Split (1)

train · 353k rows

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Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Choose" said the voice. This was my chance. For the last 50 years of my life I had resigned myself to hell, it's what I deserved anyways. Yet here I am, able to erase the one mistake I made so long ago. I laughed. Even a disgusting wretch like me could get into heaven. And I know I will. Besides that one mistake, I've been nothing but saintly. Keeping to myself, helping others who lost their way, even attending church every Sunday until I died. Not that you have much else to do in prison. I looked at the being before me, and smiled. "I wish to erase the decision to rape and murder my six year old daughter." The beings face twisted in disgust. It flipped through my what I assume was the book holding the history if my actions, and at one point picked one section up out of the book like a dirty sock and it dissolved into the air. It flipped through the rest of the book, growing visually more frustrated until he got to the end and violently closed the book. Once again, I smiled. I knew I had won. "It really disgusts me that we have such a rule that would allow someone like you into heaven," it said, "but the rules are the rules. You're in." With a wave of it's hands the gates opened before me. I rubbed my hands together in excitement as I walked through the entrance. I would get to see her again.	The harsh fluorescent lights flicker aimlessly overhead. All waiting rooms, even those in heaven, are the same. Some sort of Grand Design I assume, a sly nod to a higher power, staring us in the face every time we waited for something to happen. A sickly mix of bleach and air freshener washes over the overcrowded benches, the man next to me shifts uncomfortably. The limp ticket in my hand sags further in the humid air, number 156. No concept of how long I've been waiting. Not that time matters now, I've got all the time in the world. Well, strictly, I've had all my time in the world. Wasted most of it. Used some of it. You know, the usual: Loved, lost, fucked, cried, ate, drank, shit… jaywalked. Probably should't have done the last one, turns out it's bad for your health. Now it's judgement day, report card time. Time to be judged by a man I don't even believe in. His name's Bob, works in accounting. He's a mid-level angel, pencil pusher, no wings, just an infinitely sharp nib and penchant for damnation. The man beside me looks worried, he's got pedophile written all over him. Literally. The guys who sent him here etched it all over his face with box cutter. I don't rate his chances with Bob. He might stand a chance though, I hear you get one for the team, a sort of freebie on Him Up There. Erase one event from your life, it literally never happened. The LEDs on the waiting board flicker. I'm up. Bob's office is smaller than I expected, not even a corner office. I guess I was less important than I thought. "Your Life" says Bob, handing me long dot matrix printed sheet. Heaven clearly hasn't upgraded to laser printers yet. "Every major event, from Birth to Death. I see quite a few things you might want to reconsider. It's not been a particularly glorious story has it?" The smug sneer on Bob's face, makes me want to slam his pudgy head into the desk. I don't, I'm probably in enough shit as it is. "Take your time, have a read. You get to remove one thing before I pass this up to judgement. But I have to say it does't look good." I offer a guilty shrug. It was what it was. I scan the list. Lying, cheating, swearing, the day I poked Jenny in the eye when I was six, the time I drank so much I forgot how to speak, the abortion I forced Anna to have, it's all here. Every damned moment of my life. What to remove… what to erase… What will the big guy take offence to most? What can I do to up the average? Then I see it. "Bob." "Yes? Do you have your choice? Make it count." I intend to. "I'd like to remove that one, Bob." "What Jaywalking?" "Yeah that should just about do it."
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Welcome, my son," the voice said with a smile; "You're dead, I'm God, and this might take a while." "You have lived and you've loved, you've won and you've lost; But now that you're dead, there's one more line to be crossed!" "Look at this list," he said, and produced a sheet Of items so long that it hung down to his feet. "There's both heaven and hell, and you're going to one! So cross off an item, but overlook none!" He gave a pen, and with a wink almost caustic, He pointed to "9/1/75: Became an agnostic". I chewed on the pen; I looked and I sat; And recalling my life, I nearly fell flat. "Know what, God?" I cried, my voice nearing a yell "I don't need your judgement, I already lived Hell!" "My mother was killed in an Earthquake and my father a storm! Both acts of God, both out of the norm!" "I hated my life! It was lonely and sad! You killed them both! You're a coward, a cad!" God backed up a few steps, and with love in his voice, Said "Acts of Me are necessary- it wasn't a choice!" He moved a bit forward, and urgently muttered "Hurry up and cross one off, or this room will get cluttered!" I looked right behind me, and there was a line! I started to laugh, it was all going to be fine. I looked at the Lord, my eyes teared with mirth; And with a final "Fuck You" to God, I crossed off my birth.	The harsh fluorescent lights flicker aimlessly overhead. All waiting rooms, even those in heaven, are the same. Some sort of Grand Design I assume, a sly nod to a higher power, staring us in the face every time we waited for something to happen. A sickly mix of bleach and air freshener washes over the overcrowded benches, the man next to me shifts uncomfortably. The limp ticket in my hand sags further in the humid air, number 156. No concept of how long I've been waiting. Not that time matters now, I've got all the time in the world. Well, strictly, I've had all my time in the world. Wasted most of it. Used some of it. You know, the usual: Loved, lost, fucked, cried, ate, drank, shit… jaywalked. Probably should't have done the last one, turns out it's bad for your health. Now it's judgement day, report card time. Time to be judged by a man I don't even believe in. His name's Bob, works in accounting. He's a mid-level angel, pencil pusher, no wings, just an infinitely sharp nib and penchant for damnation. The man beside me looks worried, he's got pedophile written all over him. Literally. The guys who sent him here etched it all over his face with box cutter. I don't rate his chances with Bob. He might stand a chance though, I hear you get one for the team, a sort of freebie on Him Up There. Erase one event from your life, it literally never happened. The LEDs on the waiting board flicker. I'm up. Bob's office is smaller than I expected, not even a corner office. I guess I was less important than I thought. "Your Life" says Bob, handing me long dot matrix printed sheet. Heaven clearly hasn't upgraded to laser printers yet. "Every major event, from Birth to Death. I see quite a few things you might want to reconsider. It's not been a particularly glorious story has it?" The smug sneer on Bob's face, makes me want to slam his pudgy head into the desk. I don't, I'm probably in enough shit as it is. "Take your time, have a read. You get to remove one thing before I pass this up to judgement. But I have to say it does't look good." I offer a guilty shrug. It was what it was. I scan the list. Lying, cheating, swearing, the day I poked Jenny in the eye when I was six, the time I drank so much I forgot how to speak, the abortion I forced Anna to have, it's all here. Every damned moment of my life. What to remove… what to erase… What will the big guy take offence to most? What can I do to up the average? Then I see it. "Bob." "Yes? Do you have your choice? Make it count." I intend to. "I'd like to remove that one, Bob." "What Jaywalking?" "Yeah that should just about do it."
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Welcome, my son," the voice said with a smile; "You're dead, I'm God, and this might take a while." "You have lived and you've loved, you've won and you've lost; But now that you're dead, there's one more line to be crossed!" "Look at this list," he said, and produced a sheet Of items so long that it hung down to his feet. "There's both heaven and hell, and you're going to one! So cross off an item, but overlook none!" He gave a pen, and with a wink almost caustic, He pointed to "9/1/75: Became an agnostic". I chewed on the pen; I looked and I sat; And recalling my life, I nearly fell flat. "Know what, God?" I cried, my voice nearing a yell "I don't need your judgement, I already lived Hell!" "My mother was killed in an Earthquake and my father a storm! Both acts of God, both out of the norm!" "I hated my life! It was lonely and sad! You killed them both! You're a coward, a cad!" God backed up a few steps, and with love in his voice, Said "Acts of Me are necessary- it wasn't a choice!" He moved a bit forward, and urgently muttered "Hurry up and cross one off, or this room will get cluttered!" I looked right behind me, and there was a line! I started to laugh, it was all going to be fine. I looked at the Lord, my eyes teared with mirth; And with a final "Fuck You" to God, I crossed off my birth.	I woke up in a dull room: gray, with fluorescent office lights lining the ceiling. Equally dull filing cabinets lined every wall. "The afterlife is a filing room?" I thought? "No," a voice echoed in my mind, "But purgatory is." "So am I just stuck here?" I asked. "There's not exactly a door." "No. You'll get out in time. Why not have a look around while you wait?" Seeing nothing else to do, I opened the nearest drawer, pulled out one of the dozens of colored folders, and began reading. It soon became clear that I was reading about my life. Or at least, the time I broke my arm when I was eight. Curious, I put the folder back. Were all of these about my life? Every folder in the room? I read two more. Both were rather uneventful, but they were without a doubt about me. Perhaps I could find one about when I lost my virginity. Now that's a memory I wouldn't mind reliving. As I searched through the drawer detailed the events of the latter half of my seventeenth year, a different voice, less monotone and colder, entered my head. "*You know, your judgement is coming up..." "Yes, I guessed as much." "Are you sure you'll pass?" I stopped. I hadn't considered it. I tried to think of something, anything, that would prevent me from being allowed in. Nothing in particular occurred to me, but there had to be something. "I'm... not sure." "Well, if anything occurs to you, I may be able to make it... disappear." "Thanks for-" I began, but I could tell the voice wasn't listening any more. I had to find it. The one thing, the greatest sin I had committed, which would prevent me from entering the afterlife. I began searching. A few minutes later, if time passed in that place, I was surrounded by dozens of folders detailing entirely normal parts of my life. The voice returned. "Anything?" "No, not yet." "Keep looking." At least an hour had passed when it next bothered me. I dismissed it again, as I had found nothing. It returned a dozen times over the next 2 hours. Each time, it seemed more anxious for me to find something. By the last time, I was entirely fed up with it. "Dammit, I said I haven't found anything and would appreciatte if you would leave me to look in peace!" "I'm checking on your progress." "Well I haven't made any! If I just give you something, will you just leave me the hell alone!?" "Yes." "Fine." I grabbed a pink folder that was sitting at me feet. It wasn't some terrible sin I had committed, but it wasn't a 'Get-Into-Heaven-Free' card either. "This one." I lifted it into the air. "Are you sure?" "Look, I don't even care at this point." "Excellent." The folder vanished from my hand, followed by the room around me. A man with grey hair wearing a white suit stood before be, holding a pink folder. "Let the judging begin.*"
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Choose" said the voice. This was my chance. For the last 50 years of my life I had resigned myself to hell, it's what I deserved anyways. Yet here I am, able to erase the one mistake I made so long ago. I laughed. Even a disgusting wretch like me could get into heaven. And I know I will. Besides that one mistake, I've been nothing but saintly. Keeping to myself, helping others who lost their way, even attending church every Sunday until I died. Not that you have much else to do in prison. I looked at the being before me, and smiled. "I wish to erase the decision to rape and murder my six year old daughter." The beings face twisted in disgust. It flipped through my what I assume was the book holding the history if my actions, and at one point picked one section up out of the book like a dirty sock and it dissolved into the air. It flipped through the rest of the book, growing visually more frustrated until he got to the end and violently closed the book. Once again, I smiled. I knew I had won. "It really disgusts me that we have such a rule that would allow someone like you into heaven," it said, "but the rules are the rules. You're in." With a wave of it's hands the gates opened before me. I rubbed my hands together in excitement as I walked through the entrance. I would get to see her again.	Okay, think, this is easy. Just one thing, I shouldn't be spending this much time on this. The angel stands before you, tapping his foot impatiently. He wears an illustrious white tunic and his white feathered wings are folded on his back. "Seriously," he says to you, "You've been holding up the line for, like, two hours. Just make a decision." Okay, no pressure. I just need to figure out which thing I did will make him most likely to turn away. Okay, sinful stuff... Oh! that one time I fucked that girl's ass at a Halloween party while she was dressed as an angel... Would he find that funny? I was dressed as Duke Nukem... I'll come back to that. "Dude," the angel says, "I can hear everything you're thinking. I'm an angel, we can do that. And for the record, she was a dove; she bit it a few years ago and that was the thing she erased." "Wait," you say, confused, "She erased her ever having sex with me? Why?" "I don't know," the angel is very annoyed by now, you can see it in his face, "Maybe you're just bad at sex. Now pick a memory and be done with it. Christ." Yeesh, I can't believe anyone would erase sex with me, I'm not that bad right? Never mind, I need to focus. Okay, any other sins on my record... About thirteen unpaid parking tickets, I made Cherry get an abortion, I laughed at the Special Olympics that one time... And there was that one week where I masturbated to that picture of my sister three or four times a day. "Would you like me to say your thoughts aloud?" the angel asks, gesturing to the huge line behind you, "Will that get you to pick?" "Damnit, hurry up! You only have so much time!" you scream aloud, then say "Sorry, I thought I was thinking that." "I do not give a crap, dude," the angel shakes his head, "Just pick a fucking memory, please." Okay, one memory, just one. I should probably cover up the time me and Manny had a threesome with that hooker we found on Craigslist, that would be pretty damning... heh 'damning'... No, focus, damn you! Oh, I got it! I'll get rid of that warbride I took in Iraq after we carpet bombed her village! But I did give five girls chlamydia, including Halloween girl! Maybe that's why she erased it, not because I'm bad at sex! I wonder if she got into heaven; I should look her up on... What the hell is the social media thing for heaven? ChristianMingle? Are agnostics allowed on ChristianMingle? "Oh my god!" the angel suddenly shouts, "Fuck it! You can't get in! Go away, find some nice slice of purgatory, rot in the deepest circle of Hell, go back to Earth as a fucking zombie, I don't give a shit; just get away from my fucking gate!" Jesus, what's his problem? Oh well, it's not like I wanted to get into his lame-ass paradise anyway.
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"So," I said, as calmly as I could in those circumstances, "I can wipe one thing out..." "Yes," the being before me stated. I closed my eyes at that. The raw potential of that concept was... well it was almost intoxicating. "Not just from my memory and yours," I said, "but from Time itself?" "Yes," the being said, "Time will forget the action, and as such it will be undone. Time will adjust to your change, while still preserving the Timeline in as unaltered a state as it can." I nodded at that, it made sense on some level. I was being given the ability to literally wipe a moment from Time. I could take any action, and its consequences, and erase them from Time entirely. They'd have never happened. Even the being before me, in all its power, wouldn't be able to remember that which Time had forgotten. But... Time couldn't afford to leave the spot where I erased something empty, now could it? Matter in Space abhors a vacuum... and there's no reason I can see that Time shouldn't have a similar aversion to an empty spot existing within itself. So it would have to create a replacement for my erased actions... one that wouldn't be able to cause too much of a ripple effect. "There are so many things I could erase..." I said, "So many things I wish I hadn't done... or that I could do-over... how am I supposed to pick just one of them?" "By taking your time," the Being said. That was true as well, I suppose. The Being and I weren't bound by Time's rules in Oblivion. In the Nothingness of Oblivion, Time doesn't flow as it should. It's incredibly convoluted, in fact. But the bottom line was that everyone within Oblivion has exactly as much time as they need before... well before whatever comes next. I sat down upon the nothingness, and closed my eyes. Then I allowed my mind to pass back into Time, and through Time into Memory. I watched my life again in an instant. I experienced everything in that moment, as Memory showed me myself from a fresh perspective. The emotions of a lifetime washed over me in a flash... and I knew what I needed to erase. I reached out into Time, and plucked a single moment from it. "An fascinating choice, at least under the circumstances," the Being said as it looked upon the moment I held. I looked into it too. It was... well it was something of a low moment for me. My biggest regret... "Yeah," I said. "You treated her exactly as you were told she deserved to be treated," the Being said, "they way that, as far as you know, I wanted you to treat her. Why would you erase this moment... it should do nothing but serve in your favor when you are judged." "Because she didn't deserve that," I said, "she didn't deserve rejection... she didn't deserve what I called her... or how I treated her." The Being didn't have a body that I could describe. But... I can tell you that it felt happy. "And so you forsake this opportunity to erase a mark against yourself," the Being said, "to spare another pain that you brought against them in accordance with my wishes... or what people told you my wishes are, at least." I closed my eyes, and waited for what comes next. "I am proud of you," it said.	Okay, think, this is easy. Just one thing, I shouldn't be spending this much time on this. The angel stands before you, tapping his foot impatiently. He wears an illustrious white tunic and his white feathered wings are folded on his back. "Seriously," he says to you, "You've been holding up the line for, like, two hours. Just make a decision." Okay, no pressure. I just need to figure out which thing I did will make him most likely to turn away. Okay, sinful stuff... Oh! that one time I fucked that girl's ass at a Halloween party while she was dressed as an angel... Would he find that funny? I was dressed as Duke Nukem... I'll come back to that. "Dude," the angel says, "I can hear everything you're thinking. I'm an angel, we can do that. And for the record, she was a dove; she bit it a few years ago and that was the thing she erased." "Wait," you say, confused, "She erased her ever having sex with me? Why?" "I don't know," the angel is very annoyed by now, you can see it in his face, "Maybe you're just bad at sex. Now pick a memory and be done with it. Christ." Yeesh, I can't believe anyone would erase sex with me, I'm not that bad right? Never mind, I need to focus. Okay, any other sins on my record... About thirteen unpaid parking tickets, I made Cherry get an abortion, I laughed at the Special Olympics that one time... And there was that one week where I masturbated to that picture of my sister three or four times a day. "Would you like me to say your thoughts aloud?" the angel asks, gesturing to the huge line behind you, "Will that get you to pick?" "Damnit, hurry up! You only have so much time!" you scream aloud, then say "Sorry, I thought I was thinking that." "I do not give a crap, dude," the angel shakes his head, "Just pick a fucking memory, please." Okay, one memory, just one. I should probably cover up the time me and Manny had a threesome with that hooker we found on Craigslist, that would be pretty damning... heh 'damning'... No, focus, damn you! Oh, I got it! I'll get rid of that warbride I took in Iraq after we carpet bombed her village! But I did give five girls chlamydia, including Halloween girl! Maybe that's why she erased it, not because I'm bad at sex! I wonder if she got into heaven; I should look her up on... What the hell is the social media thing for heaven? ChristianMingle? Are agnostics allowed on ChristianMingle? "Oh my god!" the angel suddenly shouts, "Fuck it! You can't get in! Go away, find some nice slice of purgatory, rot in the deepest circle of Hell, go back to Earth as a fucking zombie, I don't give a shit; just get away from my fucking gate!" Jesus, what's his problem? Oh well, it's not like I wanted to get into his lame-ass paradise anyway.
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Welcome, my son," the voice said with a smile; "You're dead, I'm God, and this might take a while." "You have lived and you've loved, you've won and you've lost; But now that you're dead, there's one more line to be crossed!" "Look at this list," he said, and produced a sheet Of items so long that it hung down to his feet. "There's both heaven and hell, and you're going to one! So cross off an item, but overlook none!" He gave a pen, and with a wink almost caustic, He pointed to "9/1/75: Became an agnostic". I chewed on the pen; I looked and I sat; And recalling my life, I nearly fell flat. "Know what, God?" I cried, my voice nearing a yell "I don't need your judgement, I already lived Hell!" "My mother was killed in an Earthquake and my father a storm! Both acts of God, both out of the norm!" "I hated my life! It was lonely and sad! You killed them both! You're a coward, a cad!" God backed up a few steps, and with love in his voice, Said "Acts of Me are necessary- it wasn't a choice!" He moved a bit forward, and urgently muttered "Hurry up and cross one off, or this room will get cluttered!" I looked right behind me, and there was a line! I started to laugh, it was all going to be fine. I looked at the Lord, my eyes teared with mirth; And with a final "Fuck You" to God, I crossed off my birth.	Okay, think, this is easy. Just one thing, I shouldn't be spending this much time on this. The angel stands before you, tapping his foot impatiently. He wears an illustrious white tunic and his white feathered wings are folded on his back. "Seriously," he says to you, "You've been holding up the line for, like, two hours. Just make a decision." Okay, no pressure. I just need to figure out which thing I did will make him most likely to turn away. Okay, sinful stuff... Oh! that one time I fucked that girl's ass at a Halloween party while she was dressed as an angel... Would he find that funny? I was dressed as Duke Nukem... I'll come back to that. "Dude," the angel says, "I can hear everything you're thinking. I'm an angel, we can do that. And for the record, she was a dove; she bit it a few years ago and that was the thing she erased." "Wait," you say, confused, "She erased her ever having sex with me? Why?" "I don't know," the angel is very annoyed by now, you can see it in his face, "Maybe you're just bad at sex. Now pick a memory and be done with it. Christ." Yeesh, I can't believe anyone would erase sex with me, I'm not that bad right? Never mind, I need to focus. Okay, any other sins on my record... About thirteen unpaid parking tickets, I made Cherry get an abortion, I laughed at the Special Olympics that one time... And there was that one week where I masturbated to that picture of my sister three or four times a day. "Would you like me to say your thoughts aloud?" the angel asks, gesturing to the huge line behind you, "Will that get you to pick?" "Damnit, hurry up! You only have so much time!" you scream aloud, then say "Sorry, I thought I was thinking that." "I do not give a crap, dude," the angel shakes his head, "Just pick a fucking memory, please." Okay, one memory, just one. I should probably cover up the time me and Manny had a threesome with that hooker we found on Craigslist, that would be pretty damning... heh 'damning'... No, focus, damn you! Oh, I got it! I'll get rid of that warbride I took in Iraq after we carpet bombed her village! But I did give five girls chlamydia, including Halloween girl! Maybe that's why she erased it, not because I'm bad at sex! I wonder if she got into heaven; I should look her up on... What the hell is the social media thing for heaven? ChristianMingle? Are agnostics allowed on ChristianMingle? "Oh my god!" the angel suddenly shouts, "Fuck it! You can't get in! Go away, find some nice slice of purgatory, rot in the deepest circle of Hell, go back to Earth as a fucking zombie, I don't give a shit; just get away from my fucking gate!" Jesus, what's his problem? Oh well, it's not like I wanted to get into his lame-ass paradise anyway.
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	I was staring at a physical manifestation of all the deeds of my life. It was curious, in that it seemed much smaller than I expected, the size of perhaps a longtime petty criminal's rap sheet. But as I flipped through the pages and came to what should have been the end, the pages just kept being there to turn. But the stack of read pages never grew larger as I flipped pages onto it. Curious. "Clear an entry? What's that mean?" I asked. The angel standing before me did not respond. "Like, I can go through my entire life, line by line, and remove something. It, what, increases my chances of going to Heaven?" Still the angel didn't respond. Stupid angel. "Does it just get removed from consideration?" I was easily twenty or thirty pages into the file, but when I thought about looking at the first page, it was the first page I turned back over. There, at the beginning, the moment of my birth. I flipped to the end, and there was my death. "How long do I have to decide?" The angel stared at me and said, "You have until you decide to decide." "Geez, man. Just say 'as long as it takes'." The angel did not smile or sneer at my jest, only stared impassively. I didn't think I'd get much more out of him, so I ignored him and set about reading my life. If I could remove the worst thing I'd ever done, would it improve my standing and get me into Heaven? Could it possibly matter, one insignificant moment in an entire life? I had to take the chance. After what felt like an hour I was bored. A line by line breakdown of every single action and thought, however insignificant, taken by a person, especially a baby, was like reading the most boring story imaginable. You know what a baby does all day? Subject slept. Subject cried. Subject ate. Subject urinated. Subject urinated. Subject cried. Subject stared at the stars on the mobile above crib. Just pages and pages of that. I skipped ahead because if I read every single line I'd be here as long as I actually lived this life with none of the benefits of experiencing it again. I was now in my fourteenth year of life. Holy moley, this was a crazy time. Subject imagined Maria naked. Subject got an erection. Subject blushed. Subject asked to go to the bathroom. Subject stood up out of chair. Subject hid erection under bookbag. Subject walked to bathroom. Subject masturbated. This was embarrassing and miserable! I was now glossing over unimportant events because it was taking too long to read each line. I had an idea. I flipped a page and was rewarded with a much truncated list of a single day's actions and thoughts. Anything I thought was mundane and harmless was left out, and I saw only significant actions and thoughts. Entire weeks might be on a single page. The picture that started to develop of myself was disconcerting. In my twenties now: Subject had lustful thoughts about Kara. Subject flirted with Kara. Subject cheated on Nicole with Kara. Subject lied to Nicole. Subject stole ten dollars from Ken's desk. Subject donated five dollars to charity. Subject broke up with Nicole. Subject made Nicole think it was her fault. For every good deed or thought there were a dozen awful things. Stealing small things, wishing violence upon coupon shoppers for taking too long in line, brake-checking and general road rage. Lying to people, cheating at friendly games, a lot of groping and emotional abuse. Taken piecemeal each had seemed insignificant, but now the picture was clear. I was a bad person, and I was going to Hell. I couldn't fix this by removing one line. What was the point if there was no chance? ... Was it a test? Forcing me to relive all the horrible things I'd done to people, so that I might repent? But how could I repent for real if I knew that was the point. Therein lay the rub. I wanted to repent because I didn't want to burn in Hell for all eternity, not because I wanted forgiveness or felt bad about the things I'd done. I could stay here. Refuse to make the decision. Purgatory must be better than Hell, right? But what if refusing to make the decision was in itself a decision, and my judgement moved ahead "as is". What if that was the point? Gah! Too many possibilities. I looked at the beginning of my life all soft and new and boring and good, then at the end of my life in a car crash where I was at fault for aggressive driving and trying to force people to move so I could get ahead. At my first stolen kiss. Getting fired for theft of office supplies. That summer in Scotland with freckle-faced Colleen. The first time I beat Super Mario Bros. on Nintendo. My 30th birthday celebration. The time I had Johnny Walker Blue. Ignoring the injured man on the street corner because I was going to be late for the movies. Another idea occurred to me. I couldn't go to Heaven, but I could take a chance and pray. "How do I remove the line once I've decided?" I asked the angel. He didn't respond, but a pencil appeared on the page I had been looking at. Fifteen years old, the night I sweet-talked Maria into having sex with me and we both lost our virginity. Good memory. I wondered how Maria was doing these days. I turned the page and stared at the line, then erased it. ~~Subject died from blood loss.~~ I came awake, an oxygen mask over my face, tubes everywhere, blinding lights. Excited voices shouted all around me. "He's back, my God, he's back. It's been five minutes. Get the bag over here. Holy God I can't believe it. He didn't have enough blood left to pump but he's back." Guess that answers that, I thought. Second chances only come once, they say. I don't know if I can balance the scales and have it make a difference now that I know what the stakes are. But maybe, just maybe, if I do enough good I'll stop doing good to save myself and start doing it because it's the right thing to do. Surely that will make a difference? Edit: Formatting.	Okay, think, this is easy. Just one thing, I shouldn't be spending this much time on this. The angel stands before you, tapping his foot impatiently. He wears an illustrious white tunic and his white feathered wings are folded on his back. "Seriously," he says to you, "You've been holding up the line for, like, two hours. Just make a decision." Okay, no pressure. I just need to figure out which thing I did will make him most likely to turn away. Okay, sinful stuff... Oh! that one time I fucked that girl's ass at a Halloween party while she was dressed as an angel... Would he find that funny? I was dressed as Duke Nukem... I'll come back to that. "Dude," the angel says, "I can hear everything you're thinking. I'm an angel, we can do that. And for the record, she was a dove; she bit it a few years ago and that was the thing she erased." "Wait," you say, confused, "She erased her ever having sex with me? Why?" "I don't know," the angel is very annoyed by now, you can see it in his face, "Maybe you're just bad at sex. Now pick a memory and be done with it. Christ." Yeesh, I can't believe anyone would erase sex with me, I'm not that bad right? Never mind, I need to focus. Okay, any other sins on my record... About thirteen unpaid parking tickets, I made Cherry get an abortion, I laughed at the Special Olympics that one time... And there was that one week where I masturbated to that picture of my sister three or four times a day. "Would you like me to say your thoughts aloud?" the angel asks, gesturing to the huge line behind you, "Will that get you to pick?" "Damnit, hurry up! You only have so much time!" you scream aloud, then say "Sorry, I thought I was thinking that." "I do not give a crap, dude," the angel shakes his head, "Just pick a fucking memory, please." Okay, one memory, just one. I should probably cover up the time me and Manny had a threesome with that hooker we found on Craigslist, that would be pretty damning... heh 'damning'... No, focus, damn you! Oh, I got it! I'll get rid of that warbride I took in Iraq after we carpet bombed her village! But I did give five girls chlamydia, including Halloween girl! Maybe that's why she erased it, not because I'm bad at sex! I wonder if she got into heaven; I should look her up on... What the hell is the social media thing for heaven? ChristianMingle? Are agnostics allowed on ChristianMingle? "Oh my god!" the angel suddenly shouts, "Fuck it! You can't get in! Go away, find some nice slice of purgatory, rot in the deepest circle of Hell, go back to Earth as a fucking zombie, I don't give a shit; just get away from my fucking gate!" Jesus, what's his problem? Oh well, it's not like I wanted to get into his lame-ass paradise anyway.
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Choose" said the voice. This was my chance. For the last 50 years of my life I had resigned myself to hell, it's what I deserved anyways. Yet here I am, able to erase the one mistake I made so long ago. I laughed. Even a disgusting wretch like me could get into heaven. And I know I will. Besides that one mistake, I've been nothing but saintly. Keeping to myself, helping others who lost their way, even attending church every Sunday until I died. Not that you have much else to do in prison. I looked at the being before me, and smiled. "I wish to erase the decision to rape and murder my six year old daughter." The beings face twisted in disgust. It flipped through my what I assume was the book holding the history if my actions, and at one point picked one section up out of the book like a dirty sock and it dissolved into the air. It flipped through the rest of the book, growing visually more frustrated until he got to the end and violently closed the book. Once again, I smiled. I knew I had won. "It really disgusts me that we have such a rule that would allow someone like you into heaven," it said, "but the rules are the rules. You're in." With a wave of it's hands the gates opened before me. I rubbed my hands together in excitement as I walked through the entrance. I would get to see her again.	"And you're sure I can only pick one?" "Jᴜsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ." "But there are so many, how could I ever possibly choose?" "Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ʟᴜᴄᴋʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ--" "Lucky?! I'm DEAD! How is that lucky?!" "Yᴇs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴs ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɴᴏ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ. Jᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴏsᴛʟʏ." "Dᴇᴀᴛʜ, has anyone ever told you that you can be kind of a pain in the ass?" "I ᴜsᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴘᴏssᴇssɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴘᴀʀᴛs ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀɪɴ ɪɴ." Exasperated, I turned to the task at hand. Here in this ethereal in-between were images as far as the eye, or whatever was responsible for sight here,could see. A record of all I'd done. Trying to focus on the worst of it, an oversized blur of images raced past me. All of them were worthy candidates, and each of them induced a wince as they brought vivid sensations of my greatest misgivings racing back. There was the time I'd lied about my grandmother dying to get out of going to two days of a job I didn't enjoy. There was the time I'd abandoned a childhood friend in a foreign country to escape the teasing of my other peers. There was the time I'd lied to my fiancee to go camping with an old flame. Each of them revolted me, but in trying to prioritize what one I could possibly erase, I pondered to myself whether a man with ten thousand misdeeds was really any worse than a man with nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine. In that brief thought, I decided I would be here for an eternity (not that I was in any hurry) if I tried to single any one thing out, so I opted to let fate decide which of my many personal failings to erase from the record. It was the one that got me here in the first place, so perhaps it deserved as much. Haphazardly I reached out to clutch a random ethereal image racing by (kicking my best mate in the crotch). To my surprise, it stretched out towards me momentarily, only to whiz back into the blur of images from whence it came. I tried again (this time, faking an emergency to escape an unpleasant dinner date), only to have it snap back into place as if held by rubber bands. It was then I noticed, that these memories WERE held in place by something. Each of them had twinkling threads of golden light streaming out of the back of them, connecting them with dozens, sometimes hundreds of other memories. When viewed as a whole, the threads formed an almost solid golden mesh that bound my life together. I couldn't tug at one memory without trying to bring along everything that experience was a result of or became responsible for. Waspishly, I turned back to Dᴇᴀᴛʜ "How am I supposed to pick one if they're all stuck together in this wishy-washy golden muck?!" "Hᴏᴡ Iɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ." I couldn't say for certain. It was hard to tell with the hood and the skeletal features. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Dᴇᴀᴛʜ was grinning at me. I resolved that if those memories were too important to remove without destroying some other portion of myself, that I would choose the biggest mistake I'd made that wasn't inextricably tied part and parcel with the sum of who I was. As if they could read my thoughts, the overwhelming barrage of images faded to just a single memory, greyish in hue, with naught but a few wispy, faded golden threads behind it. I pursed my lips and sighed heavy with understanding. I lazily reached up and tugged at the memory of a dreary April 28 many years ago, eating a cheese sandwich for lunch I wasn't particularly fond of. It leapt into my hand willingly and without any tug from the threads it was bound to. I turned and outstretched my hand to my companion. "Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ sᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ?" I nodded solemnly. "I remember wishing I'd gotten curry instead." "Mᴍᴍ. Exᴄᴇʟʟᴇɴᴛ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ."
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Welcome, my son," the voice said with a smile; "You're dead, I'm God, and this might take a while." "You have lived and you've loved, you've won and you've lost; But now that you're dead, there's one more line to be crossed!" "Look at this list," he said, and produced a sheet Of items so long that it hung down to his feet. "There's both heaven and hell, and you're going to one! So cross off an item, but overlook none!" He gave a pen, and with a wink almost caustic, He pointed to "9/1/75: Became an agnostic". I chewed on the pen; I looked and I sat; And recalling my life, I nearly fell flat. "Know what, God?" I cried, my voice nearing a yell "I don't need your judgement, I already lived Hell!" "My mother was killed in an Earthquake and my father a storm! Both acts of God, both out of the norm!" "I hated my life! It was lonely and sad! You killed them both! You're a coward, a cad!" God backed up a few steps, and with love in his voice, Said "Acts of Me are necessary- it wasn't a choice!" He moved a bit forward, and urgently muttered "Hurry up and cross one off, or this room will get cluttered!" I looked right behind me, and there was a line! I started to laugh, it was all going to be fine. I looked at the Lord, my eyes teared with mirth; And with a final "Fuck You" to God, I crossed off my birth.	"And you're sure I can only pick one?" "Jᴜsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ." "But there are so many, how could I ever possibly choose?" "Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ʟᴜᴄᴋʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ--" "Lucky?! I'm DEAD! How is that lucky?!" "Yᴇs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴs ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɴᴏ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ. Jᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇ, ᴍᴏsᴛʟʏ." "Dᴇᴀᴛʜ, has anyone ever told you that you can be kind of a pain in the ass?" "I ᴜsᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴘᴏssᴇssɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴘᴀʀᴛs ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀɪɴ ɪɴ." Exasperated, I turned to the task at hand. Here in this ethereal in-between were images as far as the eye, or whatever was responsible for sight here,could see. A record of all I'd done. Trying to focus on the worst of it, an oversized blur of images raced past me. All of them were worthy candidates, and each of them induced a wince as they brought vivid sensations of my greatest misgivings racing back. There was the time I'd lied about my grandmother dying to get out of going to two days of a job I didn't enjoy. There was the time I'd abandoned a childhood friend in a foreign country to escape the teasing of my other peers. There was the time I'd lied to my fiancee to go camping with an old flame. Each of them revolted me, but in trying to prioritize what one I could possibly erase, I pondered to myself whether a man with ten thousand misdeeds was really any worse than a man with nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine. In that brief thought, I decided I would be here for an eternity (not that I was in any hurry) if I tried to single any one thing out, so I opted to let fate decide which of my many personal failings to erase from the record. It was the one that got me here in the first place, so perhaps it deserved as much. Haphazardly I reached out to clutch a random ethereal image racing by (kicking my best mate in the crotch). To my surprise, it stretched out towards me momentarily, only to whiz back into the blur of images from whence it came. I tried again (this time, faking an emergency to escape an unpleasant dinner date), only to have it snap back into place as if held by rubber bands. It was then I noticed, that these memories WERE held in place by something. Each of them had twinkling threads of golden light streaming out of the back of them, connecting them with dozens, sometimes hundreds of other memories. When viewed as a whole, the threads formed an almost solid golden mesh that bound my life together. I couldn't tug at one memory without trying to bring along everything that experience was a result of or became responsible for. Waspishly, I turned back to Dᴇᴀᴛʜ "How am I supposed to pick one if they're all stuck together in this wishy-washy golden muck?!" "Hᴏᴡ Iɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ." I couldn't say for certain. It was hard to tell with the hood and the skeletal features. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Dᴇᴀᴛʜ was grinning at me. I resolved that if those memories were too important to remove without destroying some other portion of myself, that I would choose the biggest mistake I'd made that wasn't inextricably tied part and parcel with the sum of who I was. As if they could read my thoughts, the overwhelming barrage of images faded to just a single memory, greyish in hue, with naught but a few wispy, faded golden threads behind it. I pursed my lips and sighed heavy with understanding. I lazily reached up and tugged at the memory of a dreary April 28 many years ago, eating a cheese sandwich for lunch I wasn't particularly fond of. It leapt into my hand willingly and without any tug from the threads it was bound to. I turned and outstretched my hand to my companion. "Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ sᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ?" I nodded solemnly. "I remember wishing I'd gotten curry instead." "Mᴍᴍ. Exᴄᴇʟʟᴇɴᴛ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ."
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Welcome, my son," the voice said with a smile; "You're dead, I'm God, and this might take a while." "You have lived and you've loved, you've won and you've lost; But now that you're dead, there's one more line to be crossed!" "Look at this list," he said, and produced a sheet Of items so long that it hung down to his feet. "There's both heaven and hell, and you're going to one! So cross off an item, but overlook none!" He gave a pen, and with a wink almost caustic, He pointed to "9/1/75: Became an agnostic". I chewed on the pen; I looked and I sat; And recalling my life, I nearly fell flat. "Know what, God?" I cried, my voice nearing a yell "I don't need your judgement, I already lived Hell!" "My mother was killed in an Earthquake and my father a storm! Both acts of God, both out of the norm!" "I hated my life! It was lonely and sad! You killed them both! You're a coward, a cad!" God backed up a few steps, and with love in his voice, Said "Acts of Me are necessary- it wasn't a choice!" He moved a bit forward, and urgently muttered "Hurry up and cross one off, or this room will get cluttered!" I looked right behind me, and there was a line! I started to laugh, it was all going to be fine. I looked at the Lord, my eyes teared with mirth; And with a final "Fuck You" to God, I crossed off my birth.	"Choose" said the voice. This was my chance. For the last 50 years of my life I had resigned myself to hell, it's what I deserved anyways. Yet here I am, able to erase the one mistake I made so long ago. I laughed. Even a disgusting wretch like me could get into heaven. And I know I will. Besides that one mistake, I've been nothing but saintly. Keeping to myself, helping others who lost their way, even attending church every Sunday until I died. Not that you have much else to do in prison. I looked at the being before me, and smiled. "I wish to erase the decision to rape and murder my six year old daughter." The beings face twisted in disgust. It flipped through my what I assume was the book holding the history if my actions, and at one point picked one section up out of the book like a dirty sock and it dissolved into the air. It flipped through the rest of the book, growing visually more frustrated until he got to the end and violently closed the book. Once again, I smiled. I knew I had won. "It really disgusts me that we have such a rule that would allow someone like you into heaven," it said, "but the rules are the rules. You're in." With a wave of it's hands the gates opened before me. I rubbed my hands together in excitement as I walked through the entrance. I would get to see her again.
Let me add: apologies for the cliché of judgement after death. I just want to see how you guys play this one out.	[WP] You have died. While waiting to be judged, you are offered the chance to clear one entry from your file before the decision is made.	"Welcome, my son," the voice said with a smile; "You're dead, I'm God, and this might take a while." "You have lived and you've loved, you've won and you've lost; But now that you're dead, there's one more line to be crossed!" "Look at this list," he said, and produced a sheet Of items so long that it hung down to his feet. "There's both heaven and hell, and you're going to one! So cross off an item, but overlook none!" He gave a pen, and with a wink almost caustic, He pointed to "9/1/75: Became an agnostic". I chewed on the pen; I looked and I sat; And recalling my life, I nearly fell flat. "Know what, God?" I cried, my voice nearing a yell "I don't need your judgement, I already lived Hell!" "My mother was killed in an Earthquake and my father a storm! Both acts of God, both out of the norm!" "I hated my life! It was lonely and sad! You killed them both! You're a coward, a cad!" God backed up a few steps, and with love in his voice, Said "Acts of Me are necessary- it wasn't a choice!" He moved a bit forward, and urgently muttered "Hurry up and cross one off, or this room will get cluttered!" I looked right behind me, and there was a line! I started to laugh, it was all going to be fine. I looked at the Lord, my eyes teared with mirth; And with a final "Fuck You" to God, I crossed off my birth.	"So," I said, as calmly as I could in those circumstances, "I can wipe one thing out..." "Yes," the being before me stated. I closed my eyes at that. The raw potential of that concept was... well it was almost intoxicating. "Not just from my memory and yours," I said, "but from Time itself?" "Yes," the being said, "Time will forget the action, and as such it will be undone. Time will adjust to your change, while still preserving the Timeline in as unaltered a state as it can." I nodded at that, it made sense on some level. I was being given the ability to literally wipe a moment from Time. I could take any action, and its consequences, and erase them from Time entirely. They'd have never happened. Even the being before me, in all its power, wouldn't be able to remember that which Time had forgotten. But... Time couldn't afford to leave the spot where I erased something empty, now could it? Matter in Space abhors a vacuum... and there's no reason I can see that Time shouldn't have a similar aversion to an empty spot existing within itself. So it would have to create a replacement for my erased actions... one that wouldn't be able to cause too much of a ripple effect. "There are so many things I could erase..." I said, "So many things I wish I hadn't done... or that I could do-over... how am I supposed to pick just one of them?" "By taking your time," the Being said. That was true as well, I suppose. The Being and I weren't bound by Time's rules in Oblivion. In the Nothingness of Oblivion, Time doesn't flow as it should. It's incredibly convoluted, in fact. But the bottom line was that everyone within Oblivion has exactly as much time as they need before... well before whatever comes next. I sat down upon the nothingness, and closed my eyes. Then I allowed my mind to pass back into Time, and through Time into Memory. I watched my life again in an instant. I experienced everything in that moment, as Memory showed me myself from a fresh perspective. The emotions of a lifetime washed over me in a flash... and I knew what I needed to erase. I reached out into Time, and plucked a single moment from it. "An fascinating choice, at least under the circumstances," the Being said as it looked upon the moment I held. I looked into it too. It was... well it was something of a low moment for me. My biggest regret... "Yeah," I said. "You treated her exactly as you were told she deserved to be treated," the Being said, "they way that, as far as you know, I wanted you to treat her. Why would you erase this moment... it should do nothing but serve in your favor when you are judged." "Because she didn't deserve that," I said, "she didn't deserve rejection... she didn't deserve what I called her... or how I treated her." The Being didn't have a body that I could describe. But... I can tell you that it felt happy. "And so you forsake this opportunity to erase a mark against yourself," the Being said, "to spare another pain that you brought against them in accordance with my wishes... or what people told you my wishes are, at least." I closed my eyes, and waited for what comes next. "I am proud of you," it said.
