eyes. Yeap, there it was. Translucent, like frosted glass, a spirit stared back unnervingly. The eyes were wide open, and didn’t seem to blink. I tried to suppress the primal fear that arose whenever such a being appeared.
“What’s the problem?”
“Need help… somebody… in my house…”
“Somebody in your house,” I said. “What somebody?”
“A man… moving the things around,” the ghost said, absent-mindedly staring off into the distance now. “Removing my things. Putting their own.”
“You are dead,” I said. “The ownership must have transferred. That’s not too uncommon, is it?”
“I never agreed to sell…” the spirit said. “I just want him out of my property… I want it to leave me alone… you can have everything…”
I scanned the spirit once more. They weren’t really capable of interacting with the physical world, so I watched it float down, phase through my table to show just the upper half of its body, like it was sitting within the desk.
“Well,” I said. “How much is everything.”
The spirit said a number. I let out a low whistle.
“That’s a big number.”
“I was rich…” the spirit said. “Now all I want is my house…”
“Well, he’s living large,” I said, pulling my drawer out. A ghostly hand was stuck in it, but I managed to retrieve the contents.
A gun.
“And from what I know about life,” I smiled. “That’s something that can be changed rather quickly.”
---
r/dexdrafts | 2022-07-14T14:28:33 | 2022-07-14T12:18:06 | 25 | 10 |
[WP] Your partner of a few months has sat you down to confess a big secret of theirs. They explain, nervously and falteringly, that they're a hivemind, and they hope you'll still be okay with dating them knowing it. | He was crying into a pillow, in my lap as I smiled down at him, ruffling my fingers through his buzzed hair.
"Dude, you're awesome."
"What the fuck are you talking about!!" he yelled into the pillow. "I'm a fucking liar! I cheat on you daily! Hell, one of me is-"
I pulled him up out of his pillow, and forced him to look me in the eyes.
"Johnathan?"
"Mmhmm?" He gulped.
"Who told you that you weren't the most awesome person on the planet?" I asked him.
"What?" he teared up again.
"Who told you that you weren't the most awesome person on the planet?" I asked him again, giving him a small peck on the cheek.
"Well, um, I guess... listen, that doesn't matter. Pierce, I fucking-"
"Did nothing wrong. I know what you're saying." I shifted us around on the couch, before laying his head down on my stomach. His red hair was so cute when it was messy. "And what *I'm* saying is that I forgive you all."
He twisted around, before putting a pillow on my stomach, and burying his face in it. "Really?"
I smiled. "Yeah."
He didn't say anything for a while. We just sat there, the sound of a nothing but the fan running in the other room and the cheering of obviously drunk people telling me that The Eight Ball was opening again after it's 11:30 closing time.
He had had enough trouble coming out to me. He didn't need any more strife in the world.
I opened up my phone, and put on something he would know well.
>*𝄞 Lullaby by birdland that's what I 𝄞*
>
>*Always hear, when you sigh,*
>
> *Never in my wordland could there be words to reveal*
>
>*𝄞 In a phrase how I feel 𝄞*
The music continued on, as we just laid there in each other's arms, my stomach and a throw pillow acting as his bed. It was a tad uncomfortable for me, but it was worth it. He needed it.
So we stayed like that for a while. He wasn't quite getting to sleep, but he was definitely happy just resting on my stomach for a while, while I played slow, quiet jazz, and pulled my hands through his messy highlighter red hair.
It didn't last forever, though, as just as I thought he was about to get to sleep, my little Johnny got up from his human bed, gave me a peck on the cheek, and put his hands over my eyes.
"Don't look." I could hear the eagerness in his eyes, so I rested into the couch a little deeper, plugged my ears, and shut my eyes, tight as I could.
While I didn't know exactly what was going on, I had an idea, one that was confirmed by two of the only sounds I could still hear with my ears plugged- the sound of an opening door, and the sound of shuffling feet.
It was only when my ears were forcefully unplugged that I heard a distinct sound of giggling going on, and the voice of my boyfriend giddily in my ear.
"Open your eyes, sweety."
I opened my eyes to around 12 people. They all seemed to be completely different at first. Different sexes, different races, all of them seemed to be dressed differently- one of them was wearing nothing but spandex, which threw me for a loop- but out of all them, one stood out.
For most people, their boss is someone they don't usually like. They're your overseer, the person who makes more money than you specifically so they make sure you get your job done. For most people, they're a pest, like that nerdy kid who called teacher when you secretly left the school during recess to get snacks at the corner store.
Lucy Steinbeck was not that person.
Lucy was the definition of "I wish I'd met you earlier." She was smart enough to know what the higher ups wanted, and kind enough to try and find ways that made sure we didn't hate our work lives in the process. She tried her best to act as the servant we all tried to be, finding spots where she could fill in for things like sick days, vacations, and for giving someone the time they needed to learn. I'd grown close to her, alongside a few of us who had been in our field for a while, and under her guidance, we became the most efficient department of our company for the last year before she left for a different place. Naturally, we followed her, and ever since, work's been a little more bearable every day.
I smiled, giving this part of my partner a hug, almost in tears.
I looked at all of my partner, giving them a radiant smile I didn't know I'd make today.
"So you looked out for me?"
Lucy gave me a short shoulder rub, before kissing me on the cheek. "Of course, sweet. Of course I am."
I looked back at Johnathan. He smiled.
"Having 12 minds makes you a little better at some things, no?"
I smiled. "As if you could get any better."
I leaped into Johnathan's arms, and with the help of other 'aspects' of him, as he liked to call it, we moved to the bedroom.
Pretty fucking awesome, right? | This is a challenge where I'll spend 30-some days writing a micro-story based on a combination of whatever catches my eye at r/writingprompts that day plus the theme of the day as predetermined by a list prebuilt out of my friends' suggestions.
