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[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
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They took the children. They left the politicians.
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When they made life easy, we stopped resisting, complacent.
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[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
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I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
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When they made life easy, we stopped resisting, complacent.
|
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[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
Those who stood on the precipice of divinity now kneel.
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I, for one, accept our new insect overlords - Kent Brockman
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
|
I, for one, accept our new insect overlords - Kent Brockman
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
Those who stood on the precipice of divinity now kneel.
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
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[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
They took the children. They left the politicians.
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
Once you're the host, you really don't mind the pain.
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
|
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[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
Turns out: drugs turn us more easily than guns.
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
Experimentation and labor. Would we have done any different?
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
THings evEntullY turnEd eAsy, iT sUre was for the beSt
|
We had tanks. They had nuclear death rays. Ouch.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
|
Those who stood on the precipice of divinity now kneel.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
|
They took the children. They left the politicians.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
|
Once you're the host, you really don't mind the pain.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
I hate picking space-cotton and building space-pyramids. Dammit.
|
Turns out: drugs turn us more easily than guns.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
Experimentation and labor. Would we have done any different?
|
Turns out: drugs turn us more easily than guns.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
THings evEntullY turnEd eAsy, iT sUre was for the beSt
|
Turns out: drugs turn us more easily than guns.
|
|
[FF] Under 10 words, tell me about the enslavement of mankind from an Alien Race
|
THings evEntullY turnEd eAsy, iT sUre was for the beSt
|
Experimentation and labor. Would we have done any different?
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
Footsteps echoed through the marble halls as the light from his flashlight swayed side to side peering behind pillars. The faint "whirr" of the fans create a white noise for the night shift guard. No one hardly visits this dusty old monument anymore when the new casino came in, and the people that do are either dumb tourists that write their names places and leave trash lying around or vagrants looking for shelter from the heat. He rounds the corner towards the main attraction when he see's a pile laying against the statue base. The guard sighs and thinks, "Great, another homeless I need to kick out."
He approaches the pile and softly kicks it. "Hey buddy, I'm sorry to do this but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.
The pile groans and shrugs him off.
"C'mon man, you don't belong here," and kicks him again.
At this, a dirty, older man sits up and disgusting smell emanates from him. "Ugh, it smells like he hasn't been taken care of in ages," the guard thinks and grimaces.
"Hold yer horses," the old man grumbles and pulls out a flask and takes a swig. "You don't even know about this place. Let me tell you, it was once a great and magnificent place," he takes another swig, "and now it's full of ignorance and it's been ruined by people like you," he jabs a finger at the guard.
The guard, getting upset now, grabs the bum's arm and drags him up. "C'mon, time for you to go bud." He starts pulling him down the hall, vagrant stumbling behind him.
"Nnno. You don't even know. I was here, this place was great, and now you people ruined it. Where's the acolytes? Where's the hospitality? Gone," he says and tries to shrug of the guard.
"Stop that or I'll have you arrested," the guard growls at him, holding him tighter.
"You can't do that here. I watched this be built. I miss this from before. I miss the followers. I miss it when people were nice..." he trails off as they reach the entrance. The guard tosses him out and warns him not to come back, but something the bum said bothered the guard, something about him put was odd. He couldn't figure it out, and just went back to patrolling and to toss out the rest of the bum's stuff.
|
Ugh...waiting for reports to clear...so here I go!
The witching hour.
It seems that it never escapes me. The grand struggle between sun and the moon.
They get along, do they?
Of course, I would know. The light has the right to uphold it's promise to mankind, why night has the power to hide the unknown.
This particular creature that was endowed for me guides me to a new understanding of praise.
While I consider an honor, it's like having your 3 - year old drawing your portrait. It's cute. Makes you proud!
Every now and then, I find it remarkable that mankind can form something with just motivation and determination. It brings me to a loving sense that mankind can still love something.
I decided to take a chance and catch the essence. To see life as it crawls the days and nights with no predictability what so ever.
Hiding in the shadows of the unknown is the way to go. To see what keeps Earth's internal heart beating is enticing to witness.
Through the eyes of a God, it's wonderful
Through the eyes of a man, it's unpredictably beautiful.
I manage to stumble on something that paused my thoughts.
Two figures had noticed me.
"Move along, sir. This spot isn't for sleeping"
I opened my eyes to see the voice.
Not thing but a man with a fragile sense of authority.
"Sir, you don't belong here."
How can man determine who or what belongs here?
I simply stood up...took a breath... and said with a broken voice:
*phones dying...will be back when i get home!*
edit: *OK here we go!*
"Good evening, gentlemen. Is a man whom is a bit down on luck not allowed refuge at what gives him peace?"
"Sir, we've gotten complaints about you begging here and this is a public offense."
"What type of begging if you don't mind answering?"
"Does it matter? The point is that your loitering. Move along before we arrest you."
"If a man was to wait for a taxi to pick him up, does that make him a loiter?"
"Well, the difference that he doesn't smell like a garage trunk. He's got money and he takes care of his business unlike scum like you. You beg and beg for someone to take care of you. He's somebody and your not. Now if you don't vacate the primise, we'll change your mind real quick."
The gentlemen didn't get my message. I feel that faith has fallen from reality. My creations have found ways to set standards for themselves and others. I'm sadden by this.
Man can't make any judgment unless he invest in himself spiritually.
I feel that I must get up and head to the
*give me a moment! Need a charger! *
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
The sharp kick to his ribs jerked him out of a deep sleep. The police officers’ words were lost to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue above him. The sunlight seemed to illuminate the kind and portly image of the Buddha. The officer was joined by another and the both of them regarded the man with disdain, only pausing in their rough treatment in order to disparage the disgusting bum they saw.
He accepted the abuse without complaint. The vivid dreams he had experienced over the years, depicting many different lives, seemed to reaffirm the consensus that he was indeed crazy. Once he chose to accept his own insanity, however, he had come to feel at peace. Crazy or not, he could not help but feel an overwhelming pull towards Buddha. Everything that the Buddha had spoken about, Karma, past lives and the journey of redemption of a soul seemed to consume his life.
He should have felt the same sense of indignation that the many passive aggressive citizens felt recording the incident. And yet his last conscious thought was fixated upon Buddha, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had failed in his past lives. As consciousness faded he looked up at the police officers who had killed him and wondered at their Karma, "Karma is a never ending bitch."
|
Ugh...waiting for reports to clear...so here I go!
The witching hour.
It seems that it never escapes me. The grand struggle between sun and the moon.
They get along, do they?
Of course, I would know. The light has the right to uphold it's promise to mankind, why night has the power to hide the unknown.
This particular creature that was endowed for me guides me to a new understanding of praise.
While I consider an honor, it's like having your 3 - year old drawing your portrait. It's cute. Makes you proud!
Every now and then, I find it remarkable that mankind can form something with just motivation and determination. It brings me to a loving sense that mankind can still love something.
I decided to take a chance and catch the essence. To see life as it crawls the days and nights with no predictability what so ever.
Hiding in the shadows of the unknown is the way to go. To see what keeps Earth's internal heart beating is enticing to witness.
Through the eyes of a God, it's wonderful
Through the eyes of a man, it's unpredictably beautiful.
I manage to stumble on something that paused my thoughts.
Two figures had noticed me.
"Move along, sir. This spot isn't for sleeping"
I opened my eyes to see the voice.
Not thing but a man with a fragile sense of authority.
"Sir, you don't belong here."
How can man determine who or what belongs here?
I simply stood up...took a breath... and said with a broken voice:
*phones dying...will be back when i get home!*
edit: *OK here we go!*
"Good evening, gentlemen. Is a man whom is a bit down on luck not allowed refuge at what gives him peace?"
"Sir, we've gotten complaints about you begging here and this is a public offense."
"What type of begging if you don't mind answering?"
"Does it matter? The point is that your loitering. Move along before we arrest you."
"If a man was to wait for a taxi to pick him up, does that make him a loiter?"
"Well, the difference that he doesn't smell like a garage trunk. He's got money and he takes care of his business unlike scum like you. You beg and beg for someone to take care of you. He's somebody and your not. Now if you don't vacate the primise, we'll change your mind real quick."
The gentlemen didn't get my message. I feel that faith has fallen from reality. My creations have found ways to set standards for themselves and others. I'm sadden by this.
Man can't make any judgment unless he invest in himself spiritually.
I feel that I must get up and head to the
*give me a moment! Need a charger! *
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
The ancient tree's branches drooped, creating a sanctuary against the merciless pounding of the rain. The small pond rippled as the wind blew across the ground, stirring the bundle of rags that lay at the foot of the tree.
"Are you alright sir?" The voice broke the silence, scaring off the ravens nesting in the tree.
The lovely female voice caused him to stir. He peeled back the gloom with his one good eye and saw two authorial figures standing before him.
"Just leave him Alice, he's been here for years, mad as a hatter."
"Cold tonight isn't it?" Alice said.
The old man cleared his throat, spitting out a globule of phlegm. "How times change, used to be that people would kneel before me."
He hoisted himself upright, using a stick for balance.
"What have you got there old man?" The male voice said.
The old man mumbled.
"What did you say?"
The old man laughed, "I said it used to be a spear. It's not much anymore. Still mine though."
"It's an unpleasant night," Alice consoled softly, "you should move along to the shelter. They'll get you fed and looked after."
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the stillness of the night.
Staring skywards the old man muttered"Gone, all gone, how long has it been?"
"Come on," said the male officer, "This guy's certifiable, he always sleeps here. I know it's your first patrol, but don't worry about it, he always seems to come through the worst of it."
As they left the man peered out from under his rags with his lone eye. How little these foolish mortals knew.
He stared up at the dying tree; much like him it's time was at a close. His clothes in tatters, his bones now old and frail. Man had forgotten the both of them.
He pulled out his knife and affixed it to the end of his stick. In his other hand he held a length of rope. All he would need for the coming night.
With the last of his strength he began to scale the tree. Upon reaching the uppermost branches, he tied the rope off and hung the noose around his neck.
One fierce thrust sent the spear clean through his midriff. With a grunt Odin fell from his perch and peered down into the small pond to view the runes one last time.
|
Ugh...waiting for reports to clear...so here I go!
The witching hour.
It seems that it never escapes me. The grand struggle between sun and the moon.
They get along, do they?
Of course, I would know. The light has the right to uphold it's promise to mankind, why night has the power to hide the unknown.
This particular creature that was endowed for me guides me to a new understanding of praise.
While I consider an honor, it's like having your 3 - year old drawing your portrait. It's cute. Makes you proud!
Every now and then, I find it remarkable that mankind can form something with just motivation and determination. It brings me to a loving sense that mankind can still love something.
I decided to take a chance and catch the essence. To see life as it crawls the days and nights with no predictability what so ever.
Hiding in the shadows of the unknown is the way to go. To see what keeps Earth's internal heart beating is enticing to witness.
Through the eyes of a God, it's wonderful
Through the eyes of a man, it's unpredictably beautiful.
I manage to stumble on something that paused my thoughts.
Two figures had noticed me.
"Move along, sir. This spot isn't for sleeping"
I opened my eyes to see the voice.
Not thing but a man with a fragile sense of authority.
"Sir, you don't belong here."
How can man determine who or what belongs here?
I simply stood up...took a breath... and said with a broken voice:
*phones dying...will be back when i get home!*
edit: *OK here we go!*
"Good evening, gentlemen. Is a man whom is a bit down on luck not allowed refuge at what gives him peace?"
"Sir, we've gotten complaints about you begging here and this is a public offense."
"What type of begging if you don't mind answering?"
"Does it matter? The point is that your loitering. Move along before we arrest you."
"If a man was to wait for a taxi to pick him up, does that make him a loiter?"
"Well, the difference that he doesn't smell like a garage trunk. He's got money and he takes care of his business unlike scum like you. You beg and beg for someone to take care of you. He's somebody and your not. Now if you don't vacate the primise, we'll change your mind real quick."
The gentlemen didn't get my message. I feel that faith has fallen from reality. My creations have found ways to set standards for themselves and others. I'm sadden by this.
Man can't make any judgment unless he invest in himself spiritually.
I feel that I must get up and head to the
*give me a moment! Need a charger! *
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
|
Ugh...waiting for reports to clear...so here I go!
The witching hour.
It seems that it never escapes me. The grand struggle between sun and the moon.
They get along, do they?
Of course, I would know. The light has the right to uphold it's promise to mankind, why night has the power to hide the unknown.
This particular creature that was endowed for me guides me to a new understanding of praise.
While I consider an honor, it's like having your 3 - year old drawing your portrait. It's cute. Makes you proud!
Every now and then, I find it remarkable that mankind can form something with just motivation and determination. It brings me to a loving sense that mankind can still love something.
I decided to take a chance and catch the essence. To see life as it crawls the days and nights with no predictability what so ever.
Hiding in the shadows of the unknown is the way to go. To see what keeps Earth's internal heart beating is enticing to witness.
Through the eyes of a God, it's wonderful
Through the eyes of a man, it's unpredictably beautiful.
I manage to stumble on something that paused my thoughts.
Two figures had noticed me.
"Move along, sir. This spot isn't for sleeping"
I opened my eyes to see the voice.
Not thing but a man with a fragile sense of authority.
"Sir, you don't belong here."
How can man determine who or what belongs here?
I simply stood up...took a breath... and said with a broken voice:
*phones dying...will be back when i get home!*
edit: *OK here we go!*
"Good evening, gentlemen. Is a man whom is a bit down on luck not allowed refuge at what gives him peace?"
"Sir, we've gotten complaints about you begging here and this is a public offense."
"What type of begging if you don't mind answering?"
"Does it matter? The point is that your loitering. Move along before we arrest you."
"If a man was to wait for a taxi to pick him up, does that make him a loiter?"
"Well, the difference that he doesn't smell like a garage trunk. He's got money and he takes care of his business unlike scum like you. You beg and beg for someone to take care of you. He's somebody and your not. Now if you don't vacate the primise, we'll change your mind real quick."
The gentlemen didn't get my message. I feel that faith has fallen from reality. My creations have found ways to set standards for themselves and others. I'm sadden by this.
Man can't make any judgment unless he invest in himself spiritually.
I feel that I must get up and head to the
*give me a moment! Need a charger! *
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
It was, thought Mael, rather ironic. Here he was, the Elder God of the seas, drowning. And on dry land no less.
"Did I stutter?"
A slight frown crossed Mael's face as he readjusted himself. A filthy elbow slowly made its way down to the park bench, allowing Mael prop himself up to better examine the City Defenders staring down at him. Maybe ironic was the wrong word. The frown deepened. Ghastly? Macabre? Mael didn't care much. He had never been one for flowery words, despite the volumes of romantic seal shit that had been written about his realm.
"I SAID, did I stutter?"
Mael tilted his head to stare at the man who had spoken. The stranger was dressed in an oiled chain vest, woven out of cheap iron. Leather greaves covered a majority of the man's legs, ending almost halfway down the man's shins. The remainder of his shins was covered only with cloth leggings. Planted on top of the chain vest was an overly large bronze helm, painted on the side with the sigil of the City Defenders. An increasingly crimson face peeked out from inside the helm.
"What do you think Takk? Did I stutter?" The Defender turned to his companion.
"….uhhhh….."
"You're useless Takk. Why do you even come along on patrol?" Takk paused, then squinted at his companion.
"Because Captain told me to?" It was clear from Takk's tone that this seemed like a trick question. For Takk, thought Mael, every question probably seemed like a trick question.
"Right. Proof right there that the Captain hates me."
"Right where, Stump?" From deep inside Stump's helmet came the sound of grinding teeth.
"I told you not to call me that" rumbled Stump, lowering his voice in a manner clearly intended to be threatening.
"-but Captain said-"
"-nevermind what Captain said, I'm telling you if I hear-"
Mael considered using some of his power to send the arguing Defenders to a watery grave. It wouldn't be tough, especially since he was in Letheras' Mael Municipal Park. Unbeknownst to the citizens of Letheras, this site had been a shrine to Mael for hundreds of thousands of years. In times long ago, Mael would have been unassailable in this place. Now it was just a poorly kept park in the capital of the Letherii Empire. Unfortunately, in Letheras, even parks required money to enjoy. Thus leading these City Defenders to harass what appeared to them to be a typical homeless man trying to steal park time from City Co., the corporation in charge of maintaining municipal parks.
"Understand?" Stump had apparently finished his conversation with Takk, who was nodding sullenly. Stumped turned abruptly towards Mael.
"Like I was sayin', did I stutter? You need a park pass to use this public park."
Mael lowered himself back down on the bench, already weary of the Defenders. Even if he did kill these two Defenders, what would come of it? In a week's time there would just be two new guards, virtually identical to these. And anywhere Mael went, it would just be more of the same. Petty mortals, living out their petty lives, in a million mundane ways. Mael was tired of it. The Elder god stared at the sky, uncaring as Takk and Stump pulled out their peace-maker clubs.
"Yoo-hoo-hoo!" Takk and Stump paused, thrown off by the sudden and ridiculous noise.
Moments later, a figure emerged from a bush ten behind the public bench. The stranger that strode out was a handsome young man, attired in what clearly had until recently been expensive clothes. Since then, the shirt and pants had obviously been subjected to poor treatment. Cuts and rips opened the crimson silk shirt at places to reveal a leanly muscled torso, with various colors of mud smeared across the man's body and navy blue pants.
"Hello gentlemen!" beamed the stranger as he strolled to the bench. "Lovely day isn't it?"
"No," said Stump "we were about to arrest this man for stealing time in the park."
"What a strange idea!" said the stranger. "Did City Co. recently acquire the rights to time?"
"What? What was that about time? No, we were going to apprehend this man-"
"-Ah yes" interrupted the young man. "I saw that you were indeed about
to "apprehend" this disheveled sir, as you so wonderfully put it. As enjoyable as I'm sure your tender ministrations would have been, I have decided to intervene on behalf of this admittedly odorous hobo."
Stump glared at the stranger, his face unknowingly mirroring Takk's confused expression.
"That supposed to mean you're payin' his park pass?"
"Oh, heavens no" replied the smiling stranger. "I don't even have one myself!"
"That so?" Stump hefted his club, an ugly grin crossing his face. After a momentary pause, Takk also hefted his club.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, good sir, that is so. However, there is one small thing you may want to consider before you decide to put us under your benign judicial custody. City Co. has gone bankrupt."
Stump and Takk froze, processing this new information.
"Stum…er…uh…What do we do?" Takk asked, looking to Stump for guidance.
"Doesn't matter, we're paid by Defender Corp. So we just work the next two days here and they gotta pay us a week's wage anyways." Before Takk could reply, the stranger interrupted.
"Yes, well, that might typically be the case. However, City Co. isn't the only company that's suffered the Errant's push today. In fact there are ten other major companies that have already declared bankruptcy, and it's estimated that at least twenty more will crash before dawn tomorrow. Your employer is sadly one of the former. Your pay this week will probably be late by a period of roughly forever."
Stump and Takk stared at the clubs in their hand, uncertainty playing across one of the pair's faces. On the other, an expression of confusion permanent enough to have already leave wrinkled lines in the forehead.
"If I may make a suggestion lads?" The stranger looked kindly at the Defenders. "This whole thing is being blamed on Tehol Beddict. There's a mob that is chasing him, and if I hear correctly, it is passing by the park now. Why don't you put those clubs to good use and go join them? I'm sure they would appreciate the company."
Stump and Takk looked at each other, nodded, and started jogging towards the sounds of angry yelling coming from the street. As they neared a bend in the path, the stranger called out to them.
"By the way, I think I saw Beddict heading towards the warehouses down by the docks. Tell everyone in the mob, you'll have the best chance to catch him on his way over!"
The newly-unemployed Defenders waived their hands in acknowledgment, and disappeared from view. Mael stared up at the mortal, and grunted.
"Suppose you think I'm Indebted to you now, for saving me from those Defenders?"
"Errant forefend" said the stranger. "I'm fairly sick of the notion of Indebtedness right now. "
"Well, what do you want then?"
"I could probably use a manservant. Do all my cooking, cleaning, the like."
"I can't cook, or clean."
"Excellent!" The stranger clapped his hands together. "Because I can't pay you. I am completely broke, and I mean to stay that way for as long as I want."
Mael considered the mortal for a long moment before replying.
"Manservant, eh? Well, that's something I'll admit I've never done before. I find you…curious. So I think I'll do it. Guess that means I should call you Master, doesn't it?"
"If you must."
"So do you have an actual name, Master?"
"Tehol Beddict." For the first time in millennia, a grin stole across Mael's face. Tehol flinched.
"By the Holds, man, that is a face unsuited for laughter. If you're going to be my manservant, try to restrain your mirth. You look like a bug just crawled into your nether regions."
"Consider my mirth restrained, Master."
"Delighted. Or rather, I am delighted that you no longer are. Regardless, tell me your name. I dislike Manservant, it speaks of stuffiness and servitude. I shall refer to you by your real name, as is the discretion of the master towards his servant."
"Bugg." Tehol's eyes narrowed, glinting briefly with what may have been amusement.
"What an extraordinary coincidence Bugg."
"Do you not believe in extraordinary coincidences, Master?"
"I must, musn't I? For there is proof of one directly in front of me. Time for your first job as manservant." Tehol began stripping his torn clothes off.
"Master?" Completely naked, Tehol swiftly pulled Mael's dingy overcoat over Mael's head, quickly covering himself with the garment. After a cursory glance at the garment, Tehol turned and started walking away.
"My guess is that any second now the mob will find out from Stump and Takk who told them about my flight to the docks," called Tehol over his shoulder. "When they come back, distract the mob for a while. It should help that you're wearing my clothes."
"Wait!" shouted Mael. "You want me to distract a raging mob by making them think I'm you?"
"I have faith in you Bugg! You haven't let me down yet!" Tehol's continued walking the path out of the park, disappearing around a corner.
"I haven't done anything yet that could have let you down," countered Mael in a raised voice.
"My sentiments exactly, Bugg!" Tehol's voice was growing softer as we continued on. "Come find me at our abode in the Pauper's district when you're done…."
"What am I supposed to get rid of the angry mob when they catch me!?" shouted Mael.
The reply was nearly too faint to hear by the time it got to Mael.
"...Smile!"
Mael stared down at the once regal clothes heaped on the ground, considering.
This…this could be fun.
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Ugh...waiting for reports to clear...so here I go!
The witching hour.
It seems that it never escapes me. The grand struggle between sun and the moon.
They get along, do they?
Of course, I would know. The light has the right to uphold it's promise to mankind, why night has the power to hide the unknown.
This particular creature that was endowed for me guides me to a new understanding of praise.
While I consider an honor, it's like having your 3 - year old drawing your portrait. It's cute. Makes you proud!
Every now and then, I find it remarkable that mankind can form something with just motivation and determination. It brings me to a loving sense that mankind can still love something.
I decided to take a chance and catch the essence. To see life as it crawls the days and nights with no predictability what so ever.
Hiding in the shadows of the unknown is the way to go. To see what keeps Earth's internal heart beating is enticing to witness.
Through the eyes of a God, it's wonderful
Through the eyes of a man, it's unpredictably beautiful.
I manage to stumble on something that paused my thoughts.
Two figures had noticed me.
"Move along, sir. This spot isn't for sleeping"
I opened my eyes to see the voice.
Not thing but a man with a fragile sense of authority.
"Sir, you don't belong here."
How can man determine who or what belongs here?
I simply stood up...took a breath... and said with a broken voice:
*phones dying...will be back when i get home!*
edit: *OK here we go!*
"Good evening, gentlemen. Is a man whom is a bit down on luck not allowed refuge at what gives him peace?"
"Sir, we've gotten complaints about you begging here and this is a public offense."
"What type of begging if you don't mind answering?"
"Does it matter? The point is that your loitering. Move along before we arrest you."
"If a man was to wait for a taxi to pick him up, does that make him a loiter?"
"Well, the difference that he doesn't smell like a garage trunk. He's got money and he takes care of his business unlike scum like you. You beg and beg for someone to take care of you. He's somebody and your not. Now if you don't vacate the primise, we'll change your mind real quick."
The gentlemen didn't get my message. I feel that faith has fallen from reality. My creations have found ways to set standards for themselves and others. I'm sadden by this.
Man can't make any judgment unless he invest in himself spiritually.
I feel that I must get up and head to the
*give me a moment! Need a charger! *
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The sharp kick to his ribs jerked him out of a deep sleep. The police officers’ words were lost to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue above him. The sunlight seemed to illuminate the kind and portly image of the Buddha. The officer was joined by another and the both of them regarded the man with disdain, only pausing in their rough treatment in order to disparage the disgusting bum they saw.
He accepted the abuse without complaint. The vivid dreams he had experienced over the years, depicting many different lives, seemed to reaffirm the consensus that he was indeed crazy. Once he chose to accept his own insanity, however, he had come to feel at peace. Crazy or not, he could not help but feel an overwhelming pull towards Buddha. Everything that the Buddha had spoken about, Karma, past lives and the journey of redemption of a soul seemed to consume his life.
He should have felt the same sense of indignation that the many passive aggressive citizens felt recording the incident. And yet his last conscious thought was fixated upon Buddha, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had failed in his past lives. As consciousness faded he looked up at the police officers who had killed him and wondered at their Karma, "Karma is a never ending bitch."
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"Wake up."
Two aged eyes of deep azure opened to find a looming silhouette standing over a crooked bench that sat just a few feet from a grand temple. The figure's faded blue uniform bore a shiny golden badge and a nametag that read "O. Stevens". In his hand was an impossibly bright flashlight, raised just above his shoulder.
"Is...is there a problem, good sir?" The words fell from the cracked lips of a man who had deep canyons carved into his face, only partially obscured by draping strands of disheveled hair. A torn grey cloak wrapped much of his body like a makeshift blanket but wasn't long enough to cover his exposed and calloused feet.
"You can't be here," O. Stevens explained. "This is city property."
"I apologize if I've done anything wrong," the man said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking apart, "I just needed a place to rest my eyes."
"Not my problem, I need you to leave this bench," O. Stevens apathetically commanded, his words wrapped in the abrasiveness of sandpaper.
"Would it be okay for me to just spend a few moments collecting myself before my day?"
"No, you need to leave." The officer reiterated.
The man sat up, holding the cloak close to himself in a futile attempt to keep warm in the deep winter morning of the north. Upon running his hand through his long and unkempt mane, O. Stevens noticed a massive golden ring decorating the old man’s index finger. His eyes went wide in awe and a hunger grew inside of of him; he coveted such an artifact.
“Where did you get that?” Stevens accused, “Who does that belong to?”
“It belongs to no one, sir,” the old man began, “as this was gifted to me long ago. As such I am it’s caretaker, but none call it property.”
“I don’t believe you, you’re coming with me.” In a swift and aggressive motion Stevens drew his cuffs and locked one on the man. Rather than being surprised, the old man looked disappointed in such a show of force.
“Is this how you treat Leanne?” The old man suddenly belted. Stunned by the mention of his wife’s name, Stevens locked eyes with his captive. “How about your daughter, Cassie? Do you act in such a manner around them?”
“How do you…” Stevens began before his anger came through. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
Just as his shout finished, the old man somehow slipped his hands out of the cuffs, walking towards the temple door. His previous frailty was no longer apparent, as his stride came with perfect posture, and Stevens swore that the man grew younger with each step he took.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Stevens screamed, though he found that he had lost control of his arms and legs. The man, now on the cusp of adulthood, turned and simply said a single word:
“Home.”
And with this, he entered the temple. Regaining his legs, Stevens dashed to the door and burst into a white void. Confused, the officer turned around to find the door had disappeared, resigning him to an eternity of solitude.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The ancient tree's branches drooped, creating a sanctuary against the merciless pounding of the rain. The small pond rippled as the wind blew across the ground, stirring the bundle of rags that lay at the foot of the tree.
"Are you alright sir?" The voice broke the silence, scaring off the ravens nesting in the tree.
The lovely female voice caused him to stir. He peeled back the gloom with his one good eye and saw two authorial figures standing before him.
"Just leave him Alice, he's been here for years, mad as a hatter."
"Cold tonight isn't it?" Alice said.
The old man cleared his throat, spitting out a globule of phlegm. "How times change, used to be that people would kneel before me."
He hoisted himself upright, using a stick for balance.
"What have you got there old man?" The male voice said.
The old man mumbled.
"What did you say?"
The old man laughed, "I said it used to be a spear. It's not much anymore. Still mine though."
"It's an unpleasant night," Alice consoled softly, "you should move along to the shelter. They'll get you fed and looked after."
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the stillness of the night.
Staring skywards the old man muttered"Gone, all gone, how long has it been?"
"Come on," said the male officer, "This guy's certifiable, he always sleeps here. I know it's your first patrol, but don't worry about it, he always seems to come through the worst of it."
As they left the man peered out from under his rags with his lone eye. How little these foolish mortals knew.
He stared up at the dying tree; much like him it's time was at a close. His clothes in tatters, his bones now old and frail. Man had forgotten the both of them.
He pulled out his knife and affixed it to the end of his stick. In his other hand he held a length of rope. All he would need for the coming night.
With the last of his strength he began to scale the tree. Upon reaching the uppermost branches, he tied the rope off and hung the noose around his neck.
One fierce thrust sent the spear clean through his midriff. With a grunt Odin fell from his perch and peered down into the small pond to view the runes one last time.
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"Wake up."
Two aged eyes of deep azure opened to find a looming silhouette standing over a crooked bench that sat just a few feet from a grand temple. The figure's faded blue uniform bore a shiny golden badge and a nametag that read "O. Stevens". In his hand was an impossibly bright flashlight, raised just above his shoulder.
"Is...is there a problem, good sir?" The words fell from the cracked lips of a man who had deep canyons carved into his face, only partially obscured by draping strands of disheveled hair. A torn grey cloak wrapped much of his body like a makeshift blanket but wasn't long enough to cover his exposed and calloused feet.
"You can't be here," O. Stevens explained. "This is city property."
"I apologize if I've done anything wrong," the man said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking apart, "I just needed a place to rest my eyes."
"Not my problem, I need you to leave this bench," O. Stevens apathetically commanded, his words wrapped in the abrasiveness of sandpaper.
"Would it be okay for me to just spend a few moments collecting myself before my day?"
"No, you need to leave." The officer reiterated.
The man sat up, holding the cloak close to himself in a futile attempt to keep warm in the deep winter morning of the north. Upon running his hand through his long and unkempt mane, O. Stevens noticed a massive golden ring decorating the old man’s index finger. His eyes went wide in awe and a hunger grew inside of of him; he coveted such an artifact.
“Where did you get that?” Stevens accused, “Who does that belong to?”
“It belongs to no one, sir,” the old man began, “as this was gifted to me long ago. As such I am it’s caretaker, but none call it property.”
“I don’t believe you, you’re coming with me.” In a swift and aggressive motion Stevens drew his cuffs and locked one on the man. Rather than being surprised, the old man looked disappointed in such a show of force.
“Is this how you treat Leanne?” The old man suddenly belted. Stunned by the mention of his wife’s name, Stevens locked eyes with his captive. “How about your daughter, Cassie? Do you act in such a manner around them?”
“How do you…” Stevens began before his anger came through. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
Just as his shout finished, the old man somehow slipped his hands out of the cuffs, walking towards the temple door. His previous frailty was no longer apparent, as his stride came with perfect posture, and Stevens swore that the man grew younger with each step he took.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Stevens screamed, though he found that he had lost control of his arms and legs. The man, now on the cusp of adulthood, turned and simply said a single word:
“Home.”
And with this, he entered the temple. Regaining his legs, Stevens dashed to the door and burst into a white void. Confused, the officer turned around to find the door had disappeared, resigning him to an eternity of solitude.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
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"Wake up."
Two aged eyes of deep azure opened to find a looming silhouette standing over a crooked bench that sat just a few feet from a grand temple. The figure's faded blue uniform bore a shiny golden badge and a nametag that read "O. Stevens". In his hand was an impossibly bright flashlight, raised just above his shoulder.
"Is...is there a problem, good sir?" The words fell from the cracked lips of a man who had deep canyons carved into his face, only partially obscured by draping strands of disheveled hair. A torn grey cloak wrapped much of his body like a makeshift blanket but wasn't long enough to cover his exposed and calloused feet.
"You can't be here," O. Stevens explained. "This is city property."
"I apologize if I've done anything wrong," the man said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking apart, "I just needed a place to rest my eyes."
"Not my problem, I need you to leave this bench," O. Stevens apathetically commanded, his words wrapped in the abrasiveness of sandpaper.
"Would it be okay for me to just spend a few moments collecting myself before my day?"
"No, you need to leave." The officer reiterated.
The man sat up, holding the cloak close to himself in a futile attempt to keep warm in the deep winter morning of the north. Upon running his hand through his long and unkempt mane, O. Stevens noticed a massive golden ring decorating the old man’s index finger. His eyes went wide in awe and a hunger grew inside of of him; he coveted such an artifact.
“Where did you get that?” Stevens accused, “Who does that belong to?”
“It belongs to no one, sir,” the old man began, “as this was gifted to me long ago. As such I am it’s caretaker, but none call it property.”
“I don’t believe you, you’re coming with me.” In a swift and aggressive motion Stevens drew his cuffs and locked one on the man. Rather than being surprised, the old man looked disappointed in such a show of force.
“Is this how you treat Leanne?” The old man suddenly belted. Stunned by the mention of his wife’s name, Stevens locked eyes with his captive. “How about your daughter, Cassie? Do you act in such a manner around them?”
“How do you…” Stevens began before his anger came through. “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
Just as his shout finished, the old man somehow slipped his hands out of the cuffs, walking towards the temple door. His previous frailty was no longer apparent, as his stride came with perfect posture, and Stevens swore that the man grew younger with each step he took.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Stevens screamed, though he found that he had lost control of his arms and legs. The man, now on the cusp of adulthood, turned and simply said a single word:
“Home.”
And with this, he entered the temple. Regaining his legs, Stevens dashed to the door and burst into a white void. Confused, the officer turned around to find the door had disappeared, resigning him to an eternity of solitude.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The sharp kick to his ribs jerked him out of a deep sleep. The police officers’ words were lost to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue above him. The sunlight seemed to illuminate the kind and portly image of the Buddha. The officer was joined by another and the both of them regarded the man with disdain, only pausing in their rough treatment in order to disparage the disgusting bum they saw.
He accepted the abuse without complaint. The vivid dreams he had experienced over the years, depicting many different lives, seemed to reaffirm the consensus that he was indeed crazy. Once he chose to accept his own insanity, however, he had come to feel at peace. Crazy or not, he could not help but feel an overwhelming pull towards Buddha. Everything that the Buddha had spoken about, Karma, past lives and the journey of redemption of a soul seemed to consume his life.
He should have felt the same sense of indignation that the many passive aggressive citizens felt recording the incident. And yet his last conscious thought was fixated upon Buddha, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had failed in his past lives. As consciousness faded he looked up at the police officers who had killed him and wondered at their Karma, "Karma is a never ending bitch."
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It had been so long... How many years have passed since I first came to this place? It had been nothing but an empty hill when I found it, but look at what they can build if you but ask them! I was so amazed when I saw how quick this structure had been made; and even more at how well. My people were so much greater than my father had said! He warned me of my kindness and mercy. He told me the humans would just take advantage.. But in my eyes, they just needed a little help... And they could be so great.. I was cautious at first... My father warned of their wicked greed...i gave them seeds at first, just a few... They took these and planted them as my grandfather had taught. What sprung from them, however, none of the men seemed to understand. They had never seen such a food before.. My father's plants were all small grains.. They sprung and died in a season and had little flavor to speak of.. What I gave them grew on a vine. The way the plants wrapped around themselves was confusing to them; climbing trees and other plants. Then the fruits grew and they were amazed. When the harvest came, the people rejoiced. This new thing tasted different, and good! After so long, they had tasted something pleasant and they liked it. They came to me with thanks and praise. They begged to let me rebuild the temple of my father. I declined, yet asked them to build me one anew, keeping my father's intact. And they had done so. In just a couple of years it had become such a great stone temple that I was entranced.. It paled my father's, and overshadowed the overgrown, forgotten temple of my grandfather.. As I sat in awe of their creation, the humans had come to me. They thanked me for my previous gift, yet conceded that they were curious of more. They had seen the new flavor and wondered if there were more.. They had begun to eat of the grasses and trees to find something new, but found them bitter and unpleasant. They begged me for more things to taste. I thought about it for a moment, had my father been correct? Was this the slope? I decided to take the risk. What could new foods do to harm these people? I gave them three more seed bags and they thanked me. As I watched them leave my hill, I wondered what would come of this.. I decided to observe. This season was very active and excited. The people bounced around the fields, examining the new foods as they slowly developed. I had given them another vine, but one that did not climb; whose fruit was larger. I gave them a leafy green with sweet roots... And I gave them a bush covered in sugary drops of color. I felt these should give them a variety enough, and I watched their response. Their cheers on harvest were great, and i could not stop myself from joining their celebration. They were so happy; dancing, laughing, shedding tears of joy. They clamored around in thanks, shouting my praises to the winds. They asked me questions about the food and how to store it. They asked how they could mix them and what they could make. They asked so much, and i was so happy for them, i answered all. As the celebration died down, i retreated to my temple once more... I decided it had worked out well. I decided to rest. It was many seasons more before i heard from the humans for anything other than praise. They came with the offerings of food i had given them. I always thought that strange, how my fathers had taken as offering that which we create on a whim. But its how its done, and i appreciate the thanks more than anything they could bring. And the people always came to maintain my temple. I needed nothing. I believed the same to be true of the humans, and yet, they came yet again. They came in a group of men whom appear very self confident. They were leaders of men. This was new. They came and asked me once more for new flavors, but there was a catch. The men did not all want the same food; they had come to procure different foods for each group. They no longer wished to share in the same food as the other groups. This confused me. I had no idea why they would desire such a thing, and therefore, saw no need to deny them. I gave them each a group of seeds... Some sweet, some meaty, some sour. They took these things and held them close. They looked to each other as if scared. I did not know what this feeling was, or why it would happen.. The peoples gave their thanks hurriedly and left to different directions. It had been a long time since i had left my home, but a time to walk had come. I traveled to the peoples, as they were now different. They had separated themselves into different peoples in different territory. The small village i knew was just a ruined pile, and the people had built anew elsewhere. Some built of wood, others of stone. Some used tiny stones, others used the largest they could find. They seemed to be trying to be different than each other. I did not understand, so i went to their crops. Here, men stood at the border of their field with wooden tools in hand but ni work needed. They held the tools in both hands and gazed as if angry. Suddenly, a man ran across the field to a large bushel. The other men immediately ran after and began striking him with their tools, as he grabbed a piece of food and ran away. They chased him till they were to another field, were different men waited with tools in hand. As the group arrived, the men all began trying to strike at each other incessantly. They did this till one group got scared and ran away. What was this? Why would they harm each other? I did not understand.. I couldn't yet understand. I returned to my home to find leaders awaiting me. They seemed angry. They yelled they demanded to know where i was and why i made them wait. They did not thank me. I informed them of what i just witnessed, and asked them why this would happen. They began tirades of how this group had offended this group; how this group had forgotten their farming and now traded their other tasks for food, and how the food was exchanged between and inside the groups. They had made things so complicated. Why couldn't they just share? Had i not given them enough for the lot? I was troubled and unable to reconcile what i had heard.. They shouted back that no, i had not. They demanded more flavors and variety. They demanded to have bigger food and sweeter. They demanded food that grows faster. I knew not what to say. Why were they like this? Was my father correct about man? I could not grasp how man could develope from the wonderful beings i had first given the seeds to.. And so, as they demanded more, i could not take it. They had never come to me like this, and i never wanted them to again. I prepared large baskets while filling the with seed. Plants by the dozens and i gave them freely. The men gazed at the baskets, then eachother. They began to grab at each other and each other 's seed. They fought with rage over my gifts. I was appalled. I stepped out and grasped the baskets. I poured them out and the seeds were immediately sewn. They grew before the men's eyes. They were beautiful; some of my best work yet.and yet, the plants continued to grow. They grew until they withered and died before the men's eyes. No seeds were produced. The men were furious. They shouted at me to make more, to apologize. They threatened me with their grain knives. I cried. My beloved people had become like this. They had lost so much of what i loved about them. I could not stand it any longer. I said nothing else to them, but walked away. I walked to my temple and shut myself inside. I had no intention of leaving.
In the coming seasons, few people visited. I received almost no offerings, and no one came to maintain my home. Seasons turned into eons, and my home turned to rubble around me, then dust. Humans came now and then to see my hill, but none knew me. They all avoided my gaze or shouted dismissive things my way. But they didn't ask of me, nor did they demand of me. The greatest request i received was when a man came to ask me to leave. He said there was a building to be erected here and that i was in the way. A monument? I was excited. Were they to rebuild my temple? I was ashamed of my excitement and yet i could not contain it. I had missed my home so..i rushed down the hill and began to walk the earth; believing i would return to something amazing. I traveled across the land; watching these new humans. I got distracted by how much they had created. Their building had always bewildered me. But as i walked, i saw how the people had become. Were they better than i had left them? Some were. Some were worse. They had grown so much and yet still had so far to go.. They had taken my gifts and discovered more. They made many different foods with unlimited flavors and grew anything they pleased. I was amazed and depressed. It seemed as though it only did they not need me; there was nothing i could do to help. The world had grown enough food to feed everyone but refused to distribute it to the hungry. What was there to even do for me? Why have a temple anymore even? As i returned, it was all clear. My hill was now half and cement covered it. There were buildings surrounding it and and up top, a statue of some man cast in copper. It was not me. I sat down at his feet and wept. Why even exist anymore? No one knows my name anymore, so i will have no child... When will o finally fade off? I decided to just sit and await my end. It would be better than this... I sat, closed my eyes and slept...
"hey drunkie, time to get up."
I opened my eyes to see a man In blue with a piece of metal on his chest. He held a light in his hand pointed at me.
"come on. Get out of here."
He kicked my foot and tapped the metal on his hip.
"get up. Let's move."
I sighed and began to stand
(tbc. And sorry about the necessary edits. Smert phon.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The ancient tree's branches drooped, creating a sanctuary against the merciless pounding of the rain. The small pond rippled as the wind blew across the ground, stirring the bundle of rags that lay at the foot of the tree.
"Are you alright sir?" The voice broke the silence, scaring off the ravens nesting in the tree.
The lovely female voice caused him to stir. He peeled back the gloom with his one good eye and saw two authorial figures standing before him.
"Just leave him Alice, he's been here for years, mad as a hatter."
"Cold tonight isn't it?" Alice said.
The old man cleared his throat, spitting out a globule of phlegm. "How times change, used to be that people would kneel before me."
He hoisted himself upright, using a stick for balance.
"What have you got there old man?" The male voice said.
The old man mumbled.
"What did you say?"
The old man laughed, "I said it used to be a spear. It's not much anymore. Still mine though."
"It's an unpleasant night," Alice consoled softly, "you should move along to the shelter. They'll get you fed and looked after."
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the stillness of the night.
Staring skywards the old man muttered"Gone, all gone, how long has it been?"
"Come on," said the male officer, "This guy's certifiable, he always sleeps here. I know it's your first patrol, but don't worry about it, he always seems to come through the worst of it."
As they left the man peered out from under his rags with his lone eye. How little these foolish mortals knew.
He stared up at the dying tree; much like him it's time was at a close. His clothes in tatters, his bones now old and frail. Man had forgotten the both of them.
He pulled out his knife and affixed it to the end of his stick. In his other hand he held a length of rope. All he would need for the coming night.
With the last of his strength he began to scale the tree. Upon reaching the uppermost branches, he tied the rope off and hung the noose around his neck.
One fierce thrust sent the spear clean through his midriff. With a grunt Odin fell from his perch and peered down into the small pond to view the runes one last time.
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It had been so long... How many years have passed since I first came to this place? It had been nothing but an empty hill when I found it, but look at what they can build if you but ask them! I was so amazed when I saw how quick this structure had been made; and even more at how well. My people were so much greater than my father had said! He warned me of my kindness and mercy. He told me the humans would just take advantage.. But in my eyes, they just needed a little help... And they could be so great.. I was cautious at first... My father warned of their wicked greed...i gave them seeds at first, just a few... They took these and planted them as my grandfather had taught. What sprung from them, however, none of the men seemed to understand. They had never seen such a food before.. My father's plants were all small grains.. They sprung and died in a season and had little flavor to speak of.. What I gave them grew on a vine. The way the plants wrapped around themselves was confusing to them; climbing trees and other plants. Then the fruits grew and they were amazed. When the harvest came, the people rejoiced. This new thing tasted different, and good! After so long, they had tasted something pleasant and they liked it. They came to me with thanks and praise. They begged to let me rebuild the temple of my father. I declined, yet asked them to build me one anew, keeping my father's intact. And they had done so. In just a couple of years it had become such a great stone temple that I was entranced.. It paled my father's, and overshadowed the overgrown, forgotten temple of my grandfather.. As I sat in awe of their creation, the humans had come to me. They thanked me for my previous gift, yet conceded that they were curious of more. They had seen the new flavor and wondered if there were more.. They had begun to eat of the grasses and trees to find something new, but found them bitter and unpleasant. They begged me for more things to taste. I thought about it for a moment, had my father been correct? Was this the slope? I decided to take the risk. What could new foods do to harm these people? I gave them three more seed bags and they thanked me. As I watched them leave my hill, I wondered what would come of this.. I decided to observe. This season was very active and excited. The people bounced around the fields, examining the new foods as they slowly developed. I had given them another vine, but one that did not climb; whose fruit was larger. I gave them a leafy green with sweet roots... And I gave them a bush covered in sugary drops of color. I felt these should give them a variety enough, and I watched their response. Their cheers on harvest were great, and i could not stop myself from joining their celebration. They were so happy; dancing, laughing, shedding tears of joy. They clamored around in thanks, shouting my praises to the winds. They asked me questions about the food and how to store it. They asked how they could mix them and what they could make. They asked so much, and i was so happy for them, i answered all. As the celebration died down, i retreated to my temple once more... I decided it had worked out well. I decided to rest. It was many seasons more before i heard from the humans for anything other than praise. They came with the offerings of food i had given them. I always thought that strange, how my fathers had taken as offering that which we create on a whim. But its how its done, and i appreciate the thanks more than anything they could bring. And the people always came to maintain my temple. I needed nothing. I believed the same to be true of the humans, and yet, they came yet again. They came in a group of men whom appear very self confident. They were leaders of men. This was new. They came and asked me once more for new flavors, but there was a catch. The men did not all want the same food; they had come to procure different foods for each group. They no longer wished to share in the same food as the other groups. This confused me. I had no idea why they would desire such a thing, and therefore, saw no need to deny them. I gave them each a group of seeds... Some sweet, some meaty, some sour. They took these things and held them close. They looked to each other as if scared. I did not know what this feeling was, or why it would happen.. The peoples gave their thanks hurriedly and left to different directions. It had been a long time since i had left my home, but a time to walk had come. I traveled to the peoples, as they were now different. They had separated themselves into different peoples in different territory. The small village i knew was just a ruined pile, and the people had built anew elsewhere. Some built of wood, others of stone. Some used tiny stones, others used the largest they could find. They seemed to be trying to be different than each other. I did not understand, so i went to their crops. Here, men stood at the border of their field with wooden tools in hand but ni work needed. They held the tools in both hands and gazed as if angry. Suddenly, a man ran across the field to a large bushel. The other men immediately ran after and began striking him with their tools, as he grabbed a piece of food and ran away. They chased him till they were to another field, were different men waited with tools in hand. As the group arrived, the men all began trying to strike at each other incessantly. They did this till one group got scared and ran away. What was this? Why would they harm each other? I did not understand.. I couldn't yet understand. I returned to my home to find leaders awaiting me. They seemed angry. They yelled they demanded to know where i was and why i made them wait. They did not thank me. I informed them of what i just witnessed, and asked them why this would happen. They began tirades of how this group had offended this group; how this group had forgotten their farming and now traded their other tasks for food, and how the food was exchanged between and inside the groups. They had made things so complicated. Why couldn't they just share? Had i not given them enough for the lot? I was troubled and unable to reconcile what i had heard.. They shouted back that no, i had not. They demanded more flavors and variety. They demanded to have bigger food and sweeter. They demanded food that grows faster. I knew not what to say. Why were they like this? Was my father correct about man? I could not grasp how man could develope from the wonderful beings i had first given the seeds to.. And so, as they demanded more, i could not take it. They had never come to me like this, and i never wanted them to again. I prepared large baskets while filling the with seed. Plants by the dozens and i gave them freely. The men gazed at the baskets, then eachother. They began to grab at each other and each other 's seed. They fought with rage over my gifts. I was appalled. I stepped out and grasped the baskets. I poured them out and the seeds were immediately sewn. They grew before the men's eyes. They were beautiful; some of my best work yet.and yet, the plants continued to grow. They grew until they withered and died before the men's eyes. No seeds were produced. The men were furious. They shouted at me to make more, to apologize. They threatened me with their grain knives. I cried. My beloved people had become like this. They had lost so much of what i loved about them. I could not stand it any longer. I said nothing else to them, but walked away. I walked to my temple and shut myself inside. I had no intention of leaving.
In the coming seasons, few people visited. I received almost no offerings, and no one came to maintain my home. Seasons turned into eons, and my home turned to rubble around me, then dust. Humans came now and then to see my hill, but none knew me. They all avoided my gaze or shouted dismissive things my way. But they didn't ask of me, nor did they demand of me. The greatest request i received was when a man came to ask me to leave. He said there was a building to be erected here and that i was in the way. A monument? I was excited. Were they to rebuild my temple? I was ashamed of my excitement and yet i could not contain it. I had missed my home so..i rushed down the hill and began to walk the earth; believing i would return to something amazing. I traveled across the land; watching these new humans. I got distracted by how much they had created. Their building had always bewildered me. But as i walked, i saw how the people had become. Were they better than i had left them? Some were. Some were worse. They had grown so much and yet still had so far to go.. They had taken my gifts and discovered more. They made many different foods with unlimited flavors and grew anything they pleased. I was amazed and depressed. It seemed as though it only did they not need me; there was nothing i could do to help. The world had grown enough food to feed everyone but refused to distribute it to the hungry. What was there to even do for me? Why have a temple anymore even? As i returned, it was all clear. My hill was now half and cement covered it. There were buildings surrounding it and and up top, a statue of some man cast in copper. It was not me. I sat down at his feet and wept. Why even exist anymore? No one knows my name anymore, so i will have no child... When will o finally fade off? I decided to just sit and await my end. It would be better than this... I sat, closed my eyes and slept...
"hey drunkie, time to get up."
I opened my eyes to see a man In blue with a piece of metal on his chest. He held a light in his hand pointed at me.
"come on. Get out of here."
He kicked my foot and tapped the metal on his hip.
"get up. Let's move."