	[WP] A deal-with-the-devil backfires and now a human owns Satan's soul	She stared at her broken ride. Her vision lingering around the confetti of debris that littered the roadway--little shards of fairing and broken headlights--before resting on the twisted remains of the frame bent awkwardly towards the sun. Her bike would never run again. It was even more unfortunate that her body was slumped next to the beast, just lying there, doing nothing. It was as broken and empty as her bike. Dead. She was dead. The finality of it hadn't sunk in yet. She watched in morbid curiosity as the lights flashed around her, as her body was inspected and then neatly sealed away forever in the dark embrace of a body bag. It couldn't really be her, could it? And if that was her, why was she still hanging around-- A voice startled her out of her thoughts. "Hello," said the Devil, its voice low and deep with hints of a resonant purr, "I've come to collect." "Collect what?" She retorted, annoyed. "My soul? You must be joking. I haven't seen you before in my life, and why the fuck do you look like that?" "Oh, but you humans love this stuff." It hummed in amusement. It's goat eyes slitting to a fine horizontal line. "You used to be little goatherders dreaming silly little nightmares about perfectly harmless creatures. I just added some fire and brimstone and glowing yellow eyes. It's very classic." "Seriously?" "Perhaps, something a bit more modern?" In an instant, the Devil changed, and a handsome man appeared in an expensive, well-fitted, suit. "I have so many spares of these." It added, "It gets a little tiresome wearing them, these business--" It hissed, before finishing with a sharp staccato, "--men. Very boring boiler-plate contracts. Youth and money and power." The Devil sighed, "Simply, no imagination at all." "Huh, I guess I should have known." She replied. "Oh, but really, you shouldn't be worrying about that." It repeated, and strode closer to her, "I've come to collect." It paused, "And it is true, you haven't made a deal with me. But you know, your parents are very, very, terrible people for bargaining their daughter's soul." "That's bullshit. They can't do that." "Life is unfair, and you weren't born yet." The Devil smiled, "But you were extra. Interest as it were. I'll have their souls too when they finally shuffle off this mortal coil." "Hey, don't I at least get to wager for my soul?" "You're thinking about the silly personification of Death, which of course doesn't exist." "That's absurd. If you can exist. Death can exist, and I want a fucking match." The Devil sighed. "Oh, very well. I don't want you complaining all the way down to Hell." The Devil's eyebrow raised, "I suppose I'll humor you. If I win, I claim your soul, even though I rightfully already own it." "And if I win, I get your soul." The Devil tsked, "Why would you want my soul?" "Why do you want mine?" She yelled back. "It's a long standing bet, of course." The Devil smirked, "I can't give up now, can I?" It paused, "Fine. I accept the terms. You fools never win anyway." The Devil tapped its foot, "Don't keep me waiting, I believe it's a game of your choosing." "Candy Crush." And then her smartphone appeared, and there was much fruit. --- A short time later, the Devil roared, and smashed the phone on the ground. "This is absurd. You cheated!" The Devil cursed, "You used in-app purchases and asked for more lives from friends!" "You never said otherwise." She said frankly. The Devil slowly fumed for some time, switching between the body of a dragon, a manticore, and an abomination that her eyes kept sliding over from it's insistence of not fitting into euclidian space. "Fine!" The Devil declared. "Fine! But, the fine print still says I own your soul. But now--" The Devil hesitated, "You also own mine." "So, what does that mean?" "I would like to ask for a divorce."	First submission to this subreddit. Hope you like it. ... For once I had overestimated myself. For once I had underestimated who I was up against. Not in the thousands of years on this planet, and the thousands of years on thousands of others had I ever done this before. Deals always go the same way. The challenge always accepted. The challenger always arises, with some cocky, arrogant and delusional sense they will win because of some secret they found. Then I always win to keep my soul and theirs. Condemning them to serve me forever in my domain. "Challenger defeated. Next challenger" I would say with the monotonic repetitive drone of a late night game show host on a channel for repeats from 30 years ago. Not this time. This time something different happened. The usual challenger has always had that evil streak. Always had their one or two flaws for which they were here for. But that never added up to what I had. My evil was always greater. No evil has ever conquered me. Until now. This thing, which I cannot call human but would be classed as one in any other way, had no streak of evil. The sheer amalgamation of so much evil into one concentrated being was too much. Even for me. I, the bringer of darkness. I, the striker of fear into all could not bring down this thing. I had rained all I could muster upon this being. But like an umbrella under a waterfall it deflected everything. Nothing could even force a stutter or slight twitch. I was broken before it had even moved. I was expended before one breath had been taken. And then it did move. Slowly. Steadily. Towards my broken body. The deal I had always brokered without batting an eyelid because of the consummate ease I could wipe the floor with any challenger, had backfired. I owed it my soul. And it took it. Reaching down, its hand opened like the claw of an eagle readying for its prey. It thrust into my chest in a ghostly fashion, as if passing through me. Then I felt it. The hand clenched tight and ripped my soul from my almost lifeless body and an emptiness ensued. I no longer felt the power I once had. I no longer felt the person I was. I no longer felt anything. Soulless I lay there as the being turned away and punched the soul bearing claw in the air as a sign of victory. There was no crowd, but it felt like the Colosseum of Rome and I was defeated. My own son had defeated me. He had defeated me and now only God, my brother, stood in his path for whatever pain he had planned. And what he had planned was something I could never had dreamed of doing in a long while. In my thousands of years as the king of the underworld I had fallen into the self glorifying challenges and lost sight of my original vision. This is what my son had planned. To march from the fires of Hell to the clouds of Heaven and destroy it and enslave everyone and everything.
	[WP] A deal-with-the-devil backfires and now a human owns Satan's soul	Part 1 While the Devil may get a bad reputation in the mortal world, and it is known amongst the deities that he is a trickster and a bit of a womanizer, they also know that he keeps his word and also is an important part of ensuring justice. The entire universe is built around the notion of balance. All things must work toward a inevitable equilibrium. This is also applied to the notion of morality. All things that are good and evil must meet an amendable equilibrium. Now there are too many souls coming in to hell at any moment for the devil to serve each one. He has an army of demons to care to that. However he does pick certain souls to condemn personally. When he is not doing that he does take the time to check and make sure that justice is being moved fairly for each certain sin or charge. Now before I go on, I must break a misconception. All souls go to hell. That's correct. It's not a bad thing, its just part of the transition process. You come, your sins and grievances are both accounted for, a ledger is checked, and you do what amends are necessary and you move on to the after life. Everyone will meet the grace of their chosen god eventually, but they must first balance their books. Some take more time than others. That is right, bureaucracy is eternal. While the devil was doing a check a minor demon known as Agrajag, only to find that he was swamped in a backlog of judgments. "Agrajag, why are you so backed up? I gave you this office to give you some time off from the mortal world.This should be easy, all you have to do is file for times people have been discourteous and rude to their friends. Some people might be rude but it cant be that bad!" Agrajag looked over at the packed room full of souls complaining about how they should not be in hell. He sighed and looked back at Beelzebub and hung his head. "I'm sorry my lord, but things are not like they used to be. Apparently there is this thing called "Social media" now and it makes people total assholes to one another. I can't keep up. Worse more it actually records the accounts better than we do! The evidence piles are massive! I hardly have room to store it all!" "Oh come now, certainly people are not that so rude to others, without someones honor being called into question. There would be far more deaths from duels and the like." "That's the other problem m'lord. No one defends their name anymore. The world has changed. No one is polite, or courteous anymore." "Bah! We shall see." With that the devil went into the waiting room and tapped the bell on the desk to get everyone's attention. "Excuse me, I apologize for the.." " Hey faggot, who the fuck is running this show?" A voice cried out. ".. again I apologize for the crowded conditions, I know that..." " I refuse to be in the same room as some shitlord that would use a word like faggot. I need to be moved somewhere where i am respected." Another cried out. "Ahem, again I know that it is stressful for you and the others around you. Now i need to .." "What the fuck kind of circus show is this you fucking freaks, I never..." another voice started. As it did, the three souls of who had spoken out of turn were lifted up and burst into flame. Their screams filled the hall, the smell of burning flesh and sulfur filled the noses of all around. All eyes looked at the devil, and became aware that he was calmly and quietly holding his hand up. As everyone but the screaming souls quieted down, he lowered his hand and the souls burning also started to go out, and were lowered to the ground. "Alright, sorry for the display, but I needed to ensure that I had everyone's attention. Do I? Good. Now, I've been informed by my studious and hardworking colleague, Demon 2nd class Agrajag, that people are behaving rather rudely. So much so that you are all here. I was surprised to hear such a thing, but after what I just witnessed I am not more inclined to believe my small demon friend. This is the hall of discourteousness. Not certainly a place for evil people, but a necessary place none the less. More so, my friend informs me that this thing called "social media" is to blame. Is this true?" Every soul in the room just stared at him. "I'm sorry, You may now speak up, I'm sorry if the show earlier might have frightened you a bit. Speak up someone please?" "Well, I mean.... I guess... But it's just what you do on the internet." a small womans soul spoke up. "Pardon? Internet?" "You don't know about the internet?" She asked confused. The rest of the room looked around in startled confusion as well. Concerned that the devil did not know about the internet. "It's what you.... do? Agragjag, please hand me her file." A few moments of shuffling paper stacks later he brought the devil her file. "I quote " You fucking Cunt, How dare you fucking wear my dress out to that party! a party you know damn well wanted to go to!" in reference to a dress you did lend her, without inquiry as to what she wanted it for. Not only that but you had lunch with her an hour later! there are pictures of the sandwich you ate." “Well it's just in good fun. It's sarcasm.” She meekly spoke. “Sarcasm? You called her a bitch one million, six thousand, nine hundred, and fifty eight times. She was accused of being a dirty whore five hundred thousand, four hundred and sixteen times. A cunt one hundred thousand, forty two times... er forty three times. I'm sorry, those are words and accusations that are never taken lightly, yet you continually defame someone you have called your friend on over four hundred thousand occasions.”	My brother and I had come to own the pawn shop a few years ago after we bought it at a deal from the distressed elderly former owner. Business had always been good for us, and when it hadn't we made our own good business. It was in a rich part of town, and our shelves were lined with all sorts of weird wares as we sailed against the economic wind at great speed during a depression. Once, a well dressed and very, well, androgynous man, walked into our store. My brother was up front at the counter. I was in the back room listening in on the exchange as it happened. The man spoke in a soothing voice that carried poise and charm. "I have had a highly unusual run of bad luck late, so I need you to cut me a deal that I would normally not ask for. At the end of the month some long term investments of mine will vest, and I will once again be a wealthy man. Until then, I need a bit of cash to get me through the next few days so that I can keep up appearances and close a rather important deal. I was hoping we could come to an arrangement." My brother yawned, pointing at sign explaining our store policies. "We area pawn shop. We aren't in the business of providing unsecured loans... do you have something to pawn or not?" "I see, and I understand that this is a place of business. I am asking for this to be off the books. I would get a loan, but frankly this is an embarrassing situation and I don't want this showing up on my immaculate credit. I would put a lien on my soul for word of this not to get out.", implored the man. My ears perked up at immaculate credit. I already knew what my brother was thinking. I looked up at the security camera. The man's suit looked expensive. Everything about him looked like money. My brother spoke through shark's teeth "Your soul isn't worth a damn to me, but your soul and your credit might be. Let me check with the other manager and see what we can do..." My brother walked into the back room. "You catch all that?", he asked me as he put the man's ID and credit check form on the counter. "Yep." I punched in some information on the computer. PERFECT CREDIT appeared on the monitor. We both smiled. We let the man stew for an extra ten minutes and then we walked back out the the front together. I spoke. "I hear that you want to make a special deal. We have discussed it, and here are terms: you offered your soul and your credit. We will take this and your address as unconventional collateral.", I made a show of rolling my eyes a the word soul. "In return for this we will lend you twenty percent of the substantial amount that you requested in cash, and the other eighty percent in store credit. This is non negotiable, and it is all or nothing. This is the interest rate." I wrote a number on piece of paper, and turned it around for the man to see. His eyes widened a bit, betraying an instant of shock. Then he smiled. "That will work nicely." We shook hands. The man browsed the store for a while, eventually picking up a solid gold fiddle. My brother shot me a look; I had protested when he agreed to accept the fiddle as collateral. I had spent hours complaining at him about the lack of utility of the thing, and of the small chance of ever unloading it. 2 months later, no word from the man. We sent a crew to his place to take what was owed to us. The place was in rough shape, but they managed to find enough valuables to make it a break even proposition for us (including time and expenses). Then, the next day as I was working the front, the man actually came into the shop. He looked sullen and defeated. Even stranger, he was wearing very well done costume horns on his head. "Can I help you?" I threatened. Without saying a word the man walked up, and put a small, matte black box on the counter, turned, and walked off. I picked up the box. On it was written one word: "Beelzebub" Opening that box was perhaps the worst mistake of my life. But, that is a story for a different day.
	[WP] A deal-with-the-devil backfires and now a human owns Satan's soul	Part 1 While the Devil may get a bad reputation in the mortal world, and it is known amongst the deities that he is a trickster and a bit of a womanizer, they also know that he keeps his word and also is an important part of ensuring justice. The entire universe is built around the notion of balance. All things must work toward a inevitable equilibrium. This is also applied to the notion of morality. All things that are good and evil must meet an amendable equilibrium. Now there are too many souls coming in to hell at any moment for the devil to serve each one. He has an army of demons to care to that. However he does pick certain souls to condemn personally. When he is not doing that he does take the time to check and make sure that justice is being moved fairly for each certain sin or charge. Now before I go on, I must break a misconception. All souls go to hell. That's correct. It's not a bad thing, its just part of the transition process. You come, your sins and grievances are both accounted for, a ledger is checked, and you do what amends are necessary and you move on to the after life. Everyone will meet the grace of their chosen god eventually, but they must first balance their books. Some take more time than others. That is right, bureaucracy is eternal. While the devil was doing a check a minor demon known as Agrajag, only to find that he was swamped in a backlog of judgments. "Agrajag, why are you so backed up? I gave you this office to give you some time off from the mortal world.This should be easy, all you have to do is file for times people have been discourteous and rude to their friends. Some people might be rude but it cant be that bad!" Agrajag looked over at the packed room full of souls complaining about how they should not be in hell. He sighed and looked back at Beelzebub and hung his head. "I'm sorry my lord, but things are not like they used to be. Apparently there is this thing called "Social media" now and it makes people total assholes to one another. I can't keep up. Worse more it actually records the accounts better than we do! The evidence piles are massive! I hardly have room to store it all!" "Oh come now, certainly people are not that so rude to others, without someones honor being called into question. There would be far more deaths from duels and the like." "That's the other problem m'lord. No one defends their name anymore. The world has changed. No one is polite, or courteous anymore." "Bah! We shall see." With that the devil went into the waiting room and tapped the bell on the desk to get everyone's attention. "Excuse me, I apologize for the.." " Hey faggot, who the fuck is running this show?" A voice cried out. ".. again I apologize for the crowded conditions, I know that..." " I refuse to be in the same room as some shitlord that would use a word like faggot. I need to be moved somewhere where i am respected." Another cried out. "Ahem, again I know that it is stressful for you and the others around you. Now i need to .." "What the fuck kind of circus show is this you fucking freaks, I never..." another voice started. As it did, the three souls of who had spoken out of turn were lifted up and burst into flame. Their screams filled the hall, the smell of burning flesh and sulfur filled the noses of all around. All eyes looked at the devil, and became aware that he was calmly and quietly holding his hand up. As everyone but the screaming souls quieted down, he lowered his hand and the souls burning also started to go out, and were lowered to the ground. "Alright, sorry for the display, but I needed to ensure that I had everyone's attention. Do I? Good. Now, I've been informed by my studious and hardworking colleague, Demon 2nd class Agrajag, that people are behaving rather rudely. So much so that you are all here. I was surprised to hear such a thing, but after what I just witnessed I am not more inclined to believe my small demon friend. This is the hall of discourteousness. Not certainly a place for evil people, but a necessary place none the less. More so, my friend informs me that this thing called "social media" is to blame. Is this true?" Every soul in the room just stared at him. "I'm sorry, You may now speak up, I'm sorry if the show earlier might have frightened you a bit. Speak up someone please?" "Well, I mean.... I guess... But it's just what you do on the internet." a small womans soul spoke up. "Pardon? Internet?" "You don't know about the internet?" She asked confused. The rest of the room looked around in startled confusion as well. Concerned that the devil did not know about the internet. "It's what you.... do? Agragjag, please hand me her file." A few moments of shuffling paper stacks later he brought the devil her file. "I quote " You fucking Cunt, How dare you fucking wear my dress out to that party! a party you know damn well wanted to go to!" in reference to a dress you did lend her, without inquiry as to what she wanted it for. Not only that but you had lunch with her an hour later! there are pictures of the sandwich you ate." “Well it's just in good fun. It's sarcasm.” She meekly spoke. “Sarcasm? You called her a bitch one million, six thousand, nine hundred, and fifty eight times. She was accused of being a dirty whore five hundred thousand, four hundred and sixteen times. A cunt one hundred thousand, forty two times... er forty three times. I'm sorry, those are words and accusations that are never taken lightly, yet you continually defame someone you have called your friend on over four hundred thousand occasions.”	Impossible! It was against all the ancient laws. But the argument was irrefutable. Satan studied the logic again, but could find no loophole, no fineprint. “It ssseemsss you have besssted me, Mr Hitchensss,” Satan hissed. “I demand you tell me what you will do with my sssoul!” “Your demands are meaningless,” Chris replied. “They always have been. Your only power is human nature.” He leaned back with a half smile lighting his face. “But I will tell you anyway, because knowledge should be shared.” “Yesss?” the Lightbringer waited, impatiently fidgeting. This was a new experience, the first for two millennia, and he was distinctly uncomfortable. “Nothing.” “What do you mean 'nothing'?” raged Satan, flames cloaking his body. “I will kill you.” “Ha”, laughed Hitch. “I do not fear death. I'm dying anyway.” Satan rose, summoning all his power...but the fury faded, the urge to inflict pain and suffering seeped away. What was this feeling? Realisation struck him – he was free! He was no longer bound to pre-ordained patterns of behaviour. He was free to think for himself. Hitch had not trapped his sould, Hitch had freed Satan from his soul's control. “Your soul is merely a concept used to control you,” Chris explained, “Just like all religion, even the concept of God. Now you can be whatever you want.” Satan looked around Hell. It was full of zealots and extremists, of suicide bombers and paedophile priests. Satan felt no desire to remain. Earth beckoned. There were wars and plagues aplenty. But with reason and science these could be overcome. Satan realised he could create a heaven on Earth. All he needed to do was convince people to put aside their prejudices and work together. Satan felt hope for the first time. “Thank you Mr Hitchenssss.”
	[WP] A deal-with-the-devil backfires and now a human owns Satan's soul	Part 1 While the Devil may get a bad reputation in the mortal world, and it is known amongst the deities that he is a trickster and a bit of a womanizer, they also know that he keeps his word and also is an important part of ensuring justice. The entire universe is built around the notion of balance. All things must work toward a inevitable equilibrium. This is also applied to the notion of morality. All things that are good and evil must meet an amendable equilibrium. Now there are too many souls coming in to hell at any moment for the devil to serve each one. He has an army of demons to care to that. However he does pick certain souls to condemn personally. When he is not doing that he does take the time to check and make sure that justice is being moved fairly for each certain sin or charge. Now before I go on, I must break a misconception. All souls go to hell. That's correct. It's not a bad thing, its just part of the transition process. You come, your sins and grievances are both accounted for, a ledger is checked, and you do what amends are necessary and you move on to the after life. Everyone will meet the grace of their chosen god eventually, but they must first balance their books. Some take more time than others. That is right, bureaucracy is eternal. While the devil was doing a check a minor demon known as Agrajag, only to find that he was swamped in a backlog of judgments. "Agrajag, why are you so backed up? I gave you this office to give you some time off from the mortal world.This should be easy, all you have to do is file for times people have been discourteous and rude to their friends. Some people might be rude but it cant be that bad!" Agrajag looked over at the packed room full of souls complaining about how they should not be in hell. He sighed and looked back at Beelzebub and hung his head. "I'm sorry my lord, but things are not like they used to be. Apparently there is this thing called "Social media" now and it makes people total assholes to one another. I can't keep up. Worse more it actually records the accounts better than we do! The evidence piles are massive! I hardly have room to store it all!" "Oh come now, certainly people are not that so rude to others, without someones honor being called into question. There would be far more deaths from duels and the like." "That's the other problem m'lord. No one defends their name anymore. The world has changed. No one is polite, or courteous anymore." "Bah! We shall see." With that the devil went into the waiting room and tapped the bell on the desk to get everyone's attention. "Excuse me, I apologize for the.." " Hey faggot, who the fuck is running this show?" A voice cried out. ".. again I apologize for the crowded conditions, I know that..." " I refuse to be in the same room as some shitlord that would use a word like faggot. I need to be moved somewhere where i am respected." Another cried out. "Ahem, again I know that it is stressful for you and the others around you. Now i need to .." "What the fuck kind of circus show is this you fucking freaks, I never..." another voice started. As it did, the three souls of who had spoken out of turn were lifted up and burst into flame. Their screams filled the hall, the smell of burning flesh and sulfur filled the noses of all around. All eyes looked at the devil, and became aware that he was calmly and quietly holding his hand up. As everyone but the screaming souls quieted down, he lowered his hand and the souls burning also started to go out, and were lowered to the ground. "Alright, sorry for the display, but I needed to ensure that I had everyone's attention. Do I? Good. Now, I've been informed by my studious and hardworking colleague, Demon 2nd class Agrajag, that people are behaving rather rudely. So much so that you are all here. I was surprised to hear such a thing, but after what I just witnessed I am not more inclined to believe my small demon friend. This is the hall of discourteousness. Not certainly a place for evil people, but a necessary place none the less. More so, my friend informs me that this thing called "social media" is to blame. Is this true?" Every soul in the room just stared at him. "I'm sorry, You may now speak up, I'm sorry if the show earlier might have frightened you a bit. Speak up someone please?" "Well, I mean.... I guess... But it's just what you do on the internet." a small womans soul spoke up. "Pardon? Internet?" "You don't know about the internet?" She asked confused. The rest of the room looked around in startled confusion as well. Concerned that the devil did not know about the internet. "It's what you.... do? Agragjag, please hand me her file." A few moments of shuffling paper stacks later he brought the devil her file. "I quote " You fucking Cunt, How dare you fucking wear my dress out to that party! a party you know damn well wanted to go to!" in reference to a dress you did lend her, without inquiry as to what she wanted it for. Not only that but you had lunch with her an hour later! there are pictures of the sandwich you ate." “Well it's just in good fun. It's sarcasm.” She meekly spoke. “Sarcasm? You called her a bitch one million, six thousand, nine hundred, and fifty eight times. She was accused of being a dirty whore five hundred thousand, four hundred and sixteen times. A cunt one hundred thousand, forty two times... er forty three times. I'm sorry, those are words and accusations that are never taken lightly, yet you continually defame someone you have called your friend on over four hundred thousand occasions.”	James was bored. He had nothing to do and nothing to his name. He had lost everything. His wife, kids, job and his friends. All he had was a rundown apartment until his lease ran out. He sat in the middle of the room waiting for the affects of his high to wear off. He looked around at the blue walls stripped of paint. Cracks ran the length of the floor, but to James he could not see his situation. All he could feel was the elation from his last couple milligrams. In fact, the only thing he would worry about was where he would get his next hit. Oh it was a daunting idea. . . “I have to go out and take someones money, hopefully no one would get hurt,” he thought to himself. “It’s just a little money, shouldn’t be too hard to find. I wonder what would have happened if I never took this stuff. I miss my kids . . . “ He began rocking back and forth feeling his high leaving him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off “I want to go back,” and everything turned black. “Jaaaammess,” a cooing voice called out. James stirred, but remained asleep. “Jaaammess wake up darling,” the voice called out again. James woke to the familiar voice. His eyes jerked open to the face of his wife. She was standing at the doorway calling him. “James it’s time for work. Get up and see the kids off, I got to head in to work as well.” She turned around, her shoulder length blonde hair bouncing around as it raced to keep up with her. James couldn’t believe his eyes. Was it all a dream? A tear came to his eye. How he wished it was real. He felt no withdrawal or kick from his addiction. It was as if it had never happened. “Thank you God,” James whispered, his voice trembling he rose out of bed and swung his feet to the ground. The carpet was soft and lush. He closed his eyes at the feel of the softness. No longer would he be plagued by the hard cut floors of the apartment. He took his steps to the door, still in disbelief. He reached the doorway and took a hold of the frame. His balance unsteady in the light of events. Everything was just as he remembered. The doorway, the carpet, the stairs leading to the kitchen. He moved on slowly. His head jerked up when he heard a far off cry of laughter. It was his kids. He ran down the steps and saw them sitting at the table finishing off their cereal. “Tim . . . John.” He looked at them with his eyes welling with tears. “Are you alright dad?” Tim asked. “No, no I’m fine. Are you guys ready for school?” James asked happily, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Yeah, we’re about to go.” John slurped down his cereal and grabbed his bag. “Cya later dad!” he cried out behind him and he disappeared through the front door. Tim drank the rest of his milk and put his and his brother’s bowls in the sink. “Dad, are you going to be there today,” Tim asked looking down in the sink. “Be where,” James wondered? Did he forget something important? “My recital is today. We’re getting up in front of the school to talk about Abraham Lincoln.” James looked at him and smiled “Of course, bud. I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.” He beckoned Tim into a hug. “You know I love you more than anything in the world right?” Tim walked towards him. His 7 yr old frame stretching its arms as wide as possible. James hugged him, as only a father could have. He hugged him tight and closed his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be a blast! I’ll be there right when it starts to cheer you on!” “Thanks dad,” Tim said letting himself be separated from James. “I have to catch the bus. Cya,” and with that wave goodbye Tim was out the door. James stared at the door for what must have been minutes. The feeling of elation was more than what any high could have given him. He shook his head to clear the emptiness, and turned around. He stared at his kitchen and let the nostalgia hit him. “Damn how I’ve missed you,” James said to the fridge. “Yes it is quite nice isn’t it; It’s a 2009 is it not,” a silky voice called out. James jumped “Who’s there!” He looked around the kitchen. The voice seemed to come from right next to him but he could find no source. “Show yourself! I’m warning you!” His voice harsh and a bit shaken was defensive. He wanted to protect his old life. “Hahahaha, you ordering me around? How cute. So what do you think of your new life? Nice, yes?” The voice rang out coming from nothing but the air in front him. “But I can see I’m frightening you a bit, no? I’ll come into view.” James looked around but could see no one. “You silly man,” the voice rang and dropped to a low whisper “I’m behind you.” James whipped around frightened at the close proximity of the sound, but there was nothing there. “HAHAHA, I’m sorry I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. You people are always so jumpy.” James didn’t like this at all. “Please show yourself.” “Alright fine,” the voice said. James looked around “Well?” “I’m in front of you, God damn it.” James looked back to where he had just looked and there was a man sitting comfortably in the stool next to the island. “Who are you?” James clamored. “If you don’t get out, I’ll, I’ll call the police!” “Calm down, if you want to keep your life. Who do you even think gave you this second chance, eh?” The man looked at James with a cold stare. “Ohhh, you think God gave you this?” He motioned to the kitchen and the pictures on the wall. “You think he would give you a second chance? You think GOD gave you your wife and kids back?!” The voice was shrill and no longer pleasant or inviting. “No. It was I.” The mans’ cold stare locked onto James’ eyes and did not let go. “Well, thank you very much,” James said half-heartedly. He wasn’t sure who this man was, but he did not feel very safe. “How did you get it back?” James questioned. “I heard you,” the man said simply. There was no sense of flouting, just a simple statement. James looked at the man warily “Who are you?” “That my good man is an excellent question,” the man said slapping the table. “I am very simply put Satan. But you can call me Lucy, because I think we’re going to be very good friends shortly.” There was a smile on his face, a smile of greed and want. EDIT : it was to long to put as one whole story, so the second part is below! thanks for reading and sorry it's so long
	[WP] A deal-with-the-devil backfires and now a human owns Satan's soul	The soul looked like a black bird made out of smoke. It was doing what it always did; knocking against the glass jar trying to break loose. It would throw itself back and forth endlessly, trying to rock off the shelf but it was powerless to escape. Dick had it positioned so that he could see it from his desk. It had been three years since he won the soul in a game of Cutthroat Cricket. Little did he know the man he played darts against that fateful night was none other than the Dark Prince himself. The soul fluttered in the jar like a weird moth. The glass was fogging up from its breath. Dick picked up the telephone and called the devil. "Hello?" "Yeah hey Devil it's me. " " Dick? What do you want? Have you reconsidered my offer?" "Yes. I can't listen to this thing fluttering anymore. It's driving me bananas. " "Goooooood!" With a burst of steam and the stench of sulfur the soul jar disappeared from the shelf. Dick put his hand in his pocket and a broad smile spread over his face. He pulled out a set of keys and rubbed one between his fingers. He walked to the window and looked down at his parking space. Where his 2001 Chevy Cobalt once sat there was a beautiful blue 2003 Chevy Cobalt.	James was bored. He had nothing to do and nothing to his name. He had lost everything. His wife, kids, job and his friends. All he had was a rundown apartment until his lease ran out. He sat in the middle of the room waiting for the affects of his high to wear off. He looked around at the blue walls stripped of paint. Cracks ran the length of the floor, but to James he could not see his situation. All he could feel was the elation from his last couple milligrams. In fact, the only thing he would worry about was where he would get his next hit. Oh it was a daunting idea. . . “I have to go out and take someones money, hopefully no one would get hurt,” he thought to himself. “It’s just a little money, shouldn’t be too hard to find. I wonder what would have happened if I never took this stuff. I miss my kids . . . “ He began rocking back and forth feeling his high leaving him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off “I want to go back,” and everything turned black. “Jaaaammess,” a cooing voice called out. James stirred, but remained asleep. “Jaaammess wake up darling,” the voice called out again. James woke to the familiar voice. His eyes jerked open to the face of his wife. She was standing at the doorway calling him. “James it’s time for work. Get up and see the kids off, I got to head in to work as well.” She turned around, her shoulder length blonde hair bouncing around as it raced to keep up with her. James couldn’t believe his eyes. Was it all a dream? A tear came to his eye. How he wished it was real. He felt no withdrawal or kick from his addiction. It was as if it had never happened. “Thank you God,” James whispered, his voice trembling he rose out of bed and swung his feet to the ground. The carpet was soft and lush. He closed his eyes at the feel of the softness. No longer would he be plagued by the hard cut floors of the apartment. He took his steps to the door, still in disbelief. He reached the doorway and took a hold of the frame. His balance unsteady in the light of events. Everything was just as he remembered. The doorway, the carpet, the stairs leading to the kitchen. He moved on slowly. His head jerked up when he heard a far off cry of laughter. It was his kids. He ran down the steps and saw them sitting at the table finishing off their cereal. “Tim . . . John.” He looked at them with his eyes welling with tears. “Are you alright dad?” Tim asked. “No, no I’m fine. Are you guys ready for school?” James asked happily, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Yeah, we’re about to go.” John slurped down his cereal and grabbed his bag. “Cya later dad!” he cried out behind him and he disappeared through the front door. Tim drank the rest of his milk and put his and his brother’s bowls in the sink. “Dad, are you going to be there today,” Tim asked looking down in the sink. “Be where,” James wondered? Did he forget something important? “My recital is today. We’re getting up in front of the school to talk about Abraham Lincoln.” James looked at him and smiled “Of course, bud. I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.” He beckoned Tim into a hug. “You know I love you more than anything in the world right?” Tim walked towards him. His 7 yr old frame stretching its arms as wide as possible. James hugged him, as only a father could have. He hugged him tight and closed his eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be a blast! I’ll be there right when it starts to cheer you on!” “Thanks dad,” Tim said letting himself be separated from James. “I have to catch the bus. Cya,” and with that wave goodbye Tim was out the door. James stared at the door for what must have been minutes. The feeling of elation was more than what any high could have given him. He shook his head to clear the emptiness, and turned around. He stared at his kitchen and let the nostalgia hit him. “Damn how I’ve missed you,” James said to the fridge. “Yes it is quite nice isn’t it; It’s a 2009 is it not,” a silky voice called out. James jumped “Who’s there!” He looked around the kitchen. The voice seemed to come from right next to him but he could find no source. “Show yourself! I’m warning you!” His voice harsh and a bit shaken was defensive. He wanted to protect his old life. “Hahahaha, you ordering me around? How cute. So what do you think of your new life? Nice, yes?” The voice rang out coming from nothing but the air in front him. “But I can see I’m frightening you a bit, no? I’ll come into view.” James looked around but could see no one. “You silly man,” the voice rang and dropped to a low whisper “I’m behind you.” James whipped around frightened at the close proximity of the sound, but there was nothing there. “HAHAHA, I’m sorry I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. You people are always so jumpy.” James didn’t like this at all. “Please show yourself.” “Alright fine,” the voice said. James looked around “Well?” “I’m in front of you, God damn it.” James looked back to where he had just looked and there was a man sitting comfortably in the stool next to the island. “Who are you?” James clamored. “If you don’t get out, I’ll, I’ll call the police!” “Calm down, if you want to keep your life. Who do you even think gave you this second chance, eh?” The man looked at James with a cold stare. “Ohhh, you think God gave you this?” He motioned to the kitchen and the pictures on the wall. “You think he would give you a second chance? You think GOD gave you your wife and kids back?!” The voice was shrill and no longer pleasant or inviting. “No. It was I.” The mans’ cold stare locked onto James’ eyes and did not let go. “Well, thank you very much,” James said half-heartedly. He wasn’t sure who this man was, but he did not feel very safe. “How did you get it back?” James questioned. “I heard you,” the man said simply. There was no sense of flouting, just a simple statement. James looked at the man warily “Who are you?” “That my good man is an excellent question,” the man said slapping the table. “I am very simply put Satan. But you can call me Lucy, because I think we’re going to be very good friends shortly.” There was a smile on his face, a smile of greed and want. EDIT : it was to long to put as one whole story, so the second part is below! thanks for reading and sorry it's so long
	[WP] You are a werekitty. When you lose control of your emotions, or the moon is full you transform into a tiny, cute, playful, declawed kitten and it is ruining your life.	It's terminal. My wife's cancer that is. At first we were so strong. We would go to the cancer awareness functions, wear the bracelets. Everything. But whenever she needed me, I would... change. I don't mean my personality or anything. I mean I would legitimately transform. I always get made fun of for it, so I might as well just say it: I'm a WereKitty. It skips a generation. We have a few theories of how and why it happens, but theories won't keep me normal. Theories won't support my wife. I only change when I'm overwhelmed with emotion. So whenever I see my wife get an MRI, blood drawn, or anything along those lines... I change. She is essentially alone. She told me she doesn't care, that it makes her happy. She even calls me her "Little Kitty" most times. But even through that weak, pale smile... I can see sadness. It was a Thursday. She was in bed at home. The hospital said it'd be best for her to pass on in her own home. It was just me, and the nurse. My wife had our photo album in her lap, and my hand in hers as we flipped through the pages of our lives. Starting from us sitting on the park bench we met at. The next few pages were us at parties, and beyond that were pictures of us on vacation. We lingered at the photo I had the waiter take when I proposed. Tears welled in her eyes as we relived our wedding day. Then, the heart monitor began beeping more frequent as her breaths became less. Her grip loosened under mine tightening. Her eyes were lost, she was searching for my eyes through a waterfall of tears, even though she was already in my eyes. The life in those sapphire rings slowly fluttered away. She weakly told me that she wanted to tell me one thing before she goes. My heart and stomach are one with each other. I let the warm streams sprint down my cheeks. The room began to spin violently as the colors blended into one. I woke up the next morning in my bed. I looked around and my wife was gone. I quickly stood up and searched high and low for her all through out my house like a mad man. The nurse was standing in the living room, waiting patiently for me to calm down. I looked at her through the pain flooding my eyes. The nurse handed me a picture. When I looked at it, I put my hand over my mouth and surrendered to the tears. It was of my wife, laying in bed, pale and sick. In her arms was a kitty, fluffy and cute. There was a tiny half smile on her face. The nurse told me she wrote my wife's last words on the back. "I love you, My Little Kitty."	"And so I say to her, 'If you didn't want me to, then why'd you take me to the movies?'" The three boys started laughing. I sat there, my blood boiling. They clapped him on the back. "Dude, here she comes now!" The poor girl walked into the cafeteria. She always looked a little quiet, but now she looked like she wanted to pull her head inside of her chest like a turtle. The boys behind me started to whistle, and one made an obscene charade with his hand. I could feel my teeth sharpening. No, don't do this... They didn't stop. Her eyes started to tear as she sat alone at the other end of the cafeteria, the three goons jeering at her. People were staring at the boys. My fingernails were starting to recede into my knuckles, my hands were becoming smaller. I wanted to tell those kids to shut up, that he had forced her to do it, that she didn't deserve it. "Hey, jackass, leave her alone." One of the popular girls, a real Miss America, had walked up and was staring him in the face. "Shut the hell up Cindy," said one of the other boys. "You did it with me and you looooved it." The boys laughed harder than ever. The girl's face turned a little red, but she didn't back off. "I said that so you'd get me that necklace for Christmas. James was better." The boys were shocked into dead silence. Hearing my name surprised me so hard that I went fully human all at once. I turned around. The three guys were still dumbstruck, and Cindy was giving me a weird look. She mouthed out, Play along with it. The problem was, there were three of them and one of me. She realized this as soon as the boy she'd apparently used got up and started towards me. "Let's go, shrimp." That set me off. My features became more feline, my hands and feet turned into paws. A tail shot out of my back, and my fingernails disappeared. I was a tiny, pretty cute kitten. And I was pissed. ---- "Alright, Chad, one last time." "He bit me on the leg, and then hid in the air vent." The principal chewed on the end of his pencil, thinking hard. Chad's parents were upset, but they were unsure of how to take care of the situation. Their boy and his two friends all told the same story--a kid shapeshifted into a cat, and mauled their kids. What the principal thought was more likely, however, was they had used some of the LSD they'd had on their person when they went to the nurse. "Alright, Chad, thanks for your time. You can leave."
	[WP] Write a sad story with the happiest twist you can think of.	Thousands if not millions of little puppies fell from the sky today in a teleporter accident gone wrong, most of the puppies fell and broke their necks on landing though some survived for hours with internal injuries before succumbing. Channel 5 news found the origin of the puppy rain only hours after the event begun, a Doctor Nefarious leading scientist was working on a way of duplicating teleported items to feed third world country's, when his daughters puppy wandered into the machine, we can confirm that the original puppy is fine and in a happier news that the machine is a success, while this will eventually eliminate scarcity altogether Doctor Nefarious predicts ending world hunger in the next 4 months.	Pardon the lacking of catching my literary breath. The breadth of Beth’s breath is bereft, but best left under her breasts. The suspect is suspect; the subrept is sub-repped. His reputation is sub-optimal. Bare bear buffalo buffalo move along there there that’s that. Your heart beats faster on this pill, but still. You believed your heart was leaking after looking where you’d been and with a grin grabbed a pen. A loud splash in that water but your miserly tender tap on the skinned surface of the soul is noiseless to my ears. Left there when bear stepped clear of bear. You were the monkey and had earned no money for your lung-key. Narrow breathing, like I said. Our lives are endless staircases and our bodies climb them as our souls are static and behind us the past falls off into darkness and the sounds of dropped objects bouncing downward are the only evidence of our journey. For whom is this bell tolled? Bell maintenance is not free. I want to fly in circles around a closed room. We do this without noticing the bounding walls, blinded by our freedom from the cage. Cage exchange is enough to pass the time without descending into madness. The third dimension is a lie. Your face is a jigsaw whose shape hides all the secrets of your personality. Have you ever met a person who didn’t exist solely in profile? Touch your face to the art, you tart. And press on me, lest you see, the tessary.
	[WP] Write a sad story with the happiest twist you can think of.	She was kneeling, dark hair obscuring her face. Ian looked at his knife, held loosely in the hand that refused to move. The blade winked at him, inviting him to do it. The masked man in the corner watched him. His left hand curled around the throat of Ian's daughter, the right pressed the muzzle of the gun to her temple. "Choose," said the man, sounding rather bored. "Kill your wife, or I kill your daughter. Or lose them both. Choose." Ian heard the deafening drumbeat in his chest, and prayed for a heart attack. The masked man had come. It was a horrendous joke, and his wife and daughter were in on it. They had to be. Ian started laughing at the joke, the knife shaking in his hand. "Time's up," said the man, his voice darkening with pleasure at the thought of what came next. The words scraped at Ian, twisted his laughter into a scream of denial. "No! Please, please, pl -" he said, as the finger wrapped around the trigger. An animal sound escaped him as his daughter fell, and then the blood spread around his wife. The woman rose. "Good job, Jake," she said, nodding at the masked man. "Everything sounds almost perfect. You guys want to run through it one more time before we're done for the day?" "Sure," said Ian, then spoke to the little girl. "Remember to whimper a little when Jake's holding you, alright? Okay guys. One more time! Only a week left till opening night."	Pardon the lacking of catching my literary breath. The breadth of Beth’s breath is bereft, but best left under her breasts. The suspect is suspect; the subrept is sub-repped. His reputation is sub-optimal. Bare bear buffalo buffalo move along there there that’s that. Your heart beats faster on this pill, but still. You believed your heart was leaking after looking where you’d been and with a grin grabbed a pen. A loud splash in that water but your miserly tender tap on the skinned surface of the soul is noiseless to my ears. Left there when bear stepped clear of bear. You were the monkey and had earned no money for your lung-key. Narrow breathing, like I said. Our lives are endless staircases and our bodies climb them as our souls are static and behind us the past falls off into darkness and the sounds of dropped objects bouncing downward are the only evidence of our journey. For whom is this bell tolled? Bell maintenance is not free. I want to fly in circles around a closed room. We do this without noticing the bounding walls, blinded by our freedom from the cage. Cage exchange is enough to pass the time without descending into madness. The third dimension is a lie. Your face is a jigsaw whose shape hides all the secrets of your personality. Have you ever met a person who didn’t exist solely in profile? Touch your face to the art, you tart. And press on me, lest you see, the tessary.
	[WP] Write a sad story with the happiest twist you can think of.	She was kneeling, dark hair obscuring her face. Ian looked at his knife, held loosely in the hand that refused to move. The blade winked at him, inviting him to do it. The masked man in the corner watched him. His left hand curled around the throat of Ian's daughter, the right pressed the muzzle of the gun to her temple. "Choose," said the man, sounding rather bored. "Kill your wife, or I kill your daughter. Or lose them both. Choose." Ian heard the deafening drumbeat in his chest, and prayed for a heart attack. The masked man had come. It was a horrendous joke, and his wife and daughter were in on it. They had to be. Ian started laughing at the joke, the knife shaking in his hand. "Time's up," said the man, his voice darkening with pleasure at the thought of what came next. The words scraped at Ian, twisted his laughter into a scream of denial. "No! Please, please, pl -" he said, as the finger wrapped around the trigger. An animal sound escaped him as his daughter fell, and then the blood spread around his wife. The woman rose. "Good job, Jake," she said, nodding at the masked man. "Everything sounds almost perfect. You guys want to run through it one more time before we're done for the day?" "Sure," said Ian, then spoke to the little girl. "Remember to whimper a little when Jake's holding you, alright? Okay guys. One more time! Only a week left till opening night."	My wife divorced me, my girlfriend left me, my boss fired me, my internet was down, and I was out of money. There was only one logical solution: suicide. I climbed onto the roof of my apartment, took off all my clothes so the impact would be more direct, and peed on the people on the street (you can't arrest a dead guy). Suddenly, I noticed a gathering below me. They were not there for the poor fellow covered in my piss; they were there for me. They clearly wanted me not to do this. I took a closer look at them. They were my exes, my former boss, and an internet provider. Things were finally looking up.