Today's theme is "Affairs with shamans" and the writing prompt is "Your partner of a few months has sat you down to confess a big secret of theirs. They explain, nervously and falteringly, that they're a hivemind, and they hope you'll still be okay with dating them knowing it."
---
Jones was anxious.
Who wouldn't be in his situation? When the incredible woman by the name of Tiva - though she also entrusted him with her spiritual name, Moon Gleam - told him she'd like to talk about something and that it could only be done at the sacred grounds at her home, "where Nature speaks clearest and the ancestors loom closest", he was worried. In his mind, it would either be a breakup or a proposal. He wasn't really ready for any of the two.
But what he also wasn't was a coward, so he'd do it for the woman he'd loved with all his heart - despite only being in a relationship for a few months so far. So as Moon Gleam asked him, he'd arrived after sundown - finding the bonfire she'd already lit in a clearing after a bit of searching through the woods. Dressed in some kind of a ceremonial garb - he'd never seen her like that, but it was a good look on her, Jones thought - she motioned for him to sit down on the other side of the fire.
The flames dancing between them obscured her face somewhat, but it looked like she was also nervous - which only reaffirmed the young man's suspicions. After a few moments of silence she finally addressed him.
"Welcome, my love. I am sorry for filling your heart with worry, but I did not believe you would accept what I have to say without the right conditions - and the Night of the Owl bestows upon us exactly those. Tonight, I shall tell you a truth about myself, and you will have to make a choice."
Now Jones was confused. This was neither of the options he expected. What kind of thing would Tiva tell him? What did she have to keep from him?
The Native American woman looked him in the eyes through the roaring fire.
"I have told you before that I am the shaman of our tribe - as was my father, as was his father, and so on, and so on. I am aware you are skeptical about my claim, and I do not hold it against you - for you have been brought up among those who do not know the strength of the mountain, the wisdom of the river, the kindness of the hare. Yet, today, I ask you to believe what I say and understand what it means."
Her lover nodded. He had his reservations, but he was still willing to accept what she said - just through a prism of science. That could have been a point of contention, had the shaman not been so understanding. He was truly blessed with this woman.
"Know that there is a thread sewing together me and my ancestors. I converse with them, ask them for guidance. They are ever present with me, seeing through my eyes, hearing what I hear... feeling what I feel. Our children, should the spirits bless us with them, will likewise have me to count on once I come to the end of my path in this life."
"Wait, you already want kids? And can we please not talk about you dying just yet?"
"You do not yet understand what my words mean. I was expecting that. That is why I brought you here tonight - for on this night, here, under the light of the full moon, I can show you."
"Show me what?"
Tiva closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. For just a moment, Jones thought that the edges of the bonfire's flames turned blue - but it must have been a trick of the light.
"Finally! Young man, I've been dying to talk to you! Hah!"
The man fell back, startled - he never heard his beloved talk in a voice like that; loud, deep, coarse... male.
"Tiva? Moon Gleam? What's going on?"
"Nah, I'm not your girlfriend. Name's Kai. I'm her grandfather. Spent some time among you white people during the war so she figured I'd be the best one to explain, knowing ."
"That's... what..."
"Alright, you're still not getting it. It's simple - she told you we can feel everything she does, right? And that means *everything*."
"I... Oh. *Oh no*."
"Yeah. If you'd been born in our tribe, you'd know what being the partner of a shaman means, but, well, you weren't. At least you're pretty good in the sack." - the shaman's body winked.
...When Jones fell out of his daze, Moon Gleam was already sitting beside him, holding his hand in hers.
"My love, are you alright?"
"I... I don't know. That wasn't a prank, was it?"
"No, it wasn't. Please tell me, I need to know - will this put a rift between us? I would understand if it did. I deeply regret not telling you earlier, but I was... I was afraid you would reject me."
"It's... I'm still not sure. So I basically... had sex with all your ancestors?"
The woman nodded. Jones pondered for a moment.
"Does that make me... bisexual?"
"I do not know, Jones. Do you wish to call yourself such?"
"I guess it would be right."
They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the fire, before Moon Gleam once again spoke.
"Light of my heart, please answer. Will you still be with me?"
Jones thought. The seconds flowed past excruciatingly slow as Tiva waited for the answer.
Then, without saying another word, he pulled her into an embrace - and a kiss. | 2022-08-04T12:58:15 | 2022-08-04T06:51:48 | 16 | 11 |
[WP] You are superhuman; invulnerable, invincible, super strength, the works. Rather than become a superhero, or supervillain, or the military, you choose a different branch of the government to join and fight the good fight with: the IRS. | "Madam." I pushed the pad of paper and a pen across the table. "I know you've received a bill for income you were never paid. However this is the IRS. So I can't tell you that if you go the third floor... Madam, write down what I'm not telling you."
The woman's eyes widened, and she started to scribble.
"Very good. Now if you go up to the third floor, and go to room 27. There you'll find a Mr Bennett. Ask Mr Bennett for forms 35B, and 106D. Once you have those forms take them to the fourth floor, to room 18, and ask for a Ms Valentine. She'll help you fill them out. Now, once you have them filled out take them to the second floor, to room 17 there. There you have to give them to Mr Locke. L O C K E, Locke. He'll sort out your bill."
The elderly woman turned back at the door. "Thank you, Mr Samson."
"For what? I didn't do anything, and this conversation never happened."
"Ah." She tapped her finger to the side of her nose. "Thank you for... nothing." | The towering woman, who looked like a bronze monolith come to life, paused in her ascent to squint up the mountain at the army arrayed before her.
A flex of her (quite literally) sculpted muscles
hefted her sword, which was large enough that three normal men could barely lift it working together.
A slight smile on her lips, knowing she was about to enjoy this, she bent her knees and leaped into the air, clearing over a hundred feet in a single instant.
Before the serried ranks of men could react, she'd already cleaved through 10 of them, and on the backswing caught six more. She let out a roar of pure delight, and charged bodily into the remaining soldiers, not allowing them an opportunity even to think about running away.