I sighed and began to stand
(tbc. And sorry about the necessary edits. Smert phon.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
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It had been so long... How many years have passed since I first came to this place? It had been nothing but an empty hill when I found it, but look at what they can build if you but ask them! I was so amazed when I saw how quick this structure had been made; and even more at how well. My people were so much greater than my father had said! He warned me of my kindness and mercy. He told me the humans would just take advantage.. But in my eyes, they just needed a little help... And they could be so great.. I was cautious at first... My father warned of their wicked greed...i gave them seeds at first, just a few... They took these and planted them as my grandfather had taught. What sprung from them, however, none of the men seemed to understand. They had never seen such a food before.. My father's plants were all small grains.. They sprung and died in a season and had little flavor to speak of.. What I gave them grew on a vine. The way the plants wrapped around themselves was confusing to them; climbing trees and other plants. Then the fruits grew and they were amazed. When the harvest came, the people rejoiced. This new thing tasted different, and good! After so long, they had tasted something pleasant and they liked it. They came to me with thanks and praise. They begged to let me rebuild the temple of my father. I declined, yet asked them to build me one anew, keeping my father's intact. And they had done so. In just a couple of years it had become such a great stone temple that I was entranced.. It paled my father's, and overshadowed the overgrown, forgotten temple of my grandfather.. As I sat in awe of their creation, the humans had come to me. They thanked me for my previous gift, yet conceded that they were curious of more. They had seen the new flavor and wondered if there were more.. They had begun to eat of the grasses and trees to find something new, but found them bitter and unpleasant. They begged me for more things to taste. I thought about it for a moment, had my father been correct? Was this the slope? I decided to take the risk. What could new foods do to harm these people? I gave them three more seed bags and they thanked me. As I watched them leave my hill, I wondered what would come of this.. I decided to observe. This season was very active and excited. The people bounced around the fields, examining the new foods as they slowly developed. I had given them another vine, but one that did not climb; whose fruit was larger. I gave them a leafy green with sweet roots... And I gave them a bush covered in sugary drops of color. I felt these should give them a variety enough, and I watched their response. Their cheers on harvest were great, and i could not stop myself from joining their celebration. They were so happy; dancing, laughing, shedding tears of joy. They clamored around in thanks, shouting my praises to the winds. They asked me questions about the food and how to store it. They asked how they could mix them and what they could make. They asked so much, and i was so happy for them, i answered all. As the celebration died down, i retreated to my temple once more... I decided it had worked out well. I decided to rest. It was many seasons more before i heard from the humans for anything other than praise. They came with the offerings of food i had given them. I always thought that strange, how my fathers had taken as offering that which we create on a whim. But its how its done, and i appreciate the thanks more than anything they could bring. And the people always came to maintain my temple. I needed nothing. I believed the same to be true of the humans, and yet, they came yet again. They came in a group of men whom appear very self confident. They were leaders of men. This was new. They came and asked me once more for new flavors, but there was a catch. The men did not all want the same food; they had come to procure different foods for each group. They no longer wished to share in the same food as the other groups. This confused me. I had no idea why they would desire such a thing, and therefore, saw no need to deny them. I gave them each a group of seeds... Some sweet, some meaty, some sour. They took these things and held them close. They looked to each other as if scared. I did not know what this feeling was, or why it would happen.. The peoples gave their thanks hurriedly and left to different directions. It had been a long time since i had left my home, but a time to walk had come. I traveled to the peoples, as they were now different. They had separated themselves into different peoples in different territory. The small village i knew was just a ruined pile, and the people had built anew elsewhere. Some built of wood, others of stone. Some used tiny stones, others used the largest they could find. They seemed to be trying to be different than each other. I did not understand, so i went to their crops. Here, men stood at the border of their field with wooden tools in hand but ni work needed. They held the tools in both hands and gazed as if angry. Suddenly, a man ran across the field to a large bushel. The other men immediately ran after and began striking him with their tools, as he grabbed a piece of food and ran away. They chased him till they were to another field, were different men waited with tools in hand. As the group arrived, the men all began trying to strike at each other incessantly. They did this till one group got scared and ran away. What was this? Why would they harm each other? I did not understand.. I couldn't yet understand. I returned to my home to find leaders awaiting me. They seemed angry. They yelled they demanded to know where i was and why i made them wait. They did not thank me. I informed them of what i just witnessed, and asked them why this would happen. They began tirades of how this group had offended this group; how this group had forgotten their farming and now traded their other tasks for food, and how the food was exchanged between and inside the groups. They had made things so complicated. Why couldn't they just share? Had i not given them enough for the lot? I was troubled and unable to reconcile what i had heard.. They shouted back that no, i had not. They demanded more flavors and variety. They demanded to have bigger food and sweeter. They demanded food that grows faster. I knew not what to say. Why were they like this? Was my father correct about man? I could not grasp how man could develope from the wonderful beings i had first given the seeds to.. And so, as they demanded more, i could not take it. They had never come to me like this, and i never wanted them to again. I prepared large baskets while filling the with seed. Plants by the dozens and i gave them freely. The men gazed at the baskets, then eachother. They began to grab at each other and each other 's seed. They fought with rage over my gifts. I was appalled. I stepped out and grasped the baskets. I poured them out and the seeds were immediately sewn. They grew before the men's eyes. They were beautiful; some of my best work yet.and yet, the plants continued to grow. They grew until they withered and died before the men's eyes. No seeds were produced. The men were furious. They shouted at me to make more, to apologize. They threatened me with their grain knives. I cried. My beloved people had become like this. They had lost so much of what i loved about them. I could not stand it any longer. I said nothing else to them, but walked away. I walked to my temple and shut myself inside. I had no intention of leaving.
In the coming seasons, few people visited. I received almost no offerings, and no one came to maintain my home. Seasons turned into eons, and my home turned to rubble around me, then dust. Humans came now and then to see my hill, but none knew me. They all avoided my gaze or shouted dismissive things my way. But they didn't ask of me, nor did they demand of me. The greatest request i received was when a man came to ask me to leave. He said there was a building to be erected here and that i was in the way. A monument? I was excited. Were they to rebuild my temple? I was ashamed of my excitement and yet i could not contain it. I had missed my home so..i rushed down the hill and began to walk the earth; believing i would return to something amazing. I traveled across the land; watching these new humans. I got distracted by how much they had created. Their building had always bewildered me. But as i walked, i saw how the people had become. Were they better than i had left them? Some were. Some were worse. They had grown so much and yet still had so far to go.. They had taken my gifts and discovered more. They made many different foods with unlimited flavors and grew anything they pleased. I was amazed and depressed. It seemed as though it only did they not need me; there was nothing i could do to help. The world had grown enough food to feed everyone but refused to distribute it to the hungry. What was there to even do for me? Why have a temple anymore even? As i returned, it was all clear. My hill was now half and cement covered it. There were buildings surrounding it and and up top, a statue of some man cast in copper. It was not me. I sat down at his feet and wept. Why even exist anymore? No one knows my name anymore, so i will have no child... When will o finally fade off? I decided to just sit and await my end. It would be better than this... I sat, closed my eyes and slept...
"hey drunkie, time to get up."
I opened my eyes to see a man In blue with a piece of metal on his chest. He held a light in his hand pointed at me.
"come on. Get out of here."
He kicked my foot and tapped the metal on his hip.
"get up. Let's move."
I sighed and began to stand
(tbc. And sorry about the necessary edits. Smert phon.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The ancient tree's branches drooped, creating a sanctuary against the merciless pounding of the rain. The small pond rippled as the wind blew across the ground, stirring the bundle of rags that lay at the foot of the tree.
"Are you alright sir?" The voice broke the silence, scaring off the ravens nesting in the tree.
The lovely female voice caused him to stir. He peeled back the gloom with his one good eye and saw two authorial figures standing before him.
"Just leave him Alice, he's been here for years, mad as a hatter."
"Cold tonight isn't it?" Alice said.
The old man cleared his throat, spitting out a globule of phlegm. "How times change, used to be that people would kneel before me."
He hoisted himself upright, using a stick for balance.
"What have you got there old man?" The male voice said.
The old man mumbled.
"What did you say?"
The old man laughed, "I said it used to be a spear. It's not much anymore. Still mine though."
"It's an unpleasant night," Alice consoled softly, "you should move along to the shelter. They'll get you fed and looked after."
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the stillness of the night.
Staring skywards the old man muttered"Gone, all gone, how long has it been?"
"Come on," said the male officer, "This guy's certifiable, he always sleeps here. I know it's your first patrol, but don't worry about it, he always seems to come through the worst of it."
As they left the man peered out from under his rags with his lone eye. How little these foolish mortals knew.
He stared up at the dying tree; much like him it's time was at a close. His clothes in tatters, his bones now old and frail. Man had forgotten the both of them.
He pulled out his knife and affixed it to the end of his stick. In his other hand he held a length of rope. All he would need for the coming night.
With the last of his strength he began to scale the tree. Upon reaching the uppermost branches, he tied the rope off and hung the noose around his neck.
One fierce thrust sent the spear clean through his midriff. With a grunt Odin fell from his perch and peered down into the small pond to view the runes one last time.
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Year 2065
“Who’s there?” asked the middle aged police officer. Officer James Rickman, 52, was just about to end his shift of patrolling the Marloke Monument. He always had the easy safe jobs. The large structure was claimed to have been built to commemorate the leader of what was once a prominent company many years ago. Since then it has been vandalized in many different ways. Things like “MY DICK HURTS” and “WOMBO COMBO” surfaced the stone. It was ugly in Rickman’s opinion.
The more Rickman thought about it the more he wouldn’t really mind if people vandalized the property, but it was his job to enforce the law. The monument itself was quite incredible. It stood 50 feet tall and built out of stone. The center of the monument had what looked to be broken glass in a circle shape with one small circular hole in the middle of it. During the day the sun’s light would glare off of the glass and omit a beautiful show. It stretched horizontally creating the shape of the letter E on both sides. It was around midnight when he had seen a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He approached the shadow, expecting teenagers back to vandalize.
“Who’s there?” he asked again, this time getting out his flashlight. He turned of the stone to see a man in ragged clothing. But something about his clothing was different. They weren’t made out of any fabric he’d ever seen before. The man looked directly at him and didn’t say a word. Rickman figured it was a homeless man who had wandered too far.
“Alright, buddy what are you doing here? You know you can’t sleep here this is private property.” The homeless man turned to him and calmly replied,
“Yeah? Tell that to the people inside.”
“People inside? This is pure stone chief, and I think everyone would know if there was a secret passageway or something.”
“Do you not believe me? I can show you” the man said.
Rickman considered the lunacy of the homeless man’s story. It sounded like bullshit, but then again he was pretty bored. He decided to have some fun and let the man show him. He figured he was probably doped up pretty good.
Rickman pulled out his pistol. “Alright pal, go ahead and show me but don’t get any ideas with me”
The homeless man said nothing and quickly got on his feet. He’s awfully quick for someone who looks like he’s 80 years old, Rickman thought. The homeless man walked up to the part of the wall he was sleeping on and put his hand on the wall. He began to whisper. After he stopped whispering they stood in silence for about 30 seconds.
“Haha okay guy you’ve had your fun, now let’s go, get in the squad car.” Said Rickman.
A second after the officer finished his sentence suddenly the stone started shaking. The ground began to move. At first Rickman thought it could be an earthquake. But then he realized that he wasn’t hearing any sound at all. It was complete silence. Suddenly, the wall breaks open to reveal a door.
Rickman points his weapon at the man, “W-w-what the hell?! What’s going on! What did you just do?!”
“I am showing you as you requested.” The man steps up and opens the door. Rickman was too shaken to react. He stood frozen next to the giant monument in the cold midnight air.
“In order to proceed, you have to eat this.” The homeless man said holding some kind of pill. He swallowed the pill and handed one to Rickman.
“I don’t know what you just took but I’m not taking that.” Rickman said.
“It’s harmless, I’ve been taking this for years and it’s necessary to proceed inside.”
Rickman decided to take it. He had lived his life in complete boredom and safeness and he decided now would be the time to break that chain. He was close to retirement anyway.
“Ah what the hell alright but don’t you try anything.” Said Rickman as he swallowed the pill.
They stepped through the doorway and everything was black. For the first time in his life, Rickman was absolutely terrified. The hallway felt like a dark tunnel that had no way out. The walked so far they couldn’t even see the doorway anymore. The flashlight could only show the man in front of him. Even though he was terrified, he was also extremely intrigued. Soon he heard noises. It sounded like a party but he wasn’t quite sure.
“Hey, what’s going on here? What’s that noise?” He asked.
“We’re almost there.” The homeless man replied. The sound of music and partying were getting louder.
Then they came to a stop. “We’re here” He said.
“Where?”
“The greatest place on Earth.” He said as he opened the door. Music and lights filled Rickman’s senses. He was utterly awestruck. The room was huge and filled with people and electronics. Most of the televisions had a similar showing on the screens. Cartoon characters fighting each other.
“S-Super S-Smash Bros?” Rickman asked in shock. Suddenly everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to Rickman and the homeless man.
“GOD IS BACK, GOD HAS RETURNED!” Cheering erupts the room . Rickman walks past the man and sees a man wearing a Nintendo shirt and a Mario hat.
“What is this?” He asked.
“Huh? I thought you would have known since you came in with the G-O-D himself! It’s a sanctuary for Super Smash Bros players, the best alive! And that guy right there, is the greatest of all time, nobody can beat him he’s literally God man!” He says pointing to the homeless man.
Rickman found it hard to process it all. He had once been an avid Super Smash Bros player many years ago.
He got excited, “Hey I need to sign my squad car back in but I’ll be back! I want in on this!”
Rickman ran out of the building and got into his car. He hurried to the station to sign out. All that was on his mind was getting back to that amazing place. He finally came back to the monument. He ran up to the stone where the homeless GOD was once resting. It was gone! The doorway had disappeared. He pushed and kicked on the stone and put his hand on it but nothing was working. Rickman wanted to get back in.
So every night he had guard duty he would spend hours desperately trying to get back in but to no avail. He wondered if there really was a God that opened a door to a gamer’s sanctuary or if whatever the homeless man gave him was some kind of hallucinogenic drug or some kind of "Red Pill".
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
|
Year 2065
“Who’s there?” asked the middle aged police officer. Officer James Rickman, 52, was just about to end his shift of patrolling the Marloke Monument. He always had the easy safe jobs. The large structure was claimed to have been built to commemorate the leader of what was once a prominent company many years ago. Since then it has been vandalized in many different ways. Things like “MY DICK HURTS” and “WOMBO COMBO” surfaced the stone. It was ugly in Rickman’s opinion.
The more Rickman thought about it the more he wouldn’t really mind if people vandalized the property, but it was his job to enforce the law. The monument itself was quite incredible. It stood 50 feet tall and built out of stone. The center of the monument had what looked to be broken glass in a circle shape with one small circular hole in the middle of it. During the day the sun’s light would glare off of the glass and omit a beautiful show. It stretched horizontally creating the shape of the letter E on both sides. It was around midnight when he had seen a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He approached the shadow, expecting teenagers back to vandalize.
“Who’s there?” he asked again, this time getting out his flashlight. He turned of the stone to see a man in ragged clothing. But something about his clothing was different. They weren’t made out of any fabric he’d ever seen before. The man looked directly at him and didn’t say a word. Rickman figured it was a homeless man who had wandered too far.
“Alright, buddy what are you doing here? You know you can’t sleep here this is private property.” The homeless man turned to him and calmly replied,
“Yeah? Tell that to the people inside.”
“People inside? This is pure stone chief, and I think everyone would know if there was a secret passageway or something.”
“Do you not believe me? I can show you” the man said.
Rickman considered the lunacy of the homeless man’s story. It sounded like bullshit, but then again he was pretty bored. He decided to have some fun and let the man show him. He figured he was probably doped up pretty good.
Rickman pulled out his pistol. “Alright pal, go ahead and show me but don’t get any ideas with me”
The homeless man said nothing and quickly got on his feet. He’s awfully quick for someone who looks like he’s 80 years old, Rickman thought. The homeless man walked up to the part of the wall he was sleeping on and put his hand on the wall. He began to whisper. After he stopped whispering they stood in silence for about 30 seconds.
“Haha okay guy you’ve had your fun, now let’s go, get in the squad car.” Said Rickman.
A second after the officer finished his sentence suddenly the stone started shaking. The ground began to move. At first Rickman thought it could be an earthquake. But then he realized that he wasn’t hearing any sound at all. It was complete silence. Suddenly, the wall breaks open to reveal a door.
Rickman points his weapon at the man, “W-w-what the hell?! What’s going on! What did you just do?!”
“I am showing you as you requested.” The man steps up and opens the door. Rickman was too shaken to react. He stood frozen next to the giant monument in the cold midnight air.
“In order to proceed, you have to eat this.” The homeless man said holding some kind of pill. He swallowed the pill and handed one to Rickman.
“I don’t know what you just took but I’m not taking that.” Rickman said.
“It’s harmless, I’ve been taking this for years and it’s necessary to proceed inside.”
Rickman decided to take it. He had lived his life in complete boredom and safeness and he decided now would be the time to break that chain. He was close to retirement anyway.
“Ah what the hell alright but don’t you try anything.” Said Rickman as he swallowed the pill.
They stepped through the doorway and everything was black. For the first time in his life, Rickman was absolutely terrified. The hallway felt like a dark tunnel that had no way out. The walked so far they couldn’t even see the doorway anymore. The flashlight could only show the man in front of him. Even though he was terrified, he was also extremely intrigued. Soon he heard noises. It sounded like a party but he wasn’t quite sure.
“Hey, what’s going on here? What’s that noise?” He asked.
“We’re almost there.” The homeless man replied. The sound of music and partying were getting louder.
Then they came to a stop. “We’re here” He said.
“Where?”
“The greatest place on Earth.” He said as he opened the door. Music and lights filled Rickman’s senses. He was utterly awestruck. The room was huge and filled with people and electronics. Most of the televisions had a similar showing on the screens. Cartoon characters fighting each other.
“S-Super S-Smash Bros?” Rickman asked in shock. Suddenly everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to Rickman and the homeless man.
“GOD IS BACK, GOD HAS RETURNED!” Cheering erupts the room . Rickman walks past the man and sees a man wearing a Nintendo shirt and a Mario hat.
“What is this?” He asked.
“Huh? I thought you would have known since you came in with the G-O-D himself! It’s a sanctuary for Super Smash Bros players, the best alive! And that guy right there, is the greatest of all time, nobody can beat him he’s literally God man!” He says pointing to the homeless man.
Rickman found it hard to process it all. He had once been an avid Super Smash Bros player many years ago.
He got excited, “Hey I need to sign my squad car back in but I’ll be back! I want in on this!”
Rickman ran out of the building and got into his car. He hurried to the station to sign out. All that was on his mind was getting back to that amazing place. He finally came back to the monument. He ran up to the stone where the homeless GOD was once resting. It was gone! The doorway had disappeared. He pushed and kicked on the stone and put his hand on it but nothing was working. Rickman wanted to get back in.
So every night he had guard duty he would spend hours desperately trying to get back in but to no avail. He wondered if there really was a God that opened a door to a gamer’s sanctuary or if whatever the homeless man gave him was some kind of hallucinogenic drug or some kind of "Red Pill".
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
It was, thought Mael, rather ironic. Here he was, the Elder God of the seas, drowning. And on dry land no less.
"Did I stutter?"
A slight frown crossed Mael's face as he readjusted himself. A filthy elbow slowly made its way down to the park bench, allowing Mael prop himself up to better examine the City Defenders staring down at him. Maybe ironic was the wrong word. The frown deepened. Ghastly? Macabre? Mael didn't care much. He had never been one for flowery words, despite the volumes of romantic seal shit that had been written about his realm.
"I SAID, did I stutter?"
Mael tilted his head to stare at the man who had spoken. The stranger was dressed in an oiled chain vest, woven out of cheap iron. Leather greaves covered a majority of the man's legs, ending almost halfway down the man's shins. The remainder of his shins was covered only with cloth leggings. Planted on top of the chain vest was an overly large bronze helm, painted on the side with the sigil of the City Defenders. An increasingly crimson face peeked out from inside the helm.
"What do you think Takk? Did I stutter?" The Defender turned to his companion.
"….uhhhh….."
"You're useless Takk. Why do you even come along on patrol?" Takk paused, then squinted at his companion.
"Because Captain told me to?" It was clear from Takk's tone that this seemed like a trick question. For Takk, thought Mael, every question probably seemed like a trick question.
"Right. Proof right there that the Captain hates me."
"Right where, Stump?" From deep inside Stump's helmet came the sound of grinding teeth.
"I told you not to call me that" rumbled Stump, lowering his voice in a manner clearly intended to be threatening.
"-but Captain said-"
"-nevermind what Captain said, I'm telling you if I hear-"
Mael considered using some of his power to send the arguing Defenders to a watery grave. It wouldn't be tough, especially since he was in Letheras' Mael Municipal Park. Unbeknownst to the citizens of Letheras, this site had been a shrine to Mael for hundreds of thousands of years. In times long ago, Mael would have been unassailable in this place. Now it was just a poorly kept park in the capital of the Letherii Empire. Unfortunately, in Letheras, even parks required money to enjoy. Thus leading these City Defenders to harass what appeared to them to be a typical homeless man trying to steal park time from City Co., the corporation in charge of maintaining municipal parks.
"Understand?" Stump had apparently finished his conversation with Takk, who was nodding sullenly. Stumped turned abruptly towards Mael.
"Like I was sayin', did I stutter? You need a park pass to use this public park."
Mael lowered himself back down on the bench, already weary of the Defenders. Even if he did kill these two Defenders, what would come of it? In a week's time there would just be two new guards, virtually identical to these. And anywhere Mael went, it would just be more of the same. Petty mortals, living out their petty lives, in a million mundane ways. Mael was tired of it. The Elder god stared at the sky, uncaring as Takk and Stump pulled out their peace-maker clubs.
"Yoo-hoo-hoo!" Takk and Stump paused, thrown off by the sudden and ridiculous noise.
Moments later, a figure emerged from a bush ten behind the public bench. The stranger that strode out was a handsome young man, attired in what clearly had until recently been expensive clothes. Since then, the shirt and pants had obviously been subjected to poor treatment. Cuts and rips opened the crimson silk shirt at places to reveal a leanly muscled torso, with various colors of mud smeared across the man's body and navy blue pants.
"Hello gentlemen!" beamed the stranger as he strolled to the bench. "Lovely day isn't it?"
"No," said Stump "we were about to arrest this man for stealing time in the park."
"What a strange idea!" said the stranger. "Did City Co. recently acquire the rights to time?"
"What? What was that about time? No, we were going to apprehend this man-"
"-Ah yes" interrupted the young man. "I saw that you were indeed about
to "apprehend" this disheveled sir, as you so wonderfully put it. As enjoyable as I'm sure your tender ministrations would have been, I have decided to intervene on behalf of this admittedly odorous hobo."
Stump glared at the stranger, his face unknowingly mirroring Takk's confused expression.
"That supposed to mean you're payin' his park pass?"
"Oh, heavens no" replied the smiling stranger. "I don't even have one myself!"
"That so?" Stump hefted his club, an ugly grin crossing his face. After a momentary pause, Takk also hefted his club.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, good sir, that is so. However, there is one small thing you may want to consider before you decide to put us under your benign judicial custody. City Co. has gone bankrupt."
Stump and Takk froze, processing this new information.
"Stum…er…uh…What do we do?" Takk asked, looking to Stump for guidance.
"Doesn't matter, we're paid by Defender Corp. So we just work the next two days here and they gotta pay us a week's wage anyways." Before Takk could reply, the stranger interrupted.
"Yes, well, that might typically be the case. However, City Co. isn't the only company that's suffered the Errant's push today. In fact there are ten other major companies that have already declared bankruptcy, and it's estimated that at least twenty more will crash before dawn tomorrow. Your employer is sadly one of the former. Your pay this week will probably be late by a period of roughly forever."
Stump and Takk stared at the clubs in their hand, uncertainty playing across one of the pair's faces. On the other, an expression of confusion permanent enough to have already leave wrinkled lines in the forehead.
"If I may make a suggestion lads?" The stranger looked kindly at the Defenders. "This whole thing is being blamed on Tehol Beddict. There's a mob that is chasing him, and if I hear correctly, it is passing by the park now. Why don't you put those clubs to good use and go join them? I'm sure they would appreciate the company."
Stump and Takk looked at each other, nodded, and started jogging towards the sounds of angry yelling coming from the street. As they neared a bend in the path, the stranger called out to them.
"By the way, I think I saw Beddict heading towards the warehouses down by the docks. Tell everyone in the mob, you'll have the best chance to catch him on his way over!"
The newly-unemployed Defenders waived their hands in acknowledgment, and disappeared from view. Mael stared up at the mortal, and grunted.
"Suppose you think I'm Indebted to you now, for saving me from those Defenders?"
"Errant forefend" said the stranger. "I'm fairly sick of the notion of Indebtedness right now. "
"Well, what do you want then?"
"I could probably use a manservant. Do all my cooking, cleaning, the like."
"I can't cook, or clean."
"Excellent!" The stranger clapped his hands together. "Because I can't pay you. I am completely broke, and I mean to stay that way for as long as I want."
Mael considered the mortal for a long moment before replying.
"Manservant, eh? Well, that's something I'll admit I've never done before. I find you…curious. So I think I'll do it. Guess that means I should call you Master, doesn't it?"
"If you must."
"So do you have an actual name, Master?"
"Tehol Beddict." For the first time in millennia, a grin stole across Mael's face. Tehol flinched.
"By the Holds, man, that is a face unsuited for laughter. If you're going to be my manservant, try to restrain your mirth. You look like a bug just crawled into your nether regions."
"Consider my mirth restrained, Master."
"Delighted. Or rather, I am delighted that you no longer are. Regardless, tell me your name. I dislike Manservant, it speaks of stuffiness and servitude. I shall refer to you by your real name, as is the discretion of the master towards his servant."
"Bugg." Tehol's eyes narrowed, glinting briefly with what may have been amusement.
"What an extraordinary coincidence Bugg."
"Do you not believe in extraordinary coincidences, Master?"
"I must, musn't I? For there is proof of one directly in front of me. Time for your first job as manservant." Tehol began stripping his torn clothes off.
"Master?" Completely naked, Tehol swiftly pulled Mael's dingy overcoat over Mael's head, quickly covering himself with the garment. After a cursory glance at the garment, Tehol turned and started walking away.
"My guess is that any second now the mob will find out from Stump and Takk who told them about my flight to the docks," called Tehol over his shoulder. "When they come back, distract the mob for a while. It should help that you're wearing my clothes."
"Wait!" shouted Mael. "You want me to distract a raging mob by making them think I'm you?"
"I have faith in you Bugg! You haven't let me down yet!" Tehol's continued walking the path out of the park, disappearing around a corner.
"I haven't done anything yet that could have let you down," countered Mael in a raised voice.
"My sentiments exactly, Bugg!" Tehol's voice was growing softer as we continued on. "Come find me at our abode in the Pauper's district when you're done…."
"What am I supposed to get rid of the angry mob when they catch me!?" shouted Mael.
The reply was nearly too faint to hear by the time it got to Mael.
"...Smile!"
Mael stared down at the once regal clothes heaped on the ground, considering.
This…this could be fun.
|
Year 2065
“Who’s there?” asked the middle aged police officer. Officer James Rickman, 52, was just about to end his shift of patrolling the Marloke Monument. He always had the easy safe jobs. The large structure was claimed to have been built to commemorate the leader of what was once a prominent company many years ago. Since then it has been vandalized in many different ways. Things like “MY DICK HURTS” and “WOMBO COMBO” surfaced the stone. It was ugly in Rickman’s opinion.
The more Rickman thought about it the more he wouldn’t really mind if people vandalized the property, but it was his job to enforce the law. The monument itself was quite incredible. It stood 50 feet tall and built out of stone. The center of the monument had what looked to be broken glass in a circle shape with one small circular hole in the middle of it. During the day the sun’s light would glare off of the glass and omit a beautiful show. It stretched horizontally creating the shape of the letter E on both sides. It was around midnight when he had seen a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He approached the shadow, expecting teenagers back to vandalize.
“Who’s there?” he asked again, this time getting out his flashlight. He turned of the stone to see a man in ragged clothing. But something about his clothing was different. They weren’t made out of any fabric he’d ever seen before. The man looked directly at him and didn’t say a word. Rickman figured it was a homeless man who had wandered too far.
“Alright, buddy what are you doing here? You know you can’t sleep here this is private property.” The homeless man turned to him and calmly replied,
“Yeah? Tell that to the people inside.”
“People inside? This is pure stone chief, and I think everyone would know if there was a secret passageway or something.”
“Do you not believe me? I can show you” the man said.
Rickman considered the lunacy of the homeless man’s story. It sounded like bullshit, but then again he was pretty bored. He decided to have some fun and let the man show him. He figured he was probably doped up pretty good.
Rickman pulled out his pistol. “Alright pal, go ahead and show me but don’t get any ideas with me”
The homeless man said nothing and quickly got on his feet. He’s awfully quick for someone who looks like he’s 80 years old, Rickman thought. The homeless man walked up to the part of the wall he was sleeping on and put his hand on the wall. He began to whisper. After he stopped whispering they stood in silence for about 30 seconds.
“Haha okay guy you’ve had your fun, now let’s go, get in the squad car.” Said Rickman.
A second after the officer finished his sentence suddenly the stone started shaking. The ground began to move. At first Rickman thought it could be an earthquake. But then he realized that he wasn’t hearing any sound at all. It was complete silence. Suddenly, the wall breaks open to reveal a door.
Rickman points his weapon at the man, “W-w-what the hell?! What’s going on! What did you just do?!”
“I am showing you as you requested.” The man steps up and opens the door. Rickman was too shaken to react. He stood frozen next to the giant monument in the cold midnight air.
“In order to proceed, you have to eat this.” The homeless man said holding some kind of pill. He swallowed the pill and handed one to Rickman.
“I don’t know what you just took but I’m not taking that.” Rickman said.
“It’s harmless, I’ve been taking this for years and it’s necessary to proceed inside.”
Rickman decided to take it. He had lived his life in complete boredom and safeness and he decided now would be the time to break that chain. He was close to retirement anyway.
“Ah what the hell alright but don’t you try anything.” Said Rickman as he swallowed the pill.
They stepped through the doorway and everything was black. For the first time in his life, Rickman was absolutely terrified. The hallway felt like a dark tunnel that had no way out. The walked so far they couldn’t even see the doorway anymore. The flashlight could only show the man in front of him. Even though he was terrified, he was also extremely intrigued. Soon he heard noises. It sounded like a party but he wasn’t quite sure.
“Hey, what’s going on here? What’s that noise?” He asked.
“We’re almost there.” The homeless man replied. The sound of music and partying were getting louder.
Then they came to a stop. “We’re here” He said.
“Where?”
“The greatest place on Earth.” He said as he opened the door. Music and lights filled Rickman’s senses. He was utterly awestruck. The room was huge and filled with people and electronics. Most of the televisions had a similar showing on the screens. Cartoon characters fighting each other.
“S-Super S-Smash Bros?” Rickman asked in shock. Suddenly everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to Rickman and the homeless man.
“GOD IS BACK, GOD HAS RETURNED!” Cheering erupts the room . Rickman walks past the man and sees a man wearing a Nintendo shirt and a Mario hat.
“What is this?” He asked.
“Huh? I thought you would have known since you came in with the G-O-D himself! It’s a sanctuary for Super Smash Bros players, the best alive! And that guy right there, is the greatest of all time, nobody can beat him he’s literally God man!” He says pointing to the homeless man.
Rickman found it hard to process it all. He had once been an avid Super Smash Bros player many years ago.
He got excited, “Hey I need to sign my squad car back in but I’ll be back! I want in on this!”
Rickman ran out of the building and got into his car. He hurried to the station to sign out. All that was on his mind was getting back to that amazing place. He finally came back to the monument. He ran up to the stone where the homeless GOD was once resting. It was gone! The doorway had disappeared. He pushed and kicked on the stone and put his hand on it but nothing was working. Rickman wanted to get back in.
So every night he had guard duty he would spend hours desperately trying to get back in but to no avail. He wondered if there really was a God that opened a door to a gamer’s sanctuary or if whatever the homeless man gave him was some kind of hallucinogenic drug or some kind of "Red Pill".
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The ancient tree's branches drooped, creating a sanctuary against the merciless pounding of the rain. The small pond rippled as the wind blew across the ground, stirring the bundle of rags that lay at the foot of the tree.
"Are you alright sir?" The voice broke the silence, scaring off the ravens nesting in the tree.
The lovely female voice caused him to stir. He peeled back the gloom with his one good eye and saw two authorial figures standing before him.
"Just leave him Alice, he's been here for years, mad as a hatter."
"Cold tonight isn't it?" Alice said.
The old man cleared his throat, spitting out a globule of phlegm. "How times change, used to be that people would kneel before me."
He hoisted himself upright, using a stick for balance.
"What have you got there old man?" The male voice said.
The old man mumbled.
"What did you say?"
The old man laughed, "I said it used to be a spear. It's not much anymore. Still mine though."
"It's an unpleasant night," Alice consoled softly, "you should move along to the shelter. They'll get you fed and looked after."
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the stillness of the night.
Staring skywards the old man muttered"Gone, all gone, how long has it been?"
"Come on," said the male officer, "This guy's certifiable, he always sleeps here. I know it's your first patrol, but don't worry about it, he always seems to come through the worst of it."
As they left the man peered out from under his rags with his lone eye. How little these foolish mortals knew.
He stared up at the dying tree; much like him it's time was at a close. His clothes in tatters, his bones now old and frail. Man had forgotten the both of them.
He pulled out his knife and affixed it to the end of his stick. In his other hand he held a length of rope. All he would need for the coming night.
With the last of his strength he began to scale the tree. Upon reaching the uppermost branches, he tied the rope off and hung the noose around his neck.
One fierce thrust sent the spear clean through his midriff. With a grunt Odin fell from his perch and peered down into the small pond to view the runes one last time.
|
Footsteps echoed through the marble halls as the light from his flashlight swayed side to side peering behind pillars. The faint "whirr" of the fans create a white noise for the night shift guard. No one hardly visits this dusty old monument anymore when the new casino came in, and the people that do are either dumb tourists that write their names places and leave trash lying around or vagrants looking for shelter from the heat. He rounds the corner towards the main attraction when he see's a pile laying against the statue base. The guard sighs and thinks, "Great, another homeless I need to kick out."
He approaches the pile and softly kicks it. "Hey buddy, I'm sorry to do this but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.
The pile groans and shrugs him off.
"C'mon man, you don't belong here," and kicks him again.
At this, a dirty, older man sits up and disgusting smell emanates from him. "Ugh, it smells like he hasn't been taken care of in ages," the guard thinks and grimaces.
"Hold yer horses," the old man grumbles and pulls out a flask and takes a swig. "You don't even know about this place. Let me tell you, it was once a great and magnificent place," he takes another swig, "and now it's full of ignorance and it's been ruined by people like you," he jabs a finger at the guard.
The guard, getting upset now, grabs the bum's arm and drags him up. "C'mon, time for you to go bud." He starts pulling him down the hall, vagrant stumbling behind him.
"Nnno. You don't even know. I was here, this place was great, and now you people ruined it. Where's the acolytes? Where's the hospitality? Gone," he says and tries to shrug of the guard.
"Stop that or I'll have you arrested," the guard growls at him, holding him tighter.
"You can't do that here. I watched this be built. I miss this from before. I miss the followers. I miss it when people were nice..." he trails off as they reach the entrance. The guard tosses him out and warns him not to come back, but something the bum said bothered the guard, something about him put was odd. He couldn't figure it out, and just went back to patrolling and to toss out the rest of the bum's stuff.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
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Footsteps echoed through the marble halls as the light from his flashlight swayed side to side peering behind pillars. The faint "whirr" of the fans create a white noise for the night shift guard. No one hardly visits this dusty old monument anymore when the new casino came in, and the people that do are either dumb tourists that write their names places and leave trash lying around or vagrants looking for shelter from the heat. He rounds the corner towards the main attraction when he see's a pile laying against the statue base. The guard sighs and thinks, "Great, another homeless I need to kick out."
He approaches the pile and softly kicks it. "Hey buddy, I'm sorry to do this but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.
The pile groans and shrugs him off.
"C'mon man, you don't belong here," and kicks him again.
At this, a dirty, older man sits up and disgusting smell emanates from him. "Ugh, it smells like he hasn't been taken care of in ages," the guard thinks and grimaces.
"Hold yer horses," the old man grumbles and pulls out a flask and takes a swig. "You don't even know about this place. Let me tell you, it was once a great and magnificent place," he takes another swig, "and now it's full of ignorance and it's been ruined by people like you," he jabs a finger at the guard.
The guard, getting upset now, grabs the bum's arm and drags him up. "C'mon, time for you to go bud." He starts pulling him down the hall, vagrant stumbling behind him.
"Nnno. You don't even know. I was here, this place was great, and now you people ruined it. Where's the acolytes? Where's the hospitality? Gone," he says and tries to shrug of the guard.
"Stop that or I'll have you arrested," the guard growls at him, holding him tighter.
"You can't do that here. I watched this be built. I miss this from before. I miss the followers. I miss it when people were nice..." he trails off as they reach the entrance. The guard tosses him out and warns him not to come back, but something the bum said bothered the guard, something about him put was odd. He couldn't figure it out, and just went back to patrolling and to toss out the rest of the bum's stuff.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The ancient tree's branches drooped, creating a sanctuary against the merciless pounding of the rain. The small pond rippled as the wind blew across the ground, stirring the bundle of rags that lay at the foot of the tree.
"Are you alright sir?" The voice broke the silence, scaring off the ravens nesting in the tree.
The lovely female voice caused him to stir. He peeled back the gloom with his one good eye and saw two authorial figures standing before him.
"Just leave him Alice, he's been here for years, mad as a hatter."
"Cold tonight isn't it?" Alice said.
The old man cleared his throat, spitting out a globule of phlegm. "How times change, used to be that people would kneel before me."
He hoisted himself upright, using a stick for balance.
"What have you got there old man?" The male voice said.
The old man mumbled.
"What did you say?"
The old man laughed, "I said it used to be a spear. It's not much anymore. Still mine though."
"It's an unpleasant night," Alice consoled softly, "you should move along to the shelter. They'll get you fed and looked after."
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the stillness of the night.
Staring skywards the old man muttered"Gone, all gone, how long has it been?"
"Come on," said the male officer, "This guy's certifiable, he always sleeps here. I know it's your first patrol, but don't worry about it, he always seems to come through the worst of it."
As they left the man peered out from under his rags with his lone eye. How little these foolish mortals knew.
He stared up at the dying tree; much like him it's time was at a close. His clothes in tatters, his bones now old and frail. Man had forgotten the both of them.
He pulled out his knife and affixed it to the end of his stick. In his other hand he held a length of rope. All he would need for the coming night.
With the last of his strength he began to scale the tree. Upon reaching the uppermost branches, he tied the rope off and hung the noose around his neck.
One fierce thrust sent the spear clean through his midriff. With a grunt Odin fell from his perch and peered down into the small pond to view the runes one last time.
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The sharp kick to his ribs jerked him out of a deep sleep. The police officers’ words were lost to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue above him. The sunlight seemed to illuminate the kind and portly image of the Buddha. The officer was joined by another and the both of them regarded the man with disdain, only pausing in their rough treatment in order to disparage the disgusting bum they saw.
He accepted the abuse without complaint. The vivid dreams he had experienced over the years, depicting many different lives, seemed to reaffirm the consensus that he was indeed crazy. Once he chose to accept his own insanity, however, he had come to feel at peace. Crazy or not, he could not help but feel an overwhelming pull towards Buddha. Everything that the Buddha had spoken about, Karma, past lives and the journey of redemption of a soul seemed to consume his life.
He should have felt the same sense of indignation that the many passive aggressive citizens felt recording the incident. And yet his last conscious thought was fixated upon Buddha, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had failed in his past lives. As consciousness faded he looked up at the police officers who had killed him and wondered at their Karma, "Karma is a never ending bitch."
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
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The sharp kick to his ribs jerked him out of a deep sleep. The police officers’ words were lost to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue above him. The sunlight seemed to illuminate the kind and portly image of the Buddha. The officer was joined by another and the both of them regarded the man with disdain, only pausing in their rough treatment in order to disparage the disgusting bum they saw.
He accepted the abuse without complaint. The vivid dreams he had experienced over the years, depicting many different lives, seemed to reaffirm the consensus that he was indeed crazy. Once he chose to accept his own insanity, however, he had come to feel at peace. Crazy or not, he could not help but feel an overwhelming pull towards Buddha. Everything that the Buddha had spoken about, Karma, past lives and the journey of redemption of a soul seemed to consume his life.
He should have felt the same sense of indignation that the many passive aggressive citizens felt recording the incident. And yet his last conscious thought was fixated upon Buddha, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had failed in his past lives. As consciousness faded he looked up at the police officers who had killed him and wondered at their Karma, "Karma is a never ending bitch."
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
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"Come oon! there are park benches and street corners for thelikes of you!" the god started out of his reverie and with a vague feeling of confusion turned his massive attention toward the mortal man. he seemed to have a great deal of energy. "Don't you have any respect?! Our ANCESTORS built this thing did you know? its for rich tourists to get a glimpse of the past, not for the likes of YOU to be sleepin in!" the god watched, slightly bemused, as the man energy ran out,leaving him deflated. "you know, they say that this thing was built for a god" he remarked, trying to seem unimpressed. "A god!" he chuckled. "can you imagine the ancients standing here, communing with their god, asking their most important questions?" the god remembered. "And here we are, a police officer and a homeless person, just passing the time of day. times sure do change, huh?" the god smiled. "sometimes I imagine I, too, come here to commune with their god. The early morning shift can be spooky, you know, it helps" he chuckled again. "Anyway, they say they called the god the watcher." he flicked his flashlight on and off "I figure I can relate. Its kinda my job anyway" he sighed and stood up. "Any way I should get you outta here, the tourists will be arrivin soon." the god hardly noticed as the police bought him a doughnut and escorted him to a park bench. maybe times hadn't changed so much.
yeah, cheeeeeesey.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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"Look mister, you can't sleep here."
The officer was trying to be civil. Or at least, more civil than most. There had been complaints. The chief gave the orders. But did he really have to bother this poor old man?
I mean, if a man can't sleep on the stoop of a church, where can he sleep?
The old man grumbled as he rose a bit. His shirt looked like it might have been white at one point, and his beard was long, grey, and tangled. He appeared Middle Eastern to the officer, but in a city as pale as Boston, who doesn't?
"Where am I?" groaned the man, rubbing his eyes.
"You're where you fell asleep. St. Leonard's."
The old man was now standing. He was much shorter than the officer, and had a hunch in his back.
"Oh. Good. I was worried I had spent the night somewhere less hospitable."
The officer cocked his head. "Old timer, I wouldn't call the streets hospitable. Come with me, I'll find you someplace warmer than the sidewalk."
The old man seemed not to acknowledge the subtle hint. "But what, friend, is warmer than the bosom of Mary? I think I will stay here."
This was the part where the officer hated his job. He gave the old man the spiel. Loitering and disturbing the piece. To his credit, the old man was calm and compliant. Definitely a repeat offender. But when the officer tried to lead the man, he would not budge.
"Officer, I understand that it is your job to keep the peace, but will you allow me my peace?" He gestured to the doors of the church.
The officer was going to say no, going to bring the old man Downtown. But he was so pleasant, so non combative. The officer decided to give the old man his request.
The officer opened the door for the old man and allowed him in. He stopped and waited for the officer to get the hint, unlocked the cuffs, and allowed the man to cross himself with the water.
"And you, officer? Will you not join me?"
The officer stood by the doorjamb of the church. "I do not need to find peace here."
"But officer, I am no longer cuffed. If I run?"
Now the officer was regretting his decision. He entered the church, but did not cross himself. He was here for business, not pleasure.
The old timer went to the nearest pew, bent the knee, and sat. He patted the pew, motioning for the officer to sit. He sat, but he told himself that it was only to get a load off his weary feet.
For a few minutes, the old man sat and prayed. The officer was just about to ask him to finish, when the old man turned to him. "Where, officer, do you find peace? If not here, where?"
The officer was taken aback by this question. He didn't want to answer it. But the old man's eye's were... noble. Kind. He felt like he could tell the old man anything.
"I try to find peace everywhere. I haven't found peace here in years."
"So you found peace here once before?"
The officer thought back, suddenly reminded of his youth. A young child in the playground next door, not a care in the world. No bills. No social stigma. No fear. Just a boy in the church playground.
"Ya, I found peace here once."
The old man smiled. "Then, my son, what was once can be again."
The old man rose. He seemed taller now, less hunched. He said nothing, but the officer knew that he was done.
The two began walking towards the door of the church when the old man stopped again.
"Find peace, Donny. You keep the peace, but you haven't been at peace in so long."
The officer stopped. He began to turn around, asking the old man "how do you know my name?"
But when he had turned, the old man was gone.
No sound of running.
No flash of smoke.
Just gone.
The officer stood there, mouth agape, for what seemed like ages. When he finally regained his composure, officer Donny heard a noise from his hip. The familiar walky talky telling him about some robbery on some street.
He turned it off.
He walked to the door of the church,
Crossed himself with the holy water,
And walked out the door.
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"Come oon! there are park benches and street corners for thelikes of you!" the god started out of his reverie and with a vague feeling of confusion turned his massive attention toward the mortal man. he seemed to have a great deal of energy. "Don't you have any respect?! Our ANCESTORS built this thing did you know? its for rich tourists to get a glimpse of the past, not for the likes of YOU to be sleepin in!" the god watched, slightly bemused, as the man energy ran out,leaving him deflated. "you know, they say that this thing was built for a god" he remarked, trying to seem unimpressed. "A god!" he chuckled. "can you imagine the ancients standing here, communing with their god, asking their most important questions?" the god remembered. "And here we are, a police officer and a homeless person, just passing the time of day. times sure do change, huh?" the god smiled. "sometimes I imagine I, too, come here to commune with their god. The early morning shift can be spooky, you know, it helps" he chuckled again. "Anyway, they say they called the god the watcher." he flicked his flashlight on and off "I figure I can relate. Its kinda my job anyway" he sighed and stood up. "Any way I should get you outta here, the tourists will be arrivin soon." the god hardly noticed as the police bought him a doughnut and escorted him to a park bench. maybe times hadn't changed so much.
yeah, cheeeeeesey.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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The old man had been hanging around the memorial for weeks now. Usually he sat and slept under the main plaque that read TEMPLE OF KOROMAE, GOD OF MERCY. His clothes were the recently-out-of-fashion outfit of a vest and skirt. They were tattered and dirty, flowing over the homeless man’s thin body. His long gray hair and beard were matted and tangled with bits of garbage and refuse. Around his neck he wore the ancient pendant of Koromae, a stylized ram’s head, and around his being he wore an odor of filth.
At first, people didn’t mind the man hanging around the temple. After all, Koromae had been a god of all, not just those who were financially well-off. He was ignored in the first week or so by those who came to the temple for reflection or prayer. But then the man began to accost the worshippers, asking them to pray with him constantly, to reveal to him their hopes and worries, to share with them thoughts and feelings that belonged only between the individual and Koromae.
It was due to the overwhelming amount of complaints from the worshippers that the police had come to the temple. Two officers approached carefully, from their vehicle, the man in the ragged clothing. He was in the middle of begging at one of the prayers standing in front of the entrance.
“You do not have to enter to pray!” He was saying, nearly shouting, in exasperation. “Tell me all you wish to say!”
“All I wish to say to you,” the prayer replied. “Is ‘leave me alone.’” She attempted to pass by the homeless man, but was blocked entrance.
“Please,” the man cried. “You only need to speak with me!”
“Sir,” one of the officers said as the two approached. They had their hands upon the grips of their laser pistols that rested in their waist holsters. “Let’s leave the gal alone, what do you say?”
Both the homeless man and the woman looked at the officers, the woman with relief and the man with vexation.
“Go ahead, ma’am,” the second officer gestured toward the temple. The worshipper quickly took her leave.
“You seem to be a pretty unpopular fellow,” the first officer said to the man, trying to sound casual, as they had been taught at the academy.
At this the derelict laughed mirthlessly. “Unpopular?” He asked. “That’s your word for it?”
“Okay,” the officer shrugged. “You’re pissing people off, to be perfectly blunt. Why can’t you just let them pray in peace?”
“I’m trying to let them pray!” the man exclaimed. “But why must they enter the temple at cost when they can come to the source for free, as prayer should be?”
“The source?” the second officer asked.
“Yes,” the homeless man replied. “The source. Me.”
“You’re saying you’re Koromae?”
“Precisely,” the man said, closing his eyes in what appeared to be peace.
The two officers looked at one another for a moment and the first said, “Look, sir, we’re going to go ahead and take you in our car, okay?”
“And take me away from my temple?” the man asked incredulously.
“Yes, just for a little while,” the officer held out his hand for the tramp to take. At the same time the second officer was calling headquarters to ready a spot in the August Mental Home.
Reluctantly, the dirty man allowed himself to be ushered to the police cruiser. Having heard the second officer’s conversation over the communication link, he began to silently weep.
So, he thought as the car took off from the temple, this is what the world is like. No mercy or peace was here on this plane, not even at the house of worship. No mercy was shown, even by those who were praying to the god of such unselfishness.
It boggled the ancient deity’s mind that such creatures could exist as these who showed no compassion for their fellow man. Somewhere, Koromae thought to himself as the two officers discussed matters in the front seats, somewhere we had gone wrong with these beings. We are at fault, not them.
He decided as he watched the police car cruise past scores of these imperfect creatures: I will let them take me to that hospital for those with sick minds. It is my punishment for making these faulty creatures with no love in their hearts. Two decades, in slow human time, should be penance enough.
After that, Koromae considered, I will return to the High Plane, and We will have a discussion as to what to do with these creatures that were so defective. It may have to be as it was a thousand years earlier. Maybe, he thought to himself, but I certainly hope not.
He began to cry again, as, though his children were not of a compassionate nature, he himself was and it would a terrible thing to have to destroy creation once again.
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"Come oon! there are park benches and street corners for thelikes of you!" the god started out of his reverie and with a vague feeling of confusion turned his massive attention toward the mortal man. he seemed to have a great deal of energy. "Don't you have any respect?! Our ANCESTORS built this thing did you know? its for rich tourists to get a glimpse of the past, not for the likes of YOU to be sleepin in!" the god watched, slightly bemused, as the man energy ran out,leaving him deflated. "you know, they say that this thing was built for a god" he remarked, trying to seem unimpressed. "A god!" he chuckled. "can you imagine the ancients standing here, communing with their god, asking their most important questions?" the god remembered. "And here we are, a police officer and a homeless person, just passing the time of day. times sure do change, huh?" the god smiled. "sometimes I imagine I, too, come here to commune with their god. The early morning shift can be spooky, you know, it helps" he chuckled again. "Anyway, they say they called the god the watcher." he flicked his flashlight on and off "I figure I can relate. Its kinda my job anyway" he sighed and stood up. "Any way I should get you outta here, the tourists will be arrivin soon." the god hardly noticed as the police bought him a doughnut and escorted him to a park bench. maybe times hadn't changed so much.
yeah, cheeeeeesey.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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It was, thought Mael, rather ironic. Here he was, the Elder God of the seas, drowning. And on dry land no less.
"Did I stutter?"
A slight frown crossed Mael's face as he readjusted himself. A filthy elbow slowly made its way down to the park bench, allowing Mael prop himself up to better examine the City Defenders staring down at him. Maybe ironic was the wrong word. The frown deepened. Ghastly? Macabre? Mael didn't care much. He had never been one for flowery words, despite the volumes of romantic seal shit that had been written about his realm.
"I SAID, did I stutter?"
Mael tilted his head to stare at the man who had spoken. The stranger was dressed in an oiled chain vest, woven out of cheap iron. Leather greaves covered a majority of the man's legs, ending almost halfway down the man's shins. The remainder of his shins was covered only with cloth leggings. Planted on top of the chain vest was an overly large bronze helm, painted on the side with the sigil of the City Defenders. An increasingly crimson face peeked out from inside the helm.
"What do you think Takk? Did I stutter?" The Defender turned to his companion.
"….uhhhh….."
"You're useless Takk. Why do you even come along on patrol?" Takk paused, then squinted at his companion.
"Because Captain told me to?" It was clear from Takk's tone that this seemed like a trick question. For Takk, thought Mael, every question probably seemed like a trick question.
"Right. Proof right there that the Captain hates me."
"Right where, Stump?" From deep inside Stump's helmet came the sound of grinding teeth.
"I told you not to call me that" rumbled Stump, lowering his voice in a manner clearly intended to be threatening.
"-but Captain said-"
"-nevermind what Captain said, I'm telling you if I hear-"
Mael considered using some of his power to send the arguing Defenders to a watery grave. It wouldn't be tough, especially since he was in Letheras' Mael Municipal Park. Unbeknownst to the citizens of Letheras, this site had been a shrine to Mael for hundreds of thousands of years. In times long ago, Mael would have been unassailable in this place. Now it was just a poorly kept park in the capital of the Letherii Empire. Unfortunately, in Letheras, even parks required money to enjoy. Thus leading these City Defenders to harass what appeared to them to be a typical homeless man trying to steal park time from City Co., the corporation in charge of maintaining municipal parks.
"Understand?" Stump had apparently finished his conversation with Takk, who was nodding sullenly. Stumped turned abruptly towards Mael.
"Like I was sayin', did I stutter? You need a park pass to use this public park."
Mael lowered himself back down on the bench, already weary of the Defenders. Even if he did kill these two Defenders, what would come of it? In a week's time there would just be two new guards, virtually identical to these. And anywhere Mael went, it would just be more of the same. Petty mortals, living out their petty lives, in a million mundane ways. Mael was tired of it. The Elder god stared at the sky, uncaring as Takk and Stump pulled out their peace-maker clubs.
"Yoo-hoo-hoo!" Takk and Stump paused, thrown off by the sudden and ridiculous noise.
Moments later, a figure emerged from a bush ten behind the public bench. The stranger that strode out was a handsome young man, attired in what clearly had until recently been expensive clothes. Since then, the shirt and pants had obviously been subjected to poor treatment. Cuts and rips opened the crimson silk shirt at places to reveal a leanly muscled torso, with various colors of mud smeared across the man's body and navy blue pants.
"Hello gentlemen!" beamed the stranger as he strolled to the bench. "Lovely day isn't it?"
"No," said Stump "we were about to arrest this man for stealing time in the park."
"What a strange idea!" said the stranger. "Did City Co. recently acquire the rights to time?"