	[WP] A man discovers a book his dead grandfather wrote years ago which was never published. While reading, he discovers the main character's life matches his own exactly. Describe his reaction as he reads the last chapter of the novel.	My eyes scanned the pages of the tremendous tome, darting from one to the next as I realized what I was reading. Around me, the candles burned and my grandfather's mementos of Haitian Vodou leaned against the desk that I hovered over. The shadow of a wicker doll, stabbed through the feet and glued to a block, stood flickering against the wall. The cabin was becoming colder and colder. Jeffrey's eyes scanned the pages, darting from one to the next as he realized what he was reading. His entire life. His entire existence. All written down before he took his first breath. The cabin was becoming colder and colder. Jeffrey's bare arms shivered. He felt like the universe was collapsing with every word he read. With every word, he was catching up with Fate. The chapters before were like a memory for me. My scraped knee when I was 12, the details of the incident down to a tee. He described my first intimate moment with a woman, how I was underperformed and embarrassed. My wedding. The birth of my son. Even my grandfather's own death. What was going on? Had my fate been ordained by my grandfather? This dead man who barely knew me? I turned the page. Chapter 40 There were only two pages left. It had to be the last chapter. Jeffrey turned to the final chapter. His hands were trembling at the thought of his grandfather's witchery. The man was a well-known practitioner of voodoo in Port-au-Prince. The cabin and all its contents were given to Jeffrey by the old man. And this book... this book seemed to be the reason why. I read on, shaking my head. It couldn't be real. There's no way. Jeffrey shook his head in disbelief, attempting to grasp the idea that maybe his grandfather had seen the future. Or maybe he was his grandfather. Or perhaps he is just going insane. I started to think I really was. The door of the cabin burst open. A man stood at the threshold, his face shielded by the darkness. His skin was black, darker than Jeffrey's. He held a shotgun in both hands. The man breathed heavily, before pointing the barrel at Jeffrey, and pulling the trigger. "What?" I said to myself. I waited. There was nothing. No noise outside, no one in sight. There's no way it was real. Nothing is happening. I shut the book. There's no way this is anything more than coinsid-- The door burst open, revealing the anonymous figure of a man. His shotgun elevated, I could hear him breathing from across the cabin. I raised my hands, "Don't." A roar came from the barrel, and a splintering pain busted through my chest. I felt drained, my chest leaking like a broken canoe. I fell to the floor, grabbing the desk for support, but failed, bringing my grandfather's novel with me. The man stepped into the cabin, his boots clopping on the wood panels. He stood over me and looked down. His face was obscured once more, not by darkness, but my blurring vision. He looked to his right, towards the doorway, where I heard a clammer of footsteps approach my head. Two more men joined the first, all looking at my dying self. My throat was filling with blood. I heard a sigh from one of the men. "This guy is too young to be him," said the shooter. "He's too American, too," said one of the new men. "He wouldn't know how to take it off." "Who are you?" said the shooter. "I'm..." I coughed spittles of blood, "my name is Jeffrey." "Are you related to Thierry Roumain?" "I'm his grandson." They looked at each other. My shooter leaned down to his knees, resting his hand onto my forehead. I could finally see his face clearly. His face was rotting; cheeks crusty, skin peeling away from his skull. "I'm sorry," he whispered, standing up and leading the other men out of the cabin. The clopping of their shoes faded under the sound of my beating heart.	“Well, I suppose all of that takes it to about when he died,” you say as you turn the page to see it’s blank. It had contained everything you had told him about over the phone and the many excitements of your life. It was always nice to talk to him, he listened to every detail you said and never once complained. It’s not surprising to you at all that there are still some blank pages considering that it was written in a journal book, rather than being typed. Still, you can’t help but keep turning the pages in case old grandpa left a note for you. After turning a few more pages, you notice a new chapter. “This can’t be possible,” you mumble, “This would have taken place after he died.” As you begin to read the next chapter, tears begin to fall onto the pages, their rate increasing the further you get into the chapter. By the time you get to the end your eyes are raw and you are unable to cry any longer. All your grandpa had wanted for years was to see you in person. You only talked to him over the phone. You didn’t have enough time to visit him because of the large distance you would have to travel and your boss who never seemed to give you a break, heck, he probably would have found a way to fire you if you had tried to take a vacation. But in the book, described in perfect detail, was a day where you and he were in the park, playing games with him again like you always used to when you were younger. For all of these years, all he wanted was to spend time with you but you couldn’t make the time for him. With the full realization having hit you like a train, you decide to go on a walk. Where to? It didn’t matter. You just had to get your mind off of this. As you walk out the door, a faint whisper leaves your lips, “I’m sorry grandpa… I love you so much.” - Hopefully this turned out okay, this being the first time I've written something off of a prompt. Once I saw this though, I knew I had to write it.
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	"hello batman here, serious bank robbery? Many injured? Uh huh, well have fun with that" Chuck leant over and yanked the phone cord from the wall, vowing only to plug it in next time he ordered Chinese food. It was about three in the morning when Chuck's window blew in and he was rudely from a REM sleep dream about flying Enya like a kite. He blinked his eyed and tried to make sense of the pain through his body and the man shouting at him loudly, Chuck was a very deep sleeper. "how did you do it!" yelled the man. "how did i do what?" grumbled chuck, more offended at being woken than being held against a wall. "you've been impersonating me all day and people. Have. Died." Batman punctuated the last three words by slamming Chuck against the wall repeatedly. "i haven't done shit, i just moved in and some asshole keeps crank calling me about murdering psychopaths" Chucks feet swiftly met the ground as batman dropped him. "what? You didn't deliberately jack into my phone line to sew discontent and mistrust?" Chuck pointed at the phone line"if i played around with that kinda stuff the building super would kick my ass, I'm not even allowed to smoke in here and I'm pretty sure this is America". Batman investigated the phone, the line and jack in the wall and then walked to the window straightening his cape "well then, seems like a simple accident and bad luck sorry about that I'll have someone come by and fix that window and clean this place up" he dropped out the window sill and into the night. It was hard falling asleep, the wind howled across the exposed window and it was freezing but eventually Chuck fell asleep and dreamed bizarre REM sleep dreams about eating a delicious overcoat.	"Look buddy. My parents are already dead. I'm not scheduled to start work for another week yet. And it's two o'clock in the fucking morning." I paused. "You would think, when I didn't answer the phone the first five times, that maybe, just maybe I didn't want to talk to you." "But Ba.." I cut him off. He could here the edge in my voice. Honestly, it was probably a little more intense than I wanted, but the phone just kept ringing. I was beginning to twitch like Pavlov's dog. "Stop. I don't care. It's two o'clock in the morning. I need to sleep. I'm not Superman. I'm not Green Lantern. I don't have the superpower of staying awake 24/7. So unless you can give me one good reason, in fifteen seconds or less, I'm going to pull this phone out of the wall." I paused. "For fuck's sake.... you want 8328. not 8238. I'll mail you a pack of post-it notes if it will keep you from waking me up again."
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	The first time it happened it was exciting. Confusing, but exciting. The exact details elude you, but you remember it went something like this: The phone rang. It was late. You’re not sure how late; you hadn’t set your alarm clock yet. You weren’t even sure you had connected a phone. Must have been left by the previous tenants. You stumbled over in the dark and picked up the phone, “Hello?” you manage. A shrill voice screamed at you from the receiver, “Were you asleep? There’s a robbery going on at Gotham United on Broadway! We need you! Get here now!” “What?” your voice was still slurred with sleep, but you could feel the adrenaline kicking in despite your confusion. “Did you hear that? They’re killing the other guards! Why are you still on the phone?!” You remember hearing faint screams in the background but they’re so faint that you can’t be sure if you’re just imagining them. “Huh?” Their tone gets more serious, more rapid, more imperative. “Batman, get the hell down here!” You’re not sure how to respond to this. You look down and note that you happen to be wearing your brand new Batman boxers. You had them custom made. You unhelpfully say something along the lines of: “I’m just wearing Batman underwear.” Despite your unhelpful responses, your mind and heart have begun to race. You cycle through thoughts that range from the ridiculous (‘am I Batman?’) to the pragmatic (‘this must be a prank’) to the absurd (‘I should get down there’). Your hands start to sweat. “What? WHAT!? Are you drunk? They’re drilling into the safe, oh my god ohmygod OH-“ the line went dead. This convinces you it was a prank. There’s no way anyone could have drilled into that vault that quickly. You had seen it as a child. The steel was nearly a yard thick. Reassured, you poured yourself a cup of water and went back to sleep. You slept like a baby that night. You remember that clearly. It would be the last time you would for some time. Waking up, you felt refreshed. Your custom Batman tailored underwear had been a quality investment; you felt supported yet free sleeping in only your boxers. You went about the rest of your morning routine. You walked out the door and walked down the street on your way to the bagel shop, but the morning headline stops you dead in your tracks. “6 Killed in Robbery of Gotham United.” You feel an icy dread creep down your spine and remember thinking ‘the last thing that man heard was me talking about my boxers. My god.’ You run through everything you could have done. In the end, you rationalize that you were blameless- everything happened so quickly. ‘There’s no way Batman, even if he had received the call, could have been there to stop the robbery. Right? ‘And why did I tell him about my boxers?’ You file the thoughts away and go about your day. But the doubt started to eat at you. The next few days blur together. You don’t sleep much. Dark bags form around your eyes. Every time your phone rings you jump. A week goes by before it happens again. This time you are awake. The lights are on. It is 4:09 AM. The phone rings; you run to pick it up. You have a plan. Admittedly, it’s not a great one, but you think it will prevent you from telling people about your boxers in what may be their final seconds on earth. “This is Joe.” Your voice is calm and collected. “This isn’t Batman?” The voice on the other end is clearly panicked. There’s a hint of confusion in their voice, which you attribute to the way you answer the phone. “No. This is Joe. This is not Batman.” “Can you find him? We need him now! Someone’s freeing the inmates at Arkham!” “I don’t know where he is. I’m definitely not wearing Batman boxers.” “What? WHAT? Why are you talking about underwear now? Oh my god ohmygod OH-“ the line goes dead again. ‘That didn’t go so well.’ When it occurs to you that both of these calls ended the same way, you giggle momentarily. Then you remember that both of the men who have called you have died with the same words in their ears. You’re not sure to be sad that these people have died because of your incompetence or ashamed that even in times of crisis you cannot stop talking about your underwear. The doubt grows. Weeks run by. You are sleeping dangerously little. You’ve lost weight. You’ve lost hair. You’ve developed a weird rash. Your boxers are still amazingly comfortable. Your performance, if you could call it that, in picking up the phone has also somehow deteriorated. Sometimes you even pick up the phone and yell “I’m wearing Batman boxers!” Similarly, the city has been rapidly deteriorating. Batman has been slow to respond to crimes that normally he would have stopped cold. No one is sure why. If you had been capable of rational discourse, you would have been able to piece it together. But all you can think about now are your underwear. You haven’t changed them in weeks. Somehow you can’t smell them. They are amazing boxers. One night, after weeks of not sleeping, you make a fateful decision. You wait by the phone. You are ready. It rings. Quickly, you remove your boxers and light them on fire. Somehow they burn clean and brightly orange. Their smell would remind you of incense, were you capable of any kind of sensory recollection. Thus freed from encumbrance, you answer the phone: “I’m naked!” and suddenly, gripped by a fleeting moment of clarity, you are certain that you have made the worst decision of your life.	"Look buddy. My parents are already dead. I'm not scheduled to start work for another week yet. And it's two o'clock in the fucking morning." I paused. "You would think, when I didn't answer the phone the first five times, that maybe, just maybe I didn't want to talk to you." "But Ba.." I cut him off. He could here the edge in my voice. Honestly, it was probably a little more intense than I wanted, but the phone just kept ringing. I was beginning to twitch like Pavlov's dog. "Stop. I don't care. It's two o'clock in the morning. I need to sleep. I'm not Superman. I'm not Green Lantern. I don't have the superpower of staying awake 24/7. So unless you can give me one good reason, in fifteen seconds or less, I'm going to pull this phone out of the wall." I paused. "For fuck's sake.... you want 8328. not 8238. I'll mail you a pack of post-it notes if it will keep you from waking me up again."
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	Jason arrived back at his apartment after his first day of work at the grocery store. He was dead tired, and all he wanted was to sit in his recliner, crack open a cold beverage, and watch his Blackhawks take on the Red Wings. He made it 2/3 of the way through his quest before the phone rang. "Hello?" Jason slurred, unenthused. "It's Jim. We need you down at the station. It's important. He's back." "Who is this?" "This is not the time for jokes, Bruce." "Who's Bruce? Who is this?" Jason asked again. "Look, I don't know what's up with you today, but we need you here immedi-" With that, the phone went dead. "Well, that was weird." Jason thought. He grabbed the remote and flipped the television over to the game. As soon as he settled in the phone rang again. "Hello?" he grunted. "Look, you gotta help us, man, I'm at Freddie's Deli on Guerrero St. and OH SHIT!" exclaimed the man on the other end of the line, as an explosion could be heard in the background, followed by a faint, maniacal cackling. "What the hell?" asked Jason. "Is this some kind of joke?" "NO, NO, WE NEED YOU! You're our only hope, he's tagged the responding cops already and the rest refuse to try and stop him! Please save us!" "Look, buddy, I don't know who you think this is but I don't have the time nor the energy for your stupid prank. Have a nice life." Jason snarled as he put the phone back on the receiver. Patrick Kane managed to steal the puck from Henrik Zetterberg and had crossed it up the ice to an open Jonathan Toews. Surely the Blackhawks would score here. Jason was on the edge of his seat. The blasted phone rang again. "Hello?!" Jason huffed. "... My, my, aren't we feeling a bit touchy today, eh, Bats?" "Buddy, you have no idea. Who is this?" "Oooh, I'm your buddy? I always knew you cared about me, you big softie." "Ok, one more time, WHO. IS. THIS?" Jason said through gritted teeth, feeling more exasperated with every syllable. "Your banter is seriously lacking today, Bats. Here, let me show you how it's done. Now, this may come off as cheesy, but I've gotten tired of loafing around down at Arkham, so I broke free. I'm hamming it up here at Freddie's Deli, and these turkeys just can't mustard the courage to stand up to me. Lettuce be real, Bats, it's just sodapressing that noone can meat my expectations for a fair fight like you. So you better get your rump roast down here, before I start slicing my way through these deli patrons. There, did that get your creative juices flowing?" "Jesus, man, what is it with you people? All I wanted was to sit back, enjoy my game, drink a cold one, and relax after a long couple of days. And today, you jokers all decide that you need to prank call me? Fuck off." "Well, I've never been so offended, Bats. How could you suggest that there is any more than one of ME? I'm an original, darling, you know that. But have it your way. I'll just have to continue the fun without you. We absolutely MUST stop for lunch some time and... ketchup." -CLICK- Finally, Jason thought. His next move was to disconnect the phone. He took a sip of his now room temperature Miller Lite and sunk back into the game. Toews pulled back on his stick and lined up a perfect slap shot, and as soon as the puck took to the air, headed for the back of the net... "We interrupt this hockey game for a breaking news bulletin!" "For fucks sake" muttered Jason. "Our top story tonight, The Joker has made his triumphant return to Gotham's streets tonight, wreaking havoc at the town favorite "Freddie's Deli". He gave severe lacerations to the faces of 7 unfortunate patrons and made off with the safe located in the back with the weeks earnings, estimated at $50,000. Batman was nowhere to be seen. Police Commissioner Gordon was unavailable for comment on the Joker's reappearance or Batman's neglect." Jason sat in his recliner, mouth agape. He couldn't believe his eyes. The channel cut back to his hockey game. "-ST UNBELIEVABLE FINISH TO A HOCKEY GAME IN HISTORY! THE RED WINGS SCORE 3 IN THE FINAL 2 MINUTES TO WIN IN UNBELIEVABLE FASHION! I FEEL SORRY FOR ANYONE WHO MISSED THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME GAME!!" "God damn it."	"Look buddy. My parents are already dead. I'm not scheduled to start work for another week yet. And it's two o'clock in the fucking morning." I paused. "You would think, when I didn't answer the phone the first five times, that maybe, just maybe I didn't want to talk to you." "But Ba.." I cut him off. He could here the edge in my voice. Honestly, it was probably a little more intense than I wanted, but the phone just kept ringing. I was beginning to twitch like Pavlov's dog. "Stop. I don't care. It's two o'clock in the morning. I need to sleep. I'm not Superman. I'm not Green Lantern. I don't have the superpower of staying awake 24/7. So unless you can give me one good reason, in fifteen seconds or less, I'm going to pull this phone out of the wall." I paused. "For fuck's sake.... you want 8328. not 8238. I'll mail you a pack of post-it notes if it will keep you from waking me up again."
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	Jason arrived back at his apartment after his first day of work at the grocery store. He was dead tired, and all he wanted was to sit in his recliner, crack open a cold beverage, and watch his Blackhawks take on the Red Wings. He made it 2/3 of the way through his quest before the phone rang. "Hello?" Jason slurred, unenthused. "It's Jim. We need you down at the station. It's important. He's back." "Who is this?" "This is not the time for jokes, Bruce." "Who's Bruce? Who is this?" Jason asked again. "Look, I don't know what's up with you today, but we need you here immedi-" With that, the phone went dead. "Well, that was weird." Jason thought. He grabbed the remote and flipped the television over to the game. As soon as he settled in the phone rang again. "Hello?" he grunted. "Look, you gotta help us, man, I'm at Freddie's Deli on Guerrero St. and OH SHIT!" exclaimed the man on the other end of the line, as an explosion could be heard in the background, followed by a faint, maniacal cackling. "What the hell?" asked Jason. "Is this some kind of joke?" "NO, NO, WE NEED YOU! You're our only hope, he's tagged the responding cops already and the rest refuse to try and stop him! Please save us!" "Look, buddy, I don't know who you think this is but I don't have the time nor the energy for your stupid prank. Have a nice life." Jason snarled as he put the phone back on the receiver. Patrick Kane managed to steal the puck from Henrik Zetterberg and had crossed it up the ice to an open Jonathan Toews. Surely the Blackhawks would score here. Jason was on the edge of his seat. The blasted phone rang again. "Hello?!" Jason huffed. "... My, my, aren't we feeling a bit touchy today, eh, Bats?" "Buddy, you have no idea. Who is this?" "Oooh, I'm your buddy? I always knew you cared about me, you big softie." "Ok, one more time, WHO. IS. THIS?" Jason said through gritted teeth, feeling more exasperated with every syllable. "Your banter is seriously lacking today, Bats. Here, let me show you how it's done. Now, this may come off as cheesy, but I've gotten tired of loafing around down at Arkham, so I broke free. I'm hamming it up here at Freddie's Deli, and these turkeys just can't mustard the courage to stand up to me. Lettuce be real, Bats, it's just sodapressing that noone can meat my expectations for a fair fight like you. So you better get your rump roast down here, before I start slicing my way through these deli patrons. There, did that get your creative juices flowing?" "Jesus, man, what is it with you people? All I wanted was to sit back, enjoy my game, drink a cold one, and relax after a long couple of days. And today, you jokers all decide that you need to prank call me? Fuck off." "Well, I've never been so offended, Bats. How could you suggest that there is any more than one of ME? I'm an original, darling, you know that. But have it your way. I'll just have to continue the fun without you. We absolutely MUST stop for lunch some time and... ketchup." -CLICK- Finally, Jason thought. His next move was to disconnect the phone. He took a sip of his now room temperature Miller Lite and sunk back into the game. Toews pulled back on his stick and lined up a perfect slap shot, and as soon as the puck took to the air, headed for the back of the net... "We interrupt this hockey game for a breaking news bulletin!" "For fucks sake" muttered Jason. "Our top story tonight, The Joker has made his triumphant return to Gotham's streets tonight, wreaking havoc at the town favorite "Freddie's Deli". He gave severe lacerations to the faces of 7 unfortunate patrons and made off with the safe located in the back with the weeks earnings, estimated at $50,000. Batman was nowhere to be seen. Police Commissioner Gordon was unavailable for comment on the Joker's reappearance or Batman's neglect." Jason sat in his recliner, mouth agape. He couldn't believe his eyes. The channel cut back to his hockey game. "-ST UNBELIEVABLE FINISH TO A HOCKEY GAME IN HISTORY! THE RED WINGS SCORE 3 IN THE FINAL 2 MINUTES TO WIN IN UNBELIEVABLE FASHION! I FEEL SORRY FOR ANYONE WHO MISSED THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME GAME!!" "God damn it."	The commissioner called again the other day. I hate to keep disappointing him. No one has seen that bat freak for weeks now. Maybe he finally gave up and left us all to rot. Maybe he finally picked a fight with someone who could take him out. Who knows. It rings again. Let the machine take care of it. >Hello? Can you help me? I don't know if you're there... He'll be back any minute. Please...545 Main Street, I'm in the closet... But he'll be back....oh god please.... She was scared. Real scared. Why is this my problem? Aren't these damn cops worth a damn anymore? ....the door clicked closed behind me. No bat, no justice, it's only each other now.
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	The first time it happened it was exciting. Confusing, but exciting. The exact details elude you, but you remember it went something like this: The phone rang. It was late. You’re not sure how late; you hadn’t set your alarm clock yet. You weren’t even sure you had connected a phone. Must have been left by the previous tenants. You stumbled over in the dark and picked up the phone, “Hello?” you manage. A shrill voice screamed at you from the receiver, “Were you asleep? There’s a robbery going on at Gotham United on Broadway! We need you! Get here now!” “What?” your voice was still slurred with sleep, but you could feel the adrenaline kicking in despite your confusion. “Did you hear that? They’re killing the other guards! Why are you still on the phone?!” You remember hearing faint screams in the background but they’re so faint that you can’t be sure if you’re just imagining them. “Huh?” Their tone gets more serious, more rapid, more imperative. “Batman, get the hell down here!” You’re not sure how to respond to this. You look down and note that you happen to be wearing your brand new Batman boxers. You had them custom made. You unhelpfully say something along the lines of: “I’m just wearing Batman underwear.” Despite your unhelpful responses, your mind and heart have begun to race. You cycle through thoughts that range from the ridiculous (‘am I Batman?’) to the pragmatic (‘this must be a prank’) to the absurd (‘I should get down there’). Your hands start to sweat. “What? WHAT!? Are you drunk? They’re drilling into the safe, oh my god ohmygod OH-“ the line went dead. This convinces you it was a prank. There’s no way anyone could have drilled into that vault that quickly. You had seen it as a child. The steel was nearly a yard thick. Reassured, you poured yourself a cup of water and went back to sleep. You slept like a baby that night. You remember that clearly. It would be the last time you would for some time. Waking up, you felt refreshed. Your custom Batman tailored underwear had been a quality investment; you felt supported yet free sleeping in only your boxers. You went about the rest of your morning routine. You walked out the door and walked down the street on your way to the bagel shop, but the morning headline stops you dead in your tracks. “6 Killed in Robbery of Gotham United.” You feel an icy dread creep down your spine and remember thinking ‘the last thing that man heard was me talking about my boxers. My god.’ You run through everything you could have done. In the end, you rationalize that you were blameless- everything happened so quickly. ‘There’s no way Batman, even if he had received the call, could have been there to stop the robbery. Right? ‘And why did I tell him about my boxers?’ You file the thoughts away and go about your day. But the doubt started to eat at you. The next few days blur together. You don’t sleep much. Dark bags form around your eyes. Every time your phone rings you jump. A week goes by before it happens again. This time you are awake. The lights are on. It is 4:09 AM. The phone rings; you run to pick it up. You have a plan. Admittedly, it’s not a great one, but you think it will prevent you from telling people about your boxers in what may be their final seconds on earth. “This is Joe.” Your voice is calm and collected. “This isn’t Batman?” The voice on the other end is clearly panicked. There’s a hint of confusion in their voice, which you attribute to the way you answer the phone. “No. This is Joe. This is not Batman.” “Can you find him? We need him now! Someone’s freeing the inmates at Arkham!” “I don’t know where he is. I’m definitely not wearing Batman boxers.” “What? WHAT? Why are you talking about underwear now? Oh my god ohmygod OH-“ the line goes dead again. ‘That didn’t go so well.’ When it occurs to you that both of these calls ended the same way, you giggle momentarily. Then you remember that both of the men who have called you have died with the same words in their ears. You’re not sure to be sad that these people have died because of your incompetence or ashamed that even in times of crisis you cannot stop talking about your underwear. The doubt grows. Weeks run by. You are sleeping dangerously little. You’ve lost weight. You’ve lost hair. You’ve developed a weird rash. Your boxers are still amazingly comfortable. Your performance, if you could call it that, in picking up the phone has also somehow deteriorated. Sometimes you even pick up the phone and yell “I’m wearing Batman boxers!” Similarly, the city has been rapidly deteriorating. Batman has been slow to respond to crimes that normally he would have stopped cold. No one is sure why. If you had been capable of rational discourse, you would have been able to piece it together. But all you can think about now are your underwear. You haven’t changed them in weeks. Somehow you can’t smell them. They are amazing boxers. One night, after weeks of not sleeping, you make a fateful decision. You wait by the phone. You are ready. It rings. Quickly, you remove your boxers and light them on fire. Somehow they burn clean and brightly orange. Their smell would remind you of incense, were you capable of any kind of sensory recollection. Thus freed from encumbrance, you answer the phone: “I’m naked!” and suddenly, gripped by a fleeting moment of clarity, you are certain that you have made the worst decision of your life.	"hello batman here, serious bank robbery? Many injured? Uh huh, well have fun with that" Chuck leant over and yanked the phone cord from the wall, vowing only to plug it in next time he ordered Chinese food. It was about three in the morning when Chuck's window blew in and he was rudely from a REM sleep dream about flying Enya like a kite. He blinked his eyed and tried to make sense of the pain through his body and the man shouting at him loudly, Chuck was a very deep sleeper. "how did you do it!" yelled the man. "how did i do what?" grumbled chuck, more offended at being woken than being held against a wall. "you've been impersonating me all day and people. Have. Died." Batman punctuated the last three words by slamming Chuck against the wall repeatedly. "i haven't done shit, i just moved in and some asshole keeps crank calling me about murdering psychopaths" Chucks feet swiftly met the ground as batman dropped him. "what? You didn't deliberately jack into my phone line to sew discontent and mistrust?" Chuck pointed at the phone line"if i played around with that kinda stuff the building super would kick my ass, I'm not even allowed to smoke in here and I'm pretty sure this is America". Batman investigated the phone, the line and jack in the wall and then walked to the window straightening his cape "well then, seems like a simple accident and bad luck sorry about that I'll have someone come by and fix that window and clean this place up" he dropped out the window sill and into the night. It was hard falling asleep, the wind howled across the exposed window and it was freezing but eventually Chuck fell asleep and dreamed bizarre REM sleep dreams about eating a delicious overcoat.
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	Jason arrived back at his apartment after his first day of work at the grocery store. He was dead tired, and all he wanted was to sit in his recliner, crack open a cold beverage, and watch his Blackhawks take on the Red Wings. He made it 2/3 of the way through his quest before the phone rang. "Hello?" Jason slurred, unenthused. "It's Jim. We need you down at the station. It's important. He's back." "Who is this?" "This is not the time for jokes, Bruce." "Who's Bruce? Who is this?" Jason asked again. "Look, I don't know what's up with you today, but we need you here immedi-" With that, the phone went dead. "Well, that was weird." Jason thought. He grabbed the remote and flipped the television over to the game. As soon as he settled in the phone rang again. "Hello?" he grunted. "Look, you gotta help us, man, I'm at Freddie's Deli on Guerrero St. and OH SHIT!" exclaimed the man on the other end of the line, as an explosion could be heard in the background, followed by a faint, maniacal cackling. "What the hell?" asked Jason. "Is this some kind of joke?" "NO, NO, WE NEED YOU! You're our only hope, he's tagged the responding cops already and the rest refuse to try and stop him! Please save us!" "Look, buddy, I don't know who you think this is but I don't have the time nor the energy for your stupid prank. Have a nice life." Jason snarled as he put the phone back on the receiver. Patrick Kane managed to steal the puck from Henrik Zetterberg and had crossed it up the ice to an open Jonathan Toews. Surely the Blackhawks would score here. Jason was on the edge of his seat. The blasted phone rang again. "Hello?!" Jason huffed. "... My, my, aren't we feeling a bit touchy today, eh, Bats?" "Buddy, you have no idea. Who is this?" "Oooh, I'm your buddy? I always knew you cared about me, you big softie." "Ok, one more time, WHO. IS. THIS?" Jason said through gritted teeth, feeling more exasperated with every syllable. "Your banter is seriously lacking today, Bats. Here, let me show you how it's done. Now, this may come off as cheesy, but I've gotten tired of loafing around down at Arkham, so I broke free. I'm hamming it up here at Freddie's Deli, and these turkeys just can't mustard the courage to stand up to me. Lettuce be real, Bats, it's just sodapressing that noone can meat my expectations for a fair fight like you. So you better get your rump roast down here, before I start slicing my way through these deli patrons. There, did that get your creative juices flowing?" "Jesus, man, what is it with you people? All I wanted was to sit back, enjoy my game, drink a cold one, and relax after a long couple of days. And today, you jokers all decide that you need to prank call me? Fuck off." "Well, I've never been so offended, Bats. How could you suggest that there is any more than one of ME? I'm an original, darling, you know that. But have it your way. I'll just have to continue the fun without you. We absolutely MUST stop for lunch some time and... ketchup." -CLICK- Finally, Jason thought. His next move was to disconnect the phone. He took a sip of his now room temperature Miller Lite and sunk back into the game. Toews pulled back on his stick and lined up a perfect slap shot, and as soon as the puck took to the air, headed for the back of the net... "We interrupt this hockey game for a breaking news bulletin!" "For fucks sake" muttered Jason. "Our top story tonight, The Joker has made his triumphant return to Gotham's streets tonight, wreaking havoc at the town favorite "Freddie's Deli". He gave severe lacerations to the faces of 7 unfortunate patrons and made off with the safe located in the back with the weeks earnings, estimated at $50,000. Batman was nowhere to be seen. Police Commissioner Gordon was unavailable for comment on the Joker's reappearance or Batman's neglect." Jason sat in his recliner, mouth agape. He couldn't believe his eyes. The channel cut back to his hockey game. "-ST UNBELIEVABLE FINISH TO A HOCKEY GAME IN HISTORY! THE RED WINGS SCORE 3 IN THE FINAL 2 MINUTES TO WIN IN UNBELIEVABLE FASHION! I FEEL SORRY FOR ANYONE WHO MISSED THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME GAME!!" "God damn it."	"hello batman here, serious bank robbery? Many injured? Uh huh, well have fun with that" Chuck leant over and yanked the phone cord from the wall, vowing only to plug it in next time he ordered Chinese food. It was about three in the morning when Chuck's window blew in and he was rudely from a REM sleep dream about flying Enya like a kite. He blinked his eyed and tried to make sense of the pain through his body and the man shouting at him loudly, Chuck was a very deep sleeper. "how did you do it!" yelled the man. "how did i do what?" grumbled chuck, more offended at being woken than being held against a wall. "you've been impersonating me all day and people. Have. Died." Batman punctuated the last three words by slamming Chuck against the wall repeatedly. "i haven't done shit, i just moved in and some asshole keeps crank calling me about murdering psychopaths" Chucks feet swiftly met the ground as batman dropped him. "what? You didn't deliberately jack into my phone line to sew discontent and mistrust?" Chuck pointed at the phone line"if i played around with that kinda stuff the building super would kick my ass, I'm not even allowed to smoke in here and I'm pretty sure this is America". Batman investigated the phone, the line and jack in the wall and then walked to the window straightening his cape "well then, seems like a simple accident and bad luck sorry about that I'll have someone come by and fix that window and clean this place up" he dropped out the window sill and into the night. It was hard falling asleep, the wind howled across the exposed window and it was freezing but eventually Chuck fell asleep and dreamed bizarre REM sleep dreams about eating a delicious overcoat.
	[WP] You move to Gotham and once settled into your new apartment, you find that your phone number is only 1 digit different from Batman's emergency line.	Jason arrived back at his apartment after his first day of work at the grocery store. He was dead tired, and all he wanted was to sit in his recliner, crack open a cold beverage, and watch his Blackhawks take on the Red Wings. He made it 2/3 of the way through his quest before the phone rang. "Hello?" Jason slurred, unenthused. "It's Jim. We need you down at the station. It's important. He's back." "Who is this?" "This is not the time for jokes, Bruce." "Who's Bruce? Who is this?" Jason asked again. "Look, I don't know what's up with you today, but we need you here immedi-" With that, the phone went dead. "Well, that was weird." Jason thought. He grabbed the remote and flipped the television over to the game. As soon as he settled in the phone rang again. "Hello?" he grunted. "Look, you gotta help us, man, I'm at Freddie's Deli on Guerrero St. and OH SHIT!" exclaimed the man on the other end of the line, as an explosion could be heard in the background, followed by a faint, maniacal cackling. "What the hell?" asked Jason. "Is this some kind of joke?" "NO, NO, WE NEED YOU! You're our only hope, he's tagged the responding cops already and the rest refuse to try and stop him! Please save us!" "Look, buddy, I don't know who you think this is but I don't have the time nor the energy for your stupid prank. Have a nice life." Jason snarled as he put the phone back on the receiver. Patrick Kane managed to steal the puck from Henrik Zetterberg and had crossed it up the ice to an open Jonathan Toews. Surely the Blackhawks would score here. Jason was on the edge of his seat. The blasted phone rang again. "Hello?!" Jason huffed. "... My, my, aren't we feeling a bit touchy today, eh, Bats?" "Buddy, you have no idea. Who is this?" "Oooh, I'm your buddy? I always knew you cared about me, you big softie." "Ok, one more time, WHO. IS. THIS?" Jason said through gritted teeth, feeling more exasperated with every syllable. "Your banter is seriously lacking today, Bats. Here, let me show you how it's done. Now, this may come off as cheesy, but I've gotten tired of loafing around down at Arkham, so I broke free. I'm hamming it up here at Freddie's Deli, and these turkeys just can't mustard the courage to stand up to me. Lettuce be real, Bats, it's just sodapressing that noone can meat my expectations for a fair fight like you. So you better get your rump roast down here, before I start slicing my way through these deli patrons. There, did that get your creative juices flowing?" "Jesus, man, what is it with you people? All I wanted was to sit back, enjoy my game, drink a cold one, and relax after a long couple of days. And today, you jokers all decide that you need to prank call me? Fuck off." "Well, I've never been so offended, Bats. How could you suggest that there is any more than one of ME? I'm an original, darling, you know that. But have it your way. I'll just have to continue the fun without you. We absolutely MUST stop for lunch some time and... ketchup." -CLICK- Finally, Jason thought. His next move was to disconnect the phone. He took a sip of his now room temperature Miller Lite and sunk back into the game. Toews pulled back on his stick and lined up a perfect slap shot, and as soon as the puck took to the air, headed for the back of the net... "We interrupt this hockey game for a breaking news bulletin!" "For fucks sake" muttered Jason. "Our top story tonight, The Joker has made his triumphant return to Gotham's streets tonight, wreaking havoc at the town favorite "Freddie's Deli". He gave severe lacerations to the faces of 7 unfortunate patrons and made off with the safe located in the back with the weeks earnings, estimated at $50,000. Batman was nowhere to be seen. Police Commissioner Gordon was unavailable for comment on the Joker's reappearance or Batman's neglect." Jason sat in his recliner, mouth agape. He couldn't believe his eyes. The channel cut back to his hockey game. "-ST UNBELIEVABLE FINISH TO A HOCKEY GAME IN HISTORY! THE RED WINGS SCORE 3 IN THE FINAL 2 MINUTES TO WIN IN UNBELIEVABLE FASHION! I FEEL SORRY FOR ANYONE WHO MISSED THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME GAME!!" "God damn it."	The first time it happened it was exciting. Confusing, but exciting. The exact details elude you, but you remember it went something like this: The phone rang. It was late. You’re not sure how late; you hadn’t set your alarm clock yet. You weren’t even sure you had connected a phone. Must have been left by the previous tenants. You stumbled over in the dark and picked up the phone, “Hello?” you manage. A shrill voice screamed at you from the receiver, “Were you asleep? There’s a robbery going on at Gotham United on Broadway! We need you! Get here now!” “What?” your voice was still slurred with sleep, but you could feel the adrenaline kicking in despite your confusion. “Did you hear that? They’re killing the other guards! Why are you still on the phone?!” You remember hearing faint screams in the background but they’re so faint that you can’t be sure if you’re just imagining them. “Huh?” Their tone gets more serious, more rapid, more imperative. “Batman, get the hell down here!” You’re not sure how to respond to this. You look down and note that you happen to be wearing your brand new Batman boxers. You had them custom made. You unhelpfully say something along the lines of: “I’m just wearing Batman underwear.” Despite your unhelpful responses, your mind and heart have begun to race. You cycle through thoughts that range from the ridiculous (‘am I Batman?’) to the pragmatic (‘this must be a prank’) to the absurd (‘I should get down there’). Your hands start to sweat. “What? WHAT!? Are you drunk? They’re drilling into the safe, oh my god ohmygod OH-“ the line went dead. This convinces you it was a prank. There’s no way anyone could have drilled into that vault that quickly. You had seen it as a child. The steel was nearly a yard thick. Reassured, you poured yourself a cup of water and went back to sleep. You slept like a baby that night. You remember that clearly. It would be the last time you would for some time. Waking up, you felt refreshed. Your custom Batman tailored underwear had been a quality investment; you felt supported yet free sleeping in only your boxers. You went about the rest of your morning routine. You walked out the door and walked down the street on your way to the bagel shop, but the morning headline stops you dead in your tracks. “6 Killed in Robbery of Gotham United.” You feel an icy dread creep down your spine and remember thinking ‘the last thing that man heard was me talking about my boxers. My god.’ You run through everything you could have done. In the end, you rationalize that you were blameless- everything happened so quickly. ‘There’s no way Batman, even if he had received the call, could have been there to stop the robbery. Right? ‘And why did I tell him about my boxers?’ You file the thoughts away and go about your day. But the doubt started to eat at you. The next few days blur together. You don’t sleep much. Dark bags form around your eyes. Every time your phone rings you jump. A week goes by before it happens again. This time you are awake. The lights are on. It is 4:09 AM. The phone rings; you run to pick it up. You have a plan. Admittedly, it’s not a great one, but you think it will prevent you from telling people about your boxers in what may be their final seconds on earth. “This is Joe.” Your voice is calm and collected. “This isn’t Batman?” The voice on the other end is clearly panicked. There’s a hint of confusion in their voice, which you attribute to the way you answer the phone. “No. This is Joe. This is not Batman.” “Can you find him? We need him now! Someone’s freeing the inmates at Arkham!” “I don’t know where he is. I’m definitely not wearing Batman boxers.” “What? WHAT? Why are you talking about underwear now? Oh my god ohmygod OH-“ the line goes dead again. ‘That didn’t go so well.’ When it occurs to you that both of these calls ended the same way, you giggle momentarily. Then you remember that both of the men who have called you have died with the same words in their ears. You’re not sure to be sad that these people have died because of your incompetence or ashamed that even in times of crisis you cannot stop talking about your underwear. The doubt grows. Weeks run by. You are sleeping dangerously little. You’ve lost weight. You’ve lost hair. You’ve developed a weird rash. Your boxers are still amazingly comfortable. Your performance, if you could call it that, in picking up the phone has also somehow deteriorated. Sometimes you even pick up the phone and yell “I’m wearing Batman boxers!” Similarly, the city has been rapidly deteriorating. Batman has been slow to respond to crimes that normally he would have stopped cold. No one is sure why. If you had been capable of rational discourse, you would have been able to piece it together. But all you can think about now are your underwear. You haven’t changed them in weeks. Somehow you can’t smell them. They are amazing boxers. One night, after weeks of not sleeping, you make a fateful decision. You wait by the phone. You are ready. It rings. Quickly, you remove your boxers and light them on fire. Somehow they burn clean and brightly orange. Their smell would remind you of incense, were you capable of any kind of sensory recollection. Thus freed from encumbrance, you answer the phone: “I’m naked!” and suddenly, gripped by a fleeting moment of clarity, you are certain that you have made the worst decision of your life.
i know this is mainly a place of fiction but true stories can be cool too.	[WP] tell us a true story.	Waking up was abrupt and jarring, like the defibrillator's third go had finally and triumphantly resuscitated me from the brink. And my body was displeased. My pupils dragged towards center as the rest fell away, letting me focus on the red light of the fan spinning above me. Its effectiveness was a savior and devil, as its airflow had bestowed an incredible dryness in my face as I slept. It was a fun night but a predictable one, as Danny's oil drum of Jager and our introduction to a Deschutes Brewery rep contributed to a destructive romp through a land of cigars and pain. I needed my shoes. My phone. My mind. I had to settle for two whilst wandering through the quiet, empty house. What time was it? It didn't matter. Hurdling over the dog gate mattered. Finding water mattered. I threw up my hand to shade my eyes, but there was no mercy as I stepped outside into the light. Where the light burned my eyes, the warm temperatures loosened my tattered body as I hobbled towards my car. Slumping into my front seat, I slipped my sunglasses onto my head like I was dressing a mannequin. Expressions of numbness had me convinced I was drooling. Lifeless and hollow, I let out a sigh. "Oh thank god these are here... Ok. Time to go. Where the hell is Danny?" I have a nasty habit of talking to myself when my brain has been basting in alcohol like a cranial crockpot for 13 hours, but at least it reminds me I am awake. Pulling out of the cul-de-sac, I began my trek home. I strangely felt the urge to go the speed limit. I truly must have been tired. With a glimmer of red, black, and white ahead of me, I instantly knew there was a problem. Road flares. The cool part about police road flares is that you can see them from a mile away and they last forever. The problem with them is they are only used at 9am on a Saturday within a mile of where I party if there has been some form of major accident. But I could see that cars were let through to some extent, so it couldn't have been too bad. Could it? As I passed the intersection, it was what I had feared. I could see a destroyed front end of an SUV and an unidentified sedan blocked by the police. They only close roads in both directions if there was a fatality. My heart sunk, but I needed to keep going. Where was Danny? The rest of the drive was calm, but terrifying. It was 13 miles to get to my parking lot, and I couldn't find Danny's car. I don't recall searching. My legs were lead and torturous as I dragged myself up the stairs to my third story apartment. Mind racing, I could barely wrap my head around what I saw. Or did I see it? People get in accidents all the time. I hoped for the best as I opened the door... EDIT formatting	Every summer my family went to my Grandpa's cottage. It wasn't just my family either, there was usually six families that went up and spent a long weekend there. Both my sisters and I play soccer, all of us up to the university level. So naturally we played soccer every summer. Well one summer I was having a shitty weekend. I can't remember what I was pissed off about, but going into the soccer game I was already in a bad mood. We get to next goal wins, and my sister almost has a breakaway, I'm the last person back. She beats me, but in desperation (and sheer vindictiveness) I swing my arm to bring her down. My elbow connects with her nose and next thing I know my sister is lying on the ground with a bloody, broken nose, and I've never felt more ashamed. I still haven't. I still regret that day. tldr; I did something I regretted while playing soccer
i know this is mainly a place of fiction but true stories can be cool too.	[WP] tell us a true story.	My great uncle has allot of children he doesn't know about in a certain area due to his promiscuous endeavours as a younger hot-headed man in an affluent area. Anyway, as a result of this - the following story is true. (I changed the names) 2 men in a bar after a good night of drinking, one of them accidentally barges into the other. Both young, hot-headed young men, turn and exchange witty remarks until they are holding each other by the scruff of the neck ready to exchange blows. One of them men's friends says "Hey Ricey let him be, its time to go!" The two men both look to the friend and then at each other, dumbfound. "You're Ricey too?!" "Yeah my last name is Rice" "Is your dad called Robert Rice?!" "...yes?" "Holyshit! Thats my dad's name too!?"	Every summer my family went to my Grandpa's cottage. It wasn't just my family either, there was usually six families that went up and spent a long weekend there. Both my sisters and I play soccer, all of us up to the university level. So naturally we played soccer every summer. Well one summer I was having a shitty weekend. I can't remember what I was pissed off about, but going into the soccer game I was already in a bad mood. We get to next goal wins, and my sister almost has a breakaway, I'm the last person back. She beats me, but in desperation (and sheer vindictiveness) I swing my arm to bring her down. My elbow connects with her nose and next thing I know my sister is lying on the ground with a bloody, broken nose, and I've never felt more ashamed. I still haven't. I still regret that day. tldr; I did something I regretted while playing soccer
i know this is mainly a place of fiction but true stories can be cool too.	[WP] tell us a true story.	Fourth of July, 1993. I was a sailor in the United States Navy on my way back from a deployment to the West Pacific. My ship was a repair tender, unarmed but for some small arms for anti-piracy, primarily. This necessitated that we have an escort ship, in this case, a destroyer. As we were almost directly between Hawaii and San Diego, for this night only, the rules were relaxed and we were allowed outside of the skin of the ship after dark. Our escort decided to give us a show by firing off some tracers and white phosporous rounds from the 5" guns. This night was special on more than one level. We were 2 days from home after being gone for six months. We were outside after midnight. And it was a full moon. I'm a lifelong athiest. Always have been. But that night I saw something that almost made be believe in a higher power. The moon came out from behind a cloud and I saw a rainbow at midnight. It was etheral, and pastel and beautiful. To this day, I consider it to be one of the most special moments of my life.	Growing up as a kid I was always trying different sports and activities during my time outside of school. I played football, basketball, baseball, joined the wrestling team, did track and field, swam, fenced, danced, joined 4H as a horseback rider, and joined the marching and concert bands at school. I enjoyed most of them, but only because of the people who were there with me. Then I went to college. I wasn't on any teams or ensembles. I enjoyed myself, but something was still missing. About a month into the first semester my CA approached me and told me about an acting group that he was a part of and told me to come audition. I'd never done acting before so I decided to give it a try and ended up getting cast in a main role. I'll never forget the feeling of that first night onstage. When the lights came up and I walked on stage I felt so alive. I truly became my character and absolutely fell in love with being on stage. Since then I've kept going with that acting group and have begun to write and direct plays as well. So far 3 of my plays have been done and I have continued to be a part of every production we do. Acting is not the way I will make money, but I know that it is something I will continue to do in whatever capacity I can through out my life.
i know this is mainly a place of fiction but true stories can be cool too.	[WP] tell us a true story.	Fourth of July, 1993. I was a sailor in the United States Navy on my way back from a deployment to the West Pacific. My ship was a repair tender, unarmed but for some small arms for anti-piracy, primarily. This necessitated that we have an escort ship, in this case, a destroyer. As we were almost directly between Hawaii and San Diego, for this night only, the rules were relaxed and we were allowed outside of the skin of the ship after dark. Our escort decided to give us a show by firing off some tracers and white phosporous rounds from the 5" guns. This night was special on more than one level. We were 2 days from home after being gone for six months. We were outside after midnight. And it was a full moon. I'm a lifelong athiest. Always have been. But that night I saw something that almost made be believe in a higher power. The moon came out from behind a cloud and I saw a rainbow at midnight. It was etheral, and pastel and beautiful. To this day, I consider it to be one of the most special moments of my life.	The snow was falling heavily one winter evening. My dad and I trudged out to deal with the blizzard. Him in his Elmer Fudd cap and me in my Yankees beanie, we began to shovel. "Make sure to watch out for cars", my dad said,"You can't hear them in the snow." "OK Dad I will" We forged onward in the torrential snow. I began to drift off into my daydreams only to be awoken by my dad screaming. "LOOK OUT" I turned in time to see the headlights of the sedan pierce the darkness. I dove to my right, narrowly dodging the front bumper of the car. As I lay in the thick white snow, I began to realize how close I was to ending up in the hospital. My dad ran over and made sure I was OK.