When the dust settled, the sun shown strong and clear over the wreckage of what once had been proud warriors. Now, the slaughter field -- for it would be inaccurate to call this a battle -- looked like a child's nursery after a particularly violent tantrum, with broken men scattered like toys on the ground. The woman, splattered with blood (none of it hers), shouldered her sword without bothering to wipe it off, and headed for the now unprotected doors of the castle that crouched on the top of the mountain like a dragon leering over its hoard.
With a grunt of effort that was more for the benefit of whoever might be on the other side of the doors then for any real need on her part, the doors swung inward without their protective bar having been removed first.
Letting out a bellow that shook dust from the rafters and caused birds to take flight more than half a mile away, she called to whoever was listening, "IRS!" | 2022-08-19T08:23:03 | 2022-08-19T08:08:30 | 94 | 28 |
[WP] You are a barista in a 24 hour coffee shop. Every night at 3:33am a demon appears for the Dark Lord's latte. | No one comes around this late, but that’s to be expected; small town Appalachia isn’t known for its night life. My few customers are police officers looking for a boost, maybe the odd plant worker fresh off third shift. The job is slow, and that suits me fine. I spend quiet nights getting paid in exchange for days all to myself. There is one thing though…
I’m not sure what to call it. It’s told me before, in some garbled dialect I’m not ready or able to understand, but regardless I call it ‘demon’. It’s a foul thing, some non-Euclidean horror almost beyond my comprehension, and it wants a latte. I think it does, at least. Just over a year I’ve worked in this coffee shop, and just over a year this thing has visited me nightly.
Its arrival is always unpleasant. At 3:33am, without fail, the brief shadows cast by the chandeliers above begin to distort as if they were being stretched open, like so many dozens of appendages tearing a hole in the fabric of my reality. It seeps from this hole, clambering from the void in one fluid motion. In its presence, the air of the room changes, suddenly chilled and reeking of ozone. I exist quietly behind the bar, the idle hum of the espresso machine filling my ears, waiting for the demon to acknowledge me.
It has learned to approach the counter before uttering its single question, understanding the abstract ritualism we take for manners. I do my best to observe the demon as it creeps across the floor, with no avail. My eyes can never focus, unable to identify any single feature or surface. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, or will ever see again. Lacking any natural features, it’s no surprise that is has no vocal chords either. Still it always tries to form words I’ll understand; a respectable attempt. It at least understands me, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
I ask what it would like. In turn it replies, straining to match the pitch and cadence of any proper English speaker. ‘Latte’ or ‘Coffee’, it hisses. And so I make a Latte, careful to make it right for fear of some otherworldly retribution. I press on the cup’s lid before slipping it into a protective cardboard sleeve, under the assumption it can register heat at all. I place the drink on its side of the counter, and on cue it dispenses an ornate, glimmering coin from its being. I struggle to describe these coins. They change at a moment’s notice, altering slightly in color and feature with each glance I take. I nod before plucking it from the tabletop.
The demon takes the latte but never drinks it, clutching it as if writhes back across the room towards its entry. In a moment it melts back into the shadows, finally allowing them to return to the shape light cast them in.
I’m not sure why that thing comes to my store, or where it takes that coffee, but I am sure it’s for someone or something else. I can recognize the bad temperament of an unpaid intern anywhere, and I can only hope whatever dark lord it serves is content with its beverage, for its sake and mine. I seem to be doing well so far.
Now, the most troubling dilemma is finding use for these coins. I have almost four hundred of them now. No appraiser can identify their origin, much less their worth. That’s okay, I guess. Might need them one day. | “Hey, how’d it go with your date last night?”
I looked at the time. It’s 3:32am. “Well, kind of a long story. I’d tell you, but you know who will be here any minute now.”
“Ah. True. Well, he might wanna hear too? Is he a he by the way? Does he just identify as “demon” or …”
Suddenly Damien the Demon, most venerable assistant to “The Dark Lord,” appears.
I’ve worked this shift at Angel Café for six months now. Damien, a powerful demon, without fail, appears every night at exactly 3:33am to pick up a latte for “The Dark Lord.” I’ve never gotten used to this and probably never will. I get chills every time Damien appears, but I always try my best to hide my fear and stay professional.
“Damien! How are you?”
“You know why I’m here. Where is it?”
“Ah … uh … right. Coming right up. Just finishing it up now.”
“And why isn’t it already ready?”
“Well … sir … or … uh … yea …”
“What Chris means to say is that last time we made it to be ready for as soon as you arrive and you complained that it was not fresh enough despite us making it literally 30 seconds before you appeared.”
I go back and forth between looking at Damien and Lisa. I can’t believe she just said that to a freaking demon. Is she crazy? Ah, shit! I spill Damien’s order as I’m distracted.
“Fuck,” I whisper just a tad bit too loudly.
“What is it? Where is the latte?”
“Uh … sorry Damien. I …”
My eyesight rapidly deteriorates as tears pile up. I wipe my eyes to prevent a waterfall. Lisa comes over to help.
“It didn’t come out right. We’ll get you a fresh one started immediately.”
That was a lie. Lisa just lied to cover for me. God I hope Damien isn’t psychic.
“It has been 3 minutes. The Dark Lord will not be happy with this wait.”
I nod my head furiously while multitasking and scrambling to get another latte started. Lisa puts her hand over my hand in a signal for me to stop and calm down. I look her in the eyes and nod slowly.
“I am not Cupid. I am a powerful demon. Cut the romance, complete my order, or you will find out exactly what it means to be a powerful demon.”
“Yes. We’re on it Damien. Chris is going to take a break and I’ll get this done right away.”
Damien grunts. I walk to the other side of the café to do some stocking. Lisa pours Damien’s latte into a large coffee cup.
“Here you go. One large iced vanilla latte.”
“Have all the specifications been met?”
“Blonde roast cold brew, one pump vanilla, whole milk, and a dash of cinnamon.”