"What? What was that about time? No, we were going to apprehend this man-"
"-Ah yes" interrupted the young man. "I saw that you were indeed about
to "apprehend" this disheveled sir, as you so wonderfully put it. As enjoyable as I'm sure your tender ministrations would have been, I have decided to intervene on behalf of this admittedly odorous hobo."
Stump glared at the stranger, his face unknowingly mirroring Takk's confused expression.
"That supposed to mean you're payin' his park pass?"
"Oh, heavens no" replied the smiling stranger. "I don't even have one myself!"
"That so?" Stump hefted his club, an ugly grin crossing his face. After a momentary pause, Takk also hefted his club.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, good sir, that is so. However, there is one small thing you may want to consider before you decide to put us under your benign judicial custody. City Co. has gone bankrupt."
Stump and Takk froze, processing this new information.
"Stum…er…uh…What do we do?" Takk asked, looking to Stump for guidance.
"Doesn't matter, we're paid by Defender Corp. So we just work the next two days here and they gotta pay us a week's wage anyways." Before Takk could reply, the stranger interrupted.
"Yes, well, that might typically be the case. However, City Co. isn't the only company that's suffered the Errant's push today. In fact there are ten other major companies that have already declared bankruptcy, and it's estimated that at least twenty more will crash before dawn tomorrow. Your employer is sadly one of the former. Your pay this week will probably be late by a period of roughly forever."
Stump and Takk stared at the clubs in their hand, uncertainty playing across one of the pair's faces. On the other, an expression of confusion permanent enough to have already leave wrinkled lines in the forehead.
"If I may make a suggestion lads?" The stranger looked kindly at the Defenders. "This whole thing is being blamed on Tehol Beddict. There's a mob that is chasing him, and if I hear correctly, it is passing by the park now. Why don't you put those clubs to good use and go join them? I'm sure they would appreciate the company."
Stump and Takk looked at each other, nodded, and started jogging towards the sounds of angry yelling coming from the street. As they neared a bend in the path, the stranger called out to them.
"By the way, I think I saw Beddict heading towards the warehouses down by the docks. Tell everyone in the mob, you'll have the best chance to catch him on his way over!"
The newly-unemployed Defenders waived their hands in acknowledgment, and disappeared from view. Mael stared up at the mortal, and grunted.
"Suppose you think I'm Indebted to you now, for saving me from those Defenders?"
"Errant forefend" said the stranger. "I'm fairly sick of the notion of Indebtedness right now. "
"Well, what do you want then?"
"I could probably use a manservant. Do all my cooking, cleaning, the like."
"I can't cook, or clean."
"Excellent!" The stranger clapped his hands together. "Because I can't pay you. I am completely broke, and I mean to stay that way for as long as I want."
Mael considered the mortal for a long moment before replying.
"Manservant, eh? Well, that's something I'll admit I've never done before. I find you…curious. So I think I'll do it. Guess that means I should call you Master, doesn't it?"
"If you must."
"So do you have an actual name, Master?"
"Tehol Beddict." For the first time in millennia, a grin stole across Mael's face. Tehol flinched.
"By the Holds, man, that is a face unsuited for laughter. If you're going to be my manservant, try to restrain your mirth. You look like a bug just crawled into your nether regions."
"Consider my mirth restrained, Master."
"Delighted. Or rather, I am delighted that you no longer are. Regardless, tell me your name. I dislike Manservant, it speaks of stuffiness and servitude. I shall refer to you by your real name, as is the discretion of the master towards his servant."
"Bugg." Tehol's eyes narrowed, glinting briefly with what may have been amusement.
"What an extraordinary coincidence Bugg."
"Do you not believe in extraordinary coincidences, Master?"
"I must, musn't I? For there is proof of one directly in front of me. Time for your first job as manservant." Tehol began stripping his torn clothes off.
"Master?" Completely naked, Tehol swiftly pulled Mael's dingy overcoat over Mael's head, quickly covering himself with the garment. After a cursory glance at the garment, Tehol turned and started walking away.
"My guess is that any second now the mob will find out from Stump and Takk who told them about my flight to the docks," called Tehol over his shoulder. "When they come back, distract the mob for a while. It should help that you're wearing my clothes."
"Wait!" shouted Mael. "You want me to distract a raging mob by making them think I'm you?"
"I have faith in you Bugg! You haven't let me down yet!" Tehol's continued walking the path out of the park, disappearing around a corner.
"I haven't done anything yet that could have let you down," countered Mael in a raised voice.
"My sentiments exactly, Bugg!" Tehol's voice was growing softer as we continued on. "Come find me at our abode in the Pauper's district when you're done…."
"What am I supposed to get rid of the angry mob when they catch me!?" shouted Mael.
The reply was nearly too faint to hear by the time it got to Mael.
"...Smile!"
Mael stared down at the once regal clothes heaped on the ground, considering.
This…this could be fun.
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"Come oon! there are park benches and street corners for thelikes of you!" the god started out of his reverie and with a vague feeling of confusion turned his massive attention toward the mortal man. he seemed to have a great deal of energy. "Don't you have any respect?! Our ANCESTORS built this thing did you know? its for rich tourists to get a glimpse of the past, not for the likes of YOU to be sleepin in!" the god watched, slightly bemused, as the man energy ran out,leaving him deflated. "you know, they say that this thing was built for a god" he remarked, trying to seem unimpressed. "A god!" he chuckled. "can you imagine the ancients standing here, communing with their god, asking their most important questions?" the god remembered. "And here we are, a police officer and a homeless person, just passing the time of day. times sure do change, huh?" the god smiled. "sometimes I imagine I, too, come here to commune with their god. The early morning shift can be spooky, you know, it helps" he chuckled again. "Anyway, they say they called the god the watcher." he flicked his flashlight on and off "I figure I can relate. Its kinda my job anyway" he sighed and stood up. "Any way I should get you outta here, the tourists will be arrivin soon." the god hardly noticed as the police bought him a doughnut and escorted him to a park bench. maybe times hadn't changed so much.
yeah, cheeeeeesey.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Izanagi just sighed as she enjoyed the brief drive. She had been in this small town in Hokkaido for all of three months and this was about the most interesting thing to have happened: some uppity businessmen whining about a vagrant squatting on their new development lot.
The development was a ways out of the town proper, but would make a rather expensive resort community in the mountains when it was completed. Part of it made Izanagi sad to see the wilderness bulldozed and destroyed. There was a serenity to this place. That's why she had transferred here.
She parked at the base of the development area, bulldozers and backhoes sat idles while surveyors and engineers walk around setting markers and lines. Two men in hard hats and suits approached as she stepped out of the car and radioed in that she had arrived.
"He is up there," pointed the taller one. Asoa san. "Get him out of here. Now." No greeting, no please, not an ounce of politeness.
The shorter one at least had some manners and gave a quick bow, "Ah, excuse me, thank you for coming police woman. I am Mr. Takeada, this is Mr. Asoa. Please, He is frightening the workers, they do not want to venture up the hill. Ah ah, as you know we own this land. It is not protected."
*Frightening the workers? Not Protected?* Suddenly Izanagi's old police instincts kicked in. Something wasn't right here.
"Thank you. I will go speak with this man. If you will excuse me." Izanagi bowed, and turned to venture up the. She didn't pause to see how they regarded her. The first portion of the hill had been cleared, but the hillside was still a wall of wooded splendor. What a pity.
The forest was serial, like something out of those old samurai pictures. In a dozen steps she was transported back in time. And then she saw it. The old wooden shrine and the ring of stones tied with Shimenawa. *Not protected my ass!* No wonder the workers were spooked, destroying a monument like this was not only illegal, but for those superstitious lot, had the added fear of angering the kami of the shrine.
As Izanagi approached she placed her hand on her side arm out of instinct, crossing the stones she saw a mossy mound shuffle, and turn.
"Excuse me sir. This is private property, and the owners have asked me to request you to leave."
He turned; a mangy mane of hair and beard, straw hat, and old grey robes, warn by age and dirt. He was huge, easily over two meters tall and physically powerful - musculature rippling under the skin of his exposed arms. His face remained partially obscured by the hat. His voice was deep and grumbled:
"Told Them. Break the stones, I will hurry on." His accent was.. odd. Old. She gazed around at the ring of shrine stones. The writing on the ofuda long worn, but a few character's in the ancient kanji remained on the stones. She couldn't make it out.
"Will you leave, if I just break one stone?" Izanagi Asked the mountain that lay disinterested before the small wooden shrine. *They're going to bulldoze this anyway, might as well...*
As she hefted a large flag stone over her head, she caught a glimpse of one of the stones etchings, barely legible. Too late, the stone came down and the sound of the forest was shattered be a crack like thunder. One of the ring of stones split in a lightning bolt pattern.
She hadn't even seen him move, yet he was directly in front of her now, he was massive, like nothing she had seen, an American body builder huge. In one swift motion she loosed her side arm and had it leveled at his head.
"No need" he spoke as he dropped the straw hat, revealing two short ivory horns jutting from his forehead. He gave her a toothy grin, and strode past her headed down the hill.
Izanagi just stood there before broken stone, eyes fixed as the sound of screams and the sick crack of bones breaking drifted up into the calm forest.
It was a simple phrase etched in each rock:
"oger - run away."
Edit: fixed many typos born from rushed writing on my phone.
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"Come oon! there are park benches and street corners for thelikes of you!" the god started out of his reverie and with a vague feeling of confusion turned his massive attention toward the mortal man. he seemed to have a great deal of energy. "Don't you have any respect?! Our ANCESTORS built this thing did you know? its for rich tourists to get a glimpse of the past, not for the likes of YOU to be sleepin in!" the god watched, slightly bemused, as the man energy ran out,leaving him deflated. "you know, they say that this thing was built for a god" he remarked, trying to seem unimpressed. "A god!" he chuckled. "can you imagine the ancients standing here, communing with their god, asking their most important questions?" the god remembered. "And here we are, a police officer and a homeless person, just passing the time of day. times sure do change, huh?" the god smiled. "sometimes I imagine I, too, come here to commune with their god. The early morning shift can be spooky, you know, it helps" he chuckled again. "Anyway, they say they called the god the watcher." he flicked his flashlight on and off "I figure I can relate. Its kinda my job anyway" he sighed and stood up. "Any way I should get you outta here, the tourists will be arrivin soon." the god hardly noticed as the police bought him a doughnut and escorted him to a park bench. maybe times hadn't changed so much.
yeah, cheeeeeesey.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Officer Shelby patrolled the park searching for belligerent drunks and touchy couples that didn’t know when to get out. His flashlight illuminated small patches of nature amidst the wall of blackness that surrounded him and his boots clacked out a steady rhythm that was lost in the still night air as he shivered at the brisk chill of autumn. A quiet night so far and that was how he liked it.
Shelby started to whistle a happy tune as he approached the end of his patrol but it sounded strangely disturbing, warped by the absolute silence around him. He faltered when he saw something shift in the darkness out of the corner of his eyes. A quick flick of his flashlight revealed a pile of rags just off the sidewalk. After a moment, a hand seemed to grow out of the pile and waved in a shooing motion. The skin of that hand was deathly pale and wrinkled as if water logged. Officer
Shelby jumped back, startled by the sudden revelation of a person underneath.
“You need to get out of here.” Officer Shelby gasped in a shaky voice that seemed to fade into the stillness. “You can’t stay here buddy. There’s a shelter just down the road.”
The bundle of rags stirred as if to rise but the hand just melted back into the folds of moldy cloth.
“I don’t go anywhere anymore.”
A shiver ran through Officer Shelby as the old man spoke. He had to be old with a voice like that; rough and guttural, almost inhuman.
“Are… you feeling ok sir?”
“No.” That simple answer seemed to suck something out of the air, leaving it stale and rotten. It suddenly felt hard to breathe.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asked in a strained whisper.
“They broke it… they broke me…” His voice was growing louder but that strange guttural quality remained, as if being spoken through a mouthful of broken stones.
Suddenly the rags started shifting erratically, the flash of pale white limbs shooting out in the dark. They were long, too long, and they bent in strange impossible ways.
Shelby started backpedaling and clammy hands reached instinctively for the gun at his waist. “Look just stay right there. I’m gonna call an ambulance for ya and you’ll be fine. Just stay where you are.”
Shelby’s foot rolled over something as he backed away and he fell with a thump, wheezing out what little air he could seem to breathe. His flashlight flipped downward leaving the old man in rags for a moment and illuminating the object that tripped him.
The remains of a small stone statue lay strewn across the path. He recognized it as the one that always sat beneath a nearby tree. It used to spook him on his rounds when he would shine his light and suddenly see a gray face staring back at him in the dark. Someone finally went and broke the stupid thing.
He had never really questioned how it got there it just seemed to belong. A little statue of a strange man with a face like a skull wrapped in flesh with sunken eyes and long pale… limbs.
Shelby flashed his light up again and the man in rags was gone. The grass where he was laying moments before still matted down where a body’s weight had settled on it.
“Are you still here?” He shouted, his light suddenly cutting swathes through the dark in every direction that were quickly swallowed up. He, it, was still here somewhere Shelby could feel it.
“I’m always here…” The voice trailed off, louder and harsher now sounding as though it came from everywhere at once. “But now they’ve broken me and I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it… I can’t fix it.”
The old man repeated it over and over like a chant, a spell that filled the night and smothered Shelby, his eyes wide and darting in terror.
“I didn’t break anything, I didn’t.” He shouted.
“I know… but with you I can fix it.” Then the night was suddenly still, no more voices, and no more light as Shelby’s flashlight died, leaving him to drown in the sudden darkness of a moonless night.
Shelby could hear something shifting and turning in the blackness, terrible clicking like joints snapping and bones breaking. Something brushed up against his sleeve and he froze as sudden cold enveloped him and long fingers traced the length of his jaw line. Stale air whispered into his ear.
“But you… you can help me fix it…”
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8/14: It's been a week since I've been stationed here to "keep the peace". From everything I've seen so far, it's unlikely anything will ever happen in a small and isolated town like this. This town has so few residents that it's impossible for the entire population not to know about it! It's actually kind of nice out here apart from being ignored by the locals. Everything seems just so...idyllic. I don't see how a town like this can exist.
8/15: On night patrol, I came across what I think looked like a homeless person sitting in the shadow of the local church's entrance. I couldn't make out any of his features because of the darkness. The clothes he was wearing seemed in pretty bad shape with holes and tears everywhere. I've met everyone in this town, but this guy, he's new. Given this, it's my job to talk to the guy to see if he's ok. The crazy thing is when I approached (him?) he disappeared! Shortly after, a deep raspy voice, whispered "Leave and never return... IT is beneath..." Honestly? I'm still not sure as I'm writing this if I'm hallucinating or not but that scared the heck out of me. If this wasn't just a hallucination, what did he mean by the church was a lie? And what is IT? Unfortunately, I'm going to have to go past the church again tomorrow just to be certain that I'm not just dreaming this up.
8/16: So, I had another encounter with the homeless man tonight. I'm starting to think of him less and less as a man, and more as a nightmare. This time I was able to get a better view of him (it!). The rags he was wearing as an overcoat looked like... moving shadows which continually shifted over his form. I saw him enter the church this time through the door. I don't mean opening the door. He walked THROUGH the door. I gathered up all the courage I had to follow this apparition through the church entrance. He was sitting in one of the first pews near the altar. He heard me enter and turned around to look at me. His face was covered by those shadows, but I remember those eyes. Those terrible pale white eyes which seemed to look through me and not at me. There were no words between us; I was just too afraid to do anything. He then stood up and pointed at me for a couple seconds and then pointed at the ground directly beneath him.
He then rasped, "I suppose... introductions are in order. My name... is Death. I... warned you not to enter the church. It was for your own well-being. This spot...is where you were buried."
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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It was, thought Mael, rather ironic. Here he was, the Elder God of the seas, drowning. And on dry land no less.
"Did I stutter?"
A slight frown crossed Mael's face as he readjusted himself. A filthy elbow slowly made its way down to the park bench, allowing Mael prop himself up to better examine the City Defenders staring down at him. Maybe ironic was the wrong word. The frown deepened. Ghastly? Macabre? Mael didn't care much. He had never been one for flowery words, despite the volumes of romantic seal shit that had been written about his realm.
"I SAID, did I stutter?"
Mael tilted his head to stare at the man who had spoken. The stranger was dressed in an oiled chain vest, woven out of cheap iron. Leather greaves covered a majority of the man's legs, ending almost halfway down the man's shins. The remainder of his shins was covered only with cloth leggings. Planted on top of the chain vest was an overly large bronze helm, painted on the side with the sigil of the City Defenders. An increasingly crimson face peeked out from inside the helm.
"What do you think Takk? Did I stutter?" The Defender turned to his companion.
"….uhhhh….."
"You're useless Takk. Why do you even come along on patrol?" Takk paused, then squinted at his companion.
"Because Captain told me to?" It was clear from Takk's tone that this seemed like a trick question. For Takk, thought Mael, every question probably seemed like a trick question.
"Right. Proof right there that the Captain hates me."
"Right where, Stump?" From deep inside Stump's helmet came the sound of grinding teeth.
"I told you not to call me that" rumbled Stump, lowering his voice in a manner clearly intended to be threatening.
"-but Captain said-"
"-nevermind what Captain said, I'm telling you if I hear-"
Mael considered using some of his power to send the arguing Defenders to a watery grave. It wouldn't be tough, especially since he was in Letheras' Mael Municipal Park. Unbeknownst to the citizens of Letheras, this site had been a shrine to Mael for hundreds of thousands of years. In times long ago, Mael would have been unassailable in this place. Now it was just a poorly kept park in the capital of the Letherii Empire. Unfortunately, in Letheras, even parks required money to enjoy. Thus leading these City Defenders to harass what appeared to them to be a typical homeless man trying to steal park time from City Co., the corporation in charge of maintaining municipal parks.
"Understand?" Stump had apparently finished his conversation with Takk, who was nodding sullenly. Stumped turned abruptly towards Mael.
"Like I was sayin', did I stutter? You need a park pass to use this public park."
Mael lowered himself back down on the bench, already weary of the Defenders. Even if he did kill these two Defenders, what would come of it? In a week's time there would just be two new guards, virtually identical to these. And anywhere Mael went, it would just be more of the same. Petty mortals, living out their petty lives, in a million mundane ways. Mael was tired of it. The Elder god stared at the sky, uncaring as Takk and Stump pulled out their peace-maker clubs.
"Yoo-hoo-hoo!" Takk and Stump paused, thrown off by the sudden and ridiculous noise.
Moments later, a figure emerged from a bush ten behind the public bench. The stranger that strode out was a handsome young man, attired in what clearly had until recently been expensive clothes. Since then, the shirt and pants had obviously been subjected to poor treatment. Cuts and rips opened the crimson silk shirt at places to reveal a leanly muscled torso, with various colors of mud smeared across the man's body and navy blue pants.
"Hello gentlemen!" beamed the stranger as he strolled to the bench. "Lovely day isn't it?"
"No," said Stump "we were about to arrest this man for stealing time in the park."
"What a strange idea!" said the stranger. "Did City Co. recently acquire the rights to time?"
"What? What was that about time? No, we were going to apprehend this man-"
"-Ah yes" interrupted the young man. "I saw that you were indeed about
to "apprehend" this disheveled sir, as you so wonderfully put it. As enjoyable as I'm sure your tender ministrations would have been, I have decided to intervene on behalf of this admittedly odorous hobo."
Stump glared at the stranger, his face unknowingly mirroring Takk's confused expression.
"That supposed to mean you're payin' his park pass?"
"Oh, heavens no" replied the smiling stranger. "I don't even have one myself!"
"That so?" Stump hefted his club, an ugly grin crossing his face. After a momentary pause, Takk also hefted his club.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, good sir, that is so. However, there is one small thing you may want to consider before you decide to put us under your benign judicial custody. City Co. has gone bankrupt."
Stump and Takk froze, processing this new information.
"Stum…er…uh…What do we do?" Takk asked, looking to Stump for guidance.
"Doesn't matter, we're paid by Defender Corp. So we just work the next two days here and they gotta pay us a week's wage anyways." Before Takk could reply, the stranger interrupted.
"Yes, well, that might typically be the case. However, City Co. isn't the only company that's suffered the Errant's push today. In fact there are ten other major companies that have already declared bankruptcy, and it's estimated that at least twenty more will crash before dawn tomorrow. Your employer is sadly one of the former. Your pay this week will probably be late by a period of roughly forever."
Stump and Takk stared at the clubs in their hand, uncertainty playing across one of the pair's faces. On the other, an expression of confusion permanent enough to have already leave wrinkled lines in the forehead.
"If I may make a suggestion lads?" The stranger looked kindly at the Defenders. "This whole thing is being blamed on Tehol Beddict. There's a mob that is chasing him, and if I hear correctly, it is passing by the park now. Why don't you put those clubs to good use and go join them? I'm sure they would appreciate the company."
Stump and Takk looked at each other, nodded, and started jogging towards the sounds of angry yelling coming from the street. As they neared a bend in the path, the stranger called out to them.
"By the way, I think I saw Beddict heading towards the warehouses down by the docks. Tell everyone in the mob, you'll have the best chance to catch him on his way over!"
The newly-unemployed Defenders waived their hands in acknowledgment, and disappeared from view. Mael stared up at the mortal, and grunted.
"Suppose you think I'm Indebted to you now, for saving me from those Defenders?"
"Errant forefend" said the stranger. "I'm fairly sick of the notion of Indebtedness right now. "
"Well, what do you want then?"
"I could probably use a manservant. Do all my cooking, cleaning, the like."
"I can't cook, or clean."
"Excellent!" The stranger clapped his hands together. "Because I can't pay you. I am completely broke, and I mean to stay that way for as long as I want."
Mael considered the mortal for a long moment before replying.
"Manservant, eh? Well, that's something I'll admit I've never done before. I find you…curious. So I think I'll do it. Guess that means I should call you Master, doesn't it?"
"If you must."
"So do you have an actual name, Master?"
"Tehol Beddict." For the first time in millennia, a grin stole across Mael's face. Tehol flinched.
"By the Holds, man, that is a face unsuited for laughter. If you're going to be my manservant, try to restrain your mirth. You look like a bug just crawled into your nether regions."
"Consider my mirth restrained, Master."
"Delighted. Or rather, I am delighted that you no longer are. Regardless, tell me your name. I dislike Manservant, it speaks of stuffiness and servitude. I shall refer to you by your real name, as is the discretion of the master towards his servant."
"Bugg." Tehol's eyes narrowed, glinting briefly with what may have been amusement.
"What an extraordinary coincidence Bugg."
"Do you not believe in extraordinary coincidences, Master?"
"I must, musn't I? For there is proof of one directly in front of me. Time for your first job as manservant." Tehol began stripping his torn clothes off.
"Master?" Completely naked, Tehol swiftly pulled Mael's dingy overcoat over Mael's head, quickly covering himself with the garment. After a cursory glance at the garment, Tehol turned and started walking away.
"My guess is that any second now the mob will find out from Stump and Takk who told them about my flight to the docks," called Tehol over his shoulder. "When they come back, distract the mob for a while. It should help that you're wearing my clothes."
"Wait!" shouted Mael. "You want me to distract a raging mob by making them think I'm you?"
"I have faith in you Bugg! You haven't let me down yet!" Tehol's continued walking the path out of the park, disappearing around a corner.
"I haven't done anything yet that could have let you down," countered Mael in a raised voice.
"My sentiments exactly, Bugg!" Tehol's voice was growing softer as we continued on. "Come find me at our abode in the Pauper's district when you're done…."
"What am I supposed to get rid of the angry mob when they catch me!?" shouted Mael.
The reply was nearly too faint to hear by the time it got to Mael.
"...Smile!"
Mael stared down at the once regal clothes heaped on the ground, considering.
This…this could be fun.
|
8/14: It's been a week since I've been stationed here to "keep the peace". From everything I've seen so far, it's unlikely anything will ever happen in a small and isolated town like this. This town has so few residents that it's impossible for the entire population not to know about it! It's actually kind of nice out here apart from being ignored by the locals. Everything seems just so...idyllic. I don't see how a town like this can exist.
8/15: On night patrol, I came across what I think looked like a homeless person sitting in the shadow of the local church's entrance. I couldn't make out any of his features because of the darkness. The clothes he was wearing seemed in pretty bad shape with holes and tears everywhere. I've met everyone in this town, but this guy, he's new. Given this, it's my job to talk to the guy to see if he's ok. The crazy thing is when I approached (him?) he disappeared! Shortly after, a deep raspy voice, whispered "Leave and never return... IT is beneath..." Honestly? I'm still not sure as I'm writing this if I'm hallucinating or not but that scared the heck out of me. If this wasn't just a hallucination, what did he mean by the church was a lie? And what is IT? Unfortunately, I'm going to have to go past the church again tomorrow just to be certain that I'm not just dreaming this up.
8/16: So, I had another encounter with the homeless man tonight. I'm starting to think of him less and less as a man, and more as a nightmare. This time I was able to get a better view of him (it!). The rags he was wearing as an overcoat looked like... moving shadows which continually shifted over his form. I saw him enter the church this time through the door. I don't mean opening the door. He walked THROUGH the door. I gathered up all the courage I had to follow this apparition through the church entrance. He was sitting in one of the first pews near the altar. He heard me enter and turned around to look at me. His face was covered by those shadows, but I remember those eyes. Those terrible pale white eyes which seemed to look through me and not at me. There were no words between us; I was just too afraid to do anything. He then stood up and pointed at me for a couple seconds and then pointed at the ground directly beneath him.
He then rasped, "I suppose... introductions are in order. My name... is Death. I... warned you not to enter the church. It was for your own well-being. This spot...is where you were buried."
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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It was, thought Mael, rather ironic. Here he was, the Elder God of the seas, drowning. And on dry land no less.
"Did I stutter?"
A slight frown crossed Mael's face as he readjusted himself. A filthy elbow slowly made its way down to the park bench, allowing Mael prop himself up to better examine the City Defenders staring down at him. Maybe ironic was the wrong word. The frown deepened. Ghastly? Macabre? Mael didn't care much. He had never been one for flowery words, despite the volumes of romantic seal shit that had been written about his realm.
"I SAID, did I stutter?"
Mael tilted his head to stare at the man who had spoken. The stranger was dressed in an oiled chain vest, woven out of cheap iron. Leather greaves covered a majority of the man's legs, ending almost halfway down the man's shins. The remainder of his shins was covered only with cloth leggings. Planted on top of the chain vest was an overly large bronze helm, painted on the side with the sigil of the City Defenders. An increasingly crimson face peeked out from inside the helm.
"What do you think Takk? Did I stutter?" The Defender turned to his companion.
"….uhhhh….."
"You're useless Takk. Why do you even come along on patrol?" Takk paused, then squinted at his companion.
"Because Captain told me to?" It was clear from Takk's tone that this seemed like a trick question. For Takk, thought Mael, every question probably seemed like a trick question.
"Right. Proof right there that the Captain hates me."
"Right where, Stump?" From deep inside Stump's helmet came the sound of grinding teeth.
"I told you not to call me that" rumbled Stump, lowering his voice in a manner clearly intended to be threatening.
"-but Captain said-"
"-nevermind what Captain said, I'm telling you if I hear-"
Mael considered using some of his power to send the arguing Defenders to a watery grave. It wouldn't be tough, especially since he was in Letheras' Mael Municipal Park. Unbeknownst to the citizens of Letheras, this site had been a shrine to Mael for hundreds of thousands of years. In times long ago, Mael would have been unassailable in this place. Now it was just a poorly kept park in the capital of the Letherii Empire. Unfortunately, in Letheras, even parks required money to enjoy. Thus leading these City Defenders to harass what appeared to them to be a typical homeless man trying to steal park time from City Co., the corporation in charge of maintaining municipal parks.
"Understand?" Stump had apparently finished his conversation with Takk, who was nodding sullenly. Stumped turned abruptly towards Mael.
"Like I was sayin', did I stutter? You need a park pass to use this public park."
Mael lowered himself back down on the bench, already weary of the Defenders. Even if he did kill these two Defenders, what would come of it? In a week's time there would just be two new guards, virtually identical to these. And anywhere Mael went, it would just be more of the same. Petty mortals, living out their petty lives, in a million mundane ways. Mael was tired of it. The Elder god stared at the sky, uncaring as Takk and Stump pulled out their peace-maker clubs.
"Yoo-hoo-hoo!" Takk and Stump paused, thrown off by the sudden and ridiculous noise.
Moments later, a figure emerged from a bush ten behind the public bench. The stranger that strode out was a handsome young man, attired in what clearly had until recently been expensive clothes. Since then, the shirt and pants had obviously been subjected to poor treatment. Cuts and rips opened the crimson silk shirt at places to reveal a leanly muscled torso, with various colors of mud smeared across the man's body and navy blue pants.
"Hello gentlemen!" beamed the stranger as he strolled to the bench. "Lovely day isn't it?"
"No," said Stump "we were about to arrest this man for stealing time in the park."
"What a strange idea!" said the stranger. "Did City Co. recently acquire the rights to time?"
"What? What was that about time? No, we were going to apprehend this man-"
"-Ah yes" interrupted the young man. "I saw that you were indeed about
to "apprehend" this disheveled sir, as you so wonderfully put it. As enjoyable as I'm sure your tender ministrations would have been, I have decided to intervene on behalf of this admittedly odorous hobo."
Stump glared at the stranger, his face unknowingly mirroring Takk's confused expression.
"That supposed to mean you're payin' his park pass?"
"Oh, heavens no" replied the smiling stranger. "I don't even have one myself!"
"That so?" Stump hefted his club, an ugly grin crossing his face. After a momentary pause, Takk also hefted his club.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, good sir, that is so. However, there is one small thing you may want to consider before you decide to put us under your benign judicial custody. City Co. has gone bankrupt."
Stump and Takk froze, processing this new information.
"Stum…er…uh…What do we do?" Takk asked, looking to Stump for guidance.
"Doesn't matter, we're paid by Defender Corp. So we just work the next two days here and they gotta pay us a week's wage anyways." Before Takk could reply, the stranger interrupted.
"Yes, well, that might typically be the case. However, City Co. isn't the only company that's suffered the Errant's push today. In fact there are ten other major companies that have already declared bankruptcy, and it's estimated that at least twenty more will crash before dawn tomorrow. Your employer is sadly one of the former. Your pay this week will probably be late by a period of roughly forever."
Stump and Takk stared at the clubs in their hand, uncertainty playing across one of the pair's faces. On the other, an expression of confusion permanent enough to have already leave wrinkled lines in the forehead.
"If I may make a suggestion lads?" The stranger looked kindly at the Defenders. "This whole thing is being blamed on Tehol Beddict. There's a mob that is chasing him, and if I hear correctly, it is passing by the park now. Why don't you put those clubs to good use and go join them? I'm sure they would appreciate the company."
Stump and Takk looked at each other, nodded, and started jogging towards the sounds of angry yelling coming from the street. As they neared a bend in the path, the stranger called out to them.
"By the way, I think I saw Beddict heading towards the warehouses down by the docks. Tell everyone in the mob, you'll have the best chance to catch him on his way over!"
The newly-unemployed Defenders waived their hands in acknowledgment, and disappeared from view. Mael stared up at the mortal, and grunted.
"Suppose you think I'm Indebted to you now, for saving me from those Defenders?"
"Errant forefend" said the stranger. "I'm fairly sick of the notion of Indebtedness right now. "
"Well, what do you want then?"
"I could probably use a manservant. Do all my cooking, cleaning, the like."
"I can't cook, or clean."
"Excellent!" The stranger clapped his hands together. "Because I can't pay you. I am completely broke, and I mean to stay that way for as long as I want."
Mael considered the mortal for a long moment before replying.
"Manservant, eh? Well, that's something I'll admit I've never done before. I find you…curious. So I think I'll do it. Guess that means I should call you Master, doesn't it?"
"If you must."
"So do you have an actual name, Master?"
"Tehol Beddict." For the first time in millennia, a grin stole across Mael's face. Tehol flinched.
"By the Holds, man, that is a face unsuited for laughter. If you're going to be my manservant, try to restrain your mirth. You look like a bug just crawled into your nether regions."
"Consider my mirth restrained, Master."
"Delighted. Or rather, I am delighted that you no longer are. Regardless, tell me your name. I dislike Manservant, it speaks of stuffiness and servitude. I shall refer to you by your real name, as is the discretion of the master towards his servant."
"Bugg." Tehol's eyes narrowed, glinting briefly with what may have been amusement.
"What an extraordinary coincidence Bugg."
"Do you not believe in extraordinary coincidences, Master?"
"I must, musn't I? For there is proof of one directly in front of me. Time for your first job as manservant." Tehol began stripping his torn clothes off.
"Master?" Completely naked, Tehol swiftly pulled Mael's dingy overcoat over Mael's head, quickly covering himself with the garment. After a cursory glance at the garment, Tehol turned and started walking away.
"My guess is that any second now the mob will find out from Stump and Takk who told them about my flight to the docks," called Tehol over his shoulder. "When they come back, distract the mob for a while. It should help that you're wearing my clothes."
"Wait!" shouted Mael. "You want me to distract a raging mob by making them think I'm you?"
"I have faith in you Bugg! You haven't let me down yet!" Tehol's continued walking the path out of the park, disappearing around a corner.
"I haven't done anything yet that could have let you down," countered Mael in a raised voice.
"My sentiments exactly, Bugg!" Tehol's voice was growing softer as we continued on. "Come find me at our abode in the Pauper's district when you're done…."
"What am I supposed to get rid of the angry mob when they catch me!?" shouted Mael.
The reply was nearly too faint to hear by the time it got to Mael.
"...Smile!"
Mael stared down at the once regal clothes heaped on the ground, considering.
This…this could be fun.
|
"Look mister, you can't sleep here."
The officer was trying to be civil. Or at least, more civil than most. There had been complaints. The chief gave the orders. But did he really have to bother this poor old man?
I mean, if a man can't sleep on the stoop of a church, where can he sleep?
The old man grumbled as he rose a bit. His shirt looked like it might have been white at one point, and his beard was long, grey, and tangled. He appeared Middle Eastern to the officer, but in a city as pale as Boston, who doesn't?
"Where am I?" groaned the man, rubbing his eyes.
"You're where you fell asleep. St. Leonard's."
The old man was now standing. He was much shorter than the officer, and had a hunch in his back.
"Oh. Good. I was worried I had spent the night somewhere less hospitable."
The officer cocked his head. "Old timer, I wouldn't call the streets hospitable. Come with me, I'll find you someplace warmer than the sidewalk."
The old man seemed not to acknowledge the subtle hint. "But what, friend, is warmer than the bosom of Mary? I think I will stay here."
This was the part where the officer hated his job. He gave the old man the spiel. Loitering and disturbing the piece. To his credit, the old man was calm and compliant. Definitely a repeat offender. But when the officer tried to lead the man, he would not budge.
"Officer, I understand that it is your job to keep the peace, but will you allow me my peace?" He gestured to the doors of the church.
The officer was going to say no, going to bring the old man Downtown. But he was so pleasant, so non combative. The officer decided to give the old man his request.
The officer opened the door for the old man and allowed him in. He stopped and waited for the officer to get the hint, unlocked the cuffs, and allowed the man to cross himself with the water.
"And you, officer? Will you not join me?"
The officer stood by the doorjamb of the church. "I do not need to find peace here."
"But officer, I am no longer cuffed. If I run?"
Now the officer was regretting his decision. He entered the church, but did not cross himself. He was here for business, not pleasure.
The old timer went to the nearest pew, bent the knee, and sat. He patted the pew, motioning for the officer to sit. He sat, but he told himself that it was only to get a load off his weary feet.
For a few minutes, the old man sat and prayed. The officer was just about to ask him to finish, when the old man turned to him. "Where, officer, do you find peace? If not here, where?"
The officer was taken aback by this question. He didn't want to answer it. But the old man's eye's were... noble. Kind. He felt like he could tell the old man anything.
"I try to find peace everywhere. I haven't found peace here in years."
"So you found peace here once before?"
The officer thought back, suddenly reminded of his youth. A young child in the playground next door, not a care in the world. No bills. No social stigma. No fear. Just a boy in the church playground.
"Ya, I found peace here once."
The old man smiled. "Then, my son, what was once can be again."
The old man rose. He seemed taller now, less hunched. He said nothing, but the officer knew that he was done.
The two began walking towards the door of the church when the old man stopped again.
"Find peace, Donny. You keep the peace, but you haven't been at peace in so long."
The officer stopped. He began to turn around, asking the old man "how do you know my name?"
But when he had turned, the old man was gone.
No sound of running.
No flash of smoke.
Just gone.
The officer stood there, mouth agape, for what seemed like ages. When he finally regained his composure, officer Donny heard a noise from his hip. The familiar walky talky telling him about some robbery on some street.
He turned it off.
He walked to the door of the church,
Crossed himself with the holy water,
And walked out the door.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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It was, thought Mael, rather ironic. Here he was, the Elder God of the seas, drowning. And on dry land no less.
"Did I stutter?"
A slight frown crossed Mael's face as he readjusted himself. A filthy elbow slowly made its way down to the park bench, allowing Mael prop himself up to better examine the City Defenders staring down at him. Maybe ironic was the wrong word. The frown deepened. Ghastly? Macabre? Mael didn't care much. He had never been one for flowery words, despite the volumes of romantic seal shit that had been written about his realm.
"I SAID, did I stutter?"
Mael tilted his head to stare at the man who had spoken. The stranger was dressed in an oiled chain vest, woven out of cheap iron. Leather greaves covered a majority of the man's legs, ending almost halfway down the man's shins. The remainder of his shins was covered only with cloth leggings. Planted on top of the chain vest was an overly large bronze helm, painted on the side with the sigil of the City Defenders. An increasingly crimson face peeked out from inside the helm.
"What do you think Takk? Did I stutter?" The Defender turned to his companion.
"….uhhhh….."
"You're useless Takk. Why do you even come along on patrol?" Takk paused, then squinted at his companion.
"Because Captain told me to?" It was clear from Takk's tone that this seemed like a trick question. For Takk, thought Mael, every question probably seemed like a trick question.
"Right. Proof right there that the Captain hates me."
"Right where, Stump?" From deep inside Stump's helmet came the sound of grinding teeth.
"I told you not to call me that" rumbled Stump, lowering his voice in a manner clearly intended to be threatening.
"-but Captain said-"
"-nevermind what Captain said, I'm telling you if I hear-"
Mael considered using some of his power to send the arguing Defenders to a watery grave. It wouldn't be tough, especially since he was in Letheras' Mael Municipal Park. Unbeknownst to the citizens of Letheras, this site had been a shrine to Mael for hundreds of thousands of years. In times long ago, Mael would have been unassailable in this place. Now it was just a poorly kept park in the capital of the Letherii Empire. Unfortunately, in Letheras, even parks required money to enjoy. Thus leading these City Defenders to harass what appeared to them to be a typical homeless man trying to steal park time from City Co., the corporation in charge of maintaining municipal parks.
"Understand?" Stump had apparently finished his conversation with Takk, who was nodding sullenly. Stumped turned abruptly towards Mael.
"Like I was sayin', did I stutter? You need a park pass to use this public park."
Mael lowered himself back down on the bench, already weary of the Defenders. Even if he did kill these two Defenders, what would come of it? In a week's time there would just be two new guards, virtually identical to these. And anywhere Mael went, it would just be more of the same. Petty mortals, living out their petty lives, in a million mundane ways. Mael was tired of it. The Elder god stared at the sky, uncaring as Takk and Stump pulled out their peace-maker clubs.
"Yoo-hoo-hoo!" Takk and Stump paused, thrown off by the sudden and ridiculous noise.
Moments later, a figure emerged from a bush ten behind the public bench. The stranger that strode out was a handsome young man, attired in what clearly had until recently been expensive clothes. Since then, the shirt and pants had obviously been subjected to poor treatment. Cuts and rips opened the crimson silk shirt at places to reveal a leanly muscled torso, with various colors of mud smeared across the man's body and navy blue pants.
"Hello gentlemen!" beamed the stranger as he strolled to the bench. "Lovely day isn't it?"
"No," said Stump "we were about to arrest this man for stealing time in the park."
"What a strange idea!" said the stranger. "Did City Co. recently acquire the rights to time?"
"What? What was that about time? No, we were going to apprehend this man-"
"-Ah yes" interrupted the young man. "I saw that you were indeed about
to "apprehend" this disheveled sir, as you so wonderfully put it. As enjoyable as I'm sure your tender ministrations would have been, I have decided to intervene on behalf of this admittedly odorous hobo."
Stump glared at the stranger, his face unknowingly mirroring Takk's confused expression.
"That supposed to mean you're payin' his park pass?"
"Oh, heavens no" replied the smiling stranger. "I don't even have one myself!"
"That so?" Stump hefted his club, an ugly grin crossing his face. After a momentary pause, Takk also hefted his club.
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt, good sir, that is so. However, there is one small thing you may want to consider before you decide to put us under your benign judicial custody. City Co. has gone bankrupt."
Stump and Takk froze, processing this new information.
"Stum…er…uh…What do we do?" Takk asked, looking to Stump for guidance.
"Doesn't matter, we're paid by Defender Corp. So we just work the next two days here and they gotta pay us a week's wage anyways." Before Takk could reply, the stranger interrupted.
"Yes, well, that might typically be the case. However, City Co. isn't the only company that's suffered the Errant's push today. In fact there are ten other major companies that have already declared bankruptcy, and it's estimated that at least twenty more will crash before dawn tomorrow. Your employer is sadly one of the former. Your pay this week will probably be late by a period of roughly forever."
Stump and Takk stared at the clubs in their hand, uncertainty playing across one of the pair's faces. On the other, an expression of confusion permanent enough to have already leave wrinkled lines in the forehead.
"If I may make a suggestion lads?" The stranger looked kindly at the Defenders. "This whole thing is being blamed on Tehol Beddict. There's a mob that is chasing him, and if I hear correctly, it is passing by the park now. Why don't you put those clubs to good use and go join them? I'm sure they would appreciate the company."
Stump and Takk looked at each other, nodded, and started jogging towards the sounds of angry yelling coming from the street. As they neared a bend in the path, the stranger called out to them.
"By the way, I think I saw Beddict heading towards the warehouses down by the docks. Tell everyone in the mob, you'll have the best chance to catch him on his way over!"
The newly-unemployed Defenders waived their hands in acknowledgment, and disappeared from view. Mael stared up at the mortal, and grunted.
"Suppose you think I'm Indebted to you now, for saving me from those Defenders?"
"Errant forefend" said the stranger. "I'm fairly sick of the notion of Indebtedness right now. "
"Well, what do you want then?"
"I could probably use a manservant. Do all my cooking, cleaning, the like."
"I can't cook, or clean."
"Excellent!" The stranger clapped his hands together. "Because I can't pay you. I am completely broke, and I mean to stay that way for as long as I want."
Mael considered the mortal for a long moment before replying.
"Manservant, eh? Well, that's something I'll admit I've never done before. I find you…curious. So I think I'll do it. Guess that means I should call you Master, doesn't it?"
"If you must."
"So do you have an actual name, Master?"
"Tehol Beddict." For the first time in millennia, a grin stole across Mael's face. Tehol flinched.
"By the Holds, man, that is a face unsuited for laughter. If you're going to be my manservant, try to restrain your mirth. You look like a bug just crawled into your nether regions."
"Consider my mirth restrained, Master."
"Delighted. Or rather, I am delighted that you no longer are. Regardless, tell me your name. I dislike Manservant, it speaks of stuffiness and servitude. I shall refer to you by your real name, as is the discretion of the master towards his servant."
"Bugg." Tehol's eyes narrowed, glinting briefly with what may have been amusement.
"What an extraordinary coincidence Bugg."
"Do you not believe in extraordinary coincidences, Master?"
"I must, musn't I? For there is proof of one directly in front of me. Time for your first job as manservant." Tehol began stripping his torn clothes off.
"Master?" Completely naked, Tehol swiftly pulled Mael's dingy overcoat over Mael's head, quickly covering himself with the garment. After a cursory glance at the garment, Tehol turned and started walking away.
"My guess is that any second now the mob will find out from Stump and Takk who told them about my flight to the docks," called Tehol over his shoulder. "When they come back, distract the mob for a while. It should help that you're wearing my clothes."
"Wait!" shouted Mael. "You want me to distract a raging mob by making them think I'm you?"
"I have faith in you Bugg! You haven't let me down yet!" Tehol's continued walking the path out of the park, disappearing around a corner.
"I haven't done anything yet that could have let you down," countered Mael in a raised voice.
"My sentiments exactly, Bugg!" Tehol's voice was growing softer as we continued on. "Come find me at our abode in the Pauper's district when you're done…."
"What am I supposed to get rid of the angry mob when they catch me!?" shouted Mael.
The reply was nearly too faint to hear by the time it got to Mael.
"...Smile!"
Mael stared down at the once regal clothes heaped on the ground, considering.
This…this could be fun.
|
The old man had been hanging around the memorial for weeks now. Usually he sat and slept under the main plaque that read TEMPLE OF KOROMAE, GOD OF MERCY. His clothes were the recently-out-of-fashion outfit of a vest and skirt. They were tattered and dirty, flowing over the homeless man’s thin body. His long gray hair and beard were matted and tangled with bits of garbage and refuse. Around his neck he wore the ancient pendant of Koromae, a stylized ram’s head, and around his being he wore an odor of filth.
At first, people didn’t mind the man hanging around the temple. After all, Koromae had been a god of all, not just those who were financially well-off. He was ignored in the first week or so by those who came to the temple for reflection or prayer. But then the man began to accost the worshippers, asking them to pray with him constantly, to reveal to him their hopes and worries, to share with them thoughts and feelings that belonged only between the individual and Koromae.
It was due to the overwhelming amount of complaints from the worshippers that the police had come to the temple. Two officers approached carefully, from their vehicle, the man in the ragged clothing. He was in the middle of begging at one of the prayers standing in front of the entrance.
“You do not have to enter to pray!” He was saying, nearly shouting, in exasperation. “Tell me all you wish to say!”
“All I wish to say to you,” the prayer replied. “Is ‘leave me alone.’” She attempted to pass by the homeless man, but was blocked entrance.
“Please,” the man cried. “You only need to speak with me!”
“Sir,” one of the officers said as the two approached. They had their hands upon the grips of their laser pistols that rested in their waist holsters. “Let’s leave the gal alone, what do you say?”
Both the homeless man and the woman looked at the officers, the woman with relief and the man with vexation.
“Go ahead, ma’am,” the second officer gestured toward the temple. The worshipper quickly took her leave.
“You seem to be a pretty unpopular fellow,” the first officer said to the man, trying to sound casual, as they had been taught at the academy.
At this the derelict laughed mirthlessly. “Unpopular?” He asked. “That’s your word for it?”
“Okay,” the officer shrugged. “You’re pissing people off, to be perfectly blunt. Why can’t you just let them pray in peace?”
“I’m trying to let them pray!” the man exclaimed. “But why must they enter the temple at cost when they can come to the source for free, as prayer should be?”
“The source?” the second officer asked.
“Yes,” the homeless man replied. “The source. Me.”
“You’re saying you’re Koromae?”
“Precisely,” the man said, closing his eyes in what appeared to be peace.
The two officers looked at one another for a moment and the first said, “Look, sir, we’re going to go ahead and take you in our car, okay?”
“And take me away from my temple?” the man asked incredulously.
“Yes, just for a little while,” the officer held out his hand for the tramp to take. At the same time the second officer was calling headquarters to ready a spot in the August Mental Home.
Reluctantly, the dirty man allowed himself to be ushered to the police cruiser. Having heard the second officer’s conversation over the communication link, he began to silently weep.
So, he thought as the car took off from the temple, this is what the world is like. No mercy or peace was here on this plane, not even at the house of worship. No mercy was shown, even by those who were praying to the god of such unselfishness.
It boggled the ancient deity’s mind that such creatures could exist as these who showed no compassion for their fellow man. Somewhere, Koromae thought to himself as the two officers discussed matters in the front seats, somewhere we had gone wrong with these beings. We are at fault, not them.
He decided as he watched the police car cruise past scores of these imperfect creatures: I will let them take me to that hospital for those with sick minds. It is my punishment for making these faulty creatures with no love in their hearts. Two decades, in slow human time, should be penance enough.
After that, Koromae considered, I will return to the High Plane, and We will have a discussion as to what to do with these creatures that were so defective. It may have to be as it was a thousand years earlier. Maybe, he thought to himself, but I certainly hope not.
He began to cry again, as, though his children were not of a compassionate nature, he himself was and it would a terrible thing to have to destroy creation once again.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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Izanagi just sighed as she enjoyed the brief drive. She had been in this small town in Hokkaido for all of three months and this was about the most interesting thing to have happened: some uppity businessmen whining about a vagrant squatting on their new development lot.
The development was a ways out of the town proper, but would make a rather expensive resort community in the mountains when it was completed. Part of it made Izanagi sad to see the wilderness bulldozed and destroyed. There was a serenity to this place. That's why she had transferred here.
She parked at the base of the development area, bulldozers and backhoes sat idles while surveyors and engineers walk around setting markers and lines. Two men in hard hats and suits approached as she stepped out of the car and radioed in that she had arrived.
"He is up there," pointed the taller one. Asoa san. "Get him out of here. Now." No greeting, no please, not an ounce of politeness.
The shorter one at least had some manners and gave a quick bow, "Ah, excuse me, thank you for coming police woman. I am Mr. Takeada, this is Mr. Asoa. Please, He is frightening the workers, they do not want to venture up the hill. Ah ah, as you know we own this land. It is not protected."
*Frightening the workers? Not Protected?* Suddenly Izanagi's old police instincts kicked in. Something wasn't right here.
"Thank you. I will go speak with this man. If you will excuse me." Izanagi bowed, and turned to venture up the. She didn't pause to see how they regarded her. The first portion of the hill had been cleared, but the hillside was still a wall of wooded splendor. What a pity.
The forest was serial, like something out of those old samurai pictures. In a dozen steps she was transported back in time. And then she saw it. The old wooden shrine and the ring of stones tied with Shimenawa. *Not protected my ass!* No wonder the workers were spooked, destroying a monument like this was not only illegal, but for those superstitious lot, had the added fear of angering the kami of the shrine.
As Izanagi approached she placed her hand on her side arm out of instinct, crossing the stones she saw a mossy mound shuffle, and turn.
"Excuse me sir. This is private property, and the owners have asked me to request you to leave."
He turned; a mangy mane of hair and beard, straw hat, and old grey robes, warn by age and dirt. He was huge, easily over two meters tall and physically powerful - musculature rippling under the skin of his exposed arms. His face remained partially obscured by the hat. His voice was deep and grumbled:
"Told Them. Break the stones, I will hurry on." His accent was.. odd. Old. She gazed around at the ring of shrine stones. The writing on the ofuda long worn, but a few character's in the ancient kanji remained on the stones. She couldn't make it out.
"Will you leave, if I just break one stone?" Izanagi Asked the mountain that lay disinterested before the small wooden shrine. *They're going to bulldoze this anyway, might as well...*
As she hefted a large flag stone over her head, she caught a glimpse of one of the stones etchings, barely legible. Too late, the stone came down and the sound of the forest was shattered be a crack like thunder. One of the ring of stones split in a lightning bolt pattern.
She hadn't even seen him move, yet he was directly in front of her now, he was massive, like nothing she had seen, an American body builder huge. In one swift motion she loosed her side arm and had it leveled at his head.
"No need" he spoke as he dropped the straw hat, revealing two short ivory horns jutting from his forehead. He gave her a toothy grin, and strode past her headed down the hill.
Izanagi just stood there before broken stone, eyes fixed as the sound of screams and the sick crack of bones breaking drifted up into the calm forest.
It was a simple phrase etched in each rock:
"oger - run away."
Edit: fixed many typos born from rushed writing on my phone.
|
The old man had been hanging around the memorial for weeks now. Usually he sat and slept under the main plaque that read TEMPLE OF KOROMAE, GOD OF MERCY. His clothes were the recently-out-of-fashion outfit of a vest and skirt. They were tattered and dirty, flowing over the homeless man’s thin body. His long gray hair and beard were matted and tangled with bits of garbage and refuse. Around his neck he wore the ancient pendant of Koromae, a stylized ram’s head, and around his being he wore an odor of filth.
At first, people didn’t mind the man hanging around the temple. After all, Koromae had been a god of all, not just those who were financially well-off. He was ignored in the first week or so by those who came to the temple for reflection or prayer. But then the man began to accost the worshippers, asking them to pray with him constantly, to reveal to him their hopes and worries, to share with them thoughts and feelings that belonged only between the individual and Koromae.
It was due to the overwhelming amount of complaints from the worshippers that the police had come to the temple. Two officers approached carefully, from their vehicle, the man in the ragged clothing. He was in the middle of begging at one of the prayers standing in front of the entrance.