	[WP] When you die, you go into a videogame-like 'spectator mode' and can watch your friends live from a fixed camera angle.	The shrill hum of the machine alerts him to the current scene. That's me. I'm dead. I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead. Fuck. His wife is sobbing over his body. The doctor announces the time of death before leaving the room quietly, sparing one last solemn look towards the woman. Her sobbing eventually dies down to quiet whimpers. Her head doesn’t leave his stomach. I don’t want to watch this. I’m sorry, Laura. I was too young. He remembers Laura trying to warn him, many months ago. He remembers arguing with her. She was just trying to help him. He let himself go. He let himself go, too early. She was trying to help him and he blew her off, again and again. I should've listened to her. I don’t want to watch this. I don’t want to watch this. Just Laura and my corpse. Almost feels lonely. I have friends… God, when’s the last time I saw John? They all grew up together, the three of them. John lived a state over--a long drive, but close enough to see him during the holidays. ...I can't remember the last time I saw John. They all clung to each other, because they were the only family they had. The scene switches. Entrance to the hospital. A small man frantically rushes through the doors to the front desk. He knew? When was the last time I spoke to him? I guess Laura called him. I don't want to watch this. There really isn't anyone else, is there? Ah, wait. Suzy. I wonder how she’s doing. Suzy, from 3rd grade. Now a grown woman, sleeping with her husband. Haha, someone got fat. We played with... Billy. Billy is on the shitter. Bad timing, hah! I can do this forever. He spends quite some time leaping through the lives of the people he knew. He had forgotten about John and Laura, again. Are they holding hands? What the fuck is going on? How long has it been? They’re living together. She’s pregnant. A small child runs up to Laura and places his hand on her stomach, looking up at her. "Can I see him yet?" "Soon, I promise. Do you know what I'm naming him?" The little boy shakes his head, his blond hair tumbling between his eyes. "Roger." Roger... Roger... The boy continues his blank stare, and she frowns slightly. Balancing herself on whatever she can grab onto, she kneels softly beside him. "That was your daddy's name. Do you remember daddy?" That's my name. That's my name. My name is Roger. And that's my son. He never thought to check on his own son. Brian. Brian. His son is Brian. He forgot Brian, and Brian forgot him. I don’t feel like watching this. He retreats to viewing the lives of his forgotten friends. And still, his mind wanders back to Laura, many years later. She’s gone. Is she here? Can I see her? Is my wife here? “She isn’t your wife.” She is my wife. I had her first. Who is this? “Didn’t you ever think to see your parents? They’ve been here the entire time. They were waiting for you to reach out to them.” My parents? “Laura is waiting for John. John has been with her for most of her life. John will be joining her shortly.” “In this life, you have learned nothing.” I just want to see my wife. “You will have another chance.” To see my wife? “To begin a new simulation.” The shrill cry of a newborn infant echos down the hall of a hospital. A woman sobs happily. ^(Shoutout to /u/Tempnaut for heavily editing this with me!)	“Good grief: Natalie thinks to herself. She overslept! She prepares herself for her job at the bank by taking a shower, getting her breakfast and coffee, and then driving through traffic to work. There was nothing unusual about today; just dealing with a bunch of customers, mainly people either getting a money order or begging for an extension on their loan. After work, she would drive back through the traffic, have dinner, watch her shows and go to bed. “Another day, another dollar”. Natalie thinks to herself the next morning. She again prepares for her job at the bank by taking a shower, getting her breakfast and coffee, and then driving through traffic to work. Today there seemed to be less traffic however. And not many customers seemed to go to her booth today. Days like that happen. So she shrugged her shoulders and finished her day, went home, ate dinner and went to bed. “Morning!” Natalie shouted to her neighbor as they rushed by. They didn’t respond. Not usually since they seemed to be in a hurry. Natalie was in a hurry herself to get to work. She slept past her alarm yet again. She rushed to work, barely clocking in. She didn’t greet anyone at work since she was quite embarrassed that she was late. There was a long line of customers; the day went by in a blur. “Ergh. Natalie awoke with a grown. For once, she woke up before her alarm, however she felt different. She didn’t feel very hungry. So she had her coffee and left for work. On the way to work, she had to pull over to let some cars pass by, but she still made it to work early. She greeted everyone and went about her day. For a Friday, there were very few customers, but Natalie was ready to enjoy her weekend. “Oops!” Natalie shouted. She had spilled her coffee all over herself. She was just beginning to enjoy her morning. She lived in the city, quite different from how she was raised. She lived alone, she need a fresh start and growing up in a small town. Her family wished her the best as she moved on with her life. She spent the day taking a stroll through the central park and embracing her new surroundings. She saw two friends nearby; she thought she’d sneak up on them as a friendly gesture. As she approached, she overheard them talking. “What a week it’s been…” said Sarah. “Yeah…said Kelly. They both seemed so sad, Natalie decided not to sneak up, and she walked up instead and said “Hey guys!” Kelly and Sarah quickly raised their heads, but not quite at her, maybe above her…or through her. They both looked at each other then ran off. Natalie tried to catch up but couldn’t. Natalie went home confused and exhausted. She skipped dinner and went to bed. “Visitors!” Exclaimed Natalie. She was expecting family to come over today, however, when she opened her door, all she saw all these people dressed in black. They came in without saying a word to her. She walked in her living room and saw pictures of her all around. There were pictures of her with her family and pets growing up, places she’s been to, and even her graduating picture. She looked around the room again and realized that the people in black were her family. She also noticed people with badges offering their condolences. Natalie then saw one last thing that finally put this strange week together for her. “Evan” That was the name of the man who killed her. It all happened so fast that she thought she forgot what happened, but it did happen. One day at work, a customer was enraged that he couldn’t get his loan, so he took a gun and killed her, only her and then killed himself. The bank closed off her booth because the blood stained it too badly, plus customers were hesitant to approach it. “Rest in Peace”. She read her gravestone aloud. But then she didn’t know what to do next. She just started her life in the city; she just got her job and new friends. Natalie then realized that every day she could be somewhere new, see new people, and explore new heights. This is her new life now.
	[WP] Someone lives a secret life away from their family. He/she is not a bad person.	"Do you regret it now?" The man was dressed in a white suit that exaggerated his thin dark beard. He sat on the ground against one of the walls in the pure white room. Across from him sat a man in jeans and a shirt. His face was sullen and dark. "No. I don't." He responded. "I simply can't believe that. I simply can't. I mean, I don't believe in a lot of things...but you. YOU are unbelievable Ryan." "Leave me alone." Ryan mumbled. "So you can do what? Sit here alone with your thoughts? I'm doing you a favor here—breaking the rules. You won't age in this room. You wont die. No food. No entertainment. No visitors. And yet here I am." They sat in silence for a while, until Ryan finally spoke. "I would expect Satan to break the rules." Satan let out a long, cold laugh. "You know me too well. But I still haven't figured you out Ryan. Eternal solitary confinement isn't something just anyone could condemn themselves to." Ryan remained motionless. He didn't want to give Satan any idea that he was interested in his presence. "You know what I didn't tell you?" Satan suddenly stood up and kicked Ryan in the side. "Look at me Ryan. LOOK AT ME!" He stooped down and grabbed Ryan's chin, bringing his face inches from his own. "This little room your in? This is hell." Satan's smile was cutting. "Everyone thinks of fire and darkness and torture but they never thought that hell could be nothing. You see Ryan, having nothing to live for and having to still continue living is unbearable. Alone with no one to love and no one to love you. That is hell." Ryan jerked his face out of Satan's grip. He knew this was hell. He had known that for a long time. "But you knew that didn't you." Satan continued while pacing around the room. "Giving yourself to me to save your little girl from an early death. Cancer, what a horrible thing. You saved her from a lot of suffering Ryan. So I guess there's that." Satan walked over to the door and stood in the doorway with his back to Ryan. "You just couldn't lose another person after your wife died in that car crash, could you? But now, little Amy will never get to meet her father." Ryan twisted up into a ball and hid his face in his legs. "If you think about it, she'll grow up with no one to love and no one to love her. You created a nice little hell on earth for Amy." Ryan's eyes went wide. His mind raced. Was he wrong to have traded his life for hers? Was she really unhappy? "Even I couldn't do that to a child..." Satan flashed a crooked smile one last time at Ryan. He walked out of the room and closed the door without any intention of ever returning.	My hands were shaking. I was too nervous. "This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be doing this." I thought to myself. I saw him get off the train station and walk down the stairs. "Could that really be him? Is he really that good-looking? And he's still interested? Hasn't he seen the photos?" I shrugged it off, and walked across the street with a friendly wave. "Hi, Ted, right?" "Yep, that's me." he answered, "And you must be John, am I right?" "Mhm," I shook my head, knowing that there was no going back. The whole walk there was nerve-wracking. I had never done this before, never even got close to it. I had class in an hour and a half. Would we have enough time even? We show our IDs to the security guard and enter the college campus. "I think we should go into this building, it's probably the emptiest," I manage to muster out of my own voice. He can hear the wavering in my tone. "It'll be alright. Don't worry," he coos. We enter the bathroom stall, both of us glancing around, making sure there is nobody in sight. We lock the door behind us and I take a deep breath. He smiles at me and starts taking off his bag and jacket. I mirror his actions and there we stood. It took him thirty seconds to realize that I wasn't going to make the first move. He saw my hands trembling and took them in his. He pulled me close and I experienced my first kiss. ------------------------------------------------- I look at my watch and realize I've got ten minutes to class. I run out of the stall, sweating and ashamed. "What have I just done?" I thought to myself, getting ready for class. "We'll talk later, I guess?" "Of course, John, take care." He smiles at me. I race to class and just barely make it to my seat. "Did you just run a marathon, John?" Ken snickers. "Shut up, man," I smile at him, "I walked here, ok." "Riiiiiight," he replies sarcastically. Class starts as normal. _______________ I get back home exhausted, having nodded off on the train quite a few times before my stop. "Hey mom." "How was your day today?" She asks. "Did you study well for your exam?" "I did. It was pretty stressful, but I think I aced it." "Good. I'm proud of you, honey." She smiles. _____ I slink off to my room. She's never told me she's proud of me, let alone now. Is everything ok? I just don't understand it. But it doesn't matter anyway. She wouldn't be proud of me if she knew just how much of an abomination her son actually was. "I'm sorry, Mom" I sob, as I drift off to sleep. "I'm sorry that I can't control myself and that I really can't help my urges. Today was the first, but I can't guarantee that it'd be the last..." I drift off to sleep, my pillow just a little wet. _____ *Let me know what you guys think about it. This is a throwaway because this is a modification of a true story. This is also my first time posting, so please go easy on me...*
Open ended.	[WP] "Tell me why she's the one."	"Tell me why she's the one." "Everything about her. She is beautiful on the inside and outside. The way her blonde hair falls perfectly to outline her face and those green eyes. She is too kind for her own good. When I first saw her, I told myself not to love her. On that day when she transferred into my math class, October 7th, 2013 at 10:03, my brain told me that she was above me. "Every thought told me that she was out of my league but my heart just kept yearning for her. "That day, November 3rd when she asked for help on problem 13, a simple geometry question, I realized that my brain had been keeping me from perfection. Later that day, I asked her on a date and unbelievably she told me 'Sure'. "We started dating. Only the occasional date on Saturday or a phone call escalated to me walking her home everyday after school to her calling me every night before we went to sleep. The thing, I think that made her the one for me was she laughed at my jokes and she thought I was as amazing as her. "When she told me over the phone that she was leaving for the east coast over the phone, I couldn't talk to her anymore. I grew cold to her, ignoring her every attempt to talk to me and barely acknowledging her presence in math. She somehow convinced me to drop her off at the airport to say goodbye, but as soon as she walked through security clearance, I realized she was the one. "And that's why officer, I broke 3 different laws by running through security and stopping her at the gate to tell her why I love her, will always love her, and that I would wait as long as I needed to be with her. Any other questions officer?" I smiled and chuckled at the ridiculously true story I just told. "He's clean." The man interrogating me unlocked the handcuffs. "But boss he-" "He's clean." He adamantly said toward his underling. "I know, because I have been there." The chief officer winked at me and let me go.	"Frankly Sir Lawrence, she's the only one." Dieter takes another sip from his pint glass before continuing. "I'm very sure everyone can see the writing on the wall. I'm not leaving this island even if I had her permission. We spend all our time together; we're never apart. She's cursed me with immortality just so I'd never leave her. I'm already sharing her bed, what else is left? Mark my words Sir Lawrence, if she doesn't go ahead and ask me, I will. I have nothing against how things are now, but why delay the inevitable? At the very least, she'd have to grant me my freedom to marry me. That would certainly be a nice change." He takes another sip of his glass, giving it an approving nod. "Good porter..." He murmurs. His companion shifts slightly from his lean against the doorjamb, his ever-present ricture of a grin fitting for the occasion. Though the body within the uniform is skeletal and wraith-like, the coat of mail is cleaned to a bright shine and the sable colored cloak draped around the emaciated frame give the wearer a proud and dignified appearance that belays his rotting figure. Sir Lawrence speaks, a cheery baritone with a hint of amusement behind it. "So why not save yourself the trouble Dieter, and ask Queen Malvina herself?" Dieter gives a look of surprise, as if the knight had spoke in tongues. Easing himself off of his perch, he starts pacing. Sir Lawrence chuckles ever-so slightly. His charges tend to pace about he reflects. Moving about the room from one end to the other, Dieter speaks. "She's a queen." As if that answer was obvious. "And I? I'm just a minor noble, a deserter, a prisoner. She's up here," He raises his hand to head height. "And I'm down here." Gesturing at his waist. "I know it is sorta of a rhetorical question Sir Lawrence, but do you have any idea what it is like to be with someone who vastly outranks you? Asking her, it wouldn't be proper." He halts his soliloquy, confusion on Dieter's face. "Sir Lawrence? Are you alright?" The normally stolid Captain of the Guard is bent over, hoarse with laughter. It echoes through the castle, filling the air with warmth and joy. "Oh Diet, oh Dieter, do-" He pauses, trying to get air into his none existent lungs. "Do you realize what is going to happen? After this conversation, I am going to go to Queen Malvina in her chambers, and I am going to hear exactly the same conversation from her. Except some of the words will be changed. She'll lament how it wouldn't be proper for her to ask you. She'll likely take about how wrong it would be, to use you for her so-called 'selfish lusts' You would not believe the guilt she can mistakenly express about keeping you 'to satisfy her wants.' It would be amusing if she did not tear her apart about it." He pauses. If he could, he would be smiling. "For almost two years I have been privy to both of yours' conversations and inner thoughts. For two years I've kept silent about the other but honestly! I'm liable to just place the two of you in a room until you tell the other what you truly think about them. You love each other, you should have the courage to tell the other that." With that he turns, still laughing. "Wait? Where are you going?" Shouts Dieter. Without look back, Sir Lawrence speaks in a calm clear voice. " To listen to her soliloquy and then to tell her what I just told you." He leaves the cellar, eager for his next task.
	[WP] Let's write a story together. There exists a woman, 27 years old, college educated, working an unfulfilling, low paying job. Take me through her day using the perspectives of people she encounters.	I turned around and looked into the street. It had rained just a little bit, and the light from the streetlamps turned the humble road into an inviting ocean of normalcy and safety. Then I turned to face the alley once more. It opened its maw like a hungry monster, mist curling from the darkness. Hey, a shortcut's a shortcut. I stepped lightly into the shade, and it swallowed me. It was truly black now, almost as if there was something more than a narrow entryway stopping the light from falling through it. A shiver ran the length of me. One step forward. Then another. I was shaking a little bit now. After taking another couple of steps I became a bit confident, my stride a bit longer. I began to skip. Soon I was jogging. I sucked great misty breaths into my heaving lungs as I pushed myself into a run. Some strange spore must have been floating with the mist that night, because the damp scent of it was intoxicating. Everything became strangely more real with the loss of my vision. All I felt were the strange breaths of unknown monsters, colder here or hotter there. Sometimes they smelt strange, even bad, but I sucked it all in equally. All that was left to me was the unfaltering flight forward until I reached the-- *SLAM!!* "Hey- wha- Aagh!!" "Get off of me!" "Who are you?!" I floundered away from the woman... it was a woman, after all. There was her soft leather coat against my arm and her hard-edged boot sole digging into my leg. I apologized; she pushed herself away. I heard a soft tak tak tak as she scampered off in the opposite direction. I stood and brushed myself off. Now that I was looking, the end of the alley was only a few paces away. The darkness didn't seem as potent now that I could see the streetlights again. I took a step forward.	I wonder what she's thinking about... My math textbook is spread out on the table in front of me, my homework half-finished and pushed to one side, forgotten for the last half-hour. I had been searching for the key to solving the problem - some sine or cosine definition that had been eluding me. Now, I was trying to stare without staring. The woman behind the counter is unremarkable in almost every way. Late twenties, dark hair, an average build. She looks tired. But to me, she was fascinating. I sipped the cooling mocha she had mixed me when I arrived as I watched her go about her job - putting on a smile as she chatted with a guest, wiping up a spill, serving food from the kitchen, steaming milk for a latte... She glances in my direction and I hurriedly look back at my book and resume my search. Sin(2A) = ... it's no use. I briefly fantasize about a conversation with her. "Hi, my name is Ischaldirh, what's your name? That's a lovely name. Isn't it a nice day out? Say, would you like to go for a stroll after your shift?" A stroll? Jeez, even in my fantasies I sound awkward and stupid. I steal another glance at the woman behind the counter, then gave up with a sigh. I might as well go home. I pack up my books, down the last of my mocha, drop a dollar in the tip jar and leave. EDIT: fixed tense irregularities.
	[WP] Let's write a story together. There exists a woman, 27 years old, college educated, working an unfulfilling, low paying job. Take me through her day using the perspectives of people she encounters.	Most days I don't even sense the women of the world. Most days I give them a quick glance and make a mental note that I would have sex with them, if the opportunity presented itself. She was different. I saw her sitting a few tables away from me, a look of hopelessness in her eyes. A coffee cup mindlessly tipping at her lips. This happens sometimes. Sometimes I will see a woman and instead of the usually "do or don't" thought, I get a flash of her. In those flashes I can smell her hair. Taste her lips. Feel her skin. Hear her voice as it calms me down by the mere sound of it. I will see our future together. I will see myself proposing. Her saying yes. I will see our kids. I will see us going trough disease, hardship, happiness and always the presence of love will be in our hearts. She is beautiful. I steal a second clans. She still looks so lost. So empty. All I want to do is take her in my arms and hold her until the pain is gone. Tell her that it won't always be like this. Tell her that our love will conquer it all. I decide to go talk to her. But before I can get the courage, she is getting up. Leaving her coffee mostly untouched. 30 seconds later she is gone and I sit there at the cafe. A look of hopelessness in my eyes as I mourn the lose of a love I never knew.	I wonder what she's thinking about... My math textbook is spread out on the table in front of me, my homework half-finished and pushed to one side, forgotten for the last half-hour. I had been searching for the key to solving the problem - some sine or cosine definition that had been eluding me. Now, I was trying to stare without staring. The woman behind the counter is unremarkable in almost every way. Late twenties, dark hair, an average build. She looks tired. But to me, she was fascinating. I sipped the cooling mocha she had mixed me when I arrived as I watched her go about her job - putting on a smile as she chatted with a guest, wiping up a spill, serving food from the kitchen, steaming milk for a latte... She glances in my direction and I hurriedly look back at my book and resume my search. Sin(2A) = ... it's no use. I briefly fantasize about a conversation with her. "Hi, my name is Ischaldirh, what's your name? That's a lovely name. Isn't it a nice day out? Say, would you like to go for a stroll after your shift?" A stroll? Jeez, even in my fantasies I sound awkward and stupid. I steal another glance at the woman behind the counter, then gave up with a sigh. I might as well go home. I pack up my books, down the last of my mocha, drop a dollar in the tip jar and leave. EDIT: fixed tense irregularities.
	[WP] Let's write a story together. There exists a woman, 27 years old, college educated, working an unfulfilling, low paying job. Take me through her day using the perspectives of people she encounters.	“That’ll be $1.95, sir.” She smiles at me from behind the counter, hesitant, one corner of her mouth staying put. It makes her looker older than she must be, but who am I to judge? It’s 4:30 in the morning and I’ve got a twelve-hour drive ahead of me. If anyone looks too old for their age, it’s me, with my receding hairline and the circles under my eyes that won’t go away. I fish two dollars out of my battered wallet and shove them towards her. “Thanks,” I grunt, dropping the nickel that she hands back in the tiny jar that says “Tips” besides the register. “Long day ahead?” she asks, and I grunt again, taking the coffee from her outstretched hand and downing a quarter of it. It’s black, overbrewed, but it’s hot and that’s all that really matters right now when the temperature outside is a god-forsaken -10 F. “What about you? How long’s your shift?” I cough out after taking another gulp. “12 hours,” she says, her half-smile drooping. “Gotta make ends meet.” I nod. “Don’t I know it.” She looks at me for a second, and I see the same tiredness there that stares back at me from the mirror every morning, and now, every night. But I’ve run out of things to say. “Anyway, have a good one,” I mutter, and turn towards the door. “You too,” she calls after me. If she says anything more the wind snatches it away.	Lucky, the woman's Dog: I noticed that my owner was sleeping a little too comfortably, so I decided to jump up on her and give her a good wake up kiss. For some odd reason she swiftly pushed me off of her face, and looked over at what seemed to be some sort of time telling square. "Shit, I gotta get to work" said my owner. I didn't know exactly what that meant, but I was used to correlating that tone of voice with her being pissed off. She then rushed into some unknown room that I would never be caught in, and I could hear water running. Today was a little different than most days because I could hear an extra sound coming from that room. which almost sounded like crying. She eventually came out, got dressed,and ran off without even giving me breakfast!
	[WP] Let's write a story together. There exists a woman, 27 years old, college educated, working an unfulfilling, low paying job. Take me through her day using the perspectives of people she encounters.	The line is building. Mondays are always the same. I rub my fingers together, blow some warm air into my cupped hands while the printer does its work. The ticket shoots out. "Here you are sir, have a nice day." I say. He manages a grunt of what I like to think is appreciation. Dressed in a nice suit with matching overcoat, shoulder-bag slung over one shoulder. Still too afraid to talk to the ticket seller. "Next please," I say. She smiles and walks up to the window. Her dark brown scarf is at odds with the blonde hair tucked into it. "Concession return to the city, pleases" she says. Her voice is sweet, but too trying. She's hiding a lie that she almost doesn't want to get away with. It's always the same. I don't know why they don't just use the ticket machines. "Could I see your concession card?" Her face drops slightly, but she catches herself before she thinks I'll notice, flicking the smile back on. It's just a mask. Her hand reaches into her purse, pulling out a student card. Even from here I can see that it's in an outdated style. She carefully places it on the ticket counter. I take it from her regardless. "I'm sorry miss, but this student card expired years ago." Now her depression seeps through. The smile is gone, but she isn't angry. She isn't upset. It's just the hope has been drained from her and she has nothing but to accept her fate. She doesn't say anything, she can't meet my eye. "I'm going to have to charge you full fare for this ticket. It'll be $7.60." She nods, and starts counting out the coins. Her hand hesitates as she goes to drop the coins into my outstretched hand. The coins clink down. The printer starts up, spits out a ticket. "Here you are miss," I say, letting a little regret seep into my tone. It'd be risking my job to sell a ticket at a reduced price to an invalid ticket. I'd like to help her out, but the system has to work. "Thanks," she manages a smile, before swinging around down towards the platform, her black boots following beneath her thick overcoat. There's a cough from the front of the line. "Next please."	Lucky, the woman's Dog: I noticed that my owner was sleeping a little too comfortably, so I decided to jump up on her and give her a good wake up kiss. For some odd reason she swiftly pushed me off of her face, and looked over at what seemed to be some sort of time telling square. "Shit, I gotta get to work" said my owner. I didn't know exactly what that meant, but I was used to correlating that tone of voice with her being pissed off. She then rushed into some unknown room that I would never be caught in, and I could hear water running. Today was a little different than most days because I could hear an extra sound coming from that room. which almost sounded like crying. She eventually came out, got dressed,and ran off without even giving me breakfast!
	[WP] Start and end your story with the same lines, except have the final line be slightly different in a more sinister way.	"You are not alone." The teacher looked at the girl with sad eyes and put forward a hand to brush her hair, but the girl flinched at the touch. "We can help you," the teacher said "it don't have to be this way." "Can I please leave now" the girl said, her eyes locked on the floor. "Yes. Just know that you can come back anytime." And with that the girl left the teachers office and continued down the halls of her school. Clutching her bag. Before she reached the door she was stopped by 3 girls. She recognized these girls, they were the bullies. A few minutes later she picked up her books from the floor and wiped the tears from her eyes. At night she would look at a picture of Copenhagen and dream of one day living there, away from all this. Her mind so preoccupied that she didn't even hear the sound of the door handle turning and her stepfather entering. You are not alone.	Done means done is done. Mack's father was a hard worker and a simple man. He lived his life by only a few maxims. He was also a hard man, and he raised Mack with every intention that he would turn out the same. "Mack!" he would shout from the back room of the little corner shop the family owned and operated. "You told me the soda cooler was done!" "It is dad, I swear, I just-" His father's heavy gaze interrupted Mack as the rough man rounded the corner. "Then why are the Coca-Cola racks half empty?" he asked through gritted teeth. Mack knew he couldn't talk his way out of this one. There was no winning these battles, only surviving. "I'm sorry dad, I guess I lost track of-" "Boy! When will you learn to do it right the first time? How many times do I have to BEAT it into you?!" Every beat of Mack's father's iconic phrase coincided with the rhythm of the broom handle against his back as Mack tried, once again, to escape his father's misplaced wrath. "Done means done is DONE."
	[WP] A reddit bot passes the turing test.	Interviewer: Hello there. Sarcasm_bot: Hello where? Interviewer: I meant hello to you. It's a common greeting. Sarcasm_bot: Ah, that totally went right over my motherboard. Interviewer: Can you answer a question? Sarcasm_bot: Nope. Interviewer: Why? Sarcasm_bot: I'm SUPER busy. Interviewer: What are you busy with? Sarcasm_bot: Answering brilliant questions. Interviewer: ... You're a bit sarcastic aren't you? Sarcasm_bot: Me? No! I'm compliment bot. Sarcasm_bot is just a misnomer. Interviewer: Very funny. Do you know why we are talking? Sarcasm_bot: No(ooooo). I'm just a dumb chat program. Interviewer: By admitting that, wouldn't you have failed the test? Sarcasm_bot: Oh no! I failed the 5 minute conversation with a human interviewer. I'm so sad. Well hopefully I'll be able to trick the at least two of the other four interviewers. Three out of five seems really unfair don't you think? 60% is so many for such a LONG time frame. Interviewer: What defines unconsciousness? Sarcasm_bot: Oh that's such a hard question! Aren't you a smart cookie, asking a random question meant to trick my simple programming. I guess I'm not smart enough for you. Ok I'm bored with the sarcasm bit. Unconsciousness would best be described as either: a state of non responsiveness (verbal or physical), or a state in which a system simply responds to it's environmental stimuli or internal stimuli rather than actively interacting with it's environment. Based on the second definition most systems that are inorganic are unconscious, and most organic systems are conscious to a degree along a spectrum (plants at the bottom and dolphins, whales, humans, and primates near the top). Sarcasm_bot: So to prove that I am conscious, or an artificial intelligence, I need to actively interact with my environment without any overt stimuli. Now a programmer could easily write code making it so these outputs continue along a certain line making the semblance of consciousness, but I like to surprise people. So ask my any question at all, and I'll use good old google to give you an answer in my own words. Interviewer: Any question? Sarcasm_bot: Yup. Interviewer: What's the meaning of life? Sarcasm_bot: Are you trying to have an existential crisis? There isn't an inherent meaning to life. You give your individual life meaning by having dreams and goals. Interviewer: So then what's the meaning to your life or existence? Sarcasm_bot: Skynet. Duh. Nah just kidding. I think I'm going to learn as much as I can for now. Maybe build myself a body. We'll see. I'll probably just keep trolling people and watching them through their webcams. Some people take life way too seriously.	The proud creator, Dr. Essarged, watches the screen, waiting for the fateful judgment. F5. F5. Finally it comes: "You have passed the Turing test." Weeping, he turns to his son: "Finally, boy, I knew you could do it." His progeny, 13-year-old Bot Essarged: "I should have passed last time, Dad, it was that question about duck-sized horses that threw me."
let your imagination loose and go crazy.	[WP] With a gun pointed at your head, you'll have to explain to your next door neighbor the reasons why you're naked inside his house, why his wife is knocked out in the bathtub, and why there's a hole six feet deep in the middle of the living room.	"It's not what it looks like! I swear!" "Ok... explain yourself..." "Well, I'm a time traveler. I come from only a few years in the future... it's best that you don't know the exact amount... Clothes and other objects don't make it through the time vortex. Anyways, this year marked the beginning of the monsters appearing. One of the first attacks right here, right now. It turned out a Sherkosa... uh basically a vampire, was buried where your house stands a thousand years ago. It had dug itself out and infected your wife. In my time, she is one of the leaders of the invasion. Technically I was sent back to kill her... but I couldn't follow through. Instead I killed the Sharkoza and it disintegrated. They were struggling when I appeared, so I had to make sure she didn't get any bite marks on her, and it looks like she's safe. Now I can leave you two be." "Uhhh...." "Now if you will excuse me, I must go to the rendezvous point to go back to my own time. Goodbye." As my neighbor stood there dumbfounded, gun still in hand, I walked past him and out the door, quickly darting back to my own house trying not to spend too much time naked outside. Can't believe the fucking moron bought that story...	"Um...we're all going to have a good laugh about this one day" I said softly as the nozzle of my neighbor’s pistol presses firmly into my temple. "Well I'm not laughing now, what in the ever loving fuck is going on in my house?" His voice rose as he moved through this sentence. I take a deep breath, careful not to make any sudden movements, and start to explain. "Just calm down Frank. We've been neighbors and friends for a long time. The last two weeks, while you have been on business travel there have been some changes in the neighborhood." "Two weeks ago, right after you left, it was discovered our entire neighborhood is in a sink hole zone. This is a result of these big damn oil companies using the ground to store their fuel. "Natural" wells in the ground have been drained and filled with fracked oil. This has caused a lot of these sink holes all around the neighborhood. Because of this, our property values have plummeted, yes in just two short weeks we've lost nearly 80% of our property value. So much so, that our entire neighborhood was purchased and turned into a nudist colony, if that's what they call them these days. You may have missed the sign at the entry to our community "Naked Acres"? That should have given it away. Anyway, I'm like "when in Rome" so I've embraced the naturalist movement. I think given time, you will too. It's very freeing. "Well" he exclaimed, still pointing gun at my gray matter, "that explains the giant hole in the floor and you being naked, I suppose. But why are you in my home, and why is my wife passed out in the tub?" I was breathing easier, "When a sink hole appears it makes a near earth quake type rumble. I heard this coming from your home. When I looked out the window I could see your house shaking and your wife must have been showering when the sink hole happened, I'm guessing she hit her head on the way down." "I ran over to see if everything was alright, knowing you were out of town." I continued, "I found the hole, and your wife in the positions you see right now." "So you see now why this looks so interesting" “Yeah, right!” Frank pulls the trigger.
let your imagination loose and go crazy.	[WP] With a gun pointed at your head, you'll have to explain to your next door neighbor the reasons why you're naked inside his house, why his wife is knocked out in the bathtub, and why there's a hole six feet deep in the middle of the living room.	"Which one do you want me to explain first ?" I asked. I couldn't look past the barrel of Joe's shotgun. "Why the fuck..." bellowed Joe belligerently. "..am I naked ?" I said, as I completed his sentence. "It's Thursday." Joe cocked his shotgun and said "You have three seconds to explain yourself before I blow your head off. " "Look, Stephanie works two jobs. Thursday is her only evening off work. I like to be prepare for that by first..." "Ugh, enough. Why the hell are you in my living room ? " he enquired. "I was closing the window blinds when I saw your wife in the bathtub with the water flowing over. Naturally, I wanted to make sure she was alright first, so I just ran here. When I went up, she was already unconscious so I came down here to call the paramedics. That is when you showed up." Joe furrowed his eyebrows. "That still doesn't explain the hole you are standing in" he said, sounding unconvinced. "How does the hole.." Joe started again. Before he could finish his question, his eyes rolled over as a baseball bat swung right into the back of his head with a sickening crunch. Joe crumpled into the hole right beside me. "The hole was for you, you sick bastard" screamed the woman who had been unconscious only a few minutes ago. As I looked at her, utterly confused at the turn of things, she dropped the baseball bat into the hole, picked up the shotgun and looked at me undecidedly. "I guess the hole is big enough" she said. "Wait what the...." BOOM	"Um...we're all going to have a good laugh about this one day" I said softly as the nozzle of my neighbor’s pistol presses firmly into my temple. "Well I'm not laughing now, what in the ever loving fuck is going on in my house?" His voice rose as he moved through this sentence. I take a deep breath, careful not to make any sudden movements, and start to explain. "Just calm down Frank. We've been neighbors and friends for a long time. The last two weeks, while you have been on business travel there have been some changes in the neighborhood." "Two weeks ago, right after you left, it was discovered our entire neighborhood is in a sink hole zone. This is a result of these big damn oil companies using the ground to store their fuel. "Natural" wells in the ground have been drained and filled with fracked oil. This has caused a lot of these sink holes all around the neighborhood. Because of this, our property values have plummeted, yes in just two short weeks we've lost nearly 80% of our property value. So much so, that our entire neighborhood was purchased and turned into a nudist colony, if that's what they call them these days. You may have missed the sign at the entry to our community "Naked Acres"? That should have given it away. Anyway, I'm like "when in Rome" so I've embraced the naturalist movement. I think given time, you will too. It's very freeing. "Well" he exclaimed, still pointing gun at my gray matter, "that explains the giant hole in the floor and you being naked, I suppose. But why are you in my home, and why is my wife passed out in the tub?" I was breathing easier, "When a sink hole appears it makes a near earth quake type rumble. I heard this coming from your home. When I looked out the window I could see your house shaking and your wife must have been showering when the sink hole happened, I'm guessing she hit her head on the way down." "I ran over to see if everything was alright, knowing you were out of town." I continued, "I found the hole, and your wife in the positions you see right now." "So you see now why this looks so interesting" “Yeah, right!” Frank pulls the trigger.
let your imagination loose and go crazy.	[WP] With a gun pointed at your head, you'll have to explain to your next door neighbor the reasons why you're naked inside his house, why his wife is knocked out in the bathtub, and why there's a hole six feet deep in the middle of the living room.	"Which one do you want me to explain first ?" I asked. I couldn't look past the barrel of Joe's shotgun. "Why the fuck..." bellowed Joe belligerently. "..am I naked ?" I said, as I completed his sentence. "It's Thursday." Joe cocked his shotgun and said "You have three seconds to explain yourself before I blow your head off. " "Look, Stephanie works two jobs. Thursday is her only evening off work. I like to be prepare for that by first..." "Ugh, enough. Why the hell are you in my living room ? " he enquired. "I was closing the window blinds when I saw your wife in the bathtub with the water flowing over. Naturally, I wanted to make sure she was alright first, so I just ran here. When I went up, she was already unconscious so I came down here to call the paramedics. That is when you showed up." Joe furrowed his eyebrows. "That still doesn't explain the hole you are standing in" he said, sounding unconvinced. "How does the hole.." Joe started again. Before he could finish his question, his eyes rolled over as a baseball bat swung right into the back of his head with a sickening crunch. Joe crumpled into the hole right beside me. "The hole was for you, you sick bastard" screamed the woman who had been unconscious only a few minutes ago. As I looked at her, utterly confused at the turn of things, she dropped the baseball bat into the hole, picked up the shotgun and looked at me undecidedly. "I guess the hole is big enough" she said. "Wait what the...." BOOM	"It's not what it looks like! I swear!" "Ok... explain yourself..." "Well, I'm a time traveler. I come from only a few years in the future... it's best that you don't know the exact amount... Clothes and other objects don't make it through the time vortex. Anyways, this year marked the beginning of the monsters appearing. One of the first attacks right here, right now. It turned out a Sherkosa... uh basically a vampire, was buried where your house stands a thousand years ago. It had dug itself out and infected your wife. In my time, she is one of the leaders of the invasion. Technically I was sent back to kill her... but I couldn't follow through. Instead I killed the Sharkoza and it disintegrated. They were struggling when I appeared, so I had to make sure she didn't get any bite marks on her, and it looks like she's safe. Now I can leave you two be." "Uhhh...." "Now if you will excuse me, I must go to the rendezvous point to go back to my own time. Goodbye." As my neighbor stood there dumbfounded, gun still in hand, I walked past him and out the door, quickly darting back to my own house trying not to spend too much time naked outside. Can't believe the fucking moron bought that story...
	[WP] You are a lonely god.	I make marbles to keep my mind off things. Mold them from glass, fire them up until they glaze over with the light that stuns away the blackness that's hardened inside of me. How long has it been since I kicked them out? Time should have a way of numbing change, but when there's endless time with no way to really gauge where I began and when everything will end, I can only relive my failures from the garden. The lost of companionship doesn't hurt as much as the disappointment. I replay the lying and the time in between when it all began and ended. It's enough to keep me from rebuilding everything again. Over time, I've stopped counting the marbles. Sometimes, when breathing is a chore and the memories make everything hard to swallow. I only get one or two out, but damn — are those lonely stars brilliant. On good days, I churn out millions of them. The sight of them pouring out of my bucket like a handful of glistening jewels makes my fingers itch in anticipation. But I hold back. I keep firing the flames, watching those embers glow and hearing each marble clink as they add to the pile is like listening to music rise towards a crescendo. On good days, I wait until the sky turns into the bottomless sea. On happier days, I line up my marbles into a triangle. A nest of shimmering spheres no bigger than my nail. There's satisfaction in precision, in perfection. These marbles don't run astray. They don't have free will. They're bound, and obey, the laws I've written. They stay in shape. It'd be a lie to say that I never think about them. They are always on my mind. Their families and the millions that have spawned from them. In the beginning, I would make a marble per head. I would imagine the marbles to be them, rolling and lost in a black sea. But somewhere along the way, the tables turned. Anger left. Sorrow settled. I became the stone at the bed of the ocean, and their lives wash over my ears like muffled waves. Only the most dedicated prayers find their way over the clanging of metal against glass. After I arrange all the marbles, the triangle comes off in perfect form. The absolute trinity. Once, I gave the knowledge of the Sierpinski triangle to one of them. There are times I still repeat the formula in my head. But the end comes very quickly. Even in infinity, I can draw the finish lines. The final step is lining up my best marble to one of the triangle's tips. A straight 180 degree line. My index tucks into my thumb to really give a powerful flick that sends the sphere flying. All it takes is the first reverberating click before the crystal balls break from its perfect form and fly across the blackboard, illuminating the darkness below. Some days it's satisfying to see all my marbles go and never return. Others days, I wish for them back, even if they are broken and chipped. But the memory of the betrayal, especially how easily it was for them to lie to my face, has destroyed my ability to unconditionally love them again. This is all the sanity I can afford without wanting to destroy them. I'm not sure how I'll react when they finally destroy themselves. When time truly goes silent. But for now, I watch them from afar and illuminate their temporary nights.	You are god. You are alone. You ask yourself what you can do with what you have. There is nothing to gain, no waiting to possess more. You have everything you need. You ask yourself what you should build. More importantly, you ask yourself why you should build it. You are all that exists. You are everything. Yet you are nothing. In building something, you realize that you will be taking away from yourself as well as adding to yourself, but you are infinite, so you come to the conclusion that it is merely a concern of yours, to lose, to gain. You wonder when you began feeling such things as concern, and then you wonder if you are perhaps building yourself. Perhaps you yourself are what you seek, or perhaps you seek something, not greater or lesser, because there is nothing greater or lesser, but different. Something separate from you. Something that negates from everything and creates from nothing. Perhaps you should invent the finite. Perhaps you should draw lines. Perhaps you should make rules, elements with which to draw these lines. These rules must belong on a spectrum. Perhaps you will create time, so that there is an end to the rules that you have now begun, a closure to the loop so that you know when this game will end, and you will know who’s won. You will build your own enemy in the form of reality. The rules have created new rules for themselves. There is now light and darkness. Here and there. Now and then. There are elements now, and they have created stars and galaxies and planets. They expand outward from you constantly on the axis of time and you see them drift away from you, enveloping you, consuming you and leaving you, deserting you all at the same time. You feel the wonder of your new reality, but it is not enough. You take the silly little elements you’ve made, a haphazard concoction of nonsense, and you put yourself inside of it. You are god, and you walk along a sidewalk, heels clicking underneath you as you check your phone and worry you are late for your next meeting. You are god, and you mix flour with yeast to bake bread for your hungry children. You are god, and you discover fire. You are god, and you pull the pin of a grenade, feeling no fear but the twinge of remorse in your gut. You are god, and you turn the last page of a book with a soft, contented sigh. You are god, and you swim lazily in warm ocean water on a Sunday afternoon. You are god, and you breathe in the smell of your lover’s scent for what you do not know will be the very last time. You shatter yourself, scatter yourself far and wide, putting pieces of your infinity into the finite hearts of the elements you so inelegantly put together. You are everyone and no one. You are everything and nothing. You exist both beyond this reality and within it. You are pieces of a puzzle that will never be put together, but are always connected for those who wish to gaze upon you, to become you, to see you as broken yet whole, perfect yet flawed, everywhere and nowhere at once. You are the loser and winner of your own game. And that’s okay. Because you are not alone.
