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[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | They say you die twice, one time when you stop breathing and a second time when somebody says your name for the last time; in this my mother is still alive. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | She broke my heart, as I headed off to war, with a single whispered, "Goodbye, Daddy." | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | "And she didn't say it back." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | They say you die twice, one time when you stop breathing and a second time when somebody says your name for the last time; in this my mother is still alive. | You just never really mattered. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | You just never really mattered. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | You just never really mattered. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | They say you die twice, one time when you stop breathing and a second time when somebody says your name for the last time; in this my mother is still alive. | You're just like your father. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | You're just like your father. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | You're just like your father. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | They say you die twice, one time when you stop breathing and a second time when somebody says your name for the last time; in this my mother is still alive. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | She broke my heart, as I headed off to war, with a single whispered, "Goodbye, Daddy." | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | You told me that you hadn’t died, but when I tried to explain this to your dad, I realised I was mad. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | They say you die twice, one time when you stop breathing and a second time when somebody says your name for the last time; in this my mother is still alive. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | She broke my heart, as I headed off to war, with a single whispered, "Goodbye, Daddy." | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | She told me she had cancer, that space would be best, I don't think his name is Cancer. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | She broke my heart, as I headed off to war, with a single whispered, "Goodbye, Daddy." | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | I realized I would have to spend the rest of my life dreaming of ways to die, just so I could see her face again. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | The day I no longer recognized him was a thousand times worse than the day he no longer recognized me. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | She broke my heart, as I headed off to war, with a single whispered, "Goodbye, Daddy." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | She broke my heart, as I headed off to war, with a single whispered, "Goodbye, Daddy." | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | The ice cream for the orphans was covered in ants. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | All the most beautiful things must come to an end, no matter how unfair it is. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Everyone has a someone, it just so happens mine had someone else. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | Belief betrays everyone. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | It wasn't the sting of watching of her drift away that kept me up at night, but, rather, it was the pain of knowing I did everything I could and still fell short. | Killing yourself won't bring anyone back. | |
[FF] Break my heart in a sentence. | I jumped off the bridge, then changed my mind. | Belief betrays everyone. | |
[WP] A genie grants 3 wishes to someone with the condition that the person they hate receives twice the same. It can't be used to harm them. You're the 'hated person' and you have no idea what's going on... | I woke up, got ready, and prepared to go to work. But I decided to turn on the TV first, just to see what traffic might be like. I was greeted with a view of my front door as they read off the breaking news that I had just inherited trillions of dollars from multiple, anonymous sources. I was now the richest man in the universe apparently. In disbelief I logged into my bank account. $10,000,000 sat in my checking account. My mouth hung ajar. Apparently that was literally like a penny to me. Answering just one of the many phone calls I had received over night, I found out that I had enough money to literally buy the USA, Russia, and China. And that would just be a drop in the bucket for me.
Opting to do the sane thing I stayed in the house all day, calling work and telling my boss to shove it as I quit. He kind of saw it coming though in all fairness, what with my wealth now making me an instant celebrity.
Surprisingly the media never got into my small 3 bedroom house. And so I curled up on my bed and watched some much needed Netflix, catching up on some shows I hadn’t seen for awhile. It was a pretty good time too. But as I laughed at the man berating the other man, calling him girl names and stretching his syllables, I realized I was floating above my bed. In fact, I suddenly realized I knew how to fly. Which was pretty damn cool. But it still meant it would take some amount of time to go grab a beer from the fridge. Poof! In an instant I was in front of my fridge. I grabbed a beer. Poof! I was back on my bed. Teleportation!
At this point I was pretty sure life had gotten as good as it could get. As the night came and I finished dinner, I decided it would be a good idea to take a shower, just in case I had to talk to some of the media for some reason. As I hopped out into the steamy bathroom, I heard my cell ring. I picked it up.
“Hey George,” a woman said from the other end.
“Who’s this?” I asked while drying myself off.
“Your sister-in-law of course,” she replied. “Your brother doesn’t know I’m calling, but I think it would be a really good idea if you two got together. Time to bury the hatchet.”
“I’m a bit busy at the moment,” I said. This was total bullshit. My brother didn’t have a wife. You’d think the media was smarter than that.
“I’ll talk to you later then,” she said before hanging up the phone.
I walked out back to my bedroom. On my bed were two beautiful women, both smiling and waving me over. I was about to ask who they were when I remembered. They were my soulmates. I hadn’t even realized a person could have two soulmates. Apparently I did. I smiled at them, then picked up my phone and called one of my lawyers I now had working for me.
“Is polygamy legal?” I asked. I apparently had two wives now.
“Yes sir,” the lawyer said. “Well, at least for you. Your friend the President pulled some strings and you are legally allowed to have two wives.”
“The President’s my friend?”
“Yes sir,” the lawyer replied.
“Cool, thanks.”
I hung up the phone and sat on the bed with my two wives. I still have no clue what is happening. But I have two wives, all the money in the universe, and the ability to fly and teleport. I’m not sure I care. But if all this weird stuff is happening, perhaps that woman was my sister-in-law. I hadn’t seen my brother since the holidays and it was about time we got together again. He just always seems grumpy every time we’re together, but I’ve got no clue why.
-334 | Like any day in December, it felt like it could snow any second. My steps were stiff, and there was gum stuck to the bottom of my left shoe. Not a great start. My suit was starchy as well. It clung to my shoulders and made my tie scratch my throat. That's when it started to rain.
I sat down under the glass cover near the bus stop. The car came on time, which was a blessing. Very few were on the bus today... am I forgetting something? It'll be nice to avoid stares today. I look over to a man with a stiffer suit and starker demeanor. He sits beside me. "All clear, sir".
My hands lay pressed against my suitcase. What people didn't know, was that today it was entirely empty. It had been for weeks. Doesn't matter, only a few more until my inevitable promotion. Just keep up appearances. Speak confidently. The littler people know, the littler they become. Let's keep things that way.
This rain is growing intense. My driver needs to slow down. "careful Jeff". As it decellerates, we begin to hydroplane along our street, and a bit off the side. Sometimes nature works against great men. No one's god will stop me. I have work to give, after all. That's what they need. Jobs. Work. That's what freedom is all about.
My new office is just down the corridor. I hope the coffee's ready. Wow It's really pouring out there. Perhaps I should check the weather.
"Record precipitation around Puskatawn County, which may cause some floods due to the drought from the last two weeks. Hold on. Our Doppler is just picking up a massive storm over Washington. Businesses and officials are being prompted to leave as soon as necessary. The city is flooding. The capitol is-"
A dried piece of gum floats beneath my desk. The heavy, wooden door across my office is creaking. Oh.
"this was news 20, thanks for tuning in."
The phone rings.
"Honey! I have amazing news! They said twins! Please let me know when you can get here. I love you so much. Bye!"
My heart is beating its way out of me. My fingers nervously fiddle with the lock on my briefcase. Twins. That shouldn't have happened. Those were just stomach cramps yesterday.
The water waves the phone from my desk. I suppose it's time to snap out of it. After wading across my office, the door busts open. My... Boss? I guess he's my boss. Why is he just standing there? Help me get out of here! His brows are shaking. His face is red and stoney. That's when I notice it. Sets of Benjamin's floating out of my briefcase.
Well. How about that.
"It's not what you think, Barry-O!" | |
[WP] A genie grants 3 wishes to someone with the condition that the person they hate receives twice the same. It can't be used to harm them. You're the 'hated person' and you have no idea what's going on... | I fell to the ground in shock when I won the lottery that day, 100 million in Powerball, the 1st and only time I played,
When my family and I went in for our annual physicals we were all shocked again to find every minor nagging health complainant had vanished and we had the bodies of the best pro athletes young and strong,
As we sat home dazed by our impossible good fortune there was a knock at the door. My old best friend was there we had parted in hate many years ago . I looked at him, sharp words on my lips.
He smiled and said "I wish to forgive my old best friend."
And we embraced.
| Like any day in December, it felt like it could snow any second. My steps were stiff, and there was gum stuck to the bottom of my left shoe. Not a great start. My suit was starchy as well. It clung to my shoulders and made my tie scratch my throat. That's when it started to rain.
I sat down under the glass cover near the bus stop. The car came on time, which was a blessing. Very few were on the bus today... am I forgetting something? It'll be nice to avoid stares today. I look over to a man with a stiffer suit and starker demeanor. He sits beside me. "All clear, sir".
My hands lay pressed against my suitcase. What people didn't know, was that today it was entirely empty. It had been for weeks. Doesn't matter, only a few more until my inevitable promotion. Just keep up appearances. Speak confidently. The littler people know, the littler they become. Let's keep things that way.
This rain is growing intense. My driver needs to slow down. "careful Jeff". As it decellerates, we begin to hydroplane along our street, and a bit off the side. Sometimes nature works against great men. No one's god will stop me. I have work to give, after all. That's what they need. Jobs. Work. That's what freedom is all about.
My new office is just down the corridor. I hope the coffee's ready. Wow It's really pouring out there. Perhaps I should check the weather.
"Record precipitation around Puskatawn County, which may cause some floods due to the drought from the last two weeks. Hold on. Our Doppler is just picking up a massive storm over Washington. Businesses and officials are being prompted to leave as soon as necessary. The city is flooding. The capitol is-"
A dried piece of gum floats beneath my desk. The heavy, wooden door across my office is creaking. Oh.
"this was news 20, thanks for tuning in."
The phone rings.
"Honey! I have amazing news! They said twins! Please let me know when you can get here. I love you so much. Bye!"
My heart is beating its way out of me. My fingers nervously fiddle with the lock on my briefcase. Twins. That shouldn't have happened. Those were just stomach cramps yesterday.
The water waves the phone from my desk. I suppose it's time to snap out of it. After wading across my office, the door busts open. My... Boss? I guess he's my boss. Why is he just standing there? Help me get out of here! His brows are shaking. His face is red and stoney. That's when I notice it. Sets of Benjamin's floating out of my briefcase.
Well. How about that.
"It's not what you think, Barry-O!" | |
[WP] A genie grants 3 wishes to someone with the condition that the person they hate receives twice the same. It can't be used to harm them. You're the 'hated person' and you have no idea what's going on... | "I have fucked up my life beyond repair. Even 3 wishes, no matter what they are couldn't make things right. However, I would like for my children to be happy. Is that too vague?"
"Not at all."
"Next, I would like for my wife to forget I ever existed. She hasn't been able to move on after what she's been through. I would simply wish for her to be happy, but I know that is impossible while holding on to my memory"
"It is done"
"Lastly, now that my affairs are in order, I would like to die. I have wanted this for a long time, but I am a coward. Please do this for me and we can both go in peace"
"I thought I made it clear that you cannot use your wishes to harm the person you hate. You've got 7 more wishes. I don't have all day."
Edit: I can't read for shit and thought the prompt was that the person you hate gets twice as many wishes. Sorry. | Like any day in December, it felt like it could snow any second. My steps were stiff, and there was gum stuck to the bottom of my left shoe. Not a great start. My suit was starchy as well. It clung to my shoulders and made my tie scratch my throat. That's when it started to rain.
I sat down under the glass cover near the bus stop. The car came on time, which was a blessing. Very few were on the bus today... am I forgetting something? It'll be nice to avoid stares today. I look over to a man with a stiffer suit and starker demeanor. He sits beside me. "All clear, sir".
My hands lay pressed against my suitcase. What people didn't know, was that today it was entirely empty. It had been for weeks. Doesn't matter, only a few more until my inevitable promotion. Just keep up appearances. Speak confidently. The littler people know, the littler they become. Let's keep things that way.
This rain is growing intense. My driver needs to slow down. "careful Jeff". As it decellerates, we begin to hydroplane along our street, and a bit off the side. Sometimes nature works against great men. No one's god will stop me. I have work to give, after all. That's what they need. Jobs. Work. That's what freedom is all about.
My new office is just down the corridor. I hope the coffee's ready. Wow It's really pouring out there. Perhaps I should check the weather.
"Record precipitation around Puskatawn County, which may cause some floods due to the drought from the last two weeks. Hold on. Our Doppler is just picking up a massive storm over Washington. Businesses and officials are being prompted to leave as soon as necessary. The city is flooding. The capitol is-"
A dried piece of gum floats beneath my desk. The heavy, wooden door across my office is creaking. Oh.
"this was news 20, thanks for tuning in."
The phone rings.
"Honey! I have amazing news! They said twins! Please let me know when you can get here. I love you so much. Bye!"
My heart is beating its way out of me. My fingers nervously fiddle with the lock on my briefcase. Twins. That shouldn't have happened. Those were just stomach cramps yesterday.
The water waves the phone from my desk. I suppose it's time to snap out of it. After wading across my office, the door busts open. My... Boss? I guess he's my boss. Why is he just standing there? Help me get out of here! His brows are shaking. His face is red and stoney. That's when I notice it. Sets of Benjamin's floating out of my briefcase.
Well. How about that.
"It's not what you think, Barry-O!" | |
[WP] A genie grants 3 wishes to someone with the condition that the person they hate receives twice the same. It can't be used to harm them. You're the 'hated person' and you have no idea what's going on... | I fell to the ground in shock when I won the lottery that day, 100 million in Powerball, the 1st and only time I played,
When my family and I went in for our annual physicals we were all shocked again to find every minor nagging health complainant had vanished and we had the bodies of the best pro athletes young and strong,
As we sat home dazed by our impossible good fortune there was a knock at the door. My old best friend was there we had parted in hate many years ago . I looked at him, sharp words on my lips.
He smiled and said "I wish to forgive my old best friend."
And we embraced.
| I woke up, got ready, and prepared to go to work. But I decided to turn on the TV first, just to see what traffic might be like. I was greeted with a view of my front door as they read off the breaking news that I had just inherited trillions of dollars from multiple, anonymous sources. I was now the richest man in the universe apparently. In disbelief I logged into my bank account. $10,000,000 sat in my checking account. My mouth hung ajar. Apparently that was literally like a penny to me. Answering just one of the many phone calls I had received over night, I found out that I had enough money to literally buy the USA, Russia, and China. And that would just be a drop in the bucket for me.
Opting to do the sane thing I stayed in the house all day, calling work and telling my boss to shove it as I quit. He kind of saw it coming though in all fairness, what with my wealth now making me an instant celebrity.
Surprisingly the media never got into my small 3 bedroom house. And so I curled up on my bed and watched some much needed Netflix, catching up on some shows I hadn’t seen for awhile. It was a pretty good time too. But as I laughed at the man berating the other man, calling him girl names and stretching his syllables, I realized I was floating above my bed. In fact, I suddenly realized I knew how to fly. Which was pretty damn cool. But it still meant it would take some amount of time to go grab a beer from the fridge. Poof! In an instant I was in front of my fridge. I grabbed a beer. Poof! I was back on my bed. Teleportation!
At this point I was pretty sure life had gotten as good as it could get. As the night came and I finished dinner, I decided it would be a good idea to take a shower, just in case I had to talk to some of the media for some reason. As I hopped out into the steamy bathroom, I heard my cell ring. I picked it up.
“Hey George,” a woman said from the other end.
“Who’s this?” I asked while drying myself off.
“Your sister-in-law of course,” she replied. “Your brother doesn’t know I’m calling, but I think it would be a really good idea if you two got together. Time to bury the hatchet.”
“I’m a bit busy at the moment,” I said. This was total bullshit. My brother didn’t have a wife. You’d think the media was smarter than that.
“I’ll talk to you later then,” she said before hanging up the phone.
I walked out back to my bedroom. On my bed were two beautiful women, both smiling and waving me over. I was about to ask who they were when I remembered. They were my soulmates. I hadn’t even realized a person could have two soulmates. Apparently I did. I smiled at them, then picked up my phone and called one of my lawyers I now had working for me.
“Is polygamy legal?” I asked. I apparently had two wives now.
“Yes sir,” the lawyer said. “Well, at least for you. Your friend the President pulled some strings and you are legally allowed to have two wives.”
“The President’s my friend?”
“Yes sir,” the lawyer replied.
“Cool, thanks.”
I hung up the phone and sat on the bed with my two wives. I still have no clue what is happening. But I have two wives, all the money in the universe, and the ability to fly and teleport. I’m not sure I care. But if all this weird stuff is happening, perhaps that woman was my sister-in-law. I hadn’t seen my brother since the holidays and it was about time we got together again. He just always seems grumpy every time we’re together, but I’ve got no clue why.
-334 | |
[WP]: Write an ode to the greatness of the insignificance of a life in the grand scheme of the universe. | The universe gets on just fine without
my arrogant insistence that it bend
to the will of one who has lawns to mow
and, frankly, beer to drink at day's end.
Me? Soar on imagination's wings? or
make the world more pleasing to my eye?