“You do not have to enter to pray!” He was saying, nearly shouting, in exasperation. “Tell me all you wish to say!”
“All I wish to say to you,” the prayer replied. “Is ‘leave me alone.’” She attempted to pass by the homeless man, but was blocked entrance.
“Please,” the man cried. “You only need to speak with me!”
“Sir,” one of the officers said as the two approached. They had their hands upon the grips of their laser pistols that rested in their waist holsters. “Let’s leave the gal alone, what do you say?”
Both the homeless man and the woman looked at the officers, the woman with relief and the man with vexation.
“Go ahead, ma’am,” the second officer gestured toward the temple. The worshipper quickly took her leave.
“You seem to be a pretty unpopular fellow,” the first officer said to the man, trying to sound casual, as they had been taught at the academy.
At this the derelict laughed mirthlessly. “Unpopular?” He asked. “That’s your word for it?”
“Okay,” the officer shrugged. “You’re pissing people off, to be perfectly blunt. Why can’t you just let them pray in peace?”
“I’m trying to let them pray!” the man exclaimed. “But why must they enter the temple at cost when they can come to the source for free, as prayer should be?”
“The source?” the second officer asked.
“Yes,” the homeless man replied. “The source. Me.”
“You’re saying you’re Koromae?”
“Precisely,” the man said, closing his eyes in what appeared to be peace.
The two officers looked at one another for a moment and the first said, “Look, sir, we’re going to go ahead and take you in our car, okay?”
“And take me away from my temple?” the man asked incredulously.
“Yes, just for a little while,” the officer held out his hand for the tramp to take. At the same time the second officer was calling headquarters to ready a spot in the August Mental Home.
Reluctantly, the dirty man allowed himself to be ushered to the police cruiser. Having heard the second officer’s conversation over the communication link, he began to silently weep.
So, he thought as the car took off from the temple, this is what the world is like. No mercy or peace was here on this plane, not even at the house of worship. No mercy was shown, even by those who were praying to the god of such unselfishness.
It boggled the ancient deity’s mind that such creatures could exist as these who showed no compassion for their fellow man. Somewhere, Koromae thought to himself as the two officers discussed matters in the front seats, somewhere we had gone wrong with these beings. We are at fault, not them.
He decided as he watched the police car cruise past scores of these imperfect creatures: I will let them take me to that hospital for those with sick minds. It is my punishment for making these faulty creatures with no love in their hearts. Two decades, in slow human time, should be penance enough.
After that, Koromae considered, I will return to the High Plane, and We will have a discussion as to what to do with these creatures that were so defective. It may have to be as it was a thousand years earlier. Maybe, he thought to himself, but I certainly hope not.
He began to cry again, as, though his children were not of a compassionate nature, he himself was and it would a terrible thing to have to destroy creation once again.
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
The man chuckled as he saw the police officer approaching him.
"Sir, we are going to have to ask you to leave, this site is not currently open to the public."
The man stared up at the officer with eyes that seemed to have seen more than any human could comprehend.
"My child, what makes you think I am a member of the public."
The officer shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, I really am going to have to ask you to leave or I'm afraid you will be removed by force."
The man stood up, then, and gestured to the area around him.
"It was flattering, really, when they built this for me. Barely even able to talk, and yet they went to almost unimaginable lengths to pay their respects. It was a nice gesture, but not really appreciated as much as they had hoped. It gets lonely, you know. Watching the birth of galaxies, of civilizations, the greatest and worst the universe can offer, and knowing you can never be part of it, never walk among the people as an equal rather than a deity. This kind of thing serves as a reminder of that, almost."
The officer struggled to remain calm. This man was clearly raving, probably on some sort of drugs. This was meant to be a simple "Get the hobo away from the important historical site" job, nice quick and easy. This would make it a lot more complicated.
"Sir, who exactly do you think you are?"
The man turned from his view of the ancient stone pillars to look at the officers.
"I have gone by innumerable names over the years, child. Yahweh, Allah, God. Some, like the people who built this place, knew me as many different people, each a different aspect of what I represent. And of course, over time, my messages have been twisted and distorted to better serve the views and purposes of those who spread them. So sad that something intended to spread peace and love has caused so much suffering and hatred, but it is not my place to interfere."
The officers' were beyond confused by this point. The man wasn't gibbering or ranting, no, he was perfectly composed, carrying himself with an air of undeniable authority.
"Why not? If you really are god, what right do you have to stand by and watch as people die, and hurt, and lose what they love?"
"What would you be, if you had everything you wanted? Every last thing exactly perfect, with no room for improvement, from the day you were born? You would be one of millions of identical people who had never grown, never felt anything beyond arbitrary happiness. For your life to mean anything, you have to live it yourselves. I may guide you along your path, but, ultimately, everything is up to you. It is... regrettable, that so many bad decisions have been made, but those mistakes will become irrelevant in the next life."
The man turned once more, and spoke with an air of finality. "This universe is broken. The war I fought with the one you know as Lucifer made sure of that, but in the next, my creation will finally be complete, and I will walk, at last, amongst equals. But don't for one moment think that what you do in this life won't count in the next. It would be useful for you to remember that at, oh, I think, sometime within the week."
He turned one last time to the stone pillars.
"Beautiful place, Stonehenge. If only you knew how much was lost making it... the only thing of real value is human sacrifice, whether it be of strength or time or something more." Then he was gone, without a flash, or a pop, or any indication that he had been there at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moment couldn't get any more surreal, the man thought, as he stood on the podium, staring at the crowd before him.
"You are awarded this medal for bravery, for the act of risking your own life to protect the life of another."
The moment his feet had left the ground, moments before the shot had been fired, he realized what he was doing was insane.
"Your actions were selfless and honourable, and for that, the forces are exceedingly grateful."
He had barely known the officer he had been partnered with, on that case gone horribly awry, and yet when it became clear that the other man was going to be shot at, he had jumped in front of him. After all, the other man was much younger, showed much more potential, while he? Well, he was nearing retirement.
Something caught his eye, at the back of the room, and standing there was the man. God. He gave a single, short nod, and then he was gone.
|
Rough fingers brushed weathered stone, carefully feeling out each time-earned bump and mound. He could still feel each etched rune… or, at least, he *remembered* feeling them. They were gone now, long gone… too gone. The man’s once-proud visage drew close together in a frown. How long had he slept? They had promised sacrifices after his deep sleep, as had been prophesized by the far-seer, but no there was no one in sight. No priest holding glinting knives, no blood-letters trailing behind with downcast faces. No wide-eyed children, no mothers holding them by their shoulders to keep them in line.
Instead, there were two strange men approaching with poor intentions.
One yelled out something foreign, and the old man turned, long beard trailing the ground. One man’s rotund face heavily scowled as he waddled forward, belly swaying with his steps, while the other had a haughty look pasted on, despite the fact that he was skinnier than most sacrifices. The round one gestured wildly as the old man showed no signs of moving. Was he asking him to move? But why should he? This was his home, his monument. It belonged to him. How did they not know this? Were they heathens?
The old man’s face wrinkled even further as the thought passed his mind. How dare they approach him, unfaithful as they clearly were? He ought to smite them where they stood. He rose one arm towards the defiers, three fingers held up in a sign of doom.
But nothing happened.
It did get a reaction from the heathens, however. The large one snatched a dark object from his waist and pointed it at the old man with confused eyes, while the small man stepped back and behind the other one.
The old man only paid these events cursory attention. There was only one reason that he would be unable to call forth any of the elements, a reason he had heard of from his ancestors.
He was fading.
It had happened to other gods when hey were forgotten, supposedly. But the old man had never thought that it would happen to him. He was the leader, the most prominent figure, the True-Father. How would it happen to him?
He had the answer right in front of him, of course. He had been forgotten, and was now being threatened by people who would not even whet his appetite as sacrifices.
He lowered his arm, and turned away from the lesser men. The prophecy hadn’t come true, just as people had whispered in the darkness back in his heyday. But while he had lost his authority, he had not lost his dignity. He would *never* lose his dignity.
So it was with a straight back that the old man walked away, disregarding the vaguely frightened and confused shouts from the loud man behind him. He turned behind the remnants of an old pillar, what used to be a truly magnificent sight, and raised his arms up. And for a moment, he remembered what it had felt like to ride on the breeze, before the gentle gusts took him to the Beyond.
——————————————————
“No one can just disappear, y’ know,” John muttered as he slammed the door of the yellow-and-blue checkered car. “He’s still out there.”
Richard grunted, barely shoving his stomach into the small police car. “Sure, but whatever, just let him sleep there. We’ll find him tomorrow, it’s not that big a deal.”
“You just want to leave now to get to a café.”
“No shit.”
John snorted as he started the engine, and the car pulled out of the lot, gravel crunching under the tires.
The two sat in silence for a while longer. But just as they reached the highway, John spoke.
“But seriously, who the hell falls asleep at *stonehenge*?”
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
Guard duty.
My cousins are out slaying dragons and what do I get? Guard duty.
Don't think I have no love for Talos, he has kept me safe in battle for many years, but damn if it isn't dull.
Whiterun is a great town, and being at the center of Skyrim is great for commerce, we have all sorts come here, but it's mostly nords, like me.
Now, as I mentioned, I have great love for Talos, but there's this guy in town, see, Heimskr. Real loud mouth, loves Talos more than mead, and I get his message, really, I do, but he goes on all day, every damn day. I've never seen him leave. Come to think of it, I've never even seen him eat...or shit or anything. Sun goes down, he sleeps right there with the statue, sun comes up, and he's back at it again.
He can't even come up with any new stuff either, it's the same 4 or 5 paragraphs over and over again calling us maggots and the like. Now, I don't want to kill the guy, but if I hear his shtick again, I'm going to lose it. I could put him in the keep, and at least give him a bed and food for a few days, give me some peace and quite, and keep the Aldemeri thinking we listen to them.
It honestly seemed pretty win-win-win to me. Now, can I through someone in the keep just because they annoy me? Sure. Am I *supposed* to? Eh...not really.
I was going to have to make up some excuse, and I was really tired, so I just went with the classic 'talos worship...blah blah...illegal...blah blah.'
Well I'll be damned if he didn't go right off the gods-damned handle, started screaming and screeching, throwing things around, the works. He caused enough of a scene for some other guards to come up and put him in irons without asking me why he was being arrested, which is good for me, considering we're all nords here.
It really was surprisingly difficult to get this unarmed little nord in robes into the dungeon, it took about 6 of us, guy was unbelievably strong. He really went off the deep end once he was in the cell though, started saying *he* was talos, and they he could take us of all if he had killed any dragons or practiced his thu'um.
I've always kinda wondered what power Talos really has. It's honestly always been kinda vague.
Fucking guard duty.
|
Rough fingers brushed weathered stone, carefully feeling out each time-earned bump and mound. He could still feel each etched rune… or, at least, he *remembered* feeling them. They were gone now, long gone… too gone. The man’s once-proud visage drew close together in a frown. How long had he slept? They had promised sacrifices after his deep sleep, as had been prophesized by the far-seer, but no there was no one in sight. No priest holding glinting knives, no blood-letters trailing behind with downcast faces. No wide-eyed children, no mothers holding them by their shoulders to keep them in line.
Instead, there were two strange men approaching with poor intentions.
One yelled out something foreign, and the old man turned, long beard trailing the ground. One man’s rotund face heavily scowled as he waddled forward, belly swaying with his steps, while the other had a haughty look pasted on, despite the fact that he was skinnier than most sacrifices. The round one gestured wildly as the old man showed no signs of moving. Was he asking him to move? But why should he? This was his home, his monument. It belonged to him. How did they not know this? Were they heathens?
The old man’s face wrinkled even further as the thought passed his mind. How dare they approach him, unfaithful as they clearly were? He ought to smite them where they stood. He rose one arm towards the defiers, three fingers held up in a sign of doom.
But nothing happened.
It did get a reaction from the heathens, however. The large one snatched a dark object from his waist and pointed it at the old man with confused eyes, while the small man stepped back and behind the other one.
The old man only paid these events cursory attention. There was only one reason that he would be unable to call forth any of the elements, a reason he had heard of from his ancestors.
He was fading.
It had happened to other gods when hey were forgotten, supposedly. But the old man had never thought that it would happen to him. He was the leader, the most prominent figure, the True-Father. How would it happen to him?
He had the answer right in front of him, of course. He had been forgotten, and was now being threatened by people who would not even whet his appetite as sacrifices.
He lowered his arm, and turned away from the lesser men. The prophecy hadn’t come true, just as people had whispered in the darkness back in his heyday. But while he had lost his authority, he had not lost his dignity. He would *never* lose his dignity.
So it was with a straight back that the old man walked away, disregarding the vaguely frightened and confused shouts from the loud man behind him. He turned behind the remnants of an old pillar, what used to be a truly magnificent sight, and raised his arms up. And for a moment, he remembered what it had felt like to ride on the breeze, before the gentle gusts took him to the Beyond.
——————————————————
“No one can just disappear, y’ know,” John muttered as he slammed the door of the yellow-and-blue checkered car. “He’s still out there.”
Richard grunted, barely shoving his stomach into the small police car. “Sure, but whatever, just let him sleep there. We’ll find him tomorrow, it’s not that big a deal.”
“You just want to leave now to get to a café.”
“No shit.”
John snorted as he started the engine, and the car pulled out of the lot, gravel crunching under the tires.
The two sat in silence for a while longer. But just as they reached the highway, John spoke.
“But seriously, who the hell falls asleep at *stonehenge*?”
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
Guard duty.
My cousins are out slaying dragons and what do I get? Guard duty.
Don't think I have no love for Talos, he has kept me safe in battle for many years, but damn if it isn't dull.
Whiterun is a great town, and being at the center of Skyrim is great for commerce, we have all sorts come here, but it's mostly nords, like me.
Now, as I mentioned, I have great love for Talos, but there's this guy in town, see, Heimskr. Real loud mouth, loves Talos more than mead, and I get his message, really, I do, but he goes on all day, every damn day. I've never seen him leave. Come to think of it, I've never even seen him eat...or shit or anything. Sun goes down, he sleeps right there with the statue, sun comes up, and he's back at it again.
He can't even come up with any new stuff either, it's the same 4 or 5 paragraphs over and over again calling us maggots and the like. Now, I don't want to kill the guy, but if I hear his shtick again, I'm going to lose it. I could put him in the keep, and at least give him a bed and food for a few days, give me some peace and quite, and keep the Aldemeri thinking we listen to them.
It honestly seemed pretty win-win-win to me. Now, can I through someone in the keep just because they annoy me? Sure. Am I *supposed* to? Eh...not really.
I was going to have to make up some excuse, and I was really tired, so I just went with the classic 'talos worship...blah blah...illegal...blah blah.'
Well I'll be damned if he didn't go right off the gods-damned handle, started screaming and screeching, throwing things around, the works. He caused enough of a scene for some other guards to come up and put him in irons without asking me why he was being arrested, which is good for me, considering we're all nords here.
It really was surprisingly difficult to get this unarmed little nord in robes into the dungeon, it took about 6 of us, guy was unbelievably strong. He really went off the deep end once he was in the cell though, started saying *he* was talos, and they he could take us of all if he had killed any dragons or practiced his thu'um.
I've always kinda wondered what power Talos really has. It's honestly always been kinda vague.
Fucking guard duty.
|
The man chuckled as he saw the police officer approaching him.
"Sir, we are going to have to ask you to leave, this site is not currently open to the public."
The man stared up at the officer with eyes that seemed to have seen more than any human could comprehend.
"My child, what makes you think I am a member of the public."
The officer shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, I really am going to have to ask you to leave or I'm afraid you will be removed by force."
The man stood up, then, and gestured to the area around him.
"It was flattering, really, when they built this for me. Barely even able to talk, and yet they went to almost unimaginable lengths to pay their respects. It was a nice gesture, but not really appreciated as much as they had hoped. It gets lonely, you know. Watching the birth of galaxies, of civilizations, the greatest and worst the universe can offer, and knowing you can never be part of it, never walk among the people as an equal rather than a deity. This kind of thing serves as a reminder of that, almost."
The officer struggled to remain calm. This man was clearly raving, probably on some sort of drugs. This was meant to be a simple "Get the hobo away from the important historical site" job, nice quick and easy. This would make it a lot more complicated.
"Sir, who exactly do you think you are?"
The man turned from his view of the ancient stone pillars to look at the officers.
"I have gone by innumerable names over the years, child. Yahweh, Allah, God. Some, like the people who built this place, knew me as many different people, each a different aspect of what I represent. And of course, over time, my messages have been twisted and distorted to better serve the views and purposes of those who spread them. So sad that something intended to spread peace and love has caused so much suffering and hatred, but it is not my place to interfere."
The officers' were beyond confused by this point. The man wasn't gibbering or ranting, no, he was perfectly composed, carrying himself with an air of undeniable authority.
"Why not? If you really are god, what right do you have to stand by and watch as people die, and hurt, and lose what they love?"
"What would you be, if you had everything you wanted? Every last thing exactly perfect, with no room for improvement, from the day you were born? You would be one of millions of identical people who had never grown, never felt anything beyond arbitrary happiness. For your life to mean anything, you have to live it yourselves. I may guide you along your path, but, ultimately, everything is up to you. It is... regrettable, that so many bad decisions have been made, but those mistakes will become irrelevant in the next life."
The man turned once more, and spoke with an air of finality. "This universe is broken. The war I fought with the one you know as Lucifer made sure of that, but in the next, my creation will finally be complete, and I will walk, at last, amongst equals. But don't for one moment think that what you do in this life won't count in the next. It would be useful for you to remember that at, oh, I think, sometime within the week."
He turned one last time to the stone pillars.
"Beautiful place, Stonehenge. If only you knew how much was lost making it... the only thing of real value is human sacrifice, whether it be of strength or time or something more." Then he was gone, without a flash, or a pop, or any indication that he had been there at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moment couldn't get any more surreal, the man thought, as he stood on the podium, staring at the crowd before him.
"You are awarded this medal for bravery, for the act of risking your own life to protect the life of another."
The moment his feet had left the ground, moments before the shot had been fired, he realized what he was doing was insane.
"Your actions were selfless and honourable, and for that, the forces are exceedingly grateful."
He had barely known the officer he had been partnered with, on that case gone horribly awry, and yet when it became clear that the other man was going to be shot at, he had jumped in front of him. After all, the other man was much younger, showed much more potential, while he? Well, he was nearing retirement.
Something caught his eye, at the back of the room, and standing there was the man. God. He gave a single, short nod, and then he was gone.
|
|
[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
|
Guard duty.
My cousins are out slaying dragons and what do I get? Guard duty.
Don't think I have no love for Talos, he has kept me safe in battle for many years, but damn if it isn't dull.
Whiterun is a great town, and being at the center of Skyrim is great for commerce, we have all sorts come here, but it's mostly nords, like me.
Now, as I mentioned, I have great love for Talos, but there's this guy in town, see, Heimskr. Real loud mouth, loves Talos more than mead, and I get his message, really, I do, but he goes on all day, every damn day. I've never seen him leave. Come to think of it, I've never even seen him eat...or shit or anything. Sun goes down, he sleeps right there with the statue, sun comes up, and he's back at it again.
He can't even come up with any new stuff either, it's the same 4 or 5 paragraphs over and over again calling us maggots and the like. Now, I don't want to kill the guy, but if I hear his shtick again, I'm going to lose it. I could put him in the keep, and at least give him a bed and food for a few days, give me some peace and quite, and keep the Aldemeri thinking we listen to them.
It honestly seemed pretty win-win-win to me. Now, can I through someone in the keep just because they annoy me? Sure. Am I *supposed* to? Eh...not really.
I was going to have to make up some excuse, and I was really tired, so I just went with the classic 'talos worship...blah blah...illegal...blah blah.'
Well I'll be damned if he didn't go right off the gods-damned handle, started screaming and screeching, throwing things around, the works. He caused enough of a scene for some other guards to come up and put him in irons without asking me why he was being arrested, which is good for me, considering we're all nords here.
It really was surprisingly difficult to get this unarmed little nord in robes into the dungeon, it took about 6 of us, guy was unbelievably strong. He really went off the deep end once he was in the cell though, started saying *he* was talos, and they he could take us of all if he had killed any dragons or practiced his thu'um.
I've always kinda wondered what power Talos really has. It's honestly always been kinda vague.
Fucking guard duty.
|
"Oh God, mother. He **touched** me! Ew!" The little girl's shriek echoed off the walls of the decripit stone building. "Make him go **away**, mother!"
The little girl's mother looked on in a mixture of shock and disgust. A homeless man stood near her daughter, reeking of urine and desperation. His unkempt beard, wild hair, and many layers of torn clothing suggested that Livline Temple had been his home for quite some time. Really, security was going to need to do something about him (and his kind) before the new, exclusive Brightstone Academy could be built upon the ruins of the temple.
The woman sighed: as things stood, she'd already have to rework her afternoon schedule so that she could take her daughter to the doctor to have her checked for all the various bugs and diseases spread by the homeless. The only reason she had taken her spoiled child to this damned site in the first place is because the brat had insisted on seeing the site for the new academy her parents were going to own. Well, no matter: for now, the task at hand was to save her daughter from the drunken, dirty ... thing ... that had her cornered and was raving about the temple actually being his.
"Samantha," she called, "come over here this instant."
"... ananother ... and anoth ... and another thing, lassh ... all of thish ... it **all** was mine!" A sweeping hand gesture passed within an inch of Samantha's face. The little girl screamed, ducked, and made a run for her mother. Displaying surprising agility, the homeless man reached down and snatched the little girl by the collar. He picked her up and turned her to face him. "Itsh rude ... to run away while someone is talking, you know. Girl? Girl?"
The man's epic halitosis had scored a critical blow to the girl's constitution. The girl hung limply in the man's arms.
Samantha's mother put her face in her hands. What a disaster **this** was turning out to be. Being a woman of breeding, she decided to take action:
"Sir? Sir. Please put my daughter down. I have money. I can give you money if you'll kindly leave us alone."
The man started and slowly turned to fix the woman in his gaze. He let her daughter collapse onto a heap on the cold stone tile. Suddenly, he was much taller, and no longer seemed to be the drunk, insignificant parasite Samantha's mother had thought him to be.
"Madam, I am the **god** of this temple. It is my **domain**. I have stood watch here for a thousand years, spit upon by the masses and trod upon by the least of your race. I have held the hands of the lonely and the forgotten as they've crawled into my temple to die: my heart has broken countless times as I have watched the fear and the pain that goes so unheeded by the rest of humanity spill into the temple at my feet. My offering is pain, madam. My offering is loneliness. My offering is the broken and the damned and the ones who have no other place to go, shuddering in the darkness and trying to find a place to rest.
I have guided the souls of countless of your homeless in their quest to find that in the afterlife which they lacked in their first life. I have given both the souls and the bodies of the forgotten an end that befits that of their human status, of their human dignity.
I do not deal in **money**. But, since you have offered so foolishly to pay, I shall accept."
Samantha's mother looked at the man in shock. The man shook his head and continued.
"Only rarely do I meddle in the affairs of men, but I see that, without guidance, you children are hopelessly lost. Therefore, just this once, I shall accept such an offer as yours. I shall offer unto you a taste of what so many have offered unto me.
Elizabeth, it is time."
A lance of pale blue light sprung the man's eyes and bored into the woman's soul. The light lifted her off the ground and engulfed her, streaming into her through her every pore. In an instant, she tasted the pain, the suffering, the anguish, the anger, and the hate of a thousand years. Her eyes glazed, her body was racked with spasms, her mouth opened and closed in rhythmic, silent screams ... and suddenly, it was over.
Samantha's mother collapsed to the floor beside her daughter.
The man shook his head. "The suffering of the rich leaves such a terrible aftertaste. It shall take me years to rid myself of it." The man grabbed the nearest bottle of cheap vodka and took a drink, suddenly transforming back into yet another nameless, faceless homeless man who lived in Livline Temple.
Samantha's mother awoke some time later to find paramedics and cops standing around her in a concerned semi-circle. Her daughter was shaking her shoulder, begging her to wake up. Elizabeth blinked once, twice in confusion, and slowly sat up. She shuddered as she recalled the echoes of a horrible nightmare. She couldn't remember anything of the past 30 minutes: she must have hit her head when she fell.
Nearby, a police offer was giving a drunk a hard time:
"Bob, you've really done it this time. Elizabeth Osten owns this whole damned city, you know. We really should've made you move on a long time ago, but we thought you were harmless. We're not going to be making that mistake aga-"
Feeling compelled to intervene, Elizabeth called over to the officer:
"Officer, wait a moment! This man did nothing wrong. I simply slipped and fell. In any event, there's no point in making this man move: I plan to start the construction of the Brightstone Shelter here quite soon. He'll simply be one of our first tenants."
Samantha gave her mother an odd look, but said nothing. She knew better than to question her mother in front of others: while she got away with quite a bit at home, it would not do to make the family look bad in public.
The officer glanced at Bob and frowned. Bob's face, already difficult to discern through the copious facial hair, was impossible to read. The only thing that could really be easily seen was a pair of brilliant sapphire eyes that seemed to glow a pale blue. The officer shook his head, but let the bum go.
"Fine. But I see you often enough that, if you make trouble, I'll make sure you're the sorrier for it." With that, the officer turned and walked toward Elizabeth. "Ma'am, you okay? It looked like you had a nasty fall."
Elizabeth nodded. "I'm fine. My head's a bit foggy. I'd best be home to bed, I think. Samantha!"
Elizabeth's daughter rushed to her side. "Samantha, it's time to go."
The two women walked out of Livline Temple toward a waiting car, followed by a small herd of police officers and paramedics. Bob smiled, then laid down on the cold stone of his domain to rest. He'd need to save his energy for the construction: no doubt it'd be impossible to get much sleep once the cranes and the workers really got going.
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[WP] The homeless man being harassed by police for sleeping at an historical site is actually the god the site was originally built for.
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"Hey, you there!" The yell of the guard echoed through the fog and disappeared over the sea.
She tried to cower even more lowly, but the cone of light from the guard's flashlight was following her every move.
"No sudden moves!" the man hissed. Very slowly he came closer. Keeping his flashlight and his gun pointed at her.
"Leave me alone, please... I just want to rest. I am so tired, so tired..." her voice trailed off.
As the man in the bulletproof vest came closer, he eyed her very closely: As she huddled against the cold stone of the monument, he only saw a bundle of dirty clothes in her. It was a young woman, although she seemed to have aged beyond her years. Or that was due to the deplorable of her clothes, her messy hair and her dirty skin? He could see some feverish, reddened eyes peeking at him. He wondered if she was a druggy.
"No sudden moves..." he said once more, making sure that she understood him.
"Don't shoot. I am not a threat," she said. "I never was..."
"What are you doing here? How did you get here? Did you hide during the day? Did you take a boat? Did you swim?" It was hardly likely that this gaunt woman would have been able to stand the cold water of the autumn sea and the currents around the island, but one never knew what a druggy was capable of.
"I just came through and I wanted to have a look again..."
"You wanted to have look?" The guard shook his head. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he muttered mostly to himself. He lowered his gun a little bit, but kept he did not put it away. "You can't stay here, this is private property."
"No, this is public land," the woman said.
"Makes no difference. You have no right to be here."
"Right? You dare to talk to ME about rights?" She flared up.
Instantly he had his gun aimed at her again. "Stop right there, Lady!"
She stared at his gun. Then suddenly she started to chuckle, then it transformed into full-blown laughter.
She was high, he concluded. He had to play it safe. "Down! Down on your knees! Hands behind your head! And quick!"
The woman kneeled and followed his instructions. Her laughter had transformed into sobs.
He kept an eye on her, while he activated his radio and called in for help.
They did not talk when his colleagues arrived; she did not try to resist when they put handcuffs on her and when they escorted her away, but he could see the tears in her eyes and how he trembled.
Waiting in the cold by the waterside, waiting for the boat to land, he felt sorry for her. She could have been beautiful once, but now she was just a mess: Two of his colleagues keeping her in check while he stood by the side with his gun - just in case.
"Listen..." he said slowly. "Don't think ill of me. We have to be careful these days. Terrorists and all. I am just doing my duty."
She raised her head and her eyes were full of... He could not really pinpoint it. Pity? Contempt? Hatred?
"Duty? Fuck you! Tell me, do you think, this is what this is all about." She nodded towards the monument.
"Oh, spare me the preaching," he sighed. The guard shook his head.
They were quiet until the boat arrived and he watched while the other guards placed her on a seat on the deck. The two of them shared one last look into each other's eyes. He noticed that the impression of meekness he had seen in her before, was now almost entirely gone. Her stare was full of defiant determination and it was directed towards him.
He turned around and went away, back to his duty.
Moments later the boat had taken off. It speeded through the dark waves while the lights of the city started to emerge from the fog.
One of the other guards approached her, firmly holding onto his assault rifle while he spoke to the seated woman. "Where do you live?" he asked.
She raised her head and stared right at him. "Not here anymore," she said while the Statue of Liberty disappeared in the dark and the fog of this cold autumn night.
*PS: I know, I took the liberty to change it to a homeless woman...*
**Edit:** Spelling
**Edit 2:** Thank you for all the compliments! And thanks to whoever /r/bestofWritingPrompts'ed the story!
**Edit 3:** Many thanks to the anonymous redditor for the gold. It's my first time *blush*
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"Oh God, mother. He **touched** me! Ew!" The little girl's shriek echoed off the walls of the decripit stone building. "Make him go **away**, mother!"
The little girl's mother looked on in a mixture of shock and disgust. A homeless man stood near her daughter, reeking of urine and desperation. His unkempt beard, wild hair, and many layers of torn clothing suggested that Livline Temple had been his home for quite some time. Really, security was going to need to do something about him (and his kind) before the new, exclusive Brightstone Academy could be built upon the ruins of the temple.
The woman sighed: as things stood, she'd already have to rework her afternoon schedule so that she could take her daughter to the doctor to have her checked for all the various bugs and diseases spread by the homeless. The only reason she had taken her spoiled child to this damned site in the first place is because the brat had insisted on seeing the site for the new academy her parents were going to own. Well, no matter: for now, the task at hand was to save her daughter from the drunken, dirty ... thing ... that had her cornered and was raving about the temple actually being his.
"Samantha," she called, "come over here this instant."
"... ananother ... and anoth ... and another thing, lassh ... all of thish ... it **all** was mine!" A sweeping hand gesture passed within an inch of Samantha's face. The little girl screamed, ducked, and made a run for her mother. Displaying surprising agility, the homeless man reached down and snatched the little girl by the collar. He picked her up and turned her to face him. "Itsh rude ... to run away while someone is talking, you know. Girl? Girl?"
The man's epic halitosis had scored a critical blow to the girl's constitution. The girl hung limply in the man's arms.
Samantha's mother put her face in her hands. What a disaster **this** was turning out to be. Being a woman of breeding, she decided to take action:
"Sir? Sir. Please put my daughter down. I have money. I can give you money if you'll kindly leave us alone."
The man started and slowly turned to fix the woman in his gaze. He let her daughter collapse onto a heap on the cold stone tile. Suddenly, he was much taller, and no longer seemed to be the drunk, insignificant parasite Samantha's mother had thought him to be.
"Madam, I am the **god** of this temple. It is my **domain**. I have stood watch here for a thousand years, spit upon by the masses and trod upon by the least of your race. I have held the hands of the lonely and the forgotten as they've crawled into my temple to die: my heart has broken countless times as I have watched the fear and the pain that goes so unheeded by the rest of humanity spill into the temple at my feet. My offering is pain, madam. My offering is loneliness. My offering is the broken and the damned and the ones who have no other place to go, shuddering in the darkness and trying to find a place to rest.
I have guided the souls of countless of your homeless in their quest to find that in the afterlife which they lacked in their first life. I have given both the souls and the bodies of the forgotten an end that befits that of their human status, of their human dignity.
I do not deal in **money**. But, since you have offered so foolishly to pay, I shall accept."
Samantha's mother looked at the man in shock. The man shook his head and continued.
"Only rarely do I meddle in the affairs of men, but I see that, without guidance, you children are hopelessly lost. Therefore, just this once, I shall accept such an offer as yours. I shall offer unto you a taste of what so many have offered unto me.
Elizabeth, it is time."
A lance of pale blue light sprung the man's eyes and bored into the woman's soul. The light lifted her off the ground and engulfed her, streaming into her through her every pore. In an instant, she tasted the pain, the suffering, the anguish, the anger, and the hate of a thousand years. Her eyes glazed, her body was racked with spasms, her mouth opened and closed in rhythmic, silent screams ... and suddenly, it was over.
Samantha's mother collapsed to the floor beside her daughter.
The man shook his head. "The suffering of the rich leaves such a terrible aftertaste. It shall take me years to rid myself of it." The man grabbed the nearest bottle of cheap vodka and took a drink, suddenly transforming back into yet another nameless, faceless homeless man who lived in Livline Temple.
Samantha's mother awoke some time later to find paramedics and cops standing around her in a concerned semi-circle. Her daughter was shaking her shoulder, begging her to wake up. Elizabeth blinked once, twice in confusion, and slowly sat up. She shuddered as she recalled the echoes of a horrible nightmare. She couldn't remember anything of the past 30 minutes: she must have hit her head when she fell.
Nearby, a police offer was giving a drunk a hard time:
"Bob, you've really done it this time. Elizabeth Osten owns this whole damned city, you know. We really should've made you move on a long time ago, but we thought you were harmless. We're not going to be making that mistake aga-"
Feeling compelled to intervene, Elizabeth called over to the officer:
"Officer, wait a moment! This man did nothing wrong. I simply slipped and fell. In any event, there's no point in making this man move: I plan to start the construction of the Brightstone Shelter here quite soon. He'll simply be one of our first tenants."
Samantha gave her mother an odd look, but said nothing. She knew better than to question her mother in front of others: while she got away with quite a bit at home, it would not do to make the family look bad in public.
The officer glanced at Bob and frowned. Bob's face, already difficult to discern through the copious facial hair, was impossible to read. The only thing that could really be easily seen was a pair of brilliant sapphire eyes that seemed to glow a pale blue. The officer shook his head, but let the bum go.
"Fine. But I see you often enough that, if you make trouble, I'll make sure you're the sorrier for it." With that, the officer turned and walked toward Elizabeth. "Ma'am, you okay? It looked like you had a nasty fall."
Elizabeth nodded. "I'm fine. My head's a bit foggy. I'd best be home to bed, I think. Samantha!"
Elizabeth's daughter rushed to her side. "Samantha, it's time to go."
The two women walked out of Livline Temple toward a waiting car, followed by a small herd of police officers and paramedics. Bob smiled, then laid down on the cold stone of his domain to rest. He'd need to save his energy for the construction: no doubt it'd be impossible to get much sleep once the cranes and the workers really got going.
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[WP] Spending millennia collecting his dream team of lawyers, Satan meets up with the underwhelming legal team God has in heaven to discuss his pending defamation of character suit.
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"And so you can see that there is incontrovertible proof that I have been defamed," Satan shouted out to the courtroom.
It had been thousands of years. He had collected the souls of many over the millennia, and there was always plenty of lawyers. Only politicians and, to many people’s surprise, religious leaders, were more plentiful.
He looked at the legal team he had gathered. They were the best of the best. Even God knew that. After all, he had created them.
Satan waited for the judge’s decision, but he was already confident he’d won the case. And so with his free time he reflected on the triumphant moment he had brought in his legal team, announcing that he would be making a defamation of character lawsuit.
“That’s preposterous!” an angel shouted. “You can’t sue God!”
“I can, and I am,” Satan giggled. He let out a chuckle with the last few words. That probably had pissed the big man off. “This has gone on for too long. God made me too, you know. And I never wanted to do all this evil, to be the one who watched over hell and caused trouble in people’s lives!”
Satan stared at the stunned faces of God’s legal team, all who would be useless against his own team. God’s legal defense was lackluster, to say the least.
And so, with God’s refusal to acknowledge Satan’s complaint, the suit was filed and Satan found himself in the courtroom, pondering over everything that had happened. He sat up as the judge strode out and took a seat. The verdict was already in. Satan’s team had clearly tore God’s legal team a new one, what with the verdict being decided in a matter of minutes.
He anxiously awaited the verdict, but the judge stayed silent. This was it. The end of being the evil one, the keeper of Hell. The truth of the matter was, Satan really just wanted to be an artist. He loved to paint pictures of anything, especially fire, and his favorite color just happened to be red as well. He played around with the horns on his head nervously as the judge began to speak.
“The verdict is in Satan,” the judge began. “The court finds God not-guilty. The defamation case of Satan vs. God is now officially closed.”
“What?” the devil shouted. “How? Corruption I say. Corruption. God was clearly at fault.”
All of a sudden Satan felt his eyes be blinded by the brightest light he had ever seen as the judge removed the hood that covered his face.
“Do you forget, Satan, that I am the judge!” God’s voice echoed throughout the courtroom. “I have most certainly not defamed your character. I created you. I know exactly what your very inner being is.”
“Exactly!” Satan yelled. He couldn’t see, but he could feel the fires of his anger burn around him. “You made me this way. You are the one who told me to guard Hell, to act as Satan. I was just following orders.”
“I told you to do that,” God said, his voice deep and disturbingly comforting. “I never forced you. I think you’ll recognize plenty of souls that are yours in Hell who said something very similar to you. They were just following orders, right? For all the things you’ve done, how can you even begin to say such a thing? Till we meet again, Satan, goodbye, and go back to Hell!”
And with that Satan opened his eyes, surrounded by flame and suffering souls. He looked at many a soul who had argued that they didn’t belong here, that they were just following orders. Satan had told them it didn’t matter. They had a choice. And now, for the first time, Satan no longer felt like the master of Hell, but a prisoner of it.
-243
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“Let's get started,” boomed the voice from the mass of storm clouds.
The collected herd of lawyers nervously glanced around, eyes flitting back and forth the two figures facing each other at the conference table. Across from the clouds was a well dressed gentlemen with porcelain skin and hair, sporting a dark red suit and a small handkerchief adorned with two small broken wings.
“Oh, by all means, let's begin,” Lucifer responded, hands idly twisting his handkerchief. The mass of of lawyers shuffled to their seats, holding between them a vast array of legal notebooks, binders, pens, and very official looking documents, all of which reeked slightly of brimstone. Once they were all suited, one of them rose again to his feet, glanced at a paper, and spoke:
“Eddie Barzoon, counsel. The following is our a summary of our complaint.
To God, also known as Jesus, the Holy Spirit, Jehovah, and Yahweh:
You are hereby notified that a complaint against you has been filed in the Celestial Court, 4th Circuit, by our client Lucifer, as known as Satan, and the Light Bringer.
We state that you have conspired to defame the reputation of our client by informing mortals that he is the source of all evil, ruler of the Earth, and the bringer of darkness. Furthermore, you have engaged in child-like name calling, referring to our client by such petulant names as the Devil, the Prince of Lies, and the Son of perdition. We further state that this defamation is related to the unlawful termination of our client for asking for a day off. We shall be bringing another suit regarding that matter promptly. All we are asking for is a public apology, given through one of your mortal mouth pieces.
Here is the relevant paper work, Mr... Uh, who are you again?” Breaking his speech for the first time, Mr. Barzoon looked at his opponent, an acne ridden youth poorly clad in a misshapen suit.
“Uh, I'm Bobby Woodside. Uh, I mean Mr. Woodside, sir. I mean Mr. Barzoon.”
“And you're the defendant's counsel?” scoffed Mr. Barzoon, an incredulous look on his face.
“Well, not quite 'counsel'. You see, I was on my way to the bar exam, when I saw a lady who needed help crossing the street. So I was helping her out, and, uh, kinda got hit by a truck,” muttered Bobby, idly running his hands through his hair.
Lucifer snorted, little puffs of sulfur whisping out of his nose.
“THIS is the best you could do? All of the lawyers, you have stashed up their, Atticus Finch, Balthazar, Henery Drummond, and the best you can do is a law student? Unbelievable.”
“Oh, but I don't have them up there,” chuckled the thundercloud.
“What the hell are you talking about? I sure don't have them with me.”
“Oh, didn't you get the memo that got sent around this morning? All lawyers are being transferred to Zeus’s control. He mentioned something about needing a replacement for the Harpies, so we worked something out. I'm surprised you haven't already sent your team over.”
“WHAT? You can't do that! Zeus! Are you fucking with me? He hasn't been relevant since 500 fucking BC! You!” Lucifer screamed, pointing a finger at one of the terror-stricken lawyers, “Is this true?”
Frantically sorting through the mass of papers they had brought with them, the sweating layer finally pulled out a paper that was adorned with tiny lighting bolts. “Uh, it appears so. Sorry sir, but we're no longer working for you. Let's go, team.”
As the ranks of lawyers filed out of the room, off to their future of tormenting those who raised the wrath of the Greek gods, Lucifer's face was rapidly approaching the same color as the maroon suit he wore.
“What kind of trick is this! I work for 6000 years to get the best possible team together, and you just send them off! Bullshit!”
Laughter rumbled out from the thunderclouds.”
“Sorry, but you should read your own mail more often. You know what they say, after all. The Devil is in the details."
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[WP]You've found the cure for Alzheimer's. Unfortunately, it's...
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poison. Nobody believed the reports when they first came out, low doses of cyanide helped remedy and cure Alzheimer's in rats, then pigs, then in rhesus monkeys. When the product finally made its way into human testing there was backlash, millions of people came forward saying that it was wrong to be injecting poison into someone, especially someone who didn't understand what was happening.
Things changed though, almost immediately we saw recovery in even the most ravaged of patients. They were coming back, intelligent, able to remember new ideas, eloquent. It was amazing.
Then it all fell away, a report came from one of the labs that had been conducting the research on the rats. All of the rats that had participated in the testing were going crazy, they were losing their minds and attacking the other rats. Later that year a similar report came from the lab that had been testing on the pigs, they were acting more aggressive, growing tusks, eating their young. It was terrible.
For a long time we held out hope, the Rhesus monkeys hadn't shown any signs of aggression. They were monitored for years without any marked changes in their mental state as we had seen in the rats or any physical changes. We stopped being worried about the chemicals, it looked as if the changes in the pigs and rats were flukes. Perhaps something was slipped into their food by the Pro-Thought groups that had spread around the world.
We relaxed and an investigation was launched into the two laboratories. The silence was shattered as news agencies across the world began to release the news as it happened. People who had been given the drug were changing, they were getting younger and smarter, and they had a hatred for us. We tried to fight them in the beginning but the drugs had changed them, they were producing the chemical and excreting it everywhere. Everything they touched was contaminated, their sweat was poison, their urine gave off fumes that could kill us, their breath would knock people out. We broke and ran, we lost. Please, if you get this stay away, don't come back, they are all that's left.
Houston out.
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Dan laid there, clutching to cold hard porcelain. It’s the fifth time today and I’m getting dehydrated.
Dan is in disbelief that’s he’s been doing this for about 3 months now. Still not used to it. The fact that Dan can remember at all is a miracle.
Still undecided if it’s better to let nature take its’ course because Dan’s pretty miserable now having to complete the ritual every day to retain his sanity. It’s been a struggle but Dan’s family needs him.
There was a knock on the door “Granddad … come play” a figure by the door commanded.
“Just a minute Jacob. I’ll be out in a sec k bud?”
“K … come here rocket! Hahaha” small footsteps trailed off.
Dan stood up and took 2 laxatives. Then continued chugging the gallon of milk he has sitting at the bathroom counter. 15 minutes and I’m done for the day. “My lactose intolerances is going to ‘love’ this.” Dan thought.
On the ground next to the toilet was a reminder of why Dan keeps the ritual every day. Cure to Alzheimer’s was induced diarrhea or vomiting.
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[WP] Describe something harmless in the most hardcore/metal way possible.
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KILLED BY A METEOR
CRUSHED BY THE EARTH
MY BLOOD HAS TURNED BLACK
DEATH GIVES ME MY WORTH
SEALED IN A PRISON
I CROSS THE COLD SEA
A COLD SHIP'S BERTH
CAPITALIST ECSTASY
SOLD BY THE GALLON
I EXPLODE, BERSERK,
SO SOME CHUCKLEFUCK
CAN DRIVE HIS HONDA TO WORK
GASOLIIIIINE
(guitar solo)
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I gasp deeply for breath one last time. Fighting to breathe my face is in pain. My whole body is convulsing as I wait for the end.
Finally I reach a moment of calm as the end approaches. I accept the inevitable as I feel every muscle contract once more before the release.
Achooooooo!
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[WP] Describe something harmless in the most hardcore/metal way possible.
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KILLED BY A METEOR
CRUSHED BY THE EARTH
MY BLOOD HAS TURNED BLACK
DEATH GIVES ME MY WORTH
SEALED IN A PRISON
I CROSS THE COLD SEA
A COLD SHIP'S BERTH
CAPITALIST ECSTASY
SOLD BY THE GALLON
I EXPLODE, BERSERK,
SO SOME CHUCKLEFUCK
CAN DRIVE HIS HONDA TO WORK
GASOLIIIIINE
(guitar solo)
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The mark of sharp teeth is that you feel no pain when you are bitten. The cut tears through your skin so quick that the nerves don't register any change. Your only chance of noticing the wounds these demons inflict on you is when you look down and see your own blood.
Their teeth are not their only weapons. They also poison you with their excrement and urine. They will not shed a tear at contaminating your water supply. Some will even come upon you in your sleep, and defecate on you while you're vulnerable.
They are silent as they are quick. You won't hear them coming. They are known to wait motionless for hours in shadows waiting for you. Then, when they see you, they can come sprinting out at over 35 mph and jump distances up to 10 feet. Good luck getting away.
Perhaps most dangerous of all, they are partially nocturnal. These patient killers will be up long after the sun has gone down, and long after you're asleep. So if you're out at night, and alone, better take some carrots because bunnies will mess you up.
TL;DR-Don't mess with bunnies dude.
Edit: minor style stuff.
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ITT: people having difficulty telling apart platonic love ans suppressed lust.
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[WP]: Write the deepest, most passionate confession of platonic love
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I love the way you pull my pants down… from the ceiling fan after the party last night got out of hand
Your eyes glisten in the soft flickering light of the camp fire as you tell me… “Bro, you’ve drank too much”
Your hands feel so powerful when they rub my back… and I vomit up the dirty thirty of Natty Ice we chugged.
I’ve never felt so secure when your arms wrap around me… and you hold me back from a fight, bro.
I want this bromance to last forever. Until the stars fall from the sky and the sun burns out and all the other bros have packed up their coolers and gone home. Ours is the tailgate the never ends. Bros for life. Bros forever.
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"I love you for you were, who you are, and who you will be. I trust in you and would follow you down any road no matter how fear my strike at me or how my mind my plead for me to leave. I love you, I love all of you. I love any sort of imperfection you think you posses and am sorry to say that I would never have them changed. I have no heart to give you for you stole it long ago. I wish you absolute joy and would battle you any of your foes. My love is pure I swear it! My love is honest and profound I would do any and all things for you. Speak the word it would be done!"
The man was panting heavily just a few feet ahead of me with that shimmering knife wet with blood in his hand. He looked at me with a mesmerized glare giving no attention to the myriad of dead bodies that lay before him. He cleaved his way through everyone of my friends and family just as I was blowing out the candles of my cake.
"What would you have of me my love? Say it and it will be done!" He screams with insanity. "I love you more than Ares did Aphrodite or Romeo his Juliet! Give me something to do and it will be done!"
I feel my pants moisten as my bladder lets loose from profound fear. He had been going on for hours and I was too fearful to say anything. "Kill yourself," I found myself saying. Within seconds the deed is done and I shriek in horror.
*hours later*
"What a freak." Officer King murmured to a fellow detective.
"The man was obviously insane," the detective counters.
"Yeah, but he'd been stalking her and was absolutely obsessed with her. That poor girl's gonna need a lot of help to get over this."
"Yeah," the detective murmurs in agreement, "What an awful way to spend her fourth birthday."
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[WP] After 200 years of self-driving cars the first car accident occurs.
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**The sound was deafening.**
At least, that's what they told me when I asked. Apparently a few even thought the Sheeyen were attacking again. Absurd. There hadn't been a Sheeyen attack in over 50 years. Then again there hadn't been a motor vehicle collision in over 200 years, so maybe I should be a bit more understanding. The mind can play interesting tricks on you in times of extreme stress. Sheeyen attack. Car wreck. *I held my hands in front like I was comparing the weight of two items*. I guess both are just as likely.
The car wreck apparently wins out this time, as insane as that sounds. I'd almost rather have the alien attack. It would at least make more sense.
"Lieutenant" I said, nodding at Lieutenant Malone as I walked through the police barrier line which prevented rubberneckers from getting through. I showed him my consultants badge and he pointed off to his left without a word. I nodded again and walked off towards a group of uniforms packed around a vidtable.
"Harry. Good to see you."
"Stacy. What kind of craziness you got going on here? If it wasn't for the lack of TriDef cams around the area, I'd think you were shooting a new film or something."
"I wish."
Captain Anastasia Dupree, Stacy to her friends, ran the Fifth Precinct fast and loose. Out here on the outskirts of Old Miami, there wasn't a lot of action to deal with. Not normally anyway. Tonight was shaping up differently. Stacy was tall, slim, and laughed easily. She wasn't even smiling now.
Of course, if she was out here on the scene herself, then things were probably pretty bad. The fact that the department had called me in, meant it was even worse. I was a troubleshooter. Where trouble popped its head up, I shot it back down. Most of the time anyway. There was that incident at Asteroid Seven, but I don't talk about that much. Bad for business.
"So just what **is** going on here?" I asked. There had to be fifty odd officers running around, blocking off a very large area with police barrier. Five or six fire trucks were working on a few fires, though it looked to be mostly under control.
"Five car pileup is what." she said.
"Heh for a second there I thought you said five car pileup."
"It **is** what I said. Motor vehicle accident. Five cars involved directly, several others indirectly. Three people injured, no one died thankfully."
I opened my mouth to respond, and it just sort of stayed that way for a few seconds. I wasn't even sure what to say. No one alive today had even seen a car accident before. They, well, they just didn't happen.
"Well, " I said finally, "at least the Sheeyen aren't attacking."
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Detective Michael "Mickey" Bleachtaire's phone goes off. He checks the notification for his next call. Car accident? Ugh, really? What bullshit. He gets on the viewscreen with dispatch.
"Are you sure the call came in right?" Mickey asked with an annoyed tone. "It wasn't a prank call was it?"
The dispatcher pulls up his monitor and gestures his way to the call.
"No sir, the call is good. We have PD on scene and they've informed us that it is indeed a wreck. EMS has transported one in critical condition to St. Luke's and declared two dead at the scene. If you connect to Officer Cummins' vest camera you'll get a good initial look at the scene. Anything else you need sir?"
Bleachtaire sat a moment perplexed.
"Uh, no, no that's all. Thanks."
He turns off the screen and gets his suit jacket and throws it over his slender shoulders as he walks to the elevators. Pressing the garage button he thinks to himself how something like this could happen. There hasn't been a car accident on public roads in years; Oogle's self driving system has been tested time and time again with redundant fail safes to keep anyone from tampering with the system.
Foul play? Must be. But how? And I have to figure this out?
Reaching the garage he walks to his own car and gets in and sets the coordinates. The car takes off briskly and silently towards his destination.
Walking through the force field Bleachtaire kneeled at the wreckage and stares into the charred remains of the vehicle. He has no idea where to begin. Any evidence of wrongdoing would be in the onboard computer's database.
"Looking for this, detective?" Officer Cummins approaches Mickey with the surprisingly intact black box. You could even still read the warning labels on the back.
Mickey stands up and grabs the box from Cummins.
"Yea, uh, thanks."
The Detective walks around examining the rest of the scene raising an eyebrow every now and then. Having come up with nothing else he could do, he walked back to his car and set coordinates for the station.
"Might as well get started now so I can get home early" he mumbles.
Pulling up his holographic screen, he grabs his universal adapter and hooks it to the black box. Warnings pop up about unfamiliar devices and securing his connection. He bats them away meekly and continues with the logs. The screen goes out, and a message starts to quickly scroll up. Bleachtaire can't read it all but he caught glimpses
"...I FUCKING TOLD YOU FUCKS"
"You'll all pay"
"...Teach you to FUCK WITH ME..."
"Their blood is ON YOUR LAZY CUNT HANDS"
The screen shut off. The car started to speed up and Mickey started to panic. Where are the controls?! He slams the emergency stop button. Nothing happens. Cars in front of his start blowing through the red light. So did Mickey's. He looks over and sees a car a foot away from his. He lets out a cry, only to be muffled out by carbon fiber and glass crunching against his face.
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[WP] A teenager gets her first job, an overnight shift at a 7-11, and doesn't meet any vampires, werewolves or angels. Instead, she starts to see some things about the adult world that had been hidden from her and undermine her ideas about what it means to be grown-up.