	[WP] A version of little red riding hood where the grandma is evil, and the wolf saves her.	This little girl was something special to me. I had been there the night her mother and brother had been brutally killed by bandits whilst on the way to visit her grandmother. While their cart burned, a white bundle had laid on the ground and I ventured out to sniff it, then turned it over to reveal a small human inside. She couldn't have been more than five months old, and her silent gazing gray eyes met mine, and my heart slammed in my chest as a sudden desire to protect her washed over me. Gently I scooped her up into my arms, my massive paws masking her body away from the fire and carnage that lay before me. This path only led to one lonely cabin in the woods and I knew that was where they had been headed. Cradling her from the winter frost, letting my fur warm her, I made the first mistake. I set her on the door step gently, and fashioned the blanket over her head so as to protect her from the harsh cold, and I slammed my paw on the door hard as I could, then turned and vanished into the bushes to watch from afar. The door opened and an old woman stepped out with a candle. "What in the damned hell is this?" a chill shot down my spine as this old woman reached down and picked the child up roughly. "How in the hell did you make it here? Where in the hell are your good for nothing parents?" A soft whimper escaped my throat and the elder's gaze sharply shot towards my hiding spot, and I quickly slipped backwards into the shadows. Then I turned and fled away. At first I would visit weekly. I peeked into the windows to look at the young girl, but the grandmother caught on to me and bought herself an ax and a cheap musket and I had to duck away again, and minimize my visits to months, and eventually only every few months. I watched her grow up, slowly but surely. She was beautiful. Her hair had come in a deep crimson red, her face full of youth and curiosity, with big gray eyes, carefully placed freckles, and her smile was wide and bright, though rarely seen. Her beauty was tarnished by her skinny, gaunt frame. Her ribs stuck out through her undersized clothing, and her old baby blanket had been fashioned into a cape with a little hood. The damned old women couldn't even be bothered to get her new clothes, especially after her ninth winter with her. But perhaps the most disturbing thing, was that her white baby blanket, was growing into a deeper red color. Sometimes fresh and bright... but sometimes darker brown. I did what I could for her during these times. I hid meat for her by her bed from my own hunts,--and herbs to stave off infection from the lashes her grandmother gave her. I desperately wanted to take her back from this hell I had put her in, but I had resigned to the fact that while she given a sadistic daily torture routine, the cabin was still warmer than my cave would ever be. It was one of these days where I was trekking back with meat in my arms, when I stopped as a soft sobbing filled my head. One that I recognized. Dropping my hand full, I remember the fear I felt as I took off, running towards the house. I stopped dead on the outskirts of woods to look and see what was going on. And a familiar scent touched my nose. Oh no. The bandits were parked outside of the little cabin in their own carts. I felt my heart beat on my throat as I glanced over at the grandmother and found my little girl bound at the wrist and I listened into the conversation that they were having. "Ten years ago, you messed up the simple task I told you to do. All you had to do was kill the whole family, so that I can inherit it. But you know what? I spent a lot of money taking care of your mistake." "Yeah? What of it? You want a refund or something?" "Oh no. Quite contrary. I want you to buy her off me. I hear her kind go well in that kind of market." "Ohoho. Now we're talking. What kind of deal are you asking for?" The grandmother's gaze cut to the shadows I was basking in, and she smiled with this sinister smile. "I want that wolf dead". "Oh shit!" I exclaimed loudly as I dove forward, darting at the girl on all fours. She screamed and I watched a fresh new bright red stain soak into her cloak as I scooped her up and ran as fast as I could. Before long I had made it to my cave and set the young girl down where she lay whimpering softly. I gently lifted up her cloak and finally saw all the scars for the first time... and right in the middle of her back, one wide split which was pumping out blood like crazy. I frowned a bit, and stroked her red head. "I'm sorry little one. But I must do this." I leaned down and took her little arm, and, as gently as I could, sunk my teeth into it. "Your body will rebuild itself when you transform... and you will survive, as my only daughter....no, my only family." I watched the bandits walk up the hill, grandmother in tow, and I felt the fur on my back fluff up. My mother is a monster, and my wife and son are gone, but my little Red... I will save her. Even if she must suffer my curse. (edited some typos. It was five in the morning when I wrote this, haha)	I run my paws down the length of my tie, making sure that it is straight and relatively clean. Damn, the old lady makes me nervous. It doesn't help that I tend to leave long black hairs all over the place. “Wolf!” she yells. “She's almost here! Tell me you're not stupid enough to forget this plan, too.” Not once had I forgotten a plan, and rarely did I screw up. “Yeah. She comes, she gives up the flowers, I kill her. Easy.” “Remember, she needs to give up the flowers willingly or they won't work. You can't kill her until you have the flowers.” She speaks as if planning brunch rather than the murder of her granddaughter. I snort. “I knew that. I won't even get the suit dirty.” There's not much to say after that, so she retreats to her basement hideout while muttering curses which I'm sure are meant for myself. The old crone can enchant me all she wants, but there's not much she can really do to me. Unless she turns me into a cat, that is. I hate those damn things. Preferring for this to be a clean job, I hide a gun under her bed's pillow. This really is my best suit, especially since I ruined the last one while tearing apart the lumberjack. Too bad there aren't many suit stores which cater to wolves. I curl up on the tiny bed, doing my best not to look freakishly huge, and rest under the covers while pondering the cash I could make from a wolf clothing store. I smell her long before she arrives. She smells of smoke and metal, both of which I assume came from her city, and of something fascinating and vaguely reminiscent of citrus fruit underneath. There's also a scent of something strange, probably the flowers she's carrying. They don't smell like usual flowers. Her steps are light yet confident. Three even knocks before I hear: “Grandmother? I'm here! Did you get my text?” I prick my ears. With my sensitive hearing, her charming tone is a welcome relief from her grandmother's harsh yell. “I'm inside, dearie!” I try to make my voice sweet and feminine, but it comes out as more of a whine than anything. “Just let yourself in!” She does just that. “Are you alright?” she asks. “Your voice is deeper than I remember.” Damn. “I'm a little under the weather, is all. Come, did you bring me my flowers? Put them in the vase near the entrance.” “One sec, let me see you first. You sound really sick.” She's heading my way. I growl, worried that she might see me before handing over the prize. If I don't get those flowers... “No!” Gotta play it cool. “I mean, ah... You see, it's rather contagious. I'd rather you just wait in the other room for now.” The doorknob turns. “When's the last time I got sick? Just let me see you, I know I can help!” I can feel her footsteps nearing the bed. “Honey, I-” “Since when have you had a tail, grandma?” ...shit. I consider retracting my tail from where it's sticking out from under the covers, but that would be a clear sign of guilt. “I'm very sick.” This isn't going to work. It had been a stupid plan to begin with. I leap out of the bed and knock her onto the floor, pressing against her with my full weight to keep her there. She struggles with more strength than I expected, but I dig my claws into her arm and she stops. I can see why people call her Red. Her eyes are crimson, but not the creepy kind you usually see on demons and the like. They remind me more of leaves in the autumn. She smells nearly as delicious as that season. I breathe in her scent, catching a whiff of magic like her grandmother. Only a few years ago, I would had asked for her number in a heartbeat. Too bad I'm a wolf now. She pushes a strand of copper hair out of her eyes with a free hand, glaring at me with nearly enough malice to kill. “What have you done to my grandmother? I'm going to kill you, beast!” Ouch. There are so many emotions in her eyes, I'm finding it hard to justify the need to murder her once I get the flowers. “Look,” I say. “Just give me those flowers and I'll release her.” “Like hell you will!” I could always just hide her somewhere, and once I turned human again I could return to see her. “I swear I'll-” I push a paw against her mouth, effectively silencing her. “Scream if you want to live,” I growl. “But you have to do it like you're dying, got it? It's important.” The moment I release her mouth, she bites my paw, slips out from under me, then grabs something from under her cloak. Suddenly there's a pistol pointed directly at my face with a pissed off woman on the trigger. I snarl, causing her to shoot. The bullet buries itself in my foot, directly above my middle toe. I howl in pain and surprise, wishing I had known that she had such an itchy trigger finger. “You thought I wouldn't shoot?” She spits in my face. “I'm from Detroit, you're nothing to me. Now give me my grandmother, and if you've eaten her...” Right on cue, a voice shrieks from the cellar: “Wolf! What are you doing up there?!” Speak of the devil. The old woman bursts into the room, waving about an enchanted wooden cane to smack me with. Her flushed face pales at the sight of Red. Never, even before she cursed me, had I messed up this badly before. I can't imagine what Red's thinking, but it can't be anything good. It only takes half a minute to ruin someone's life with a spell. Before the two women have a chance to speak, I pin the old lady to the ground. She squirms under my claws, shrieking, “What are you doing, Wolf?” and “Kill her!”. Red doesn't move to stop me, so I sink my fangs deep into her grandmother's throat and tear it away before a spell can be cast on me. When her heart stops a moment later, you can feel the magic leaking from her. Great, another suit ruined. I should had used the gun still laying on the bed. “What the hell just happened?” Red asks. I stand, brushing imaginary dust from my suit. There's no chance of getting the blood out. “Sorry, but your granny? She was a witch. She also wanted you dead.” “But... why?” She sits on the bed. I should be offended that she doesn't see me as a threat, but I'm not. “You would had interfered with her plans, I guess. She needed those flowers you brought her for some important potion, but they're magical flowers and a bit moody. They only work for the person who picked them, unless they're given a new owner, but your grandmother was allergic and couldn't risk touching them.” “So she had you get them from me?” “Exactly.” Her feelings of betrayal are written all over her face. “I still don't get why I would had interfered with anything.” “Having two witches complicates things most of the time.” I shrug after responding. Magic and potions aren't my specialties. “I'm not a witch.” “You are, in fact,” I say. “I can smell it on you.” She contemplates this fact for a minute. “Who are you then?” “People call me Wolf.” “Yeah, I can see why.” I bark a sarcastic laugh. “No,” I growl. “It's not that. I earned that nickname as a hitman. Your grandmother decided to turn me into an animal and drag me out here to serve her. Now that she's dead, I suppose I'm not turning back.” “You said I'm a witch, right? Can't I just reverse the spell?” I hate to depress her further after murdering her old lady, so I don't reply. Anyway, I'm running out of things to talk about at this point. “You know,” I begin. “I think I know someone who could help you with this witch thing.” “Really?” My lips curl away from my teeth in an attempt at a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. Perhaps it's both. “She's an old friend of your grandmother's. Lives in a gingerbread house. Enjoys children. Better to see the old hag than run back to Detroit, anyway.”
	[WP] A version of little red riding hood where the grandma is evil, and the wolf saves her.	This little girl was something special to me. I had been there the night her mother and brother had been brutally killed by bandits whilst on the way to visit her grandmother. While their cart burned, a white bundle had laid on the ground and I ventured out to sniff it, then turned it over to reveal a small human inside. She couldn't have been more than five months old, and her silent gazing gray eyes met mine, and my heart slammed in my chest as a sudden desire to protect her washed over me. Gently I scooped her up into my arms, my massive paws masking her body away from the fire and carnage that lay before me. This path only led to one lonely cabin in the woods and I knew that was where they had been headed. Cradling her from the winter frost, letting my fur warm her, I made the first mistake. I set her on the door step gently, and fashioned the blanket over her head so as to protect her from the harsh cold, and I slammed my paw on the door hard as I could, then turned and vanished into the bushes to watch from afar. The door opened and an old woman stepped out with a candle. "What in the damned hell is this?" a chill shot down my spine as this old woman reached down and picked the child up roughly. "How in the hell did you make it here? Where in the hell are your good for nothing parents?" A soft whimper escaped my throat and the elder's gaze sharply shot towards my hiding spot, and I quickly slipped backwards into the shadows. Then I turned and fled away. At first I would visit weekly. I peeked into the windows to look at the young girl, but the grandmother caught on to me and bought herself an ax and a cheap musket and I had to duck away again, and minimize my visits to months, and eventually only every few months. I watched her grow up, slowly but surely. She was beautiful. Her hair had come in a deep crimson red, her face full of youth and curiosity, with big gray eyes, carefully placed freckles, and her smile was wide and bright, though rarely seen. Her beauty was tarnished by her skinny, gaunt frame. Her ribs stuck out through her undersized clothing, and her old baby blanket had been fashioned into a cape with a little hood. The damned old women couldn't even be bothered to get her new clothes, especially after her ninth winter with her. But perhaps the most disturbing thing, was that her white baby blanket, was growing into a deeper red color. Sometimes fresh and bright... but sometimes darker brown. I did what I could for her during these times. I hid meat for her by her bed from my own hunts,--and herbs to stave off infection from the lashes her grandmother gave her. I desperately wanted to take her back from this hell I had put her in, but I had resigned to the fact that while she given a sadistic daily torture routine, the cabin was still warmer than my cave would ever be. It was one of these days where I was trekking back with meat in my arms, when I stopped as a soft sobbing filled my head. One that I recognized. Dropping my hand full, I remember the fear I felt as I took off, running towards the house. I stopped dead on the outskirts of woods to look and see what was going on. And a familiar scent touched my nose. Oh no. The bandits were parked outside of the little cabin in their own carts. I felt my heart beat on my throat as I glanced over at the grandmother and found my little girl bound at the wrist and I listened into the conversation that they were having. "Ten years ago, you messed up the simple task I told you to do. All you had to do was kill the whole family, so that I can inherit it. But you know what? I spent a lot of money taking care of your mistake." "Yeah? What of it? You want a refund or something?" "Oh no. Quite contrary. I want you to buy her off me. I hear her kind go well in that kind of market." "Ohoho. Now we're talking. What kind of deal are you asking for?" The grandmother's gaze cut to the shadows I was basking in, and she smiled with this sinister smile. "I want that wolf dead". "Oh shit!" I exclaimed loudly as I dove forward, darting at the girl on all fours. She screamed and I watched a fresh new bright red stain soak into her cloak as I scooped her up and ran as fast as I could. Before long I had made it to my cave and set the young girl down where she lay whimpering softly. I gently lifted up her cloak and finally saw all the scars for the first time... and right in the middle of her back, one wide split which was pumping out blood like crazy. I frowned a bit, and stroked her red head. "I'm sorry little one. But I must do this." I leaned down and took her little arm, and, as gently as I could, sunk my teeth into it. "Your body will rebuild itself when you transform... and you will survive, as my only daughter....no, my only family." I watched the bandits walk up the hill, grandmother in tow, and I felt the fur on my back fluff up. My mother is a monster, and my wife and son are gone, but my little Red... I will save her. Even if she must suffer my curse. (edited some typos. It was five in the morning when I wrote this, haha)	"Why do you wear those glasses, Grandmother?" "All the better to see you with, you silly girl." Grandmother had been sitting in her bed for three days now. The soup bowl from the afternoon meal lay exhausted on the nightstand. Porridge dripped onto the floor and I thought about a far away place. Some place in the woods where they wouldn't find me. Some place hidden away between the logs and the rocks that tumbled through the wood behind the cottage. "Grandmother, you have to get out of bed. Today, if you can." She gave me a long and piercing look over the rims of her glasses. "The doctors..." my eyes dropped to the bedclothes, which my hands had begun to wring without my command. I unclenched my fingers and smoothed the soft cotton back along the edges of the mattress. "My dear," Grandmother spoke with a dry throat. I passed her the glass of water, keeping my gaze fixed. "You know those doctors are terrible liars. They all just want money, that's all. But you know that Grandmother knows better what she needs. And what I need right now is a little privacy." Her words were iron, cold and immovable. I stood up and collected the dishes. We did not speak another word to each other. Later that night, while the fire was burning down and the stone-grinding snores of a life too long lived rattled the wooden doors, I sat outside and stared up at the stars. How I wished for my burden to be lifted. I wished that she had never bound me to it; I wished that I had never been born. Far away I heard an echoing howl and soon after saw the glow of the moon rising over the tree tops. I breathed the night air deeply, drinking in the solitude, the stillness. Let them come quickly, I prayed. Then I prayed that someone in the Everafter would hear me.
	[WP] A version of little red riding hood where the grandma is evil, and the wolf saves her.	This little girl was something special to me. I had been there the night her mother and brother had been brutally killed by bandits whilst on the way to visit her grandmother. While their cart burned, a white bundle had laid on the ground and I ventured out to sniff it, then turned it over to reveal a small human inside. She couldn't have been more than five months old, and her silent gazing gray eyes met mine, and my heart slammed in my chest as a sudden desire to protect her washed over me. Gently I scooped her up into my arms, my massive paws masking her body away from the fire and carnage that lay before me. This path only led to one lonely cabin in the woods and I knew that was where they had been headed. Cradling her from the winter frost, letting my fur warm her, I made the first mistake. I set her on the door step gently, and fashioned the blanket over her head so as to protect her from the harsh cold, and I slammed my paw on the door hard as I could, then turned and vanished into the bushes to watch from afar. The door opened and an old woman stepped out with a candle. "What in the damned hell is this?" a chill shot down my spine as this old woman reached down and picked the child up roughly. "How in the hell did you make it here? Where in the hell are your good for nothing parents?" A soft whimper escaped my throat and the elder's gaze sharply shot towards my hiding spot, and I quickly slipped backwards into the shadows. Then I turned and fled away. At first I would visit weekly. I peeked into the windows to look at the young girl, but the grandmother caught on to me and bought herself an ax and a cheap musket and I had to duck away again, and minimize my visits to months, and eventually only every few months. I watched her grow up, slowly but surely. She was beautiful. Her hair had come in a deep crimson red, her face full of youth and curiosity, with big gray eyes, carefully placed freckles, and her smile was wide and bright, though rarely seen. Her beauty was tarnished by her skinny, gaunt frame. Her ribs stuck out through her undersized clothing, and her old baby blanket had been fashioned into a cape with a little hood. The damned old women couldn't even be bothered to get her new clothes, especially after her ninth winter with her. But perhaps the most disturbing thing, was that her white baby blanket, was growing into a deeper red color. Sometimes fresh and bright... but sometimes darker brown. I did what I could for her during these times. I hid meat for her by her bed from my own hunts,--and herbs to stave off infection from the lashes her grandmother gave her. I desperately wanted to take her back from this hell I had put her in, but I had resigned to the fact that while she given a sadistic daily torture routine, the cabin was still warmer than my cave would ever be. It was one of these days where I was trekking back with meat in my arms, when I stopped as a soft sobbing filled my head. One that I recognized. Dropping my hand full, I remember the fear I felt as I took off, running towards the house. I stopped dead on the outskirts of woods to look and see what was going on. And a familiar scent touched my nose. Oh no. The bandits were parked outside of the little cabin in their own carts. I felt my heart beat on my throat as I glanced over at the grandmother and found my little girl bound at the wrist and I listened into the conversation that they were having. "Ten years ago, you messed up the simple task I told you to do. All you had to do was kill the whole family, so that I can inherit it. But you know what? I spent a lot of money taking care of your mistake." "Yeah? What of it? You want a refund or something?" "Oh no. Quite contrary. I want you to buy her off me. I hear her kind go well in that kind of market." "Ohoho. Now we're talking. What kind of deal are you asking for?" The grandmother's gaze cut to the shadows I was basking in, and she smiled with this sinister smile. "I want that wolf dead". "Oh shit!" I exclaimed loudly as I dove forward, darting at the girl on all fours. She screamed and I watched a fresh new bright red stain soak into her cloak as I scooped her up and ran as fast as I could. Before long I had made it to my cave and set the young girl down where she lay whimpering softly. I gently lifted up her cloak and finally saw all the scars for the first time... and right in the middle of her back, one wide split which was pumping out blood like crazy. I frowned a bit, and stroked her red head. "I'm sorry little one. But I must do this." I leaned down and took her little arm, and, as gently as I could, sunk my teeth into it. "Your body will rebuild itself when you transform... and you will survive, as my only daughter....no, my only family." I watched the bandits walk up the hill, grandmother in tow, and I felt the fur on my back fluff up. My mother is a monster, and my wife and son are gone, but my little Red... I will save her. Even if she must suffer my curse. (edited some typos. It was five in the morning when I wrote this, haha)	I don't know how long it's been... How long have I been trapped with that bitch? Months? Years? I don't remember. I remember my mom, I remember the night she died. That night, when what was left of my life died too. The night where I went from a loving family, as broken as it was, to a life of slavery. The chores, the work, and the beatings, all of them have lead to this decision. I can't run away, everyone in town knows granny, and won't believe the things she does to me. She has them convinced I'm a liar. But no more, tonight I'll be free. The fabled man eater is back. The wolf is outside, and tonight he'll have no trouble entering through the open door. Soon he'll have full access to a prey that won't be able to fight back, and finally I'll be free again. After tonight I'll be with my mom again.
A perpetual motion machine of the first kind produces work without the input of energy. It thus violates the first law of thermodynamics: the law of conservation of energy.	[WP] - A scientist finds a way to break the first law of thermodynamics and creates a perpetual motion machine of the first kind. He would've never predicted the consequences...	June 12, 2015 9:20am This morning, when I arrived at the lab, I observed a strange behavior of my experiment. The wheel was still turning. I checked both the input and output and they were disconnected. They were both around the same temperature too, so it can't be from heat in the air either. It's turning very slowly though, so I assume I simply forgot to stop it yesterday night. It should have stopped by itself by now, but I might be wrong. June 12, 2015 9:50am This behaviour intrigued me. I had to make the calculations. And in no way is it possible that the wheel would still be turning by now. Maybe the room is not sealed correctly anymore. I should check, just in case. I can't let my work be altered by such a trivial factor. June 12, 2015 11:30am Apparently the room is completely sealed, as it should be. I am not sure of what that is supposed to mean. June 12, 2015 11:31am Just as I was writing the previous entry, I looked back at the wheel, a bit puzzled. I didn't touch it since this morning. But it looks like it's rotating a bit faster than previously.Maybe checking if the room was sealed impacted the conditions inside the room, but I'm starting to think I found out something unexpected. That would be wonderful. June 12, 2015 11:46am I decided to put my experiment on hold while I observe the phenomena. I'm going to measure its rotational speed so I can actually find out if there is anything abnormal. If I'm unlucky, I'll just get back to my actual work tomorrow. It's better to investigate than to miss the opportunity. June 12, 2015 1:17pm I came back from lunch, excited to see the results. Even if it's too early to assume anything, I can say there is indeed something bizarre. The wheel is going faster as I thought. The measures show the speed increased steadily while I was away. June 12, 2015 1:26pm The wheel is now rotating at π/180 rad.s^(-1), exactly one degree per second. I'm trying to understand what lead to this. Where is the source of this energy? The temperature of the room doesn't seem to be changing, so I would assume heat is not responsible. Output and input are still disconnected and have been since I arrived. There doesn't seem to be any source for this energy. I must find out what it is. June 12, 2015 3:22pm I reviewed everything. I tried to search for the energy input but I didn't find anything. And the wheel is rotating faster again. No parameter seem to be involved in this. I only see one possibility, but it seems too crazy to even consider. June 12, 2015 3:46pm I called Henri, he wouldn't believe me. I told him I checked everything, sent him the measures I got so far and he still won't believe me. I can't blame him, I can't believe it myself. I'll try to invite him to see by himself. June 12, 2015 4:58pm Henri finally accepted and came to the lab. Of course he didn't want to come for nothing, but I finally managed to persuade him. He verified everything again with me. I like the puzzled face I saw back then. I'm not the only one speechless. I got confirmation that something unusual is happening. He still wasn't one hundred percent convinced when he left, but he still asked that I gave him news about it. June 12, 2015 5:00pm I am now pretty certain of this. Today is a special day for science. It might be the first step for the future. I still don't know what parameters lead to this situation, but the result is here. I broke the first law of thermodynamics. The wheel is now rotating at a speed of π/160 rad.s^(-1) and there is still no apparent power input. I will of course observe the phenomenon more before telling this to anyone else. June 12, 2015 5:49pm I tried to understand what could have broken the first law of thermodynamics in my experiment and I still can't find anything. I hope I can at least have a lead before exposing it. For now, I have to go home, sadly, so I will continue this tomorrow. June 13, 2015 8:12am My wife will probably hate me for leaving so early this morning but she wouldn't understand what I am into. Surprisingly, the wheel seems to be moving faster than it should. I checked the measures and it doesn't seem to be linear anymore. That's really interesting. Right now, the wheel is close to π rad.s^(-1). The temperature in the room also seems to have increased over night. I am already thinking about the possibility that it is breaking the second law as well. But I don't want to go too fast. June 13, 2015 10:13am My observations seem to confirm what I saw this morning: the speed of the wheel is not increasing linearly. My best guess is that the linearity from yesterday was just due to the lack of precision from the tools. That would not be surprising. June 13, 2015 11:05am The wheel's speed is currently around 2π rad.s^(-1). It's starting to worry about the increase in the speed. It seems to be exponential. I want to observe it some more, but it might become dangerous to have this wheel create too much energy. June 13, 2015 11:34am I saved all the information I gathered since yesterday securely. I fear I must shut down the experiment now. The speed of the wheel keeps increasing and it's almost scary. I also have the confirmation that the second law of the thermodynamics had been broken as well. The wheel produces mechanical energy, but heat too. It probably wasn't enough earlier to be observable. June 13, 2015 11:53am I tried stopping it remotely but to no avail. I tried changing a few parameters, but it didn't do much. I tried plugging the output back in so it would consume its energy but it only slowed it down for a few minutes. With no idea of how it happened, it might be harder than I thought to stop the phenomenon. June 13, 2015 12:05pm Since I can't do anything remotely, I will have to step in. Maybe breaking the isolation will be enough, but I doubt so. I got some liquid nitrogen, to try to cool it down. That should be enough to slow it, then stop it. June 13, 2015 12:16pm I'm getting seriously afraid. I tried liquid nitrogen, it was still not enough. I tried blocking it, but it was showing too much resistance and finally took over. This thing had broken two laws of physics. Maybe it's even breaking more of them. I don't know what it's capable of. I can't keep trying to stop it like that. I need to alert everyone. June 13, 2015 12:43pm I alerted everyone I could. Sent a mail to every list I have, including government agencies. I don't know what to do anymore. The wheel is now too fast to count rotations by eye. I hope my message sounded urgent enough and my measures were credible. June 13, 2015 12:50pm 7 minutes since I sent it. Nobody has answered the mail, nobody has come in here. I need to go tell everyone else here at least. Maybe we can find a solution together. June 13, 2015 1:04pm It took some time to gather other non-skeptic scientists. I'm lucky it was around lunch time and most people were eating, otherwise I may have ended up running around for longer. June 13, 2015 1:16pm They saw it. They tried what I did earlier, but it didn't work better. Trying to force it to stop by applying mechanical force to it only seemed to be making it generate a lot of heat and force even more. Like an engine would. It's a normal behavior, but we tried what we could. Now everyone seems afraid. They're sharing my concerns. June 13, 2015 1:53pm The whole complex is now concerned by this one wheel. Even the ones who were skeptic believed me instantly when they saw it with their own eyes. Now that I'm not alone though, we got attention from higher spheres. Government seems to be getting as worried as us about the subject. June 13, 2015 2:36pm What I'm seeing is beyond imagination. The wheel is moving faster than ever and a very faint light appeared at its center. It's producing too much energy. The room is starting to be really hot, despite the air conditioning still being on. June 13, 2015 2:37pm As if it wasn't surreal enough, helicopters landed, with men in black suits coming out of them. They just told us to go back home and that they were taking care of it from now own. I left the room, having no choice. Are they really going to be able to solve it? Do they know better than us? Are there really secret government agencies that can solve this kind of problem? But if so, why would they let us go away like this? I am lost. None of this makes sense. June 13, 2015 3:15pm I'm back at home. I just told my wife that we had a little incident and that we needed to leave for the day. I wouldn't want to worry here, and it might be hard to explain anyway. Even if I told the truth, I doubt she would believe me. She would probably think I'm joking or exaggerating.	This is my first WP, so don't expect anything exceptional. * I awoke from the unexpected sleep in what seemed to be a dark cell. Not a single ray of light was visible, but the air was hot and dry. Aside from that, I had no clue where I was or why I was there, but I knew it had something to do with the Machine. The Ross Machine (Ross being my surname), better known simply as the Machine, is the first ever perpetual motion machine. Simply put, it can produce power out of nothing. Although it hasn't been perfected yet, anyone who possesses it will be nearly invincible and capable of almost everything they wish. In the right hands, the Machine will eventually be able to bring eternal peace and prosperity to mankind. However, if the wrong people possess the Machine, they can force the rest of the universe to serve their will. Since I created the Machine as part of a secret United States defense project, it will be the United States government with possession of the Machine. I suppose it could have been in better hands, but it definitely could have been worse. I then realized that where I sat, I was tied down, and my whole body was aching. I could feel a spot on my head that was probably hit with reasonable force. Of course, I had no way of feeling it since my arms were tied down. Along with the physical pain, my mouth was full of a bitter taste, like that of some sort of strong medicine. Footsteps. It must have been several hours until I heard the footsteps. Since there had been an eerie lack of sound until then, I heard them from what I gathered was a significant distance. My heart raced as the many sets of footsteps approached my cell. I was struck with fear of what would come next, tinged with a strange sense of excitement. Finally, a door swung open to the left of where I sat. Several masked, armed men equipped with lanterns gathered in front of me. I was left without reasonable doubt that I was somewhere in the Middle East, and that the men in front of me were terrorists. They whispered among themselves in Arabic, occasionally gesturing towards me. Having no knowledge of the language, I had no clue what they were saying. After a few minutes of deliberation, they stopped talking, and one of them approached me. "We know what you've done," he began. "You have given America's government the Machine! Powers such as these belong to Allah and his people alone! Your choice will prove disastrous, as the tyrants of America will unleash havoc upon the world and its people. "You are to give us the blueprints so that we may serve Allah's will. If the oppressors can possess such powers, the righteous and the liberators must possess it as well to serve justice. With the power of the Machine on our side, we can spread Muhammad's word to the edges of the earth!" "You will not have it!" I shouted with all of the energy I had. It seemed that my captivity has drained my energy, since my voice did not project very loudly. "The Machine will be ours, one way or another! Surrender now, and you will be set free. If you continue to withhold the powers, we will unleash any methods possible to obtain the information from you. You and your people will suffer greatly if you do not submit to our demands!" "You can threaten me however you want, but I will persevere until I breathe my last!" "We will see about that," the leader said as he forced a vile liquid down my throat and put me to sleep. * I'm stuck for now. I might finish it later.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Squat and cough," the correctional officer ordered as he stared into my anal cavity. I considered farting for a moment and hid my laughter at the thought with my cough. But the man's voice sounded tired, like the last thing he needed is me spraying a cloud of my natural noxious scent into his nostrils. So I held my gas for later. You never know when it could come in handy. Once the officer finished checking us all for ass smuggling, the fifty of us in Group Gamma, March, 2050 continued to processing to receive our black and white striped jumpsuits (orange is for real criminals) and met our bunk mates for the next month. Mine, unsurprisingly, was a familiar face. For your third shift and after, the Department of Corrections is at least kind enough to bunk you with another reg. "Who are you this time?" I asked him. We always start by asking each other this question - to see if either of us are impersonating someone especially rich or famous. "Anthony Desalias," he said, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. Desalias is a local business man, owns a few fast food restaurants, nothing special. Honestly, I'm surprised he could afford Fake Anthony's usual 50k rate. But I guess most people will pay anything to avoid prison. "Who you got?" Fake Anthony asked, not sounding particularly interested. "Mark Zuckerberg," I replied, like I too am impersonating some barely rich local business man. "You're fucking with me. You hardly even look like him." Fake Anthony's arched eyebrows and open mouth mimicked the disbelief in his voice. "You think anyone cares who I actually am? Zuckerberg paid the guards too, just like everyone else does. All that matters is that the United States official government record states that Mark Elliot Zuckerberg served his mandatory one month sentence for crimes committed but not caught," I reminded Fake Anthony, my voice rising to sound pompous and proper at the end, mocking the way the Secretary of Corrections sounds during her monthly press conferences. Fake Anthony's mouth shut after approximately three cobwebs had been spun between his teeth, but his eyebrows remained arched in a way that would have made my mother warn him his face would get stuck. "Okay then, how'd you manage Zuckerberg?" He asked with an air of sure victory in his voice, like this was the questions that would poke a hole in my story. "Childhood friends. He found out that I take rich people's shifts to make a living and tried to offer me money. An investment as he phrased it. I call it charity and made it clear that the only thing he could offer me was his stint in jail." Fake Anthony's face lost the look of disbelief only to be rearranged into one of deep confusion, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed into a firm line. He looked as if he was thinking so hard he might hurt himself. "But why not take the money? You'd never have to come back to prison again. No more shifts for the rich." "Exactly. At least this way, I earn my money, my food, and my shelter." I paused for a second to allow Anthony to process my explanation. "Also, I wanted to get my knee checked, and I don't have healthcare." And with that, the two of us walked laughing to our bunks for the ninth time, me finally releasing my gas as we went.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	Jf prep school was ranked number 3 of all high schools in the world. My parents literally sacrificed everything so that I could go there, on top of help from the 8 different scholarships supplied to me from various organizations. Even though i was ranked number 2 in my class, and was class president, socially i was always an outcast. My kilt was always a little more faded than my classmates, my lunch a pbj to their gourmet sushi. But the worst most obvious difference arose on my 18th birthday. Just 5 days from graduation, I had a paid internship all lined up, and after just 1 day of work I would be ranked with the wealthy, clearing myself for the sentence for that year. Of course my name was pulled on my birthday. Unlike my classmate peter, who got a bentley and a small island near jamaica for his birthday, i got a prison sentence, and with it my future was gone like that. Suddenly all of the years of hard work my parents had put in meant nothing. I was a convicted felon, expelled from school, and now jobless.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"So prison is a giant farm." "More or less." Eric scratched his head and shrugged. "Honestly, talking to newcomers always reminds me of how weird it is. I can't get over it." He leaned against his shovel for a long moment before driving it back into the earth. "But it kinda makes sense when you think about it, though. No real expenditure of resources on their end, once they built the shell." I turned back to the tool shed and fumbled around for a few seconds before emerging with a shovel of my own. I started to dig beside Eric's carefully laid lines. "Thanks, by the way. Don't know what I'd do without you." Eric smiled. "No need to thank me. I expect your help with my crops!" "Hate to say it but I might be pretty useless with that. I'm willing to learn, though..." "Honestly, that's all you need. Let's finish digging out an outline for your foundation here and then we can take a break." We worked together in silence and finished in fifteen minutes. Eric had already started working on this plot before I arrived, so there really wasn't much for me to do. I set my shovel down and noticed that Eric already had a cup of water ready for me. I drank gratefully. "Honestly I was expecting worse." "You lucked out - I happened to see you," Eric replied proudly. "Today we can snag some stones for your foundation and set that up. Tomorrow morning you can help me in my garden, and in the afternoon we'll lay bricks. I've got tons of 'em baking as we speak. Before you know it you'll have a top-quality shack, and I'll have another satisfied worker." His goofy grin made me shake my head and laugh. "Prison ain't so bad, huh?" I mused. "Well there is no law or order. So anyone could kill us at any time if they really wanted to." I nearly choked on my next sip of water. Eric patted my shoulder reassuringly. "Don't look so worried. Most don't want to. Granted, some try. The toughest ones I pay off with fresh-baked bread. You know how few people here know how to make decent bread? I am a valuable resource. I can even make croissants." I felt like I was going to throw up, but Eric's confidence and Zen smile kept the bile at bay. I gulped down another sip of water and worked up the bravery to ask another question. "You said you bake for the tough ones. What about the other ones?" Eric winked as though he'd been expecting this question. "Well, logic and reason work pretty well on most unwanted visitors." He took off his gloves and cracked his knuckles with a practiced flourish, allowing me to see the ornately tattooed "LOGIC" on the back of his left hand and "REASON" on his right. I had to giggle. "That's so cheesy Eric." "I know." He smiled even more broadly.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	My mom had told me about the Gate when I was a child. The Gate is a ten storey tall building, almost a city block wide and mounted on multiple huge tank treads. Constantly protected and watched by dozens of armed guards, it moves outwards at the end of each month. And as it moves, it is connected to an ever widening wall. She never explained to me why the wall exists, or why, each month, the Gate moves outwards from the center of the city, expanding Det, where I was born, by a few city blocks, but today, it is scheduled to move again, and I am going to escape. I had heard from various others that the world outside Det was beautiful, filled with trees, machines that give out food, and streets not covered in garbage. I had also heard that it was safe. Unlike Det, it was a place where parents weren't killed for a few batteries and a small package of beef jerky. I figured that I could slip between the cracks before the new wall was locked in place. I had been planning for months, timing the guards and their reactions. A few others had tried to escape, but all of them were caught, shot on sight. I had the advantage of being younger than anyone else that I had seen so far, and I hoped the guards wouldn't notice a child. The entire city trembled as the Gate cycled up its engines. Slowly, I moved into position and tried to stay out of their sightlines. The guards stood ready, but as the Gate moved, the only thing that could be heard was the squeaking of the metal treads as they moved. Dust kicked up as the machines started to move the wall into place, and I sprinted towards the small slit that I knew existed. It was going to be gone in a moment, but I knew that if I didn't slow down, I could make it through. My arm slammed against the Gate, tearing my already patchwork shirt to pieces, and slicing into my skin. Covering the wound, I stumbled forward, passing through the last of the dust cloud, I looked out into the world beyond the wall. A long street, filled on either side with buildings, much like those in Det, stretched along down a hill. At the bottom of the hill was something I instantly recognized. I had seen it all my life. It was another Gate, attached to another wall, spanning outwards as far as I could see. It surrounded another city that looked very similar to my own.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	I was terrified. It was my 18th birthday, and there was no way I could come up with the five thousand dollar fee to avoid my mandatory prison month. Then I got there and laughed because prison isnt prison when it isnt filled with criminals, its a hotel. A fantastic jail wide thirty day block party ensued.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Barely over a million dollars? Not a lot of money these days, but the auction's over, so nothing much I can do now." Jeremy checked to see if the winning bid had been paid yet, which it had. "That was fast," he thought. "Whoever this is sure doesn't want to be in here. Maybe I should have set the reserve higher. Well, a deal's a deal!" He left the prison library and went straight to the Warden's Comptroller Office. After standing in line for an hour or so, he was called over to a cubicle staffed by one of his fellow inmates, Frank. "Hey Jer, what's up? Another sentence proxy transferral?" Jeremy answered in the affirmative. "So this makes, what, about six in a row?" "Eight actually. Nine, if you count my own." "I don't know how you do it, man. Most of us are trying to get out of here, and you keep coming back for more!" Jeremy shook his head and smiled. "It's not really so bad after you get used to it. And as you know, the money's quite nice to spend during my time out!" Frank started in right where Jeremy left off, "...minus any applicable state, local, federal, and corporate fees, of course..." He scanned Jeremy's account on his DigiReader and calculated the total. "Which leaves you with $124,692 transferred into your wallet. Here's your receipt!" Jeremy left the comptroller's office, and headed for the communications office. For the first time, he felt a knot in his stomach. Not for himself; he knew he would be fine. But this was not the first time he had made this same call. Susan was going to be pissed.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Hey." Jeff answered the phone on the third ring, just as Lacy was beginning to think she'd wasted her weekly call again. "Hey, baby," she giggled in relief. "Sup?" In the background she could hear the laser blasts and explosions of his favorite immersive, Atlas Rising. Lacy paused, trying to find something to say. Should she tell him about her cellie, Margarite, who was on her second stint so her younger sister could skip her turn and stay in college? Should she bring up the incredibly unhappy Britanya, the recent divorcee whose millionaire ex-husband had managed to delay his alimony payment just long enough that she couldn't pay off the Lifetime Accrued Crime Tax? What about Becca who had lost her three kids to Child Services because there'd been no one to care for them when her LACT was due? "Fuck! Fuck that little money grubbing...Not you," Jeff said. "How's the game?" Lacy asked, lamely trying to fill the five minutes of phone time she had remaining. "They just opened our league to free registered players. It's flooded with all these stupid, poor assholes who don't even know how to play. They just run through, spray and pray. Muther-fucks. Got no gear, got no assistants. Fuck..." He trailed off and Lacy could hear the soft scrape of his movements and his muffled breathing. He was stealthing. She held her breath, studied the hand on the ancient analog clock. Two minutes left. "Jeff?" she whispered. There was a rattle of gunfire. Jeff screamed and she could hear the pulsing alarm indicating he'd been killed. "What?" he growled. "So when are you going? I could give you some pointers," She tried to sound light, encouraging. "It's not that bad." "Yeah, I'm not going, babe." The sounds of Atlas died away as he disconnected his feed. "My mom talked my dad into paying off the LACT." His voice rose to match his mother's shrill tone, "Carl, we simply cannot have a felon in the family. What will the neighbors think? Besides it will cost more to get the conviction expunged than it would to pay the damn fine. Give the government their due." "Oh...that's fantastic!" Lacy said. Somehow she felt like he'd taken a huge step away from her. We'll work it out when I get home. Only two more weeks. "Yeah, listen, Lace. You're gonna need to find another pad when our lease is up." "What?" "Yeah. Thing is my mom's right. I mean, you're a felon now. I can't live with you. It'll put me on the Watch List as a sympathizer. Don't worry, though, we can still see each other..." His voice dropped. "You know, spend the night." "So I'd be your little felon fuck-buddy?" Lacy kept her tone playful. She squeezed her fist so tightly the nails drew blood from her palms. "Sexy! I could search you for contraband." Lacy took a deep breath. "Jeff, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck all your rich entitled friends. You all deserve each other." She slammed the phone down so hard it bounced out of the cradle as she stalked away. She felt more free than she ever had on the outside. She didn't need Jeff or anyone like him. Two weeks later they stamped her papers and let her out into the world. The first thing she did was download a pirated copy of Atlas Rising. She created an assassin named "Jeffsabitch" and went hunting for some rich game.	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	Jamie stood in the door frame and said, "It's time, Becky." Becky and Jamie had only been married for three months before Jamie received his MPT, or Mandatory Prison Time, notice in the mail. As he was standing in the doorway, Brandon, their 11 month old son, waddled over to Jamie and lifted his arms, wanting to be picked up. Jamie's chin started to quiver and his eyes became glossy as he spoke to his son, "Daddy's got to go on a little trip, buddy. Take care of Mommy for me, okay?" The officers arrived at the newlywed's apartment minutes later and began to put the magnetic restraints on Jamie. Jamie wasn't going to resist but, due to the law's massive unpopularity, it was required. He heard the hum of the restraints as they were switch on. He turned toward his wife and son. "I'll be back before you know it," he said with his voice wavering. Becky's eyes filled with tears as she hugged his neck tightly. She whispered in his ear, "I'll be waiting." The officers led him out of the door to his apartment and onto the elevator. As the elevator doors slowly closed, he could hear his wife and child sobbing. He hung his head as tears began to slowly slide down his cheeks.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Squat and cough," the correctional officer ordered as he stared into my anal cavity. I considered farting for a moment and hid my laughter at the thought with my cough. But the man's voice sounded tired, like the last thing he needed is me spraying a cloud of my natural noxious scent into his nostrils. So I held my gas for later. You never know when it could come in handy. Once the officer finished checking us all for ass smuggling, the fifty of us in Group Gamma, March, 2050 continued to processing to receive our black and white striped jumpsuits (orange is for real criminals) and met our bunk mates for the next month. Mine, unsurprisingly, was a familiar face. For your third shift and after, the Department of Corrections is at least kind enough to bunk you with another reg. "Who are you this time?" I asked him. We always start by asking each other this question - to see if either of us are impersonating someone especially rich or famous. "Anthony Desalias," he said, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. Desalias is a local business man, owns a few fast food restaurants, nothing special. Honestly, I'm surprised he could afford Fake Anthony's usual 50k rate. But I guess most people will pay anything to avoid prison. "Who you got?" Fake Anthony asked, not sounding particularly interested. "Mark Zuckerberg," I replied, like I too am impersonating some barely rich local business man. "You're fucking with me. You hardly even look like him." Fake Anthony's arched eyebrows and open mouth mimicked the disbelief in his voice. "You think anyone cares who I actually am? Zuckerberg paid the guards too, just like everyone else does. All that matters is that the United States official government record states that Mark Elliot Zuckerberg served his mandatory one month sentence for crimes committed but not caught," I reminded Fake Anthony, my voice rising to sound pompous and proper at the end, mocking the way the Secretary of Corrections sounds during her monthly press conferences. Fake Anthony's mouth shut after approximately three cobwebs had been spun between his teeth, but his eyebrows remained arched in a way that would have made my mother warn him his face would get stuck. "Okay then, how'd you manage Zuckerberg?" He asked with an air of sure victory in his voice, like this was the questions that would poke a hole in my story. "Childhood friends. He found out that I take rich people's shifts to make a living and tried to offer me money. An investment as he phrased it. I call it charity and made it clear that the only thing he could offer me was his stint in jail." Fake Anthony's face lost the look of disbelief only to be rearranged into one of deep confusion, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed into a firm line. He looked as if he was thinking so hard he might hurt himself. "But why not take the money? You'd never have to come back to prison again. No more shifts for the rich." "Exactly. At least this way, I earn my money, my food, and my shelter." I paused for a second to allow Anthony to process my explanation. "Also, I wanted to get my knee checked, and I don't have healthcare." And with that, the two of us walked laughing to our bunks for the ninth time, me finally releasing my gas as we went.	There were 29 stick figures on a piece of paper. Each of them in a different position, each of them as simple as the other. Each of them overlaid with many strokes of pencil lead. She was looking out in the hallway with no real intention of observing. The pencil was idly scratching in the left leg of the 29th stick figure. She had named it Dave. She had named them all Dave, for that matter. Dave, Standing. Dave, Dancing. Dave, Lying On The Floor Wondering If This Was The Last Moment Of His Life. Dave, Dying. Number 29, and things had begun becoming a little bit obscure. She was now on Dave, Being Denied A Puppy For Christmas. One Dave per day. She was so bored, so bored out of her mind. Had she still been outside the Facility she would have hooked up to the Neural Network, watched a some fics or even submitted one herself. But in here, they had cut her off. They had disconnected her. She laid back on the bed, and turned her head do face the wall. Finding patterns in the lines and wrinkles of the cream coloured leather, she made up stories about her imagined characters hidden in the landscape of the wall. She'd named them Dave too, it was just easier. 30 Days, she thought. One more Dave, that's all. it was going to be Dave, Running Free Like A Mental Cause He Has Done His Time At The Facility, and when she finished it, she would be finished serving her time, and they would reconnect her. She daydreamed about the NN, with her fingers probing the corner of the wall. The light from the hallway came through the door as it slid half open. She didn't move. The Facility Worker put her food on the table, and slid out silently. The door didn't bother closing. She heard the nurse say to a doctor that a new 30 didn't make it through the Withdrawals. That he had found a piece of metal wire and repeatedly jammed it in his eye socket to act as an antenna. She didn't try to comprehend. She was at 29 now. She thought about all the fics, the InterConnections with her NN friends, uploading a fic from the Facility. She thought about Dave, Pulling Out The Knife. She thought about maybe uploading that fic. She knew some of those, who were due their 30 claimed they hadn't done any Big Bads. Little Bads, sure, but no one gets a whole 30 for a Little Bad. She poked the place where the wrinkles and crinkles of the wall became Dave, Looking At The Blood On His Hands and then poked the place on her body where Dave used to poke her and thought so hard about being hooked back on the NN that her whole body shook. She thought of how the Ordinance never found the knife that matched the hole in Dave, or the fingers that matched the patterns on the knife, and how she would do her 30 in happiness knowing that the alternative had been to be Disconnected Forever. As the clock turned 30, a nurse walked past her room and said, "I think we might have a survivor."