No! There are carpets and dishes uncleaned yet,
and this is meat more fitting to my plate.
Let me be, I did not ask to be great. | A flash of the screen;
A blink of the eye.
As fleeting as an infant's cry.
A grain of sand in the river of time,
One with the current;
No rhythm nor rhyme.
So brief this life;
So swift this tide.
Why should we fear pain or strife? | |
[WP]: Write an ode to the greatness of the insignificance of a life in the grand scheme of the universe. | *She gazed at heaven and rebuked the Lord.*
*“How can you torment them so?”*
*God stilled and rose to speak to her,*
*“Do you think they’ve nothing to show?”*
“True, men forge stars that fade,
And the dreams of women will die,
You care only for the end of time
When all come back to the sky.”
*“You are young, my first-born,*
*And so much is left unseen,*
*You do not see the greatness*
*That happens in between.”*
| Oh but a life is significant
One in a billion
A drop of blue in the vastness of *space*
One star of a trillion
That supports the only thing you **know**. | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | It's been my whole life I've been hearing those numbers. I remember them beeing once over 50 million. They count down, one every ten seconds. I've learn to live with it, most of the time I don't even hear it anymore, but every evening, when I lay in bed, I can hear them clearly in my head. They don't scare me, they never have. They bring me at ease when my mind is troubled, a never ending constant in my live.
I haven't told a lot of people about it. I told it a couple of times to my parents, but they always got that concerned look on there faces, so I don't mention it a lot. Also any friends I told thought I was a weirdo, so I stopt mentioning it. Now, they're just mine. My countdown.
A long time ago, I calculated when they were going to run out. It was the 6th of December 2014. Later I discovered that I missed a couple of leap days, so the date was recalculated to the 4th of December, 2.24 am. When that date would be reached, I would already be a big man, already 22 years old.
I'm a big man now, and the clock is ticking down. The last year, I've recalculated more then was reasonable, and the date never changed. Now, the final countdown has set in.
I'm not scared, I never was. I am nervous though, and curious. I mean, something has to happen, right? I've tried to lay a bit on my bed, but sleeping is out of the question. My dorm room was not big enough for my nervousness, so now I am here, on top of a dyke that forms a small lake in the river. Technically I'm trespassing, but who cares anyway.
15
The number resonates in my head. It seems louder then usual, but I guess that's just my perception.
14
Just me, here, watching over the water, watching the stars.
13
Is it just me, or is that one star on the left becoming brighter?
12
Hum..
11
Yes, it is becoming brighter.
10
I guess it has something to do with me. The timing seems perfect.
9
Would other people be seeing it?
8
I'm getting the feeling it is going to overshoot me.
7
Tracking that thing down in the forest will probably suck. I mean, I don't even know what it is.
6
Nevermind, it's slowing down. It'll be a perfect aim.
5
Still curious about what it will be though.
4
Getting closer
3
and closer
2
SPLASH. With suprisingly low impact, the meteor crashed into the lake making a little bit of steam well up. There are still more then 10 seconds left though.
1
A couple of ripples in the water, and a small cat emerged who immediately started walking directly towards me. I'm hunkering down, looking it in the eyes, trying to comprehend what all of this means when it talked: "Hi, I'm here to serve you."
It's voice was gentle, but with a hint of power to come.
null | After thousands of numbers. The same voice has spoken One number every day. Counting down. At first, I thought it was about death, although it may as well be.
It can't remember when was the first time I noticed the number. I just thought I was hearing things. It doesn't matter anyways, day 1 is today. I have accepted that my life ends tomorrow.
The inevitable is coming, Death does not scare me. Continuing to be alive is what has become terrifying. I do not know what comes after I die, but I will welcome that unknown.
As the time approaches, I get up from my desk and walk out of the building. I look at my watch, the last minute until the last day. The moment when that voice speaks to me. The long needle hits the 12.
"I love you" She says.
With my face covered in tears, I reply:
" I love you, too." | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | It was a feminine voice. The countdown, I mean. Very early in life I was able to distinguish that it was less like my father's grunts and more similar to mother's lilt. Soft. Melodic. Soothing. My parents were duly impressed that as a baby my first words were numbers, not "Mama" or "no" as is common. They were certain I was a gifted genius, a miracle. There was understandable disappointment at the results of the tests I took as a toddler: average. In no identifiable way gifted but for a habit of mimicking numbers. They loved me just the same.
No one ever noticed that I said them all in descending order.
There was a brief time when I was around age six (662,695,446) that my folks took me to see the child psychologist. They had become a little disturbed by my habit of chanting numbers to myself. It was usually while I was playing alone, counting down in the way that other children would sing or just blurt out the bizarre scripts in their heads. The doctor found nothing wrong. Another diagnosis of normal. Just an anomaly. But that's when I learned that the numbers were bad to say out loud. It made others uncomfortable, irritated. Everyone had them, I was sure, but they were supposed to keep it to themselves. A minor adjustment for the rubber mind of a child.
When I was twelve I was at a friend's sleepover. We were up late and talking about the very serious things that early teens talk about. Sports, school, cars we pined for, how girls had become attractive to us. This shared intimacy seemed like a good time to talk to the other boys about their own countdowns. I desperately wanted to break the taboo, as all boys occasionally do. I asked in confidential tones where their numbers were at. Mine was, at that moment, counting from 473,353,890. Blank stares became looks of concern became laughter. Suddenly I understood that I was a bit different after all, and that difference meant ridicule and shame if I didn't keep it to myself. By the time high school rolled around, everyone had been overtaken by hormones and the incident and its attendant teasing were blissfully forgotten.
Like most kids, I began experimenting with drugs and alcohol around then. The counting had always perplexed me in varying degrees but it had been such a constant through my life that I never really gave its genesis much thought, much the same as I had never questioned the existence of my right hand. But my expanding mind, brought on by learning, maturity, and illicit substances, changed that. I became determined to find the source of those dulcet figures.
My educational path through university was a search for the answer. Maths and psychology were my dual majors. I sought out obscure mathematical theories dealing with sequential numbering. While it was common enough to find ideas on patterns and commonalities in numbers, nothing I unearthed ever came close to explaining the why's of progression itself. It was a wholly arbitrary abstract that gave logical sequence to things other than ourselves. Nothing more.
Psychology was slightly more fruitful. The literature was gushing with studies on counting phenomena. Obsessive compulsive disorders, severe autism, schizophrenia... the list was long and somewhat troubling. While they all had commonalities, nothing in particular ever quite matched up. Socially, I was well adjusted. I maintained genuine and healthy relationships with family, friends, and lovers. There were no sudden emotional outbursts. I displayed no other signs of compulsion or psychosis. Even my quest to find answers was more scholarly than obsessive. Finally, I resigned myself to the same conclusion others had reached: Normal. Just one little anomaly.
In the months leading up to graduation, a wonderful woman and a promising opportunity entered my life. The search for an answer to the countdown had been unfulfilling and without result, so I chose to ignore it as best I could and get on with living. My work was challenging and satisfying. My relationship even more so. We lived a good, average life, with all the attendant ups and downs.
All the while, the woman's voice continued counting and the number dwindled. She was gradually becoming impossible to ignore. Still soft and soothing, but more insistent. Shutting her out was no longer an option. When she reached 63,113,852, I started to become paranoid. I was skilled enough in basic arithmetic to understand that 0 was coming. Soon. Sooner than I could take.
A desperate search began. A frantic devotion to what the numbers meant and what they were leading me to. My career shrank in importance until it faded altogether. I spent more and more weeks and months staying at home in the whiteboard-walled office I had created to collect and curate all of my theories on what the numbers were getting at. Sprawling diagrams and calculations filled every inch of space, as did my mania.
When my fiancé finally had enough, it took me several days to realize she had left.
For nearly two years I toiled, and for nothing. I imagine that the fates were laughing at me as all of my compulsive searching for 0 ironically led me nowhere at all. Staring frenetically at my walls, I came to the understanding that there was no meaning to be found. I had wasted my final seconds in consumptive fixation.
At two weeks from 0 desperation gave way to acceptance. The voice sounded as though she were right next to me now, this time as companion rather than reaper. I called the people I had failed. Apologies were made and graciously, if with some trepidation, received. Plans for reconnection were made. I arranged to meet for drinks in the countdown's final moments. I would face my possible end with people that cared about me and, preferably, a drink in my hand. I had no idea what lay on the far side of null, but it no longer held the same terror it once did. 259,200 was strangely soothing to hear.
My calm gave me new confidence, and my friends remarked on it immediately. We warmly joked and spoke as only old comrades can. My round came, coinciding with the last few ticks of my clock. Her voice, my constant companion through life, came with me to the bar.
6...
5...
Finally, an answer to a lifelong question.
4...
Peace in finally knowing. Whatever it may be. Life or death, I stood ready.
3...
2...
I held my breath.
"One."
Her voice, *THE* voice, suddenly external, startled me. I whipped around to face its source. "I beg your pardon?!"
The voice I had forever heard was now silent in my mind, and instead unmistakably issued forth from the most perfect mouth I had ever seen. It was framed by red curls, a slight nose, and playful, incandescent eyes.
"I said, I'm getting myself another drink, can I buy you one?"
| After thousands of numbers. The same voice has spoken One number every day. Counting down. At first, I thought it was about death, although it may as well be.
It can't remember when was the first time I noticed the number. I just thought I was hearing things. It doesn't matter anyways, day 1 is today. I have accepted that my life ends tomorrow.
The inevitable is coming, Death does not scare me. Continuing to be alive is what has become terrifying. I do not know what comes after I die, but I will welcome that unknown.
As the time approaches, I get up from my desk and walk out of the building. I look at my watch, the last minute until the last day. The moment when that voice speaks to me. The long needle hits the 12.
"I love you" She says.
With my face covered in tears, I reply:
" I love you, too." | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | It would speak to me, counting down from two million to zero. I've heard it ever since I was little and able to comprehend it. It just counted; I always looked around to see if people were speaking to me. No one ever was; if they were, it would overlap with the counting.
I used to explain it as a voice. I told my parents when I was younger.
"Mommy... Someone is speaking to me..." I would tell them. They would act confused and innocent, asking what they were saying.
I'd just say, "Numbers."
As a child, I was frightened by them. I continued to ask my parents about the voice inside my head. It got to a point where they were genuinely concerned for my well-being. They started to think I was no longer mentally stable. They took me to several doctors and psychiatrists.
I told the professionals about what I was hearing as if I was hoping, myself, that they could cure it. They just told my parents that I was just seeking attention like a child would. There was nothing wrong with my head nor my body. Everything was fine.
Over the years as I grew up, my parents continued to take me to see different doctors or psychiatrists. The voice in my head eventually grew normal to me. It was just background noise now. I stopped complaining about it and my parents stopped taking me to see professionals. They thought I was normal again. However, the voice was still there and the number was getting lower.
By the time I left home for college, the voice was at 1 million. I was 20 at the time. I skipped college for two years to be able to pay for tuition when I started up for the first time. Throughout my college life, I got along fine with the voice in my head. I still didn't worry too much about it as it was still just a background noise. However, I did have a single wonder what would happen if it got to zero.
I reached my senior of college. I was ready to graduate, had a wonderful relationship with this gal, and had a job lined up for afterwards. My life was turning out great. However, the voice still counted down, but now... it started getting faster.
It was at 750,000 when it did. It just started to count faster. The numbers were falling out of the voice as they almost muddled together. It was getting hard to understand him.
By finals week, it was at 500,000. Luckily, they didn't bother me when taking my finals, but I was still anxious. The small thought of what happened at zero grew larger in my mind as the speed picked up. What was going to happen? Will I die?
The next week the voice was at 250,000. It seemed like it was at a constant speed now, so I started to get used to it again. Then Sunday night passed and it was Monday morning, I woke up and I noticed something. The voice was speaking incredibly fast and in the span of one night, it had jumped from 250,000 to 50,000.
The voice was going so fast that it was almost to 10,000 after the few seconds of waking up. I was genuinely scared again. I ran out of my room, almost waking up my girlfriend on the bedside next to me. I quickly ran to our phone as I dialed 9-1-1. I was panicking. The police, the hospital, someone had to be able to help me. This couldn't be a specific case to only me.
Thoughts raced through my mind on what would happen when it hit zero. I didn't want to die. I just wanted it to disappear. I wanted it to go away. I didn't want it to hit zero. I dialed 9-1-1 as the phone rang and I waited for the operator. I waited and I waited. The counting was getting closer and closer to zero.
10.
*Ring*
9.
*Ring.*
8.
*Ring.*
7.
*Ring.*
6.
*Ring.*
5.
*Ring.*
4.
*Ring.*
3.
*Ring.*
2.
*Ring.*
1.
"Hello... You've dialed 9-1-1. What is your emergency?"
...
"Hello?" | My sweaty hands can't grip the railing. My heart volleys in my chest. An electric current rises from my gut every so often, pulsing through my skin and making little hairs everywhere stand on end. Oh, and the countdown I've heard in my head all my life is rapidly sinking.
*Ten*
A fleeting image of a tall, handsome man dressed in black, as he'd promised.
*Nine*
He walks out of the terminal gate.
*Eight*
He walks in the opposite direction to the gate and vanishes among a crowd.
*Seven*
*Six*
*Five*
He emerges, his eyes darting around the sparse reception area.
*Four*
I pick up my bags with strength I never knew I had and run to the gate.
*Three*
My ears pick up faint beats in my head. What's this now?
*Two*
I turn. He turns.
*One*
My heart does a somersault. His blue eyes meet mine.
*Zero*
My head is now blaring music. **Here comes your man...**
And ten days later, as I wave goodbye to him, the countdown begins again. *1,000...* | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | It was a feminine voice. The countdown, I mean. Very early in life I was able to distinguish that it was less like my father's grunts and more similar to mother's lilt. Soft. Melodic. Soothing. My parents were duly impressed that as a baby my first words were numbers, not "Mama" or "no" as is common. They were certain I was a gifted genius, a miracle. There was understandable disappointment at the results of the tests I took as a toddler: average. In no identifiable way gifted but for a habit of mimicking numbers. They loved me just the same.
No one ever noticed that I said them all in descending order.
There was a brief time when I was around age six (662,695,446) that my folks took me to see the child psychologist. They had become a little disturbed by my habit of chanting numbers to myself. It was usually while I was playing alone, counting down in the way that other children would sing or just blurt out the bizarre scripts in their heads. The doctor found nothing wrong. Another diagnosis of normal. Just an anomaly. But that's when I learned that the numbers were bad to say out loud. It made others uncomfortable, irritated. Everyone had them, I was sure, but they were supposed to keep it to themselves. A minor adjustment for the rubber mind of a child.
When I was twelve I was at a friend's sleepover. We were up late and talking about the very serious things that early teens talk about. Sports, school, cars we pined for, how girls had become attractive to us. This shared intimacy seemed like a good time to talk to the other boys about their own countdowns. I desperately wanted to break the taboo, as all boys occasionally do. I asked in confidential tones where their numbers were at. Mine was, at that moment, counting from 473,353,890. Blank stares became looks of concern became laughter. Suddenly I understood that I was a bit different after all, and that difference meant ridicule and shame if I didn't keep it to myself. By the time high school rolled around, everyone had been overtaken by hormones and the incident and its attendant teasing were blissfully forgotten.
Like most kids, I began experimenting with drugs and alcohol around then. The counting had always perplexed me in varying degrees but it had been such a constant through my life that I never really gave its genesis much thought, much the same as I had never questioned the existence of my right hand. But my expanding mind, brought on by learning, maturity, and illicit substances, changed that. I became determined to find the source of those dulcet figures.
My educational path through university was a search for the answer. Maths and psychology were my dual majors. I sought out obscure mathematical theories dealing with sequential numbering. While it was common enough to find ideas on patterns and commonalities in numbers, nothing I unearthed ever came close to explaining the why's of progression itself. It was a wholly arbitrary abstract that gave logical sequence to things other than ourselves. Nothing more.
Psychology was slightly more fruitful. The literature was gushing with studies on counting phenomena. Obsessive compulsive disorders, severe autism, schizophrenia... the list was long and somewhat troubling. While they all had commonalities, nothing in particular ever quite matched up. Socially, I was well adjusted. I maintained genuine and healthy relationships with family, friends, and lovers. There were no sudden emotional outbursts. I displayed no other signs of compulsion or psychosis. Even my quest to find answers was more scholarly than obsessive. Finally, I resigned myself to the same conclusion others had reached: Normal. Just one little anomaly.
In the months leading up to graduation, a wonderful woman and a promising opportunity entered my life. The search for an answer to the countdown had been unfulfilling and without result, so I chose to ignore it as best I could and get on with living. My work was challenging and satisfying. My relationship even more so. We lived a good, average life, with all the attendant ups and downs.