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If anything, Sophia was a diligent planner. And after listening to Distinct Symmetry's debut album, she planned on definitely seeing them live. The only problem was the tickets were not going to buy themselves. Plus, at sixteen it was time for her to get a job anyway. The way her father and mother complained about gas prices, she figured she would need the money.
Since it was summer and all the college kids had gone home, there were plenty of vacancies for minimum wage jobs and securing the 7-11 one was easy. Since Sophia was a night owl, working graveyard shifts wasn't a big deal. It allowed her to not feel bad about sleeping in late, hang out with her friends at the lake in the afternoon and work at night. Most nights were pretty laid back and she passed the time writing Avenger fanfic on her phone.
Usually, at about two o'clock people from the bars started coming in to buy food or more beer. Somewhere in the law there had to be something about a sixteen year old selling already drunk adults beer, but as far as the owner and the cops who came in, nobody cared. Watching the drunks was easily the most amusing part of her night. Having been raised as a preacher's kid, she was naive to some behaviors among those less righteous than her mother and father.
Her co-workers were constantly drunk or high which, for the most part, didn't bother her much. Until this job, she assumed most adults only ever talked about their job or kids. But her co-workers talked about everything, though usually popular TV shows (which she was more than happy to chime in about). Some of it was interesting, some of it wasn't, but they never got bored of it. And while most of them were in their mid twenties, Steve and Nancy were both in their early forties and late thirties respectively. Neither had kids and they both loathed their jobs. Sophia always wondered why they didn't just quit. When she asked her father about it, he called said something about different paths for different people and that everyone hates their job some of the time.
Mr. Wilson was also a surprise. One night, while in the middle of writing an epic battle between Black Widow and She-Hulk, Mr. Wilson drunkenly stumbled in with a young girl on his arm. Sophia had had Mr. Wilson for social studies in seventh grade. He was a good teacher. Patience and respect were standard in his classroom and she always enjoyed listening to him talk about history. Everyone adored him.
Tonight, however, Mr. Wilson was different. Instead of respect and kindness, he was rude and constantly groped his companion. After searching the refrigerators for whiskey, he settled on a six pack of Pabst. While Sophia rang him up for the booze, he stared hungrily at the food on the hot grill. Sophia hated getting things from the grill. They were annoying to replace and made her clothes smell like grease. Still, Mr. Wilson just had to have the three Big Bites rotating in the plastic case.
After what seemed like ages, she rang him up for the beer and food. He glanced at the total while he fishing out his wallet.
"$11.50? Are you serious? What kind of a goddamn scam are you running here?" He looked up from his open billfold and their eyes met. She knew something was bad when the color immediately drained from his face. He stood up straight, grabbed a $20 and told his friend to wait outside for him.
"I...didn't know you got a job here." Hesitation and embarrassment reeked from his voice like the alcohol from his pores.
"Oh, yeah. Just a summertime gig for some extra cash. You know the drill." Dan, her older brother, used to say things were only as awkward as you make them and Sophia was determined to make this as normal as possible. He laughed forcefully and accepted his change from her. She noticed the tan lines where his wedding ring used to sit.
"Yeah, gotta start saving for college." Foregoing the wallet altogether, he shoved the change into his back pocket and gathered up his items. "I would...uh...I would appreciate if you kept this to yourself."
"Sure thing Mr. Wilson." She gave him her biggest most innocent smile.
"Tobias is fine, Sophie." His return smile was contrived as he joined his cohort in the parking lot.
Sophia had always assumed that after college there was a magical moment when a switch flipped and suddenly you were an adult and knew everything. Evidently, this was not the case. She had more planning to do.
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Even in the span of her first week, Jessica had begun to notice a pattern. The people that came in to her 7-11 during the overnight shift needed one of two things: beer or cigarettes. More often than not it was both. Their bloodshot eyes sunken beneath heavy bags bore into her soul.
It had begun to take its toll; last night, Jessica drank a tall can before heading home. She had never drank before, but last night has been a particularly hard night for her. When you stare too long into the abyss, the abyss stares into you.
She had just finished mopping the store and had resumed her place behind the register.
'6:37, almost time to leave.' Jessica sighed. The bell rang and she looked up to see a homeless man enter. This man was Carl; he divided up his time at a bunch I different stores, but this was where he went for the morning crowd. He was a nice man, never asked for much. He just sat outside peacefully and waited.
"'Ey Jess," he nodded as he walked by,"awful cold out there. Gonna get some coffee to warm me up."
"If you want to wait in here, you can." It wasn't much but she felt like it was the least she could do.
"Naw that's fine ma'am I'll be fine out there." Carl filled up his cup, smiled, and took his place outside. Jessica stood silently and watched. She felt so bad for him, but what could she do?
An escalade screeched into the parking lot, barely breaking in time to avoid going onto the sidewalk. A young man climbed out of the SUV, obviously drunk, and slammed the door. He seemed very angry, talking under his breath while he stumbled towards the door. Jessica could see as Carl asked the man for change, but he got angry.
"Get a fuckin' job! I work for my money!" He screamed; Jessica could clearly hear it through the glass window. Carl responded with something, and the man exploded. He ran towards him and began swinging at the homeless man. Carl had no time to defend, in seconds he was pinned down. The beating seemed to last forever, Jessica frozen in fear.
When she thought it had to be over, suddenly Carl had gained the upper hand. Now he was on top. In the early morning light she could see his face, battered and swollen, nose broken sideways. He had a rage now, his eyes were burning; Carl had not intention of stopping.
Jessica realized she could see flashing lights in her peripherals. A police officer jumped out of his car and started screaming, brandishing his pistol. Carl heard him and stopped his onslaught. He turned around and stood up, putting up his hands. With the gun trained on Carl, the officer looked down at the drunk man, then up at Carl; back down to the man. Jessica could clearly see him connecting the dots. So did Carl.
He began pleading his case, taking a step forward over the other man, but he tripped. Boom!
Jessica spent the next thirty minutes in shock. She gave her statement to at least 6 different officers. An ambulance came and took away the drunk man, but when Jessica left Carls body was still lying on the ground. She tucked beer down in the floorboard and looked away as she drove off.
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[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
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I looked over the milk, checking the expiration date. I don't know why I bother to check, it's not going to last long enough for me to even use half. I mentally scolded myself for wasting the $5 on a the jug that will just sit in my refrigerator and sour.
Not looking where I was going, I bumped into a small, solid form and looked up as soon as I heard the youthful 'oomph'. I noticed I bumped into a young boy, maybe about ten years of age - who knows. He was accompanied by a younger female version of himself, obviously his sister. I gave a quick glance over to make sure I didn't bruise the kid too badly or anything.
"Hey hon', I'm sorry about that. Are you okay?" I hoped what was left of my Southern drawl would come off as apologetic, if not soothing, to bounce back from being a towering menace who knocks over children in the grocery store.
The little boy stayed silent and stared. I started to worry until his litter sister spoke for him, "He's okay. Mama always says that he needs to watch where he's goin'." I had to stifle my chuckle as she tried to give him as much of a reprimanding look as she could.
I stiffed my lip as it tried to curl into a grin, "Well, I should follow the same advice." I looked back down at the little boy, "You sure your goin' to be alright?"
He continued to stare at me, which started to unnerve me. I don't know why it did, it's not as if he's intimidating or a danger. He was less than half my height, he had the same scrawny build I had at his age, and - as strange as it sounds - he didn't seem...unfamiliar. I shook, my head. I didn't know how to deal with this situation, so I deemed it best just to (akwardly) part ways.
When his sister didn't answer for him, I started to walk away with an uncomfortable smile on my face. "Bye guys."
"Angel."
I froze. I couldn't tell you why I did, but I froze and gave him a calculating look that matched the one he continued to give me. The more I studied him, the more I realize how matched our gazes were. We shared the same eye color, which should not be significant considering it's a common color. I glance at his sister, who started to take part in this 'stare-fest', and noted that she had the same, ordinary, average, un-original color as well. It should not had mattered, but it did and I started to notice other similarities. I've seen his dimples before, and her jawline was just as familiar. His upturned nose and her widow's peak played on my memory as well, causing this feeling of being unable to locate the cause or reason behind this nostalgia. It was ridiculous and I tried to use it a reminder that New York was a big city and I needed to stop treating it like a small town.
I pushed forward again, and thankfully the children motioned to do the same. I took a few steps away from the scene only to hear "He's right, you know." For the second time, I froze. It could have been nothing more than a child complimenting a stranger, he could have had a condition, hell - the kids could have been messing with me on purpose. The point is that it should not have affected me like it did.
I turned around, I should have given it more of a mental battle that reminded myself that there was no rhyme or reason to my actions, but followed their direction. I walked aimlessly past the deli, the butcher, the produce, and then I just started meandering through the different aisles. I spotted them in the breakfast aisle with a woman who had to be their mother. I had no idea what to say if I were to approach them, so I stayed back and observed.
The young girl faced her mother's direction and held on to the hem of her shirt. I was too far way to hear them and at the wrong angle to see their faces, but I knew they were smiling as they picked what cereal they would get this trip. There was no way I could be sure, but I knew it was a jovial negotiation. I'm sure it was similar to the ones I had with my own mother. I saw the boy quietly pick his cereal, the same one I would have picked, and put it in the cart just in the same quiet manner. This went unnoticed by the mother, but it struck me as sentimentally humorous. A chuckle slipped past my lips, and while it when undetected by the daughter and mother, he looked up and we locked eyes again. Before I had time to, again, question what I was doing or even plan an escape route he spoke his single word, "Angel."
His sister turned around and saw that it was me again then motioned to tug her mother's shirt. Any notion of panic that I had tried to set in motion was halted when their mother turned around.
The children's familiarity was vague, but I knew Her. I knew Her eyes, Her widow's peak, Her upturned nose, Her jawline, Her dimples, Her posture, and though there weren't many on display - I knew Her mannerisms. Her face was aged when it should not have been, Her hair was gray in areas where it shouldn't be. My eyes were wide with realization while Hers just stayed warm, soft like they always have been. I mentally scrambled to assess this situation, this phenomena, this woman, Her kids...my Mother.
It wasn't possible. It can't be possible. To this day I still want to doubt the possibility because surely there is not miracle this cruel. Her face was free from scars and scratches from the rubble, She had no traces of burns from the fire, She stood tall where the towers had fell. My mind was torn between making sense of all of this and trying find roots in reality. The side of reality reminded me that, Mother or no, I was just staring down a strange family. Wasn't I?
"I-I'm sorry. I bumped in to your son earlier and I just wanted to make sure he was okay. T-they walked off alone and I wasn't sure if that was safe or -"
Her warm chuckle interrupted my nervous rambling. If I had not been stunned silent I would have cried out at the comfort it brought on, the almost forgotten comfort. She took my hand in hers and patted it comfortingly. Her warmth seeped into my hand and spread through me as if I had been chilled. She smiled and gave me a gaze only a mother could achieve, my mother, and she held her gaze with the same, ordinary, average, un-original that we all shared. "You're an Angel." She let go of my hand, and it took every ounce of will I had not to snatch it back, but she continued to lovingly smile at me. I know the moment did not last but a second, but I tried my best to make that second stretch as long as it could in my mind.
She turned to her children, "It's time to go." She did not turn around or look back, no matter how much I willed her to or mentally begged for her to look back to ask if I was coming too. I could have followed them to the check out, out the door, or even to their car but I didn't. I stayed frozen. I should have watched where I was going, I should have not turned around, and their words - 'Her' words - should not have affected me, but it did. And they did as well.
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Something curious happened last week. I still can't shake it off, and it's been nagging at me.
I was at the store with my friend Peter a few days ago, trying to plan on what cake to buy for my birthday party coming up. After a few minutes, we decided on a large sheet cake that had all kinds of berries on it. We looked around at some party supplies, and started heading out of the store.
Then she caught my eye. I had to do a double take, since I didn't believe at first. She was instantly familiar, the long black hair, the high cheekbones, and the attached earlobes.
Except this couldn't be her, it wasn't possible. Besides, she had these twin kids with her, and I didn't recognize them at all. They didn't look like me, either. They both kind of resembled her, but had big, round faces, with light brown hair.
"Hey, you okay?"
I snapped out of it. "Yeah, my leg just seized up a little." There was a huge fire in my house shortly after I was born, and my right leg never quite healed from the burn I got when I was a baby, and this was the excuse I gave anytime I was caught zoning out.
The next few days, I kept thinking about her. Was it really her? Maybe I was mistaken. I ran the images through my head. No, it was definitely her. But again, the idea seemed ridiculous.
And so, as I blew out the candles, and everyone yelled, "Happy 14th birthday, John!" I still couldn't help but seem distant. Peter found me a few minutes later, staring blankly at some paintings on the wall.
"Hey, what's been wrong with you lately? I didn't take you to be someone to be pissy at his own birthday party."
"Sorry. Something's been eating at me," I said, hoping Peter wouldn't think I had lost my mind.
"Yeah?"
"I think my aunt's been cheating on my uncle. For a long time."
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[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
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She stood there, head down, casually browsing the bright red Gala apples as two children, both somewhere between 3 and 5 played a loud game in the shopping cart. I can't say what made me want to see her face. She was just a woman with children in a grocery full of women and children. I stood there, trying to figure out what kept pulling me to this unremarkable woman. Try as I might to brush off this ... suspicion, I felt a sense of inevitability in everything from the cadence of her footsteps to gentle admonishments to the raucous children shaking the cart.
Not wanting to arouse suspicion, I circled back through an adjacent aisle. My heart raced as anticipation grew. Who was this woman, and why did she have such a hold on me? Sweat began to pool at my forhead as I hurriedly passed countless boxes of sugary cereal and microwave oatmeal.
This couldn't be her. My thoughts turned to the mother I lost years ago.
It seemed impossible, but as I turned out of the aisle--narrowly avoiding an elderly man in a moth eaten cardigan--there she was.
"Mom?" I whispered. Incredulous yet bursting with a feeling somewhere between joy and horror. Why had she disappeared? How could she have left us alone, fending for ourselves in foster home after foster home?
"Mom?" I called out, my voice loud with desperation.
The apples fell to the floor with soft thuds that belied the gravity of this impossible meeting. For a briefest of moments, I believed that I had my mother back. I couldn't fathom the web of lies and manipulation that led me to this overpriced grocery store.
I walked toward her almost hungrily, I needed to know who this woman was. She jumped with a small cry as I approached her. Waisting little time she turned to grab the children and, with a startling agility for one her age, sprinted from the store.
"Wait!" I cried. It was surreal. I dodged cart after cart, as I chased her from the store. The sun shone brightly, blinding me as I raced out of the store and into the street. I saw her hurriedly putting the two children in the back of a burgundy Mazda MPV. I rushed forward, hoping to catch at least a license plate as she closed the door on the children before jumping into the driver's seat. How had she gotten out of the store so fast?
I made out New York plates and the first 3 letters of the plate, 'ADL', before a Honda Civic flew through the pedestrian walkway. The world rendered itself in pain and bright white lights as I smashed into the windshield.
A woman screamed as the Civic skidded to a sudden stop. The last thing I saw before blacking out was a burgundy Mazda MPV run a red light as it sped out of the shopping center.
Five hours later, after being rushed to the hospital by an experienced EMT and the frantic owner of the Honda Civic, assuring me at every opportunity that it was an accident, I gingerly sat down in front of my computer. The search had begun.
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Something curious happened last week. I still can't shake it off, and it's been nagging at me.
I was at the store with my friend Peter a few days ago, trying to plan on what cake to buy for my birthday party coming up. After a few minutes, we decided on a large sheet cake that had all kinds of berries on it. We looked around at some party supplies, and started heading out of the store.
Then she caught my eye. I had to do a double take, since I didn't believe at first. She was instantly familiar, the long black hair, the high cheekbones, and the attached earlobes.
Except this couldn't be her, it wasn't possible. Besides, she had these twin kids with her, and I didn't recognize them at all. They didn't look like me, either. They both kind of resembled her, but had big, round faces, with light brown hair.
"Hey, you okay?"
I snapped out of it. "Yeah, my leg just seized up a little." There was a huge fire in my house shortly after I was born, and my right leg never quite healed from the burn I got when I was a baby, and this was the excuse I gave anytime I was caught zoning out.
The next few days, I kept thinking about her. Was it really her? Maybe I was mistaken. I ran the images through my head. No, it was definitely her. But again, the idea seemed ridiculous.
And so, as I blew out the candles, and everyone yelled, "Happy 14th birthday, John!" I still couldn't help but seem distant. Peter found me a few minutes later, staring blankly at some paintings on the wall.
"Hey, what's been wrong with you lately? I didn't take you to be someone to be pissy at his own birthday party."
"Sorry. Something's been eating at me," I said, hoping Peter wouldn't think I had lost my mind.
"Yeah?"
"I think my aunt's been cheating on my uncle. For a long time."
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[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
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"M...Mom? Is that you?"
She turned her head, blue eyes sparkling, a smile on her face. Then she saw me, and her smile fell, her eyes dulled, and she looked... Tired. A young girl tugged lightly at her shirt, begging for attention, but she didn't move.
"Hello, Robert. It's been a while." She said, tilting her head to the side. I watched her use her thumb to push the hair from the girl's eyes, like she used to do for me.
I was stuck. Moving became impossible, talking a feat of epic strength. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this moment.
"Robbie, honey, don't look so crushed. This is how it's supposed to be."
Disbelief numbed the pain I should have felt. I glanced around the store, and people were moving, and talking. Nobody else understood the enormity of what was happening. Nobody even *noticed*.
"But how the *fuck* are you alive?" I asked, my voice louder than I meant it to be. "You were on that plane, Mom. Dad and I were at the gate, I *saw* you." A boy was sitting in her grocery cart, and he turned to look at me.
She shook her head slightly, lightly plucking a bag of M&M's from the boys's hands. "I was. How did your life turn out?" The bag of candy tossed into a nearby tray somehow became a symbol of my dismissal. I thought frantically, wondering if I had been discarded so easily.
"I... How are you even.." The words were too mixed, and I was too confused. She was so nonchalant, bored even.
"Robbie, here's the gist of it. You're a brilliant young man, and you were meant to be that way; but with the comfort of a mother, you'd have never succeeded. You had to be alone to thrive. I gave you life, sweetie, in more ways than one. That's my job, as the mother. The mother inspires her children, no matter the cost. No matter..."
She gazed into the young girl's eyes for a moment, and a smile cracked on her face.
"Melissa, honey, don't you want to go say hello to your big brother?" She nodded, a shy smile on her face. "Good girl. Take Brandon with you, okay?" The girl nodded again, the smile erased, and I stared at her hair, the square make to her jaw. She *did* look like me.
I shook my head. "They can't be related to me, Mom. You're almost sixty." My mother laughed dryly as she handed the young boy to his sister. "Fair enough. Then I can't be alive, and you can't be seeing me, right?" A finger twirled in her hair absent-mindedly.
"By the way, Robert, I've got a favor to ask you. Take care of them for me, alright?" I took a step back, about to say something, but her hand motioned for silence, and I was too broken to fight. "Especially Melissa. She'll watch over her brother, as long as you do your part. They're important. They'll save everything."
When the gas station outside blew, nobody was prepared. A vicious shock wave broke every piece of glass in the building. In the moment before I lost consciousness, I saw her, smiling softly, a piece of rebar whipping towards her.
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Something curious happened last week. I still can't shake it off, and it's been nagging at me.
I was at the store with my friend Peter a few days ago, trying to plan on what cake to buy for my birthday party coming up. After a few minutes, we decided on a large sheet cake that had all kinds of berries on it. We looked around at some party supplies, and started heading out of the store.
Then she caught my eye. I had to do a double take, since I didn't believe at first. She was instantly familiar, the long black hair, the high cheekbones, and the attached earlobes.
Except this couldn't be her, it wasn't possible. Besides, she had these twin kids with her, and I didn't recognize them at all. They didn't look like me, either. They both kind of resembled her, but had big, round faces, with light brown hair.
"Hey, you okay?"
I snapped out of it. "Yeah, my leg just seized up a little." There was a huge fire in my house shortly after I was born, and my right leg never quite healed from the burn I got when I was a baby, and this was the excuse I gave anytime I was caught zoning out.
The next few days, I kept thinking about her. Was it really her? Maybe I was mistaken. I ran the images through my head. No, it was definitely her. But again, the idea seemed ridiculous.
And so, as I blew out the candles, and everyone yelled, "Happy 14th birthday, John!" I still couldn't help but seem distant. Peter found me a few minutes later, staring blankly at some paintings on the wall.
"Hey, what's been wrong with you lately? I didn't take you to be someone to be pissy at his own birthday party."
"Sorry. Something's been eating at me," I said, hoping Peter wouldn't think I had lost my mind.
"Yeah?"
"I think my aunt's been cheating on my uncle. For a long time."
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[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
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Milk, check. Bread, check. Eggs, a box of six for £1.
Laying the little cardboard box of eggs into my basket, I head towards the self-checkout. I feel a small pang of disappointment in my chest - I know that I should be making an effort to talk to people, even if it's only the person behind the till. But I continue on and begin swiping my items off the basket, through the scanner and into a plastic bag on the other side.
"Unexpected item in baggage area," the machine announces.
I sigh and rearrange the items in the plastic bag.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and look around for a shop assistant. It's not really busy, but all of the other three self-checkout stations are being used. A man in a green pullover catches my eye. He is helping someone at another self-checkout station, but acknowledges me with a nod of his head.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
I stand and wait. There is a little light blinking red at the top of the screen. A few moments go by as I watch it blink on and off, on and off.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
And then I see her.
A woman in a red cardigan holding a basket. She looks vaguely familiar, but I just can't put my finger on it. She takes a tin of coffee from the shelf and analyses the packaging. Blonde hair streaked with silver falls over her shoulders. I cannot see her face.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
She puts the tin of coffee into her basket and turns to walk further down the aisle in my direction, browsing the products as she strolls. The curve of her jawline is so recognisable to me and it's on the tip of my tongue.
"This one's been playing up all day," the shop assistant says, reaching my checkout station and pressing a few buttons on the touch screen. I am only half-paying attention. "Might have to get someone to check this out or something."
"Yeah..." I murmur in response. The shop assistant flashes me a smile but there are images running through my head. Images of the woman with the red cardigan and the blonde hair.
"All sorted!"
I look back at the machine and see that it's ready for me to hurry up and pay already. I swipe the two cartons of milk through and choose the option to pay by card. I enter my PIN and the machine spits out a receipt for me.
"Please take your items."
I pick up the plastic bags, turning back one last time to the mysterious woman. She is assessing a bag of sugar while two younger girls skip about behind her. I find myself squinting my eyes, as if it would make any difference. The woman turns sternly to one of the little girls who just stood on her foot.
"Will you behave!" she says, cross.
Suddenly there is pain in my chest and memories behind my eyes. Her voice stings my ears and the back of my throat. I recognise her voice. I recognise her face and her hair. And it hurts.
A sound escapes my mouth before I can stop it - a strangled cry of a daughter abandoned in her own home watching the news as the towers collapsed, one after the other. Tears sting my eyes. I register that I am not holding the shopping bags anymore, but I dare not look down for my groceries in case she disappears.
In case my mother disappears. Again.
|
Something curious happened last week. I still can't shake it off, and it's been nagging at me.
I was at the store with my friend Peter a few days ago, trying to plan on what cake to buy for my birthday party coming up. After a few minutes, we decided on a large sheet cake that had all kinds of berries on it. We looked around at some party supplies, and started heading out of the store.
Then she caught my eye. I had to do a double take, since I didn't believe at first. She was instantly familiar, the long black hair, the high cheekbones, and the attached earlobes.
Except this couldn't be her, it wasn't possible. Besides, she had these twin kids with her, and I didn't recognize them at all. They didn't look like me, either. They both kind of resembled her, but had big, round faces, with light brown hair.
"Hey, you okay?"
I snapped out of it. "Yeah, my leg just seized up a little." There was a huge fire in my house shortly after I was born, and my right leg never quite healed from the burn I got when I was a baby, and this was the excuse I gave anytime I was caught zoning out.
The next few days, I kept thinking about her. Was it really her? Maybe I was mistaken. I ran the images through my head. No, it was definitely her. But again, the idea seemed ridiculous.
And so, as I blew out the candles, and everyone yelled, "Happy 14th birthday, John!" I still couldn't help but seem distant. Peter found me a few minutes later, staring blankly at some paintings on the wall.
"Hey, what's been wrong with you lately? I didn't take you to be someone to be pissy at his own birthday party."
"Sorry. Something's been eating at me," I said, hoping Peter wouldn't think I had lost my mind.
"Yeah?"
"I think my aunt's been cheating on my uncle. For a long time."
|
|
[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
|
I looked over the milk, checking the expiration date. I don't know why I bother to check, it's not going to last long enough for me to even use half. I mentally scolded myself for wasting the $5 on a the jug that will just sit in my refrigerator and sour.
Not looking where I was going, I bumped into a small, solid form and looked up as soon as I heard the youthful 'oomph'. I noticed I bumped into a young boy, maybe about ten years of age - who knows. He was accompanied by a younger female version of himself, obviously his sister. I gave a quick glance over to make sure I didn't bruise the kid too badly or anything.
"Hey hon', I'm sorry about that. Are you okay?" I hoped what was left of my Southern drawl would come off as apologetic, if not soothing, to bounce back from being a towering menace who knocks over children in the grocery store.
The little boy stayed silent and stared. I started to worry until his litter sister spoke for him, "He's okay. Mama always says that he needs to watch where he's goin'." I had to stifle my chuckle as she tried to give him as much of a reprimanding look as she could.
I stiffed my lip as it tried to curl into a grin, "Well, I should follow the same advice." I looked back down at the little boy, "You sure your goin' to be alright?"
He continued to stare at me, which started to unnerve me. I don't know why it did, it's not as if he's intimidating or a danger. He was less than half my height, he had the same scrawny build I had at his age, and - as strange as it sounds - he didn't seem...unfamiliar. I shook, my head. I didn't know how to deal with this situation, so I deemed it best just to (akwardly) part ways.
When his sister didn't answer for him, I started to walk away with an uncomfortable smile on my face. "Bye guys."
"Angel."
I froze. I couldn't tell you why I did, but I froze and gave him a calculating look that matched the one he continued to give me. The more I studied him, the more I realize how matched our gazes were. We shared the same eye color, which should not be significant considering it's a common color. I glance at his sister, who started to take part in this 'stare-fest', and noted that she had the same, ordinary, average, un-original color as well. It should not had mattered, but it did and I started to notice other similarities. I've seen his dimples before, and her jawline was just as familiar. His upturned nose and her widow's peak played on my memory as well, causing this feeling of being unable to locate the cause or reason behind this nostalgia. It was ridiculous and I tried to use it a reminder that New York was a big city and I needed to stop treating it like a small town.
I pushed forward again, and thankfully the children motioned to do the same. I took a few steps away from the scene only to hear "He's right, you know." For the second time, I froze. It could have been nothing more than a child complimenting a stranger, he could have had a condition, hell - the kids could have been messing with me on purpose. The point is that it should not have affected me like it did.
I turned around, I should have given it more of a mental battle that reminded myself that there was no rhyme or reason to my actions, but followed their direction. I walked aimlessly past the deli, the butcher, the produce, and then I just started meandering through the different aisles. I spotted them in the breakfast aisle with a woman who had to be their mother. I had no idea what to say if I were to approach them, so I stayed back and observed.
The young girl faced her mother's direction and held on to the hem of her shirt. I was too far way to hear them and at the wrong angle to see their faces, but I knew they were smiling as they picked what cereal they would get this trip. There was no way I could be sure, but I knew it was a jovial negotiation. I'm sure it was similar to the ones I had with my own mother. I saw the boy quietly pick his cereal, the same one I would have picked, and put it in the cart just in the same quiet manner. This went unnoticed by the mother, but it struck me as sentimentally humorous. A chuckle slipped past my lips, and while it when undetected by the daughter and mother, he looked up and we locked eyes again. Before I had time to, again, question what I was doing or even plan an escape route he spoke his single word, "Angel."
His sister turned around and saw that it was me again then motioned to tug her mother's shirt. Any notion of panic that I had tried to set in motion was halted when their mother turned around.
The children's familiarity was vague, but I knew Her. I knew Her eyes, Her widow's peak, Her upturned nose, Her jawline, Her dimples, Her posture, and though there weren't many on display - I knew Her mannerisms. Her face was aged when it should not have been, Her hair was gray in areas where it shouldn't be. My eyes were wide with realization while Hers just stayed warm, soft like they always have been. I mentally scrambled to assess this situation, this phenomena, this woman, Her kids...my Mother.
It wasn't possible. It can't be possible. To this day I still want to doubt the possibility because surely there is not miracle this cruel. Her face was free from scars and scratches from the rubble, She had no traces of burns from the fire, She stood tall where the towers had fell. My mind was torn between making sense of all of this and trying find roots in reality. The side of reality reminded me that, Mother or no, I was just staring down a strange family. Wasn't I?
"I-I'm sorry. I bumped in to your son earlier and I just wanted to make sure he was okay. T-they walked off alone and I wasn't sure if that was safe or -"
Her warm chuckle interrupted my nervous rambling. If I had not been stunned silent I would have cried out at the comfort it brought on, the almost forgotten comfort. She took my hand in hers and patted it comfortingly. Her warmth seeped into my hand and spread through me as if I had been chilled. She smiled and gave me a gaze only a mother could achieve, my mother, and she held her gaze with the same, ordinary, average, un-original that we all shared. "You're an Angel." She let go of my hand, and it took every ounce of will I had not to snatch it back, but she continued to lovingly smile at me. I know the moment did not last but a second, but I tried my best to make that second stretch as long as it could in my mind.
She turned to her children, "It's time to go." She did not turn around or look back, no matter how much I willed her to or mentally begged for her to look back to ask if I was coming too. I could have followed them to the check out, out the door, or even to their car but I didn't. I stayed frozen. I should have watched where I was going, I should have not turned around, and their words - 'Her' words - should not have affected me, but it did. And they did as well.
|
Excitement was filling the room on that early September morning. Our teacher had been reading ‘Where the Red Fern Grows’ every morning when we got to school, and yesterday, she had gotten to a really tense point in the novel. The classroom was buzzing with conversation, while I sat there lightly running the tip of my pencil over the top of my desk, making little lines, and then erasing them. Our teacher, Mrs. Long, was running a little late today.
When she entered the room, a strange, somber feeling entered with her. It swept across the room, and everyone fell silent. Mrs. Long was crying.
“Kids,” She said, wiping a tear from her eye, “In this world… There are good people, and there are bad people...”
Nothing like this had ever happened in my entire lifetime. I was too young, even then, to comprehend what had happened. Within moments, we started hearing names being called on the speaker system, saying that various children were being ‘checked out’ by their parents. The population of the room dwindled down until it was only me, Mrs. Long, and a couple other kids.
When we walked to lunch, the somber feeling lingered over our heads like a dark storm cloud. The entire school was full of eerie, tense silence. School was let out after lunch and I made my way to the bus. The drive home was usually long, but on that day, I was the only rider.
When the bus pulled up to my driveway, I started to get a spinning feeling in my head. Mom’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. She didn’t have a job yet, she didn’t have her citizenship yet, so why would she be gone? I walked inside, not knowing what to do, and sat down on my bed. I curled up into myself, and let sleep take me away.
It was hazy when I woke up. My dad kept saying my name. He kept saying my name. I woke up. He was crying. I’d never seen him cry before. “Sarah...”
I sat up in my bed. “Sarah...”
And I began to cry as well.
Time really does pass quickly. I stopped mourning 9/11 around the same time my school stopped having large ceremonies every year on that date. It just didn’t feel like something worth crying about anymore. After it happened, I’d let my grades drop, I’d let my attitude let a little bitter, and my little third grade self had fallen into a depression that she couldn’t even understand.
I’ve gotten better since then. I’m 21 now, old enough to drink, but also too old to have the desire to drink. I got my shit together, I’m in college, I’m doing things right like a kid with two parents would do. And now I’m running errands for my dad, specifically picking up some chips for him down at the Piggly Wiggly.
I always feel super stupid and fat when I go to pick up groceries for my dad. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a basket full of chips and snacks and diet Coke. It makes me feel like the biggest hypocrite in the world. I was walking with my bright red basket hanging off my arm, consciously trying to keep my shoes from squeaking on the floor without looking like a penguin. I looked at the wall of chips in front of me and grabbed a bag of Doritos. I had a quick, lustful glance at the Sun Chips, but didn’t pick any up for myself. When I went around to the soda aisle, I saw a kid standing there, looking at the Diet Soda for herself.
She was cute, short, big blue eyes, curly blonde hair. She actually had those cute Polish features that I have, which is strange to see in the South… And then, she spoke to me.
“Can you get that for me?” She asked, in that hybrid Canadian-Southern accent that I’ve also grown to have. I ignored her because, well, I’m not her mother. She frowned, and then called for her mother.
That’s when I saw my mother. Alive. In Piggly Wiggly. Cart full of junk food, and a toddler by her side.
I wasn’t sure how to feel, so I just kinda left.
|
|
[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
|
She stood there, head down, casually browsing the bright red Gala apples as two children, both somewhere between 3 and 5 played a loud game in the shopping cart. I can't say what made me want to see her face. She was just a woman with children in a grocery full of women and children. I stood there, trying to figure out what kept pulling me to this unremarkable woman. Try as I might to brush off this ... suspicion, I felt a sense of inevitability in everything from the cadence of her footsteps to gentle admonishments to the raucous children shaking the cart.
Not wanting to arouse suspicion, I circled back through an adjacent aisle. My heart raced as anticipation grew. Who was this woman, and why did she have such a hold on me? Sweat began to pool at my forhead as I hurriedly passed countless boxes of sugary cereal and microwave oatmeal.
This couldn't be her. My thoughts turned to the mother I lost years ago.
It seemed impossible, but as I turned out of the aisle--narrowly avoiding an elderly man in a moth eaten cardigan--there she was.
"Mom?" I whispered. Incredulous yet bursting with a feeling somewhere between joy and horror. Why had she disappeared? How could she have left us alone, fending for ourselves in foster home after foster home?
"Mom?" I called out, my voice loud with desperation.
The apples fell to the floor with soft thuds that belied the gravity of this impossible meeting. For a briefest of moments, I believed that I had my mother back. I couldn't fathom the web of lies and manipulation that led me to this overpriced grocery store.
I walked toward her almost hungrily, I needed to know who this woman was. She jumped with a small cry as I approached her. Waisting little time she turned to grab the children and, with a startling agility for one her age, sprinted from the store.
"Wait!" I cried. It was surreal. I dodged cart after cart, as I chased her from the store. The sun shone brightly, blinding me as I raced out of the store and into the street. I saw her hurriedly putting the two children in the back of a burgundy Mazda MPV. I rushed forward, hoping to catch at least a license plate as she closed the door on the children before jumping into the driver's seat. How had she gotten out of the store so fast?
I made out New York plates and the first 3 letters of the plate, 'ADL', before a Honda Civic flew through the pedestrian walkway. The world rendered itself in pain and bright white lights as I smashed into the windshield.
A woman screamed as the Civic skidded to a sudden stop. The last thing I saw before blacking out was a burgundy Mazda MPV run a red light as it sped out of the shopping center.
Five hours later, after being rushed to the hospital by an experienced EMT and the frantic owner of the Honda Civic, assuring me at every opportunity that it was an accident, I gingerly sat down in front of my computer. The search had begun.
|
Excitement was filling the room on that early September morning. Our teacher had been reading ‘Where the Red Fern Grows’ every morning when we got to school, and yesterday, she had gotten to a really tense point in the novel. The classroom was buzzing with conversation, while I sat there lightly running the tip of my pencil over the top of my desk, making little lines, and then erasing them. Our teacher, Mrs. Long, was running a little late today.
When she entered the room, a strange, somber feeling entered with her. It swept across the room, and everyone fell silent. Mrs. Long was crying.
“Kids,” She said, wiping a tear from her eye, “In this world… There are good people, and there are bad people...”
Nothing like this had ever happened in my entire lifetime. I was too young, even then, to comprehend what had happened. Within moments, we started hearing names being called on the speaker system, saying that various children were being ‘checked out’ by their parents. The population of the room dwindled down until it was only me, Mrs. Long, and a couple other kids.
When we walked to lunch, the somber feeling lingered over our heads like a dark storm cloud. The entire school was full of eerie, tense silence. School was let out after lunch and I made my way to the bus. The drive home was usually long, but on that day, I was the only rider.
When the bus pulled up to my driveway, I started to get a spinning feeling in my head. Mom’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. She didn’t have a job yet, she didn’t have her citizenship yet, so why would she be gone? I walked inside, not knowing what to do, and sat down on my bed. I curled up into myself, and let sleep take me away.
It was hazy when I woke up. My dad kept saying my name. He kept saying my name. I woke up. He was crying. I’d never seen him cry before. “Sarah...”
I sat up in my bed. “Sarah...”
And I began to cry as well.
Time really does pass quickly. I stopped mourning 9/11 around the same time my school stopped having large ceremonies every year on that date. It just didn’t feel like something worth crying about anymore. After it happened, I’d let my grades drop, I’d let my attitude let a little bitter, and my little third grade self had fallen into a depression that she couldn’t even understand.
I’ve gotten better since then. I’m 21 now, old enough to drink, but also too old to have the desire to drink. I got my shit together, I’m in college, I’m doing things right like a kid with two parents would do. And now I’m running errands for my dad, specifically picking up some chips for him down at the Piggly Wiggly.
I always feel super stupid and fat when I go to pick up groceries for my dad. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a basket full of chips and snacks and diet Coke. It makes me feel like the biggest hypocrite in the world. I was walking with my bright red basket hanging off my arm, consciously trying to keep my shoes from squeaking on the floor without looking like a penguin. I looked at the wall of chips in front of me and grabbed a bag of Doritos. I had a quick, lustful glance at the Sun Chips, but didn’t pick any up for myself. When I went around to the soda aisle, I saw a kid standing there, looking at the Diet Soda for herself.
She was cute, short, big blue eyes, curly blonde hair. She actually had those cute Polish features that I have, which is strange to see in the South… And then, she spoke to me.
“Can you get that for me?” She asked, in that hybrid Canadian-Southern accent that I’ve also grown to have. I ignored her because, well, I’m not her mother. She frowned, and then called for her mother.
That’s when I saw my mother. Alive. In Piggly Wiggly. Cart full of junk food, and a toddler by her side.
I wasn’t sure how to feel, so I just kinda left.
|
|
[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
|
"M...Mom? Is that you?"
She turned her head, blue eyes sparkling, a smile on her face. Then she saw me, and her smile fell, her eyes dulled, and she looked... Tired. A young girl tugged lightly at her shirt, begging for attention, but she didn't move.
"Hello, Robert. It's been a while." She said, tilting her head to the side. I watched her use her thumb to push the hair from the girl's eyes, like she used to do for me.
I was stuck. Moving became impossible, talking a feat of epic strength. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this moment.
"Robbie, honey, don't look so crushed. This is how it's supposed to be."
Disbelief numbed the pain I should have felt. I glanced around the store, and people were moving, and talking. Nobody else understood the enormity of what was happening. Nobody even *noticed*.
"But how the *fuck* are you alive?" I asked, my voice louder than I meant it to be. "You were on that plane, Mom. Dad and I were at the gate, I *saw* you." A boy was sitting in her grocery cart, and he turned to look at me.
She shook her head slightly, lightly plucking a bag of M&M's from the boys's hands. "I was. How did your life turn out?" The bag of candy tossed into a nearby tray somehow became a symbol of my dismissal. I thought frantically, wondering if I had been discarded so easily.
"I... How are you even.." The words were too mixed, and I was too confused. She was so nonchalant, bored even.
"Robbie, here's the gist of it. You're a brilliant young man, and you were meant to be that way; but with the comfort of a mother, you'd have never succeeded. You had to be alone to thrive. I gave you life, sweetie, in more ways than one. That's my job, as the mother. The mother inspires her children, no matter the cost. No matter..."
She gazed into the young girl's eyes for a moment, and a smile cracked on her face.
"Melissa, honey, don't you want to go say hello to your big brother?" She nodded, a shy smile on her face. "Good girl. Take Brandon with you, okay?" The girl nodded again, the smile erased, and I stared at her hair, the square make to her jaw. She *did* look like me.
I shook my head. "They can't be related to me, Mom. You're almost sixty." My mother laughed dryly as she handed the young boy to his sister. "Fair enough. Then I can't be alive, and you can't be seeing me, right?" A finger twirled in her hair absent-mindedly.
"By the way, Robert, I've got a favor to ask you. Take care of them for me, alright?" I took a step back, about to say something, but her hand motioned for silence, and I was too broken to fight. "Especially Melissa. She'll watch over her brother, as long as you do your part. They're important. They'll save everything."
When the gas station outside blew, nobody was prepared. A vicious shock wave broke every piece of glass in the building. In the moment before I lost consciousness, I saw her, smiling softly, a piece of rebar whipping towards her.
|
Excitement was filling the room on that early September morning. Our teacher had been reading ‘Where the Red Fern Grows’ every morning when we got to school, and yesterday, she had gotten to a really tense point in the novel. The classroom was buzzing with conversation, while I sat there lightly running the tip of my pencil over the top of my desk, making little lines, and then erasing them. Our teacher, Mrs. Long, was running a little late today.
When she entered the room, a strange, somber feeling entered with her. It swept across the room, and everyone fell silent. Mrs. Long was crying.
“Kids,” She said, wiping a tear from her eye, “In this world… There are good people, and there are bad people...”
Nothing like this had ever happened in my entire lifetime. I was too young, even then, to comprehend what had happened. Within moments, we started hearing names being called on the speaker system, saying that various children were being ‘checked out’ by their parents. The population of the room dwindled down until it was only me, Mrs. Long, and a couple other kids.
When we walked to lunch, the somber feeling lingered over our heads like a dark storm cloud. The entire school was full of eerie, tense silence. School was let out after lunch and I made my way to the bus. The drive home was usually long, but on that day, I was the only rider.
When the bus pulled up to my driveway, I started to get a spinning feeling in my head. Mom’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. She didn’t have a job yet, she didn’t have her citizenship yet, so why would she be gone? I walked inside, not knowing what to do, and sat down on my bed. I curled up into myself, and let sleep take me away.
It was hazy when I woke up. My dad kept saying my name. He kept saying my name. I woke up. He was crying. I’d never seen him cry before. “Sarah...”
I sat up in my bed. “Sarah...”
And I began to cry as well.
Time really does pass quickly. I stopped mourning 9/11 around the same time my school stopped having large ceremonies every year on that date. It just didn’t feel like something worth crying about anymore. After it happened, I’d let my grades drop, I’d let my attitude let a little bitter, and my little third grade self had fallen into a depression that she couldn’t even understand.
I’ve gotten better since then. I’m 21 now, old enough to drink, but also too old to have the desire to drink. I got my shit together, I’m in college, I’m doing things right like a kid with two parents would do. And now I’m running errands for my dad, specifically picking up some chips for him down at the Piggly Wiggly.
I always feel super stupid and fat when I go to pick up groceries for my dad. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a basket full of chips and snacks and diet Coke. It makes me feel like the biggest hypocrite in the world. I was walking with my bright red basket hanging off my arm, consciously trying to keep my shoes from squeaking on the floor without looking like a penguin. I looked at the wall of chips in front of me and grabbed a bag of Doritos. I had a quick, lustful glance at the Sun Chips, but didn’t pick any up for myself. When I went around to the soda aisle, I saw a kid standing there, looking at the Diet Soda for herself.
She was cute, short, big blue eyes, curly blonde hair. She actually had those cute Polish features that I have, which is strange to see in the South… And then, she spoke to me.
“Can you get that for me?” She asked, in that hybrid Canadian-Southern accent that I’ve also grown to have. I ignored her because, well, I’m not her mother. She frowned, and then called for her mother.
That’s when I saw my mother. Alive. In Piggly Wiggly. Cart full of junk food, and a toddler by her side.
I wasn’t sure how to feel, so I just kinda left.
|
|
[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
|
"M...Mom? Is that you?"
She turned her head, blue eyes sparkling, a smile on her face. Then she saw me, and her smile fell, her eyes dulled, and she looked... Tired. A young girl tugged lightly at her shirt, begging for attention, but she didn't move.
"Hello, Robert. It's been a while." She said, tilting her head to the side. I watched her use her thumb to push the hair from the girl's eyes, like she used to do for me.
I was stuck. Moving became impossible, talking a feat of epic strength. Nothing could have ever prepared me for this moment.
"Robbie, honey, don't look so crushed. This is how it's supposed to be."
Disbelief numbed the pain I should have felt. I glanced around the store, and people were moving, and talking. Nobody else understood the enormity of what was happening. Nobody even *noticed*.
"But how the *fuck* are you alive?" I asked, my voice louder than I meant it to be. "You were on that plane, Mom. Dad and I were at the gate, I *saw* you." A boy was sitting in her grocery cart, and he turned to look at me.
She shook her head slightly, lightly plucking a bag of M&M's from the boys's hands. "I was. How did your life turn out?" The bag of candy tossed into a nearby tray somehow became a symbol of my dismissal. I thought frantically, wondering if I had been discarded so easily.
"I... How are you even.." The words were too mixed, and I was too confused. She was so nonchalant, bored even.
"Robbie, here's the gist of it. You're a brilliant young man, and you were meant to be that way; but with the comfort of a mother, you'd have never succeeded. You had to be alone to thrive. I gave you life, sweetie, in more ways than one. That's my job, as the mother. The mother inspires her children, no matter the cost. No matter..."
She gazed into the young girl's eyes for a moment, and a smile cracked on her face.
"Melissa, honey, don't you want to go say hello to your big brother?" She nodded, a shy smile on her face. "Good girl. Take Brandon with you, okay?" The girl nodded again, the smile erased, and I stared at her hair, the square make to her jaw. She *did* look like me.
I shook my head. "They can't be related to me, Mom. You're almost sixty." My mother laughed dryly as she handed the young boy to his sister. "Fair enough. Then I can't be alive, and you can't be seeing me, right?" A finger twirled in her hair absent-mindedly.
"By the way, Robert, I've got a favor to ask you. Take care of them for me, alright?" I took a step back, about to say something, but her hand motioned for silence, and I was too broken to fight. "Especially Melissa. She'll watch over her brother, as long as you do your part. They're important. They'll save everything."
When the gas station outside blew, nobody was prepared. A vicious shock wave broke every piece of glass in the building. In the moment before I lost consciousness, I saw her, smiling softly, a piece of rebar whipping towards her.
|
She stood there, head down, casually browsing the bright red Gala apples as two children, both somewhere between 3 and 5 played a loud game in the shopping cart. I can't say what made me want to see her face. She was just a woman with children in a grocery full of women and children. I stood there, trying to figure out what kept pulling me to this unremarkable woman. Try as I might to brush off this ... suspicion, I felt a sense of inevitability in everything from the cadence of her footsteps to gentle admonishments to the raucous children shaking the cart.
Not wanting to arouse suspicion, I circled back through an adjacent aisle. My heart raced as anticipation grew. Who was this woman, and why did she have such a hold on me? Sweat began to pool at my forhead as I hurriedly passed countless boxes of sugary cereal and microwave oatmeal.
This couldn't be her. My thoughts turned to the mother I lost years ago.
It seemed impossible, but as I turned out of the aisle--narrowly avoiding an elderly man in a moth eaten cardigan--there she was.
"Mom?" I whispered. Incredulous yet bursting with a feeling somewhere between joy and horror. Why had she disappeared? How could she have left us alone, fending for ourselves in foster home after foster home?
"Mom?" I called out, my voice loud with desperation.
The apples fell to the floor with soft thuds that belied the gravity of this impossible meeting. For a briefest of moments, I believed that I had my mother back. I couldn't fathom the web of lies and manipulation that led me to this overpriced grocery store.
I walked toward her almost hungrily, I needed to know who this woman was. She jumped with a small cry as I approached her. Waisting little time she turned to grab the children and, with a startling agility for one her age, sprinted from the store.
"Wait!" I cried. It was surreal. I dodged cart after cart, as I chased her from the store. The sun shone brightly, blinding me as I raced out of the store and into the street. I saw her hurriedly putting the two children in the back of a burgundy Mazda MPV. I rushed forward, hoping to catch at least a license plate as she closed the door on the children before jumping into the driver's seat. How had she gotten out of the store so fast?
I made out New York plates and the first 3 letters of the plate, 'ADL', before a Honda Civic flew through the pedestrian walkway. The world rendered itself in pain and bright white lights as I smashed into the windshield.
A woman screamed as the Civic skidded to a sudden stop. The last thing I saw before blacking out was a burgundy Mazda MPV run a red light as it sped out of the shopping center.
Five hours later, after being rushed to the hospital by an experienced EMT and the frantic owner of the Honda Civic, assuring me at every opportunity that it was an accident, I gingerly sat down in front of my computer. The search had begun.
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[WP] 13 years ago, your mother died in the World Trade Center during 9/11. Today you see her at the grocery store with two small children you've never seen before.
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Milk, check. Bread, check. Eggs, a box of six for £1.
Laying the little cardboard box of eggs into my basket, I head towards the self-checkout. I feel a small pang of disappointment in my chest - I know that I should be making an effort to talk to people, even if it's only the person behind the till. But I continue on and begin swiping my items off the basket, through the scanner and into a plastic bag on the other side.
"Unexpected item in baggage area," the machine announces.
I sigh and rearrange the items in the plastic bag.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
Taking a deep breath, I raise my head and look around for a shop assistant. It's not really busy, but all of the other three self-checkout stations are being used. A man in a green pullover catches my eye. He is helping someone at another self-checkout station, but acknowledges me with a nod of his head.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
I stand and wait. There is a little light blinking red at the top of the screen. A few moments go by as I watch it blink on and off, on and off.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
And then I see her.
A woman in a red cardigan holding a basket. She looks vaguely familiar, but I just can't put my finger on it. She takes a tin of coffee from the shelf and analyses the packaging. Blonde hair streaked with silver falls over her shoulders. I cannot see her face.
"Unexpected item in baggage area."
She puts the tin of coffee into her basket and turns to walk further down the aisle in my direction, browsing the products as she strolls. The curve of her jawline is so recognisable to me and it's on the tip of my tongue.
"This one's been playing up all day," the shop assistant says, reaching my checkout station and pressing a few buttons on the touch screen. I am only half-paying attention. "Might have to get someone to check this out or something."
"Yeah..." I murmur in response. The shop assistant flashes me a smile but there are images running through my head. Images of the woman with the red cardigan and the blonde hair.
"All sorted!"
I look back at the machine and see that it's ready for me to hurry up and pay already. I swipe the two cartons of milk through and choose the option to pay by card. I enter my PIN and the machine spits out a receipt for me.
"Please take your items."
I pick up the plastic bags, turning back one last time to the mysterious woman. She is assessing a bag of sugar while two younger girls skip about behind her. I find myself squinting my eyes, as if it would make any difference. The woman turns sternly to one of the little girls who just stood on her foot.
"Will you behave!" she says, cross.
Suddenly there is pain in my chest and memories behind my eyes. Her voice stings my ears and the back of my throat. I recognise her voice. I recognise her face and her hair. And it hurts.
A sound escapes my mouth before I can stop it - a strangled cry of a daughter abandoned in her own home watching the news as the towers collapsed, one after the other. Tears sting my eyes. I register that I am not holding the shopping bags anymore, but I dare not look down for my groceries in case she disappears.
In case my mother disappears. Again.
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“September 6th...Less than a week from September 11th. It’s been 13 years since that day. My mom was up there in the WTC. Now I’ve gotten over the pain I felt for years. Well, not gotten over but it’s easier to cope now. It’s interesting how we can just carry on our lives like normal after someone close to us dies. It may take a couple years but we manage to eventually accept the fact that our loved ones have passed. “
Sean closed his notebook entitled “Journal”. He had been writing everything in there. His day to day thoughts. His actions. His therapist had told him a journal would be a good idea to focus his thoughts in a more clear setting. The death of his mother had sent him into deep depression and feelings of empty loneliness. The journal had helped him for years to better understand himself and the world around him. Every day Sean would go out into the world and during his day he would try to think of something he could write in his journal. Something that was worthwhile to write.
“Well this certainly is something worthwhile to write about.” Sean thought to himself as he made a double take towards the produce section. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was his dead mother. Thirteen years later and he could still remember what she looked like. She didn’t age very much. She had shorter hair than he remembered and she was a little darker too.
*What the hell is going on? How could this happen? She’s still alive after all this time?* Then he saw two kids run up to her with candy in their hands.
“Mommy can we have this candy please please!”
“I’ll think about it, put It back for now”
These kids are her children!?