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	Jf prep school was ranked number 3 of all high schools in the world. My parents literally sacrificed everything so that I could go there, on top of help from the 8 different scholarships supplied to me from various organizations. Even though i was ranked number 2 in my class, and was class president, socially i was always an outcast. My kilt was always a little more faded than my classmates, my lunch a pbj to their gourmet sushi. But the worst most obvious difference arose on my 18th birthday. Just 5 days from graduation, I had a paid internship all lined up, and after just 1 day of work I would be ranked with the wealthy, clearing myself for the sentence for that year. Of course my name was pulled on my birthday. Unlike my classmate peter, who got a bentley and a small island near jamaica for his birthday, i got a prison sentence, and with it my future was gone like that. Suddenly all of the years of hard work my parents had put in meant nothing. I was a convicted felon, expelled from school, and now jobless.	There were 29 stick figures on a piece of paper. Each of them in a different position, each of them as simple as the other. Each of them overlaid with many strokes of pencil lead. She was looking out in the hallway with no real intention of observing. The pencil was idly scratching in the left leg of the 29th stick figure. She had named it Dave. She had named them all Dave, for that matter. Dave, Standing. Dave, Dancing. Dave, Lying On The Floor Wondering If This Was The Last Moment Of His Life. Dave, Dying. Number 29, and things had begun becoming a little bit obscure. She was now on Dave, Being Denied A Puppy For Christmas. One Dave per day. She was so bored, so bored out of her mind. Had she still been outside the Facility she would have hooked up to the Neural Network, watched a some fics or even submitted one herself. But in here, they had cut her off. They had disconnected her. She laid back on the bed, and turned her head do face the wall. Finding patterns in the lines and wrinkles of the cream coloured leather, she made up stories about her imagined characters hidden in the landscape of the wall. She'd named them Dave too, it was just easier. 30 Days, she thought. One more Dave, that's all. it was going to be Dave, Running Free Like A Mental Cause He Has Done His Time At The Facility, and when she finished it, she would be finished serving her time, and they would reconnect her. She daydreamed about the NN, with her fingers probing the corner of the wall. The light from the hallway came through the door as it slid half open. She didn't move. The Facility Worker put her food on the table, and slid out silently. The door didn't bother closing. She heard the nurse say to a doctor that a new 30 didn't make it through the Withdrawals. That he had found a piece of metal wire and repeatedly jammed it in his eye socket to act as an antenna. She didn't try to comprehend. She was at 29 now. She thought about all the fics, the InterConnections with her NN friends, uploading a fic from the Facility. She thought about Dave, Pulling Out The Knife. She thought about maybe uploading that fic. She knew some of those, who were due their 30 claimed they hadn't done any Big Bads. Little Bads, sure, but no one gets a whole 30 for a Little Bad. She poked the place where the wrinkles and crinkles of the wall became Dave, Looking At The Blood On His Hands and then poked the place on her body where Dave used to poke her and thought so hard about being hooked back on the NN that her whole body shook. She thought of how the Ordinance never found the knife that matched the hole in Dave, or the fingers that matched the patterns on the knife, and how she would do her 30 in happiness knowing that the alternative had been to be Disconnected Forever. As the clock turned 30, a nurse walked past her room and said, "I think we might have a survivor."
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Squat and cough," the correctional officer ordered as he stared into my anal cavity. I considered farting for a moment and hid my laughter at the thought with my cough. But the man's voice sounded tired, like the last thing he needed is me spraying a cloud of my natural noxious scent into his nostrils. So I held my gas for later. You never know when it could come in handy. Once the officer finished checking us all for ass smuggling, the fifty of us in Group Gamma, March, 2050 continued to processing to receive our black and white striped jumpsuits (orange is for real criminals) and met our bunk mates for the next month. Mine, unsurprisingly, was a familiar face. For your third shift and after, the Department of Corrections is at least kind enough to bunk you with another reg. "Who are you this time?" I asked him. We always start by asking each other this question - to see if either of us are impersonating someone especially rich or famous. "Anthony Desalias," he said, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. Desalias is a local business man, owns a few fast food restaurants, nothing special. Honestly, I'm surprised he could afford Fake Anthony's usual 50k rate. But I guess most people will pay anything to avoid prison. "Who you got?" Fake Anthony asked, not sounding particularly interested. "Mark Zuckerberg," I replied, like I too am impersonating some barely rich local business man. "You're fucking with me. You hardly even look like him." Fake Anthony's arched eyebrows and open mouth mimicked the disbelief in his voice. "You think anyone cares who I actually am? Zuckerberg paid the guards too, just like everyone else does. All that matters is that the United States official government record states that Mark Elliot Zuckerberg served his mandatory one month sentence for crimes committed but not caught," I reminded Fake Anthony, my voice rising to sound pompous and proper at the end, mocking the way the Secretary of Corrections sounds during her monthly press conferences. Fake Anthony's mouth shut after approximately three cobwebs had been spun between his teeth, but his eyebrows remained arched in a way that would have made my mother warn him his face would get stuck. "Okay then, how'd you manage Zuckerberg?" He asked with an air of sure victory in his voice, like this was the questions that would poke a hole in my story. "Childhood friends. He found out that I take rich people's shifts to make a living and tried to offer me money. An investment as he phrased it. I call it charity and made it clear that the only thing he could offer me was his stint in jail." Fake Anthony's face lost the look of disbelief only to be rearranged into one of deep confusion, eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed into a firm line. He looked as if he was thinking so hard he might hurt himself. "But why not take the money? You'd never have to come back to prison again. No more shifts for the rich." "Exactly. At least this way, I earn my money, my food, and my shelter." I paused for a second to allow Anthony to process my explanation. "Also, I wanted to get my knee checked, and I don't have healthcare." And with that, the two of us walked laughing to our bunks for the ninth time, me finally releasing my gas as we went.	Jacob thumbed through the mail, sorting through the junk and bills when the familiar official logo of the Office of Social Contracts caught his eye. "No! No no no no no no!" He tossed all the other mail onto the coffee table as he frantically tore open the envelope. Amelia cautiously stepped into the living room from the hallway. "Is everything okay, Dad?" "Oh, honey, just...it's going to be fine. Just...give me a minute." ... "Yeah, Mom, no...I know it's just...hard. I know we'll be okay." Jacob folded and unfolded the letter as he lamented to his mother on the phone. "I'll just have to call their office tomorrow. I thought the law was that a husband and wife couldn't be in at the same time. Oh, it's been eight days now. Yeah, I'm counting them, of course. Nah, she was lucky, there were cells at the Uptown Work Pen. She's been weeding community gardens all day, basically. She said that there's nothing worse than check fraud on her crew, most are there for their Mandatory." Jacob tossed the letter onto the desk. "I just don't want Amelia and Nathan to worry. I guess if we have to go in at the same time, I can petition for you to get custody for a few weeks. I know I don't want them in the child care system, we'll never hear the end of that. Frankie? No, I didn't hear he had to go in. Jesus...they sent him to the Brickyard? No! Fuck's sake...oh...sorry, Mom. Did they catch the guy who shanked him at least? Well, there's that, I guess. Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow after I talk to someone. Hopefully I can get it rescheduled." Jacob surfed the headlines. There was another legal challenge to Mandatory Social Restitution, but this one was just as likely to fail as the three before. At least the last challenge had managed to make the optional cash penalty so incredibly high that most of the trust fund kids couldn't escape it. They invariably got all the best assignments, though. Jacob looked at the photo on the desk of him and his wife on the beach and he let out a heavy sigh. It'll be another two days before she'll be allowed to call him again.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	Jf prep school was ranked number 3 of all high schools in the world. My parents literally sacrificed everything so that I could go there, on top of help from the 8 different scholarships supplied to me from various organizations. Even though i was ranked number 2 in my class, and was class president, socially i was always an outcast. My kilt was always a little more faded than my classmates, my lunch a pbj to their gourmet sushi. But the worst most obvious difference arose on my 18th birthday. Just 5 days from graduation, I had a paid internship all lined up, and after just 1 day of work I would be ranked with the wealthy, clearing myself for the sentence for that year. Of course my name was pulled on my birthday. Unlike my classmate peter, who got a bentley and a small island near jamaica for his birthday, i got a prison sentence, and with it my future was gone like that. Suddenly all of the years of hard work my parents had put in meant nothing. I was a convicted felon, expelled from school, and now jobless.	Jacob thumbed through the mail, sorting through the junk and bills when the familiar official logo of the Office of Social Contracts caught his eye. "No! No no no no no no!" He tossed all the other mail onto the coffee table as he frantically tore open the envelope. Amelia cautiously stepped into the living room from the hallway. "Is everything okay, Dad?" "Oh, honey, just...it's going to be fine. Just...give me a minute." ... "Yeah, Mom, no...I know it's just...hard. I know we'll be okay." Jacob folded and unfolded the letter as he lamented to his mother on the phone. "I'll just have to call their office tomorrow. I thought the law was that a husband and wife couldn't be in at the same time. Oh, it's been eight days now. Yeah, I'm counting them, of course. Nah, she was lucky, there were cells at the Uptown Work Pen. She's been weeding community gardens all day, basically. She said that there's nothing worse than check fraud on her crew, most are there for their Mandatory." Jacob tossed the letter onto the desk. "I just don't want Amelia and Nathan to worry. I guess if we have to go in at the same time, I can petition for you to get custody for a few weeks. I know I don't want them in the child care system, we'll never hear the end of that. Frankie? No, I didn't hear he had to go in. Jesus...they sent him to the Brickyard? No! Fuck's sake...oh...sorry, Mom. Did they catch the guy who shanked him at least? Well, there's that, I guess. Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow after I talk to someone. Hopefully I can get it rescheduled." Jacob surfed the headlines. There was another legal challenge to Mandatory Social Restitution, but this one was just as likely to fail as the three before. At least the last challenge had managed to make the optional cash penalty so incredibly high that most of the trust fund kids couldn't escape it. They invariably got all the best assignments, though. Jacob looked at the photo on the desk of him and his wife on the beach and he let out a heavy sigh. It'll be another two days before she'll be allowed to call him again.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Hey." Jeff answered the phone on the third ring, just as Lacy was beginning to think she'd wasted her weekly call again. "Hey, baby," she giggled in relief. "Sup?" In the background she could hear the laser blasts and explosions of his favorite immersive, Atlas Rising. Lacy paused, trying to find something to say. Should she tell him about her cellie, Margarite, who was on her second stint so her younger sister could skip her turn and stay in college? Should she bring up the incredibly unhappy Britanya, the recent divorcee whose millionaire ex-husband had managed to delay his alimony payment just long enough that she couldn't pay off the Lifetime Accrued Crime Tax? What about Becca who had lost her three kids to Child Services because there'd been no one to care for them when her LACT was due? "Fuck! Fuck that little money grubbing...Not you," Jeff said. "How's the game?" Lacy asked, lamely trying to fill the five minutes of phone time she had remaining. "They just opened our league to free registered players. It's flooded with all these stupid, poor assholes who don't even know how to play. They just run through, spray and pray. Muther-fucks. Got no gear, got no assistants. Fuck..." He trailed off and Lacy could hear the soft scrape of his movements and his muffled breathing. He was stealthing. She held her breath, studied the hand on the ancient analog clock. Two minutes left. "Jeff?" she whispered. There was a rattle of gunfire. Jeff screamed and she could hear the pulsing alarm indicating he'd been killed. "What?" he growled. "So when are you going? I could give you some pointers," She tried to sound light, encouraging. "It's not that bad." "Yeah, I'm not going, babe." The sounds of Atlas died away as he disconnected his feed. "My mom talked my dad into paying off the LACT." His voice rose to match his mother's shrill tone, "Carl, we simply cannot have a felon in the family. What will the neighbors think? Besides it will cost more to get the conviction expunged than it would to pay the damn fine. Give the government their due." "Oh...that's fantastic!" Lacy said. Somehow she felt like he'd taken a huge step away from her. We'll work it out when I get home. Only two more weeks. "Yeah, listen, Lace. You're gonna need to find another pad when our lease is up." "What?" "Yeah. Thing is my mom's right. I mean, you're a felon now. I can't live with you. It'll put me on the Watch List as a sympathizer. Don't worry, though, we can still see each other..." His voice dropped. "You know, spend the night." "So I'd be your little felon fuck-buddy?" Lacy kept her tone playful. She squeezed her fist so tightly the nails drew blood from her palms. "Sexy! I could search you for contraband." Lacy took a deep breath. "Jeff, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck all your rich entitled friends. You all deserve each other." She slammed the phone down so hard it bounced out of the cradle as she stalked away. She felt more free than she ever had on the outside. She didn't need Jeff or anyone like him. Two weeks later they stamped her papers and let her out into the world. The first thing she did was download a pirated copy of Atlas Rising. She created an assassin named "Jeffsabitch" and went hunting for some rich game.	A month, but It's never just that. You break some unwritten rule, you violate some obscure code, they add a week, a month, a year. You might get out in six months, it might take a year. Ten if they can find a reason to keep you. I won't go that way, I prepared. Forty years. Forty years of collecting, maybe you might even call it 'stockpiling' for it to come to this? I knew it was going to be something, but I could never have thought it would be for this. Sixty two years, that's... not as much as I hoped, but I had a good run. Maybe after this, they'll think twice next time someone's number comes up. Forty years, 600,000 rounds. Death or glory, they won't take me alive.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	A month, but It's never just that. You break some unwritten rule, you violate some obscure code, they add a week, a month, a year. You might get out in six months, it might take a year. Ten if they can find a reason to keep you. I won't go that way, I prepared. Forty years. Forty years of collecting, maybe you might even call it 'stockpiling' for it to come to this? I knew it was going to be something, but I could never have thought it would be for this. Sixty two years, that's... not as much as I hoped, but I had a good run. Maybe after this, they'll think twice next time someone's number comes up. Forty years, 600,000 rounds. Death or glory, they won't take me alive.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Hey." Jeff answered the phone on the third ring, just as Lacy was beginning to think she'd wasted her weekly call again. "Hey, baby," she giggled in relief. "Sup?" In the background she could hear the laser blasts and explosions of his favorite immersive, Atlas Rising. Lacy paused, trying to find something to say. Should she tell him about her cellie, Margarite, who was on her second stint so her younger sister could skip her turn and stay in college? Should she bring up the incredibly unhappy Britanya, the recent divorcee whose millionaire ex-husband had managed to delay his alimony payment just long enough that she couldn't pay off the Lifetime Accrued Crime Tax? What about Becca who had lost her three kids to Child Services because there'd been no one to care for them when her LACT was due? "Fuck! Fuck that little money grubbing...Not you," Jeff said. "How's the game?" Lacy asked, lamely trying to fill the five minutes of phone time she had remaining. "They just opened our league to free registered players. It's flooded with all these stupid, poor assholes who don't even know how to play. They just run through, spray and pray. Muther-fucks. Got no gear, got no assistants. Fuck..." He trailed off and Lacy could hear the soft scrape of his movements and his muffled breathing. He was stealthing. She held her breath, studied the hand on the ancient analog clock. Two minutes left. "Jeff?" she whispered. There was a rattle of gunfire. Jeff screamed and she could hear the pulsing alarm indicating he'd been killed. "What?" he growled. "So when are you going? I could give you some pointers," She tried to sound light, encouraging. "It's not that bad." "Yeah, I'm not going, babe." The sounds of Atlas died away as he disconnected his feed. "My mom talked my dad into paying off the LACT." His voice rose to match his mother's shrill tone, "Carl, we simply cannot have a felon in the family. What will the neighbors think? Besides it will cost more to get the conviction expunged than it would to pay the damn fine. Give the government their due." "Oh...that's fantastic!" Lacy said. Somehow she felt like he'd taken a huge step away from her. We'll work it out when I get home. Only two more weeks. "Yeah, listen, Lace. You're gonna need to find another pad when our lease is up." "What?" "Yeah. Thing is my mom's right. I mean, you're a felon now. I can't live with you. It'll put me on the Watch List as a sympathizer. Don't worry, though, we can still see each other..." His voice dropped. "You know, spend the night." "So I'd be your little felon fuck-buddy?" Lacy kept her tone playful. She squeezed her fist so tightly the nails drew blood from her palms. "Sexy! I could search you for contraband." Lacy took a deep breath. "Jeff, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck all your rich entitled friends. You all deserve each other." She slammed the phone down so hard it bounced out of the cradle as she stalked away. She felt more free than she ever had on the outside. She didn't need Jeff or anyone like him. Two weeks later they stamped her papers and let her out into the world. The first thing she did was download a pirated copy of Atlas Rising. She created an assassin named "Jeffsabitch" and went hunting for some rich game.	My mom had told me about the Gate when I was a child. The Gate is a ten storey tall building, almost a city block wide and mounted on multiple huge tank treads. Constantly protected and watched by dozens of armed guards, it moves outwards at the end of each month. And as it moves, it is connected to an ever widening wall. She never explained to me why the wall exists, or why, each month, the Gate moves outwards from the center of the city, expanding Det, where I was born, by a few city blocks, but today, it is scheduled to move again, and I am going to escape. I had heard from various others that the world outside Det was beautiful, filled with trees, machines that give out food, and streets not covered in garbage. I had also heard that it was safe. Unlike Det, it was a place where parents weren't killed for a few batteries and a small package of beef jerky. I figured that I could slip between the cracks before the new wall was locked in place. I had been planning for months, timing the guards and their reactions. A few others had tried to escape, but all of them were caught, shot on sight. I had the advantage of being younger than anyone else that I had seen so far, and I hoped the guards wouldn't notice a child. The entire city trembled as the Gate cycled up its engines. Slowly, I moved into position and tried to stay out of their sightlines. The guards stood ready, but as the Gate moved, the only thing that could be heard was the squeaking of the metal treads as they moved. Dust kicked up as the machines started to move the wall into place, and I sprinted towards the small slit that I knew existed. It was going to be gone in a moment, but I knew that if I didn't slow down, I could make it through. My arm slammed against the Gate, tearing my already patchwork shirt to pieces, and slicing into my skin. Covering the wound, I stumbled forward, passing through the last of the dust cloud, I looked out into the world beyond the wall. A long street, filled on either side with buildings, much like those in Det, stretched along down a hill. At the bottom of the hill was something I instantly recognized. I had seen it all my life. It was another Gate, attached to another wall, spanning outwards as far as I could see. It surrounded another city that looked very similar to my own.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	My mom had told me about the Gate when I was a child. The Gate is a ten storey tall building, almost a city block wide and mounted on multiple huge tank treads. Constantly protected and watched by dozens of armed guards, it moves outwards at the end of each month. And as it moves, it is connected to an ever widening wall. She never explained to me why the wall exists, or why, each month, the Gate moves outwards from the center of the city, expanding Det, where I was born, by a few city blocks, but today, it is scheduled to move again, and I am going to escape. I had heard from various others that the world outside Det was beautiful, filled with trees, machines that give out food, and streets not covered in garbage. I had also heard that it was safe. Unlike Det, it was a place where parents weren't killed for a few batteries and a small package of beef jerky. I figured that I could slip between the cracks before the new wall was locked in place. I had been planning for months, timing the guards and their reactions. A few others had tried to escape, but all of them were caught, shot on sight. I had the advantage of being younger than anyone else that I had seen so far, and I hoped the guards wouldn't notice a child. The entire city trembled as the Gate cycled up its engines. Slowly, I moved into position and tried to stay out of their sightlines. The guards stood ready, but as the Gate moved, the only thing that could be heard was the squeaking of the metal treads as they moved. Dust kicked up as the machines started to move the wall into place, and I sprinted towards the small slit that I knew existed. It was going to be gone in a moment, but I knew that if I didn't slow down, I could make it through. My arm slammed against the Gate, tearing my already patchwork shirt to pieces, and slicing into my skin. Covering the wound, I stumbled forward, passing through the last of the dust cloud, I looked out into the world beyond the wall. A long street, filled on either side with buildings, much like those in Det, stretched along down a hill. At the bottom of the hill was something I instantly recognized. I had seen it all my life. It was another Gate, attached to another wall, spanning outwards as far as I could see. It surrounded another city that looked very similar to my own.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	"Hey." Jeff answered the phone on the third ring, just as Lacy was beginning to think she'd wasted her weekly call again. "Hey, baby," she giggled in relief. "Sup?" In the background she could hear the laser blasts and explosions of his favorite immersive, Atlas Rising. Lacy paused, trying to find something to say. Should she tell him about her cellie, Margarite, who was on her second stint so her younger sister could skip her turn and stay in college? Should she bring up the incredibly unhappy Britanya, the recent divorcee whose millionaire ex-husband had managed to delay his alimony payment just long enough that she couldn't pay off the Lifetime Accrued Crime Tax? What about Becca who had lost her three kids to Child Services because there'd been no one to care for them when her LACT was due? "Fuck! Fuck that little money grubbing...Not you," Jeff said. "How's the game?" Lacy asked, lamely trying to fill the five minutes of phone time she had remaining. "They just opened our league to free registered players. It's flooded with all these stupid, poor assholes who don't even know how to play. They just run through, spray and pray. Muther-fucks. Got no gear, got no assistants. Fuck..." He trailed off and Lacy could hear the soft scrape of his movements and his muffled breathing. He was stealthing. She held her breath, studied the hand on the ancient analog clock. Two minutes left. "Jeff?" she whispered. There was a rattle of gunfire. Jeff screamed and she could hear the pulsing alarm indicating he'd been killed. "What?" he growled. "So when are you going? I could give you some pointers," She tried to sound light, encouraging. "It's not that bad." "Yeah, I'm not going, babe." The sounds of Atlas died away as he disconnected his feed. "My mom talked my dad into paying off the LACT." His voice rose to match his mother's shrill tone, "Carl, we simply cannot have a felon in the family. What will the neighbors think? Besides it will cost more to get the conviction expunged than it would to pay the damn fine. Give the government their due." "Oh...that's fantastic!" Lacy said. Somehow she felt like he'd taken a huge step away from her. We'll work it out when I get home. Only two more weeks. "Yeah, listen, Lace. You're gonna need to find another pad when our lease is up." "What?" "Yeah. Thing is my mom's right. I mean, you're a felon now. I can't live with you. It'll put me on the Watch List as a sympathizer. Don't worry, though, we can still see each other..." His voice dropped. "You know, spend the night." "So I'd be your little felon fuck-buddy?" Lacy kept her tone playful. She squeezed her fist so tightly the nails drew blood from her palms. "Sexy! I could search you for contraband." Lacy took a deep breath. "Jeff, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck all your rich entitled friends. You all deserve each other." She slammed the phone down so hard it bounced out of the cradle as she stalked away. She felt more free than she ever had on the outside. She didn't need Jeff or anyone like him. Two weeks later they stamped her papers and let her out into the world. The first thing she did was download a pirated copy of Atlas Rising. She created an assassin named "Jeffsabitch" and went hunting for some rich game.	I was terrified. It was my 18th birthday, and there was no way I could come up with the five thousand dollar fee to avoid my mandatory prison month. Then I got there and laughed because prison isnt prison when it isnt filled with criminals, its a hotel. A fantastic jail wide thirty day block party ensued.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	I was terrified. It was my 18th birthday, and there was no way I could come up with the five thousand dollar fee to avoid my mandatory prison month. Then I got there and laughed because prison isnt prison when it isnt filled with criminals, its a hotel. A fantastic jail wide thirty day block party ensued.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	"Barely over a million dollars? Not a lot of money these days, but the auction's over, so nothing much I can do now." Jeremy checked to see if the winning bid had been paid yet, which it had. "That was fast," he thought. "Whoever this is sure doesn't want to be in here. Maybe I should have set the reserve higher. Well, a deal's a deal!" He left the prison library and went straight to the Warden's Comptroller Office. After standing in line for an hour or so, he was called over to a cubicle staffed by one of his fellow inmates, Frank. "Hey Jer, what's up? Another sentence proxy transferral?" Jeremy answered in the affirmative. "So this makes, what, about six in a row?" "Eight actually. Nine, if you count my own." "I don't know how you do it, man. Most of us are trying to get out of here, and you keep coming back for more!" Jeremy shook his head and smiled. "It's not really so bad after you get used to it. And as you know, the money's quite nice to spend during my time out!" Frank started in right where Jeremy left off, "...minus any applicable state, local, federal, and corporate fees, of course..." He scanned Jeremy's account on his DigiReader and calculated the total. "Which leaves you with $124,692 transferred into your wallet. Here's your receipt!" Jeremy left the comptroller's office, and headed for the communications office. For the first time, he felt a knot in his stomach. Not for himself; he knew he would be fine. But this was not the first time he had made this same call. Susan was going to be pissed.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	Prison Ink I did my month, made a little profit for the private/police state partnership. Not that big a deal and since everyone does it no one cares, Of course everyone except them is poor now and every dollar they can extort goes to the cops, the robots and the private goons, waivered out of the mandatory sentence of course. They think that will keep the keep them safe from the rest of us . I smiled, my arm was still sore from the prison ink but I didn't really care, You see putos there are some people in this world you shouldn't fuck with. With computers so cheap and software everywhere ... Epilogue CBC Radio news hour, Beyond the Wall Hello this is Jacob Everleigh reporting as always from Beyond the Wall here in Free Canada From reports it appears as much as 10% of the US population died within two year period of an unknown aliment. Doctors were unable or some say unwilling to treat the plague although foreign observers say unusually only the wealthiest and most elite members of society were effected. Emergency measures to deal with the economic implosion have been put in place first among them an elimination of the Mandatory Month. New elections are expected to be called within a few months as well. All I can say is Welcome Back America, we missed you.	As I open the envelope, my insides turn and my mind races. Emblazoned on the front in menacing red block font; the contents have already been revealed. "IMPORTANT: REPRIMAND DOCUMENTS ENCLOSED" My fate is as sealed as the bars I will soon reside behind, and the coffin in which I leave the prison. I will die in prison. I have spent my entire professional career putting those who commit violent crimes in these very prisons. This line of work offers little tangible reward to those who stay on the righteous path. Corruption, threats, and powerful enemies lie in the path of those who oppose. 6 years ago, as the honorable Judge Markovic delivered his ruling, defendant Antonio "Scar" Carvanni turned to me with a twisted grin of evil and satisfaction. The scar from his right eye to his chin distracted me shortly from the words he spoke: "I've got friends in all the prisons, thanks to you. The reprimand is your death sentence." Since that day, when Judge Markovic had been bribed and Carvanni walked, a free man, I have been waiting for this letter. The time has come, there is no more waiting. Next month, I walk into a den of monsters. A den I have created. A doom I have created.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	As I open the envelope, my insides turn and my mind races. Emblazoned on the front in menacing red block font; the contents have already been revealed. "IMPORTANT: REPRIMAND DOCUMENTS ENCLOSED" My fate is as sealed as the bars I will soon reside behind, and the coffin in which I leave the prison. I will die in prison. I have spent my entire professional career putting those who commit violent crimes in these very prisons. This line of work offers little tangible reward to those who stay on the righteous path. Corruption, threats, and powerful enemies lie in the path of those who oppose. 6 years ago, as the honorable Judge Markovic delivered his ruling, defendant Antonio "Scar" Carvanni turned to me with a twisted grin of evil and satisfaction. The scar from his right eye to his chin distracted me shortly from the words he spoke: "I've got friends in all the prisons, thanks to you. The reprimand is your death sentence." Since that day, when Judge Markovic had been bribed and Carvanni walked, a free man, I have been waiting for this letter. The time has come, there is no more waiting. Next month, I walk into a den of monsters. A den I have created. A doom I have created.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	As the cell door closed behind him, Joseph heard the faint, robotic voice speak. Those three words that had, some forty years ago, started the movement that would eventually lead to the imprisonment of every citizen based on the idea that at some point they had done something to wrong society. The words pained him to listen to. It was absurd, the idea that no matter what you did in life, you were still assumed guilty and had to pay your debt. Those three words... >"Check Your Privilege"	As I open the envelope, my insides turn and my mind races. Emblazoned on the front in menacing red block font; the contents have already been revealed. "IMPORTANT: REPRIMAND DOCUMENTS ENCLOSED" My fate is as sealed as the bars I will soon reside behind, and the coffin in which I leave the prison. I will die in prison. I have spent my entire professional career putting those who commit violent crimes in these very prisons. This line of work offers little tangible reward to those who stay on the righteous path. Corruption, threats, and powerful enemies lie in the path of those who oppose. 6 years ago, as the honorable Judge Markovic delivered his ruling, defendant Antonio "Scar" Carvanni turned to me with a twisted grin of evil and satisfaction. The scar from his right eye to his chin distracted me shortly from the words he spoke: "I've got friends in all the prisons, thanks to you. The reprimand is your death sentence." Since that day, when Judge Markovic had been bribed and Carvanni walked, a free man, I have been waiting for this letter. The time has come, there is no more waiting. Next month, I walk into a den of monsters. A den I have created. A doom I have created.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	"Hey." Jeff answered the phone on the third ring, just as Lacy was beginning to think she'd wasted her weekly call again. "Hey, baby," she giggled in relief. "Sup?" In the background she could hear the laser blasts and explosions of his favorite immersive, Atlas Rising. Lacy paused, trying to find something to say. Should she tell him about her cellie, Margarite, who was on her second stint so her younger sister could skip her turn and stay in college? Should she bring up the incredibly unhappy Britanya, the recent divorcee whose millionaire ex-husband had managed to delay his alimony payment just long enough that she couldn't pay off the Lifetime Accrued Crime Tax? What about Becca who had lost her three kids to Child Services because there'd been no one to care for them when her LACT was due? "Fuck! Fuck that little money grubbing...Not you," Jeff said. "How's the game?" Lacy asked, lamely trying to fill the five minutes of phone time she had remaining. "They just opened our league to free registered players. It's flooded with all these stupid, poor assholes who don't even know how to play. They just run through, spray and pray. Muther-fucks. Got no gear, got no assistants. Fuck..." He trailed off and Lacy could hear the soft scrape of his movements and his muffled breathing. He was stealthing. She held her breath, studied the hand on the ancient analog clock. Two minutes left. "Jeff?" she whispered. There was a rattle of gunfire. Jeff screamed and she could hear the pulsing alarm indicating he'd been killed. "What?" he growled. "So when are you going? I could give you some pointers," She tried to sound light, encouraging. "It's not that bad." "Yeah, I'm not going, babe." The sounds of Atlas died away as he disconnected his feed. "My mom talked my dad into paying off the LACT." His voice rose to match his mother's shrill tone, "Carl, we simply cannot have a felon in the family. What will the neighbors think? Besides it will cost more to get the conviction expunged than it would to pay the damn fine. Give the government their due." "Oh...that's fantastic!" Lacy said. Somehow she felt like he'd taken a huge step away from her. We'll work it out when I get home. Only two more weeks. "Yeah, listen, Lace. You're gonna need to find another pad when our lease is up." "What?" "Yeah. Thing is my mom's right. I mean, you're a felon now. I can't live with you. It'll put me on the Watch List as a sympathizer. Don't worry, though, we can still see each other..." His voice dropped. "You know, spend the night." "So I'd be your little felon fuck-buddy?" Lacy kept her tone playful. She squeezed her fist so tightly the nails drew blood from her palms. "Sexy! I could search you for contraband." Lacy took a deep breath. "Jeff, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck all your rich entitled friends. You all deserve each other." She slammed the phone down so hard it bounced out of the cradle as she stalked away. She felt more free than she ever had on the outside. She didn't need Jeff or anyone like him. Two weeks later they stamped her papers and let her out into the world. The first thing she did was download a pirated copy of Atlas Rising. She created an assassin named "Jeffsabitch" and went hunting for some rich game.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	There was a knock at the door. It was six in the morning. Ben jumped out of bed with the jolt of adrenaline that comes from waking suddenly. He fumbled with his pants and an old t-shirt. He opened the door a few inches. A man stood with his face close to the opening. "Ben Marduski?" the man said. "That you?" "Uh, yeah," Ben said. His mouth was dry. "And is that your red Pontiac Gran Prix out front?" the man continued. "Mmmhmm." Ben mumbled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyes for a moment. "Can I help you with something?" The man pressed his face in a little closer, spoke a little more gruffly."Are you aware, sir, that your state inspection sticker has expired?" Ben opened up the door a little wider "Who are you? What do you..." In an instant the man lunged forward, forcing the door back and knocking Ben to the ground. "Get on your stomach! Get on your stomach! Now!" the man commanded, as ten or so police officers came barreling through the door, their guns drawn. Ben tried to roll over, but the man was still pressing against his chest. "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again. Roll onto your stomach now!" "Okay!" Ben heaved. "I want to! I want to! Just let off a little!" The officer let up pressure on his chest, and Ben rolled onto his stomach.The officer gruffly grabbed his arms and began to cuff him. "Ben Marduski," he began, "you're under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent..." "No wait, this is a mistake!" Ben shouted. The officer continued uninterrupted with his Miranda rights "..used against you in a court of law. You have the..." "Stop!" Ben shouted. "This has already been taken care of!" "Do you understand these rights..." "Enough!" "Let's stand up, Mr. Marduski." The officer said, pulling Ben up by the arm. "Would you like to make a statement?" "Jesus! Yes! I just got out of jail. I just did my month. I haven't had any contact with any dealers since last year. That was all before. I've done my time." "A Mr. Blake Cuomo, currently facing three years for dealing, has named you as his distributor. Are you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement?" "Uh...yes. I mean, I did that for a while. I stopped last March, after my kid was born. Did Blake tell you that?" "He did, Mr. Marduski." "Then why are you arresting me? I told you I just did my month, which, by the way, I could've afforded to skip if I'd still been selling. I did my time. I'm clear." "Just so we both understand what you're saying," the officer said slowly, with a bit of a smirk, "you corroborating Mr. Cuomo's statement and admit to trafficking in narcotics, under no duress or coercion. Correct?" "Yes." Ben said, exasperated. "Up until last March. But then I did my month. You can't arrest me for it now. That's double Jeopardy." The officer looked at Ben a moment without saying anything. Ben couldn't decide if it was pity or smug condescension he read on the officer's face. "Mr. Marduski, is your family home?" he asked. "Is your wife here?" "No," Ben replied, "she's at her mom's til Thursday. But my son is here." "Is there anyone you'd like to call to come get him before we take you in?" Ben was shocked. "I...what do you mean? Why are you taking me in? I just told you everything." "Unfortunately, Mr. Marduski, the language of the Bruce P. Walters Civil Confinement Agreement is what you might call a little, well, loose." Ben's mouth went a little drier as the officer continued. "What that means for you, right now, is that the mandatory one month sentence, for those who elect to serve it in lieu of payment, applies, can only apply, to crimes of which the police are and remain...and that's the key word here, Mr. Marduski, 'remain,'...unaware. You have admitted to trafficking in narcotics, a crime that carries a mandatory minimum of 10 years in a federal penitentiary." Ben was aghast. And he was suddenly full of rage. "That's some fucking technicality!" he bellowed, and chafed against his handcuffs. "So what's the point of this law, huh? What is it? What did I do this time for, a month away from my wife and kid, so that you motherfuckers could come and arrest me anyway? Huh? What did I sit in that cell for!? What did I pay for!?" "That, Mr. Marduski," the officer said calmly, "is between you and your conscience." He forced Ben to the couch with a rough shove. "Now, can your wife be home within the hour?"	Prison Ink I did my month, made a little profit for the private/police state partnership. Not that big a deal and since everyone does it no one cares, Of course everyone except them is poor now and every dollar they can extort goes to the cops, the robots and the private goons, waivered out of the mandatory sentence of course. They think that will keep the keep them safe from the rest of us . I smiled, my arm was still sore from the prison ink but I didn't really care, You see putos there are some people in this world you shouldn't fuck with. With computers so cheap and software everywhere ... Epilogue CBC Radio news hour, Beyond the Wall Hello this is Jacob Everleigh reporting as always from Beyond the Wall here in Free Canada From reports it appears as much as 10% of the US population died within two year period of an unknown aliment. Doctors were unable or some say unwilling to treat the plague although foreign observers say unusually only the wealthiest and most elite members of society were effected. Emergency measures to deal with the economic implosion have been put in place first among them an elimination of the Mandatory Month. New elections are expected to be called within a few months as well. All I can say is Welcome Back America, we missed you.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	As the cell door closed behind him, Joseph heard the faint, robotic voice speak. Those three words that had, some forty years ago, started the movement that would eventually lead to the imprisonment of every citizen based on the idea that at some point they had done something to wrong society. The words pained him to listen to. It was absurd, the idea that no matter what you did in life, you were still assumed guilty and had to pay your debt. Those three words... >"Check Your Privilege"	Prison Ink I did my month, made a little profit for the private/police state partnership. Not that big a deal and since everyone does it no one cares, Of course everyone except them is poor now and every dollar they can extort goes to the cops, the robots and the private goons, waivered out of the mandatory sentence of course. They think that will keep the keep them safe from the rest of us . I smiled, my arm was still sore from the prison ink but I didn't really care, You see putos there are some people in this world you shouldn't fuck with. With computers so cheap and software everywhere ... Epilogue CBC Radio news hour, Beyond the Wall Hello this is Jacob Everleigh reporting as always from Beyond the Wall here in Free Canada From reports it appears as much as 10% of the US population died within two year period of an unknown aliment. Doctors were unable or some say unwilling to treat the plague although foreign observers say unusually only the wealthiest and most elite members of society were effected. Emergency measures to deal with the economic implosion have been put in place first among them an elimination of the Mandatory Month. New elections are expected to be called within a few months as well. All I can say is Welcome Back America, we missed you.
	[WP] The US in the year 2050. Every citizen (except the rich) must serve a mandatory month in prison, in order to recompense for crimes they must've committed but that Police failed to discover.	“What do you mean you don’t have it?” Aaron’s voice quavered. His entire body broke into a cold sweat. “I don’t know how to tell you any other way, little brother. I just don’t have the money.” Robert didn’t sound that bothered by the fact that Aaron was seventy-two hours away from going to prison. “Thirty-five grand is way out of my league. Sorry.” Click. It was the perfect storm of bad timing. A year ago Aaron could have pulled together the hundred grand needed to pay off the Accumulated Justice Maintenance Fine. But now, after the mortgage refi, his wife’s wrecked car, and Sophie’s exorbitant first semester of college, he was tapped out. It was nearly impossible to believe the timing of the so-called ‘random’ draw was an accident. In the deep shadows of private internet forums, rumors abound that the banks watched everyone carefully, waiting for just the right moment to set the crushing wheels of justice in motion. No one in the media called it fascism anymore. The concept was passé. It was a war on the poor. Orchestrated and waged—successfully—by the usual suspects. “No?” Aaron’s wife ran her hands through his hair and cradled her head on his shoulder. “No.” Aaron tried to keep it together for her. She deserved a strong husband, a man that could take everything that life could dish out and still be there for her. “Maybe I got flagged somewhere. I voted for a Democrat last time around…” Aaron broke down into silent sobs, his shoulders shaking. “We’ll survive. Other people do it all the time,” she tried to soften the blow. “GlobaTech will fire me the second I step into my cell.” “So you’ll get another job,” she whispered in his ear. Aaron pushed her off and stormed across the room. “How? I’ll be a felon. We’ll lose our insurance. I won’t be able to vote ever again. It’s the end—I might as well kill myself. At least then you can collect the life insurance.” “You’re being ridiculous.” She was angry now. The yelling penetrated the locked bedroom door and echoed through the house for the kids to hear. “It’s only a month and you’re talking suicide.” “You don’t get it. Do you?” Aaron grabbed her and shook her. His words spit at her like venom. “This is only the beginning. They’ll hound us for the rest of our lives. We’ll be … poor.”	38 dead. 22 cars destroyed. 17 police vehicles annihilated. 3,500 rounds of ammunition. 2 stolen vehicles. 1 tank, 1 helicopter and one stinger are all that are left. I've thought about this day for 17 years...ever since my 18th birthday and I became eligible for "The Sentence." At 35 you pay for your sins whatever they are. But I never did anything wrong. So I figured I'd go out with a bang. Here's to you, Big Brother! And with that I pulled the trigger on my last remaining missile. It must be their lucky day, those blokes in the tank, I think to myself, because seeing that helicopter go down in flames is gonna be one hell of a last hurrah.