All the while, the woman's voice continued counting and the number dwindled. She was gradually becoming impossible to ignore. Still soft and soothing, but more insistent. Shutting her out was no longer an option. When she reached 63,113,852, I started to become paranoid. I was skilled enough in basic arithmetic to understand that 0 was coming. Soon. Sooner than I could take.
A desperate search began. A frantic devotion to what the numbers meant and what they were leading me to. My career shrank in importance until it faded altogether. I spent more and more weeks and months staying at home in the whiteboard-walled office I had created to collect and curate all of my theories on what the numbers were getting at. Sprawling diagrams and calculations filled every inch of space, as did my mania.
When my fiancé finally had enough, it took me several days to realize she had left.
For nearly two years I toiled, and for nothing. I imagine that the fates were laughing at me as all of my compulsive searching for 0 ironically led me nowhere at all. Staring frenetically at my walls, I came to the understanding that there was no meaning to be found. I had wasted my final seconds in consumptive fixation.
At two weeks from 0 desperation gave way to acceptance. The voice sounded as though she were right next to me now, this time as companion rather than reaper. I called the people I had failed. Apologies were made and graciously, if with some trepidation, received. Plans for reconnection were made. I arranged to meet for drinks in the countdown's final moments. I would face my possible end with people that cared about me and, preferably, a drink in my hand. I had no idea what lay on the far side of null, but it no longer held the same terror it once did. 259,200 was strangely soothing to hear.
My calm gave me new confidence, and my friends remarked on it immediately. We warmly joked and spoke as only old comrades can. My round came, coinciding with the last few ticks of my clock. Her voice, my constant companion through life, came with me to the bar.
6...
5...
Finally, an answer to a lifelong question.
4...
Peace in finally knowing. Whatever it may be. Life or death, I stood ready.
3...
2...
I held my breath.
"One."
Her voice, *THE* voice, suddenly external, startled me. I whipped around to face its source. "I beg your pardon?!"
The voice I had forever heard was now silent in my mind, and instead unmistakably issued forth from the most perfect mouth I had ever seen. It was framed by red curls, a slight nose, and playful, incandescent eyes.
"I said, I'm getting myself another drink, can I buy you one?"
| My sweaty hands can't grip the railing. My heart volleys in my chest. An electric current rises from my gut every so often, pulsing through my skin and making little hairs everywhere stand on end. Oh, and the countdown I've heard in my head all my life is rapidly sinking.
*Ten*
A fleeting image of a tall, handsome man dressed in black, as he'd promised.
*Nine*
He walks out of the terminal gate.
*Eight*
He walks in the opposite direction to the gate and vanishes among a crowd.
*Seven*
*Six*
*Five*
He emerges, his eyes darting around the sparse reception area.
*Four*
I pick up my bags with strength I never knew I had and run to the gate.
*Three*
My ears pick up faint beats in my head. What's this now?
*Two*
I turn. He turns.
*One*
My heart does a somersault. His blue eyes meet mine.
*Zero*
My head is now blaring music. **Here comes your man...**
And ten days later, as I wave goodbye to him, the countdown begins again. *1,000...* | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **10.**
I took another swig of the beer.Ever since the numbers had reached 10,000, I have been worrying about what will happen.Hence,the beer.Can you imagine a number just popping in your mind every two seconds? All the time? Well,that's what happens to me.Yep.Even when I'm sleeping.In my dreams.All the time.
**9.**
I wonder about my life.The best moments.The worst.A smile is on my lips now.Whatever happens now I will go down happy.
**8.**
Yes,I am expecting death.I don't know why.Despite the numbers,I have tried to make the best of my life.Helped many people.Made many friends.Tried to be as normal as possible.When I was a kid I asked a friend what her number was.She ran away.Now I understand.I still laugh at that.
**7.**
I have often wondered what will happen when the numbers reach zero.Well now I will certainly know.
**6.**
A part of me is relieved.The numbers will end now.Another part hates this.I mean,who the hell really wants to die?I certainly don't want to.Another part is excited.I will finally know.Still expecting death though.
**5.**
Shit.only 10 seconds now.
**4.**
I close my eyes.Take a deep breath.Whatever happens now,I am ready.
**3.**
I feel as if a bomb is about to go off.It is a bomb in its own way I suppose.
**2.**
Even though I expect death,I still manage to hope that something awesome will happen.Maybe I will turn into a super-hero.Please don't laugh at me.
**1.**
I think of everyone I love.Mother.Father.I think about her.My cat I mean.Pets are the best.I decided not to have a girlfriend because of the numbers.The cat is at my mother's right now.Why am I telling you this right now?
**0.**
I open my eyes.White light blinds me.I fall to my knees.I hear a sound from afar.Slowly,my vision returns to normal.I hear the alarm.I get up thinking about strange dreams.
*"10."* A voice whispers in my head.
EDIT:If anyone is still here please point out the good and bad point of this post of mine.
| My sweaty hands can't grip the railing. My heart volleys in my chest. An electric current rises from my gut every so often, pulsing through my skin and making little hairs everywhere stand on end. Oh, and the countdown I've heard in my head all my life is rapidly sinking.
*Ten*
A fleeting image of a tall, handsome man dressed in black, as he'd promised.
*Nine*
He walks out of the terminal gate.
*Eight*
He walks in the opposite direction to the gate and vanishes among a crowd.
*Seven*
*Six*
*Five*
He emerges, his eyes darting around the sparse reception area.
*Four*
I pick up my bags with strength I never knew I had and run to the gate.
*Three*
My ears pick up faint beats in my head. What's this now?
*Two*
I turn. He turns.
*One*
My heart does a somersault. His blue eyes meet mine.
*Zero*
My head is now blaring music. **Here comes your man...**
And ten days later, as I wave goodbye to him, the countdown begins again. *1,000...* | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **20**
When did it get so low? Why only now has my mind brought it back? Why now when i'm about to accept the award?
**19**
I mean sure it. It HAD to be important, but WHY is it so *clear* now. It's making almost impossible to hear the announcer!
**18**
Well at least I finally get to answer what it is. I guess that something..
**16**
Wait, it just skipped a number... where is everyone, why is everything dark all the sudden?
**15**
No, no go back! Not like this, not on the stage!
**14**
**13**
**12**
This HAS to be some sort of elaborate joke by god or satan or something!
*11*
It's getting quieter, WHY is it getting quieter. Am i dead? am i being whisked to whatever comes after?
*10*
*9*
Faster, come on. what's the god damn purpose of the count down? whats MY purpose to it?
*8*
*7*
*6*
*It's time to wake up*
Wait, what? Who the hell said that.
*5*
**You've been in too deep. hopefully you won't suffer shock**
Why did the numbers slow down like that.. i- i feel woozy what's going on. WHO'S TALKING?!?
*4*
Please tell me. I mean you already have me in your grips, blind and mute.
*3*
Please? just tell me. I want to know before.. well i die.
*2*
Not even a hint? i mean come on i spent YEARS learning psychology JUST TO UNDERSTAND YOU.
*1*
please... not like this..
*0*
A low buzz is heard, your eyes slowly open to stare into computer screen saying in text "Sleep cycle successful" as you hear voices come into focus. "The test was successful. their resting state. ten years. no change in body.. the serums managed to successfully keep his cells from reaching aposis, degradation.. atrophication.. anyways the Stasis simulation complete, we should go get the psych doctor. as we have some explaining to do.." you hear. soon after you realize you're on your back, multiple wires and tubes stick into your body. their purpose, at least to you, is unknown.
Above, you hear a series of clicks as the roof slowly opens. | My sweaty hands can't grip the railing. My heart volleys in my chest. An electric current rises from my gut every so often, pulsing through my skin and making little hairs everywhere stand on end. Oh, and the countdown I've heard in my head all my life is rapidly sinking.
*Ten*
A fleeting image of a tall, handsome man dressed in black, as he'd promised.
*Nine*
He walks out of the terminal gate.
*Eight*
He walks in the opposite direction to the gate and vanishes among a crowd.
*Seven*
*Six*
*Five*
He emerges, his eyes darting around the sparse reception area.
*Four*
I pick up my bags with strength I never knew I had and run to the gate.
*Three*
My ears pick up faint beats in my head. What's this now?
*Two*
I turn. He turns.
*One*
My heart does a somersault. His blue eyes meet mine.
*Zero*
My head is now blaring music. **Here comes your man...**
And ten days later, as I wave goodbye to him, the countdown begins again. *1,000...* | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **Eight thousands, five hundred and forty-two.**
This was when I was born, and it was the first thing to go through my mind (if my math is correct, of course)
**Seven thousand**
I was somewhere around four when the countdown got here, and it was also when I realized that I was the only one of my firends to have this clock in my mind.
At the time, the counter went down only once each day, every day.
I stopped paying attention to it, seven thousand was a lot at the time.
**Four thousand, eight hundred and ninety**
My tenth birthday.
The countdown started to include the first decimal place, and that one went down every 2 hours and 24 minutes. It was still a full day for the countdown to substract a a full one to itself.
**Two thousand, five hundred and forty two**
The countdown now had the second decimal place. This one went down every 14 minutes and 24 seconds. I decided to figure out and write the math behind of all this. I already knew the countdown meant days, so I just worked from there. I helped me to ignore that every quarter of an hour, I was getting a bit closer to zero.
**Two thousand, five hundred**
Bought cigarrettes for the first time.
**One thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven**
Heh. "1337".
**One thousand, two hundred and thirty**
Lasted around eight seconds. Well, it lasted 8.64 seconds, if you really need to know.
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine**
I laughed at how much it sounded like that scene in Downfall (You know, hitler shouting Nein! Nein! to his officers).
Immediatly after, I felt cold.
I was below the thousands, already.
I was just 21.
I was...
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine eight**
Thought about dropping out of college.
**Nine hundred and ninenty-nine point nine nine nine seven**
Discared said thought. I really enjoy my classes, and I would have nothing to do if dropped out... And did not want to find a job.
**Four hundred and fifty-nine point two five nine four**
The doctor told my father he had cancer. He just laughed and said "Well, do I have enough time left to watch the Red Socks win the world championship?"
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four three six**
It dawned upon me that I had exactly one year before zero.
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four zero zero**
Started smoking again, after having quitted somewhere around six thousand. Realized I had been thinking about the passage of time with the numbers in my head.
**One hundred and twelve point zero zero zero zero**
My father died that day. It was his birthday.
**Fifty-three point... something.**
I had been a few days in my room, watching movies and drinking beer. Time felt muddy.
**Twenty point seven eight five six**
I met Svetlana at a party. About my age, russian as vodka (her words, not mine), very tall and slim, and really long, blonde hair. She asked me to help her perfect her english, and she'd teach me russian. I was half-drunk, and agreed.
**Ten point zero zero zero one**
I've been meeting Svetlana almost every day, and she's made good progress. One the other hand, I had not, but cyrilic is hard, damnit.
**Ten point zero zero zero zero**
I realized that I'm starting to fall for her.
I start to freak out a bit.
**Nine point nine nine nine nine**
I freak the fuck out.
I ran, left Svetlana alone, wondering what the hell had just happened (I think I was screaming, too. I'm not sure.)
That was yesterday. I've been in my home since then. Svetlana tried for a few days to call me, but I didn't bother to pick up my phone. I was too busy having a breakdown every time the countdown went down.
And it went down every 8.64 seconds.
I decided to write down whatever I think was worthy of my life, my milestones. The proof that I lived.
I realized my life was boring.
**Eight point five eight three nine**
I try to remember my mom's face. Fail miserably.
**Seven point two one five seven**
Smoke and stare at the ceiling. Smoke and watch TV.
**Six point six six six six**
I have The Number of The Beast blasting my pc's speakers. Sadly, the chorus and my counter didn't sync up.
**Three point one two two one**
I woke up at noon. I've been drinking, and can't remember too much. Maybe it's better like this?
**Two point three one two two**
At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die when this gets to zero.
**One point eight five two seven**
I have no idea how Dad could laugh like that in the face of death, in the face of pain. I don't know how he even went over Mom's death when giving birth. I don't know, and I guess I'll never know.
**One point zero zero zero zero**
I contemplate suicide.
**Zero point nine nine nine nine**
...
Are you shitting me?
This is utter bullshit. It's already zero, but WITH DECIMALS.
I don't know how I didn't see it coming.
**Zero point zero zero zero eight**
Well, I have a few more minutes to live. Might as well enjoy them, and go out, look at the clouds, feel the sun on my skin, flip the bird to a cop. The small, beautiful things of life.
I guess that the shock of the zero wore off after the "point nine" bullshit.
**Zero point zero zero zero three**
There are about 20 seconds left until I die.
I open my door, and there she is.
Svetlana, looking worried beyond worries, and... her eyes are red. Has she been she crying?
**Zero point zero zero zero two**
16 seconds left.
"Um.. Svetlana, how did you find my home? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but..."
She slaps me across the face.
**Zero point zero zero zero one**
8 seconds left.
She lifts me by the collar, and as I am not very tall at all, she lifts me up. It hurts a bit.
"You had me worried, you ass"
"Sorry...?"
"Don't ever do this again."
The time is running out. I know I'm gonna die in a few seconds, but I don't know how. Am I gonna have a heart attack, or explode like a damn bomb? I need Svetlana to get away, just in case. I spit the words as fast as I can.
"Svetlana, I need you to let me down and get away from me, there is something weird going on, and I don't know what may happen if you-
**Zero point zero zero zero zero**
She cut me off kissing me. There, hanging from the collar of my shirt, a few inches from the ground, and right in the exact moment I should have died.
Nothing happens for a moment. She is looking at me in the eyes, it was a very chaste kiss. I'm still hanging, and my armpits are starting to hurt.
She smiles.
"I didn't understand that, could you tell me again, my love?"
**One** | My sweaty hands can't grip the railing. My heart volleys in my chest. An electric current rises from my gut every so often, pulsing through my skin and making little hairs everywhere stand on end. Oh, and the countdown I've heard in my head all my life is rapidly sinking.
*Ten*
A fleeting image of a tall, handsome man dressed in black, as he'd promised.
*Nine*
He walks out of the terminal gate.
*Eight*
He walks in the opposite direction to the gate and vanishes among a crowd.
*Seven*
*Six*
*Five*
He emerges, his eyes darting around the sparse reception area.
*Four*
I pick up my bags with strength I never knew I had and run to the gate.
*Three*
My ears pick up faint beats in my head. What's this now?
*Two*
I turn. He turns.
*One*
My heart does a somersault. His blue eyes meet mine.
*Zero*
My head is now blaring music. **Here comes your man...**
And ten days later, as I wave goodbye to him, the countdown begins again. *1,000...* | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | It was a feminine voice. The countdown, I mean. Very early in life I was able to distinguish that it was less like my father's grunts and more similar to mother's lilt. Soft. Melodic. Soothing. My parents were duly impressed that as a baby my first words were numbers, not "Mama" or "no" as is common. They were certain I was a gifted genius, a miracle. There was understandable disappointment at the results of the tests I took as a toddler: average. In no identifiable way gifted but for a habit of mimicking numbers. They loved me just the same.
No one ever noticed that I said them all in descending order.
There was a brief time when I was around age six (662,695,446) that my folks took me to see the child psychologist. They had become a little disturbed by my habit of chanting numbers to myself. It was usually while I was playing alone, counting down in the way that other children would sing or just blurt out the bizarre scripts in their heads. The doctor found nothing wrong. Another diagnosis of normal. Just an anomaly. But that's when I learned that the numbers were bad to say out loud. It made others uncomfortable, irritated. Everyone had them, I was sure, but they were supposed to keep it to themselves. A minor adjustment for the rubber mind of a child.
When I was twelve I was at a friend's sleepover. We were up late and talking about the very serious things that early teens talk about. Sports, school, cars we pined for, how girls had become attractive to us. This shared intimacy seemed like a good time to talk to the other boys about their own countdowns. I desperately wanted to break the taboo, as all boys occasionally do. I asked in confidential tones where their numbers were at. Mine was, at that moment, counting from 473,353,890. Blank stares became looks of concern became laughter. Suddenly I understood that I was a bit different after all, and that difference meant ridicule and shame if I didn't keep it to myself. By the time high school rolled around, everyone had been overtaken by hormones and the incident and its attendant teasing were blissfully forgotten.
Like most kids, I began experimenting with drugs and alcohol around then. The counting had always perplexed me in varying degrees but it had been such a constant through my life that I never really gave its genesis much thought, much the same as I had never questioned the existence of my right hand. But my expanding mind, brought on by learning, maturity, and illicit substances, changed that. I became determined to find the source of those dulcet figures.