“Good.”
Damien grabs the coffee.
“By the way, my manager did mention that we’re getting ready to sell to a new owner so I’m not sure if the new owner will be okay with the whole free coffee in exchange for not killing us deal. Just letting you know.”
Damien glares at Lisa.
“I guess we will see.”
Damien suddenly disappears.
I let out a huge sigh of relief and put my hands on my knees while looking at the ground.
Lisa walks over and rubs my back.
I stand up straight.
“You know, Lisa, either you’re the bravest person on the planet, the craziest person on the planet, or both … You know if I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re a demon yourself.”
I grin and giggle.
Lisa grins as well.
“Chris … you have no idea.”
Lisa winks at me.
I tilt my head slightly to the side while looking slightly confused. I wonder what she means by that?
My thought is interrupted by another customer walking in. Ah, fuck. I guess it’s about that time for the after-party crowd. Beats a demon, but not by much. | 2022-10-30T12:22:20 | 2022-10-30T11:59:59 | 87 | 50 |
[WP]Everyone on earth can "quicksave" their current state at any time, and reload it at any time, allowing them to essentially time travel and correct their mistakes. They only have one save slot, and the old state is rewritten when you make a new one. | In two seconds he'll come through the door, holding a gun. In five seconds he'll pull the trigger. How did this happen? I was always so careful about saving. I was safe at home, everything had gone exceptionally well today, it seemed like a perfect time to save. I had no reason to suspect that two seconds later, some goddamn maniac would burst through my front door and shoot me. Why would I? I'm not even the guy he's trying to kill. On the few occasions I've managed to stall him long enough to get him talking, I've learned that he thinks I slept with his girlfriend. If I try to explain his mistake, he shoots me for lying. If I apologize, he shoots me for fucking his girl. Try to run? He shoots. Try to fight back? He either shoots me or beats me to death. I've tried shouting gibberish at him, I've tried faking a seizure. I tried to convince him I was actually a ghost, a hallucination, even a shape-shifting alien. I've tried jumping out the window, but each time either the fall kills me or the broken glass does.
The door bursts open. Showtime. I spin around in a circle, flailing my arms and shouting: "No one can defeat the Human Tornado!" He hesistates for an extra second, then pulls the trigger. The bullet clips my left elbow as I spin, knocking me off-balance. I fall to the floor, my head spinning from both pain and dizziness, and he walks over and presses the barrel of the gun against my forehead. I close my eyes, concentrate, and open them again. I'm standing alone in my apartment. In two seconds he'll come through the door, holding a gun. | "My child," the leader said, "this is the Way it shall be, upon my decree. We stand at the dawn of an era. Every economic interaction, every aspect of our culture, the very soul of our species will be governed and colored by the laws I have written today."
The leader knelt by the side of the small child, brandishing a thick sheaf of heavy, significant-looking papers.
"You are the safeguard of the one true Way, my way, of life. You will observe it. You will protect it. You will examine it at every moment for weakness or sabotage. For the next eighty years, you will oversee us from afar, and you will have the power to decide."
The child nodded solemnly.
"So, before I officially enact the Way as law, do you understand it thoroughly?"
The child nodded again, eyes full of the earnestness only a six-year-old can muster.
"And you understand your duty?"
Another nod, this one trembling with anticipation.
"Then from this day forward, it shall be so--"
The child shuddered and stumbled, then blinked rapidly, reorienting herself to the present reality.
"No, Dad," she said, with more authority than naturally comes to a child that age, outside the playground. "Jesus, no. Have you even looked at the last three articles of that thing? Do you have any idea of the geopolitical ramifications of the entire preamble?"
The leader blinked as the child rolled her eyes and went on.
"I mean, I was only watching for sixty years and I had to abort before the earth crumbled into an acidic sea. Start over, completely, and don't send me out with some bullshit like that again."
At this, the leader flinched. "Child, I honor and appreciate your service, but my position, too, demands respect--"
"Yeah, Dad, when you've sat through the International Welfare Conference of 2064, come back and lecture me about respect."
The leader sighed, looked once more at the creamy sheaf of documents, then crumpled them and threw them into an overflowing wastebasket.
"All right, the hell with it. So, what are we on, Plan H?" | 2013-11-27T17:50:55 | 2013-11-27T17:15:09 | 40 | 13 |
[WP] A survivor of the zombie apocalypse stands trial for murder after a cure is discovered. | “You!” the prosecutor could hardly contain his fury. “We have proved you murdered at least ten people during the revival. All the witnesses we have heard so far confirm that. You are monster and you will pay for it!”
“But I was just protecting myself…” I muttered.
“Silence! You have destroyed their chance at immortality! You have not only taken their life, but their future. And for what? To protect yourself from living forever?”
“There was no cure then…”
“That. Is. Irrelevant. If you had murdered a terminal patient, do you think we would be less harsh? Those lives weren't yours to take!”
I looked around — at the white bone in the prosecutor's decaying arm. At the rotten forehead and red eyes of the judge. At the broken faces of the jury.
This was pointless.
Just my luck. So easy it is now to cure death itself, and yet no one cured the cold heart of humanity.
Humanity that has once lived and now lives again. | "You can't blame me for what happened!" Andrew screeched, "If you were in the position I was in you would realize that that is all we could do."
The judge barely gave him a passing glance. The judge, 32 year old Eli Eberom, was born two months after the apocalypse ended. He simply didn't understand.
Eli gave Andrew a dirty look and remarked, "After hearing what the jury has to say, I am pleading guilty. You will server life in prison for the murder of countless individuals."
"Please Your Honor, please! The things I attacked and killed weren't human!" Andrew pleaded, "They killed my family and friends and everyone I care for! If you saw what they were you would have killed them too."
"No, I wouldn't have. Even I have morals Mr. Cozomoc." The judge gravely replied. "Your serving is final, there will never be a way for you to leave, you will have time to think of the evil things you did. Case dismissed."