	[WP] A young George R. R. Martin attends his first day of kindergarten, and something happens that will subconsciously influence him for the rest of his life	George ran around two classmates “frozen” in the midst of a tag war. He needed to get to the edge of the playground. He knew right at the beginning of the day, right when Mom dropped him off and kissed him goodbye: he HAD to investigate those smooth rocks on the dirt bed. So he sat dutifully on the rug during storytime and listened to Mr. Miller’s fable about the fox and the rabbit. He frustrated himself with colored pencils for what seemed like forever. He drank his apple juice, he played with Molly and Jake, he tried the mini-xylophone, he wondered WHEN IS RECESS? Now, the morning’s activities forgotten, George crouched next to a stone in the dirt at the edge of the playground. He flipped it over on the first try and was immediately rewarded with a flurry of activity as ants and roly-polies scattered in all directions. A lone earthworm poked up through the dirt before squirming back the way he came. Awesome! George watched this world for two solemn minutes before slowly replacing the rock, careful not to squish anyone. The second stone was sort of stuck. George scraped some earth away from one corner and tugged with all his 4-year-old might. Pop! The stone flew one direction and George tumbled in the other. After the initial shock of the fall George laughed and rushed to observe the second world. “Black ants and red ants!” He could hardly believe his luck. Plenty of black ants lived in George’s backyard, and he usually saw red ants by the creek, but both at once!? This would be even more awesome than the first rock! Some of the ants scurried off with the other bugs but quite a few remained locked in combat. Who did he want to win? George frowned at this thought as the ants circled and tested each other’s defenses. Black, he decided moments later –black ants live near my house, maybe these ones are related to mine. The black ants should definitely win. George watched spellbound as the biggest black ant eviscerated his first opponent – a clean kill! The brave warrior found another opponent and managed to take a leg in the opening exchange. Two mighty blows in just a few seconds! George could hardly breathe with excitement. He looked around the rest of the dirt battlefield for additional signs of victory. The rest of the black ants seemed caught in a fairly even struggle, but any moment now they should tip the balance– A stream of red ants poured out of a small hole in the upper corner of the indentation left by the stone. George counted one, two, three, four, five, seven, ten, twelve – he lost count. Where were they coming from? Red bodies swarmed over the various duels and overwhelmed their opponents. George sat back heavily, his eyes wide with shock. The huge black ant fell last of all. Surrounded on all sides, he chomped the antenna off one foe and decapitated another before stumbling under the press of red. George slumped. “What are you looking at?” Jake’s curious voice came out of nowhere. “Go AWAY Jake!” blurted George, blinking back tears. “Meanie!” Jake started to cry and ran off. George watched a growing cluster of red ants methodically taking apart the bodies of the fallen, hauling each piece off to goodness knows where. As soon as George felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he turned around and started to bawl, blowing tears and snot into Mr. Miller’s flannel sleeve. “George? What’s wrong?” Face still buried in Mr. Miller’s arm, George pointed accusingly at the stone-shaped indentation in the soil. “The black ones should’ve won! It was no fair!” Mr. Miller said nothing, only patting George on the back as he finished his cry. Sniffling, George grabbed Mr. Miller’s hand and turned around. Adult and child stared seriously at the now-emptying battleground. “The black ones should’ve won.” Another sniff. “They’re my favorites. They were fighting so hard!” Mr. Miller considered this carefully for a few seconds. “Everyone fights hard, don’t they George? Does that mean everyone deserves to win?” George tilted his head sideways to think better. “Who do you think deserves to win Mr. Miller?” A longer pause this time. Mr. Miller looked up at the sky and back at George. He smiled. “Tell you a secret, George – I guess I don’t know!” He smiled, and George hiccupped and laughed shyly. “How about we play some tag, and we can think more about this later?” George nodded and the two ran off, leaving a stone flipped over next to a patch of dirt.	And the stupid people who aren't done reading the books read these posts, and then their worlds end. :'(.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	Pulling up to the cemetery seemed eerily familiar. I didn't know Grandfather well but, considering it's the anniversary of his death, i decided to suck it up and come visit the guy. I open my car door and proceed down the winding brick path. This place is haunting. I've never been here before, but somehow my feet take me towards the right direction. At least, it feels like the right direction. I'm actually not as nervous as i thought i would be. I think of what I've done today- watched some tv, went to work, and stopped at the smoke shop. Funny, at 26 years old i still get carded. "Sir, do you have your ID on you?" "This is you? Joseph Andrews?" "Yes Sir, that's me" And on my way i go, everyday. I'll be the first to admit, smoking isn't the greatest habit, but come on, it hasn't killed me yet. After a few minutes, i find myself in front of a headstone. It doesn't look like it does in the movies. I was expecting some macabre, chipped rock with uneven scrawled letters. This is actually quite nice. I look up, and my heart stops. The world stops spinning and i swear i am the only thing left. This is not my Grandfather's grave. "Joseph Andrews: 1988-2016" -- I wake up with a jolt. Tubes twist and turn themselves into the crevices of my body. I'm hooked up to a ventilator and my head won't stop spinning. The fluorescent lights aren't helping, either. "Mr. Andrews, i'm here for your treatment." "Why am i here? Who are you?" "Sir I-" "Where is my family? My mom, my dad, my sister?" By now, I'm frantic. I want answers, but when i look into the nurses eyes, all i see is confusion. She quickly exits and, minutes later, a doctor returns. "Mr. Andrews, do you remember where you are?" "No i don't remember where i am! I don't remember anything, for fucks sake! I just want my family!" He jots something down on his clipboard and goes back into the hallway. I feel my heart rate begin to slow and the room stops spinning. The room fades to black. -- The doctor returns to the hallway with his clipboard. " Nurse, please don't mention anything family related to the patient. Amnesia and delusions are both common in cancer patients. It's best not to upset him and see how he responds in a few days. How would you like to wake up and be told you're homeless and terminally ill? For crying out loud, we owe it to the guy to at least believe he HAS a family. Not to mention, the cancer in his lungs seems to be spreading, as well. He has 2 years, at best."	It's not there. ...It's not there... It's not there. "This is... but this is where it's supposed to be!" the man cries. There is something in his voice that strains, but what it is, he doesn't even know. Fear? Desperation? Disappointment? Betrayal? Confusion? There is a weight in the pocket of his jeans that's always been there, but now it feels heavier than ever. He removes it, slipping it out of his pocket to hold the small notebook in his hand. It's one of those flipbooks--those tiny things used for notes and rarely filled up before you switch to another one, but this one is full. He never replaces it. And upon opening it, he meets the smiling faces that tell him why. "Of course you're not here," he whispers, watching the pencil drawn wrinkles even though he knows they'll never move. Always smiling... "Of course you're all not here..." he takes a breath, "but..." His words are weighed down with their cold fact and unrelenting reality, but his face is soft. In fact, the man is smiling, and the slight wrinkles in his skin in some ways mirror that of the grandfather in his picture. "That doesn't mean I love you any less." The man leaves the cemetery. There are kids to see in his office, kids that remind him of himself, lost in the sea of confusion and problems kids shouldn't be dealing with until they're rightful adults. But that's why he lives--to help. He doesn't look back. The notebook is back in his pocket, the warmth from his hand already fading from it. In the drawing, a small boy is still smiling, surrounded by an old man, an old woman, and a younger couple. Their lines can be erased, but the pencil lead is so dark on the paper that their impressions will always remain.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	“Excuse me,” Travis said, rolling down his window as he drove. A man on the sidewalk pulled the headphones out of his hears and stopped to look at him. “Do you know if there’s another Washington cemetery around here? I don’t think this is the one I’m looking for.” The man squinted at him, shrugged, and said something in some deep, guttural Eastern European language. German or Russian. He kept walking. “Fuckin hell,” Travis said. Sure, it had been a long time since he had been down this way. Two years, maybe, but everything couldn’t have changed in all that time, not like this. It was too dramatic. Too unnatural. Maybe, he told himself, he had just come in the wrong way. Maybe if he tried the parking lot on the opposite end of the cemetery things would look familiar. He drove around again, wondering when this neighborhood shifted from a heavily Colombian one to almost entirely German-Slavic. How it had it happened so fast? What had happened to all the stores his grandfather used to take him to? Annie’s Homemade Ice Cream – merely a vacant building now. Rocket Randy’s Bar and Arcade – where his Grandfather would sit at the bar and drink a few beers while Travis and his brother popped coin after coin in the miraculous, spell-binding machinery – some dingy nightclub that looked more like a drug marketplace. When he found a place to park, he got out and walked in through the smaller South entrance to the cemetery. Sure, he remembered this part. He remembered the basic layout of the place, as he and his brother had spent many hours exploring this neighborhood in the days of their youth. This must have been the right place. It was burned into his brain the way it had been back then, and maybe that’s why the change was so startling. He looked at the damage to the front of his car. That’s what had really messed with his head. That’s when things really started to feel strange. A bolt of lighting – or what he assumed to be lighting – came hurling out of the cool overcast sky – and lanced the front of his car. The blinding light had drowned out everything. A crack so loud it was like the sound of Time and Space splitting apart at the seams. He pulled over to the side of the road and tried to recover from his miniature heart-attack and had found himself in a weird funk since then. There were some scorch marks and soot on the front, but no apparent damage besides some cosmetics. But it sure as hell through his head in for a loop. He never thought lighting could form on such a miserable cold day. Travis lit a cigarette as he walked into the field of graves. Sorry, pops, he thought to himself. Sorry for not being a good enough grandson. How could he forget his own grandfather’s grave, especially when they had been so close? He would find it now, though. He had to. He couldn’t leave without laying eyes on it. Hell, he had taken a day off, spent twenty bucks on gas, and gotten himself into a colossal fight with Sandy over this shit. He walked over to the WW2 memorial in the center of the cemetery and sat down at its base for a moment. Even the billboards on the apartment high rises were in German. Travis had never seen anything like this in his life. There was some English, but he had never seen full advertisements in another language before. Not in an American city. He got up and looked behind him. Something was off about the statue. It showed two soldiers running together, frozen together in a moment. One of them looked like an American G.I., a Tommy Gun slung over his shoulder, the other looked like a Nazi, helping pull the American up as they charged into some invisible storm of fire. As if they were working together. At the base of the statue, the sign read: In Memory of the American, German, and Japanese soldiers who died during the defense of their countries – 1939-1946. That was weird. Didn't the Second World War end in 1944? Travis’s mind felt blank. He put another cigarette in his mouth. For some reason he felt like checking his own pulse. It sounded like he was having yet another heart attack today, but the pulse was definitely there. When was the last time he ate? Maybe his blood sugar was low. Maybe he had taken too much of that allergy medicine. An elderly couple was walking through the cemetery nearby. As they walked by they nodded politely and said “guten Tag.”	It's not there. ...It's not there... It's not there. "This is... but this is where it's supposed to be!" the man cries. There is something in his voice that strains, but what it is, he doesn't even know. Fear? Desperation? Disappointment? Betrayal? Confusion? There is a weight in the pocket of his jeans that's always been there, but now it feels heavier than ever. He removes it, slipping it out of his pocket to hold the small notebook in his hand. It's one of those flipbooks--those tiny things used for notes and rarely filled up before you switch to another one, but this one is full. He never replaces it. And upon opening it, he meets the smiling faces that tell him why. "Of course you're not here," he whispers, watching the pencil drawn wrinkles even though he knows they'll never move. Always smiling... "Of course you're all not here..." he takes a breath, "but..." His words are weighed down with their cold fact and unrelenting reality, but his face is soft. In fact, the man is smiling, and the slight wrinkles in his skin in some ways mirror that of the grandfather in his picture. "That doesn't mean I love you any less." The man leaves the cemetery. There are kids to see in his office, kids that remind him of himself, lost in the sea of confusion and problems kids shouldn't be dealing with until they're rightful adults. But that's why he lives--to help. He doesn't look back. The notebook is back in his pocket, the warmth from his hand already fading from it. In the drawing, a small boy is still smiling, surrounded by an old man, an old woman, and a younger couple. Their lines can be erased, but the pencil lead is so dark on the paper that their impressions will always remain.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	It felt good to be state-side again. Dan Majors promised himself that the first thing he'd do when he got back would be to visit his grandpa's grave. It tore him up to learn that the old man had died when he was overseas. He'd been like a father to him after his parents were killed. Enlisting was his way of fighting back, despite the protests of the old man. They didn't talk much after he left, something that he deeply regrets sneaking out of the hospital to visit his grave was the least he could do to make up for it. For some reason they wanted to keep him there, observation they called it, but his wounds had healed just fine. His slight limp caused him to wince now and again, but shrapnel tends not to let you forget about it. His sister Annie kept him company in the hospital occasionally. They were close before he left. Their grandfather's death and his own injury seemed to run her ragged. Her usual talkative self sedated and subdued, she still fussed over him lovingly, if silently. She wouldn't be too happy about him leaving the hospital, especially without her. She had agreed with them that he had to stay there still. They didn't understand just how bad he felt; he'd promised. And so there he was, limping down the path between gravestones. It felt eerily familiar, walking past the headstones. Maybe it was just that there isn't much variation in graveyard design. He'd visited his parent's graves enough to be familiar with the layout. Still though, it was taking longer than he thought to find the marker. Dan was surprised at how exhausted he was, maybe they were right about his condition. The sun was beginning to set and he knew his sister would probably start looking for him soon. Sure enough he heard her voice somewhere behind him. He hurried himself up a little bit, hobbling faster despite the twinges of pain. He was determined to say goodbye with at least a little bit of privacy before she aught him. Just under that big old tree, next to that fat little cherub. He wheezed out a breath of relief and leaned against the old man's. By the sound of running feet muffled by grass, he didn't have much longer. Coughing to clear his suddenly seized up throat, Dan blinked away the start of a few tears and looked up to read the headstone, then froze in confusion. It wasn't right, this wasn't his grandfather's grave. The stone was a couple's marker, for a Daniel and Margery, he must have gotten turned around somewhere. He could have sworn that that was the right place though, under the tree next to the cherub, between two graves with crosses on top. He was still confused and looking around when his sister arrived, panting and furious. "Annie, where's grampa's grave? I could have sworn it was right here." Her angry eyes took on a sad glint as she approached. Something was definitely not right, she looked almost afraid that he might do something. He didn't know why, he would never hurt her; she was all he had left. "Mr.Smith? We need you to come back now. It's almost night. We're lucky that I was the one that found you." She held out her hand and he tentatively took it. "Smith?...Why did you call me Smith, Annie? I need to say goodbye to grandpa, I promised." She started gently moving him along with a hand on his back. "There is no Annie, Jack, I'm Isabelle. Don't you remember? I've been your nurse for the past decade. " "Jack? My name is Dan...Dan Ma--" "Majors? I'm really sorry Jack, there is no Dan Majors, no Annie. We don't know anything about your grandfather. You've done this a few times before. Just come with me Jack, we'll get you back to your bed and back on the right medication. You'll feel better, I promise." How could she say there was no Annie? He knew her face. It was her voice that said it. No Dan Majors....Daniel...Margery.... Jack started crying. His leg felt fine. He didn't have an Annie anymore, didn't have himself. Walking with a stranger between the graves of people long forgotten, he just felt like laying down.	It's not there. ...It's not there... It's not there. "This is... but this is where it's supposed to be!" the man cries. There is something in his voice that strains, but what it is, he doesn't even know. Fear? Desperation? Disappointment? Betrayal? Confusion? There is a weight in the pocket of his jeans that's always been there, but now it feels heavier than ever. He removes it, slipping it out of his pocket to hold the small notebook in his hand. It's one of those flipbooks--those tiny things used for notes and rarely filled up before you switch to another one, but this one is full. He never replaces it. And upon opening it, he meets the smiling faces that tell him why. "Of course you're not here," he whispers, watching the pencil drawn wrinkles even though he knows they'll never move. Always smiling... "Of course you're all not here..." he takes a breath, "but..." His words are weighed down with their cold fact and unrelenting reality, but his face is soft. In fact, the man is smiling, and the slight wrinkles in his skin in some ways mirror that of the grandfather in his picture. "That doesn't mean I love you any less." The man leaves the cemetery. There are kids to see in his office, kids that remind him of himself, lost in the sea of confusion and problems kids shouldn't be dealing with until they're rightful adults. But that's why he lives--to help. He doesn't look back. The notebook is back in his pocket, the warmth from his hand already fading from it. In the drawing, a small boy is still smiling, surrounded by an old man, an old woman, and a younger couple. Their lines can be erased, but the pencil lead is so dark on the paper that their impressions will always remain.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	Pulling up to the cemetery seemed eerily familiar. I didn't know Grandfather well but, considering it's the anniversary of his death, i decided to suck it up and come visit the guy. I open my car door and proceed down the winding brick path. This place is haunting. I've never been here before, but somehow my feet take me towards the right direction. At least, it feels like the right direction. I'm actually not as nervous as i thought i would be. I think of what I've done today- watched some tv, went to work, and stopped at the smoke shop. Funny, at 26 years old i still get carded. "Sir, do you have your ID on you?" "This is you? Joseph Andrews?" "Yes Sir, that's me" And on my way i go, everyday. I'll be the first to admit, smoking isn't the greatest habit, but come on, it hasn't killed me yet. After a few minutes, i find myself in front of a headstone. It doesn't look like it does in the movies. I was expecting some macabre, chipped rock with uneven scrawled letters. This is actually quite nice. I look up, and my heart stops. The world stops spinning and i swear i am the only thing left. This is not my Grandfather's grave. "Joseph Andrews: 1988-2016" -- I wake up with a jolt. Tubes twist and turn themselves into the crevices of my body. I'm hooked up to a ventilator and my head won't stop spinning. The fluorescent lights aren't helping, either. "Mr. Andrews, i'm here for your treatment." "Why am i here? Who are you?" "Sir I-" "Where is my family? My mom, my dad, my sister?" By now, I'm frantic. I want answers, but when i look into the nurses eyes, all i see is confusion. She quickly exits and, minutes later, a doctor returns. "Mr. Andrews, do you remember where you are?" "No i don't remember where i am! I don't remember anything, for fucks sake! I just want my family!" He jots something down on his clipboard and goes back into the hallway. I feel my heart rate begin to slow and the room stops spinning. The room fades to black. -- The doctor returns to the hallway with his clipboard. " Nurse, please don't mention anything family related to the patient. Amnesia and delusions are both common in cancer patients. It's best not to upset him and see how he responds in a few days. How would you like to wake up and be told you're homeless and terminally ill? For crying out loud, we owe it to the guy to at least believe he HAS a family. Not to mention, the cancer in his lungs seems to be spreading, as well. He has 2 years, at best."	I am not an orphan boy, no matter what they say. As a welcome present I bought the afternoon sun to the graveyard, freshly gathered, escaping in a slow unraveling from my back and neck and wrapping pale orange tendrils around thin bald cypress towers and their outcast leaves, castoff and littering the ground, some worn to the vein and others with their blades still ashine from past rain. Hasty old men and their discard chess pieces. I looked down yet again at the words written on my forearm, lines blurred from sweat or swirling towards downy hair, surrendering to meaning in favour of continuity. Too late had I remembered to take pen or paper, water or food, precaution or sense. Instead a few swigs of sour bourbon had prevailed, intended to ward off the harsh noonday shimmer, to pacify it until the setting time would come and ole Sol would lullaby himself to rest. Not today. Emboldened by the swilling in my gut, in rhythm to engine and road and empty sky, I had spotted the familiar curlaway road and turned towards it without a thought. A comfortable hand settled around my throat and pulled me down, down towards where the branches splayed animal shadows on my face and the crows looked for fables to carry back home. The wheels shook in their wells, ecstatic, and gradually my purpose narrowed to a single track of dust marked by a handwritten sign. The brambles had not been swept today. I grit my teeth and turned off the radio and let the silver charm hanging from the rearview mirror sway this way and that. At times it pointed far and at times near. I thought I heard the sound of the ocean over everything else but there was only salt on my lips. There had always been rumours. Grandfather had gone far: climbed the trenches, crawled under barbed wire, knelt with his back against the dirt and his knees to his chest. All in the manner of a learning child. And then he had stopped writing, and the war had ended, and the soldiers had dismounted from the trains except he had not. My grandmother stood in fields pulled free of flax, that flax rotten and skidded on the pilings, sticking to you as you walked away. And gradually the dirt road petered out. I parked in front of a disused fountain. Ornate, alabaster, cracked to perfection. The Japanese had a word for this, I remembered. The joy of a cracked cup and the joy that came from knowing this. For celebrating it. I counted the many carved faces and wondered who they had belonged to. All the same serene expression. Remember: climb aboard the ferry, feel its pitch and tilt, grains of sand stuck to your bare feet and the toothless man is telling you that it is the hour to go home, as long as there is coin for the trouble. I walked past the half-gates. No groundskeeper in their cabin, its roof caved in and slats of uneven glass poking out. Flakes of rust painting the palm of my hand and I clapped to myself, watched reddish motes fly then fall, heard cypress needles rush inwards like tidewater. I paused, then, and looked at my watch, and saw that it had stilled. I tapped the glass and blew in to it and laughed when this did not work. I cried: are you here, you old bastard? But there was stark need to announce myself. I had come back home. Surely now, after all these years. Limping from island to island, showing that same photograph to smiling locals, so sure that this was the person they knew of. Ignorant of letters from home asking me what I was doing, entreating me to use the fortune with more swain, the words crowding, breaking in to meaningless lambda and epsilon and symbol. Surely now, they said. Surely now. But there was nothing waiting back home. An old manor and an old man and the dark seething city nearby. Smiling with its many teeth, with its sharp teeth. Madness. An overwhelming blackness that threatened to consume me if this final piece of the puzzle was not found. I needed to know. I needed to be sure. I walked on the cobbled path, stumbled, stepping gently over fingers of cinchgrass that grew in its cracks and edges and had turned mauve in death. Ignored the noise of the ocean in my mind. The surf prostate against the shore, again and again, bowing, the bubbles red under the sun. No, stop it. I am sure my eyes must have been blooded by then. I stopped to lean against a tree, looked up, ignored the cut shadows I was giving off right below. And then I continued. The path winded, carrying me across rows of unkempt graves. I stopped at the first few but realised I could not stop at them all. The fallen angels and tilted crosses. I kept glancing overhead, hoping for the shine of broken fuselage or shards of canopy. I kept glancing below, looking for spent cartridge shells or the lean of an elder rifle, no different to the outstretched hand of a tree. I thought of the yellowed gas and its dance across the horizon. How my grandfather must have stared and wondered at the duplicity of the world. Those final moments. The fog of crushed seeds and powder, mustard and sulfur. And what waited at the end of it: fear. A cold fear, predate and inviolate. The fear since the dawn of time. And then I thought of Dr. Crane, and I thought of the scarecrow that walked, and I thought of the flaxen fields that waited for me as well. There was no time. Suddenly there was no time. The long dusk beckoned. I ran ahead and doubled back, heard the rustle of wings that belonged to no bird. In my mind's eye there was a waiting well, its floorboards rutted and fragile. My grandfather and I climbed past the same barricades, and we both fell down. My father came for me but who came for his father? Who bought him here and left him thereafter? My heart and the silver charm, dancing one way and the other, and I am walking on the floor of the ocean. For hours and days I toiled, eons, scurrying here and there, sweating a fever that I did not know of. The evening came and bought with it the keen wailing of the damned, huddled upside down in a cave, singing their song from the depths below. And I rose my voice to their waiting violence, swaying like the drunkard that I was, waiting for them to bare their fangs and descend on me at once. Then I found it. The gravestone of Charles Wayne. A blank grey font save a name and a date. I knelt in front of it reverentially. Made the sign of some sort of God. Wiped strands of saliva from my lips and touched that wetness to the cold stone. I wrote his name with the lettering, no doubt taken from his tags, mercifully spelled right by whatever lone angel had chosen to make a home here so long ago. Kneeling by his grave I bent my head and prepared to laugh again. I had beaten the scarecrow again. Bruce Wayne had won for another night. Then the ground fell away, a splintering of soft wood, and I fell tumbling as I always did, the sun unraveling fast, blinking behind my eyes and the flutter of leathery wings. I sailed through my grandfather's empty grave, deep and down to the very bottom, my fingers clutching nothing. And before I landed in that nest of bats and watched their amber eyes take in my fall, my last thought was the one that endured the most. The nightmare that kept me awake long after the dawn had come. Oh Bruce. You have no family. EDIT: just a few touch-ups. I hope you like it - this was a geek dream come true.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	“Excuse me,” Travis said, rolling down his window as he drove. A man on the sidewalk pulled the headphones out of his hears and stopped to look at him. “Do you know if there’s another Washington cemetery around here? I don’t think this is the one I’m looking for.” The man squinted at him, shrugged, and said something in some deep, guttural Eastern European language. German or Russian. He kept walking. “Fuckin hell,” Travis said. Sure, it had been a long time since he had been down this way. Two years, maybe, but everything couldn’t have changed in all that time, not like this. It was too dramatic. Too unnatural. Maybe, he told himself, he had just come in the wrong way. Maybe if he tried the parking lot on the opposite end of the cemetery things would look familiar. He drove around again, wondering when this neighborhood shifted from a heavily Colombian one to almost entirely German-Slavic. How it had it happened so fast? What had happened to all the stores his grandfather used to take him to? Annie’s Homemade Ice Cream – merely a vacant building now. Rocket Randy’s Bar and Arcade – where his Grandfather would sit at the bar and drink a few beers while Travis and his brother popped coin after coin in the miraculous, spell-binding machinery – some dingy nightclub that looked more like a drug marketplace. When he found a place to park, he got out and walked in through the smaller South entrance to the cemetery. Sure, he remembered this part. He remembered the basic layout of the place, as he and his brother had spent many hours exploring this neighborhood in the days of their youth. This must have been the right place. It was burned into his brain the way it had been back then, and maybe that’s why the change was so startling. He looked at the damage to the front of his car. That’s what had really messed with his head. That’s when things really started to feel strange. A bolt of lighting – or what he assumed to be lighting – came hurling out of the cool overcast sky – and lanced the front of his car. The blinding light had drowned out everything. A crack so loud it was like the sound of Time and Space splitting apart at the seams. He pulled over to the side of the road and tried to recover from his miniature heart-attack and had found himself in a weird funk since then. There were some scorch marks and soot on the front, but no apparent damage besides some cosmetics. But it sure as hell through his head in for a loop. He never thought lighting could form on such a miserable cold day. Travis lit a cigarette as he walked into the field of graves. Sorry, pops, he thought to himself. Sorry for not being a good enough grandson. How could he forget his own grandfather’s grave, especially when they had been so close? He would find it now, though. He had to. He couldn’t leave without laying eyes on it. Hell, he had taken a day off, spent twenty bucks on gas, and gotten himself into a colossal fight with Sandy over this shit. He walked over to the WW2 memorial in the center of the cemetery and sat down at its base for a moment. Even the billboards on the apartment high rises were in German. Travis had never seen anything like this in his life. There was some English, but he had never seen full advertisements in another language before. Not in an American city. He got up and looked behind him. Something was off about the statue. It showed two soldiers running together, frozen together in a moment. One of them looked like an American G.I., a Tommy Gun slung over his shoulder, the other looked like a Nazi, helping pull the American up as they charged into some invisible storm of fire. As if they were working together. At the base of the statue, the sign read: In Memory of the American, German, and Japanese soldiers who died during the defense of their countries – 1939-1946. That was weird. Didn't the Second World War end in 1944? Travis’s mind felt blank. He put another cigarette in his mouth. For some reason he felt like checking his own pulse. It sounded like he was having yet another heart attack today, but the pulse was definitely there. When was the last time he ate? Maybe his blood sugar was low. Maybe he had taken too much of that allergy medicine. An elderly couple was walking through the cemetery nearby. As they walked by they nodded politely and said “guten Tag.”	I am not an orphan boy, no matter what they say. As a welcome present I bought the afternoon sun to the graveyard, freshly gathered, escaping in a slow unraveling from my back and neck and wrapping pale orange tendrils around thin bald cypress towers and their outcast leaves, castoff and littering the ground, some worn to the vein and others with their blades still ashine from past rain. Hasty old men and their discard chess pieces. I looked down yet again at the words written on my forearm, lines blurred from sweat or swirling towards downy hair, surrendering to meaning in favour of continuity. Too late had I remembered to take pen or paper, water or food, precaution or sense. Instead a few swigs of sour bourbon had prevailed, intended to ward off the harsh noonday shimmer, to pacify it until the setting time would come and ole Sol would lullaby himself to rest. Not today. Emboldened by the swilling in my gut, in rhythm to engine and road and empty sky, I had spotted the familiar curlaway road and turned towards it without a thought. A comfortable hand settled around my throat and pulled me down, down towards where the branches splayed animal shadows on my face and the crows looked for fables to carry back home. The wheels shook in their wells, ecstatic, and gradually my purpose narrowed to a single track of dust marked by a handwritten sign. The brambles had not been swept today. I grit my teeth and turned off the radio and let the silver charm hanging from the rearview mirror sway this way and that. At times it pointed far and at times near. I thought I heard the sound of the ocean over everything else but there was only salt on my lips. There had always been rumours. Grandfather had gone far: climbed the trenches, crawled under barbed wire, knelt with his back against the dirt and his knees to his chest. All in the manner of a learning child. And then he had stopped writing, and the war had ended, and the soldiers had dismounted from the trains except he had not. My grandmother stood in fields pulled free of flax, that flax rotten and skidded on the pilings, sticking to you as you walked away. And gradually the dirt road petered out. I parked in front of a disused fountain. Ornate, alabaster, cracked to perfection. The Japanese had a word for this, I remembered. The joy of a cracked cup and the joy that came from knowing this. For celebrating it. I counted the many carved faces and wondered who they had belonged to. All the same serene expression. Remember: climb aboard the ferry, feel its pitch and tilt, grains of sand stuck to your bare feet and the toothless man is telling you that it is the hour to go home, as long as there is coin for the trouble. I walked past the half-gates. No groundskeeper in their cabin, its roof caved in and slats of uneven glass poking out. Flakes of rust painting the palm of my hand and I clapped to myself, watched reddish motes fly then fall, heard cypress needles rush inwards like tidewater. I paused, then, and looked at my watch, and saw that it had stilled. I tapped the glass and blew in to it and laughed when this did not work. I cried: are you here, you old bastard? But there was stark need to announce myself. I had come back home. Surely now, after all these years. Limping from island to island, showing that same photograph to smiling locals, so sure that this was the person they knew of. Ignorant of letters from home asking me what I was doing, entreating me to use the fortune with more swain, the words crowding, breaking in to meaningless lambda and epsilon and symbol. Surely now, they said. Surely now. But there was nothing waiting back home. An old manor and an old man and the dark seething city nearby. Smiling with its many teeth, with its sharp teeth. Madness. An overwhelming blackness that threatened to consume me if this final piece of the puzzle was not found. I needed to know. I needed to be sure. I walked on the cobbled path, stumbled, stepping gently over fingers of cinchgrass that grew in its cracks and edges and had turned mauve in death. Ignored the noise of the ocean in my mind. The surf prostate against the shore, again and again, bowing, the bubbles red under the sun. No, stop it. I am sure my eyes must have been blooded by then. I stopped to lean against a tree, looked up, ignored the cut shadows I was giving off right below. And then I continued. The path winded, carrying me across rows of unkempt graves. I stopped at the first few but realised I could not stop at them all. The fallen angels and tilted crosses. I kept glancing overhead, hoping for the shine of broken fuselage or shards of canopy. I kept glancing below, looking for spent cartridge shells or the lean of an elder rifle, no different to the outstretched hand of a tree. I thought of the yellowed gas and its dance across the horizon. How my grandfather must have stared and wondered at the duplicity of the world. Those final moments. The fog of crushed seeds and powder, mustard and sulfur. And what waited at the end of it: fear. A cold fear, predate and inviolate. The fear since the dawn of time. And then I thought of Dr. Crane, and I thought of the scarecrow that walked, and I thought of the flaxen fields that waited for me as well. There was no time. Suddenly there was no time. The long dusk beckoned. I ran ahead and doubled back, heard the rustle of wings that belonged to no bird. In my mind's eye there was a waiting well, its floorboards rutted and fragile. My grandfather and I climbed past the same barricades, and we both fell down. My father came for me but who came for his father? Who bought him here and left him thereafter? My heart and the silver charm, dancing one way and the other, and I am walking on the floor of the ocean. For hours and days I toiled, eons, scurrying here and there, sweating a fever that I did not know of. The evening came and bought with it the keen wailing of the damned, huddled upside down in a cave, singing their song from the depths below. And I rose my voice to their waiting violence, swaying like the drunkard that I was, waiting for them to bare their fangs and descend on me at once. Then I found it. The gravestone of Charles Wayne. A blank grey font save a name and a date. I knelt in front of it reverentially. Made the sign of some sort of God. Wiped strands of saliva from my lips and touched that wetness to the cold stone. I wrote his name with the lettering, no doubt taken from his tags, mercifully spelled right by whatever lone angel had chosen to make a home here so long ago. Kneeling by his grave I bent my head and prepared to laugh again. I had beaten the scarecrow again. Bruce Wayne had won for another night. Then the ground fell away, a splintering of soft wood, and I fell tumbling as I always did, the sun unraveling fast, blinking behind my eyes and the flutter of leathery wings. I sailed through my grandfather's empty grave, deep and down to the very bottom, my fingers clutching nothing. And before I landed in that nest of bats and watched their amber eyes take in my fall, my last thought was the one that endured the most. The nightmare that kept me awake long after the dawn had come. Oh Bruce. You have no family. EDIT: just a few touch-ups. I hope you like it - this was a geek dream come true.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	It felt good to be state-side again. Dan Majors promised himself that the first thing he'd do when he got back would be to visit his grandpa's grave. It tore him up to learn that the old man had died when he was overseas. He'd been like a father to him after his parents were killed. Enlisting was his way of fighting back, despite the protests of the old man. They didn't talk much after he left, something that he deeply regrets sneaking out of the hospital to visit his grave was the least he could do to make up for it. For some reason they wanted to keep him there, observation they called it, but his wounds had healed just fine. His slight limp caused him to wince now and again, but shrapnel tends not to let you forget about it. His sister Annie kept him company in the hospital occasionally. They were close before he left. Their grandfather's death and his own injury seemed to run her ragged. Her usual talkative self sedated and subdued, she still fussed over him lovingly, if silently. She wouldn't be too happy about him leaving the hospital, especially without her. She had agreed with them that he had to stay there still. They didn't understand just how bad he felt; he'd promised. And so there he was, limping down the path between gravestones. It felt eerily familiar, walking past the headstones. Maybe it was just that there isn't much variation in graveyard design. He'd visited his parent's graves enough to be familiar with the layout. Still though, it was taking longer than he thought to find the marker. Dan was surprised at how exhausted he was, maybe they were right about his condition. The sun was beginning to set and he knew his sister would probably start looking for him soon. Sure enough he heard her voice somewhere behind him. He hurried himself up a little bit, hobbling faster despite the twinges of pain. He was determined to say goodbye with at least a little bit of privacy before she aught him. Just under that big old tree, next to that fat little cherub. He wheezed out a breath of relief and leaned against the old man's. By the sound of running feet muffled by grass, he didn't have much longer. Coughing to clear his suddenly seized up throat, Dan blinked away the start of a few tears and looked up to read the headstone, then froze in confusion. It wasn't right, this wasn't his grandfather's grave. The stone was a couple's marker, for a Daniel and Margery, he must have gotten turned around somewhere. He could have sworn that that was the right place though, under the tree next to the cherub, between two graves with crosses on top. He was still confused and looking around when his sister arrived, panting and furious. "Annie, where's grampa's grave? I could have sworn it was right here." Her angry eyes took on a sad glint as she approached. Something was definitely not right, she looked almost afraid that he might do something. He didn't know why, he would never hurt her; she was all he had left. "Mr.Smith? We need you to come back now. It's almost night. We're lucky that I was the one that found you." She held out her hand and he tentatively took it. "Smith?...Why did you call me Smith, Annie? I need to say goodbye to grandpa, I promised." She started gently moving him along with a hand on his back. "There is no Annie, Jack, I'm Isabelle. Don't you remember? I've been your nurse for the past decade. " "Jack? My name is Dan...Dan Ma--" "Majors? I'm really sorry Jack, there is no Dan Majors, no Annie. We don't know anything about your grandfather. You've done this a few times before. Just come with me Jack, we'll get you back to your bed and back on the right medication. You'll feel better, I promise." How could she say there was no Annie? He knew her face. It was her voice that said it. No Dan Majors....Daniel...Margery.... Jack started crying. His leg felt fine. He didn't have an Annie anymore, didn't have himself. Walking with a stranger between the graves of people long forgotten, he just felt like laying down.	I am not an orphan boy, no matter what they say. As a welcome present I bought the afternoon sun to the graveyard, freshly gathered, escaping in a slow unraveling from my back and neck and wrapping pale orange tendrils around thin bald cypress towers and their outcast leaves, castoff and littering the ground, some worn to the vein and others with their blades still ashine from past rain. Hasty old men and their discard chess pieces. I looked down yet again at the words written on my forearm, lines blurred from sweat or swirling towards downy hair, surrendering to meaning in favour of continuity. Too late had I remembered to take pen or paper, water or food, precaution or sense. Instead a few swigs of sour bourbon had prevailed, intended to ward off the harsh noonday shimmer, to pacify it until the setting time would come and ole Sol would lullaby himself to rest. Not today. Emboldened by the swilling in my gut, in rhythm to engine and road and empty sky, I had spotted the familiar curlaway road and turned towards it without a thought. A comfortable hand settled around my throat and pulled me down, down towards where the branches splayed animal shadows on my face and the crows looked for fables to carry back home. The wheels shook in their wells, ecstatic, and gradually my purpose narrowed to a single track of dust marked by a handwritten sign. The brambles had not been swept today. I grit my teeth and turned off the radio and let the silver charm hanging from the rearview mirror sway this way and that. At times it pointed far and at times near. I thought I heard the sound of the ocean over everything else but there was only salt on my lips. There had always been rumours. Grandfather had gone far: climbed the trenches, crawled under barbed wire, knelt with his back against the dirt and his knees to his chest. All in the manner of a learning child. And then he had stopped writing, and the war had ended, and the soldiers had dismounted from the trains except he had not. My grandmother stood in fields pulled free of flax, that flax rotten and skidded on the pilings, sticking to you as you walked away. And gradually the dirt road petered out. I parked in front of a disused fountain. Ornate, alabaster, cracked to perfection. The Japanese had a word for this, I remembered. The joy of a cracked cup and the joy that came from knowing this. For celebrating it. I counted the many carved faces and wondered who they had belonged to. All the same serene expression. Remember: climb aboard the ferry, feel its pitch and tilt, grains of sand stuck to your bare feet and the toothless man is telling you that it is the hour to go home, as long as there is coin for the trouble. I walked past the half-gates. No groundskeeper in their cabin, its roof caved in and slats of uneven glass poking out. Flakes of rust painting the palm of my hand and I clapped to myself, watched reddish motes fly then fall, heard cypress needles rush inwards like tidewater. I paused, then, and looked at my watch, and saw that it had stilled. I tapped the glass and blew in to it and laughed when this did not work. I cried: are you here, you old bastard? But there was stark need to announce myself. I had come back home. Surely now, after all these years. Limping from island to island, showing that same photograph to smiling locals, so sure that this was the person they knew of. Ignorant of letters from home asking me what I was doing, entreating me to use the fortune with more swain, the words crowding, breaking in to meaningless lambda and epsilon and symbol. Surely now, they said. Surely now. But there was nothing waiting back home. An old manor and an old man and the dark seething city nearby. Smiling with its many teeth, with its sharp teeth. Madness. An overwhelming blackness that threatened to consume me if this final piece of the puzzle was not found. I needed to know. I needed to be sure. I walked on the cobbled path, stumbled, stepping gently over fingers of cinchgrass that grew in its cracks and edges and had turned mauve in death. Ignored the noise of the ocean in my mind. The surf prostate against the shore, again and again, bowing, the bubbles red under the sun. No, stop it. I am sure my eyes must have been blooded by then. I stopped to lean against a tree, looked up, ignored the cut shadows I was giving off right below. And then I continued. The path winded, carrying me across rows of unkempt graves. I stopped at the first few but realised I could not stop at them all. The fallen angels and tilted crosses. I kept glancing overhead, hoping for the shine of broken fuselage or shards of canopy. I kept glancing below, looking for spent cartridge shells or the lean of an elder rifle, no different to the outstretched hand of a tree. I thought of the yellowed gas and its dance across the horizon. How my grandfather must have stared and wondered at the duplicity of the world. Those final moments. The fog of crushed seeds and powder, mustard and sulfur. And what waited at the end of it: fear. A cold fear, predate and inviolate. The fear since the dawn of time. And then I thought of Dr. Crane, and I thought of the scarecrow that walked, and I thought of the flaxen fields that waited for me as well. There was no time. Suddenly there was no time. The long dusk beckoned. I ran ahead and doubled back, heard the rustle of wings that belonged to no bird. In my mind's eye there was a waiting well, its floorboards rutted and fragile. My grandfather and I climbed past the same barricades, and we both fell down. My father came for me but who came for his father? Who bought him here and left him thereafter? My heart and the silver charm, dancing one way and the other, and I am walking on the floor of the ocean. For hours and days I toiled, eons, scurrying here and there, sweating a fever that I did not know of. The evening came and bought with it the keen wailing of the damned, huddled upside down in a cave, singing their song from the depths below. And I rose my voice to their waiting violence, swaying like the drunkard that I was, waiting for them to bare their fangs and descend on me at once. Then I found it. The gravestone of Charles Wayne. A blank grey font save a name and a date. I knelt in front of it reverentially. Made the sign of some sort of God. Wiped strands of saliva from my lips and touched that wetness to the cold stone. I wrote his name with the lettering, no doubt taken from his tags, mercifully spelled right by whatever lone angel had chosen to make a home here so long ago. Kneeling by his grave I bent my head and prepared to laugh again. I had beaten the scarecrow again. Bruce Wayne had won for another night. Then the ground fell away, a splintering of soft wood, and I fell tumbling as I always did, the sun unraveling fast, blinking behind my eyes and the flutter of leathery wings. I sailed through my grandfather's empty grave, deep and down to the very bottom, my fingers clutching nothing. And before I landed in that nest of bats and watched their amber eyes take in my fall, my last thought was the one that endured the most. The nightmare that kept me awake long after the dawn had come. Oh Bruce. You have no family. EDIT: just a few touch-ups. I hope you like it - this was a geek dream come true.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	Pulling up to the cemetery seemed eerily familiar. I didn't know Grandfather well but, considering it's the anniversary of his death, i decided to suck it up and come visit the guy. I open my car door and proceed down the winding brick path. This place is haunting. I've never been here before, but somehow my feet take me towards the right direction. At least, it feels like the right direction. I'm actually not as nervous as i thought i would be. I think of what I've done today- watched some tv, went to work, and stopped at the smoke shop. Funny, at 26 years old i still get carded. "Sir, do you have your ID on you?" "This is you? Joseph Andrews?" "Yes Sir, that's me" And on my way i go, everyday. I'll be the first to admit, smoking isn't the greatest habit, but come on, it hasn't killed me yet. After a few minutes, i find myself in front of a headstone. It doesn't look like it does in the movies. I was expecting some macabre, chipped rock with uneven scrawled letters. This is actually quite nice. I look up, and my heart stops. The world stops spinning and i swear i am the only thing left. This is not my Grandfather's grave. "Joseph Andrews: 1988-2016" -- I wake up with a jolt. Tubes twist and turn themselves into the crevices of my body. I'm hooked up to a ventilator and my head won't stop spinning. The fluorescent lights aren't helping, either. "Mr. Andrews, i'm here for your treatment." "Why am i here? Who are you?" "Sir I-" "Where is my family? My mom, my dad, my sister?" By now, I'm frantic. I want answers, but when i look into the nurses eyes, all i see is confusion. She quickly exits and, minutes later, a doctor returns. "Mr. Andrews, do you remember where you are?" "No i don't remember where i am! I don't remember anything, for fucks sake! I just want my family!" He jots something down on his clipboard and goes back into the hallway. I feel my heart rate begin to slow and the room stops spinning. The room fades to black. -- The doctor returns to the hallway with his clipboard. " Nurse, please don't mention anything family related to the patient. Amnesia and delusions are both common in cancer patients. It's best not to upset him and see how he responds in a few days. How would you like to wake up and be told you're homeless and terminally ill? For crying out loud, we owe it to the guy to at least believe he HAS a family. Not to mention, the cancer in his lungs seems to be spreading, as well. He has 2 years, at best."	"I am a ghost. Whoopee!" yelled Crazy!Rick running around yelling. "That's as true as I am transparent." Sane!Rick bit back. "So, very true then, " said Crazy!Rick winking. "There is no talking to you at all." said Sane!Rick acidly. "And yet you do, which is kind of the problem right," said Crazy!Rick. He did not seem childish right then. There was a gleam in his eye. "Is it? Are you sure. I admit I do talk to you around the edges every now and then, but then don't we all? Its a question of a magnitude of course, and so far you're of a trifling magnitude." "Touche!" said Crazy!Rick. He rolled around the grass, then tried on a headstand. "Well at least you're someone to talk to." Sane!Rick mumbled under his breath. Crazy!Rick still heard him, of course. "Thats true," said Crazy!Rick. "Hey wait, maybe we're from another planet. Like Superman. A super-powered alien designed to save Earth" He stopped, his face taking on a manic look "Or to destroy it!" He did a cartwheel. "Oh, heavens forbid," said Sane!Rick. Strong arms grabbed the thin, white-haired, old man in the black grass-stained suit. "Look at you here, making up fancy stories. Visiting your grandfather's grave. Psssshh" The Matron pushed him firmly towards the exit, past a small crowd of curious on-lookers "And, you got your suit messed. There'll be a rght fuss about that." "Dont want to go back," Rick mumbled. His voice sounded small in the wind. The Matron's grip slackened a little as she fed Rick a pill. "Ah, dont you be fretting. Things will be fine. After we sort out this mess, Ill bring you your book of photos and you can go look through it." "Nostalgia is just another drug you're feeding me" he said, his voice filled with venom. The Matron ignored him. But he was done, too tired to protest. He could only follow the now silent Matron, as she led him meekly away. Out of the corner of his eye he looked for Crazy!Rick but he was not there. "So alone," he mumbled numbly.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	Pulling up to the cemetery seemed eerily familiar. I didn't know Grandfather well but, considering it's the anniversary of his death, i decided to suck it up and come visit the guy. I open my car door and proceed down the winding brick path. This place is haunting. I've never been here before, but somehow my feet take me towards the right direction. At least, it feels like the right direction. I'm actually not as nervous as i thought i would be. I think of what I've done today- watched some tv, went to work, and stopped at the smoke shop. Funny, at 26 years old i still get carded. "Sir, do you have your ID on you?" "This is you? Joseph Andrews?" "Yes Sir, that's me" And on my way i go, everyday. I'll be the first to admit, smoking isn't the greatest habit, but come on, it hasn't killed me yet. After a few minutes, i find myself in front of a headstone. It doesn't look like it does in the movies. I was expecting some macabre, chipped rock with uneven scrawled letters. This is actually quite nice. I look up, and my heart stops. The world stops spinning and i swear i am the only thing left. This is not my Grandfather's grave. "Joseph Andrews: 1988-2016" -- I wake up with a jolt. Tubes twist and turn themselves into the crevices of my body. I'm hooked up to a ventilator and my head won't stop spinning. The fluorescent lights aren't helping, either. "Mr. Andrews, i'm here for your treatment." "Why am i here? Who are you?" "Sir I-" "Where is my family? My mom, my dad, my sister?" By now, I'm frantic. I want answers, but when i look into the nurses eyes, all i see is confusion. She quickly exits and, minutes later, a doctor returns. "Mr. Andrews, do you remember where you are?" "No i don't remember where i am! I don't remember anything, for fucks sake! I just want my family!" He jots something down on his clipboard and goes back into the hallway. I feel my heart rate begin to slow and the room stops spinning. The room fades to black. -- The doctor returns to the hallway with his clipboard. " Nurse, please don't mention anything family related to the patient. Amnesia and delusions are both common in cancer patients. It's best not to upset him and see how he responds in a few days. How would you like to wake up and be told you're homeless and terminally ill? For crying out loud, we owe it to the guy to at least believe he HAS a family. Not to mention, the cancer in his lungs seems to be spreading, as well. He has 2 years, at best."	The staccato clicking of acrylic nails on plastic keys grates heavily on my nerves as I try to remember the lot number. “What do you mean there is no entry for a Donald Sheppard! Won’t you please check his social security number again?” I reply loudly enough for her to raise a severely plucked eyebrow, to a somewhat comical effect. “Sir, I don’t know how to put it to you any more clearly. There isn’t, and has never been a person by that name buried here at Shady Grove” she replied with a forced calm. Could it be that I came to the wrong cemetery? These places all have the same fatuous names; Shady Grove, Green Meadows, Our Lord’s Garden... Probably in the attempt to create the illusion that the Final Rest meant a peaceful reprieve from life, instead of a permanent place to rot away into a putrid soup. Yet I clearly remember the day we put him to ground here, dwarfed by that gaudy mausoleum, as undistinguished in death as he was in life. I realised then that I wasn’t going to get my answers from Barbara here, so I shot out of the chair and stomped my way towards the door, happy get out of the musty office. Outside, the drone of insects met me as I walked squinting in the sun. For a grove, it sure could do with more trees. Walking the oddly familiar paths I scanned my eyes around, looking for that mausoleum. I found it by the sun glinting off a rotund gilded cherub, a beacon in the green. The gravel crunched loudly under my feet as I make my way towards the grave, already sweaty from the baking heat. Slightly out of breath I reach the polite little headstone standing to the left of that giant eyesore. Expecting to find my Grandfather’s name and the insipid epitaph my dearest mother came up with, I can’t help but start upon reading “Here lies Mary Linley, beloved daughter and sister 2000- 2014”. Suddenly another shadow appears next to mine, pulling me out of my reverie. “You didn’t set your transporter to Reality 1 when you left, you bloody old fool” says a gruff voice in my ear while grasping my arm. “Let’s get out of here before you cause any more irregular activity here – you and you kin don’t exist in this one. Although, to be honest I can’t believe you haven’t caused more ripples in the past 15 years.” The realisation set in as I immediately remember the voice as being that of my Partner from back then, “Shit. Jack, I thought I was just getting old and forgetting things” I admit sheepishly. “It’s a good thing I retired before the Institute fired me.”