My educational path through university was a search for the answer. Maths and psychology were my dual majors. I sought out obscure mathematical theories dealing with sequential numbering. While it was common enough to find ideas on patterns and commonalities in numbers, nothing I unearthed ever came close to explaining the why's of progression itself. It was a wholly arbitrary abstract that gave logical sequence to things other than ourselves. Nothing more.
Psychology was slightly more fruitful. The literature was gushing with studies on counting phenomena. Obsessive compulsive disorders, severe autism, schizophrenia... the list was long and somewhat troubling. While they all had commonalities, nothing in particular ever quite matched up. Socially, I was well adjusted. I maintained genuine and healthy relationships with family, friends, and lovers. There were no sudden emotional outbursts. I displayed no other signs of compulsion or psychosis. Even my quest to find answers was more scholarly than obsessive. Finally, I resigned myself to the same conclusion others had reached: Normal. Just one little anomaly.
In the months leading up to graduation, a wonderful woman and a promising opportunity entered my life. The search for an answer to the countdown had been unfulfilling and without result, so I chose to ignore it as best I could and get on with living. My work was challenging and satisfying. My relationship even more so. We lived a good, average life, with all the attendant ups and downs.
All the while, the woman's voice continued counting and the number dwindled. She was gradually becoming impossible to ignore. Still soft and soothing, but more insistent. Shutting her out was no longer an option. When she reached 63,113,852, I started to become paranoid. I was skilled enough in basic arithmetic to understand that 0 was coming. Soon. Sooner than I could take.
A desperate search began. A frantic devotion to what the numbers meant and what they were leading me to. My career shrank in importance until it faded altogether. I spent more and more weeks and months staying at home in the whiteboard-walled office I had created to collect and curate all of my theories on what the numbers were getting at. Sprawling diagrams and calculations filled every inch of space, as did my mania.
When my fiancé finally had enough, it took me several days to realize she had left.
For nearly two years I toiled, and for nothing. I imagine that the fates were laughing at me as all of my compulsive searching for 0 ironically led me nowhere at all. Staring frenetically at my walls, I came to the understanding that there was no meaning to be found. I had wasted my final seconds in consumptive fixation.
At two weeks from 0 desperation gave way to acceptance. The voice sounded as though she were right next to me now, this time as companion rather than reaper. I called the people I had failed. Apologies were made and graciously, if with some trepidation, received. Plans for reconnection were made. I arranged to meet for drinks in the countdown's final moments. I would face my possible end with people that cared about me and, preferably, a drink in my hand. I had no idea what lay on the far side of null, but it no longer held the same terror it once did. 259,200 was strangely soothing to hear.
My calm gave me new confidence, and my friends remarked on it immediately. We warmly joked and spoke as only old comrades can. My round came, coinciding with the last few ticks of my clock. Her voice, my constant companion through life, came with me to the bar.
6...
5...
Finally, an answer to a lifelong question.
4...
Peace in finally knowing. Whatever it may be. Life or death, I stood ready.
3...
2...
I held my breath.
"One."
Her voice, *THE* voice, suddenly external, startled me. I whipped around to face its source. "I beg your pardon?!"
The voice I had forever heard was now silent in my mind, and instead unmistakably issued forth from the most perfect mouth I had ever seen. It was framed by red curls, a slight nose, and playful, incandescent eyes.
"I said, I'm getting myself another drink, can I buy you one?"
| I have always had this....this itch it seems always to be at the back of my mind. If i concentrate I can hear a rasping voice counting down... just just counting...I never thought much of it until the voice laughed when it reached 100...It seared every thought in my head away... it was blood chilling.
Now I am terrified what happens when the voice reaches 0.
10...
It has started what will happen..
9...
Will I die...?
8...
I can't get off my knees the.. pain...
7...
What is happening everything is on fire..
6...
.....
5...
Make it stop..
4...
I hear laughter again...
3...
The pain is lessening...
2...
I feel so cold
1...
....The pain leaves and I open my eyes and see a robed figure... All i can think is I died... I had to have died right?
Death laughs I now know who has been laughing in my head.
Death doesn't speak he takes off his robe and outstretches it to me.
I reach out with trembling hands....My hands are now white white bone.
| |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **Eight thousands, five hundred and forty-two.**
This was when I was born, and it was the first thing to go through my mind (if my math is correct, of course)
**Seven thousand**
I was somewhere around four when the countdown got here, and it was also when I realized that I was the only one of my firends to have this clock in my mind.
At the time, the counter went down only once each day, every day.
I stopped paying attention to it, seven thousand was a lot at the time.
**Four thousand, eight hundred and ninety**
My tenth birthday.
The countdown started to include the first decimal place, and that one went down every 2 hours and 24 minutes. It was still a full day for the countdown to substract a a full one to itself.
**Two thousand, five hundred and forty two**
The countdown now had the second decimal place. This one went down every 14 minutes and 24 seconds. I decided to figure out and write the math behind of all this. I already knew the countdown meant days, so I just worked from there. I helped me to ignore that every quarter of an hour, I was getting a bit closer to zero.
**Two thousand, five hundred**
Bought cigarrettes for the first time.
**One thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven**
Heh. "1337".
**One thousand, two hundred and thirty**
Lasted around eight seconds. Well, it lasted 8.64 seconds, if you really need to know.
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine**
I laughed at how much it sounded like that scene in Downfall (You know, hitler shouting Nein! Nein! to his officers).
Immediatly after, I felt cold.
I was below the thousands, already.
I was just 21.
I was...
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine eight**
Thought about dropping out of college.
**Nine hundred and ninenty-nine point nine nine nine seven**
Discared said thought. I really enjoy my classes, and I would have nothing to do if dropped out... And did not want to find a job.
**Four hundred and fifty-nine point two five nine four**
The doctor told my father he had cancer. He just laughed and said "Well, do I have enough time left to watch the Red Socks win the world championship?"
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four three six**
It dawned upon me that I had exactly one year before zero.
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four zero zero**
Started smoking again, after having quitted somewhere around six thousand. Realized I had been thinking about the passage of time with the numbers in my head.
**One hundred and twelve point zero zero zero zero**
My father died that day. It was his birthday.
**Fifty-three point... something.**
I had been a few days in my room, watching movies and drinking beer. Time felt muddy.
**Twenty point seven eight five six**
I met Svetlana at a party. About my age, russian as vodka (her words, not mine), very tall and slim, and really long, blonde hair. She asked me to help her perfect her english, and she'd teach me russian. I was half-drunk, and agreed.
**Ten point zero zero zero one**
I've been meeting Svetlana almost every day, and she's made good progress. One the other hand, I had not, but cyrilic is hard, damnit.
**Ten point zero zero zero zero**
I realized that I'm starting to fall for her.
I start to freak out a bit.
**Nine point nine nine nine nine**
I freak the fuck out.
I ran, left Svetlana alone, wondering what the hell had just happened (I think I was screaming, too. I'm not sure.)
That was yesterday. I've been in my home since then. Svetlana tried for a few days to call me, but I didn't bother to pick up my phone. I was too busy having a breakdown every time the countdown went down.
And it went down every 8.64 seconds.
I decided to write down whatever I think was worthy of my life, my milestones. The proof that I lived.
I realized my life was boring.
**Eight point five eight three nine**
I try to remember my mom's face. Fail miserably.
**Seven point two one five seven**
Smoke and stare at the ceiling. Smoke and watch TV.
**Six point six six six six**
I have The Number of The Beast blasting my pc's speakers. Sadly, the chorus and my counter didn't sync up.
**Three point one two two one**
I woke up at noon. I've been drinking, and can't remember too much. Maybe it's better like this?
**Two point three one two two**
At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die when this gets to zero.
**One point eight five two seven**
I have no idea how Dad could laugh like that in the face of death, in the face of pain. I don't know how he even went over Mom's death when giving birth. I don't know, and I guess I'll never know.
**One point zero zero zero zero**
I contemplate suicide.
**Zero point nine nine nine nine**
...
Are you shitting me?
This is utter bullshit. It's already zero, but WITH DECIMALS.
I don't know how I didn't see it coming.
**Zero point zero zero zero eight**
Well, I have a few more minutes to live. Might as well enjoy them, and go out, look at the clouds, feel the sun on my skin, flip the bird to a cop. The small, beautiful things of life.
I guess that the shock of the zero wore off after the "point nine" bullshit.
**Zero point zero zero zero three**
There are about 20 seconds left until I die.
I open my door, and there she is.
Svetlana, looking worried beyond worries, and... her eyes are red. Has she been she crying?
**Zero point zero zero zero two**
16 seconds left.
"Um.. Svetlana, how did you find my home? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but..."
She slaps me across the face.
**Zero point zero zero zero one**
8 seconds left.
She lifts me by the collar, and as I am not very tall at all, she lifts me up. It hurts a bit.
"You had me worried, you ass"
"Sorry...?"
"Don't ever do this again."
The time is running out. I know I'm gonna die in a few seconds, but I don't know how. Am I gonna have a heart attack, or explode like a damn bomb? I need Svetlana to get away, just in case. I spit the words as fast as I can.
"Svetlana, I need you to let me down and get away from me, there is something weird going on, and I don't know what may happen if you-
**Zero point zero zero zero zero**
She cut me off kissing me. There, hanging from the collar of my shirt, a few inches from the ground, and right in the exact moment I should have died.
Nothing happens for a moment. She is looking at me in the eyes, it was a very chaste kiss. I'm still hanging, and my armpits are starting to hurt.
She smiles.
"I didn't understand that, could you tell me again, my love?"
**One** | I have always had this....this itch it seems always to be at the back of my mind. If i concentrate I can hear a rasping voice counting down... just just counting...I never thought much of it until the voice laughed when it reached 100...It seared every thought in my head away... it was blood chilling.
Now I am terrified what happens when the voice reaches 0.
10...
It has started what will happen..
9...
Will I die...?
8...
I can't get off my knees the.. pain...
7...
What is happening everything is on fire..
6...
.....
5...
Make it stop..
4...
I hear laughter again...
3...
The pain is lessening...
2...
I feel so cold
1...
....The pain leaves and I open my eyes and see a robed figure... All i can think is I died... I had to have died right?
Death laughs I now know who has been laughing in my head.
Death doesn't speak he takes off his robe and outstretches it to me.
I reach out with trembling hands....My hands are now white white bone.
| |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | It was a feminine voice. The countdown, I mean. Very early in life I was able to distinguish that it was less like my father's grunts and more similar to mother's lilt. Soft. Melodic. Soothing. My parents were duly impressed that as a baby my first words were numbers, not "Mama" or "no" as is common. They were certain I was a gifted genius, a miracle. There was understandable disappointment at the results of the tests I took as a toddler: average. In no identifiable way gifted but for a habit of mimicking numbers. They loved me just the same.
No one ever noticed that I said them all in descending order.
There was a brief time when I was around age six (662,695,446) that my folks took me to see the child psychologist. They had become a little disturbed by my habit of chanting numbers to myself. It was usually while I was playing alone, counting down in the way that other children would sing or just blurt out the bizarre scripts in their heads. The doctor found nothing wrong. Another diagnosis of normal. Just an anomaly. But that's when I learned that the numbers were bad to say out loud. It made others uncomfortable, irritated. Everyone had them, I was sure, but they were supposed to keep it to themselves. A minor adjustment for the rubber mind of a child.
When I was twelve I was at a friend's sleepover. We were up late and talking about the very serious things that early teens talk about. Sports, school, cars we pined for, how girls had become attractive to us. This shared intimacy seemed like a good time to talk to the other boys about their own countdowns. I desperately wanted to break the taboo, as all boys occasionally do. I asked in confidential tones where their numbers were at. Mine was, at that moment, counting from 473,353,890. Blank stares became looks of concern became laughter. Suddenly I understood that I was a bit different after all, and that difference meant ridicule and shame if I didn't keep it to myself. By the time high school rolled around, everyone had been overtaken by hormones and the incident and its attendant teasing were blissfully forgotten.
Like most kids, I began experimenting with drugs and alcohol around then. The counting had always perplexed me in varying degrees but it had been such a constant through my life that I never really gave its genesis much thought, much the same as I had never questioned the existence of my right hand. But my expanding mind, brought on by learning, maturity, and illicit substances, changed that. I became determined to find the source of those dulcet figures.
My educational path through university was a search for the answer. Maths and psychology were my dual majors. I sought out obscure mathematical theories dealing with sequential numbering. While it was common enough to find ideas on patterns and commonalities in numbers, nothing I unearthed ever came close to explaining the why's of progression itself. It was a wholly arbitrary abstract that gave logical sequence to things other than ourselves. Nothing more.
Psychology was slightly more fruitful. The literature was gushing with studies on counting phenomena. Obsessive compulsive disorders, severe autism, schizophrenia... the list was long and somewhat troubling. While they all had commonalities, nothing in particular ever quite matched up. Socially, I was well adjusted. I maintained genuine and healthy relationships with family, friends, and lovers. There were no sudden emotional outbursts. I displayed no other signs of compulsion or psychosis. Even my quest to find answers was more scholarly than obsessive. Finally, I resigned myself to the same conclusion others had reached: Normal. Just one little anomaly.
In the months leading up to graduation, a wonderful woman and a promising opportunity entered my life. The search for an answer to the countdown had been unfulfilling and without result, so I chose to ignore it as best I could and get on with living. My work was challenging and satisfying. My relationship even more so. We lived a good, average life, with all the attendant ups and downs.
All the while, the woman's voice continued counting and the number dwindled. She was gradually becoming impossible to ignore. Still soft and soothing, but more insistent. Shutting her out was no longer an option. When she reached 63,113,852, I started to become paranoid. I was skilled enough in basic arithmetic to understand that 0 was coming. Soon. Sooner than I could take.
A desperate search began. A frantic devotion to what the numbers meant and what they were leading me to. My career shrank in importance until it faded altogether. I spent more and more weeks and months staying at home in the whiteboard-walled office I had created to collect and curate all of my theories on what the numbers were getting at. Sprawling diagrams and calculations filled every inch of space, as did my mania.
When my fiancé finally had enough, it took me several days to realize she had left.
For nearly two years I toiled, and for nothing. I imagine that the fates were laughing at me as all of my compulsive searching for 0 ironically led me nowhere at all. Staring frenetically at my walls, I came to the understanding that there was no meaning to be found. I had wasted my final seconds in consumptive fixation.
At two weeks from 0 desperation gave way to acceptance. The voice sounded as though she were right next to me now, this time as companion rather than reaper. I called the people I had failed. Apologies were made and graciously, if with some trepidation, received. Plans for reconnection were made. I arranged to meet for drinks in the countdown's final moments. I would face my possible end with people that cared about me and, preferably, a drink in my hand. I had no idea what lay on the far side of null, but it no longer held the same terror it once did. 259,200 was strangely soothing to hear.
My calm gave me new confidence, and my friends remarked on it immediately. We warmly joked and spoke as only old comrades can. My round came, coinciding with the last few ticks of my clock. Her voice, my constant companion through life, came with me to the bar.
6...
5...
Finally, an answer to a lifelong question.
4...
Peace in finally knowing. Whatever it may be. Life or death, I stood ready.
3...
2...
I held my breath.
"One."
Her voice, *THE* voice, suddenly external, startled me. I whipped around to face its source. "I beg your pardon?!"
The voice I had forever heard was now silent in my mind, and instead unmistakably issued forth from the most perfect mouth I had ever seen. It was framed by red curls, a slight nose, and playful, incandescent eyes.
"I said, I'm getting myself another drink, can I buy you one?"
| "Ten" The voice said again for the fourth time today as Gerald tried in vain to count the beetles that were leaving from the castle door. It was hard to concentrate on counting the beatles when the confounded voice kept on counting. The strange thing was his voice was stuck on ten for some reason. Every day now for the past seven years he was plagued with "Ten" over and over again.
"Seventeen i count" Gerald eventually concluded, throwing his eyes up at the man who was looking at him from the parapet. He had a grey leather tunic wrapped around his torso, but his hands were free and gripping a fine ash bow.
"Seventeen?" The man said nodding, scribbling something into a black leather book.
"Ten, Ten, Ten, Ten, Ten" The voice said again, a wispy white noise that sounded half way between a squeal and a gush of wind.
"Stop saying ten" Gerald muttered to himself, slapping the side of his head like his father would do to an engine that had stopped working.
"Ten?" the man said snapping the book shut "You said seventeen"
Gerald sighed "No i was talking to myself, seventeen is right, Ten is just the voice talking"
"Oh, i see" The man said pursing his lips "another broken boy i see, your clock is broken?" He vaulted suddenly off the parapet and down into the marshy wetlands, springing up quickly as he landed "How long your clock been like that"
"I dont remember" Gerald said almost falling backwards in surprise. The man was fast, and wiry.