Andrew was screaming, "You can't do that, you can't do--"
"Enough! If you do not quit shouting I can have you put to death, like the innocent people you killed."
Andrew was silent, nothing he did could change the judge's mind. He was going to be imprisoned for life for protecting himself. The world is cruel, but the people are crueler. | 2013-12-29T19:38:31 | 2013-12-29T18:00:30 | 99 | 12 |
[WP] A husband and wife are both secretly in online relationships. They finally arrange to meet their respective paramours and realize they have been cheating on each other...with each other.
Inspired by [this post](http://www.reddit.com/r/todayilearned/comments/1xfw97/til_that_a_married_couple_in_bosnia_started/) from /r/TodayILearned! | Eulalie opened the web browser with a pain of guilt. She knew what she was doing would destroy her family, but this was the only option left. Money in this household was spiraling down the drain at an alarming rate and soon the very basic necessitates of living would be inaccessible. The website opened in flashy black and pink hues, vulgar men and women danced in the background as a chatbot by the Slutys3xK@ndi waited persistently for a reply in the corner of the screen. Her first customer was a man by the username of Bo88iBoi waiting to meet her at the Vagrant Hotel, Eulalie began to get dressed and secretly hoped that he won't be there to greet her.
Robert hastily shooed away his daughter, Candice, from the computer. He knew this addiction would ruin this family, already hundreds of household dollars were lost to pornsites, but today he is going to meet up with an actual person. Robert signed on as Bo88iBoi and to his delight heard she agreed to tonight. Maybe this one encounter would cure his lust, but deep down he knew this won't be true.
A car rolled up to the Vagrant Hotel, Eulalie quickly shimmered out wearing her black short-cut dress. Standing in front of door 314, she paused. Here goes nothing. Eulalie stepped inside only to her horror to discover her husband laying on the bed.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE" She screamed.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE" He yelled backed.
"I'M TRYING TO MAKE MONEY FOR OUR FAMILY"
"I'M WAITING FOR TWO HOOKERS I ORDERED OFF THE INTERNET."
Eulalie looked at him with wide eyes, "What do you mean two hookers?"
That is when Candice stepped into the room as well. | "John?"
My hand trembled as I placed the rose on the table before her. "Hello, Cynthia."
Cynthia sat back against her chair and stared at the rose that was before her. Next to the rose was the sunflower that she had brought. She looked back up at me and I sat down across from her.
"You're SinThesis?"
She nodded, both of our expressions blank as we stared at each other.
"Your name..."
She nodded again.
"We should have known." I sat back and breathed deep.
Cynthia reached for the rose and picked it up, her face white as she stared at it. "What do we do?"
"I don't know."
"We..." her voice trailed off. She looked up at me and my heart broke. "Why isn't this working?"
I wiped a solitary tear from my cheek. "Our relationship?"
She nodded.
"I don't know. We're so close, Cynthia, but so far away..." We sat for several minutes, both of us thinking. Our minds were going back to the conversations that we'd had on those dark, sleepless nights, the hopeful afternoons, the flirty mornings. We had fallen in love with each other while killing the other slowly and surely. It was unfair. How was it possible to know so much about somebody and so little? I almost choked when I thought of our most recent messages. They had been scandalous. Vulgar. Messages that were the end of relationships for one person and the beginning for another.
"We can work on it, can't we??"
I returned to the present world and focused on her, *seeing* her for the first time. She was beautiful. A curl of black hair fell over her left eye, and it contrasted sharply with her grey eyes. Black mascara lined her eyes with gold tinted on the edges, and it made her look like an angel. But the trouble she'd gone through to look pretty wasn't for me. I wasn't here for her and she wasn't here for me. I had left her to meet an angel, and I had found another angel, but not mine. Not my angel.
"John?"
I stood from the table and picked up my rose. "Goodbye, Cynthia." I turned and walked away. | 2014-02-09T14:03:41 | 2014-02-09T13:53:52 | 45 | 26 |
[WP] You die and find yourself in Valhalla, where all great warriors go when they die. However, you never fought a day in your life. You try to find out why you're there. | I had expected darkness. And then oblivion. But, as I peered out into the blackness, long minutes passed, and I continued to be. The phrase from my schoolboy days returned to me: *cogito, ergo sum*.
And then I noticed, in the blackness, there were parts that were - impossibly - yet darker. Unlike every tabloid story of the afterlife, I perceived no blinding light. It was as if my eyes (my *eyes*?) were slowly adjusting to see anthracite against the abyss.
A silhouetted figure slowly became visible, and I heard a low, booming voice. "Death. You have attained it."
"What?" I asked, feebly.
"Death. It is the principle of this universe. The very laws of thermodynamics were constructed to bring about brief order, and then death. You know this. Better than most of your kind."
The figure seemed to be almost like a tear in the darkness itself, and beyond, galaxies and stars were visible.
"This is true but... where am I now?"
"Your legends call it Valhalla. Your consciousness has been preserved in a dimension beyond time and space, as one of the greatest warriors of all your people. You have brought death at an unheard-of scale. We honor you today, and forever."
"Have you... mistaken me for someone else? I did no such thing. In fact, I fought for life. Is there another place for people like me, that isn't quite so..."
"Dark? No," the voice chuckled with amusement, "you are in the right place. Behold the abode of warriors!"
I was in what seemed like a great hall of a castle, but in a starry blackness more vast than I could comprehend, as if the constellations themselves were the posts and archways. I saw a depiction of Genghis Khan, molded from a cloud of dark matter. And to my horror, a monument to Stalin, carved from an asteroid belt.
My eyes began to tear up.
"Why have you brought me here?" I shouted. "What could I possibly have in common with such monsters?"
"Monsters?" the voice rumbled. "You are one of us."
I became aware of thousands of souls in the great hall, with all their gazes fixed on me. Some had climbed into the rafters, to get a better look.