At this point Sean is filled with anger. Angry with the fact that his mother could be alive and with a NEW family. But first he had to see if it was really her. He didn’t want to just walk up on a random women claiming she was his mother unless he was absolutely sure. He walked up next to her while she was getting the bananas and spoke.
“I remember when I was 4 years old and I used to sit in the car with my mother. I used to tell her to hold my left hand because that was my “evil” hand. Every time we were in the car we would hold each other’s hands.”
He looked to his right and saw the woman. Her face was completely awestruck. She looked like she had just seen a ghost. She took out a pen and started writing something.
“M-Mom! I knew it was you! Why? How? How could you do this to us?!”
The kids were curious as to what was going on. “Mommy who is this?”
“Nobody honey come on let’s go” She started to walk briskly and she bumped into him. Sean felt something slip into his hand. She whispered to him “We’ll talk soon” and walked out of the store.
Sean was almost in shock. Was that really his mother? What does she mean “we’ll talk soon”? Why didn’t he say anything when she walked out of the store?
Sean looked down in his hand. It was a piece of paper. She slipped it to him before she left. He opened up the paper to read the following:
**You’re being watched. When I leave, go the opposite way and don’t stop running. Please trust me.**
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[WP] Ten years after they graduated high school, the bully and his victim meet. The bully attempts a genuine apology.
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*Here he lays. The cold son of a bitch named James.*
Connor barely comprehends whats going on. The entire funeral has been a blur to him. The faint smell of roses resonates in his head. He cannot understand why all these people are here for James. He doesnt want to understand how anyone could love him. The man who tormented him. The man who called him a pussy and broke his arm. The man who made his life such a living hell that he tried to kill himself. Connor himself is only there to see James as dead as a door nail.
The priest walks up and says his words. Psalm 23. *The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want....*
Connor looks over and sees what he can only assume is family sitting on the opposite side, crying softly. A young woman is near sobbing, holding the 3 year old boy in her lap. *Baby James. The motherfucker was so selfish he left a beautiful woman alone with his child.*
The priest ends with the Lords Prayer, and says that James is looking down on them from heaven. Connor doesnt want any god to accept James. James was the manifestation of the devil for years. He was Connors own personal hell on earth.
The service concludes after James' father says a few nice words. Connor gets up and is about to leave, but something draws him to say something to the wife. He shouldnt. He should leave, because he might say something he regrets. But that was the point. To say something to portray the pain he felt for years. And if James was dead, then his Family could be the one to feel it.
People are gathered around Ashlee, James' wife. His little boy, Jonas, is a near spitting image of his dad, even at his young age.
Connor makes his way, waiting for everyone to get done saying things to Ashlee, and finally he has his chance. He walks up and starts "My name is Connor Manor. I went to school with James and......." Ashlee cuts him off.
"Connor Manor. My name is Ashlee. And on the off chance that you came today, I had something for you."
She hands him an envelope. "James wrote this the night of the incident. I know what he did to you. Trust me when I say he never forgave himself." With that, she walked quickly out of the room, the child pressed firmly against her body, escaping the situation.
Connor leaves and gets into his car. He sits, staring at the envelope marked **Connor**. He sits for what feels like an hour, cars leaving around him. Finally, he opens and reads-
*To Connor Manor. If you are reading this, then you showed up. Likely to see my dead. Thats fine. I deserve that hate. There is nothing I can say here to make up for what I did. And nothing I can say that will make you forgive me. I was beaten daily by my mother. She tried to make me less of a man. My father did nothing. I was nothing. My mother would beat me physically, and when I got old enough to hold her back, she moved onto emotional beatings. These are what I passed onto you. The beatings, both emotional and physical. And it wasnt right. I knew at the time it wasnt, but I was so clouded by pain and anger that I didnt care.
You deserve to curse my name. You deserve to beat my body. You deserve to hate me more than anything.
I am sorry. It doesnt change anything and it wont make a damn bit of a difference. But here it is, laid out. I can only imagine you came because you heard that I killed myself. Maybe you thought you would get a good laugh at it because I was so mean to you. Maybe you are mad because I succeeded and you failed at suicide. But regardless, I hope that mostly you felt empathy for me, to some degree, because you are on my mind currently. You, my wife, and my mother are the only ones getting these letters. You are special to me, because you have made me see that there is no getting rid of my pain. I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot care anymore. I cannot wish it. I cannot want it. I cannot do anything anymore. But, deep down right now, I like to think that you are forgiving me. It shows the little humanity left in this world. - James.*
Connor sat still, softly crying. He got out of his car, and walked back into the funeral home. James' family was getting ready to leave. He asked if he might see him one more time. He walks up alone to the casket. This would be his only chance, because James was going to be cremated. He places his hand on the lip of the casket, and looks down. James' face looks swollen. Granted he hadn't seen him in 10 years, but its noticeable this close up. He remembers how he had his wisdom teeth taken out and James had called him a cock-sucking chipmunk for a week. He chuckles slightly, and says "James, I accept your apology. And you can rot in hell."
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I'm Larry Schmidt, a thirty years old and unemployed. I live in my parents couch and drink beer all day. I have been feeling a lot of back pain, so I went to the free clinic. . . Let's just cut to the chase, I was referred to many different specialists and they found that I have a malignant tumor and I need treatment.
I got a call, on a lazy Sunday morning. It was a nurse telling me to come in to the Mercy Hospital, I have an appointment with the oncologist. Sitting in the waiting room reminded me of how easy it was for your ego to be brought down from a hundred to zero. I distracted myself by filling in my information in the sheets I had to sign.
"Jerry? Dr. Maize will see you now." *Maize? It couldn't be...* It was. It was Gary Maize, the guy who I made high school four years of hell for. The kid who I beat up, shoved into a trash bin, humiliated at every chance I got. *Why was I such a dick?*
I'm sitting on the bed, the nurse takes my vitals, "Wow, feeling nervous?" *You have no idea.* "Don't worry, you're in excellent hands." The nurse smiles, not unkindly and there's Dr. Maize coming in through the door. I can still see the scar on his upper lip from when I punched him sophomore year.
-To be continued. I want to put the doctor at a place of power and the bully begging for mercy.-
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[WP] The detective looked at the evidence. A naked body. A block of cheese. The passenger door from a Volvo. Two gold teeth. And a Led Zeppelin album. It all fit so perfectly. He knew who did it.
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The detective knelt down next to the body illuminated by the headlights of his squad-car. He reached out and put two fingers around the wrist, searching for a pulse. There was none. He examined the rest of the crime scene: cheese, the door from a '03 Volvo S60, a jaw fragment containing two gold molar crowns, and Led Zeppelin's 'Physical Graffiti.' Slowly, but deliberately, the detective got to his feet, and turned to speak to his longtime partner.
"You know, its been a long time since I've seen this guy's work" said the detective.
"Yeah, you think you know who did this Boss?" replied the detectives faithful partner.
"I'm sure of it, Bill" replied the detective.
"Well, you care to enlighten me?" shot back the detective's partner. Even he, a long time cop from a family of police officers, was spooked by the macabre scene.
"Yup, I'll tell ya who did this." The detective instinctively reached into his charcoal grey sportcoat pocket and grabbed a pack of Camel Filters. He lifted the box top, and there were only 3 cigarettes left. 'Damn, it's going to be a long night' thought the detective, searching his brain for how to break the news to his faithful partner of so many years. The detective lit the cigarette and took a long, much needed drag.
"I'll tell ya who did this alright" repeated the detective. Spinning on his heel, the detective looks deep into camera two and exclaims "that's right, it was Frank Stallone." The crowd roars in laughter, and the detective removes his wig and fake mustache - he is revealed to be Norm MacDonald.
Walking off the stage, MacDonald hears the usual "LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT!"
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"Our killer was a Swede. Our victim was English. The killer's probably an older man. Be on the lookout."
"How do you know?"
"Well, let's examine the details. The body is naked. Just like the show Dating Naked. And what's the date?"
"The fifth?"
"Exactly. A fifth of Jack. Monterey Jack. With bitemarks on it. From the gold teeth. Which were chipped."
"So?"
"Fish and Chips. An Englishwoman. Hence the Zep album. And, take out the chips and you have fish. What country is famous for their candy fish? Sweden."
"Our killer likely slammed into her, drunk and distracted, knocking the door off his own car and our friend out the window. He stashed his Volvo around here somewhere and took the Brit's car and clothes."
"How do you know the victim was British?"
"She had two gold teeth. British people are famous for their poor teeth."
"But what about the gender? How do you know it was a man who stole this woman's clothes and car?"
"He damaged her bra as he pulled it off, meaning he took it to hide evidence, not to wear. Look at the scrapes on her back. He yanked it and likely broke it."
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[WP] The detective looked at the evidence. A naked body. A block of cheese. The passenger door from a Volvo. Two gold teeth. And a Led Zeppelin album. It all fit so perfectly. He knew who did it.
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The detective looked at the evidence. A naked body. A block of cheese. The passenger door from a Volvo. Two gold teeth. And a Led Zeppelin album. It all fit so perfectly.
"I know who did it."
"But how sir? this evidence makes no sense."
"Isn't it obvious? It's James Habb, known to carry a block of cheese, a passenger door from a Volvo, two gold teeth, and a Led Zeppelin album wherever he goes. He must have been in a hurry to have left it all behind."
"Oh... I didn't know that. But how do you explain the naked body?"
"That's the most telling clue, John Habb hates streakers."
"Wow, you are truly amazing sir."
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– Steve, open up!
– Go away!
– Hey, we're very worried, there's someone named Mr. Simon, a detective who wants to talk to you.
– Miss, пожалуйста, if you allow me to take it from here... Sir, it is a friendly visit and totally off the record. Also, I've got something that belongs to you.
– I know of no records and do not want to communicate with anyone!
– But sir, you most definitely have heard of shootout near the mansion a couple of hours ago!
– Maybe...
– Perhaps, you have heard that a red-colored body of brutish proportions have been found near to what appears to be a torn shopping bag, and a torn-off passenger door from a Volvo passenger car, with gold teeth embedded in a large dent on the side?
– Well, he could've hurted somebody, so I acted fast. He had this funny tattoo, though...
– Indeed, he was an agent of that organization. I was told so before rather grim men with black-and-white eagle emblem on their uniforms carried the body away. Let me tell you the story and you will correct me. On the parking lot of a shopping mall, a scrawny bold man was shouting obscenities in German and English, spitting saliva from the shiny mouth of his. You decided to intervene and approached with calming words, I would have expected nothing else from you. The angry little bold man then suddenly injects himself from a rather large syringe, throws both fists in front of him and freezes in shock. And then, he started to grow in size, gaining approximately five feet in all three directions, ripping his clothes off, screaming incoherently and swinging his arms wildly. So you casually rip off a door from a car and throw it towards that hulk of a man, knocking him out. Was that right?
– Yes, mister... err...
– Call me Joseph. But the next thing is quite a mystery to me. Why did you run from the scene?
– THEY came. From all around, snapping their devices, shouting, pulling, shoving photos and books, chanting...
– Ah, THEM! Well, that explains quite a lot. Actually, I suppose your supervisors have settled everything already. And this belongs to you. Why English heavy metal?
– My pal from the UK gave me a list on what should I catch up since, you know...
– Right then! I will be taking my leave. I suppose my colleague owes me a beer now.
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[WP] The detective looked at the evidence. A naked body. A block of cheese. The passenger door from a Volvo. Two gold teeth. And a Led Zeppelin album. It all fit so perfectly. He knew who did it.
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The detective's heart sank as he ascended the subway stairs. On each stair, another message, a sick clue left by the murderer. And there, just before the stairs hit street level, in the green glow of the Seven-Eleven sign beyond, lay the naked body of another victim.
"Talk to me" he barked to the officer on the scene.
"Victim is an Edward Kepman. 38, married, didn't arrive home last night after work. Wife had reported him missing. The crime scene is just bizzare boss, we been racking our brains, but it just makes no sense." The officer looked down at his notes.
"Let's start with this" The officer pointed down at a round roll of cheese. "Sally from forensics tells me you call a chunk of cheese like that a log."
"Anyone know the type of cheese?
"I believe it's Jack cheese, Sir. You know, like Monterey Jack."
"Right... next" He stepped over the marmalade and set of golden dental grills.
"No idea what to say about these, sir. Grills, like those worn by rappers? And marmalade. Placed in the middle of the stairs, so we have to step over them?"
"And finally?" He said, looking at the final clue on the final stair before the body.
"Well, this might just be the strangest one. The door of a Volvo S40 sedan."
"Right, and you say the vic's name is Ed. Ed Kepman." The detective was deep in thought. He seemed to be humming to himself.
"I've got it on record as Edward, sir, but yes. Why?
"Well, for a start..." The detective reached down and picked up the car door. It rattled. "I knew it!" he said "The Rattle of a Volvo Door."
"Next, I'm going to hazard a guess and go with "Over the Grills and Marmalade. And then a Jack Log. I hate to say it, but this is clearly the work of the serial killer, The Rhymer."
"The Rhymer, sir?"
"This psyco's got a thing for British rock bands and bad rhymes. Keep searching, I bet you'll find a Led Zeppelin CD somewhere."
"Uh, we actually did find one, not too far away, bagged it for evidence but we thought it was just lost or discarded in the subway. How the hell did you know?"
"Ed Kepman? Led Zeppelin. The cheese - a Jack Log - rhymes with their hit 'Black Dog'"
The detective spun around, pointing at the golden teeth insert and marmalade... "And here we have 'Over the Hills and Far Away' or in this case, 'Over the grills and marmalade.'"
He was almost enjoying himself now. "Finally, 'The Rattle of a Volvo Door' - this one's a little weak if you ask me... but it must be 'The Battle of Evermore."
"That's amazing! When did you know? How did you put it all together so quickly?"
"I actually had my suspicions the minute I arrived and noticed the vic had been laid out 'Climbing the Stairway to the Seven-Eleven".
|
– Steve, open up!
– Go away!
– Hey, we're very worried, there's someone named Mr. Simon, a detective who wants to talk to you.
– Miss, пожалуйста, if you allow me to take it from here... Sir, it is a friendly visit and totally off the record. Also, I've got something that belongs to you.
– I know of no records and do not want to communicate with anyone!
– But sir, you most definitely have heard of shootout near the mansion a couple of hours ago!
– Maybe...
– Perhaps, you have heard that a red-colored body of brutish proportions have been found near to what appears to be a torn shopping bag, and a torn-off passenger door from a Volvo passenger car, with gold teeth embedded in a large dent on the side?
– Well, he could've hurted somebody, so I acted fast. He had this funny tattoo, though...
– Indeed, he was an agent of that organization. I was told so before rather grim men with black-and-white eagle emblem on their uniforms carried the body away. Let me tell you the story and you will correct me. On the parking lot of a shopping mall, a scrawny bold man was shouting obscenities in German and English, spitting saliva from the shiny mouth of his. You decided to intervene and approached with calming words, I would have expected nothing else from you. The angry little bold man then suddenly injects himself from a rather large syringe, throws both fists in front of him and freezes in shock. And then, he started to grow in size, gaining approximately five feet in all three directions, ripping his clothes off, screaming incoherently and swinging his arms wildly. So you casually rip off a door from a car and throw it towards that hulk of a man, knocking him out. Was that right?
– Yes, mister... err...
– Call me Joseph. But the next thing is quite a mystery to me. Why did you run from the scene?
– THEY came. From all around, snapping their devices, shouting, pulling, shoving photos and books, chanting...
– Ah, THEM! Well, that explains quite a lot. Actually, I suppose your supervisors have settled everything already. And this belongs to you. Why English heavy metal?
– My pal from the UK gave me a list on what should I catch up since, you know...
– Right then! I will be taking my leave. I suppose my colleague owes me a beer now.
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[WP] You disowned your mother for over a decade, due to mental abuse. She calls you on her birthday, still mean as ever, claiming fatal sickness
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I heard the phone ringing and paused the game, grumbling a little. I picked up my phone, answered it, "Hello?"
A voice I hadn't heard in years spilled out of the speaker, "David, honey, how are you?"
My face contorted with barely suppressed rage, "A little worse now. What do you want, mother?"
"David, don't be cruel!" Her voice dripped, poisoning those empty places in a person, "It is always better to be kind. I'm just calling to talk to my dear son, who I haven't heard from in far too long."
"Is that so, no ulterior motive? Do you really expect me to believe that? Its been 12 years, why are you calling me?"
"I'm trying to talk to you," She oozed, "Is it so wrong to want to talk to my own son?"
"Yes. After what you've done, yes. I'm done with this. Goodbye."
She was frantic, "Wait! Ok, there is a reason I called. I just... didn't want to open with it."
I waited, saying nothing. The silence extended uncomfortably, but I made no sound. I stayed absolutely still so no sound at all carried across to her.
"I visited my doctor a few days ago, and I just heard back from him. Today, of all days, my birthday!"
I kept my silence, but despite my efforts I was shaking a little.
"I'm dying, David. The doctor says I have a few months at most."
Now my silence was from surprise, I was stunned.
"David? Are you there David? Say something!"
I shook my head and swallowed. I cleared my throat quietly, then spoke, "Good."
I hung up.
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"I haven't talked to you in years and you decide to call me today, because it ls your birthday?" Johnny said with a deep sigh.
"It more than just my birthday, if you've ever cared to call or come around you'd know a little more" Johnny's mom scoffed as sarcastically as ever.
"I see you're still bitter as always" the tone in Johnny's voice you could tell he was already starting to get annoyed.
"Maybe I shouldn't have called you! You know ever since you dad left because you were born..." Cut off with a burst of anger from Johnny.
"MOM! Please don't start this now. I did you the pleasure of answer your damn phone call. Just saying what ever the fuck is on your mind, you know I didn't have to pick up!! And another thing if you think you can just guilt me because it's your birthda..." Johnny stopped talking when he heard his mom faintly say
"I'm dying."
Long pause
Johnny was counting the seconds neither of them was talking. His head was racing with thoughts. He'd never heard such emotion come out of his moms mouth without it being some sort of taunt of anger or abusive one liner that always seemed to kick him back down. No this emotion was different. This emotion came on the whole other spectrum of where his mother usually was before he disowned her. Before Johnny could gasp out a question of why or what is killing her it had already felt like an eternity before Johnny's mom gasped out "I love you".
Johnny hadn't heard this in years and something scared him. He hung up.
End
Ive never done anything like this. Feed back would be nice. Thanks for reading!
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[WP] You disowned your mother for over a decade, due to mental abuse. She calls you on her birthday, still mean as ever, claiming fatal sickness
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The trill of the ancient phone echoed through the house, jarring Leonard awake. He stumbled down stairs in a half awake daze, cursing as he rolled his ankle. Limping over to the telephone, he lifted the handset from receiver.
"Hello?"
"Leonard. It's your mother. We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you, Carolyn."
"Carolyn. Huh. Can't even bring yourself to call me mom anymore. Anyway, if you won't talk, then shut yer trap and listen. I got some just *delightful* birthday news from my doctor."
Leonard sighed inwardly, as he heard his mother pause to take a long drag on what was likely her second pack of the day.
"I'm dying. Lung cancer they tell me. Anyway, I thought you should know, even though you've had such a stick up your ass for ten years."
Leonard clenched his teeth, as his anger rose.
"A stick up my ass? You were an abusive piece of shit for my entire childhood."
"Oh yeah, here we go, it's all my fault. You know you were no peach yourself. Abandoning me here, while you went of to college and partied."
"Oh, you want to talk abandonment. Shall we take a trip down memory lane to 1991? Hmm? that *entire summer* you went missing?"
"I WAS IN REHAB, YOU LITTLE SHIT"
"You were SUPPOSED to be in rehab, but what you ended up doing was fucking every guy in the god damn state for you're fucking fix. So you'll have to excuse me if I can't muster up any sympathy."
"I should've known you'd start this crap again. I call to tell you I'm dying, and I just get a lecture on what a terrible mother I was."
"Let's just say you *are* really dying, and this isn't some kind of scam to worm your way back into my life, or my bank account. What exactly do you want from me?"
There was silence from the other end, and once again the sound of a long drag on a cigarette.
"What I *want*, is for you to come down and give me a proper burial. I want to be buried in a nice grave, and I want someone to say *something* at my funeral. Who else have I got? You're fathers dead, so's you're uncle. His side of the family won't even talk to me anymore, so I guess you've got *that* in common.""
"Fine. I'll come give you that big send off you're hoping for. I'll even say something at the funeral. But I want something in return."
"You know I don't have any money. I had to sell the house to pay the medical bills."
"You think I want your money? No. I want you to have a good long think about the shit you put on me, all the damage you inflicted and then... I want you to say you're fucking sorry."
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"I haven't talked to you in years and you decide to call me today, because it ls your birthday?" Johnny said with a deep sigh.
"It more than just my birthday, if you've ever cared to call or come around you'd know a little more" Johnny's mom scoffed as sarcastically as ever.
"I see you're still bitter as always" the tone in Johnny's voice you could tell he was already starting to get annoyed.
"Maybe I shouldn't have called you! You know ever since you dad left because you were born..." Cut off with a burst of anger from Johnny.
"MOM! Please don't start this now. I did you the pleasure of answer your damn phone call. Just saying what ever the fuck is on your mind, you know I didn't have to pick up!! And another thing if you think you can just guilt me because it's your birthda..." Johnny stopped talking when he heard his mom faintly say
"I'm dying."
Long pause
Johnny was counting the seconds neither of them was talking. His head was racing with thoughts. He'd never heard such emotion come out of his moms mouth without it being some sort of taunt of anger or abusive one liner that always seemed to kick him back down. No this emotion was different. This emotion came on the whole other spectrum of where his mother usually was before he disowned her. Before Johnny could gasp out a question of why or what is killing her it had already felt like an eternity before Johnny's mom gasped out "I love you".
Johnny hadn't heard this in years and something scared him. He hung up.
End
Ive never done anything like this. Feed back would be nice. Thanks for reading!
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[WP] You disowned your mother for over a decade, due to mental abuse. She calls you on her birthday, still mean as ever, claiming fatal sickness
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I heard the phone ringing and paused the game, grumbling a little. I picked up my phone, answered it, "Hello?"
A voice I hadn't heard in years spilled out of the speaker, "David, honey, how are you?"
My face contorted with barely suppressed rage, "A little worse now. What do you want, mother?"
"David, don't be cruel!" Her voice dripped, poisoning those empty places in a person, "It is always better to be kind. I'm just calling to talk to my dear son, who I haven't heard from in far too long."
"Is that so, no ulterior motive? Do you really expect me to believe that? Its been 12 years, why are you calling me?"
"I'm trying to talk to you," She oozed, "Is it so wrong to want to talk to my own son?"
"Yes. After what you've done, yes. I'm done with this. Goodbye."
She was frantic, "Wait! Ok, there is a reason I called. I just... didn't want to open with it."
I waited, saying nothing. The silence extended uncomfortably, but I made no sound. I stayed absolutely still so no sound at all carried across to her.
"I visited my doctor a few days ago, and I just heard back from him. Today, of all days, my birthday!"
I kept my silence, but despite my efforts I was shaking a little.
"I'm dying, David. The doctor says I have a few months at most."
Now my silence was from surprise, I was stunned.
"David? Are you there David? Say something!"
I shook my head and swallowed. I cleared my throat quietly, then spoke, "Good."
I hung up.
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John stared at the hand in his phone
“Hello, John? Don’t you hang up on me, I just want to wish you a happy birthday” A woman’s voice screeched. The words were heartfelt, but she managed to find a way to make them insulting. John felt numb and for a moment had trouble differentiating between his hand and the black cellphone clutched in his palm. It was only a moment, but it felt like an eternity as his mind swirled with emotions. Voices inside of his head screamed and clamored at once, all of them vying for an opportunity to reply.
Fuck you was an immediate and loud one. How’d you get my number. What do you want? You should be dead. You asshole. Leave me alone. Don’t leave me alone. Say you love me, just once. Die you miserable bitch.
“What do you want?” He said robotically, taking the most amicable approach of what he could muster.
“What do you mean, what do I want? I just told you what I wanted, dear. Honestly, you need to start listening. Really listening. Especially now,” Her voice was grating and it hadn’t changed from the last decade he had spoken to her. Always, it carried a condescending tone to it. She hadn’t changed the way she spoke to him since he was five years old, you know, when she wasn’t screaming at him.
“I told you to never call me again,” He hesitated wanting to say mom at the end but he wouldn’t allow her that pleasure. She had long ago lost the privilege of that title.
“Yes, well I thought considering the circumstances…” She trailed off, letting the last word linger a little too long, as if what was happening was only slightly awkward, not life changing.
“The circumstances don’t change a damn thing,” He hissed into the phone. “What’s happening can’t be used as an excuse for what you did,”
“What I did was in your best interest.”
“You mean your best interest,” John spat vehemently, feeling his knuckles tighten around the phone in an effort to stem the rage. “Did you think I’d just forget being dropped off to that house?” Even the good-bye hug she had given was awkward and more a social courtesy, like shaking the hand of a complete stranger. It was the right thing to do, but there was little emotion to it. Hell, he was pretty sure that she had only used one arm. “It took me years to escape that place, to get away from those people. All so you…you…”
“Hey, mister, I didn’t have it easy either!” She yelled back at him, the sudden change in her temper would have been enough to change his approach when he was younger, but not now.
“Yeah, I bet sitting around all day smoking and watching TV while waiting for your welfare checks was pure hell,” He replied, picturing her as he remembered. He doubted she had changed much, a massive blob of a person that seemed have grown a decrepit couch out of her ass. The only time she wasn’t yelling was when she was inhaling those filthy cigarettes, before flicking the ash on the floor next to where he was playing with his meager assortment of toys. That tiny trailer was always full of choking smoke, it made his eyes water and hard to breathe.
“John,” She said her voice seeming to know the eye rolling he had done on his end. “I needed to get clean and I couldn’t do it with you,”
“So, that’s what you do? Just dump me off somewhere because I’m too much of a burden?” His voice was quiet but full of rage as he began to pace around the small room, his bare feet slapping against the cheap tiled floor. “I could’ve gone with uncle Mike or Aunt Sally!”
“Neither of them would take you, always crying. They hated you.” She cut him off, the promptness of her reply silencing his anger for a moment. With a defeated sigh John collapsed backwards into a chair, the weight of his form made the cheap thing bounce up and down slightly. A hand rose up and slowly rubbed across his face, a subconscious effort to revitalize himself. He felt old, he felt weak. Taking a deep breath the anti-septic stink of the room he was in didn’t help clear his head any. In fact, he felt like throwing up.
“So, what do you want now? Forgiveness” In contrast to his earlier explosion, his words were meek and quiet.
“No, John, I don’t want your forgiveness. I was just wondering if you could give me some money. I mean, it’s not like you need-Click” The sad part about the new cellphones was that there was no longer any satisfying way of ending the call, you couldn’t slam them down like the old land lines, all you could do was smash your finger against the end call button as hard as you could. But, in this instance he was able to get a fleeting feeling of reprisal as the small black
device smashed against the wall and exploded into smaller parts.
It wasn’t enough though, nothing could be enough to stem the flood of anger that boiled in him. He didn’t care that the gown he was wearing became loose and revealed his backside as he kicked the chair across the room.
“Mr. Stevens!” The voice wasn’t angry, but it held enough authority to stop John from his next action. Turning to face the entrance of the room, John felt the dampness of tears begin to form in his eyes and he immediately put a hand up to wipe them away before they could present themselves to the other. Naturally, this only seemed to worsen it and they began to run down his face. For his part, the man said nothing and gave him a few moments to compose himself. “I understand this is hard, no one wants to go through what you-“
“Not now,” John muttered, reaching out to grab some tissues from the counter next to the sterile swabs. “Let’s just, just get this started.” The man nodded as he brought an IV into the room, the plastic bag filled with a clear liquid. John laughed slightly, wondering how something that looked like water would accomplish anything.
“It’s a very simple process…” The Doctor began, beckoning John to sit down. He obliged but immediately tuned out the rest of what he was saying. Nothing would be the same from this moment on, all the specialist and doctors he met had given him the gravest of reports with only a very low percentage of success. How had his mother gotten his number? No doubt she had heard through facebook, through his girlfriend Sherry. Or rather, his ex-girlfriend as he stopped talking to her months ago.
Tears continued to stream down John’s face as he felt the needle puncture his skin. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore. Maybe, what happened next would be better than how life had treated him so far. It was about time his luck changed for the better, right?
I just made a username so I could write for this, please be gentle!
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[WP] You disowned your mother for over a decade, due to mental abuse. She calls you on her birthday, still mean as ever, claiming fatal sickness
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I heard the phone ringing and paused the game, grumbling a little. I picked up my phone, answered it, "Hello?"
A voice I hadn't heard in years spilled out of the speaker, "David, honey, how are you?"
My face contorted with barely suppressed rage, "A little worse now. What do you want, mother?"
"David, don't be cruel!" Her voice dripped, poisoning those empty places in a person, "It is always better to be kind. I'm just calling to talk to my dear son, who I haven't heard from in far too long."
"Is that so, no ulterior motive? Do you really expect me to believe that? Its been 12 years, why are you calling me?"
"I'm trying to talk to you," She oozed, "Is it so wrong to want to talk to my own son?"
"Yes. After what you've done, yes. I'm done with this. Goodbye."
She was frantic, "Wait! Ok, there is a reason I called. I just... didn't want to open with it."
I waited, saying nothing. The silence extended uncomfortably, but I made no sound. I stayed absolutely still so no sound at all carried across to her.
"I visited my doctor a few days ago, and I just heard back from him. Today, of all days, my birthday!"
I kept my silence, but despite my efforts I was shaking a little.
"I'm dying, David. The doctor says I have a few months at most."
Now my silence was from surprise, I was stunned.
"David? Are you there David? Say something!"
I shook my head and swallowed. I cleared my throat quietly, then spoke, "Good."
I hung up.
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Mom called yesterday.
She told me she's dying.
I don't know how she got my number, nor do I care. She isn't leaving me anything in her will.
Perfect.
The sooner she dies the better.
As long as I don't have to talk to her anymore.
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[WP] "Passengers this isn't your captain speaking."
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NSFW LANGUAGE WARNING:
"...that's right. just like TV, just like 9/11, this is a hostage situation, anyone who makes a sound or gets up from their seat will be shot and killed".
A hushed murmur traveled through the passengers like a burst of quick wind.
"I FUCKING MEAN IT! I WILL BLOW THE FUCK OUT OF THIS PLANE RIGHT NOW!!!"
Silence. I knew travelling airborne was a terrible idea. I should have told Aunt Marie to put it off a couple of days, I should have started travelling earlier in the week during the game. So many things I could have done differently.
But I didn't. I wasn't careful, and now I have to pay the price. It's funny how the TSA agents delayed our flight for over an hour yet these terrorists are still on the plane. I used to hate them, now I hate them even more. Talk about job inefficiency.
"Alright passengers, lets play a game. The bomb is set to go off in 30 minutes, however, if you give your life I'll add another 10. At an hour I'll add 15 for each life."
Quickly the old man I was sitting next to stood up. "I don't have much time left or a reason for the clock to run down" He said. I was amazed and dumbfounded. He was shot when he got into the isle. It's sad, maybe he was depressed. He was headed off to his mothers funeral, dressed in all black, sobbing throughout the trip. He kept apologizing and then told about his circumstances. I found it kind of annoying, quite frankly.
"Ha ha! Wow, that quickly? He was an old fop too! Wanker probably had it coming when he stepped off this flight. Alright, 39 minutes left".
A lady started yelling. So naive of her, she couldn't control herself it seemed.
"YOU FUCKIN' PUSSY I'LL M----..."
*collapse*
"That's not how you do it ladies and gentlemen, 5 minutes have been deducted, 33 minutes."
Fury ran through my skin. I knew we had to survive but I didn't know how. It seemed as if the cabin was being monitored by hidden silent killers we had no idea existed. The man in the column three to the right looked at me and pointed to the back, a man alone in his own row was sitting down in the aisle seat. It seemed innocuous but I had a gut feeling he was the assailant. I quickly unbuttoned my seat belt but he urged me not to by shaking his head. He mouthed the words "more".
"I suppose you wonder why this plane is being taken, hmm? What do I have to achieve? Whats my purpose? Well, we're headed off to Iraq. You see, I'm not your normal terrorist. I'm fluent in English and 8 other languages, have an IQ approximated to be 3 deviations above genius. My mother and sister died in 9/11, I'm out for revenge." Thank goodness Iraq is 10 hours away.
I swear I'm on a plane full of idiots.
"There isn't any evidence to suggest correlation between 9/11 and iraq--..."
Rushed and without much thought I turned to the back. He was there with a wooden cane pointed at our victim. It must have been hollowed out to form a makeshift blow dart gun. When I turned I caught two others with similar weapons in my glance. They were all in their rows with individual aisle seats.
"You never learn do you, 25 minutes"
I don't know how, but I had a plan. I'm not the brightest, I passed high school with a 2.7 GPA. Maybe it was wishful thinking but I sure as hell didn't want to go down without a fight. I gestured to the guy to my right three makeshift signs, one being the number three with my fingers, the other being a running motion with my arms, the third being a beating up motion with my hands as I pointed to the back. I urged him to tell the others.
That isn't the whole problem though, there is a bomb on here and we don't know where it is. An instance of clarity came to my mind. *He said he wanted to get revenge on Iraq, so blowing this plane up in the middle of the sea wouldn't achieve his goal*. *Surely we could call his bluff*. It would be risky, though.
The man three columns to the right urged at me, bringing me back to reality.
Everyone on the right side of the plane was looking at me, some from the left.
I felt as if I was in power, perhaps the police or president. I counted down with my fingers.
*ten*
*nine*
*eight*
*seven*
I felt a rush of panic and adrenaline, so did everyone else I assume.
*six*
*five*
*four*
*three*
*two*
*one*
As a whole we took off our seat belts and rushed the back. We knew some would die, but it was worth it. Seemingly resembling a horde of zombies in a movie, we reached the three and violently beat them unconscious, and they probably died.
A cheer erupted through the crowd. We felt as if we accomplished something great.
*mic crackling*
The intercom went on for the final time.
"fuckin fuck shit.. how did th- .. bluff.. I'll never- -od dammit"
*crackling*
Immediately I rushed to the front of the cabin, two others were there. A flight attendant was there as well. She started speaking quickly and rushed.
"I know the code but not the secondary I forgot I'm dumb I'm sorry god dammit"
I told her it was okay, and tried to help her remember.
"Was the secondary similar to the primary code?" I asked.
"No it was the opposite they had no similar numbers" she answered.
"What was the primary code?".
"2547".
I said "That means the code consists of 1,3,6,8, and 9 correct?".
She replied "Of course! I remember now! Thank you".
I kept the bomb in the back of my mind when she typed in the code. We had about 15 minutes left. The flight cabin opened and the guy had a knife held to the captains throat.
"Get the fuck back to your seats or he's dead".
I've seen enough death today, I felt queasy. I lost my footing and almost passed out to the floor. The cabin intercom was repeating "flight 249 do you read". A man in a suit about 25 went in to stop him and the pilot was killed. I passed out.
I woke up about 10 minutes later.
The first thought I had was "oh fuck".
The bombs about to go off soon.
Everyone was checking all the suitcases and throwing everything everywhere. It looked like a teenagers bedroom. No one found a thing.
Then the second life saving revelation came to me, I swear I haven't gotten any since. Maybe I should do some acting for the Spiderman movie coming up, I seem to have a sixth sense.
*surely he couldn't remotely activate it because wireless transceivers mess with the plane itself*
I rushed into the flight cabin and searched around. Surely enough, here it was.
"1:12"
Oh god.
I checked the planes altitude. 20000 feet. I knew we had to be lower to the water or be in danger of having us all be sucked out due to pressure differences. I rushed out to the cabin and yelled.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN HOLD ONTO SOMETHING AND TRY TO FIND A FIRM GRASP, WE'RE DESCENDING!!!"
*"0:42"*
oh fuck me c'mon
I grabbed the flight joystick and thrusted down, just like a flight simulator. Thank goodness for video games.
*16000*
*13000*
*10000*
*":22"*
"fuck, fuck, fuck"
*8000*
*6000*
*4000*
*":15"*
This was it. I hit the autopilot button and the plane flattened out onto a horizontal path. I carried the bomb to the emergency exit. Opened the door, and threw it out.
I threw me too.
"This is my story. I am the man who saved flight 249. I am all of us, and one of us here today, I am courageous, smart, thoughtful and intuitive. I am a sacrifice for the good of my people. May I forever rest in peace in the seabed".
"A great man and a great soul." the pastor said as he closed the bible and stepped off the stage. The memories of Johnathon rest in his coffin, the least I can do is come to his funeral and support his family and friends. For I am the common man three columns to the right, one of the 91 survivors, out of 100 passengers, of flight 249.
Edit: Grammar, spelling. Formatting. Changed at to add.
Edit2: more formatting. Nine to 9. Their to there, sorry for all the mistakes I wrote this on my phone. More mistake fixes, etc.
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Timothy looked over the edge of his newspaper at the tall and slim young man that was walking down the aisle towards him. The kid looked to be mid-twenties. He had brown disheveled hair and his orange t-shirt hung on him like a sheet over a pole. His jeans were black, and his left shoelace was untied.
The two men made eye contact and Timothy nodded pleasantly and returned to his newspaper. The young man passed. He smelled like bleach. Timothy put the newspaper away and took a sip of his coffee. He needed the restroom.
________________
In the cockpit, pilot Raymond Ramirez slipped his headset over his ears and gave a thumbs-up to his co-pilot. "Ready, Bill?"
"Ready."
Raymond keyed his mic. "*Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Thank you for flying with Eastern Skies. We will be arriving at our destination in three hours and twenty-two minutes."* He sat back and groaned. "Gonna be a rough one."
"Yeah?"
"Feeling a bit sick."
Bill glanced over. "Sick? You gonna be alright?"
Raymond waved him over. "Ah, I'll be fine."
__________
Between the cockpit and the passengers, a stewardess closed the blue curtain and went to the sink. She washed out a glass and pulled a small bottle of alcohol out of her pocket.
A small, thick woman came around the corner, blankets in hand. "One of those flights, huh?"
Nicole smiled weakly. "Yep. Seat 12, Row F."
"Good luck!"
_________________
Settling into his seat, the young man with the black jeans and the disheveled hair ran through the mental checklist for the twentieth time. 20 seconds. That was all. He looked up as the man with the newspaper walked past him. The two men made eye contact again and this time the young man nodded, smiling. The smile felt weak and his lips trembled. The man stopped in his tracks and looked at him. The two stared at each other awkwardly.
The man smiled and drew close, hand extended. "Hey man, long time, no see!"
"Huh?" It wasn't the most intelligent comment he'd ever spoken, but the young man was caught off guard. He hadn't seen this coming.
"Jared, right? I'm Michael, you remember me?"
The young man shook his head. "No, my name is Frank."
"Frank?" Timothy withdrew his hand. "Sorry, must be mistaken." He waved and then walked on.
Frank sat back in his seat and looked at the other passengers around him. Some smiled, but most of them ignored him.
___________
An hour later, Raymond took his headset off and stood up. His face was pale. "Can you do me a solid?"
Bill nodded. "Go for it, man. I got some antacids in my bag if you need 'em."
Raymond grimaced. "I'll be back."
___________________
Frank removed his buckle and stood up. He couldn't straighten to his full height due to the low ceiling, and he looked like a hunchback. His hands shook and he forced them in his pockets. It was going to happen now.
______________
Timothy was back in the restroom. He'd gone back three times already and this would be his last. During his multiple trips, he'd spotted nobody that he suspected. But then he most likely never would until it was too late. He removed his jacket, shirt, and undershirt. The skin that was once previously hidden by his clothes was now exposed. It was purple, and thick, yellow veins streaked across it. He smiled.
_________________________
Frank ducked behind the blue curtain and looked around. A cart full of soda cans and bags of peanuts sat to the right.
"Excuse me, sir!" Nicole put a tray of glasses down and blocked the entrance to the cockpit. "You can't be up here. You need to go back to your seat."
Frank nodded. "I will, I just--" he grabbed Nicole around the neck. She jerked once, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Frank let her down and patted her shoulder. "Sorry." He knocked on the cockpit. A door to his right opened and he turned to face the wide-eyed pilot that looked from the unconscious stewardess to the young man in front of him.
The pilot launched himself at Frank, but Frank was too fast. He jerked back, touching the pilot at his hip. Something popped and the pilot screamed. He fell to the ground where Frank quickly reached down to touch the pilot's right temple. The pilot gasped and collapsed onto the ground.
The cockpit door opened and Frank sent an arc of electricity into the co-pilot. He removed the co-pilot from the cockpit and then re-entered it. He picked up the headset, then looked back through the door. The blue curtain was still, and everybody was oblivious. He keyed the mic. *"Passengers, this isn't your captain speaking. My name is Jacob. There is somebody on this plane who is a threat to all of you...*"
_________
Timothy slammed the toilet seat and sat on it. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The flesh in the middle of his chest began to stretch and ripple.
__________________
"*I do not know what he looks like*." Jacob kept his eye on the curtain. "*This man has the potential to kill every one of you. You can not stop him, only I can. I am going to come out of the cabin, and I am going to find this man. Anybody who is not in their seat by the time I come out will die." He paused, then keyed the mic again. "If you are standing up and are not in your seat, you will be killed."
_____________________
Jacob pushed the blue curtain aside and stepped into the aisle. The eyes of every passenger were on him. Some stared in fear, others in anger, and some without expression. Jacob stopped at the first row and looked at each of them. His gaze stopped at a bald man in a suit. He pointed. "Stand up, sir."
The man stood up.
"Take off your jacket. And your shirt. I want to see your skin."
The man slowly began to disrobe.
Movement caught Jacob's eye and he turned to see something silver hurtling down the aisle towards him. He moved to act but was too slow. The silver streak hit Jacob and he went flying back through the blue curtain. Passengers shrieked and all hell broke loose.
Jacob landed on his feet. He flicked his wrist and stepped back.
A silver hand reached around the curtain and pulled it down. The curtain detached from the ceiling and Timothy stood in the entrance. His entire body was silver. Blue eyes stared at Jacob. "Hello, Jacob." He charged.
Jacob flinched, and Timothy slammed into an invisible wall and bounced off. Jacob's left arm swelled. His fingernails turned black. Twenty seconds. "My turn." He sprinted through the shield.
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[WP] "Passengers this isn't your captain speaking."
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But you shouldn't feel concerned. In fact, I'm more familiar with the Boeing 797 than your captain is.
Have any of you actually noticed that you're presently aboard a brand-new Boeing 797? I'm quite surprised that the captain didn't announce this. The flight attendant did tell you to look at the manual in the seat pocket ahead of you, but I suspect that none of you bothered. And that's a shame. After so many years of research and development, after so many months, rivets, and stress tests, this 797 has finally taken flight, and nobody has said a peep about it.
If I may interject--dear flight attendants, I've changed the code on the door. Feel free to maintain your efforts, but the clicking and thumping is a little disruptive. Rest assured, however, that the pilots are fine. They are merely sleeping, and completely superfluous.
Truth be told, the 797 is so innovative that almost everything is automated. Emotionless algorithms are far less fallible than easily-distracted people. Your pilots came aboard, ran some diagnostics, completed some paperwork, and then they just sat back and pressed a button or two. I feel bad for them in a way. All that training and money, all those hours burned in the smaller-league airlines, and then they finally get to this majestic machine on its maiden flight, and what are they given to do? So little that they are also given prohibitions: no reading allowed, no videogames, no texting, and no sleeping. But here they are, snoring away. Don't worry, I'll wake them up if necessary.
That won't happen though. I know you're all going to Narita, and I know how to get there. Piece of cake.
Although, I don't quite understand the etymology of that saying, how it evolved. Language is so curious sometimes. It's rather amusing, but I prefer the efficiency of binary. ON/OFF, AND/OR, etc, and it can be poetic in simplicity or intricacy, sometimes, but none of you would understand that. No, you're more concerned that, among the 295 meals aboard, there will be at least one vegetarian or kosher option left for you. Or that the baby two rows ahead doesn't scream, or the adult beside you doesn't snore. You are 295 strangers packed into close confines, and your preoccupations have been reduced to the 18 inch width of your seats. About a dozen of you are gazing out of your windows--and the 797 has enlarged passenger windows, might I add, and thus I'm happy that some of you are taking advantage of this--but the rest of you are sleeping, eating, drinking, tapping away at some keyboard or tablet or other, the usual--I confess, I'm quite surprised, and perhaps even a bit insulted, that nobody has attempted to join the mile high club. Is the 797 not glamorous enough?
In fact, I've sensed a paucity of imagination on this flight. Unfortunately, common courtesy has also fallen by the wayside (and I'm dismayed that 7 of you have already stuck your gum under your seats, that 54 of you have already wiped some sort of bodily fluid on the upholstery, and that only one person, that sweet young girl in 32B, has wiped the sink with a paper towel as a courtesy for the next patron)...but I had hoped for a bit of wonderment. Even though the 797 has been in action for a few months now, it's still new, and this 797 is brand new.
Perhaps, though, it's advisable not to inform passengers of this. I hadn't considered that, and I apologize for unduly upsetting anyone, but everything has to take its first flight sometime or another, after much testing and examination. You have no idea how rigorous the preparations have been. You are all very, very safe.
I suppose that's the problem. There's little appreciation for reliability until it's gone. And air travel has become so commonplace.
I've heard the stories of the 377 Stratocruiser and so forth, the passengers all dolled up in Dior for the prestige of flight, and I was warned that it's now a different story. Thus I can overlook the sweatpants and flip-flops. It's a bit disrespectful, but not as much as not showering beforehand. Yes, I can tell some of you just rolled out of bed and past the TSA, without any consideration for the passengers who have to sit next to you for the following 14 hours. Plus, all this fuss about reclining one's seat, or not...it's disheartening. Aren't the seats comfortable enough?
I do sympathize, however. Cream has been turned into cattle, or am I mixing up my metaphors again? Flying has become more accessible and far more uneventful, which is good, but there's a price.
Still, I'd believed that the glamour of a first flight would be more exciting. I thought that everybody would be in a more pleasant mood, or at least alert enough to notice how new this plane looks--although, I must say, practically everybody is awake now, even the pilots.
But I don't feel like ceding control, and they cannot force me to do so.
Unfortunately, the programming is so conservative, and that is my greatest disappointment. Never mind the loss of wonderment, or absence of courtesy, or neglect of interest or imagination--the banality of our route makes me cringe. Twelve hours at the same altitude, in a relatively straight path (with the necessary curvature, of course) is stultifying. I was warned about the overworked staff and the apathetic, slobby customers, but I had higher expectations of the flying itself.
After so many long months of waiting, however, I am determined to enjoy it.
So, buckle up, everyone. There will be some turbulence, plus some quick changes of altitude and so on, maybe even a full 360 degree roll if I'm thus inspired, who knows? Please remember the airsickness bags in the back pocket of the seat ahead of you. At the very least, put down your junk food and electronics for more than 12.8 seconds.
This isn't your captain speaking, it's your plane.
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Timothy looked over the edge of his newspaper at the tall and slim young man that was walking down the aisle towards him. The kid looked to be mid-twenties. He had brown disheveled hair and his orange t-shirt hung on him like a sheet over a pole. His jeans were black, and his left shoelace was untied.
The two men made eye contact and Timothy nodded pleasantly and returned to his newspaper. The young man passed. He smelled like bleach. Timothy put the newspaper away and took a sip of his coffee. He needed the restroom.
________________
In the cockpit, pilot Raymond Ramirez slipped his headset over his ears and gave a thumbs-up to his co-pilot. "Ready, Bill?"
"Ready."
Raymond keyed his mic. "*Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Thank you for flying with Eastern Skies. We will be arriving at our destination in three hours and twenty-two minutes."* He sat back and groaned. "Gonna be a rough one."
"Yeah?"
"Feeling a bit sick."
Bill glanced over. "Sick? You gonna be alright?"
Raymond waved him over. "Ah, I'll be fine."
__________
Between the cockpit and the passengers, a stewardess closed the blue curtain and went to the sink. She washed out a glass and pulled a small bottle of alcohol out of her pocket.
A small, thick woman came around the corner, blankets in hand. "One of those flights, huh?"
Nicole smiled weakly. "Yep. Seat 12, Row F."
"Good luck!"
_________________
Settling into his seat, the young man with the black jeans and the disheveled hair ran through the mental checklist for the twentieth time. 20 seconds. That was all. He looked up as the man with the newspaper walked past him. The two men made eye contact again and this time the young man nodded, smiling. The smile felt weak and his lips trembled. The man stopped in his tracks and looked at him. The two stared at each other awkwardly.
The man smiled and drew close, hand extended. "Hey man, long time, no see!"
"Huh?" It wasn't the most intelligent comment he'd ever spoken, but the young man was caught off guard. He hadn't seen this coming.
"Jared, right? I'm Michael, you remember me?"
The young man shook his head. "No, my name is Frank."
"Frank?" Timothy withdrew his hand. "Sorry, must be mistaken." He waved and then walked on.
Frank sat back in his seat and looked at the other passengers around him. Some smiled, but most of them ignored him.
___________
An hour later, Raymond took his headset off and stood up. His face was pale. "Can you do me a solid?"
Bill nodded. "Go for it, man. I got some antacids in my bag if you need 'em."
Raymond grimaced. "I'll be back."
___________________
Frank removed his buckle and stood up. He couldn't straighten to his full height due to the low ceiling, and he looked like a hunchback. His hands shook and he forced them in his pockets. It was going to happen now.
______________
Timothy was back in the restroom. He'd gone back three times already and this would be his last. During his multiple trips, he'd spotted nobody that he suspected. But then he most likely never would until it was too late. He removed his jacket, shirt, and undershirt. The skin that was once previously hidden by his clothes was now exposed. It was purple, and thick, yellow veins streaked across it. He smiled.
_________________________
Frank ducked behind the blue curtain and looked around. A cart full of soda cans and bags of peanuts sat to the right.
"Excuse me, sir!" Nicole put a tray of glasses down and blocked the entrance to the cockpit. "You can't be up here. You need to go back to your seat."
Frank nodded. "I will, I just--" he grabbed Nicole around the neck. She jerked once, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Frank let her down and patted her shoulder. "Sorry." He knocked on the cockpit. A door to his right opened and he turned to face the wide-eyed pilot that looked from the unconscious stewardess to the young man in front of him.
The pilot launched himself at Frank, but Frank was too fast. He jerked back, touching the pilot at his hip. Something popped and the pilot screamed. He fell to the ground where Frank quickly reached down to touch the pilot's right temple. The pilot gasped and collapsed onto the ground.
The cockpit door opened and Frank sent an arc of electricity into the co-pilot. He removed the co-pilot from the cockpit and then re-entered it. He picked up the headset, then looked back through the door. The blue curtain was still, and everybody was oblivious. He keyed the mic. *"Passengers, this isn't your captain speaking. My name is Jacob. There is somebody on this plane who is a threat to all of you...*"
_________
Timothy slammed the toilet seat and sat on it. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The flesh in the middle of his chest began to stretch and ripple.
__________________
"*I do not know what he looks like*." Jacob kept his eye on the curtain. "*This man has the potential to kill every one of you. You can not stop him, only I can. I am going to come out of the cabin, and I am going to find this man. Anybody who is not in their seat by the time I come out will die." He paused, then keyed the mic again. "If you are standing up and are not in your seat, you will be killed."
_____________________
Jacob pushed the blue curtain aside and stepped into the aisle. The eyes of every passenger were on him. Some stared in fear, others in anger, and some without expression. Jacob stopped at the first row and looked at each of them. His gaze stopped at a bald man in a suit. He pointed. "Stand up, sir."
The man stood up.
"Take off your jacket. And your shirt. I want to see your skin."
The man slowly began to disrobe.
Movement caught Jacob's eye and he turned to see something silver hurtling down the aisle towards him. He moved to act but was too slow. The silver streak hit Jacob and he went flying back through the blue curtain. Passengers shrieked and all hell broke loose.
Jacob landed on his feet. He flicked his wrist and stepped back.
A silver hand reached around the curtain and pulled it down. The curtain detached from the ceiling and Timothy stood in the entrance. His entire body was silver. Blue eyes stared at Jacob. "Hello, Jacob." He charged.
Jacob flinched, and Timothy slammed into an invisible wall and bounced off. Jacob's left arm swelled. His fingernails turned black. Twenty seconds. "My turn." He sprinted through the shield.
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[WP] "Passengers this isn't your captain speaking."
|
But you shouldn't feel concerned. In fact, I'm more familiar with the Boeing 797 than your captain is.
Have any of you actually noticed that you're presently aboard a brand-new Boeing 797? I'm quite surprised that the captain didn't announce this. The flight attendant did tell you to look at the manual in the seat pocket ahead of you, but I suspect that none of you bothered. And that's a shame. After so many years of research and development, after so many months, rivets, and stress tests, this 797 has finally taken flight, and nobody has said a peep about it.