"well you'll have to get it fixed" The man said again fiddling with his bow strings, his eyes no longer on Gerald. "Cant have that, cant have that at all"
"Cant have that at all" The voice said before resuming its chorus of Ten Ten Ten Ten, with various pauses in between.
"Whats it saying now" The man said, crouching low, but obviosuly distracted by something far out into the woods. "Whats it at"
"Its at ten, and its been like that for a while now"
"And it hasnt changed?"
"No"
"And you havent been taking anything, mushrooms?"
"No"
"You sure"
"Ten" he blurted out suddenly
"Ten? Well that explains it, ten mushrooms does that to you"
Gerald shook his head and furrowed his brow in annoyance, resuming his battle with the beetles.
The man laughed to himself for a while, sitting on a stone some meters away from him, stringing out his bow and coating it with a strange orange goo that smelled horrible. They didnt say anything for a while, Gerald counting the beetles filing out one after another.
"Red, blue, green, orange, violet, yellow, porter, amber, emerald, silver, pink, rose, lilac, brown, dark brown, black...."
No gold, just the tapping and marching of every other colour.
"there used to be a gold one" the man said, getting up again, the smile on his face replaced with a solemn one. "Strange that they keep repeating like that, over and over"
Gerald crossed his arms, and tried to drown out the voice by humming a tune he had heard a soldier sing some time ago.
"I think it's about time you got that clock fixed boy" The man said again, his eyes suddenly fixed on the forest, this time he did not look back at Gerald "I think its time to run"
"Why?" Gerald said "Why do we have to run? Nothing ever comes out of that forest, everything just repeats like those beetles, the gold one never comes out"
"Is that right?"
"Yes" Gerald said again, getting angry. "Havent you been here this whole time? Havent you watch me count them?"
"i have, and i feel like ive watched you count those beetles for a long time, how long have we been here Gerald"
Gerald clucked his mouth in thought "A few hours, maybe more, why?
"I think we've been here for a very very long time"
Gerald's eye followed the pink beetle that was trying to mount the brown one. He smiled to himself, but something seemed familiar
"Youve smiled at before havent you?"
"I dont remember" Gerald said, casting his eyes up at the man. Was his hair always so grey?
"What does your clock say?"
"It says ten, as always"
Gerald went back to counting the beetles, but a sudden thought urged him to ask another question "What does yours say?"
"Why i dont have one, that's why ive stayed here with you Gerald, as long as i could, but i dont think ill be here to see the gold beetle"
Gerald turned his head slowly in confusion "What do you mean? We've barely started?"
"No, we've been here for a very long time, that clock of yours, it wasnt meant to break you see, it was meant to tick on down to zero, but something went wrong along the way"
"what do you mean?" Gerald stood, ignoring the tears that were welling in his eyes
"Look around Gerald, im not the same man that you talked to on the parapet, look at my clothes"
He was right, this man wore no tunic but strange clothes, black with blue pants? Was the man trying to trick him again for fooling around with the count?
"The world repeats, but the people age. Whatever happened to you here, that time ages ago, it broke time for everyone"
"I didnt break anything!" Gerald said getting angry, the voice's incessant humming making his temper flare even further
"You'll never see that beetle, its just beyond the rim, it will never come out"
"Yes it will, i just have to wait"
"Youve done enough waiting, its time to get that clock fixed"
Gerald screwed his forehead, he had heard that before somewhere, from a man much like this one. Now he too was looking off into the forest with a strange look on his face. Gerald didnt look, the man was playing tricks on him again.
"Turn around" The man said urgently, his eyes agape and his mouth open as if to scream
"There's nothing there" Gerald said "There never will be"
Curiosity gripped him, and he felt a sudden desire to stop counting and to turn around and see what had the man in such a state, but as he turned he felt the strength in his body leave him, and the voice all but screamed at him to stop
"Turn around Gerald, Youve counted long enough, I dont want to live like this any more, you need to get that clock fixed"
He had head that before too, but a long time ago from someone a lot like this man.
But he couldnt, the golden beetle was just about to come out, he had waited far too long to stop now.
| |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **20**
When did it get so low? Why only now has my mind brought it back? Why now when i'm about to accept the award?
**19**
I mean sure it. It HAD to be important, but WHY is it so *clear* now. It's making almost impossible to hear the announcer!
**18**
Well at least I finally get to answer what it is. I guess that something..
**16**
Wait, it just skipped a number... where is everyone, why is everything dark all the sudden?
**15**
No, no go back! Not like this, not on the stage!
**14**
**13**
**12**
This HAS to be some sort of elaborate joke by god or satan or something!
*11*
It's getting quieter, WHY is it getting quieter. Am i dead? am i being whisked to whatever comes after?
*10*
*9*
Faster, come on. what's the god damn purpose of the count down? whats MY purpose to it?
*8*
*7*
*6*
*It's time to wake up*
Wait, what? Who the hell said that.
*5*
**You've been in too deep. hopefully you won't suffer shock**
Why did the numbers slow down like that.. i- i feel woozy what's going on. WHO'S TALKING?!?
*4*
Please tell me. I mean you already have me in your grips, blind and mute.
*3*
Please? just tell me. I want to know before.. well i die.
*2*
Not even a hint? i mean come on i spent YEARS learning psychology JUST TO UNDERSTAND YOU.
*1*
please... not like this..
*0*
A low buzz is heard, your eyes slowly open to stare into computer screen saying in text "Sleep cycle successful" as you hear voices come into focus. "The test was successful. their resting state. ten years. no change in body.. the serums managed to successfully keep his cells from reaching aposis, degradation.. atrophication.. anyways the Stasis simulation complete, we should go get the psych doctor. as we have some explaining to do.." you hear. soon after you realize you're on your back, multiple wires and tubes stick into your body. their purpose, at least to you, is unknown.
Above, you hear a series of clicks as the roof slowly opens. | It would speak to me, counting down from two million to zero. I've heard it ever since I was little and able to comprehend it. It just counted; I always looked around to see if people were speaking to me. No one ever was; if they were, it would overlap with the counting.
I used to explain it as a voice. I told my parents when I was younger.
"Mommy... Someone is speaking to me..." I would tell them. They would act confused and innocent, asking what they were saying.
I'd just say, "Numbers."
As a child, I was frightened by them. I continued to ask my parents about the voice inside my head. It got to a point where they were genuinely concerned for my well-being. They started to think I was no longer mentally stable. They took me to several doctors and psychiatrists.
I told the professionals about what I was hearing as if I was hoping, myself, that they could cure it. They just told my parents that I was just seeking attention like a child would. There was nothing wrong with my head nor my body. Everything was fine.
Over the years as I grew up, my parents continued to take me to see different doctors or psychiatrists. The voice in my head eventually grew normal to me. It was just background noise now. I stopped complaining about it and my parents stopped taking me to see professionals. They thought I was normal again. However, the voice was still there and the number was getting lower.
By the time I left home for college, the voice was at 1 million. I was 20 at the time. I skipped college for two years to be able to pay for tuition when I started up for the first time. Throughout my college life, I got along fine with the voice in my head. I still didn't worry too much about it as it was still just a background noise. However, I did have a single wonder what would happen if it got to zero.
I reached my senior of college. I was ready to graduate, had a wonderful relationship with this gal, and had a job lined up for afterwards. My life was turning out great. However, the voice still counted down, but now... it started getting faster.
It was at 750,000 when it did. It just started to count faster. The numbers were falling out of the voice as they almost muddled together. It was getting hard to understand him.
By finals week, it was at 500,000. Luckily, they didn't bother me when taking my finals, but I was still anxious. The small thought of what happened at zero grew larger in my mind as the speed picked up. What was going to happen? Will I die?
The next week the voice was at 250,000. It seemed like it was at a constant speed now, so I started to get used to it again. Then Sunday night passed and it was Monday morning, I woke up and I noticed something. The voice was speaking incredibly fast and in the span of one night, it had jumped from 250,000 to 50,000.
The voice was going so fast that it was almost to 10,000 after the few seconds of waking up. I was genuinely scared again. I ran out of my room, almost waking up my girlfriend on the bedside next to me. I quickly ran to our phone as I dialed 9-1-1. I was panicking. The police, the hospital, someone had to be able to help me. This couldn't be a specific case to only me.
Thoughts raced through my mind on what would happen when it hit zero. I didn't want to die. I just wanted it to disappear. I wanted it to go away. I didn't want it to hit zero. I dialed 9-1-1 as the phone rang and I waited for the operator. I waited and I waited. The counting was getting closer and closer to zero.
10.
*Ring*
9.
*Ring.*
8.
*Ring.*
7.
*Ring.*
6.
*Ring.*
5.
*Ring.*
4.
*Ring.*
3.
*Ring.*
2.
*Ring.*
1.
"Hello... You've dialed 9-1-1. What is your emergency?"
...
"Hello?" | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **Eight thousands, five hundred and forty-two.**
This was when I was born, and it was the first thing to go through my mind (if my math is correct, of course)
**Seven thousand**
I was somewhere around four when the countdown got here, and it was also when I realized that I was the only one of my firends to have this clock in my mind.
At the time, the counter went down only once each day, every day.
I stopped paying attention to it, seven thousand was a lot at the time.
**Four thousand, eight hundred and ninety**
My tenth birthday.
The countdown started to include the first decimal place, and that one went down every 2 hours and 24 minutes. It was still a full day for the countdown to substract a a full one to itself.
**Two thousand, five hundred and forty two**
The countdown now had the second decimal place. This one went down every 14 minutes and 24 seconds. I decided to figure out and write the math behind of all this. I already knew the countdown meant days, so I just worked from there. I helped me to ignore that every quarter of an hour, I was getting a bit closer to zero.
**Two thousand, five hundred**
Bought cigarrettes for the first time.
**One thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven**
Heh. "1337".
**One thousand, two hundred and thirty**
Lasted around eight seconds. Well, it lasted 8.64 seconds, if you really need to know.
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine**
I laughed at how much it sounded like that scene in Downfall (You know, hitler shouting Nein! Nein! to his officers).
Immediatly after, I felt cold.
I was below the thousands, already.
I was just 21.
I was...
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine eight**
Thought about dropping out of college.
**Nine hundred and ninenty-nine point nine nine nine seven**
Discared said thought. I really enjoy my classes, and I would have nothing to do if dropped out... And did not want to find a job.
**Four hundred and fifty-nine point two five nine four**
The doctor told my father he had cancer. He just laughed and said "Well, do I have enough time left to watch the Red Socks win the world championship?"
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four three six**
It dawned upon me that I had exactly one year before zero.
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four zero zero**
Started smoking again, after having quitted somewhere around six thousand. Realized I had been thinking about the passage of time with the numbers in my head.
**One hundred and twelve point zero zero zero zero**
My father died that day. It was his birthday.
**Fifty-three point... something.**
I had been a few days in my room, watching movies and drinking beer. Time felt muddy.
**Twenty point seven eight five six**
I met Svetlana at a party. About my age, russian as vodka (her words, not mine), very tall and slim, and really long, blonde hair. She asked me to help her perfect her english, and she'd teach me russian. I was half-drunk, and agreed.
**Ten point zero zero zero one**
I've been meeting Svetlana almost every day, and she's made good progress. One the other hand, I had not, but cyrilic is hard, damnit.
**Ten point zero zero zero zero**
I realized that I'm starting to fall for her.
I start to freak out a bit.
**Nine point nine nine nine nine**
I freak the fuck out.
I ran, left Svetlana alone, wondering what the hell had just happened (I think I was screaming, too. I'm not sure.)
That was yesterday. I've been in my home since then. Svetlana tried for a few days to call me, but I didn't bother to pick up my phone. I was too busy having a breakdown every time the countdown went down.
And it went down every 8.64 seconds.
I decided to write down whatever I think was worthy of my life, my milestones. The proof that I lived.
I realized my life was boring.
**Eight point five eight three nine**
I try to remember my mom's face. Fail miserably.
**Seven point two one five seven**
Smoke and stare at the ceiling. Smoke and watch TV.
**Six point six six six six**
I have The Number of The Beast blasting my pc's speakers. Sadly, the chorus and my counter didn't sync up.
**Three point one two two one**
I woke up at noon. I've been drinking, and can't remember too much. Maybe it's better like this?
**Two point three one two two**
At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die when this gets to zero.
**One point eight five two seven**
I have no idea how Dad could laugh like that in the face of death, in the face of pain. I don't know how he even went over Mom's death when giving birth. I don't know, and I guess I'll never know.
**One point zero zero zero zero**
I contemplate suicide.
**Zero point nine nine nine nine**
...
Are you shitting me?
This is utter bullshit. It's already zero, but WITH DECIMALS.
I don't know how I didn't see it coming.
**Zero point zero zero zero eight**
Well, I have a few more minutes to live. Might as well enjoy them, and go out, look at the clouds, feel the sun on my skin, flip the bird to a cop. The small, beautiful things of life.
I guess that the shock of the zero wore off after the "point nine" bullshit.
**Zero point zero zero zero three**
There are about 20 seconds left until I die.
I open my door, and there she is.
Svetlana, looking worried beyond worries, and... her eyes are red. Has she been she crying?
**Zero point zero zero zero two**
16 seconds left.
"Um.. Svetlana, how did you find my home? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but..."
She slaps me across the face.
**Zero point zero zero zero one**
8 seconds left.
She lifts me by the collar, and as I am not very tall at all, she lifts me up. It hurts a bit.
"You had me worried, you ass"
"Sorry...?"
"Don't ever do this again."
The time is running out. I know I'm gonna die in a few seconds, but I don't know how. Am I gonna have a heart attack, or explode like a damn bomb? I need Svetlana to get away, just in case. I spit the words as fast as I can.
"Svetlana, I need you to let me down and get away from me, there is something weird going on, and I don't know what may happen if you-
**Zero point zero zero zero zero**
She cut me off kissing me. There, hanging from the collar of my shirt, a few inches from the ground, and right in the exact moment I should have died.
Nothing happens for a moment. She is looking at me in the eyes, it was a very chaste kiss. I'm still hanging, and my armpits are starting to hurt.
She smiles.
"I didn't understand that, could you tell me again, my love?"
**One** | It would speak to me, counting down from two million to zero. I've heard it ever since I was little and able to comprehend it. It just counted; I always looked around to see if people were speaking to me. No one ever was; if they were, it would overlap with the counting.
I used to explain it as a voice. I told my parents when I was younger.
"Mommy... Someone is speaking to me..." I would tell them. They would act confused and innocent, asking what they were saying.
I'd just say, "Numbers."
As a child, I was frightened by them. I continued to ask my parents about the voice inside my head. It got to a point where they were genuinely concerned for my well-being. They started to think I was no longer mentally stable. They took me to several doctors and psychiatrists.
I told the professionals about what I was hearing as if I was hoping, myself, that they could cure it. They just told my parents that I was just seeking attention like a child would. There was nothing wrong with my head nor my body. Everything was fine.
Over the years as I grew up, my parents continued to take me to see different doctors or psychiatrists. The voice in my head eventually grew normal to me. It was just background noise now. I stopped complaining about it and my parents stopped taking me to see professionals. They thought I was normal again. However, the voice was still there and the number was getting lower.
By the time I left home for college, the voice was at 1 million. I was 20 at the time. I skipped college for two years to be able to pay for tuition when I started up for the first time. Throughout my college life, I got along fine with the voice in my head. I still didn't worry too much about it as it was still just a background noise. However, I did have a single wonder what would happen if it got to zero.
I reached my senior of college. I was ready to graduate, had a wonderful relationship with this gal, and had a job lined up for afterwards. My life was turning out great. However, the voice still counted down, but now... it started getting faster.
It was at 750,000 when it did. It just started to count faster. The numbers were falling out of the voice as they almost muddled together. It was getting hard to understand him.
By finals week, it was at 500,000. Luckily, they didn't bother me when taking my finals, but I was still anxious. The small thought of what happened at zero grew larger in my mind as the speed picked up. What was going to happen? Will I die?
The next week the voice was at 250,000. It seemed like it was at a constant speed now, so I started to get used to it again. Then Sunday night passed and it was Monday morning, I woke up and I noticed something. The voice was speaking incredibly fast and in the span of one night, it had jumped from 250,000 to 50,000.
The voice was going so fast that it was almost to 10,000 after the few seconds of waking up. I was genuinely scared again. I ran out of my room, almost waking up my girlfriend on the bedside next to me. I quickly ran to our phone as I dialed 9-1-1. I was panicking. The police, the hospital, someone had to be able to help me. This couldn't be a specific case to only me.