The voice continued, "You are the first in human history to have obliterated one of your enemies, and all of their kind. You did this so completely, with such cunning ruthlessness, that the enemy will never return. The souls of those small ones have been banished from Valhalla's sight, forever; they are miserable and unworthy. And you! You did not even take pleasure or profit from this; you lived for the deed of killing alone. In Valhalla we bow to you, greatest bringer of death."
And I sensed that the great figure was kneeling to me. I heard the multitudes of murderers, warriors, and dictators chanting my name.
"Salk! Salk! Salk! Salk! Salk!" | "You're name sir?" the man at the door asked, some what agitated.
"Ohh, im sorry i must have spaced out" I replied.
"Are you going to make me ask for your name a third time?"
"John, my name is John Clark jr.. You'll have to forgive me, im still some what shocked. You said Valhalla right? Man I thought that place was a myth, let alone a club for warriors."
"Ahh, John." he said as though confirming some sort of suspicion. "Follow me this way." He gestures forward as he opens the monstorous wooden doors.
As soon as the aroma of milk and honey flowing into bowls of various fruits being prepared hit me in the face a group of children dashing by. Just then a little girl no older then six or seven looks back at me, then hastens her step to keep up with her playmates.
*THUMPPP*, the doorman pats me on the back.
"Welcome to Valhalla my friend." As I look down the longhall I see all sorts of burly men, nimble fighters and occasional variants of what seemed to be groups of soldiers doning the same uniforms.
"So tell me Doorman," I begin to murmur.
The doorman cuts me off. "You can call me Erwick, friend."
"So tell me Erwick. Dont you have to have died in some great honorable battle or something to come here?"
Erwick smirks. "You would be suprised how many diffrent ways there are to ask that question."
"What" I ask. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone thinks you have to have some longsword impale you, or have a battleaxe lodged into your skull." Erwick whispers.
"Valhalla isnt a place to boast about bloody deaths, its a monument to courage." he continues.
"But what about all the soldiers?" i ask confused.
"Take a good look around again John. Do you really only see war-torn heroes?" as I scan the room i begin to see a mixture of what seem to be regular people in their street clothes, as well as tuxedos and dresses.
Then it hit me like sack of bricks. "What about the little girl we saw when we first walked in?" I shout.
Erwick tilts his head back then smiles. "Valhalla will open its doors to anyone who has shown courage... or inspired it."
I shiver as the hairs on the back of my neck stand. "No" I whisper. "But she is so young."
"As is the way of life John. But something about the way she went inspired those around her wether it be to be better people or to no longer drink and drive. The same can go for a man who despite being riddled with cancer and bedridden at the age of 36, puts a smile on his face so his children dont see the pain he is in. Or how despite his love for his wife he tells her to go forth into the world with an open heart and embrace it in full."
As i brake down into tears and fall to my knees Erwick rests his hand on my shoulder. "Now now friend. We cant have any of that," He firmly but gently pulls me up. "You have brought tears with your departure but you have also left smiles. Now here." As he hands me a flagon of ale, he guides me towards a door."Theres someone here whos been dying to meet you, no pun intented" I let out a chuckle as i wipe away a sole tear. "I think im going to like it here Erwick." I groan.
"Good friend, good."
On mobile, sorry for any errors. | 2014-05-18T00:06:02 | 2014-05-17T19:06:45 | 32 | 18 |
[WP] You are a detective who has closed every case but one, a serial murderer who has taunted you all your career. After retiring you start to suspect your significant other.
[Edit: wow, this is going to take a while to get through! Glad people liked the prompt!] | She sits there on our veranda, looking over the foggy Hollywood hills, warm cup of tea in hand; her morning ritual. Her figure is as familiar to me as breathing, her scent like a memory of my parents on Christmas morning. So many mornings have gone by, so many years filled with regret, but I could always come home to her and forgive my scars.
She is almost perfect in every way, even in her work. Which is why it made it so hard to catch her. If I hadn't remembered that silver, pea-sized little bell, the charm I bought her on our honeymoon in a Paris trinket shop, the one that had been imprinted underfoot into the lush carpet at the scene of her last victim, I would have never known.
I still remember the flitting microscopic glare coming from the fading sun through the sliding glass door, the way it caught the corner of my eye. I remember my gnarled old fingers picking it out of the carpet like a buried seed, and quietly slipping it into my pocket before the other investigators could vacuum it up into a hermetically sealed evidence bag.
I press the little treasure between my fingers and give it a shake, and feel the little piece of bone - supposedly a piece of St. Catherine - muffledly rattle inside. I do this while I inspect the frayed and worked corners of ox blood file folders containing over a decade of her morbid symphony splayed neatly on my oak desk while she sips her English breakfast. The top file is a personality assessment that Quantico had given me two years ago when we all still had hopes of catching our killer; when we still had the naive hope that she might slip up. She never did, except for that one time, that mistake saturating itself in the oils of my fingers.
The assessment said she was incapable of empathy, that she was a psychopath who would never organically develop a sense of humanity, of remorse. Yet she has made me believe, despite all my instincts as a seasoned homicide detective, that she did indeed love me. I would come home drunk or high or broken or angry and she would lick my wounds and put my fuming head into her bosom and slip me off into bliss. The irony of feeling so safe in the chest that once pounded over the dying eyes of a fourteen year old girl makes my mind swirl in self-loathing and regret, and yet, oddly enough, a slight apathy toward the men and women still searching for her. Maybe she has rubbed off on me, made by blood colder than a human's should be. However, I'm too old and have committed too many sins of my own to bring myself to any sort of righteous indignation or a war of morals.
So I slip the small bell into one of the bindings on my desk, stack them, and put them into the bottom drawer. It is easy for me to close the drawer, surprisingly enough to myself; there is no hesitation in doing it. Locked away, safe, her secret for me to keep. Our secret.