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	Pulling up to the cemetery seemed eerily familiar. I didn't know Grandfather well but, considering it's the anniversary of his death, i decided to suck it up and come visit the guy. I open my car door and proceed down the winding brick path. This place is haunting. I've never been here before, but somehow my feet take me towards the right direction. At least, it feels like the right direction. I'm actually not as nervous as i thought i would be. I think of what I've done today- watched some tv, went to work, and stopped at the smoke shop. Funny, at 26 years old i still get carded. "Sir, do you have your ID on you?" "This is you? Joseph Andrews?" "Yes Sir, that's me" And on my way i go, everyday. I'll be the first to admit, smoking isn't the greatest habit, but come on, it hasn't killed me yet. After a few minutes, i find myself in front of a headstone. It doesn't look like it does in the movies. I was expecting some macabre, chipped rock with uneven scrawled letters. This is actually quite nice. I look up, and my heart stops. The world stops spinning and i swear i am the only thing left. This is not my Grandfather's grave. "Joseph Andrews: 1988-2016" -- I wake up with a jolt. Tubes twist and turn themselves into the crevices of my body. I'm hooked up to a ventilator and my head won't stop spinning. The fluorescent lights aren't helping, either. "Mr. Andrews, i'm here for your treatment." "Why am i here? Who are you?" "Sir I-" "Where is my family? My mom, my dad, my sister?" By now, I'm frantic. I want answers, but when i look into the nurses eyes, all i see is confusion. She quickly exits and, minutes later, a doctor returns. "Mr. Andrews, do you remember where you are?" "No i don't remember where i am! I don't remember anything, for fucks sake! I just want my family!" He jots something down on his clipboard and goes back into the hallway. I feel my heart rate begin to slow and the room stops spinning. The room fades to black. -- The doctor returns to the hallway with his clipboard. " Nurse, please don't mention anything family related to the patient. Amnesia and delusions are both common in cancer patients. It's best not to upset him and see how he responds in a few days. How would you like to wake up and be told you're homeless and terminally ill? For crying out loud, we owe it to the guy to at least believe he HAS a family. Not to mention, the cancer in his lungs seems to be spreading, as well. He has 2 years, at best."	WILSON BORIS 1907-1948 FATHER, HUSBAND, LOVING MAN. Despite time’s wear and elderly vines clinging to the long-standing marker, this grave stone did not belong here. I had come to this spot for twenty years and each time it had read DONALD MOORE. My grandfather had been buried at this spot in 1992 and now someone else had taken his spot. No one new, however, based on the stone’s appearance. Thinking I had made some kind of mistake, I walked to the end of the cemetery row and checked the area coordinate sign. L-16, it read. I was not in the wrong section. Despite the sunny summer afternoon, I felt a chill cross my back. Something was wrong here. Hiking down to the information and assistance center, I tried to come up with a reasonable explanation. Perhaps…. Maybe…. Well…. I couldn’t think of anything that would explain the disappearance of my grandfather’s grave and the appearance of one from over fifty years ago. “Good morning,” the woman at the front desk said gently as I entered the building. Her demeanor was perfect: respectful, not too cheery and not to dismal. Her muted, gray attired matched her professional behavior. “May I help you with anything?” “I’m looking for someone,” I said as I approached the desk, my words feeling oddly heavy. “Of course,” the woman smiled and typed on her computer. “Who are you looking for today?” “Donald Arden Moore,” I answered. My grandfather’s name, so familiar in the past, seemed vague and alien now, as though I were saying it for the first time. After several moments of keys clacking, the woman shook her head slightly and said, “I’m afraid I’m not finding anyone of that name in the database. Do you have the year he passed away?” “1992,” Again, more typing, and again, a shake of the head. “I’m very sorry, sir, but we do not have anyone under that date with the name Donald Arden Moore. Would you like me to check the wide-area database?” “Sure,” I nodded, beginning to feel a little lightheaded. Diligently, the woman struck keys and clicked with the mouse for several minutes, until finally saying, “I don’t really know what to tell you, sir. There isn’t anyone named Donald Arden Moore buried in the tri-state area, nor registered in the national database.” She waited for more instructions. “Thank you,” I said, my mouth dry and voice hoarse. I stepped away from the desk and, taking out my cellphone, auto-dialed my mother’s phone number. She had been here the previous day and would no doubt tell me what was going on. “WE’RE SORRY,” a female voice said in my ear a moment later. “THE NUMBER YOU HAVE DIALED IS NOT IN SERVICE. PLEASE HANG UP AND TRY AGAIN.” What? I ended the call and redialed, but the same automated message sounded again. What was going on? I had just spoken with my mother on the phone not three hours ago. My vision began to go blurry as I called my sister, my brother, my father. All were answered with the same “WE’RE SORRY” message. The phone slipped out of my hand and broke on the marble floor when I realized I could not even remember my family member’s names. Was my brother Ted… Allen? Who was my mother? My father? Who… who was I? “I need help,” I tried to say to the woman at the desk, but all that came out was a squeaking sound as my throat closed. She stared at the screen of her computer, typing correspondence, as though she were alone in the room. Staring in disbelief, I saw the colors of the room begin to swirl and fade, melting into nonexistence. I tried to move, but was stuck in place, as though I were in thick molasses that was solidifying over me. Soon, all that was before me was a whiteness with vague, disappearing shadows of what used to be the woman, her desk, and the building around her. I reached out into the whiteness, trying to will the universe back into existence, but its disappearance was steadfast. Like my mother, my sister, my brother, my father, like my grandfather’s grave, and, like myself, the universe’s nonexistence persisted.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	“Excuse me,” Travis said, rolling down his window as he drove. A man on the sidewalk pulled the headphones out of his hears and stopped to look at him. “Do you know if there’s another Washington cemetery around here? I don’t think this is the one I’m looking for.” The man squinted at him, shrugged, and said something in some deep, guttural Eastern European language. German or Russian. He kept walking. “Fuckin hell,” Travis said. Sure, it had been a long time since he had been down this way. Two years, maybe, but everything couldn’t have changed in all that time, not like this. It was too dramatic. Too unnatural. Maybe, he told himself, he had just come in the wrong way. Maybe if he tried the parking lot on the opposite end of the cemetery things would look familiar. He drove around again, wondering when this neighborhood shifted from a heavily Colombian one to almost entirely German-Slavic. How it had it happened so fast? What had happened to all the stores his grandfather used to take him to? Annie’s Homemade Ice Cream – merely a vacant building now. Rocket Randy’s Bar and Arcade – where his Grandfather would sit at the bar and drink a few beers while Travis and his brother popped coin after coin in the miraculous, spell-binding machinery – some dingy nightclub that looked more like a drug marketplace. When he found a place to park, he got out and walked in through the smaller South entrance to the cemetery. Sure, he remembered this part. He remembered the basic layout of the place, as he and his brother had spent many hours exploring this neighborhood in the days of their youth. This must have been the right place. It was burned into his brain the way it had been back then, and maybe that’s why the change was so startling. He looked at the damage to the front of his car. That’s what had really messed with his head. That’s when things really started to feel strange. A bolt of lighting – or what he assumed to be lighting – came hurling out of the cool overcast sky – and lanced the front of his car. The blinding light had drowned out everything. A crack so loud it was like the sound of Time and Space splitting apart at the seams. He pulled over to the side of the road and tried to recover from his miniature heart-attack and had found himself in a weird funk since then. There were some scorch marks and soot on the front, but no apparent damage besides some cosmetics. But it sure as hell through his head in for a loop. He never thought lighting could form on such a miserable cold day. Travis lit a cigarette as he walked into the field of graves. Sorry, pops, he thought to himself. Sorry for not being a good enough grandson. How could he forget his own grandfather’s grave, especially when they had been so close? He would find it now, though. He had to. He couldn’t leave without laying eyes on it. Hell, he had taken a day off, spent twenty bucks on gas, and gotten himself into a colossal fight with Sandy over this shit. He walked over to the WW2 memorial in the center of the cemetery and sat down at its base for a moment. Even the billboards on the apartment high rises were in German. Travis had never seen anything like this in his life. There was some English, but he had never seen full advertisements in another language before. Not in an American city. He got up and looked behind him. Something was off about the statue. It showed two soldiers running together, frozen together in a moment. One of them looked like an American G.I., a Tommy Gun slung over his shoulder, the other looked like a Nazi, helping pull the American up as they charged into some invisible storm of fire. As if they were working together. At the base of the statue, the sign read: In Memory of the American, German, and Japanese soldiers who died during the defense of their countries – 1939-1946. That was weird. Didn't the Second World War end in 1944? Travis’s mind felt blank. He put another cigarette in his mouth. For some reason he felt like checking his own pulse. It sounded like he was having yet another heart attack today, but the pulse was definitely there. When was the last time he ate? Maybe his blood sugar was low. Maybe he had taken too much of that allergy medicine. An elderly couple was walking through the cemetery nearby. As they walked by they nodded politely and said “guten Tag.”	A paradox emerges from behind a bush. "Ah! you startled me sir!" said the man wading through the many graves. "Didn't see you there!" exclaimed the paradox in reply. "I've never seen a paradox in the flesh before" noticed the man to himself. The paradox gave the man an easy smile and said "right, well I'm off" in a British accent. The man, now having already completed what he had come to do, walked back through the graveyard to his car. He opened the door and sat down. The car smelt of old cigarettes, foam and stale french fries. Upon arriving home, the man felt some form of remorse as even though he visited the grave, he at the very same time could not find it.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	Trevor chuckled. This was ridiculous. He was lost, but by now, he knew the entire cemetery by memory. No kidding. Every headstone now occupied a permanent address in his mind. Except one. Where was his grandfather's grave? He was at the right cemetery because he lived across the street. He thought he knew where to find the headstone. He'd never had trouble before. And yet, the sun was setting and he'd walked the width and breadth of the place. He laughed, rubbed his eyes. This blurred his vision a little, so he could not make out the figure walking towards him. It looked like the groundskeeper. Was he here to tell him to leave, again? The groundskeeper opened his mouth to speak. Trevor experienced a profound belief that he had never seen the groundskeeper before this moment. That could not be. Could it? "I'm telling you this only because you remind me of myself -- petty, selfish, and proud." Put off, Trevor retorted. "That's unkind." "It's truth. But, you'll be rewritten somewhere very soon and you need to fix something good in your mind to make it easier the next time." The groundskeeper continued, "The world is going through another reorganization. This time, it's run out of room for your kind." Before he could object, Trevor knew. He knew it was true. "I'll pick something good. You'll see." "Do it, then." Concentrating, Trevor cast about for a good thought, something to navigate towards for the next time around. In the periphery, he saw his house wink away. His family had never existed and soon, neither would he. Petty, selfish and proud? A flush of anger intruded his thoughts. I'll be big. "Big! Grandiose! You'll see!" And then Trevor, too, winked away. The groundskeeper grimaced. "One step at a time." The stones in the cemetery appeared to nod with him.	A paradox emerges from behind a bush. "Ah! you startled me sir!" said the man wading through the many graves. "Didn't see you there!" exclaimed the paradox in reply. "I've never seen a paradox in the flesh before" noticed the man to himself. The paradox gave the man an easy smile and said "right, well I'm off" in a British accent. The man, now having already completed what he had come to do, walked back through the graveyard to his car. He opened the door and sat down. The car smelt of old cigarettes, foam and stale french fries. Upon arriving home, the man felt some form of remorse as even though he visited the grave, he at the very same time could not find it.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	It felt good to be state-side again. Dan Majors promised himself that the first thing he'd do when he got back would be to visit his grandpa's grave. It tore him up to learn that the old man had died when he was overseas. He'd been like a father to him after his parents were killed. Enlisting was his way of fighting back, despite the protests of the old man. They didn't talk much after he left, something that he deeply regrets sneaking out of the hospital to visit his grave was the least he could do to make up for it. For some reason they wanted to keep him there, observation they called it, but his wounds had healed just fine. His slight limp caused him to wince now and again, but shrapnel tends not to let you forget about it. His sister Annie kept him company in the hospital occasionally. They were close before he left. Their grandfather's death and his own injury seemed to run her ragged. Her usual talkative self sedated and subdued, she still fussed over him lovingly, if silently. She wouldn't be too happy about him leaving the hospital, especially without her. She had agreed with them that he had to stay there still. They didn't understand just how bad he felt; he'd promised. And so there he was, limping down the path between gravestones. It felt eerily familiar, walking past the headstones. Maybe it was just that there isn't much variation in graveyard design. He'd visited his parent's graves enough to be familiar with the layout. Still though, it was taking longer than he thought to find the marker. Dan was surprised at how exhausted he was, maybe they were right about his condition. The sun was beginning to set and he knew his sister would probably start looking for him soon. Sure enough he heard her voice somewhere behind him. He hurried himself up a little bit, hobbling faster despite the twinges of pain. He was determined to say goodbye with at least a little bit of privacy before she aught him. Just under that big old tree, next to that fat little cherub. He wheezed out a breath of relief and leaned against the old man's. By the sound of running feet muffled by grass, he didn't have much longer. Coughing to clear his suddenly seized up throat, Dan blinked away the start of a few tears and looked up to read the headstone, then froze in confusion. It wasn't right, this wasn't his grandfather's grave. The stone was a couple's marker, for a Daniel and Margery, he must have gotten turned around somewhere. He could have sworn that that was the right place though, under the tree next to the cherub, between two graves with crosses on top. He was still confused and looking around when his sister arrived, panting and furious. "Annie, where's grampa's grave? I could have sworn it was right here." Her angry eyes took on a sad glint as she approached. Something was definitely not right, she looked almost afraid that he might do something. He didn't know why, he would never hurt her; she was all he had left. "Mr.Smith? We need you to come back now. It's almost night. We're lucky that I was the one that found you." She held out her hand and he tentatively took it. "Smith?...Why did you call me Smith, Annie? I need to say goodbye to grandpa, I promised." She started gently moving him along with a hand on his back. "There is no Annie, Jack, I'm Isabelle. Don't you remember? I've been your nurse for the past decade. " "Jack? My name is Dan...Dan Ma--" "Majors? I'm really sorry Jack, there is no Dan Majors, no Annie. We don't know anything about your grandfather. You've done this a few times before. Just come with me Jack, we'll get you back to your bed and back on the right medication. You'll feel better, I promise." How could she say there was no Annie? He knew her face. It was her voice that said it. No Dan Majors....Daniel...Margery.... Jack started crying. His leg felt fine. He didn't have an Annie anymore, didn't have himself. Walking with a stranger between the graves of people long forgotten, he just felt like laying down.	A paradox emerges from behind a bush. "Ah! you startled me sir!" said the man wading through the many graves. "Didn't see you there!" exclaimed the paradox in reply. "I've never seen a paradox in the flesh before" noticed the man to himself. The paradox gave the man an easy smile and said "right, well I'm off" in a British accent. The man, now having already completed what he had come to do, walked back through the graveyard to his car. He opened the door and sat down. The car smelt of old cigarettes, foam and stale french fries. Upon arriving home, the man felt some form of remorse as even though he visited the grave, he at the very same time could not find it.
	[WP] A man visits his grandfather's grave at a cemetery, but can't find it and discovers that his grandfather, and the entire rest of his family never existed.	It felt good to be state-side again. Dan Majors promised himself that the first thing he'd do when he got back would be to visit his grandpa's grave. It tore him up to learn that the old man had died when he was overseas. He'd been like a father to him after his parents were killed. Enlisting was his way of fighting back, despite the protests of the old man. They didn't talk much after he left, something that he deeply regrets sneaking out of the hospital to visit his grave was the least he could do to make up for it. For some reason they wanted to keep him there, observation they called it, but his wounds had healed just fine. His slight limp caused him to wince now and again, but shrapnel tends not to let you forget about it. His sister Annie kept him company in the hospital occasionally. They were close before he left. Their grandfather's death and his own injury seemed to run her ragged. Her usual talkative self sedated and subdued, she still fussed over him lovingly, if silently. She wouldn't be too happy about him leaving the hospital, especially without her. She had agreed with them that he had to stay there still. They didn't understand just how bad he felt; he'd promised. And so there he was, limping down the path between gravestones. It felt eerily familiar, walking past the headstones. Maybe it was just that there isn't much variation in graveyard design. He'd visited his parent's graves enough to be familiar with the layout. Still though, it was taking longer than he thought to find the marker. Dan was surprised at how exhausted he was, maybe they were right about his condition. The sun was beginning to set and he knew his sister would probably start looking for him soon. Sure enough he heard her voice somewhere behind him. He hurried himself up a little bit, hobbling faster despite the twinges of pain. He was determined to say goodbye with at least a little bit of privacy before she aught him. Just under that big old tree, next to that fat little cherub. He wheezed out a breath of relief and leaned against the old man's. By the sound of running feet muffled by grass, he didn't have much longer. Coughing to clear his suddenly seized up throat, Dan blinked away the start of a few tears and looked up to read the headstone, then froze in confusion. It wasn't right, this wasn't his grandfather's grave. The stone was a couple's marker, for a Daniel and Margery, he must have gotten turned around somewhere. He could have sworn that that was the right place though, under the tree next to the cherub, between two graves with crosses on top. He was still confused and looking around when his sister arrived, panting and furious. "Annie, where's grampa's grave? I could have sworn it was right here." Her angry eyes took on a sad glint as she approached. Something was definitely not right, she looked almost afraid that he might do something. He didn't know why, he would never hurt her; she was all he had left. "Mr.Smith? We need you to come back now. It's almost night. We're lucky that I was the one that found you." She held out her hand and he tentatively took it. "Smith?...Why did you call me Smith, Annie? I need to say goodbye to grandpa, I promised." She started gently moving him along with a hand on his back. "There is no Annie, Jack, I'm Isabelle. Don't you remember? I've been your nurse for the past decade. " "Jack? My name is Dan...Dan Ma--" "Majors? I'm really sorry Jack, there is no Dan Majors, no Annie. We don't know anything about your grandfather. You've done this a few times before. Just come with me Jack, we'll get you back to your bed and back on the right medication. You'll feel better, I promise." How could she say there was no Annie? He knew her face. It was her voice that said it. No Dan Majors....Daniel...Margery.... Jack started crying. His leg felt fine. He didn't have an Annie anymore, didn't have himself. Walking with a stranger between the graves of people long forgotten, he just felt like laying down.	Trevor chuckled. This was ridiculous. He was lost, but by now, he knew the entire cemetery by memory. No kidding. Every headstone now occupied a permanent address in his mind. Except one. Where was his grandfather's grave? He was at the right cemetery because he lived across the street. He thought he knew where to find the headstone. He'd never had trouble before. And yet, the sun was setting and he'd walked the width and breadth of the place. He laughed, rubbed his eyes. This blurred his vision a little, so he could not make out the figure walking towards him. It looked like the groundskeeper. Was he here to tell him to leave, again? The groundskeeper opened his mouth to speak. Trevor experienced a profound belief that he had never seen the groundskeeper before this moment. That could not be. Could it? "I'm telling you this only because you remind me of myself -- petty, selfish, and proud." Put off, Trevor retorted. "That's unkind." "It's truth. But, you'll be rewritten somewhere very soon and you need to fix something good in your mind to make it easier the next time." The groundskeeper continued, "The world is going through another reorganization. This time, it's run out of room for your kind." Before he could object, Trevor knew. He knew it was true. "I'll pick something good. You'll see." "Do it, then." Concentrating, Trevor cast about for a good thought, something to navigate towards for the next time around. In the periphery, he saw his house wink away. His family had never existed and soon, neither would he. Petty, selfish and proud? A flush of anger intruded his thoughts. I'll be big. "Big! Grandiose! You'll see!" And then Trevor, too, winked away. The groundskeeper grimaced. "One step at a time." The stones in the cemetery appeared to nod with him.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	"And when Fido finally devoured the piece of milky rich chocolate from the cubard long denied him by his humans, he thought he deserved a nap..."	The weeks prior were like a scavenger hunt. Searching every nook and cranny to fashionably fit together all the pieces of the puzzle. It's all come down to tonight, my mind had built up this night so many times that the word pedestal doesn't quite capture it. My imagination had always done wonders with how the night would play out; having that special someone in my arms, looking directly into the unfolding transition into adulthood and pacing forward side by side. So often I would lose myself in vivid daydreams of how amazing it would feel, my older friends had always said it was the best feeling there was. Everything was perfect, the outfit came together splendidly after drastic dietary alterations and there was even a glaring sunset that layered the sky in all shades of purple. Fate had even chosen my favorite color to splinter so marvelously on such a night as this, it again was too perfect. Leaving my room was the first threshold, then the hallway and the stairs. Knowing more with each step, that the humiliating parents downstairs were awaiting me with an arsenal of flashes and unnecessary flattery. They knew this was the big night, and they did their best to understand and help out. But they're the only real reason I'm dressed up at all tonight; forever capturing, my forever aloneness.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	He was a beautiful baby boy. Blue eyes, no hair, and just about 8 pounds. I held him for the first time and looked him in the eyes. I loved him instantly and knew I always would. He was absolutely perfect. There was no way I would ever forget this moment. The nurse came in saying "It's time." Softly, I kissed him on his forehead as I placed him in her arms. I knew this was the best thing for him. He'd grow up happy, loved, and well cared for. As she left the room, I lifted my phone and called my dealer for the first time in 9 months.	The weeks prior were like a scavenger hunt. Searching every nook and cranny to fashionably fit together all the pieces of the puzzle. It's all come down to tonight, my mind had built up this night so many times that the word pedestal doesn't quite capture it. My imagination had always done wonders with how the night would play out; having that special someone in my arms, looking directly into the unfolding transition into adulthood and pacing forward side by side. So often I would lose myself in vivid daydreams of how amazing it would feel, my older friends had always said it was the best feeling there was. Everything was perfect, the outfit came together splendidly after drastic dietary alterations and there was even a glaring sunset that layered the sky in all shades of purple. Fate had even chosen my favorite color to splinter so marvelously on such a night as this, it again was too perfect. Leaving my room was the first threshold, then the hallway and the stairs. Knowing more with each step, that the humiliating parents downstairs were awaiting me with an arsenal of flashes and unnecessary flattery. They knew this was the big night, and they did their best to understand and help out. But they're the only real reason I'm dressed up at all tonight; forever capturing, my forever aloneness.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	Sophie and I have been inseparable since high school. We roomed together in college, had the same jobs, and played the same sports. When I was at my lowest, she's been there. When I needed advice, she's been there. She's so smart, funny, beautiful, and confident. I can't imagine who I would be without her. Tomorrow she is getting married to a wonderful man. After the honeymoon, they'll be moving back to Italy where his family is. She'll be happy there, she loves Europe. She won't stop talking about it. I'm happy for her. Her future is so beautiful.	The weeks prior were like a scavenger hunt. Searching every nook and cranny to fashionably fit together all the pieces of the puzzle. It's all come down to tonight, my mind had built up this night so many times that the word pedestal doesn't quite capture it. My imagination had always done wonders with how the night would play out; having that special someone in my arms, looking directly into the unfolding transition into adulthood and pacing forward side by side. So often I would lose myself in vivid daydreams of how amazing it would feel, my older friends had always said it was the best feeling there was. Everything was perfect, the outfit came together splendidly after drastic dietary alterations and there was even a glaring sunset that layered the sky in all shades of purple. Fate had even chosen my favorite color to splinter so marvelously on such a night as this, it again was too perfect. Leaving my room was the first threshold, then the hallway and the stairs. Knowing more with each step, that the humiliating parents downstairs were awaiting me with an arsenal of flashes and unnecessary flattery. They knew this was the big night, and they did their best to understand and help out. But they're the only real reason I'm dressed up at all tonight; forever capturing, my forever aloneness.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	"And when Fido finally devoured the piece of milky rich chocolate from the cubard long denied him by his humans, he thought he deserved a nap..."	We will. We will dance in the fire. Take a look aback my dear. Remember those twenty past years, when we lived in the New Hampshire. We will sing like in our youth! To the stubborn kids we were and to our parents, and to everything we share, we will sing to break my last tooth! We will run through the busy streets! Forgetting about the anything! Even if still the past memories try to sting, we will light them off bits by bits! We will live our last days like the last! We will never be the one tied to the mast! We'll see our world and we'll make it be better! We'll be proud of everything, and forever! Yeah, my dear. We will. I promise. We will.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	He was a beautiful baby boy. Blue eyes, no hair, and just about 8 pounds. I held him for the first time and looked him in the eyes. I loved him instantly and knew I always would. He was absolutely perfect. There was no way I would ever forget this moment. The nurse came in saying "It's time." Softly, I kissed him on his forehead as I placed him in her arms. I knew this was the best thing for him. He'd grow up happy, loved, and well cared for. As she left the room, I lifted my phone and called my dealer for the first time in 9 months.	We will. We will dance in the fire. Take a look aback my dear. Remember those twenty past years, when we lived in the New Hampshire. We will sing like in our youth! To the stubborn kids we were and to our parents, and to everything we share, we will sing to break my last tooth! We will run through the busy streets! Forgetting about the anything! Even if still the past memories try to sting, we will light them off bits by bits! We will live our last days like the last! We will never be the one tied to the mast! We'll see our world and we'll make it be better! We'll be proud of everything, and forever! Yeah, my dear. We will. I promise. We will.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	Sophie and I have been inseparable since high school. We roomed together in college, had the same jobs, and played the same sports. When I was at my lowest, she's been there. When I needed advice, she's been there. She's so smart, funny, beautiful, and confident. I can't imagine who I would be without her. Tomorrow she is getting married to a wonderful man. After the honeymoon, they'll be moving back to Italy where his family is. She'll be happy there, she loves Europe. She won't stop talking about it. I'm happy for her. Her future is so beautiful.	We will. We will dance in the fire. Take a look aback my dear. Remember those twenty past years, when we lived in the New Hampshire. We will sing like in our youth! To the stubborn kids we were and to our parents, and to everything we share, we will sing to break my last tooth! We will run through the busy streets! Forgetting about the anything! Even if still the past memories try to sting, we will light them off bits by bits! We will live our last days like the last! We will never be the one tied to the mast! We'll see our world and we'll make it be better! We'll be proud of everything, and forever! Yeah, my dear. We will. I promise. We will.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	"And when Fido finally devoured the piece of milky rich chocolate from the cubard long denied him by his humans, he thought he deserved a nap..."	I once saw a homeless man walking by. He stopped in his tracks as he noticed a penny on the ground. He bent to pick the coin up and placed it in his pocket. "Lucky penny!" I called out, throwing him a wink and a pair of finger guns. "It sure must be," he responded, with a toothless grin.
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	He was a beautiful baby boy. Blue eyes, no hair, and just about 8 pounds. I held him for the first time and looked him in the eyes. I loved him instantly and knew I always would. He was absolutely perfect. There was no way I would ever forget this moment. The nurse came in saying "It's time." Softly, I kissed him on his forehead as I placed him in her arms. I knew this was the best thing for him. He'd grow up happy, loved, and well cared for. As she left the room, I lifted my phone and called my dealer for the first time in 9 months.	Ana of the town of Lushia grew up surrounded by trees. Lushia was a small village at the bottom of the forest mountain, on the other side of which was a large port city where boats and ships of magnificiant flags and swearing men congregated. Mother only allowed her to go into the town once a month, on the night with the brightest moon, so she and her brother can hear stories of Yeal the Old and still make it safely home on their bicycles. One day, Yeal told the story of the Tasha, the twin town to Lushia. It was just 5 miles more inland. It was built around the new power factory and everyone who lived there had a job, a full stomach, and time to enjoy life. Stories were told every night. And, Dancing, Yeal's face lit up when he spoke of the dancing. But then, it all ended. Just one night. Some say it was a curse. Others say it was an accident at the factory. Life suddenly ended there. Nothing living lived. When the folks from the port city came to bring fish in the morning, they saw only death. Day after day, nothing grew, but the rumors. Rumors of those who survived, hiding in the forest around the town, feeding on children who dared to cross over. Yeal made a growling sound and spooked Ana. Ana's brother laughed, calling her a chicken. Angry, Ana picked up her bike and rode toward the lost jewel of the forest. Yeal yelled after her, but she took the wind down the hill and lost the sounds behind her. The road led her there. The edge of the dead town was clear. Black. lifeless. Nothing but crumbling buildings. No sound of birds or insects. No taunting of her brother. Muted, the world began to fill with fear. Yeal's description of the surivers came to life before her eyes. She tried to find a hiding place to sleep, but everywhere she went the sound of her footsteps only scared her even more. The wind began to howl, playing tag in the empty houses with broken windows and crumbling doors. Cloud took away some of the light, and Ana thought she saw life in the shadows. She rubbed her eyes. She rubbed them constantly. There were no more corpses. They had became ashes, according to Yeal. But those who survived should be luring in the shadows...she watched the shadows intensely... When the sun began to rise over the edge of the dark town, Ana knew it was over. Her brother waited on the other side, beneath the golden and green lights of the living forest, smiling at her. She ran to him and together they walked their bikes home. "What did you see?" He asked. "bowls, shoes, tools..." She answered. "No monsters?" "No..." Ana's voice was low like Yeal's, "nothing survived."
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	Sophie and I have been inseparable since high school. We roomed together in college, had the same jobs, and played the same sports. When I was at my lowest, she's been there. When I needed advice, she's been there. She's so smart, funny, beautiful, and confident. I can't imagine who I would be without her. Tomorrow she is getting married to a wonderful man. After the honeymoon, they'll be moving back to Italy where his family is. She'll be happy there, she loves Europe. She won't stop talking about it. I'm happy for her. Her future is so beautiful.	Ana of the town of Lushia grew up surrounded by trees. Lushia was a small village at the bottom of the forest mountain, on the other side of which was a large port city where boats and ships of magnificiant flags and swearing men congregated. Mother only allowed her to go into the town once a month, on the night with the brightest moon, so she and her brother can hear stories of Yeal the Old and still make it safely home on their bicycles. One day, Yeal told the story of the Tasha, the twin town to Lushia. It was just 5 miles more inland. It was built around the new power factory and everyone who lived there had a job, a full stomach, and time to enjoy life. Stories were told every night. And, Dancing, Yeal's face lit up when he spoke of the dancing. But then, it all ended. Just one night. Some say it was a curse. Others say it was an accident at the factory. Life suddenly ended there. Nothing living lived. When the folks from the port city came to bring fish in the morning, they saw only death. Day after day, nothing grew, but the rumors. Rumors of those who survived, hiding in the forest around the town, feeding on children who dared to cross over. Yeal made a growling sound and spooked Ana. Ana's brother laughed, calling her a chicken. Angry, Ana picked up her bike and rode toward the lost jewel of the forest. Yeal yelled after her, but she took the wind down the hill and lost the sounds behind her. The road led her there. The edge of the dead town was clear. Black. lifeless. Nothing but crumbling buildings. No sound of birds or insects. No taunting of her brother. Muted, the world began to fill with fear. Yeal's description of the surivers came to life before her eyes. She tried to find a hiding place to sleep, but everywhere she went the sound of her footsteps only scared her even more. The wind began to howl, playing tag in the empty houses with broken windows and crumbling doors. Cloud took away some of the light, and Ana thought she saw life in the shadows. She rubbed her eyes. She rubbed them constantly. There were no more corpses. They had became ashes, according to Yeal. But those who survived should be luring in the shadows...she watched the shadows intensely... When the sun began to rise over the edge of the dark town, Ana knew it was over. Her brother waited on the other side, beneath the golden and green lights of the living forest, smiling at her. She ran to him and together they walked their bikes home. "What did you see?" He asked. "bowls, shoes, tools..." She answered. "No monsters?" "No..." Ana's voice was low like Yeal's, "nothing survived."
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	They married shortly after graduating from Dartmouth. It was a grand affair. The reception was held in a giant, formal ballroom, the four course meal served on fine china. Her dress was Vera Wang, her shoes Jimmy Choo. His suit had cost more than all the floral arrangements. Their Honeymoon lasted a year. London, Oslo, Paris, Vienna, Rome, and Athens, among others. She took beautiful pictures, and upon their return home, she bound all the photographs in a giant, leatherbound book that she would display to the guests at their wine tastings and cocktail parties. They lived in beautiful home in a gated community, a gift from her father. It had granite counter-tops and mahogany wood floors. The master bathroom had a tub with the giant claw feet. He had a good job in the financial industry. It was a lot of hours, but it was secure, and paid quite well. Every few years, he would get a raise and a promotion. He was comfortable in life. She did a little bit of photography, a little bit of arts and crafts, and a lot of Pintrest. She also held lots of parties. Her friends were few, but her guests were many. She never had children. She was pregnant, once, but took care of that problem quite quickly. Neither of them were particularly interested in raising a family. Their house was always pristine; The maids and groundskeepers took excellent care. Every visitor they had only had compliments for what they saw, from the Klimt painting in the foyer to the exquisite topiary in the gardens. They never moved, though they did purchase several vacation homes. They lived in that house, even until their old age, when nurses and doctors began to visit with more frequency. He passed first. She attended his funeral dressed in black silk. The only other mourners was a cousin of his she had met twice, their butler, and one of his former co-workers. No one attended her burial. There was none. She had changed her will after her husband passed. She wanted to be cremated, and have her ashes spread in the wind, blowing away into nothing. The day she died, the house stood as still as it always had. The only audible sound was the grandfather clock ticking in the hall.	Ana of the town of Lushia grew up surrounded by trees. Lushia was a small village at the bottom of the forest mountain, on the other side of which was a large port city where boats and ships of magnificiant flags and swearing men congregated. Mother only allowed her to go into the town once a month, on the night with the brightest moon, so she and her brother can hear stories of Yeal the Old and still make it safely home on their bicycles. One day, Yeal told the story of the Tasha, the twin town to Lushia. It was just 5 miles more inland. It was built around the new power factory and everyone who lived there had a job, a full stomach, and time to enjoy life. Stories were told every night. And, Dancing, Yeal's face lit up when he spoke of the dancing. But then, it all ended. Just one night. Some say it was a curse. Others say it was an accident at the factory. Life suddenly ended there. Nothing living lived. When the folks from the port city came to bring fish in the morning, they saw only death. Day after day, nothing grew, but the rumors. Rumors of those who survived, hiding in the forest around the town, feeding on children who dared to cross over. Yeal made a growling sound and spooked Ana. Ana's brother laughed, calling her a chicken. Angry, Ana picked up her bike and rode toward the lost jewel of the forest. Yeal yelled after her, but she took the wind down the hill and lost the sounds behind her. The road led her there. The edge of the dead town was clear. Black. lifeless. Nothing but crumbling buildings. No sound of birds or insects. No taunting of her brother. Muted, the world began to fill with fear. Yeal's description of the surivers came to life before her eyes. She tried to find a hiding place to sleep, but everywhere she went the sound of her footsteps only scared her even more. The wind began to howl, playing tag in the empty houses with broken windows and crumbling doors. Cloud took away some of the light, and Ana thought she saw life in the shadows. She rubbed her eyes. She rubbed them constantly. There were no more corpses. They had became ashes, according to Yeal. But those who survived should be luring in the shadows...she watched the shadows intensely... When the sun began to rise over the edge of the dark town, Ana knew it was over. Her brother waited on the other side, beneath the golden and green lights of the living forest, smiling at her. She ran to him and together they walked their bikes home. "What did you see?" He asked. "bowls, shoes, tools..." She answered. "No monsters?" "No..." Ana's voice was low like Yeal's, "nothing survived."
It can be about anything.	[WP] Write me something that sounds happy at first, but is actually sad when you think about it.	Cara, had always wanted a puppy. I couldn't give her a lot of things but this was within my power, so I decided to sell some useless stuff we had never used that we had in the attic. I advertised it on Craigslist and it wasn't long getting a response, having heard many stories about people getting chopped to pieces after finding the person looking to buy their 2$ vase did not in fact drive 100 miles just to collect it I was glad when it was a woman's voice on the other end of the line, women were statistically less likely to be serial killers. She told me that she was married and that "we" were pregnant, the phrase struck me. Her husband was sharing the blame for this pregnancy as much as she was, it was refreshing really but it magnified my own shortcomings. They wanted to buy all the baby stuff, from the unused prams to the unused baby monitors. We met in a Walmart car park and we exchanged: money for the useless shit we never got to use. I had raised over 120$. The next few days were strange, Cara knew I'd sold the baby stuff, but we didn't talk about it. I had enough saved to buy the things we needed to adopt a puppy. I found the one that could only melt Cara's heart and I tied a ribbon around his collar. (I hadn't named him yet) When I arrived home, I opened the door and called Cara, as she descended the stairs she looked as beautiful as the day I met her, if not a little sadder, her face lit up when she saw the puppy his long tail wagging vigorously. Wordlessly she took the puppy and held him and tears blurred her eyes as she took him and hugged me. That was the first time we had communicated in a long time, we didn't speak a word.	Ana of the town of Lushia grew up surrounded by trees. Lushia was a small village at the bottom of the forest mountain, on the other side of which was a large port city where boats and ships of magnificiant flags and swearing men congregated. Mother only allowed her to go into the town once a month, on the night with the brightest moon, so she and her brother can hear stories of Yeal the Old and still make it safely home on their bicycles. One day, Yeal told the story of the Tasha, the twin town to Lushia. It was just 5 miles more inland. It was built around the new power factory and everyone who lived there had a job, a full stomach, and time to enjoy life. Stories were told every night. And, Dancing, Yeal's face lit up when he spoke of the dancing. But then, it all ended. Just one night. Some say it was a curse. Others say it was an accident at the factory. Life suddenly ended there. Nothing living lived. When the folks from the port city came to bring fish in the morning, they saw only death. Day after day, nothing grew, but the rumors. Rumors of those who survived, hiding in the forest around the town, feeding on children who dared to cross over. Yeal made a growling sound and spooked Ana. Ana's brother laughed, calling her a chicken. Angry, Ana picked up her bike and rode toward the lost jewel of the forest. Yeal yelled after her, but she took the wind down the hill and lost the sounds behind her. The road led her there. The edge of the dead town was clear. Black. lifeless. Nothing but crumbling buildings. No sound of birds or insects. No taunting of her brother. Muted, the world began to fill with fear. Yeal's description of the surivers came to life before her eyes. She tried to find a hiding place to sleep, but everywhere she went the sound of her footsteps only scared her even more. The wind began to howl, playing tag in the empty houses with broken windows and crumbling doors. Cloud took away some of the light, and Ana thought she saw life in the shadows. She rubbed her eyes. She rubbed them constantly. There were no more corpses. They had became ashes, according to Yeal. But those who survived should be luring in the shadows...she watched the shadows intensely... When the sun began to rise over the edge of the dark town, Ana knew it was over. Her brother waited on the other side, beneath the golden and green lights of the living forest, smiling at her. She ran to him and together they walked their bikes home. "What did you see?" He asked. "bowls, shoes, tools..." She answered. "No monsters?" "No..." Ana's voice was low like Yeal's, "nothing survived."

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