Thoughts raced through my mind on what would happen when it hit zero. I didn't want to die. I just wanted it to disappear. I wanted it to go away. I didn't want it to hit zero. I dialed 9-1-1 as the phone rang and I waited for the operator. I waited and I waited. The counting was getting closer and closer to zero.
10.
*Ring*
9.
*Ring.*
8.
*Ring.*
7.
*Ring.*
6.
*Ring.*
5.
*Ring.*
4.
*Ring.*
3.
*Ring.*
2.
*Ring.*
1.
"Hello... You've dialed 9-1-1. What is your emergency?"
...
"Hello?" | |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **Eight thousands, five hundred and forty-two.**
This was when I was born, and it was the first thing to go through my mind (if my math is correct, of course)
**Seven thousand**
I was somewhere around four when the countdown got here, and it was also when I realized that I was the only one of my firends to have this clock in my mind.
At the time, the counter went down only once each day, every day.
I stopped paying attention to it, seven thousand was a lot at the time.
**Four thousand, eight hundred and ninety**
My tenth birthday.
The countdown started to include the first decimal place, and that one went down every 2 hours and 24 minutes. It was still a full day for the countdown to substract a a full one to itself.
**Two thousand, five hundred and forty two**
The countdown now had the second decimal place. This one went down every 14 minutes and 24 seconds. I decided to figure out and write the math behind of all this. I already knew the countdown meant days, so I just worked from there. I helped me to ignore that every quarter of an hour, I was getting a bit closer to zero.
**Two thousand, five hundred**
Bought cigarrettes for the first time.
**One thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven**
Heh. "1337".
**One thousand, two hundred and thirty**
Lasted around eight seconds. Well, it lasted 8.64 seconds, if you really need to know.
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine**
I laughed at how much it sounded like that scene in Downfall (You know, hitler shouting Nein! Nein! to his officers).
Immediatly after, I felt cold.
I was below the thousands, already.
I was just 21.
I was...
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine eight**
Thought about dropping out of college.
**Nine hundred and ninenty-nine point nine nine nine seven**
Discared said thought. I really enjoy my classes, and I would have nothing to do if dropped out... And did not want to find a job.
**Four hundred and fifty-nine point two five nine four**
The doctor told my father he had cancer. He just laughed and said "Well, do I have enough time left to watch the Red Socks win the world championship?"
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four three six**
It dawned upon me that I had exactly one year before zero.
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four zero zero**
Started smoking again, after having quitted somewhere around six thousand. Realized I had been thinking about the passage of time with the numbers in my head.
**One hundred and twelve point zero zero zero zero**
My father died that day. It was his birthday.
**Fifty-three point... something.**
I had been a few days in my room, watching movies and drinking beer. Time felt muddy.
**Twenty point seven eight five six**
I met Svetlana at a party. About my age, russian as vodka (her words, not mine), very tall and slim, and really long, blonde hair. She asked me to help her perfect her english, and she'd teach me russian. I was half-drunk, and agreed.
**Ten point zero zero zero one**
I've been meeting Svetlana almost every day, and she's made good progress. One the other hand, I had not, but cyrilic is hard, damnit.
**Ten point zero zero zero zero**
I realized that I'm starting to fall for her.
I start to freak out a bit.
**Nine point nine nine nine nine**
I freak the fuck out.
I ran, left Svetlana alone, wondering what the hell had just happened (I think I was screaming, too. I'm not sure.)
That was yesterday. I've been in my home since then. Svetlana tried for a few days to call me, but I didn't bother to pick up my phone. I was too busy having a breakdown every time the countdown went down.
And it went down every 8.64 seconds.
I decided to write down whatever I think was worthy of my life, my milestones. The proof that I lived.
I realized my life was boring.
**Eight point five eight three nine**
I try to remember my mom's face. Fail miserably.
**Seven point two one five seven**
Smoke and stare at the ceiling. Smoke and watch TV.
**Six point six six six six**
I have The Number of The Beast blasting my pc's speakers. Sadly, the chorus and my counter didn't sync up.
**Three point one two two one**
I woke up at noon. I've been drinking, and can't remember too much. Maybe it's better like this?
**Two point three one two two**
At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die when this gets to zero.
**One point eight five two seven**
I have no idea how Dad could laugh like that in the face of death, in the face of pain. I don't know how he even went over Mom's death when giving birth. I don't know, and I guess I'll never know.
**One point zero zero zero zero**
I contemplate suicide.
**Zero point nine nine nine nine**
...
Are you shitting me?
This is utter bullshit. It's already zero, but WITH DECIMALS.
I don't know how I didn't see it coming.
**Zero point zero zero zero eight**
Well, I have a few more minutes to live. Might as well enjoy them, and go out, look at the clouds, feel the sun on my skin, flip the bird to a cop. The small, beautiful things of life.
I guess that the shock of the zero wore off after the "point nine" bullshit.
**Zero point zero zero zero three**
There are about 20 seconds left until I die.
I open my door, and there she is.
Svetlana, looking worried beyond worries, and... her eyes are red. Has she been she crying?
**Zero point zero zero zero two**
16 seconds left.
"Um.. Svetlana, how did you find my home? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but..."
She slaps me across the face.
**Zero point zero zero zero one**
8 seconds left.
She lifts me by the collar, and as I am not very tall at all, she lifts me up. It hurts a bit.
"You had me worried, you ass"
"Sorry...?"
"Don't ever do this again."
The time is running out. I know I'm gonna die in a few seconds, but I don't know how. Am I gonna have a heart attack, or explode like a damn bomb? I need Svetlana to get away, just in case. I spit the words as fast as I can.
"Svetlana, I need you to let me down and get away from me, there is something weird going on, and I don't know what may happen if you-
**Zero point zero zero zero zero**
She cut me off kissing me. There, hanging from the collar of my shirt, a few inches from the ground, and right in the exact moment I should have died.
Nothing happens for a moment. She is looking at me in the eyes, it was a very chaste kiss. I'm still hanging, and my armpits are starting to hurt.
She smiles.
"I didn't understand that, could you tell me again, my love?"
**One** | **10.**
I took another swig of the beer.Ever since the numbers had reached 10,000, I have been worrying about what will happen.Hence,the beer.Can you imagine a number just popping in your mind every two seconds? All the time? Well,that's what happens to me.Yep.Even when I'm sleeping.In my dreams.All the time.
**9.**
I wonder about my life.The best moments.The worst.A smile is on my lips now.Whatever happens now I will go down happy.
**8.**
Yes,I am expecting death.I don't know why.Despite the numbers,I have tried to make the best of my life.Helped many people.Made many friends.Tried to be as normal as possible.When I was a kid I asked a friend what her number was.She ran away.Now I understand.I still laugh at that.
**7.**
I have often wondered what will happen when the numbers reach zero.Well now I will certainly know.
**6.**
A part of me is relieved.The numbers will end now.Another part hates this.I mean,who the hell really wants to die?I certainly don't want to.Another part is excited.I will finally know.Still expecting death though.
**5.**
Shit.only 10 seconds now.
**4.**
I close my eyes.Take a deep breath.Whatever happens now,I am ready.
**3.**
I feel as if a bomb is about to go off.It is a bomb in its own way I suppose.
**2.**
Even though I expect death,I still manage to hope that something awesome will happen.Maybe I will turn into a super-hero.Please don't laugh at me.
**1.**
I think of everyone I love.Mother.Father.I think about her.My cat I mean.Pets are the best.I decided not to have a girlfriend because of the numbers.The cat is at my mother's right now.Why am I telling you this right now?
**0.**
I open my eyes.White light blinds me.I fall to my knees.I hear a sound from afar.Slowly,my vision returns to normal.I hear the alarm.I get up thinking about strange dreams.
*"10."* A voice whispers in my head.
EDIT:If anyone is still here please point out the good and bad point of this post of mine.
| |
[WP] For your entire life, you've had a voice in your head counting down, and it's getting close to zero. | **Eight thousands, five hundred and forty-two.**
This was when I was born, and it was the first thing to go through my mind (if my math is correct, of course)
**Seven thousand**
I was somewhere around four when the countdown got here, and it was also when I realized that I was the only one of my firends to have this clock in my mind.
At the time, the counter went down only once each day, every day.
I stopped paying attention to it, seven thousand was a lot at the time.
**Four thousand, eight hundred and ninety**
My tenth birthday.
The countdown started to include the first decimal place, and that one went down every 2 hours and 24 minutes. It was still a full day for the countdown to substract a a full one to itself.
**Two thousand, five hundred and forty two**
The countdown now had the second decimal place. This one went down every 14 minutes and 24 seconds. I decided to figure out and write the math behind of all this. I already knew the countdown meant days, so I just worked from there. I helped me to ignore that every quarter of an hour, I was getting a bit closer to zero.
**Two thousand, five hundred**
Bought cigarrettes for the first time.
**One thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven**
Heh. "1337".
**One thousand, two hundred and thirty**
Lasted around eight seconds. Well, it lasted 8.64 seconds, if you really need to know.
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine**
I laughed at how much it sounded like that scene in Downfall (You know, hitler shouting Nein! Nein! to his officers).
Immediatly after, I felt cold.
I was below the thousands, already.
I was just 21.
I was...
**Nine hundred and ninety-nine point nine nine nine eight**
Thought about dropping out of college.
**Nine hundred and ninenty-nine point nine nine nine seven**
Discared said thought. I really enjoy my classes, and I would have nothing to do if dropped out... And did not want to find a job.
**Four hundred and fifty-nine point two five nine four**
The doctor told my father he had cancer. He just laughed and said "Well, do I have enough time left to watch the Red Socks win the world championship?"
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four three six**
It dawned upon me that I had exactly one year before zero.
**Three hundred and forty-five point five four zero zero**
Started smoking again, after having quitted somewhere around six thousand. Realized I had been thinking about the passage of time with the numbers in my head.
**One hundred and twelve point zero zero zero zero**
My father died that day. It was his birthday.
**Fifty-three point... something.**
I had been a few days in my room, watching movies and drinking beer. Time felt muddy.
**Twenty point seven eight five six**
I met Svetlana at a party. About my age, russian as vodka (her words, not mine), very tall and slim, and really long, blonde hair. She asked me to help her perfect her english, and she'd teach me russian. I was half-drunk, and agreed.
**Ten point zero zero zero one**
I've been meeting Svetlana almost every day, and she's made good progress. One the other hand, I had not, but cyrilic is hard, damnit.
**Ten point zero zero zero zero**
I realized that I'm starting to fall for her.
I start to freak out a bit.
**Nine point nine nine nine nine**
I freak the fuck out.
I ran, left Svetlana alone, wondering what the hell had just happened (I think I was screaming, too. I'm not sure.)
That was yesterday. I've been in my home since then. Svetlana tried for a few days to call me, but I didn't bother to pick up my phone. I was too busy having a breakdown every time the countdown went down.
And it went down every 8.64 seconds.
I decided to write down whatever I think was worthy of my life, my milestones. The proof that I lived.
I realized my life was boring.
**Eight point five eight three nine**
I try to remember my mom's face. Fail miserably.
**Seven point two one five seven**
Smoke and stare at the ceiling. Smoke and watch TV.
**Six point six six six six**
I have The Number of The Beast blasting my pc's speakers. Sadly, the chorus and my counter didn't sync up.
**Three point one two two one**
I woke up at noon. I've been drinking, and can't remember too much. Maybe it's better like this?
**Two point three one two two**
At this point, I'm pretty sure I'm going to die when this gets to zero.
**One point eight five two seven**
I have no idea how Dad could laugh like that in the face of death, in the face of pain. I don't know how he even went over Mom's death when giving birth. I don't know, and I guess I'll never know.
**One point zero zero zero zero**
I contemplate suicide.
**Zero point nine nine nine nine**
...
Are you shitting me?
This is utter bullshit. It's already zero, but WITH DECIMALS.
I don't know how I didn't see it coming.
**Zero point zero zero zero eight**
Well, I have a few more minutes to live. Might as well enjoy them, and go out, look at the clouds, feel the sun on my skin, flip the bird to a cop. The small, beautiful things of life.
I guess that the shock of the zero wore off after the "point nine" bullshit.
**Zero point zero zero zero three**
There are about 20 seconds left until I die.
I open my door, and there she is.
Svetlana, looking worried beyond worries, and... her eyes are red. Has she been she crying?
**Zero point zero zero zero two**
16 seconds left.
"Um.. Svetlana, how did you find my home? Not that I'm not happy to see you, but..."
She slaps me across the face.
**Zero point zero zero zero one**
8 seconds left.
She lifts me by the collar, and as I am not very tall at all, she lifts me up. It hurts a bit.
"You had me worried, you ass"
"Sorry...?"
"Don't ever do this again."
The time is running out. I know I'm gonna die in a few seconds, but I don't know how. Am I gonna have a heart attack, or explode like a damn bomb? I need Svetlana to get away, just in case. I spit the words as fast as I can.
"Svetlana, I need you to let me down and get away from me, there is something weird going on, and I don't know what may happen if you-
**Zero point zero zero zero zero**
She cut me off kissing me. There, hanging from the collar of my shirt, a few inches from the ground, and right in the exact moment I should have died.
Nothing happens for a moment. She is looking at me in the eyes, it was a very chaste kiss. I'm still hanging, and my armpits are starting to hurt.
She smiles.
"I didn't understand that, could you tell me again, my love?"
**One** | **20**
When did it get so low? Why only now has my mind brought it back? Why now when i'm about to accept the award?
**19**
I mean sure it. It HAD to be important, but WHY is it so *clear* now. It's making almost impossible to hear the announcer!
**18**
Well at least I finally get to answer what it is. I guess that something..
**16**
Wait, it just skipped a number... where is everyone, why is everything dark all the sudden?
**15**
No, no go back! Not like this, not on the stage!
**14**
**13**
**12**
This HAS to be some sort of elaborate joke by god or satan or something!
*11*
It's getting quieter, WHY is it getting quieter. Am i dead? am i being whisked to whatever comes after?
*10*
*9*
Faster, come on. what's the god damn purpose of the count down? whats MY purpose to it?
*8*
*7*
*6*
*It's time to wake up*
Wait, what? Who the hell said that.
*5*
**You've been in too deep. hopefully you won't suffer shock**
Why did the numbers slow down like that.. i- i feel woozy what's going on. WHO'S TALKING?!?
*4*
Please tell me. I mean you already have me in your grips, blind and mute.
*3*
Please? just tell me. I want to know before.. well i die.
*2*
Not even a hint? i mean come on i spent YEARS learning psychology JUST TO UNDERSTAND YOU.
*1*
please... not like this..
*0*
A low buzz is heard, your eyes slowly open to stare into computer screen saying in text "Sleep cycle successful" as you hear voices come into focus. "The test was successful. their resting state. ten years. no change in body.. the serums managed to successfully keep his cells from reaching aposis, degradation.. atrophication.. anyways the Stasis simulation complete, we should go get the psych doctor. as we have some explaining to do.." you hear. soon after you realize you're on your back, multiple wires and tubes stick into your body. their purpose, at least to you, is unknown.
Above, you hear a series of clicks as the roof slowly opens. | |
[WP] On a desert highway you come across a man with bright white skin with strange markings. He wears clothes from the 1800s and tells you he has to wander until the wrongs he has done are forgiven. Tell his story. | Damn car stalled again.
It wasn't so much the stalled car that I was angry about as much as it was where I was when it happened - on an unfamiliar highway with the stars hanging over me, having taken a wrong turn on a drive out to a girlfriend's house which I had decided too late that I didn't care to visit. It was fucking freezing outside, and to be honest, I never did know much about cars.
I got out and popped the hood open, and that's when I saw him.
He had the appearance of someone who was trying to look friendly, but also one of someone who was not quite sure of the meaning of the word "friend". He had an awkward smile jutting out from either side of a scar on those pale lips of his, and his gait was the fast-paced one of anxiety. Beneath the moonlight, I could just make out the fleshy tattoos on his snow-colored cheekbones.
He raised his hand at me as if to wave and then picked up his pace, perhaps running to explain before I got the wrong idea that he was just looking to help.
I know what he was doing now.
Back then, I didn't.
I just about jumped out of my skin, then turned and ran like hell. Shit. Nothing was going through my mind - I just knew that I had to get as far away from this guy as possible. I sprinted as fast as my weak legs would allow me to and attempted to hurl myself over a guardrail, hoping to lose the guy in the woods.
As these things do, my expert plan failed. I had flung myself over the guardrail - and rolled out onto the steepest hill I'd ever seen. I couldn't say when, but it suffices to say that I at some point hit my head on something. I was out cold.
....
There was something damp on my face and my head was pounding like a motherfucker. I let out a groan and half-opened my eyes, hoping perhaps to see my girlfriend tending to my battle scars. These hopes were left unfulfilled.