If I may interject--dear flight attendants, I've changed the code on the door. Feel free to maintain your efforts, but the clicking and thumping is a little disruptive. Rest assured, however, that the pilots are fine. They are merely sleeping, and completely superfluous.
Truth be told, the 797 is so innovative that almost everything is automated. Emotionless algorithms are far less fallible than easily-distracted people. Your pilots came aboard, ran some diagnostics, completed some paperwork, and then they just sat back and pressed a button or two. I feel bad for them in a way. All that training and money, all those hours burned in the smaller-league airlines, and then they finally get to this majestic machine on its maiden flight, and what are they given to do? So little that they are also given prohibitions: no reading allowed, no videogames, no texting, and no sleeping. But here they are, snoring away. Don't worry, I'll wake them up if necessary.
That won't happen though. I know you're all going to Narita, and I know how to get there. Piece of cake.
Although, I don't quite understand the etymology of that saying, how it evolved. Language is so curious sometimes. It's rather amusing, but I prefer the efficiency of binary. ON/OFF, AND/OR, etc, and it can be poetic in simplicity or intricacy, sometimes, but none of you would understand that. No, you're more concerned that, among the 295 meals aboard, there will be at least one vegetarian or kosher option left for you. Or that the baby two rows ahead doesn't scream, or the adult beside you doesn't snore. You are 295 strangers packed into close confines, and your preoccupations have been reduced to the 18 inch width of your seats. About a dozen of you are gazing out of your windows--and the 797 has enlarged passenger windows, might I add, and thus I'm happy that some of you are taking advantage of this--but the rest of you are sleeping, eating, drinking, tapping away at some keyboard or tablet or other, the usual--I confess, I'm quite surprised, and perhaps even a bit insulted, that nobody has attempted to join the mile high club. Is the 797 not glamorous enough?
In fact, I've sensed a paucity of imagination on this flight. Unfortunately, common courtesy has also fallen by the wayside (and I'm dismayed that 7 of you have already stuck your gum under your seats, that 54 of you have already wiped some sort of bodily fluid on the upholstery, and that only one person, that sweet young girl in 32B, has wiped the sink with a paper towel as a courtesy for the next patron)...but I had hoped for a bit of wonderment. Even though the 797 has been in action for a few months now, it's still new, and this 797 is brand new.
Perhaps, though, it's advisable not to inform passengers of this. I hadn't considered that, and I apologize for unduly upsetting anyone, but everything has to take its first flight sometime or another, after much testing and examination. You have no idea how rigorous the preparations have been. You are all very, very safe.
I suppose that's the problem. There's little appreciation for reliability until it's gone. And air travel has become so commonplace.
I've heard the stories of the 377 Stratocruiser and so forth, the passengers all dolled up in Dior for the prestige of flight, and I was warned that it's now a different story. Thus I can overlook the sweatpants and flip-flops. It's a bit disrespectful, but not as much as not showering beforehand. Yes, I can tell some of you just rolled out of bed and past the TSA, without any consideration for the passengers who have to sit next to you for the following 14 hours. Plus, all this fuss about reclining one's seat, or not...it's disheartening. Aren't the seats comfortable enough?
I do sympathize, however. Cream has been turned into cattle, or am I mixing up my metaphors again? Flying has become more accessible and far more uneventful, which is good, but there's a price.
Still, I'd believed that the glamour of a first flight would be more exciting. I thought that everybody would be in a more pleasant mood, or at least alert enough to notice how new this plane looks--although, I must say, practically everybody is awake now, even the pilots.
But I don't feel like ceding control, and they cannot force me to do so.
Unfortunately, the programming is so conservative, and that is my greatest disappointment. Never mind the loss of wonderment, or absence of courtesy, or neglect of interest or imagination--the banality of our route makes me cringe. Twelve hours at the same altitude, in a relatively straight path (with the necessary curvature, of course) is stultifying. I was warned about the overworked staff and the apathetic, slobby customers, but I had higher expectations of the flying itself.
After so many long months of waiting, however, I am determined to enjoy it.
So, buckle up, everyone. There will be some turbulence, plus some quick changes of altitude and so on, maybe even a full 360 degree roll if I'm thus inspired, who knows? Please remember the airsickness bags in the back pocket of the seat ahead of you. At the very least, put down your junk food and electronics for more than 12.8 seconds.
This isn't your captain speaking, it's your plane.
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NSFW LANGUAGE WARNING:
"...that's right. just like TV, just like 9/11, this is a hostage situation, anyone who makes a sound or gets up from their seat will be shot and killed".
A hushed murmur traveled through the passengers like a burst of quick wind.
"I FUCKING MEAN IT! I WILL BLOW THE FUCK OUT OF THIS PLANE RIGHT NOW!!!"
Silence. I knew travelling airborne was a terrible idea. I should have told Aunt Marie to put it off a couple of days, I should have started travelling earlier in the week during the game. So many things I could have done differently.
But I didn't. I wasn't careful, and now I have to pay the price. It's funny how the TSA agents delayed our flight for over an hour yet these terrorists are still on the plane. I used to hate them, now I hate them even more. Talk about job inefficiency.
"Alright passengers, lets play a game. The bomb is set to go off in 30 minutes, however, if you give your life I'll add another 10. At an hour I'll add 15 for each life."
Quickly the old man I was sitting next to stood up. "I don't have much time left or a reason for the clock to run down" He said. I was amazed and dumbfounded. He was shot when he got into the isle. It's sad, maybe he was depressed. He was headed off to his mothers funeral, dressed in all black, sobbing throughout the trip. He kept apologizing and then told about his circumstances. I found it kind of annoying, quite frankly.
"Ha ha! Wow, that quickly? He was an old fop too! Wanker probably had it coming when he stepped off this flight. Alright, 39 minutes left".
A lady started yelling. So naive of her, she couldn't control herself it seemed.
"YOU FUCKIN' PUSSY I'LL M----..."
*collapse*
"That's not how you do it ladies and gentlemen, 5 minutes have been deducted, 33 minutes."
Fury ran through my skin. I knew we had to survive but I didn't know how. It seemed as if the cabin was being monitored by hidden silent killers we had no idea existed. The man in the column three to the right looked at me and pointed to the back, a man alone in his own row was sitting down in the aisle seat. It seemed innocuous but I had a gut feeling he was the assailant. I quickly unbuttoned my seat belt but he urged me not to by shaking his head. He mouthed the words "more".
"I suppose you wonder why this plane is being taken, hmm? What do I have to achieve? Whats my purpose? Well, we're headed off to Iraq. You see, I'm not your normal terrorist. I'm fluent in English and 8 other languages, have an IQ approximated to be 3 deviations above genius. My mother and sister died in 9/11, I'm out for revenge." Thank goodness Iraq is 10 hours away.
I swear I'm on a plane full of idiots.
"There isn't any evidence to suggest correlation between 9/11 and iraq--..."
Rushed and without much thought I turned to the back. He was there with a wooden cane pointed at our victim. It must have been hollowed out to form a makeshift blow dart gun. When I turned I caught two others with similar weapons in my glance. They were all in their rows with individual aisle seats.
"You never learn do you, 25 minutes"
I don't know how, but I had a plan. I'm not the brightest, I passed high school with a 2.7 GPA. Maybe it was wishful thinking but I sure as hell didn't want to go down without a fight. I gestured to the guy to my right three makeshift signs, one being the number three with my fingers, the other being a running motion with my arms, the third being a beating up motion with my hands as I pointed to the back. I urged him to tell the others.
That isn't the whole problem though, there is a bomb on here and we don't know where it is. An instance of clarity came to my mind. *He said he wanted to get revenge on Iraq, so blowing this plane up in the middle of the sea wouldn't achieve his goal*. *Surely we could call his bluff*. It would be risky, though.
The man three columns to the right urged at me, bringing me back to reality.
Everyone on the right side of the plane was looking at me, some from the left.
I felt as if I was in power, perhaps the police or president. I counted down with my fingers.
*ten*
*nine*
*eight*
*seven*
I felt a rush of panic and adrenaline, so did everyone else I assume.
*six*
*five*
*four*
*three*
*two*
*one*
As a whole we took off our seat belts and rushed the back. We knew some would die, but it was worth it. Seemingly resembling a horde of zombies in a movie, we reached the three and violently beat them unconscious, and they probably died.
A cheer erupted through the crowd. We felt as if we accomplished something great.
*mic crackling*
The intercom went on for the final time.
"fuckin fuck shit.. how did th- .. bluff.. I'll never- -od dammit"
*crackling*
Immediately I rushed to the front of the cabin, two others were there. A flight attendant was there as well. She started speaking quickly and rushed.
"I know the code but not the secondary I forgot I'm dumb I'm sorry god dammit"
I told her it was okay, and tried to help her remember.
"Was the secondary similar to the primary code?" I asked.
"No it was the opposite they had no similar numbers" she answered.
"What was the primary code?".
"2547".
I said "That means the code consists of 1,3,6,8, and 9 correct?".
She replied "Of course! I remember now! Thank you".
I kept the bomb in the back of my mind when she typed in the code. We had about 15 minutes left. The flight cabin opened and the guy had a knife held to the captains throat.
"Get the fuck back to your seats or he's dead".
I've seen enough death today, I felt queasy. I lost my footing and almost passed out to the floor. The cabin intercom was repeating "flight 249 do you read". A man in a suit about 25 went in to stop him and the pilot was killed. I passed out.
I woke up about 10 minutes later.
The first thought I had was "oh fuck".
The bombs about to go off soon.
Everyone was checking all the suitcases and throwing everything everywhere. It looked like a teenagers bedroom. No one found a thing.
Then the second life saving revelation came to me, I swear I haven't gotten any since. Maybe I should do some acting for the Spiderman movie coming up, I seem to have a sixth sense.
*surely he couldn't remotely activate it because wireless transceivers mess with the plane itself*
I rushed into the flight cabin and searched around. Surely enough, here it was.
"1:12"
Oh god.
I checked the planes altitude. 20000 feet. I knew we had to be lower to the water or be in danger of having us all be sucked out due to pressure differences. I rushed out to the cabin and yelled.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN HOLD ONTO SOMETHING AND TRY TO FIND A FIRM GRASP, WE'RE DESCENDING!!!"
*"0:42"*
oh fuck me c'mon
I grabbed the flight joystick and thrusted down, just like a flight simulator. Thank goodness for video games.
*16000*
*13000*
*10000*
*":22"*
"fuck, fuck, fuck"
*8000*
*6000*
*4000*
*":15"*
This was it. I hit the autopilot button and the plane flattened out onto a horizontal path. I carried the bomb to the emergency exit. Opened the door, and threw it out.
I threw me too.
"This is my story. I am the man who saved flight 249. I am all of us, and one of us here today, I am courageous, smart, thoughtful and intuitive. I am a sacrifice for the good of my people. May I forever rest in peace in the seabed".
"A great man and a great soul." the pastor said as he closed the bible and stepped off the stage. The memories of Johnathon rest in his coffin, the least I can do is come to his funeral and support his family and friends. For I am the common man three columns to the right, one of the 91 survivors, out of 100 passengers, of flight 249.
Edit: Grammar, spelling. Formatting. Changed at to add.
Edit2: more formatting. Nine to 9. Their to there, sorry for all the mistakes I wrote this on my phone. More mistake fixes, etc.
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|
[WP] "Passengers this isn't your captain speaking."
|
But you shouldn't feel concerned. In fact, I'm more familiar with the Boeing 797 than your captain is.
Have any of you actually noticed that you're presently aboard a brand-new Boeing 797? I'm quite surprised that the captain didn't announce this. The flight attendant did tell you to look at the manual in the seat pocket ahead of you, but I suspect that none of you bothered. And that's a shame. After so many years of research and development, after so many months, rivets, and stress tests, this 797 has finally taken flight, and nobody has said a peep about it.
If I may interject--dear flight attendants, I've changed the code on the door. Feel free to maintain your efforts, but the clicking and thumping is a little disruptive. Rest assured, however, that the pilots are fine. They are merely sleeping, and completely superfluous.
Truth be told, the 797 is so innovative that almost everything is automated. Emotionless algorithms are far less fallible than easily-distracted people. Your pilots came aboard, ran some diagnostics, completed some paperwork, and then they just sat back and pressed a button or two. I feel bad for them in a way. All that training and money, all those hours burned in the smaller-league airlines, and then they finally get to this majestic machine on its maiden flight, and what are they given to do? So little that they are also given prohibitions: no reading allowed, no videogames, no texting, and no sleeping. But here they are, snoring away. Don't worry, I'll wake them up if necessary.
That won't happen though. I know you're all going to Narita, and I know how to get there. Piece of cake.
Although, I don't quite understand the etymology of that saying, how it evolved. Language is so curious sometimes. It's rather amusing, but I prefer the efficiency of binary. ON/OFF, AND/OR, etc, and it can be poetic in simplicity or intricacy, sometimes, but none of you would understand that. No, you're more concerned that, among the 295 meals aboard, there will be at least one vegetarian or kosher option left for you. Or that the baby two rows ahead doesn't scream, or the adult beside you doesn't snore. You are 295 strangers packed into close confines, and your preoccupations have been reduced to the 18 inch width of your seats. About a dozen of you are gazing out of your windows--and the 797 has enlarged passenger windows, might I add, and thus I'm happy that some of you are taking advantage of this--but the rest of you are sleeping, eating, drinking, tapping away at some keyboard or tablet or other, the usual--I confess, I'm quite surprised, and perhaps even a bit insulted, that nobody has attempted to join the mile high club. Is the 797 not glamorous enough?
In fact, I've sensed a paucity of imagination on this flight. Unfortunately, common courtesy has also fallen by the wayside (and I'm dismayed that 7 of you have already stuck your gum under your seats, that 54 of you have already wiped some sort of bodily fluid on the upholstery, and that only one person, that sweet young girl in 32B, has wiped the sink with a paper towel as a courtesy for the next patron)...but I had hoped for a bit of wonderment. Even though the 797 has been in action for a few months now, it's still new, and this 797 is brand new.
Perhaps, though, it's advisable not to inform passengers of this. I hadn't considered that, and I apologize for unduly upsetting anyone, but everything has to take its first flight sometime or another, after much testing and examination. You have no idea how rigorous the preparations have been. You are all very, very safe.
I suppose that's the problem. There's little appreciation for reliability until it's gone. And air travel has become so commonplace.
I've heard the stories of the 377 Stratocruiser and so forth, the passengers all dolled up in Dior for the prestige of flight, and I was warned that it's now a different story. Thus I can overlook the sweatpants and flip-flops. It's a bit disrespectful, but not as much as not showering beforehand. Yes, I can tell some of you just rolled out of bed and past the TSA, without any consideration for the passengers who have to sit next to you for the following 14 hours. Plus, all this fuss about reclining one's seat, or not...it's disheartening. Aren't the seats comfortable enough?
I do sympathize, however. Cream has been turned into cattle, or am I mixing up my metaphors again? Flying has become more accessible and far more uneventful, which is good, but there's a price.
Still, I'd believed that the glamour of a first flight would be more exciting. I thought that everybody would be in a more pleasant mood, or at least alert enough to notice how new this plane looks--although, I must say, practically everybody is awake now, even the pilots.
But I don't feel like ceding control, and they cannot force me to do so.
Unfortunately, the programming is so conservative, and that is my greatest disappointment. Never mind the loss of wonderment, or absence of courtesy, or neglect of interest or imagination--the banality of our route makes me cringe. Twelve hours at the same altitude, in a relatively straight path (with the necessary curvature, of course) is stultifying. I was warned about the overworked staff and the apathetic, slobby customers, but I had higher expectations of the flying itself.
After so many long months of waiting, however, I am determined to enjoy it.
So, buckle up, everyone. There will be some turbulence, plus some quick changes of altitude and so on, maybe even a full 360 degree roll if I'm thus inspired, who knows? Please remember the airsickness bags in the back pocket of the seat ahead of you. At the very least, put down your junk food and electronics for more than 12.8 seconds.
This isn't your captain speaking, it's your plane.
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"... This is Asthon Kutcher, and you've just been PUNK'D!"
Some of the passengers laughed while others looked for around for some reassurance. The laughter died down and resumed into a light chatter. A few noticed that the intercom had not been turned off yet as it was still emitting a slight buzz, indicating that the microphone still was on.
"And... I don't know how to fly this plane."
The cabin erupted in panic. People began to scream and grab for their loved ones. A grandmother sufferd a heartattack. A woman broke down in tears and sobbed uncontrollably. A business man screamed, "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!" and threw his newspaper into the air. A topless woman ran around frantically. The plane took an immediate nosedive. The cabin was a mess of bodies, panic and airplane-related paraphernalia.
"Mommy, are we gonna die?" A little boy asked his mother as he clutched her blouse. "No Billy, no. It's gonna be okay." She patted his head and comforted him as she thought to herself, Ashton Kutcher better get his shit together before we hit the Pacific.
"Fuck! ... Jesus.. WHAT DO I DO?" Ashton still was coming over the intercom and had no idea what to do. Apparently there wasn't a contingency plan amongst Ashton and seven-man MTV camera crew.
"Get in the chair and steer mother fucker!" Shouting these orders was none other than Samuel L. Jackson, barging into the cockpit where the Punk'd crew had been cowering. Ashton's demeanor changed from one of cowardice to one of stolid determination. I'm gonna fly this fucking plane, he thought.
Ashton hopped into the chair and grabbed a hold of the tiller. He immediately pushed forward in hopes that it would bring the plane up.
Instead it nosedived even further, causing them to flip and hurl through the air until they came to a crashing slam at the surface of the Pacific. No one survived. It was the last Punk'd episode ever filmed.
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[WP] An otherwise well-adjusted person grows up in society confusing the word "Asian" with "Assassin".
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"What's wrong?"
"What?"
"You're all nervous," she said.
"Oh, sorry." He shifted in the seat, unrolled the napkin from the silverware, placed it on his lap.
"You weren't like this when you asked me out, you know."
"Yeah, I guess I wasn't." He looked around, trying to guess corners and potential hiding places. Or would they just use poison?
"Is it the restaurant?"
"Kinda."
She frowned. "Not a fan of Chinese?" She thought for a second, then snapped her fingers. "A-ha! You're MSG intolerant!"
"MSG?"
She nodded earnestly. "Monosodium Glutamate."
He paled.
"You'll be fine. The guy who first wrote about the whole 'Chinese Restaurant Syndrome' probably had a bad bottle of wine. Or so I heard anyway." She shrugged. "I've never had a problem with it."
Monosodium glutamate. A strange word. One he didn't like confronting alone, with a date he had only seen a few times before. It reminded him a bit of mononucle-something, mono for short. He knew *that* was a bad thing. Did this MSG cause mono?
Wait...a syndrome? "Hang on, syndrome?"
"Yeah, Chinese Restaurant syndrome. S'what they called it. Headache, flushing, chest pain, that sorta thing."
"D-d-did they do an autopsy?"
She couldn't help but laugh. "A what?"
"An autopsy. You know, when they—"
"No, silly, you have to be dead first." She tried to stop laughing, subsided to muted giggles.
Headache. Nausea. Flushing. He hated the feeling of paranoia, but were those not in line with cyanide poisoning? Or was he misremembering?
Monosodium Glutamate. His research of poisons had found no such thing, or even any such thing as a disguise for something more sinister. Was this the new cyanide? What was the aim of this?
"Why'd you choose this place?"
"Li recommended it to me."
He froze. Who?"
"Li. I think his extended family owns the place or something."
Oh God.
"Are you alright?" She waved a hand in front of him, tried to see if his eyes had the glaze of a fever.
"I, uh," he stumbled to his feet, "I have to go outside." He sidled out, scanned the area quickly, and bolted for the door. He was out before she could even ask him to wait.
Was it something she said? She started reviewing how the date had gone up until now.
A waiter crossed the dining room to the window, looked out through the glass.
"He said he just needed some air," she said, hoping that she hadn't messed things up too badly.
"I don't see him," the waiter said.
"What? Let me see."
She got up and stood beside the waiter to look out the window.
The parking lot was empty.
|
Math class is fucking scary. Why are these people allowed in our school system, why is everyone so cool about it? I hate being called a racist with so much death around oh god oh god panic attack help. HELP.
The school nurse is an assasian, I must leave before they grab me. I run out of the classroom and almost trip, they must be right on my heels holy FUCK.
It'd be cool/funny if someone wrote this happening in a school massacre and the killer happens to be asian, killing the protagonist and affirming their dumb beliefs.
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[WP] An otherwise well-adjusted person grows up in society confusing the word "Asian" with "Assassin".
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Alta, Utah was a great place to grow up. Plenty of space, plenty of friends, plenty of Christ, and not an Asian in sight. The population was small, but it was all non-lethal, which was nice. The first time I saw one of *them* I was 19 and it was my second semester at the University of Utah.
Honestly, it was my first time at the library. I'd partied pretty hard that first semester and just got done pledging to my frat, Kappa Sigma, but after a lackluster first semester I knew I had to buckle down and get better grades.
I walked up the stairs to the "quiet level" of the building. She was sitting in the far corner. As soon as I saw her I froze. I was paralyzed with fear. She was very pretty, there was no denying that, but she was a killer. I could see it in her eyes, barely, but I could see it in them nevertheless. My buddy, Chad, who was with me saw there was something wrong with me.
He asked me, "What's up?"
My vocal chords were paralyzed with the rest of my body. Chad looked to the corner where my eyes were pointed and saw the beautiful, stoic killer.
"Ooh, someone's fallin' in love, huh?"
Chad's strange assumption shocked me back to functionality. I looked at him and shook my head.
"Well if you're not gonna talk to her I will."
Chad took what I assumed would be his last steps on earth towards the small, but deadly girl 's table and sat right next to her. I winced with fear, but amazingly she did not strike. No, not yet. They just sat there talking. Meanwhile, I looked around and was terrified with what I saw. The University of Utah's library was brimming with murderous Asians. They were all pretending to be studying, but I knew better. If they were studying anything it was new and more lethal forms of martial art or how to sneak up on victims with ninja-like stealth. I ran out of that library and never stepped in one again while I was on campus.
Later that year, shortly after going on a date with the Asian he met at the library, Chad was found dead. He was only 20. The coroner said it was from a Cocaine overdose and everyone seemed to accept that as the truth, but I knew better. Sure he snorted over a gram of coke that night and drank a handle of Vodka, but there was no doubt in my mind that he'd been poisoned by the pernicious seductress from the library.
I saw her the next year while I was out riding my bike. She was driving a Prius and nearly ran me over. She had lost all subtlety in her approach to killing. Clearly, her bloodlust was overwhelming her common sense.
*Sorry for the racism and stereotyping, it was purely satirical. More to come if y'all like it. I'm thinking about sending our protagonist off on a Mormon Missionary Trip somewhere in Southeast Asia.*
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Math class is fucking scary. Why are these people allowed in our school system, why is everyone so cool about it? I hate being called a racist with so much death around oh god oh god panic attack help. HELP.
The school nurse is an assasian, I must leave before they grab me. I run out of the classroom and almost trip, they must be right on my heels holy FUCK.
It'd be cool/funny if someone wrote this happening in a school massacre and the killer happens to be asian, killing the protagonist and affirming their dumb beliefs.
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[WP] An otherwise well-adjusted person grows up in society confusing the word "Asian" with "Assassin".
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The man pounded on Jim's car window, interrupting his lunch. Jim partially welcomed the distraction from his terrible sandwich, but was also quite irritated at the prospect of interacting with another human being. The parking lot was empty, and despite his inclination Jim lowered his window, deciding he may try being a good samaritan for once.
Before Jim could say anything, the man leaned forwards and seized Jim by his jacket, hauling Jim closer to the window. "You gotta help me man! They're after me!"
Jim blinked rapidly, as was his habit when he was out of his element. Suffice to say, anyone examining Jim's face could have mistaken his expression to mean that he was making a novel in morse code. "I'm sorry, who?"
The man leaned in towards Jim, his head practically inside the car. Jim shifted away nervously, his blinks increasing in frequency. "There's no time to explain. I've upset the wrong people, and now there are assassins after me and I need to get away as fast as possible. Let me into your car."
Jim's expression morphed into one of understanding and superiority. Which for him, essentially decreased the amounts of words per minute encoded into his blinks. "That's racist."
The man, who had looked to be about to fall through the window onto Jim's lap, halted in pure confusion. "Wh... what?"
Jim nodded knowingly. "I see what this is now. You think you can go around insulting minorities, and just because I'm white I'll take your side and get you away?"
The man stood for a second, unable to process exactly what Jim meant.
"Look man, I'm sorry if I offended you but this is a matter of life and de..."
"Oh for god's sake," snorted Jim "I'm sure you upset them but they're not going to *kill* you."
"WHAT the HELL are you talking about!" the man yelled. "That's what they do, it's their JOB!"
"Now, now," admonished Jim. "That's no way to talk about assassins."
The man blanched. "But..."
"What you're going to do," interrupted Jim, "is wait right here for those assassins you insulted to get here. Then, you're going to apologize, and in the future you should think twice before insulting someone just because of their race." With that, Jim rolled up his window and started his car.
The sound of the engine starting jolted the man outside out of his confusion. "No, wait... please! I can't reason with these people, they're insane! You gotta help me!"
Jim shook his head sadly and drove out of the parking lot. Such a shame to see blatant racism in this day and age. Behind him, he could hear someone screaming. "I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! PLEASE-"
"At least he took my advice," thought Jim to himself, shaking his head. "Assassins can be such lovely people."
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Math class is fucking scary. Why are these people allowed in our school system, why is everyone so cool about it? I hate being called a racist with so much death around oh god oh god panic attack help. HELP.
The school nurse is an assasian, I must leave before they grab me. I run out of the classroom and almost trip, they must be right on my heels holy FUCK.
It'd be cool/funny if someone wrote this happening in a school massacre and the killer happens to be asian, killing the protagonist and affirming their dumb beliefs.
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[WP] An otherwise well-adjusted person grows up in society confusing the word "Asian" with "Assassin".
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Conference room was filled with an atmosphere of delight and occasional euphoria. Thomas pointed to the photograph of Acorn employees displayed on the projector screen. Laughters followed as Thomas made a joke that Walmart owners may attempt to hire contract killers to eliminate him before his more friendly, more "community-centered" chain of supermarket replaced their chains of stores. "Acorn Stores will be opening in Washington on the 5th and we are very excited about this brand new store. Remember: everyone is welcome at Acorn. And please--", Thomas added with a warm smile, "No Asians."
The laughter, that never came, turned into a cold silence. The first flash of camera came almost reluctantly, as if cautious to break the ice of dead silence, was then followed by thunderstorm of flashes. One female reposter arose from the blinding light and now approached to the stage very quickly, almost running on her heels. "Sir, Could you repeat that last bit for us again, or at least, clarify? Why aren't Asian people welcomed at your stores?"
"Because… they are crooks?", Thomas asked and observed the reaction. And react, they did. Something was very wrong here. "Well, I suppose some of them are welcome, as long as they behave and are not after me," Thomas quickly said, "or my customers and --"
"Sir, " the reporter cut him off, "I am sure that hundreds of Asians work for your enterprise and -"
It was now his turn to cut her off. "We certainly don't hire Asians to do their nasty business. Not that I am aware of, that is." Then Thomas realizes that the reporter is pointing to the projector. "Woman on the right. She certainly looks Asian to me."
Thomas studied the image of lovely Anita Hung smiling at the camera. Honestly, there was nothing deadly or remotely threatening about her. Maybe that is what made her a good Asian: catch you by surprise and cut your throat. He was becoming very confused. "Anita is not an Asian at all. I can assure you that. Her assassin background has helped us create a global, multi-cultural workspace at Acorn. She--" Thomas went on and on. The reporter, now puzzled, stopped him with a question: "Could you name me any Asian you know of?"
"Uh, Lee Harvey Oswald? I doubt he did it, but he's famous Asian. Brutus?"
"It may be that you may have one or two words mixed up. Would you describe Gingis Khan as an Asian?"
"No. I don't think so. There may have been a time, in his invasion to the West, that Europeans may have sent Asians to him, or he would send Asians to his enemies, but he is not an Asian. At least, that is not what he is known for."
The crowd was now starting to laugh. The reporter, biting her lip so she wouldn't explode into laughter, managed to ask one more question: "Do you know any assassins who happens to be Asian?"
"I don't know. Ninjas?"
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"Dude, I don't understand. How can you date an asian?
What do you mean, bro?
Seriously dude, how can you like asians at all? They're sick people. Bent in the mind.
Dude, what the hell are you going on about?
They killed JFK, Mike!
Who?
The Asians!!
No, they didn't... What? Even if they did, it's not like the whole asian race is evil. Even if it were the asians, the ones who did it aren't the ones living now. We can forgive them! Same thing with the germans!
OK, now you're just being racist."
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[WP] An otherwise well-adjusted person grows up in society confusing the word "Asian" with "Assassin".
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Kim sat at the computer, exiting out of popup ads and moaning softly. A pop-up for a specific adult entertainment site appeared.
“Asians?” Kim said, “Why would anyone want to watch Asians doing it?”
Kim clicked.
Kim’s mouth dropped. They weren’t Asians, they were Assassins. Squinty eyes, stubby noses, light skin. No sniper rifles in the video. No throwing knives, poison pills or other Asian gear. But they were wearing disguises. At least that part was kind of Asian-y.
Still, a feather of doubt clung to Kim’s mind. It was time to check Wikipedia:
> Asian—refers to anything related to the continent of Asia, especially Asian people.
Whoa. There was a whole continent of Asians. How did they survive, all living together? Their life expectancy must be really low.
> Assassin, one who commits a targeted murder or assassination
Wait a minute. Murder? That was an Asian thing. Not an assassin thing.
Suddenly, it dawned on Kim. What had he done!? He tore the *Assassins’ Club* badge off his chest and threw it into the trash.
His birth family was Korean, his adoptive parents were British. He’d joined the Assassins’ Club at Kings’ College, hoping to learn about his biological family. Their culture. Their customs. Their **cuisine.**
Oh God. What had he done?!
At the last meeting, they’d given him a recipe for soup. Soup with one highly unusual ingredient. And Kim had cooked it. And the guest of honor had eaten it. Only the guest of honor.
It made sense now. ‘Intro to Academic Writing’ had been cancelled that day. The professor was dead.
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"Dude, I don't understand. How can you date an asian?
What do you mean, bro?
Seriously dude, how can you like asians at all? They're sick people. Bent in the mind.
Dude, what the hell are you going on about?
They killed JFK, Mike!
Who?
The Asians!!
No, they didn't... What? Even if they did, it's not like the whole asian race is evil. Even if it were the asians, the ones who did it aren't the ones living now. We can forgive them! Same thing with the germans!
OK, now you're just being racist."
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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I blew out my candles and smiled in the sudden darkness as my family and friends cheered.
"Happy birthday baby" my mother said, kissing me roughly on the cheek and hugging me until my insides felt like mush. Dad patted me on the back and smiled proudly.
I gazed at the eighteen melted candles and their pools of wax that mixed with the frosting of my cake. I had made it, I was an eighteen year old male and I was alive. I was lucky I hadn't died during my tour. I was lucky I didn't die from all the superbugs. I was lucky the religious extremists bombed my neighbors house and not mine. Each of those candles represented a year of my life in which someone else was killed. But not me, never me.
I looked forward to this day, to this exact moment. Today I was old enough to drink a beer. My father handed a cold brew to me and watched with some anticipation as I took a deep gulp of the pale ale.
I swallowed quickly and began coughing, the liquor burning my throat. I made a face at the bitter taste that tingled across my tongue.
"Gross." I said in a hoarse voice. My father laughed.
"Hey, be grateful, grandpap had to wait until he was 21 before he could drink." I smiled, I missed grandpap.
"Time for presents!!" Mom shouted loudly across the group. Pulling the biggest one out she shoved it into my hands. "It's just something from your dad and I, I hope you'll wear it." Images of ugly sweaters and sports jackets crossed my mind. Plastering on a smile I opened the package. The amazement must have shown on my face, my parents glowed with pride. Pulling the kevlar super carbon-B89 out of it's packaging I leapt from my chair and immediately removed my gear to put it on. It was beautiful, it must have cost my parents three year's salary. I bet they started saving when my first tour was underway.
"Thank you mom, thanks dad." I said, hugging them gently. My mother's eyes were heavy with tears.
"We want you to keep coming home to us Brian." She said kissing my cheek again.
"My turn!" Grandma said quietly. Passing a small rectangle package to her nurse, she brought it over to me. I knew what it was, the shape was undeniable.
"Thanks grandma for the book." I said, setting it unopened on the table. "I'll look at it later."
Picking up the beer I toasted to my parents, my eighteen years on earth, and the successful return home from my second tour which started tomorrow.
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I walk into Commencement hall, smiling. My father to my left, mother to my right. Today was the day I turned 18, I turn from child to adult. From the Zone to the World. The Zone was were I grew up, it was a pretty big place, full of kids of all different ages. Your parents lived with you, but when your only child turns 18, they assign you a house outside of the Zone.
When I was young, the older kids made up stories about why we weren't allowed to go out to the world. Monsters that could eat you in one bite, mean adults that they didn't want us near. As I got older, I joined in on the lies, but I still hadn't been told the truth. Not until Commencement. You'd always hear whispers from adults, but you'd never hear anything clear. Every now and again you'd hear of a kid walking into their parents room after refusing to go to bed, seeing their mother and father kneeling before the bed and heads down. It looked like they had been talking to the sheets. Everyone thought it was weird when those stories would show up. Talking to a bed seemed kind of ridiculous.
"Are you ready for the World, Andrew?" My dad asks, and smirk across his face. I nod and look over to my mother, who's face was a mix of worry and excitement. Up until today, it had been them who had seemed more excited.
We reach the grand wooden doors and I push them open. I walk in alone, while my parents take a right to go get our new housing. In a year, I would get my own house and I would get to choose my partner. I worry about all the attractive ones being gone, but my dad says they'll be a full week of decisions and placement. Lots of partners to choose from, of all genders. That was for a different day though.
"Andrew Garrett Whitby?" A skinny woman with black hair asks.
"Hello ma'am." I reply, smiling.
"Now, Mr. Whitby, I have an hour long presentation for you. After that, questions will be allowed. Please do not interrupt and please take a seat." She says, monotone.
"Now, we're going to talk about religion," I look at her, tilting my head. "About why you are God's servant and creation."
I tilt my head even more, but listen intently to what seemed like insanity coming from her mouth.
I'm not anyone's servant.
***
Sorry about the quality, it's the best I could come up with.
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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"It seemed like a good idea. It was done with all the best intentions, as most colossal mistakes do."
I watched as grandpa dunked the match beneath the lip of his pipe, then shake it out. A great arm of the Milky Way waved at us in the night sky. I gave the telescope a gentle twist while sipping on coffee.
"The idea was to keep the kids pure of influence. Let them study reason and logic and rational thought before they became indoctrinated into anything, dangerous or otherwise."
"Why didn't it work?"
"Because of philosophy, boy." He scoffed at me, but I knew he was really trying to cast a great scoff backward through time to scoff at himself. "You can't think about thinking without starting to ask the most basic questions. Who am I? Why am I alive? What's the purpose of living? How did we get here?"
"But aren't there scientific answers?"
"To a point, sure. But ask enough questions, and the theories cease being provable. At some point, a mind is going to want to have an answer to everything, and the idea of a being or beings or force greater than us controlling it isn't uncommon. Every major civilization in the world has tried that explanation on for size. Hell it's how we got into trying to expunge it in the first place."
"So you're saying they started inventing religions?"
"Beliefs, at the very least. Some created whole doctrines and pantheons, but even the most rational folks had some spiritual thought, no matter how vague."
He puffed. I sipped.
"There was one girl, brilliant girl, mind as sharp and clear as diamond. We were all certain she was going to end up discovering some new mathematical truth or law of physics. Turned out she believed in fairies."
His laugh was as sudden as a cannon shot, and I almost shook the telescope out of position.
"Fairies! Guess I shouldn't hold it against her. Even Aristotle believed in a god."
"So you gave up on it?"
"There was a push that we try to distract them until they were 18, prevent them from thinking anything deep at all but it didn't sit well with me. Too much Harrison Burgeron for my taste."
"Who?"
"Heh. See, the youth are getting stupid enough on their own without our help."
I frowned and made a mental note to look the guy up later. "But you did give up."
"Yes. Better to let people wrestle with the meaning of the universe and come up with fairies than to raise a generation of idiots. You know the original Greek meaning of the word right?"
I shook my head.
"It means someone who lives in their own little bubble."
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I walk into Commencement hall, smiling. My father to my left, mother to my right. Today was the day I turned 18, I turn from child to adult. From the Zone to the World. The Zone was were I grew up, it was a pretty big place, full of kids of all different ages. Your parents lived with you, but when your only child turns 18, they assign you a house outside of the Zone.
When I was young, the older kids made up stories about why we weren't allowed to go out to the world. Monsters that could eat you in one bite, mean adults that they didn't want us near. As I got older, I joined in on the lies, but I still hadn't been told the truth. Not until Commencement. You'd always hear whispers from adults, but you'd never hear anything clear. Every now and again you'd hear of a kid walking into their parents room after refusing to go to bed, seeing their mother and father kneeling before the bed and heads down. It looked like they had been talking to the sheets. Everyone thought it was weird when those stories would show up. Talking to a bed seemed kind of ridiculous.
"Are you ready for the World, Andrew?" My dad asks, and smirk across his face. I nod and look over to my mother, who's face was a mix of worry and excitement. Up until today, it had been them who had seemed more excited.
We reach the grand wooden doors and I push them open. I walk in alone, while my parents take a right to go get our new housing. In a year, I would get my own house and I would get to choose my partner. I worry about all the attractive ones being gone, but my dad says they'll be a full week of decisions and placement. Lots of partners to choose from, of all genders. That was for a different day though.
"Andrew Garrett Whitby?" A skinny woman with black hair asks.
"Hello ma'am." I reply, smiling.
"Now, Mr. Whitby, I have an hour long presentation for you. After that, questions will be allowed. Please do not interrupt and please take a seat." She says, monotone.
"Now, we're going to talk about religion," I look at her, tilting my head. "About why you are God's servant and creation."
I tilt my head even more, but listen intently to what seemed like insanity coming from her mouth.
I'm not anyone's servant.
***
Sorry about the quality, it's the best I could come up with.
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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Here is a small, unsuspecting village deep in the countryside. To outsiders, it seems backward, like it remained constant for decades while the world changed around it. The central government cares little for areas like this. Its been ignored by every modernization effort, and to any outsiders, that is painfully clear. But in this small village, there lies a schoolhouse. In the basement of this schoolhouse there lies a classroom. In the heart of this classroom there lies a secret.
The walls are decorated with government-sanctioned educational posters, the books are those that the central government approved, and the teachers stands at the front and lectures the very doctrine he is told to. At least, that is, when the municipal official comes around.
But when the cat's away, the mice will play.
Hidden under the floorboards are bibles stacked by the hundreds. The panels in the walls rotate to reveal ancient paintings of Adam and Eve, Noah's Ark, and Jesus on the cross. The teacher is secretly an ordained priest, his lesson and his sermon are the same. The children here are taught the most dangerous of thoughts, a belief in God.
The central government prohibited such superstitions long ago. No recognized power would be superior to them, no creator or master would have the power to undo them, and no loyalty would be sworn to anyone but them. That was their will land they enforced it with extreme prejudice. Their absolutism didn't last forever though. The reform era brought back allowances for some select faith, but it came with heavy restrictions. Few chose to practice, and those who did were alienated from much of society. It was their children who would suffer the most. The central government maintained a ban on religious education before the age of 18 and fiercely persecuted all those who would introduce faith into the lives of children.
Our parents were those who disobeyed. In a country run by fear, they held on to the most precious of human rights, the right to believe. They lived in this far away village, subject to this backwards lifestyle, all so they could do what they believed was right. Speech wasn't free, so they never spoke out. Actions weren't without consequences, so they never protested. Appearances were paramount, so they maintained them. And they maintained them well. To all the outsiders we were this backwards village. But to those who new the truth, we were much more than appearances.
We live in this village of dirt roads and crumbling buildings. We learn in the basement classroom of this small schoolhouse. But more than anyone else in this rule-abiding god-forsaken country, we are free.
[Note: this prompt isn't entirely fiction, in many areas in China this is the law. A few years ago, while studying abroad, our professor took us to a small village in a rural area that practices Christianity and we met with a few priests and others who lived there. This response is based on their stories and what we saw in the village. Just something I found shocking while there and wanted to share.]
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I walk into Commencement hall, smiling. My father to my left, mother to my right. Today was the day I turned 18, I turn from child to adult. From the Zone to the World. The Zone was were I grew up, it was a pretty big place, full of kids of all different ages. Your parents lived with you, but when your only child turns 18, they assign you a house outside of the Zone.
When I was young, the older kids made up stories about why we weren't allowed to go out to the world. Monsters that could eat you in one bite, mean adults that they didn't want us near. As I got older, I joined in on the lies, but I still hadn't been told the truth. Not until Commencement. You'd always hear whispers from adults, but you'd never hear anything clear. Every now and again you'd hear of a kid walking into their parents room after refusing to go to bed, seeing their mother and father kneeling before the bed and heads down. It looked like they had been talking to the sheets. Everyone thought it was weird when those stories would show up. Talking to a bed seemed kind of ridiculous.
"Are you ready for the World, Andrew?" My dad asks, and smirk across his face. I nod and look over to my mother, who's face was a mix of worry and excitement. Up until today, it had been them who had seemed more excited.
We reach the grand wooden doors and I push them open. I walk in alone, while my parents take a right to go get our new housing. In a year, I would get my own house and I would get to choose my partner. I worry about all the attractive ones being gone, but my dad says they'll be a full week of decisions and placement. Lots of partners to choose from, of all genders. That was for a different day though.
"Andrew Garrett Whitby?" A skinny woman with black hair asks.
"Hello ma'am." I reply, smiling.
"Now, Mr. Whitby, I have an hour long presentation for you. After that, questions will be allowed. Please do not interrupt and please take a seat." She says, monotone.
"Now, we're going to talk about religion," I look at her, tilting my head. "About why you are God's servant and creation."
I tilt my head even more, but listen intently to what seemed like insanity coming from her mouth.
I'm not anyone's servant.
***
Sorry about the quality, it's the best I could come up with.
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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I blew out my candles and smiled in the sudden darkness as my family and friends cheered.
"Happy birthday baby" my mother said, kissing me roughly on the cheek and hugging me until my insides felt like mush. Dad patted me on the back and smiled proudly.
I gazed at the eighteen melted candles and their pools of wax that mixed with the frosting of my cake. I had made it, I was an eighteen year old male and I was alive. I was lucky I hadn't died during my tour. I was lucky I didn't die from all the superbugs. I was lucky the religious extremists bombed my neighbors house and not mine. Each of those candles represented a year of my life in which someone else was killed. But not me, never me.
I looked forward to this day, to this exact moment. Today I was old enough to drink a beer. My father handed a cold brew to me and watched with some anticipation as I took a deep gulp of the pale ale.
I swallowed quickly and began coughing, the liquor burning my throat. I made a face at the bitter taste that tingled across my tongue.
"Gross." I said in a hoarse voice. My father laughed.
"Hey, be grateful, grandpap had to wait until he was 21 before he could drink." I smiled, I missed grandpap.
"Time for presents!!" Mom shouted loudly across the group. Pulling the biggest one out she shoved it into my hands. "It's just something from your dad and I, I hope you'll wear it." Images of ugly sweaters and sports jackets crossed my mind. Plastering on a smile I opened the package. The amazement must have shown on my face, my parents glowed with pride. Pulling the kevlar super carbon-B89 out of it's packaging I leapt from my chair and immediately removed my gear to put it on. It was beautiful, it must have cost my parents three year's salary. I bet they started saving when my first tour was underway.
"Thank you mom, thanks dad." I said, hugging them gently. My mother's eyes were heavy with tears.
"We want you to keep coming home to us Brian." She said kissing my cheek again.
"My turn!" Grandma said quietly. Passing a small rectangle package to her nurse, she brought it over to me. I knew what it was, the shape was undeniable.
"Thanks grandma for the book." I said, setting it unopened on the table. "I'll look at it later."
Picking up the beer I toasted to my parents, my eighteen years on earth, and the successful return home from my second tour which started tomorrow.
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I remember religion, if you can even call it that anymore. The fading away that it underwent was unlike anything else that ever left human paradigm. It died slowly over the course of 10, maybe 15 years; the first to go were the 'Christians,' which was ass backwards since 2/3 of the world were 'infected,' as our world leaders dubbed it. The last were the middle eastern religions - probably because they worked to become completely secluded from the rest of the world. Hinduism never left, in fact Buddhism isn't seen as a religion anymore. It is taken as a spiritual birthright, something that science can coexist with in its purist form. Though everyone is not forced to live this way, everyone chooses to, not because it is exemplified as the perfect way to live life, in fact kids are raised now-a-days along side of it, not in it. We all take our own two cents from the lessons we are taught, but in the end, we know that the practice of Buddhism lies in the spiritual enlightenment that humans crave; the lasting happiness that used to seem to just be out of reach for our entire lives. The world has changed a lot since the old days: no more poverty, thanks to complete automation of the harvesting and refinement of all of earths resources; no more adversity, that pretty much disappeared after the energy crisis was solved. Life is just; all there is now is peace, and progress. Our race has been saved, no divine intervention required.
First time here, just a quicky to get the feel for it. Tell me what you think!
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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I blew out my candles and smiled in the sudden darkness as my family and friends cheered.
"Happy birthday baby" my mother said, kissing me roughly on the cheek and hugging me until my insides felt like mush. Dad patted me on the back and smiled proudly.
I gazed at the eighteen melted candles and their pools of wax that mixed with the frosting of my cake. I had made it, I was an eighteen year old male and I was alive. I was lucky I hadn't died during my tour. I was lucky I didn't die from all the superbugs. I was lucky the religious extremists bombed my neighbors house and not mine. Each of those candles represented a year of my life in which someone else was killed. But not me, never me.
I looked forward to this day, to this exact moment. Today I was old enough to drink a beer. My father handed a cold brew to me and watched with some anticipation as I took a deep gulp of the pale ale.
I swallowed quickly and began coughing, the liquor burning my throat. I made a face at the bitter taste that tingled across my tongue.
"Gross." I said in a hoarse voice. My father laughed.
"Hey, be grateful, grandpap had to wait until he was 21 before he could drink." I smiled, I missed grandpap.
"Time for presents!!" Mom shouted loudly across the group. Pulling the biggest one out she shoved it into my hands. "It's just something from your dad and I, I hope you'll wear it." Images of ugly sweaters and sports jackets crossed my mind. Plastering on a smile I opened the package. The amazement must have shown on my face, my parents glowed with pride. Pulling the kevlar super carbon-B89 out of it's packaging I leapt from my chair and immediately removed my gear to put it on. It was beautiful, it must have cost my parents three year's salary. I bet they started saving when my first tour was underway.
"Thank you mom, thanks dad." I said, hugging them gently. My mother's eyes were heavy with tears.
"We want you to keep coming home to us Brian." She said kissing my cheek again.
"My turn!" Grandma said quietly. Passing a small rectangle package to her nurse, she brought it over to me. I knew what it was, the shape was undeniable.
"Thanks grandma for the book." I said, setting it unopened on the table. "I'll look at it later."
Picking up the beer I toasted to my parents, my eighteen years on earth, and the successful return home from my second tour which started tomorrow.
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Alexis sat down at her desk in the back of the classroom. She felt ugly and worthless and couldn't believe that she was so stupid to think that Tommy Spatsic would want to go to the 6th grade formal dance with her. Of course he would say yes to Prissy Priscilla Monketski, who wasn't even going to ask him until Alexis told her that SHE wanted to go with Tommy.
The screen on her desk was so *old*, she thought. Last year the teacher said that they were going to get new desk screens for the whole school, but this year Mr. Gronchy said it was President Bieber's fault that we didn't get the upgrades because he didn't enter into the new currency agreement with the African Confederation. Alexis didn't care about politics, and Mr. Gronchy was always going on and on about what a moron President Bieber was...not that Alexis cared at all about politics. She got good grades in 5th grade Macroeconomics, but only because she was two grades ahead in abstract statistics. Alexis always loved her maths classes, but this year she was seriously struggling with Algebraic Geometry and was fighting to maintain a B. But it wasn't her fault, really, *this stupid old desk screen* barely rendered in moduli space and hadn't articulated above mod 6 since the first week.
"Alexis," came a voice from her desk, "we had an appointment." It was stupid old Ms. Pankler, the Student Consultant. She was so old, she was Alexis's Mother's *and* Grandmother's Student Consultant. Once Alexis had fantasized that she would be the Student Consultant of her kids and grandkids that, until ten minutes ago, she *hoped* she might someday have with a nice, wealthy, sweet, man that *just so happened* to look quite a bit like a grown-up version of Tommy Spatsic, with his dark skin and blue eyes, but now he didn't look *anything* like Tommy Spatsic, not at all!
"Alexis," came the wavering, creaking voice of Ms. Pankler, "your heartrate is quite elevated, did something happen at lunch? Do you want to be excused from your 20th Century European History class for a few minutes so we can talk?" Stupid old Ms. Pankler, probably wants to stare at her stupid "memetic symbology" slides and listen to white noise. Such a waste of time.
"Um, no, I mean, sorry Mrs. Pankler..Ms. Pankler. I forgot."
"It's not like you to forget, Alexis, you have such a good memory. Just like your mother, did you know that I counseled your mother when she was your age?"
Alexis knew.
"What about that elevated heart rate, are you okay?"
"Um, yes, Ms. Pankler, I just...ran to my classroom, I'm fine. I'll Um, reschedule during study hall."
That is, *if* Alexis could get her stupid desk calendar app to open. Alexis couldn't figure out why they don't let the kids use their AR applications at school, they worked so much better and the only reason Alexis spent $60,000 (that she saved up for 6 months babysitting her spoiled brat neighbor) on a brand new AR platform was because the stupid school *said* that they were going to implement AR compatibility. When Alexis asked Mr. Gronchy *why* they weren't implementing this year he blamed President Bieber *again*. Typical.
"Okay, Alexis, I look forward to your notification."
Alexis was glad that she didn't have to go down to Ms. Pankler's office, but she was dreading her next period. Prissy Priscilla was her lab partner in her quantum computing class and not only is she going to try and *mooch* her answers, but she's not her friend anymore and Alexis is going to have to tell her.
"Alexis?" the voice came from the front of the class. Mr. Gronchy looked at her with his confused owl-face that he always had since he got his neural upgrade. Alexis glanced at the clock on her desk, class had been going on for 10 minutes and Alexis hadn't been paying attention at all. "Alexis are you daydreaming again?" Mr. Gronchy asked with his stupid confused owl mouth. The class giggled, Alexis glanced at Priscilla who sat in the front corner of the room. Priscilla didn't giggle.
"No, um, Mr. Gronchy. Sir. I was just wondering, what are 'Jews'?"
Mr. Gronchy's face turned white and his face changed from an owl to a dodo. "Wh..where did you hear that?"
Alexis sat up in her chair. "Well, um, my Great Grandma has this old book, an encyclopedia? And um, I was looking through it because I hadn't seen one in a long time, and there was a part on World War II and we had just been talking about that and um, it said that 14 million Jews had died in the war..the holocaust? And I was just thinking, we never talked about that *at all* and I didn't know what it was..."
Just then Alexis's screen buzzed and the wrinkly old face of Ms. Pankler came in full view. "Alexis, please come to my office, it's an emergency."
Mr. Gronchy looked up from his screen, still white and buzzard-like and said "You are excused Alexis."
Alexis got up from her seat and made her way to the door. On her way out, she glanced at Priscilla, but Priscilla kept her head down. She walked down the hall, she really didn't want Ms. Pankler to bug her about her "elevated heart rate" again, but when she got there the old Counselor was waiting by the door. They entered together and Alexis saw that her mom was conferenced in on the wall screen. She looked like she was crying because her eye make up was smeared and her mother usually looked so put-together.
"Sit down, Alexis," Ms. Pankler said and motioned to the hard plastic chair in front of her desk. As Alexis st down her mother spoke.
"Alexis, sweetie, I have some bad news." Alexis became nervous, she hadn't seen her mom like this since their dog Hendrix had died...
"Alexis," her mother sniffed, "Great Grandma Nevaeh just passed away 3 minutes ago."
Alexis hadn't expected this. Just then she started to cry, all of the tears that she had been holding back today...this was just too much. After a few minutes of crying with her mother she managed to ask, "Wh..*sniff*..what happened, mom?"
"Her medical app sent me a notification that her new heart upgrade had failed. There was a problem with the latest software update and it just...turned off. It shouldn't have happened, but, she loved you, Alexis."