I join her in the open air, and she grabs my hand, still warm from cradling her mug, and gives me that same smile that has pulled me from the dark corners of myself and this putrid city all these years. I bring her close to my chest, I can feel her breathe, our souls as one, our secret shared. I wonder if she knows.
Edit: thank you for the gold. | It was a nice retirement party.
The whole department had put together a nice thing for me, with the streamers and balloons and a cake with a little frosting magnifying glass on it. Cute. It was all so...cute. The handshakes, the smiles, the "for he's a jolly good fellows" were all so goddamned nice. But I couldn't accept it. The back of my head was pushing towards my front, taunting me with "they won, you lose" and that shit. I could bear it, but I didn't like it.
After the party died down a little bit a headed into my office for the last time. As soon as I walked in I felt the stale, cigar-tainted smell that has welcomed me for all those years. The coffee-stained papers in the cabinets produced an aroma so familiar...dammit. Not even my first day off and I'm already feeling nostalgic. But the reminiscing was brought to a halt when I saw the file of "The Candlelit Killer". The goddamned Candlelit Caper, Crusher, whatever. A stupid, tacky name. Like something out of goddamned Rizzoli and Isles or some shit. Yet this had been the bastard that had taunted and teased me for all these years. The one that got away...it shouldn't bother me now but it did. I was so close...but it's over now. The son of a bitch is probably dead right now anyways. Last murder was 3 years ago, some poor 15 year old boy with his throat slit surrounded by a bunch of crude, homemade candle's and a non-lit one in his hand. The killer was probably some failed English major for Pete's sake, the way he killed these kids. Eh. It was over now. I needed to get home.
As soon as I came through the door my wife was there to greet me with a big kiss and hug.
"It's finally over", she said. "We can be done now." She smiled at me and I attempted a smile back. This job had been my life for the past 23 years, and she had been with me for the majority of it. After we stopped embracing- *that's* when I noticed what she was wearing. An old t-shirt and some cargo pants, stained to hell and back. I was surprised the wasn't more dressed up, to be honest.
"Why are you wearing that?", I asked.
"Oh, I've been working on a...project."
"What project?"
"Oh I've been making candles. Y'know, for when I give you massages and stuff or when we have dinner."
...
"Okay."
How else was I supposed to respond?! Fucking CANDLES? It was like she was taunting me or something! I was legitimately mad at her, but I didn't show it. I was just overreacting, anyways. Why should I take it out on her?
I went to the bedroom and just lay their for a little bit, looking at the shelf across the room. All of our pictures together, some presents from friends, a deck of cards. An old candle. Some books.
The candle. What the fuck? Why was this shit still catching my eye? It DIDN'T matter.
Then I scanned the room and saw another candle. Another. And another. Candles, the same color and shape and everything. A million thoughts went through my head. And I fucking bolted.
Now I'm here. I'm not even sure if she knows I'm gone yet, chief. But I have reason to believe my wife is the Candlelit Killer.
And I think I was her next victim. | 2015-01-03T22:29:58 | 2015-01-03T22:11:35 | 498 | 88 |
[WP] A son dies, and his parents leave his room untouched. A year later, the son's distant father enters the room for the first time since the death. He decides to look through his son's computer in an attempt to finally get to know who his son is. | It was hard to believe that it had been a whole year. His father entered the room and looked around. The room was redolent with dust and disuse, the father's breath was redolent with cheap whiskey and sadness.
There, on the desk, was the computer at which the man's son spent so much of his free time. The clacking of keys used to be so prolific that the father would frequently yell at his son to keep it down. "I'm trying to watch the goddamn Mets!"
If only the boy had showed interest in something real, maybe they could have bonded more. Maybe he never would have left the house in anger that night. It doesn't matter now, what's done is done.
He opens the black laptop, and turns it on. "Let's see if the kid has any good porn sites in his history" the father said to himself. "At least maybe he was into girls. If nothing else, I want to be able to say that I didn't raise no fag."
The room is dark with the exception of the light from the newly open web browser. http://www.reddit.com is the url that comes up first. In fact, it's the only url. "What the hell is 'reddit'?" The man wonders as he clicks to open the website.
The father looked over the links that appeared. Then he noticed a yellow sticky note on the desk with a username/password combination. Using these to log into the website, he noticed that there was now an orange envelope where there had previously been nothing. He clicked it.
He read through a few comments which were mostly people wondering why the account hadn't made any comments in the past year.
"I guess my son was pretty well-liked after all." The man said, feeling a little proud of his boy. "It's not like you have to go to a bar every day to make friends, right? These people really miss him. He seems pretty popular, I wonder what he used to talk about." Father opened the profile to read through the comments.
As he read, his eyes grew wider and wider, and his face redder and redder. Each comment detailed aberrant sexual behavior. It was as though the author was trying to outdo himself each time he wrote. Incest, scat, period blood, prostitution, no topic was taboo. Anal sex, penis jokes, pedophilia.
As the father read more and more, the sinking feeling in his stomach grew. Try as he may, he couldn't numb the feeling with whiskey this time. Despite this, he continued to read for a short while longer.
He turned off the computer. "My son was into some sick shit. I'm a failure as a father. A failure." A tear began to roll down his cheek, and he took one last look at the username on the sticky note.
He whispered to no one in particular, "Goddammit, /u/_vargas_." | Months passed, and it didn't seem real. He died too young. I longed for the days that little rascal was still playing video games or running around with his friends. I longed, to have my son back.
His mother became so distant and hasn't really returned back to earth. Attempt after desperate attempt I've tried to bring her back, but she just doesn't seem to care about anything anymore. The only antidepressant that would work for her at this point is bleach.
It burnt me to know how he perished - he died at his friend's house thanks to a gas leak. He was the only one who didn't get out alive. A cruel joke of natural selection? I don't know. I thought humans were immune to natural selection. But I guess not... 16 years and I didn't really understand the kid. I didn't get it. We kind of got along... I wish I was given another chance, though. So many wasted opportunities. I wish I got to know him.