It was the man from the night before. I tried to leap off of my feet. I tried to act ferocious and scream at him that he'd better go before I killed him. In actuality, aside from using all of my energy to swipe the washcloth off of my face, I couldn't produce movement any more trivial that groans of discontentment.
And that's when he spoke: his voice was one that was foreign, and yet it carried no accent. It was the voice itself that was so incredibly unknowable, one of a soothing mother and a knowing sage, and yet carrying the unknowable quietness and rugged coarseness of that of an assassin or a thief. He spoke concisely.
"It'll be alright, Sid. My name is Hālin. You had a bad fall, but you will be well in time. This is my home, and I am in the process of making you healthful. I saw your name on your jacket, which you will find across the room with the rest of your belongings."
I stared at him. Indubitably, the markings that I had mistaken for tattoos were scars. His entire powdery face was marred with them, some with the pinkness of a burn, and some with the thinness of the scratch of a cat. His eyes were slanted and his nose was pointed, and all-in-all he must have weighed a whole of 100 pounds. (For the unAmerican: He was frail.) Something about Hālin was vaguely calming, even vaguely beautiful. I met his eyes and went to speak, but he went on.
"You should not be talking. I don't intend to hold you captive, but there are not many options for your right now. You came very close to death, and you are not yet all the way out of the cave."
The room around me was otherworldly. It was similar to a log cabin, yet with sharper, more mysterious objects that begged to be used - clearly they were not mere decorations, but tools meant to be used with the utmost of care. I managed to choke out a sound.
"Where is this?", I creaked. "Who are you? Is my car gone?" I hate to admit it, but my girlfriend was the last thing on my mind.
"My name is Hālin", he repeated with incredible patience, "In my youth, I was a healer. You are in my home. Specifically, you are about 20 miles deep into the woods, so you are not far from the site of your crash. Your car is running, but we will get to that later. Here, I have some herbs for you," he says, handing me a strange flask, "Drink up if you so choose. You will get a temporary high and you may experience drowsiness, so be wary."
Maybe it was because of my disoriented state or even simply because he seemed so genuine, but I accepted the drink with little hesitation. I don't know what came pumping through my system once I raised the flask to my lips, but it was amazing. The rush - God, I still dream about it.
"How is that?", is the question that he asks me, but I cannot answer. Sleep rocks quietly into my bones, and I am at peace with the world around me, blissfully unaware in a coma-like state in seconds. I must have slept for years.
...
I awoke to the sound of sobbing of the muffled sort and realized with sudden clarity that I hadn't the slightest idea where I was or who that man could have been. I lifted an arm - I feet weak, but capable enough to get the hell out. Slowly, I slid out of the low bed, looked around, and spotted the chair with my belongings on it. Over the pajamas that I didn't quite remember obtaining I slipped on my jacket from work, removed my pocketknife from the pocket, grabbed my car keys, and looked around. The only window in the room was high in the wall, and I knew even in the state that I was in that I would never be able to find a way to scale it. Cautiously, I eased open the round door, fingering the pocketknife in my sickly hands, and entered the main part of the house.
I was overwhelmed with the smell of something sweet but booze-like. There were strange objects sitting on every table and beautiful, bizarre plants perched on every shelf…Had I met with this room under different circumstances, it may have inspired in me a sense of wanderlust. Louder still was the sound of crying coming from somewhere in the house, and I was almost tempted to investigate…I did have a pocketknife, some form of protection should things go awry…Yeah, I did it. I followed the sounds and the smell and there he was, hunched over in a chair over an open ledger.
"I didn't know he was one of them," Hālin sobbed, "Please just take me back! I can't keep living like this!"
He must have heard me enter the room, for he abruptly slammed the ledger shut, assuming a manner that almost passed as professional.
"Sid, please. You need rest. Go back to bed; I'll bring some water. It's not safe for you to have any more of the medicine, if that's what you're looking for."
I was shaking. "What was that?!", I demanded. "Bring me back to my car!"
The man looked at me directly in the eye...And then he broke down into tears. "It's not safe!", he sobbed, "You'll get killed!" Hālin began to hyperventilate and tried to wipe at his face with his robes, missed, and fell to the floor in a ball of tired frustration, a gesture not unlike that of an infant. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...". He was mumbling to nobody in particular. I could have left right then. Hell, I could have stabbed him in the chest and robbed him. The possibilities were limitless, and yet the only thing that I did was kneel down on the ground next to him: I did it cautiously, trembling with fear, but I did it. I patted his back awkwardly until his sobs gradually subsided. I do believe that we were both wondering exactly how our respective lives had come to this.
"Hālin...would you please tell me what is going on?", I whispered .
He was silent for a moment and then sat up on his knees. He began speaking quietly, so quietly that I had to cease all movement and bring my face next to his just to hear what he was saying.
"Have you...", he whispers, "Have you heard of the Salem Witch Trials?"
I blinked at him dumbfoundedly, to which he simply sighed and continued.
"I..." He held out his palm as though for guidance and looked at me straight in the eyes. While doing so, he produced from his palm a beautiful wisp of green light, beheld it in front of my unbelieving eyes, and closed his hand on it as quickly as he had produced it, thus making it disappear. It was like magic.
"My family lives in Salem right now, but…I betrayed them. We're warlocks, and I love them very much, but I couldn't control myself..."
I started at Hālin for a second and I looked at him - really, truly observed him. His thin scars didn't dance on only his face. They climbed up his arms and ran down his neck; the marks crept onto his scalp and tangled themselves on his toes. The kind of story that they were trying to tell through all of this acting, all of this playing…it made me inclined to believe almost anything that Hālin had to say. Both of us on our knees, he looked at me.
"I killed someone. Time, it's - it's so subjective, but the easiest thing to say is that my family punished me by sending me forward in time. It would probably seem to you that I am better off here than I was there, but this is simply not the case. It's very hard to be in a stable place here…I hurt every day because of far I am from where I should be. They won't bring me back until I've killed more humans than I have warlocks, but I can't do it. I'm not meant to kill, and I can say that through experience. They know that I've helped you, though. They're not going to bring me back.
Hālin's eyes fell, by chance, onto the pocketknife that I'd dropped onto the floor.
"Sid, I've been waiting to redeem myself for years, and now that I've helped someone...I think I can live with myself." He smiles up at me with tired, aching eyes, and with that, he reaches over my lap and takes hold of the knife. "Thank you, Sid," he says, beginning to press it to his veins, "Truly."
| Interesting.. The christian bible says God made Cain wander the earth forever for killing his brother, but also gave him a "mark of protection." If anyone wants to use that for their story, go ahead. | |
[WP] A painter gets trapped in one of his paintings | Why this one?
Out of every mediocre, kitschy, landscape I’ve done, out of every harmless, cutesy portrait commissioned by an aristocrat for their daughter, out of every practice scene in whatever mundane setting I happened to find myself, why did it have to be this one?
The one time I truly set out to create something, to re-awaken that sense of brilliance that drew me to this path, that which pours out of me decides to break the laws of nature and turn on me!
Rational thought and clear vision are no longer things I possess. In distorting the laws of space in this hell, in trying to break the conventions of my stuffy contemporaries, I must have also altered whatever process from which my thoughts occur. Everything is a haze, and these brief moments of lucidity only enable me to see how awful my existence now truly is.
I should have felt this happening while I painted. I had not felt that sort of drive in years. It wasn’t the same as my usual work, no, this leapt from the brush to the easel and it seemed that my hand could barely keep up with my mind. I felt as though I as being dragged into it, but how could I have known that the feeling would manifest itself literally? My last earthly sensation was that of losing myself in this binge of reckless creation, and then falling…
I was picked up by the current of whatever fills the space of this realm. I gave up trying to move by my own will long ago. I cannot comprehend the mechanics of this place, beyond what I had originally projected onto the flat of my canvas. But this place is not flat, and it most certainly was not composed of canvas and paint. It has grown beyond my initial vision, into something entirely it’s own.
The strange winds of this place throw me as if I were a leaf. What little vision that is not obscured by that damned haze, which I can only assume is the disconnect between the senses I possess to interpret my own a world, and whatever governs this one, brings me no comfort. The only discrete figures that I make out, and recognize, in some cases, for they were in my mind when I created this place, are those horrors from the very most black elements of my vision for this piece.
Twisted limbs, bending in unimaginable ways, and pulling them through the aether, supported by forces unseen. These have always seemed distant, although I’m not entirely certain that distance as a concept holds any value here. Something different is happening now, though. One of these forms is getting larger. It’s getting closer.
I am approaching some type of gaping hole, a mouth perhaps, surrounded by the being’s writhing components. I do not fear, for death would be a welcome relief from the torment of existing in a realm I created to defy the nature of existence.
| The chill in the air surprised him after the relative warmth of the studio.
A stream bubbled contentedly behind him as the trees swayed in the wind that came off of the distant mountains. The mountains towered over the landscape, big brothers watching over all that happened below. Their snow dusted sides promising of a cold winter to come in the weak warmth the late afternoon sun.
The forest around him was young and playful in the breeze, he could smell the pine sap and hear the birds singing to each other. In a few short months the ground would be white and the forest silent, but for now, on this late summer day, it was vibrant.
Across the clearing a line ponderosa stood, a remnant of an older time. It had been longer than the rest of the trees in the forest. The only survivor of its generation it looked down on the firs and pines, a watchful guardian over the adolescent trees that danced with each other and the wind.
He walked up to the tree and put his hand on the gnarled bark of its trunk, it seemed out of place among the youthful saplings. It struck him that this tree was alone, all of its family had died leaving it to witness the rebirth of the forest. He looked around at the other trees of the forest, the were not alone, each had a friend: the Douglas fir danced with the fur next to it, the short pine chatted happily with the bush that sat at its base. Even the logs that lined the forest floor seemed to be lying in pairs, it was just this towering ponderosa pine that was alone.
He sat down at the base of the old tree, his jeans sinking slightly into the soft bed of needles that covered the forest floor. He felt a chill as the the sun sank a little lower, but he leaned back against the old tree, feeling the warmth of the trunk against his back.
He looked up at the tree and said in a soft voice:
"There there old friend, I'll keep you company".
| |
[WP] A painter gets trapped in one of his paintings | Why this one?
Out of every mediocre, kitschy, landscape I’ve done, out of every harmless, cutesy portrait commissioned by an aristocrat for their daughter, out of every practice scene in whatever mundane setting I happened to find myself, why did it have to be this one?
The one time I truly set out to create something, to re-awaken that sense of brilliance that drew me to this path, that which pours out of me decides to break the laws of nature and turn on me!
Rational thought and clear vision are no longer things I possess. In distorting the laws of space in this hell, in trying to break the conventions of my stuffy contemporaries, I must have also altered whatever process from which my thoughts occur. Everything is a haze, and these brief moments of lucidity only enable me to see how awful my existence now truly is.
I should have felt this happening while I painted. I had not felt that sort of drive in years. It wasn’t the same as my usual work, no, this leapt from the brush to the easel and it seemed that my hand could barely keep up with my mind. I felt as though I as being dragged into it, but how could I have known that the feeling would manifest itself literally? My last earthly sensation was that of losing myself in this binge of reckless creation, and then falling…
I was picked up by the current of whatever fills the space of this realm. I gave up trying to move by my own will long ago. I cannot comprehend the mechanics of this place, beyond what I had originally projected onto the flat of my canvas. But this place is not flat, and it most certainly was not composed of canvas and paint. It has grown beyond my initial vision, into something entirely it’s own.
The strange winds of this place throw me as if I were a leaf. What little vision that is not obscured by that damned haze, which I can only assume is the disconnect between the senses I possess to interpret my own a world, and whatever governs this one, brings me no comfort. The only discrete figures that I make out, and recognize, in some cases, for they were in my mind when I created this place, are those horrors from the very most black elements of my vision for this piece.
Twisted limbs, bending in unimaginable ways, and pulling them through the aether, supported by forces unseen. These have always seemed distant, although I’m not entirely certain that distance as a concept holds any value here. Something different is happening now, though. One of these forms is getting larger. It’s getting closer.
I am approaching some type of gaping hole, a mouth perhaps, surrounded by the being’s writhing components. I do not fear, for death would be a welcome relief from the torment of existing in a realm I created to defy the nature of existence.
| I have been here for fourty years.
Sometimes I question if I’m going insane, if I’m losing my mind. How can this be?
My surroundings had been the same all those years. The hills, the trees, the brook with its little waterfall…all are intensely familiar. Leafs didn’t fall, the water never dried up, grass didn’t grow. All stayed exactly as I had made it. Made with a pencil, an ezel, and a blank canvas. My first painting. My eternal prison.
I still don’t know what happened. One moment I was signing my work, intensely proud of my accomplishment. The next I was here. On a grassy hill, mountains in the distance. Confused. Scared. Uncomfortably warm in my winter sweater. I walked miles and miles that day. The mountains never came closer, the hill never got any steeper, or less steep for that matter. I had gone to sleep that day, hoping to wake up in my parents’ garage, wondering if this had all been some surreal nightmare. That hadn’t happened. It hadn’t ever happened. And by now, I know it will never happen.
But that is not the worst. Every day, I see my mother’s face. A vague shape in the sky. Barely visible, but unmistakable for anything else. Unlike myself, she has gotten older over the years. Worn out with grief. I tried contacting her at first. I stood, waving. She didn’t see. I burned a message into the grass. I would blink and the message was gone. I diverted the brook. I cut down trees. I did everything, and she never saw.
But even that was not the worst. Every day when I saw her, it rained. And the grass never got wet.
| |
[WP] A painter gets trapped in one of his paintings | Why this one?
Out of every mediocre, kitschy, landscape I’ve done, out of every harmless, cutesy portrait commissioned by an aristocrat for their daughter, out of every practice scene in whatever mundane setting I happened to find myself, why did it have to be this one?
The one time I truly set out to create something, to re-awaken that sense of brilliance that drew me to this path, that which pours out of me decides to break the laws of nature and turn on me!
Rational thought and clear vision are no longer things I possess. In distorting the laws of space in this hell, in trying to break the conventions of my stuffy contemporaries, I must have also altered whatever process from which my thoughts occur. Everything is a haze, and these brief moments of lucidity only enable me to see how awful my existence now truly is.
I should have felt this happening while I painted. I had not felt that sort of drive in years. It wasn’t the same as my usual work, no, this leapt from the brush to the easel and it seemed that my hand could barely keep up with my mind. I felt as though I as being dragged into it, but how could I have known that the feeling would manifest itself literally? My last earthly sensation was that of losing myself in this binge of reckless creation, and then falling…
I was picked up by the current of whatever fills the space of this realm. I gave up trying to move by my own will long ago. I cannot comprehend the mechanics of this place, beyond what I had originally projected onto the flat of my canvas. But this place is not flat, and it most certainly was not composed of canvas and paint. It has grown beyond my initial vision, into something entirely it’s own.
The strange winds of this place throw me as if I were a leaf. What little vision that is not obscured by that damned haze, which I can only assume is the disconnect between the senses I possess to interpret my own a world, and whatever governs this one, brings me no comfort. The only discrete figures that I make out, and recognize, in some cases, for they were in my mind when I created this place, are those horrors from the very most black elements of my vision for this piece.
Twisted limbs, bending in unimaginable ways, and pulling them through the aether, supported by forces unseen. These have always seemed distant, although I’m not entirely certain that distance as a concept holds any value here. Something different is happening now, though. One of these forms is getting larger. It’s getting closer.
I am approaching some type of gaping hole, a mouth perhaps, surrounded by the being’s writhing components. I do not fear, for death would be a welcome relief from the torment of existing in a realm I created to defy the nature of existence.
| The door to Mr Sokolov's apartment shook as though caught in a storm, but outside the window that Sunday morning was calm and sunny, and unseasonably warm. Strange noises came from within, as if across an impossibly great distance, carrying the fates of worlds unseen and unknown. It was making it really hard to sleep.
"Y'know, it's normally Kostya complaining about the kids downstairs." Lou, the landlord, was taking his time working through a ring of keys, apparently unconcerned about what was happening to his property. I had to wonder how many houses he had rented out. "I think you're the first to have a problem with him."
"He's usually pretty quiet," I conceded, carefully omitting the mental 'and creepy'; Lou had known Sokolov a lot longer than he'd rented to us. "Then this started last night. We tried knocking, but he won't answer the door."
"He's an artist, you know. Usually just paints, but maybe he's doing some audio visual something or other? I don't really try to understand that stuff." Lou finally seemed to pick a damn key.
"And left it on all night? I mean, I hope the guy didn't have a stroke or something, but that's kind of a dick move otherwise."