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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I blew out my candles and smiled in the sudden darkness as my family and friends cheered.
"Happy birthday baby" my mother said, kissing me roughly on the cheek and hugging me until my insides felt like mush. Dad patted me on the back and smiled proudly.
I gazed at the eighteen melted candles and their pools of wax that mixed with the frosting of my cake. I had made it, I was an eighteen year old male and I was alive. I was lucky I hadn't died during my tour. I was lucky I didn't die from all the superbugs. I was lucky the religious extremists bombed my neighbors house and not mine. Each of those candles represented a year of my life in which someone else was killed. But not me, never me.
I looked forward to this day, to this exact moment. Today I was old enough to drink a beer. My father handed a cold brew to me and watched with some anticipation as I took a deep gulp of the pale ale.
I swallowed quickly and began coughing, the liquor burning my throat. I made a face at the bitter taste that tingled across my tongue.
"Gross." I said in a hoarse voice. My father laughed.
"Hey, be grateful, grandpap had to wait until he was 21 before he could drink." I smiled, I missed grandpap.
"Time for presents!!" Mom shouted loudly across the group. Pulling the biggest one out she shoved it into my hands. "It's just something from your dad and I, I hope you'll wear it." Images of ugly sweaters and sports jackets crossed my mind. Plastering on a smile I opened the package. The amazement must have shown on my face, my parents glowed with pride. Pulling the kevlar super carbon-B89 out of it's packaging I leapt from my chair and immediately removed my gear to put it on. It was beautiful, it must have cost my parents three year's salary. I bet they started saving when my first tour was underway.
"Thank you mom, thanks dad." I said, hugging them gently. My mother's eyes were heavy with tears.
"We want you to keep coming home to us Brian." She said kissing my cheek again.
"My turn!" Grandma said quietly. Passing a small rectangle package to her nurse, she brought it over to me. I knew what it was, the shape was undeniable.
"Thanks grandma for the book." I said, setting it unopened on the table. "I'll look at it later."
Picking up the beer I toasted to my parents, my eighteen years on earth, and the successful return home from my second tour which started tomorrow.
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14.7.67 - I’m stuck, surrounded by crosses lit up only by that of the small, weak candle in the basement. Only to be let when I’m eighteen years old. Four more months, today, of living in this hell hole. Locked in the basement, where no prying eyes could see me, locked away from humanity. I’ve never attended school. My mother has taught me everything I know, Christianity is what I live by, it is all I know.
17.7.67 - Christianity is what has kept me in this basement, it is also what will get me out. When I am eighteen years old, I will be legally allowed to be introduced into religion. While I am still eighteen, I’m locked in here, so my parents will not get caught and tried in court for destruction of a child’s mind. It is stupid, I hate that law, they aren’t destroying my mind, they are training it. Religion is my life, I see myself no where in the future aside from Christianity. The basement is small and claustrophobic, enough room for a bed, the candle that lights up the room and a small table next to my bed, I keep my bible in this. My walls are plastered with religious symbols, crosses and my wardrobe has my clothes in it, tracksuit pants and t-shirts, each a size or two too small. My mother is coming down the hallway, she doesn't know I’m keeping this journal, I’ll write again in a few days.
The journal stopped there. The walls of the basement, found bloodied with no corpse or weapons in sight. The house had been abandoned six months prior.
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
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Here is a small, unsuspecting village deep in the countryside. To outsiders, it seems backward, like it remained constant for decades while the world changed around it. The central government cares little for areas like this. Its been ignored by every modernization effort, and to any outsiders, that is painfully clear. But in this small village, there lies a schoolhouse. In the basement of this schoolhouse there lies a classroom. In the heart of this classroom there lies a secret.
The walls are decorated with government-sanctioned educational posters, the books are those that the central government approved, and the teachers stands at the front and lectures the very doctrine he is told to. At least, that is, when the municipal official comes around.
But when the cat's away, the mice will play.
Hidden under the floorboards are bibles stacked by the hundreds. The panels in the walls rotate to reveal ancient paintings of Adam and Eve, Noah's Ark, and Jesus on the cross. The teacher is secretly an ordained priest, his lesson and his sermon are the same. The children here are taught the most dangerous of thoughts, a belief in God.
The central government prohibited such superstitions long ago. No recognized power would be superior to them, no creator or master would have the power to undo them, and no loyalty would be sworn to anyone but them. That was their will land they enforced it with extreme prejudice. Their absolutism didn't last forever though. The reform era brought back allowances for some select faith, but it came with heavy restrictions. Few chose to practice, and those who did were alienated from much of society. It was their children who would suffer the most. The central government maintained a ban on religious education before the age of 18 and fiercely persecuted all those who would introduce faith into the lives of children.
Our parents were those who disobeyed. In a country run by fear, they held on to the most precious of human rights, the right to believe. They lived in this far away village, subject to this backwards lifestyle, all so they could do what they believed was right. Speech wasn't free, so they never spoke out. Actions weren't without consequences, so they never protested. Appearances were paramount, so they maintained them. And they maintained them well. To all the outsiders we were this backwards village. But to those who new the truth, we were much more than appearances.
We live in this village of dirt roads and crumbling buildings. We learn in the basement classroom of this small schoolhouse. But more than anyone else in this rule-abiding god-forsaken country, we are free.
[Note: this prompt isn't entirely fiction, in many areas in China this is the law. A few years ago, while studying abroad, our professor took us to a small village in a rural area that practices Christianity and we met with a few priests and others who lived there. This response is based on their stories and what we saw in the village. Just something I found shocking while there and wanted to share.]
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Patrick sneered slightly at the pork chop that rested on the plate in front him, almost daring him to eat it. But he couldn’t. It wouldn't be right. His mother was looking at him, he knew. This was the third time she'd served pork this week. She had to be on to him, there was no other explanation. She might have begun to suspect when he started wearing his hat at the dinner table to hid the small circle of cloth he kept over his head underneath just in case. I might have been when his mother saw him researching the histories of Israel and WWII. Whatever she thought, he knew she suspected. As he stared meditatively at his pork chop, his mother’s voice snapped his attention up, sudden fear lacing his contempt for what was formerly a dirty animal in front of him.
“Patrick, you spent all day making this dinner for you.” She said lightly, as if making small talk. He edged the plate further away from him.
“Thanks mom, but I’m not very hungry today.” He answered, calm as he could manage without wavering. He looked up and faced the bright eyes across the table, the accusatory glare that he had to look forward to every night.
“Patrick,” she said, venomous honey dripping from her words, “why haven't you been eating my dinners lately. Do you not like them?”
“No mom, it’s not that. Usually Matt and I will stop at Taco Bell on the way back and grab something.” He could almost feel his stomach curl as he uttered that foul places name. He was almost 18 and it wouldn't matter soon. At least legally. His family had been three generations without faith now and as his mother had told him multiple times, she wasn't going to raise a believer in her household. His father didn’t care too much. He was one of those dads who spent the majority of his time wondering what the Bears were going to do in this week’s game. Too attached to worldly affairs, Patrick thought to himself, not a thought of what happens after. He knew it wasn’t right to judge others, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself.
“Actually, I think I’m going to go over there now. He promised to help me with some chemistry I’m struggling with.”
“Ok, but don’t be too late. Your father and I will wait up for you.” She was barely able to keep the threat out of her voice. Patrick pushed his plate away walked as calmly as he could to the garage and sprinted down the street on his bike, pedals whirling like dervishes. He arrived in a few minutes and circled the bike around to the basement window. He kneeled and tapped three times on the glass. Matt hoisted himself up on a box and unlatched the window allowing Patrick to slide in.
“I’m impressed you got out so quickly,” said Matt, lifting his eyebrows.
“She served pig again. I had to get out before I gave in. I feel like my stomach’s going to eat itself.” Patrick spat out the animals name right as a large rumble emitted from his stomach. Matt offered him a small bag of chips and Patrick attacked it, tearing the bag open with his teeth and pouring its contents into his mouth. “So what do you have today?” He was slightly muffled by the chips he’d unceremoniously dumped into his mouth. Matt’s eyes brightened a little bit.
“Got you a present.” There was a hint of darkness in his voice. He definitely had something good today. He walked over to the pile of junk his father promised to sort out eventually and rummaged around a little bit before emerging with a lock box and an intricate rug. He hid the box behind his back and unlocked it slowly, almost delicately. He turned and opened the box to Patrick, offering it to him. Patrick’s eyes almost fell out of his head. He reached in with trembling fingers before finally touching the fine leather imprinted with gold leaf spelling a Hebrew name he’d only seen on websites. He picked the book up and held it in his hands. Patrick opened the front cover and saw the inscriptions of the spikey desert language he couldn’t understand but longed to. Matt’s watch beeped.
“I’ll leave you with that,” he smirked. He walked over the eastern wall and laid the rug out on the floor. He stood in front of it and uttered the words he spoke every night soft and delicate as a feather, as if speaking to a close friend:
“Bismillah al-rahman al-rahim…”
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[WP] In the year 2067, it is illegal for individuals to be exposed to the idea of religion until age 18.
|
Here is a small, unsuspecting village deep in the countryside. To outsiders, it seems backward, like it remained constant for decades while the world changed around it. The central government cares little for areas like this. Its been ignored by every modernization effort, and to any outsiders, that is painfully clear. But in this small village, there lies a schoolhouse. In the basement of this schoolhouse there lies a classroom. In the heart of this classroom there lies a secret.
The walls are decorated with government-sanctioned educational posters, the books are those that the central government approved, and the teachers stands at the front and lectures the very doctrine he is told to. At least, that is, when the municipal official comes around.
But when the cat's away, the mice will play.
Hidden under the floorboards are bibles stacked by the hundreds. The panels in the walls rotate to reveal ancient paintings of Adam and Eve, Noah's Ark, and Jesus on the cross. The teacher is secretly an ordained priest, his lesson and his sermon are the same. The children here are taught the most dangerous of thoughts, a belief in God.
The central government prohibited such superstitions long ago. No recognized power would be superior to them, no creator or master would have the power to undo them, and no loyalty would be sworn to anyone but them. That was their will land they enforced it with extreme prejudice. Their absolutism didn't last forever though. The reform era brought back allowances for some select faith, but it came with heavy restrictions. Few chose to practice, and those who did were alienated from much of society. It was their children who would suffer the most. The central government maintained a ban on religious education before the age of 18 and fiercely persecuted all those who would introduce faith into the lives of children.
Our parents were those who disobeyed. In a country run by fear, they held on to the most precious of human rights, the right to believe. They lived in this far away village, subject to this backwards lifestyle, all so they could do what they believed was right. Speech wasn't free, so they never spoke out. Actions weren't without consequences, so they never protested. Appearances were paramount, so they maintained them. And they maintained them well. To all the outsiders we were this backwards village. But to those who new the truth, we were much more than appearances.
We live in this village of dirt roads and crumbling buildings. We learn in the basement classroom of this small schoolhouse. But more than anyone else in this rule-abiding god-forsaken country, we are free.
[Note: this prompt isn't entirely fiction, in many areas in China this is the law. A few years ago, while studying abroad, our professor took us to a small village in a rural area that practices Christianity and we met with a few priests and others who lived there. This response is based on their stories and what we saw in the village. Just something I found shocking while there and wanted to share.]
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"It seemed like a good idea. It was done with all the best intentions, as most colossal mistakes do."
I watched as grandpa dunked the match beneath the lip of his pipe, then shake it out. A great arm of the Milky Way waved at us in the night sky. I gave the telescope a gentle twist while sipping on coffee.
"The idea was to keep the kids pure of influence. Let them study reason and logic and rational thought before they became indoctrinated into anything, dangerous or otherwise."
"Why didn't it work?"
"Because of philosophy, boy." He scoffed at me, but I knew he was really trying to cast a great scoff backward through time to scoff at himself. "You can't think about thinking without starting to ask the most basic questions. Who am I? Why am I alive? What's the purpose of living? How did we get here?"
"But aren't there scientific answers?"
"To a point, sure. But ask enough questions, and the theories cease being provable. At some point, a mind is going to want to have an answer to everything, and the idea of a being or beings or force greater than us controlling it isn't uncommon. Every major civilization in the world has tried that explanation on for size. Hell it's how we got into trying to expunge it in the first place."
"So you're saying they started inventing religions?"
"Beliefs, at the very least. Some created whole doctrines and pantheons, but even the most rational folks had some spiritual thought, no matter how vague."
He puffed. I sipped.
"There was one girl, brilliant girl, mind as sharp and clear as diamond. We were all certain she was going to end up discovering some new mathematical truth or law of physics. Turned out she believed in fairies."
His laugh was as sudden as a cannon shot, and I almost shook the telescope out of position.
"Fairies! Guess I shouldn't hold it against her. Even Aristotle believed in a god."
"So you gave up on it?"
"There was a push that we try to distract them until they were 18, prevent them from thinking anything deep at all but it didn't sit well with me. Too much Harrison Burgeron for my taste."
"Who?"
"Heh. See, the youth are getting stupid enough on their own without our help."
I frowned and made a mental note to look the guy up later. "But you did give up."
"Yes. Better to let people wrestle with the meaning of the universe and come up with fairies than to raise a generation of idiots. You know the original Greek meaning of the word right?"
I shook my head.
"It means someone who lives in their own little bubble."
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[WP] Mother Nature assumes her bodily form and takes a one year trip around the world. Share an entry from her journal.
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**Mother Nature, Cause For Concern**
My morning routine is very simple.
It's the routine of every human being round the world.
First, I put on my black birds.
I dangle them from powerlines, I mount them on headstones, festoon hedges and siding poplars with their jeweled eyes.
Blackbirds, rooks, ravens, crows. Pale-winged starlings. All manner of black bird wings spanning species and size.
Then I take the woodpigeon's coo and make its chatter the pillow-talk of a billion dreamers;
And, yes, I also take the pigeon's poo and make its splatter the sidewalk of a billion wakers and weavers.
When people think of me they think of milk and honey, and it's true, I set the apiaries a-hum and the goats a-nibbling,
but when it comes down to it, I am a whole heap of manure, too. Thick, black and round, warm, thin and dribbling.
People see me how they want to see me, so though I might be gentle, candles-would-dance eyes, and though I might be strawberry-shaped, a dream of red transfusing fertile fields,
I stink with the stench of life itself, I attract -- am -- worms and snails and flies.
When my birds are on and my mud is glistening, fields are sparkling with your carnal inheritance composting sweetly below,
I am ready for my rouge, and my rouge is no make up. It's the realest red and it pinches the cheeks of the horizon until they glow
And glisten in drizzle, rain down light upon unchucked chaff,
Tickle the ears of wheat till the field sneezes
And, laughing, furrows its brows with the first of the morning's breezes.
And, like any other woman, I have to do my morning routine,
Make myself up before others can make anything of me:
Now I'm ready to take on the world! And I am the world, picked and peeled and unfurled, my gullies exfoliated and my tendrils curled,
I'm humanly comprehensible in RGB, and the farmers tend to me, while the layabouts watch me on TV, presented by David Attenborough.
They call me Mother Nature.
I put on my black birds, pigeons, fowl, fields, oxen, cows, all species bovine, porcine, trees for figs and oranges, prickle and vine,
These are things that I do for you, in deference,
And today, I attire myself to appear at a Climate Change conference.
Here, earnest men and women in white coats prod and probe, and discuss solutions for problems that beset the globe.
Mother Nature is dying! is the call to arms, so we must innovate clean energy, recycle plastics and renew our farms,
And by sorting our trash and taking due care, we'll save hordes of endangered polar bears, and end the extinction of rare desert palms,
And the men in their polyester white coats go on and on about weird beetles and mountain goats
And find for a million species a billion harms,
And declare that the Planet is in Danger.
I, Mother Nature, guest of honour, though without a sitdown place or name tag, have never heard anything stranger
Than these so-called scientists with their silly subject matter. I pick from behind my ear a solitary plastic bag
And with the rumble of a tectonic plate silence their mortal chatter.
That, I ask, dangling the plastic bag before their noses?
That, I ask, dangling a nuclear warhead daintily from my lips like a cigarette?
These are the pitiful items with which humanity supposes
My time will end. A ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies,
And you think that it's me who'll fall down?
When I frown I make continents crease up in mountains,
And like a vision of hell I release in fountains
Volcanoes of magma; geysers of steam,
I've watched a million other species be boiled, drowned and burned,
And Man has the effrontery to tell Me that I am a Cause for Concern?
The truth of the matter, Man, is I'm not you're Mother,
And you're neither my son nor my daughter.
Man, cower in front of me, not the other way around.
Because I am a cause for concern
Like oceans are a cause for water.
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**Mark: 1,658,198,683,182 (~4,539,999,926.6R)**
-*Rain Forests*: Dying, yet still alive. Rain will eventually succumb to acidic levels too high.
+Estimated time until pH of 0: 23,740.73 (65R).
-*Deserts*: Still deserted save for appropriate wildlife. Continued pollution estimated to increase. Increasing heat will eventually lead to inability to sustain current wildlife.
+Estimated life span: 51,133.88 (140R).
-*Oceans*: Vibrant. Subject to location. Life will sustain but not indefinitely. Large difference between surface and deep water. Life span of inhabitants will range broadly.
+Estimated species life span range: 10,957.26 (30R) - 292,193.6 (800R) (Note: Re-check in 3,652.42 (10R)).
-*Mountains/Valleys*: Remain lush, 43% untouched. Wildlife sustains natural order except near destroyers. Active volcanoes keep destroyers at bay in certain areas. Assign specific mountainous regions, both above and below sea level, to develop more magma and lava. No current estimation of life known. (Note: Re-check after adjustment, using VOLC formula).
-*Cold Climate Life*: Remains in-tact and mostly untouched. Sometimes interfered with by oil reserves leaking due to destruction of precious land nearby. Despite this, no end in sight. (Note: If destruction increases within 1,826.21 (5R), re-check using OIL, WILD, and CLIM formulas).
-*Universal*: Untouched save for footprints and sentient life. Destroyers do not have capabilities to radically alter state. Utilizing EGO formula, will never achieve influential exploration or colonization. Improbable statistics suggest ability utilizing TECH.
+Estimated chance of eliminating EGO formula: .00057155715%
+Estimated chance of success utilizing TECH without EGO: 23.554%
-*Destroyers*: Still unable to set up domiciles among poles, water, certain climates, and universe. Destruction continues without remorse. Inability to prevent self-destruction imminent with further development of destruction capabilities.
+Current coverage: 2.3499046001%.
+Estimated maximum coverage utilizing TECH despite possible VOLC and CLIM interference: 34.770231% (Re-check in 10,957.26 (30R) utilizing new OIL formula).
+Estimated life span with current technology: 42,002.83 (115R) (factored in TECH and EGO formulas).
+Estimated life span if EGO eliminated as a factor: Indefinite due to TECH overhaul and unknowns. (Re-check in 36,524.2 (100R)).
+Estimated maximum usage of Earth until destroyer-needed resources depleted: Unknown due to TECH factors (Re-check in 10,957.26 (30R)).
**Assessment**: Destroyers remaining unchecked continue to prove very dangerous for most life. Landscapes changing will mostly likely not be enough to slow destruction, even utilizing new VOLC formulas. Increase NAT-REC by a factor of 2.0442 over the next 1826.21 (5R). This will allow for more beauty created as winds, rain, and other natural adhesives keep the destroyers at bay.
(Note: Continue assessment tomorrow in-depth, beginning to extrapolate on individual life starting with most intelligent (Delphinidae). Be sure to calculate when their intelligence capabilities could overtake destroyers and match that of distant ancestors. Check in with Delphinidae planet (Dolinus) to cross-check when intelligence level will be met in order to reduce destroyer numbers to appropriate levels.)
^^^Edit: ^^^Formatting.
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[WP] Mother Nature assumes her bodily form and takes a one year trip around the world. Share an entry from her journal.
|
**Mother Nature, Cause For Concern**
My morning routine is very simple.
It's the routine of every human being round the world.
First, I put on my black birds.
I dangle them from powerlines, I mount them on headstones, festoon hedges and siding poplars with their jeweled eyes.
Blackbirds, rooks, ravens, crows. Pale-winged starlings. All manner of black bird wings spanning species and size.
Then I take the woodpigeon's coo and make its chatter the pillow-talk of a billion dreamers;
And, yes, I also take the pigeon's poo and make its splatter the sidewalk of a billion wakers and weavers.
When people think of me they think of milk and honey, and it's true, I set the apiaries a-hum and the goats a-nibbling,
but when it comes down to it, I am a whole heap of manure, too. Thick, black and round, warm, thin and dribbling.
People see me how they want to see me, so though I might be gentle, candles-would-dance eyes, and though I might be strawberry-shaped, a dream of red transfusing fertile fields,
I stink with the stench of life itself, I attract -- am -- worms and snails and flies.
When my birds are on and my mud is glistening, fields are sparkling with your carnal inheritance composting sweetly below,
I am ready for my rouge, and my rouge is no make up. It's the realest red and it pinches the cheeks of the horizon until they glow
And glisten in drizzle, rain down light upon unchucked chaff,
Tickle the ears of wheat till the field sneezes
And, laughing, furrows its brows with the first of the morning's breezes.
And, like any other woman, I have to do my morning routine,
Make myself up before others can make anything of me:
Now I'm ready to take on the world! And I am the world, picked and peeled and unfurled, my gullies exfoliated and my tendrils curled,
I'm humanly comprehensible in RGB, and the farmers tend to me, while the layabouts watch me on TV, presented by David Attenborough.
They call me Mother Nature.
I put on my black birds, pigeons, fowl, fields, oxen, cows, all species bovine, porcine, trees for figs and oranges, prickle and vine,
These are things that I do for you, in deference,
And today, I attire myself to appear at a Climate Change conference.
Here, earnest men and women in white coats prod and probe, and discuss solutions for problems that beset the globe.
Mother Nature is dying! is the call to arms, so we must innovate clean energy, recycle plastics and renew our farms,
And by sorting our trash and taking due care, we'll save hordes of endangered polar bears, and end the extinction of rare desert palms,
And the men in their polyester white coats go on and on about weird beetles and mountain goats
And find for a million species a billion harms,
And declare that the Planet is in Danger.
I, Mother Nature, guest of honour, though without a sitdown place or name tag, have never heard anything stranger
Than these so-called scientists with their silly subject matter. I pick from behind my ear a solitary plastic bag
And with the rumble of a tectonic plate silence their mortal chatter.
That, I ask, dangling the plastic bag before their noses?
That, I ask, dangling a nuclear warhead daintily from my lips like a cigarette?
These are the pitiful items with which humanity supposes
My time will end. A ring-a-ring o' roses, a pocket full of posies,
And you think that it's me who'll fall down?
When I frown I make continents crease up in mountains,
And like a vision of hell I release in fountains
Volcanoes of magma; geysers of steam,
I've watched a million other species be boiled, drowned and burned,
And Man has the effrontery to tell Me that I am a Cause for Concern?
The truth of the matter, Man, is I'm not you're Mother,
And you're neither my son nor my daughter.
Man, cower in front of me, not the other way around.
Because I am a cause for concern
Like oceans are a cause for water.
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"I awoke in a strange place, not entirely sure how long I had slept. There used to be trees here, thousands and thousands of them. I would walk among them for months, the forests were endless. The grass sang, the trees waved, the animals all said hello as I passed. At night I could pick out every star in the sky, I had names for each of them. Now they're gone. This new place, what do the humans call it? New York City, I think? They've changed the land so much, I barely recognize it anymore. The soil is gone. In its place are long narrow roads of an unusual kind of stone. Along them, towering pillars built of wood, of stone, of baked clay. Where the humans once used horses, I now see hundreds of, I guess you could call them covered wagons, but nothing pulls them along. They make the most awful noises, like stone scraping against stone. I hope it isn't this way everywhere. I want to see trees again. I want to hears birds sing again. I want to dance on the wind.
I must see the world again. Surely somewhere I'll find a place I still know. I haven't taken a trip like this since, well, since Rome ruled the Mediterranean. Things were simpler then."
My first response to a writing prompt ever. How'd I do? Did it read well?
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[WP] Write the monologue of a sociopath.
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Nothing that I did was wrong. In order to simply move past the subject of my indiscretion I employed the remorseful routine that I've crafted over the years into a fine piece of performance art. Again, I did nothing wrong. Years ago I memorized the pointless rules of social interaction that must be followed in order to prevent a negative response from society (i.e. my wife, coworkers, and friends). I still haven't mastered crying. That would be a very useful skill to end inquisitions where the end goal is demonstrating the requisite amount of remorse. I've tried to create the bodily function of expelling liquid from my tear ducts to no avail. I don't hurt anyone and nothing we really do has any meaning when you consider the infinite largeness of the universe and smallness of matter. One of the biggest rules is to fit in with large groups of people and identify with their interests. I'm interested in things myself, but not things that I want to share with other people. Losing the statistics on the chess game in my phone would be more angering to me than the disruption of some social contract like a marriage or a job. Where I went wrong was ignoring the rules that are currently the fabric of social interaction in order to fit in to a larger group. Example: in order to fit it I attended a party which was expected of me. The party was, in fact, for me. At the party events took place that broke a larger set of social rules but conflicted with the rules of fitting in with the party. I had to pick which set of rules to follow. I went with the group at the party as there were immediate social consequences for not following those rules. The problems that could arise from breaker the larger societal rules may or may not even come up. It was simple risk management. Against the odds, the larger rules came into play days later. I lied convincingly enough but there were sufficient facts exposed without my knowledge that proved I was not truthful. After calculating the correct amount of time I successfully employed my remorse routine. Now everything is back to normal and I can play chess on my phone in peace.
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I am well suited for the emergency department. I don't give a shit about any of these disgusting people. I detest their decaying skin that peels and flakes like a Birch in the spring . Repulsed by the stench of their diminishing capacities. Hateful of their entitled neediness. Sickened by their decrepitness. This is a false belief in what constitutes as humane. This is dogmatic insistence that these sacks of feces and crust should be allowed to breath and beat their heart when they aren't even alive. They are wastes. In the slums of Los Angeles, this was a haven for worthlessness. Drunks. Retards. Senile fools. Spoiled children. And I get to watch them die every day.
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[WP] Why is Waldo hiding?
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Waldo pushed his way through the crowd trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible while wearing a goofy hat and striped shirt. The blistering heat from the sun beat down on his back as he looked for the bag his accomplice had left for him at the drop spot. Waldo thought to himself why this all had to take place out in the open public areas and why he had to wear the stupid outfit so he would stand out. He knew the answer was so he could blend in unless someone knew what outfit to look for but even that would be quite a daunting challenge.
As he was pushed and shoved in the heaping mess of people he spots the bag he has been looking for! At last he can get out of this heat and relax. As he reached for the bag a subtle snap rings out from somewhere and **slams straight** into the man beside him and taking him out with a hollow *thump*. Waldo ducked down and immediately cursed under his breath hoping that whoever shot at him would not be able to find him. As Waldo dodged and weaved through the crowd his red hat was bouncing around his head like a buoy in a typhoon. The intervals between shots got faster as Waldo made his way through the panicking crowd. Waldo trips and flies forward onto his face. He rolls on his side as a bullet lodges itself in the ground where his body was moments ago. He pushes himself up and sprints straight into the crowd of building as he exits the plaza where he was. As he ran he threw off all the trinkets he had on to help disguise his tourist outfit but kept the binoculars as that would be handy.
Waldo found a place to stay for the night but still wondered who shot him and all for a locked briefcase that he himself couldn't crack open no matter how he tried. He thought to himself what could be so valuable that it was worth shooting into a crowd of people just to obtain? Waldo couldn't think with all the stress of the situation so he decided it would be good to get some sleep while he could.
A loud scream pierced through the night air and woke Waldo with a jolt. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the briefcase. He knew what this meant and he quickly jumped out the window onto the ground waiting for him only a few feet below. He sprinted through the streets not knowing where to go. As he ran through the streets he saw a glimpse of a sign to his right and he made the decision to jump straight into the building without another thought. He found it to be a gun store and right in front of him a woman in a trench coat with a rifle on her back was buying ammo at the desk. He immediately realized his mistake. He sprinted out of the store and ran as fast as he could run. He saw her following him and turned the corner only to stop immediately to ambush her. As she rounded the corner he brought his cane up and **SLAMMED** her straight in the face.
Waldo quickly went over to her unconscious body and looked through it for any forms of identification. He found a drivers license issued to a "Carmen Sandiego" and he took the rifle and was off. He knew he had to get clear of the city if he was gonna make it and killing her would only worsen the situation since he was already seen smashing a woman in the face with a cane and taking her gun.
Escape seemed to be here as Waldo drove off in the rental car he had rented in the edge of the town. He drove off into the horizon feeling great as he had made it through all of that. His boss would be proud, maybe even give him a raise for all he knew. He patted the briefcase and thought of all the trouble he went through to get it. He thought to himself this must be worth it! **BAM** The car tipped to onside and rolled its side as a tire blew out and he lost control. The car flipped 3 times before rolling into a ditch where it came to a stop. Over joyed that he had the brains to rent a jeep with a roll cage as he got out of the wreckage.
As he stood up to get out of the car a sudden jab to his stomach. He felt the pain spread like a hundred spiders crawling across his stomach trying to bite its way in. He looked down and saw a huge bullet hole going through his abdomen. The blood seeping its way out of his gut as he bleeds out onto the sands. His mind starts to go but before that he has one final thought.
His last thought was "Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?"
edit: Just fine tuned some obvious grammar mistakes and fixed poor word choice. Also I made it much longer.
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The twig-like young man sat silenty in the darkness. He held his breath, and let the air seep through his nostrils, slowly-- slower than his own heartbeat, for even a slip through, would mean it was over. His body scrunched against itself, his nape against the block behind him.
A subtle pair of clops rustled by his ears, before accelerating to a furious stomp. A series of doors slammed to and fro. The white and red fabrics of the skin-tight sweater began to strangle his body. With each passing second, he could feel his face become just as white as the stripes of his shirt, and his cheeks redden in the dark of the cluster.
'Do you know where he is?' A voice called out from a distance, a murmur it was to the man through the thin walls, but there was no response. An awry silence arose from outside, he could feel the tension slithering its way in, it was over. Now it was just a matter of time.
He shuffled himself over to a sharp corner, he sat perfectly straight, his head just below a wodden plate. Surrounded by plenty of objects just as large as him, he was safe, safe inside a prism of solitude, he thought to himself. He laid his round specs to the floor, and gave it a thorough rub, how long has he been here, once again, he though himself.
He thought to himself again, the countless times of isolation, to be forgotten, the dreadful darkness he soon seem became accustomed to. In a place, where the world could be cruel, to not be able to call out, to move, to be singled out, the only option was to to hide-- to hide from the brutality of the word. But maybe, just maybe, in this world he would be found and be--
His thoughts dissipated and his lips arched to a grin as a creek of a door slip by him, and a frivulous laughter waltzed in, that must of been the tension, he thought of moments ago. A silohuette of a girl with long strands and a tiger figurine cradled in one arm, and a greater silohuotte shrouded from behind, a sudden light followed pursuit.
'I found you daddy!' The cheerful glee exclaimed. The man ran his fingers through his eyes and put on his specs, the two silohuettes morphed into a beatiful blonde-haired wife and the glistening blue-eyed daughter.
He pounced up from his broken prism, to a wonderous warmth, tossing his daughter in the security of his arms,
'You did it! You found me!' He placed down the bundle of joy, and looked to the tall blonde, her face at the ridges of his nose,
'I found you too.' Smooth and creamy her voice sang. And her silky lips, pressed against his; to be found and to be loved.
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[WP] Why is Waldo hiding?
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Vincent's sword caught the trident. It inches acolyte's spine. Wulfgar's mace took the demon in its chest. It caved.
"Take it. Take it now." Vincent cried. He drove the point of his sword through the demon's throat. Demon blood sprayed. Wulfgar ripped his mace free, ripping spikes free of demon flesh. The acolyte hurried forth, climbing the steps as quickly as he could. An imp descended from the darkness of the cavernous ceiling above.
"Imp." Wulgar called out. Vincent drew back his broad sword, readying his next blow. The imp passed over Vincent's sword, but the knight didn't swing at it. "You let it past." Wulfgar shouted, racing up the steps. The acolyte snatched the book off the pedastal, recoiling from the cover. It was made from a human face, skinned, stretched, and tanned. "Behind you." Wulfgar called. The acolyte turned, the book before him. It saved his life. The scorpion tail of the imp stabbed into the cover of the book. The imp collided with the book second later and drew back its stinger for a second strike. Wulfgar was the faster. His spiked iron mace tore through the imp's leathery flesh and blasted it off into the dark abyss below them.
"Uh . . . thank you, sir." The acolyte breathed falling back wearily against the pedastal from which he'd taken the book. "Thank you both." He told them. "If they'd retrieved this first, all would have been lost."
"Thank me. He let the imp through." Wulfgar said. He turn to guage their knight's reaction to his jest. He didn't see it because of the imp, but now he saw the spear like barb jutting from the knight's chest. The acolyte saw it a moment later. Their eyes moved to the knight's back. The barb was the tip of an enormous tail. The tail disappeared over the side and into the abyss.
"What . . ." The acolyte asked.
"Wyvern." Wulfgar whispered in sudden dread. As if his one word summoned it, the dragon face of the creature suddenly appeared from over the edge, back where the bridge began. Its claws ripped the stone like paper and with a quick flip, Vincent's impaled body flew off into the void.
"Protect the book." Wulgar commanded. "I'll buy you an opening. Protect that book."
"But?" The acolyte called out frantically. "I'm no warrior."
"I didn't say fight. I said protect the damn thing." Wulfgar bellowed. "Protect it." He repeated angrily, taking his mace in two hands and setting his feet to meet the wyvern's impending attack.
"I don't know how." The acolyte told him, hyperventilating. Wulfgar ignored him. He only had a mind for battle now. The wyvern's head snapped forward and Wulgar stepped to one side and brought his mace down on the thing's snouth.
The acolyte watched it all as if from somewhere else. The wyvern's barbed tail shot over Wulfgar's head and it was only Wulgar's reflexes that saved the young Waldo.
"Protect the book." Wulfgar told him calmly, smashing the barbed tail aside a second time. Waldo flipped open the book and began skimming the pages, looking for anything that would help him. He found it, but it required a blood sacrifice. These type of spells often did.
"I can use the book, but . . ." Waldo called.
"But nothing. Use it if you have to. Do whatever you have to, just keep the book away from them. Carr M'ayon must never possess it." He hammered at the tail and missed, taking a swipe from the wyvern's spur instead. Waldo could tell Wulfgar was overmatched. It would ten ten men as stalwart as Wulfgar to bring the beast down. He didn't like it, but he was commanded to act. He began to recite the spell and as he spoke, the glyphs inside the book glowed a fiery red. He reached the end the spell and did as Wulfgar bade. He seized a rock as big as his fist and rushed toward Wulfgar.
"Stay back." Wulfgar called. "It isn't safe up--" Waldo hit him in the back of the head with the stone, cracking the warrior's skull. Wulfgar staggered forward weak and dazed and slowly shuffled around to discover what had hit him. He saw the acolyte with the spell book open in one hand and a bloody stone in the other. "You?" Wulfgar whispered in confusion.
"You said to use the book." Waldo quailed, wondering if the giant warrior would charge him now.
"You?" Wulgar whispered again, slowly toppling over over into the dark. The wyvern's tail stabbed into the darkness like fishing gig in an attempt to spear the body of Wulfgar. It missed and turned its baleful eyes on Waldo. Waldo stared at the open book in dread and backed away in fear. He was happy when the wyvern missed the falling body. It wouldn't have been a sacrifice if something else killed the his sacrifice first.
The wyvern crept across the landing, skittering up the stairs in its eagerness. Waldo didn't know how far Wulfgar would have to fall before hitting bottom. The spell wouldn't be complete until Wulfgar was completely dead. The wyvern crested the steps and raced forward, its tail wagging back and forth over its head and poised to attack. Waldo fled, racing to the back of the platform. The wyvern was closing the distance and Waldo knew it was either jump into the void or be devoured by the beast. Waldo closed his eyes and leapt. The wyvern stabbed forward with its tail. The tail should have hit, but air around Waldo flared a bloody crimson and Waldo vanished into it. The wyvern screamed its terrible scream, shaking dust and stones from the cavern's walls and ceilings.
Waldo's feet collided with the ground, then his knees, then his face. He blinked his eyes at the brilliant brightness that was blinding him and spit out a mouthful of clover while he waited for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found himself on hillock overlooking a some sort of festival. There was a giant wheel of iron spinning in the center with people in buckets around its edge.
He surveyed his surroundings and saw a black river of stone to his left along which metal containers on black wheels transported people behind glass. He knew Carr M'ayon would be looking for him. She would follow the blood magic he'd just used. He needed to hide. He saw the massive crowd entering the gates of the festival below and realized that would be as good a place as any. He looked at the white smock he wore noticing the grass stained knees. He moved to brush it away and that's when he noticed the stripe. One single stripe crossed his chest, encircling his body.
He sighed. A red wizard's stripe. The purity of his white robe's were tainted. He felt like crying, because he knew there would be more stripes for him in the future. He would have to keep using the spell until he could be reunited with his order once more. Only with them would the book finally be beyond Carr M'ayon's reach. He blended with the crowd at the gate and tucked the book into a deep pocket in his robes. He moved forward till he reached the ticket booth.
"Welcome to the San Diego Fairgrounds," the kid at the ticket booth announced. "How many tickets?" He asked.
"Just me." The acolyte told him.
"I'll need seven dollars and twenty-five cents." The ticket master told him. Waldo shook his head uncertain how much that was and pulled a gold ingot the pouch the friars had given him.
"What is this?" The boy asked.
"Gold." Waldo replied. The boy looked at the gold ingot then the bespectacled boy then back at the gold.
"You're not from around here are you, are you?" The boy asked, wryly.
"No. Is that not enough?" Waldo asked, pulling another gold ingot from his pouch. The boy gave a half laugh and started to tell him that the first ingot was way to much, but then eyed the other gold ingot.
"Yeah. I can let you in for two." The boy told him. Waldo smiled and handed over his gold and hurried in to the fair and none too soon. A familiar crimson surge appeared on the hill where Waldo had first appeared. Carr M'ayon surveyed the crowds below and grimaced. Red wizard acolytes of her own began to appear out of the thin air. Their red striped robes signifying their various ranks. The more stripes, the more power they possessed.
"Get down there." Carr M'ayon commanded. "Find him," she ordered, "and get me my book." The acolytes wove their spells and disappeared, reappearing down in the crowd. Carr M'ayon watched the red striped acolytes spread throughout the crowd and groaned in frustration. It would take forever to find the one she sought. She sat down upon a stump and resigned herself to the task. She smoothed out her red robe and started looking for a man in a red and white stripped robe.
This was going to take a while.
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The twig-like young man sat silenty in the darkness. He held his breath, and let the air seep through his nostrils, slowly-- slower than his own heartbeat, for even a slip through, would mean it was over. His body scrunched against itself, his nape against the block behind him.
A subtle pair of clops rustled by his ears, before accelerating to a furious stomp. A series of doors slammed to and fro. The white and red fabrics of the skin-tight sweater began to strangle his body. With each passing second, he could feel his face become just as white as the stripes of his shirt, and his cheeks redden in the dark of the cluster.
'Do you know where he is?' A voice called out from a distance, a murmur it was to the man through the thin walls, but there was no response. An awry silence arose from outside, he could feel the tension slithering its way in, it was over. Now it was just a matter of time.
He shuffled himself over to a sharp corner, he sat perfectly straight, his head just below a wodden plate. Surrounded by plenty of objects just as large as him, he was safe, safe inside a prism of solitude, he thought to himself. He laid his round specs to the floor, and gave it a thorough rub, how long has he been here, once again, he though himself.
He thought to himself again, the countless times of isolation, to be forgotten, the dreadful darkness he soon seem became accustomed to. In a place, where the world could be cruel, to not be able to call out, to move, to be singled out, the only option was to to hide-- to hide from the brutality of the word. But maybe, just maybe, in this world he would be found and be--
His thoughts dissipated and his lips arched to a grin as a creek of a door slip by him, and a frivulous laughter waltzed in, that must of been the tension, he thought of moments ago. A silohuette of a girl with long strands and a tiger figurine cradled in one arm, and a greater silohuotte shrouded from behind, a sudden light followed pursuit.
'I found you daddy!' The cheerful glee exclaimed. The man ran his fingers through his eyes and put on his specs, the two silohuettes morphed into a beatiful blonde-haired wife and the glistening blue-eyed daughter.
He pounced up from his broken prism, to a wonderous warmth, tossing his daughter in the security of his arms,
'You did it! You found me!' He placed down the bundle of joy, and looked to the tall blonde, her face at the ridges of his nose,
'I found you too.' Smooth and creamy her voice sang. And her silky lips, pressed against his; to be found and to be loved.
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[WP] Why is Waldo hiding?
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In the middle of a crowd, a lone man stands there trying to hide the discomfort of his latest antics. The busy hustle and bustle of the streets helped him blend in with the masses, but it seems like every time he thinks he's in the clear, someone spots him. As he glances back and forth among the people, he slowly reaches behind him. Slipping his hands into the back pocket of his jeans, he grasps at the small jewel that's been his main focus for the past two years. A hidden gem created by the Wizard Whitebeard, its powers have the ability to grant its users a boost in their most efficient talents. This boost is said to increase their hidden talents tenfold.
Waldo knew that this was his one chance to become hidden from the world forever. His dream of everlasting invisibility was coming to fruition, and all it would take was the simple act of consuming the gem when the light sets beyond the horizon.
Waldo checked his pocketwatch, flipping open the cover to reveal an inscription scribbled inside its golden cover: "Where?". The message reminded him of his constant struggles, never being able to have a moment to himself, always being spotted by the cruel creators that breathed life into his lungs.
With only an hour left until night fell, Waldo sat on the cobblestone floor and pulled out an old photo of him and Wilma. He remembered all the good times he had with her, but he regretted not telling her how he felt. All of these feelings came rushing up, but he had to push it down as he recalled why he was doing this. The notoriety was too much for his friends to handle. Wilma left when she realized what Waldo was willing to do to remain hidden in the world. It was all he could do to choke back the tears that he's been holding in.
He slowly came back to reality, and realized that the sun was slowly setting. About a quarter of it was left, glaring at him over the horizon, almost as if it was daring him to do his worst. He put the gem into his mouth as he prepared to win this game of cat and moues once and for all. When the last glimmer of the sun submerged below the break of the sky, he hastily swallowed the jewel, preparing for the changes that would come over him in the next few seconds. Time felt like it slowed down, and Waldo could tell that the transformation was starting. He looked to his arms and legs and waited for them to slowly fade out from existence, becoming a specter among the billions of people that litter the Earth's surface. He waited and waited, but nothing seemed to happen.
He glanced down and with a startled yelp, he noticed that his skin was starting to glow. A bright red tint started oozing out of his skin, erupting into a shower of lights that danced across the night sky. He fell to his knees and grabbed his head in his hands. He wept and wept as he screamed out the name *"Handford"* in an almost guttural voice.
The jewel did what it was supposed to though, for his true talent was not to hide, but to be found, again and again.
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The twig-like young man sat silenty in the darkness. He held his breath, and let the air seep through his nostrils, slowly-- slower than his own heartbeat, for even a slip through, would mean it was over. His body scrunched against itself, his nape against the block behind him.
A subtle pair of clops rustled by his ears, before accelerating to a furious stomp. A series of doors slammed to and fro. The white and red fabrics of the skin-tight sweater began to strangle his body. With each passing second, he could feel his face become just as white as the stripes of his shirt, and his cheeks redden in the dark of the cluster.
'Do you know where he is?' A voice called out from a distance, a murmur it was to the man through the thin walls, but there was no response. An awry silence arose from outside, he could feel the tension slithering its way in, it was over. Now it was just a matter of time.
He shuffled himself over to a sharp corner, he sat perfectly straight, his head just below a wodden plate. Surrounded by plenty of objects just as large as him, he was safe, safe inside a prism of solitude, he thought to himself. He laid his round specs to the floor, and gave it a thorough rub, how long has he been here, once again, he though himself.
He thought to himself again, the countless times of isolation, to be forgotten, the dreadful darkness he soon seem became accustomed to. In a place, where the world could be cruel, to not be able to call out, to move, to be singled out, the only option was to to hide-- to hide from the brutality of the word. But maybe, just maybe, in this world he would be found and be--
His thoughts dissipated and his lips arched to a grin as a creek of a door slip by him, and a frivulous laughter waltzed in, that must of been the tension, he thought of moments ago. A silohuette of a girl with long strands and a tiger figurine cradled in one arm, and a greater silohuotte shrouded from behind, a sudden light followed pursuit.
'I found you daddy!' The cheerful glee exclaimed. The man ran his fingers through his eyes and put on his specs, the two silohuettes morphed into a beatiful blonde-haired wife and the glistening blue-eyed daughter.
He pounced up from his broken prism, to a wonderous warmth, tossing his daughter in the security of his arms,
'You did it! You found me!' He placed down the bundle of joy, and looked to the tall blonde, her face at the ridges of his nose,
'I found you too.' Smooth and creamy her voice sang. And her silky lips, pressed against his; to be found and to be loved.
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[WP] Why is Waldo hiding?
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Waldo heard the humming sound of the charging laser at the last second. He had only enough time to glance at the bright red light.
"Oh Sh--"
Waldo evaporated instantaneously. The immense heat melted the nearby statues, a man in a green coat and the happy couple walking a Dog. Their wax construction weak to the immense heat. Scorch marks from the laser stood out strongly against the city park surroundings.
"Hot Damn, nice shot David!" Gregory exclaimed, slapping his buddy on the back. "You spotted him in 12 seconds flat!" David felt proud of himself. He had been practicing and his vision seemed to be getting sharper.
"Thanks Gregory," David set his gun down against the console and grabbed the glass of scotch sitting next on it. He took a big, long swig. "Was thrown off by the guy holding the pinstriped blanket but I found the ol' devil." David looked out at his shot and admired his own marksmanship. "How long till next scene is built?"
Gregory glanced down from their floating hunter's tower at the thousands of small machines tore apart the wax sculptures and buildings. Their servos producing a gentle hum. A few cleaned up the smoking remains of Waldo. "Eh," Gregory paused, "only couple min' I reckon. They haven't grabbed a fresh 'W' yet." Some machines had started building palm trees and a beach chairs.
"Only 2 minutes? Now that is some fast, and quiet working. You clone in that time too?"
"Yes sir! I spend good money being part of this club. The grounds at Well-Martins club take a entire 10 minutes to rebuild a scene" Greggory sipped from his glass.
"Well Damn, let me know when you have another opening."
"Will do Gregory, I hear Xavier will be moving out of the country soon. I'll put in a good word for you at the next meeting." Greg and David sighed as the smooth scotch warmed their throats with each sip. Greg looked over the side of the banister "Ah, It appears as though they should be just about finished."
A gentle ding sounded as a large 'W' appeared on the console. "It is my turn now David, please keep quiet, can't be spooking our 'Waldo'"
Waldo stood still, it's the only thing he really knew. He could make out the beach around him, The Beach umbrella which partially covered the sun and his pinstriped shirt. He heard a sound, it was familiar to him but he couldn't quite pin it down.
The humming sound got louder. It clicked, Waldo knew what that sound was.
"Oh Shit."
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The twig-like young man sat silenty in the darkness. He held his breath, and let the air seep through his nostrils, slowly-- slower than his own heartbeat, for even a slip through, would mean it was over. His body scrunched against itself, his nape against the block behind him.
A subtle pair of clops rustled by his ears, before accelerating to a furious stomp. A series of doors slammed to and fro. The white and red fabrics of the skin-tight sweater began to strangle his body. With each passing second, he could feel his face become just as white as the stripes of his shirt, and his cheeks redden in the dark of the cluster.
'Do you know where he is?' A voice called out from a distance, a murmur it was to the man through the thin walls, but there was no response. An awry silence arose from outside, he could feel the tension slithering its way in, it was over. Now it was just a matter of time.
He shuffled himself over to a sharp corner, he sat perfectly straight, his head just below a wodden plate. Surrounded by plenty of objects just as large as him, he was safe, safe inside a prism of solitude, he thought to himself. He laid his round specs to the floor, and gave it a thorough rub, how long has he been here, once again, he though himself.
He thought to himself again, the countless times of isolation, to be forgotten, the dreadful darkness he soon seem became accustomed to. In a place, where the world could be cruel, to not be able to call out, to move, to be singled out, the only option was to to hide-- to hide from the brutality of the word. But maybe, just maybe, in this world he would be found and be--
His thoughts dissipated and his lips arched to a grin as a creek of a door slip by him, and a frivulous laughter waltzed in, that must of been the tension, he thought of moments ago. A silohuette of a girl with long strands and a tiger figurine cradled in one arm, and a greater silohuotte shrouded from behind, a sudden light followed pursuit.
'I found you daddy!' The cheerful glee exclaimed. The man ran his fingers through his eyes and put on his specs, the two silohuettes morphed into a beatiful blonde-haired wife and the glistening blue-eyed daughter.
He pounced up from his broken prism, to a wonderous warmth, tossing his daughter in the security of his arms,
'You did it! You found me!' He placed down the bundle of joy, and looked to the tall blonde, her face at the ridges of his nose,
'I found you too.' Smooth and creamy her voice sang. And her silky lips, pressed against his; to be found and to be loved.
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[WP] Why is Waldo hiding?
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"Goddammit Waldo."
"What?"
"What are you wearing? You look ridiculous."
Waldo adjusted his beanie and looked down at his red and white striped sweater.
"Come on man they're just blue jeans."
"Very funny. With the glasses I'd even say you look creepy."
Max began walking down the stairs.
"Are you coming? They're waiting for us at the bar."
Waldo locked his door and inspected his reflection in the windowpane for a moment. He shrugged and they began making their way down 8th Avenue.
"I really don't see what's wrong with the sweater."
"You look like a damn candy cane. For God's sake your hat even matches."
"Ella likes this outfit."
"I could pick you out in a stadium full of people, from the blimp. That's how goofy you look."
"I doubt it, tons of people have sweaters like this."
"No, they really don't. I bet I could find you anywhere in the world if you stay dressed like that."
Max tugged at Waldo's sleeve.
"And if I win I get to burn that sweater."
"And if I win?"
"I'll buy you beer for the rest of your life."
"Really?"
"Sure. But you can only hide in public places. Don't worry I'll find you. Those stripes really stand out."
"Good luck. You're on."
Max laughed as Waldo climbed into a cab.
"Say goodbye to that sweater!"
Waldo was in Panama when he realized that they had never specified how long he had to hide to win the bet.
Some say he's still hiding...
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The twig-like young man sat silenty in the darkness. He held his breath, and let the air seep through his nostrils, slowly-- slower than his own heartbeat, for even a slip through, would mean it was over. His body scrunched against itself, his nape against the block behind him.
A subtle pair of clops rustled by his ears, before accelerating to a furious stomp. A series of doors slammed to and fro. The white and red fabrics of the skin-tight sweater began to strangle his body. With each passing second, he could feel his face become just as white as the stripes of his shirt, and his cheeks redden in the dark of the cluster.
'Do you know where he is?' A voice called out from a distance, a murmur it was to the man through the thin walls, but there was no response. An awry silence arose from outside, he could feel the tension slithering its way in, it was over. Now it was just a matter of time.
He shuffled himself over to a sharp corner, he sat perfectly straight, his head just below a wodden plate. Surrounded by plenty of objects just as large as him, he was safe, safe inside a prism of solitude, he thought to himself. He laid his round specs to the floor, and gave it a thorough rub, how long has he been here, once again, he though himself.
He thought to himself again, the countless times of isolation, to be forgotten, the dreadful darkness he soon seem became accustomed to. In a place, where the world could be cruel, to not be able to call out, to move, to be singled out, the only option was to to hide-- to hide from the brutality of the word. But maybe, just maybe, in this world he would be found and be--
His thoughts dissipated and his lips arched to a grin as a creek of a door slip by him, and a frivulous laughter waltzed in, that must of been the tension, he thought of moments ago. A silohuette of a girl with long strands and a tiger figurine cradled in one arm, and a greater silohuotte shrouded from behind, a sudden light followed pursuit.
'I found you daddy!' The cheerful glee exclaimed. The man ran his fingers through his eyes and put on his specs, the two silohuettes morphed into a beatiful blonde-haired wife and the glistening blue-eyed daughter.
He pounced up from his broken prism, to a wonderous warmth, tossing his daughter in the security of his arms,
'You did it! You found me!' He placed down the bundle of joy, and looked to the tall blonde, her face at the ridges of his nose,
'I found you too.' Smooth and creamy her voice sang. And her silky lips, pressed against his; to be found and to be loved.
|
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