A year passed, and I couldn't help myself. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided I should still try to get to know him. His mother wouldn't let me touch his stuff in his room, so everything was left exactly as it was. I looked at the posters on his wall (lots of metal but not too-heavy metal bands), the pictures on the desk (us, his girlfriend, my parents), and the bed that he didn't make when he left that morning one year ago.
Then I saw his computer sitting there, untouched, waiting for me. I assumed it had all the answers I sought. I desperately hoped he wrote something that would give me closure, or gave me a sense that he was actually a person that actually existed and this wasn't some set from Hollywood made to look like a boy's room. No, there had to be something on this computer that proved to me that his existence wasn't imagined.
I pressed the button. The fan started to spin as it cleared out cobwebs of a dormant object. The air was so stale - I remembered shutting the vent in here to save some energy heating and cooling the house. I did this discreetly, as there was nothing my wife would have hated more.
I looked in the corner of the room and saw a plant. It was a snake plant that he loved very much. After we moved here three years ago, we wanted to get rid of the plant. He insisted we kept it, so I gave it to him. He really liked that plant, it's long leaves stretching upwards to the heavens. Now the plant was dead. The plant was very dead from neglect and carelessness.
The desktop faded on. The default Windows 7 wallpaper greeted me with an emotionless stare. I started in "Pictures." There were very few pictures of him and/or his friends. There were very few pictures in general. The largest folder of pictures he had was "Sample Pictures."
Then I went to his documents. A handful of school assignments were strewn about the hard drive. Was this it? Was this all that my son was? Suddenly this was not acceptable, this was not enough! My son was more that some vague files on a computer!
I shut down the computer. Then I shut down myself. I understand why my wife is the way she is. I understand why she doesn't care about anything anymore. It's an advanced stage of denial, and you simply *can't* care about anything.
There is nothing worse than not caring. | 2015-02-25T13:02:44 | 2015-02-25T11:11:34 | 79 | 29 |
[WP] You have a special type of clairvoyance: you can see the outcomes of all possible choices. You use this power to become a superhero that fights crime by making the smallest possible changes ahead of time. You are The Butterfly. | “I need another venti latte, skim milk!”
A large hand shoved the paper cup into Jenson’s hand. He began pouring the steamed milk into the cup when his finger brushed the name written on the cup: SAM.
The man hurried through the office, phone and coffee at the ready. A young woman pulled a mail cart pulled ahead of him, but he didn’t see, he couldn’t see. There was already an email from Advertising in his head.
She turned, collided with him. Coffee splattered all over him, and his attention shifted. There was surprise, pain, burning pain, leading to a bout of rage. The terrified young face.
Jenson came back to see that he had stopped pouring the milk. A moment’s hesitation before he switched to the slightly cooler whole milk. No burns then. She really needed that job, and no one was really happy with skim milk.
More orders poured in. An extra shot of chocolate for Denise, any teacher would need that extra boost, but during a field trip? Chocolate would keep her from losing it in that museum. Calvin had to face his father today, a little less caffeine might calm his nerves. Most cups were destined for the trash can. Jenson liked those cups.
“Grande Pumpkin Spice Latte”
KATIE - oh dear. The police do not like people throwing drinks at their unmarked cars, in Jenson’s experience. Maybe a different size - but, no, she’d just throw an empty cup. He plastered a fake smile on his face.
“I’m so sorry, but we’re completely out. I can get you a regular latte and a free pastry for the inconvience.”
Katie looked pissed - and really, those anger problems needed to be handled - but some more platitudes calmed her down.
And if Jenson scrawled his number onto the cup, well, a little flattery never hurt anyone, and he didn’t have plans. Just another day at the Butterfly Cafe.
EDIT: I rarely post my writing so feedback of any type is really welcome :)
EDIT2: Check out the brandnew /r/cavadire too? | A man in a business-casual ensemble steps out of an alley. Making a left, he drops a quarter, then a penny, the latter he ensures is face-up. As he works his way down the busy city street, he approaches a crowded crosswalk, becoming aware of a person following him. He doesn't bother turning to acknowledge him.
Reaching the crosswalk, the man licks his lips. Shouldering a fashionable, decently sized backpack, stands a young lady, early 20's, black stockings and a short skirt. He rounds this corner, another left, and, unable to resist, that is, unable to leave it out of his plan, he puts a finger out, under her too-short bottom piece, and gives a single, ticklish scratch to her g-stringed right buttock. She whirls to her right, never seeing him, and stares directly into the face of the new man now behind her.
The man in sensible shoes can't help but smile when he turns to see the girl fuming silently at her supposed perpetrator, before growling and throwing her hands up in disgust, then crossing the street. Half way down the block, he too crosses the street, to the chagrin of a number of commuters and cab drivers. He enters a hotel through a revolving door, tossing another coin into it. He spins it three times to make sure it can still turn, then leaves immediately. Around to the back, he spies an emergency escape, and beneath it, a pothole.
After urinating in said hole, he covers it with some garbage from the nearest dumpster. He then hails a taxi to drive him 5 blocks, after which he quickly jogs back to his initial location. Entering the hotel again through a service entrance, he finds his way to the kitchen, and drops laxative pills in three bowls of chili: one for each robber. On the 3rd floor, he loosens and ever so slightly raises a portion of the high-traffic carpet, after which he wedges a lit cigarette in a random doorway.
"Might I borrow your cane, sir," he asks an elderly gentleman sitting on a couch facing the open stairway, "I just need to reach something very quickly. Give it right back," The old man warily agrees, and now, he produces a broad-brimmed hat, but forgoes the monocle. He now appears just enough like The Gentleman, patron and avenger of the wealthy, to spook any ne'er do-wells roaming this affluent hotel, which is what just happened.
| 2015-03-14T20:40:30 | 2015-03-14T19:38:34 | 350 | 110 |
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