The lock opened with a click and the door with a slam. A freezing wind burst out from within, and I regretted the light tshirt I'd chosen for lazing around the house on a nice day.
"Now, that's weird." Lou seemed concerned for the first time. I wanted to ask how he hadn't noticed the door shaking like that, but I was too distracted by the echo.
Inside, the apartment was a lot more rundown than our own downstairs. There was no furniture, just crates upon crates of who knows what and easels scattered around, holding these elaborate fantasy landscapes. They were good, too, with this sharpness to them like you were looking through a window to somewhere real. The sound of birdsong and running water and that cold wind were pretty persuasive, too.
"Kostya?" Lou got no answer. "There's gotta be a record player or something around here."
"And a wind machine?"
"Must be. Told you it was an art piece."
As Lou had a look around, my gaze was drawn to one of the paintings, a snowy mountainside with fresh-looking tracks in the snow, heading away up the mountain. The cold wind was strongest here, and there was a puddle on the floor beneath it.
"Lou, I think I'm about to sound like a crazy person."
Lou turned back to me and as I looked at him I noticed another painting behind him.
It looked like it was supposed to be a portrait, but of an uninhabited room. The focus of the picture was on an empty space in the centre of the canvas. Just below, and mostly out of view, it seemed like someone was slumped on the ground. At the bottom edge, I could just make out some shaggy salt and pepper hair that kinda looked like the top of Mr Sokolov's head.
"What's the matter, son?" I heard Lou ask, but I was too caught on one detail to respond.
There was a handprint on one side of the frame that looked like someone had climbed out of the picture. There were splashes of paint and handprints all over the apartment, of course, but I didn't think red paint congealed quite so much like blood. | |
[WP] A painter gets trapped in one of his paintings | Why this one?
Out of every mediocre, kitschy, landscape I’ve done, out of every harmless, cutesy portrait commissioned by an aristocrat for their daughter, out of every practice scene in whatever mundane setting I happened to find myself, why did it have to be this one?
The one time I truly set out to create something, to re-awaken that sense of brilliance that drew me to this path, that which pours out of me decides to break the laws of nature and turn on me!
Rational thought and clear vision are no longer things I possess. In distorting the laws of space in this hell, in trying to break the conventions of my stuffy contemporaries, I must have also altered whatever process from which my thoughts occur. Everything is a haze, and these brief moments of lucidity only enable me to see how awful my existence now truly is.
I should have felt this happening while I painted. I had not felt that sort of drive in years. It wasn’t the same as my usual work, no, this leapt from the brush to the easel and it seemed that my hand could barely keep up with my mind. I felt as though I as being dragged into it, but how could I have known that the feeling would manifest itself literally? My last earthly sensation was that of losing myself in this binge of reckless creation, and then falling…
I was picked up by the current of whatever fills the space of this realm. I gave up trying to move by my own will long ago. I cannot comprehend the mechanics of this place, beyond what I had originally projected onto the flat of my canvas. But this place is not flat, and it most certainly was not composed of canvas and paint. It has grown beyond my initial vision, into something entirely it’s own.
The strange winds of this place throw me as if I were a leaf. What little vision that is not obscured by that damned haze, which I can only assume is the disconnect between the senses I possess to interpret my own a world, and whatever governs this one, brings me no comfort. The only discrete figures that I make out, and recognize, in some cases, for they were in my mind when I created this place, are those horrors from the very most black elements of my vision for this piece.
Twisted limbs, bending in unimaginable ways, and pulling them through the aether, supported by forces unseen. These have always seemed distant, although I’m not entirely certain that distance as a concept holds any value here. Something different is happening now, though. One of these forms is getting larger. It’s getting closer.
I am approaching some type of gaping hole, a mouth perhaps, surrounded by the being’s writhing components. I do not fear, for death would be a welcome relief from the torment of existing in a realm I created to defy the nature of existence.
| Her skin, pale and perfect, ran smoothly across his, causing his knees to wobble.
"You don't have to go, you know," she said.
He glanced outward to the edge of the horizon, knowing his time was dwindling. He would have to make the decision soon.
"Please, please understand that this is very difficult for me."
"Well perhaps it shouldn't be. Haven't I made you an appealing offer?"
She smiled playfully and the painter began to pace.
"Well, some would say so," he fired back sarcastically. His stride quickened as he moved back and forth in front of her. She watched eagerly, knowing she was terribly close to hearing the answer she had been waiting for.
The modest castle in the background was enclosed by lush trees and a pond. The setting sun spilled its reflection onto the water, its warmth cascading over both of them.
"The first time I fell in, I was in shock for days. I couldn't eat; I couldn't sleep; I couldn't hold a conversation without revisiting it. I thought I was.."
"Crazy, right?" She twirled her curly light blonde hair in a circle around her pointer finger. Her sapphire eyes looked at him longingly, burning him with an enticing gaze he couldn't look away from.
"I though it was a dream, or maybe a nightmare," he said. "How do you rationalize falling into a painting and interacting with a subject you created."
"Well I was here all along, you know. In your head, yes, but still real before you put me to canvas."
She really was perfect, and how could she not be for him, as she was his creation.
The jade green dress he painted showcased her stunning figure in an elegant way that made him think of the painting long after he stopped his work for the day.
Five months of work tied into one piece - his longest ever - and certainly it would be his masterpiece. His successful career spanned work for a variety of clients, but he didn't have a wealthy benefactor behind this work. It was all his own.
The studio was dim and dusty, littered with used supplies and sketches of future pieces. He stopped pacing and turned away from her, one last time peering into the edge and pondering his decision.
If he left, he never would be able to come back. The rules of this impossible situation wouldn't allow it. After the third visit, he was required to make a choice: stay with her in the world he created, or leave and return to his life forever.
Though he already knew the answer, it didn't make his decision any easier. If he stayed, he would be dead to the world, but alive in hers. There were so many unknowns it made him nauseous, but there was one constant that would make the struggle worthwhile.
He stopped pacing, and she approached him. The scent of lavender and fig encircled him, and she pressed her body onto his.
"Last chance. What's it going to be?"
He leaned in and kissed her, and the last remaining view of the studio vanished. Dark and dusty, he was frozen beside her in an immortal kiss. | |
[WP] A painter gets trapped in one of his paintings | Why this one?
Out of every mediocre, kitschy, landscape I’ve done, out of every harmless, cutesy portrait commissioned by an aristocrat for their daughter, out of every practice scene in whatever mundane setting I happened to find myself, why did it have to be this one?
The one time I truly set out to create something, to re-awaken that sense of brilliance that drew me to this path, that which pours out of me decides to break the laws of nature and turn on me!
Rational thought and clear vision are no longer things I possess. In distorting the laws of space in this hell, in trying to break the conventions of my stuffy contemporaries, I must have also altered whatever process from which my thoughts occur. Everything is a haze, and these brief moments of lucidity only enable me to see how awful my existence now truly is.
I should have felt this happening while I painted. I had not felt that sort of drive in years. It wasn’t the same as my usual work, no, this leapt from the brush to the easel and it seemed that my hand could barely keep up with my mind. I felt as though I as being dragged into it, but how could I have known that the feeling would manifest itself literally? My last earthly sensation was that of losing myself in this binge of reckless creation, and then falling…
I was picked up by the current of whatever fills the space of this realm. I gave up trying to move by my own will long ago. I cannot comprehend the mechanics of this place, beyond what I had originally projected onto the flat of my canvas. But this place is not flat, and it most certainly was not composed of canvas and paint. It has grown beyond my initial vision, into something entirely it’s own.
The strange winds of this place throw me as if I were a leaf. What little vision that is not obscured by that damned haze, which I can only assume is the disconnect between the senses I possess to interpret my own a world, and whatever governs this one, brings me no comfort. The only discrete figures that I make out, and recognize, in some cases, for they were in my mind when I created this place, are those horrors from the very most black elements of my vision for this piece.
Twisted limbs, bending in unimaginable ways, and pulling them through the aether, supported by forces unseen. These have always seemed distant, although I’m not entirely certain that distance as a concept holds any value here. Something different is happening now, though. One of these forms is getting larger. It’s getting closer.
I am approaching some type of gaping hole, a mouth perhaps, surrounded by the being’s writhing components. I do not fear, for death would be a welcome relief from the torment of existing in a realm I created to defy the nature of existence.
| He gazed around at the scene,which as an abstract artist he had created “Now,I got myself in here,so logically I should be able to get out in the same way!” said the artist,as he walked around the swirls of vibrant colours and odd shapes.”Oh,its helpless!Why couldn't I paint more realistic scenes?At least then I'd know where to look,but here its impossible!” said the Painter,who had assumed a fetal position,hoping to awaken from the horrible world that had ensnared him ”Did you say something?” said a voice,and the artist searched around,before seeing its source. The voice came from a misshapen human form “I,I don't what you are but I'm sorry,I should probably of studied human anatomy more closely” said the artist,who struggled to accept that the twisted shape just spoke to him,or that he was somehow inside his own painting,which was inside his studio,but there was no window that confirmed this,he only had guesswork to go on. When he had arrived he immediately had been greeted by the familiar array of colours,and then there were the patterns,all nonsensical. The painter believed he was going mad,the lack of up and down,the outrageous colours,and the abominations that inhabited the landscape. were all of his making.”How can I be in here?This must be a dream,it must be!” said the painter.”Are you lost?” said the thing he called a person,a twisted mockery of a human being where there was no face,yet it spoke,this sight drove the painter further into a despair.”I can't escape,there's no escape,I am tripped here,forever!” said the painter.
| |
[WP] Ever since you turned 20, every day, you wake up at a different point in your life. You might wake up in your 43 year old self one day, and then your 21 year old self the next. Your days never repeat, and always takes place after your 20th birthday. | I opened my eyes and then closed them immediately. I’d started praying a little while ago, trying to see if it would make any difference, but so far it hadn’t. Still, I whispered to any deity that might be listening. *please guide me home, let me find my own bed and if not there then let me be with her.* I opened my eyes and looked up at the peeling ceiling. I was 22 and alone.
I had no idea how long it had been going on but I knew the day it had started, I had gone to sleep after my 20th birthday and woke up in my late twenties with a job, a flat, a dog and a life I didn’t recognise. Ever since then every time I woke I was in anew part of my life, at a new age and with new people. It was a matter of trying to work out when and where I was and now, after hundreds of days I had a rough idea of my timeline.
Right now I am 21 years old, I work in a bar on the lower west side and during the day I play my guitar and dream of making it with a band. In about three years time I am going to meet the most talented group of guys in my life and in one glorious week we will produce the most amazing music of our lives. For two years I am going to be on top of the world and then somehow I am going to stuff it up and by 29 I am going to be living on the street, broke and alone. I have no idea what happens as I have never jumped into those four years but I am pretty sure I am on heroin for a lot of them.
I am going to live on the streets for two years, lose three fingers and a kidney to rats and being stabbed and then when I am thirty one I am going to finally get cleaned up and start living. It takes me two years but by thirty three I am back on my feet and I run a small coffee shop.
I am thirty four when I meet her, she’s called Alice and she lives somewhere in Brooklyn but I can’t find out where. I’ve tried so many times but something always gets in the way. I’ve only jumped into my body with her six times; six beautiful times between the age of 35 and 43. Most of my jumps are forgettable, just random days in the life of a familiar stranger but on those days, those days are magical.
I’ll always know one of those days by the smell, she fills the room when I wake and possesses me. It has been hundreds of jumps now though, hundreds of days since I saw her and I am getting desperate not knowing when it will be again.
I swing my legs out of bed and stretch and then think better of it and curl back into the warm spot. Maybe, just maybe I can get back to sleep and try again for a better day.
| *Oh shit oh shit oh shit.* I didn't recognize the woman next me. *Girlfriend or wife, girlfriend or wife? Damnit, do I have a ring?* I check my hands and the nightstand next to the bed. No ring. I breathe a sigh of relief. *I must be somewhere between...24-33.*
I hadn't experienced most of my 20's yet, and people have been telling me that's when I should be making mistakes. When I'm in my 20's, not when I'm 36 or 42 or 59 or 66. I was always relieved when I woke up in my 20's: There was significantly less pressure. So long as I kept myself alive, the loop would continue. Still, I feel awkward waking up next to someone in the morning. Last night I was with a woman significantly older than the one here.
And I was still far enough away from 20 that I've lost Laura. Ever since the day I woke up as myself and not myself at the same time, I haven't been able to go back. I keep getting lost. The closest I've been is 25 and still she wasn't there. I thought she was the one. I thought we could at least make it 5 more years.
I know I'm happy later on. I know I marry, I know I have kids. But I want to know you, too. I'll keep sleeping and hope one day I wake up next to you.
http://k1ngr4t.tumblr.com/ | |
[WP] You are a 14 year old only child to parents in their sixties. One day, while going through old boxes, you find a photo taken of your mother and father twenty years ago. Standing in front of them is a teenager who is identical to you in every way. | I sat across my parents, my mother sobbing and my father grim. Between us on the coffee table lay a picture I found rummaging through the attic. There were 3 people in the picture, a younger version of my father in his white lab coat, a younger version of my mother in her fur coat and designer shoes, and lastly a current version of me, exactly the way I am now. I must have stared at the picture for hours, combing through every last detail, before confronting my parents – or whoever they were. It was me, I was sure of it. Mouth crooked in the same toothy grin, a scar above the left eyebrow, but most telling of all, different colored eyes, right eye blue and left eye red. The back of the photo in my father’s handwriting were the words “family” crossed out, dating 20 years back.
“We‘re s-s-so sorry sweetheart,” my mother cried in between sobs, “we just l-l-l-loved you so much.”
The term of endearment died at my ears, but my heart suddenly felt 100 pounds heavier. I sat in silence waiting for their explanation, waiting for the picture to make sense.
My father inhaled, “Son, we just want you to know, we love you very much, and no matter what you see today you will forever be our child.”
I clenched my jaw not wanting to speak. A flurry of emotions ran through my body, I had no idea what I was feeling- Anger? Fear? Disappointment?
“Follow me, Son,” he stood and turned to my mother, whose face was still buried in her hands.
“I can’t do it, I can’t…it doesn’t make a difference anymore.”
“He has to know, or we’ll lose him again”
“Go first, I need some time.”
My father nodded, and motioned me to follow him. We walked in silence as he led to down to the basement. My mind was racing, looking back on the last 14 years of my life. It was so normal, we were so happy, what is going on? He opened the circuit breaker, and flipped some combination of switches, and the far side of the wall lifted up revealing a bright lit room.
“wha..”
“This is my lab, let me show you.”
Machines I had never seen, state of the art technology, and vials of liquid filled the room.
“Come,” my father said as he crossed the room. I was only halfway there when I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of what my father wanted me to see. A giant cylindrical container with plugs and tubes sticking out and into a machine, a green liquid bubbled inside. I barely noticed the empty container beside it, I barely noticed the huge monitors attached to the side, my eyes were trained on the body inside. A man suspended in buoyancy. I looked closer and saw the scar, above his left eyebrow. My hand instinctively shot up to feel my own scar. His eyes were closed, but I knew what color they were.
“It happened 20 years ago. That picture is of us the night it happened. It was raining and dark when we drove back home after a benefit. I had just received some award for my work in the lab. Your mother and I were fighting. I can’t even remember about what anymore. You were in the back seat. A deer shot out of nowhere and I swerved to avoid hitting it. We tumbled off the cliff. When we came to you already had no pulse. No hospital in the world could have saved you. So I brought you back here, and stuck you in that life containment unit, it was originally made for the animals I was testing on. Genetic research. It took 6 years but I was finally able to do it. I had your body, I had your DNA and blood, I could do it. That empty container to the side is where we created you.”
“I’m…a clone?”
“NO! You are our SON. And NOTHING will ever change that.”
I heard a noise behind me and my mother stumbled in, her tears still wet on her cheek, her makeup ruined mascara running, her hair a blown up mess and her body was visibly shaking. She had a revolver in her hand.
“Mom..what?”
“NO Mary!” My father stepped in front of me, “we already decided we weren’t going to do it anymore. THIS IS OUR LIFE NOW. THIS IS OUR SON.”
“THAT WAS BEFORE HE FOUND OUT! HE WON’T LOVE US ANYMORE. WE’RE GODDAMN MONSTERS FRANK. WE CREATED HIM IN A FUCKING LAB. HOW CAN HE LOVE US? THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO GET OUR SON BACK!” My mother was frantic.
“WE DON’T’ EVEN KNOW IT WILL WORK,” my father was screaming, “Put the gun down, we’ll make it through this.”
“W-w-what will work?”
My father turned, but he couldn’t look me in the eye. “You were originally created as a donor, we were going to transplant your organs back and hopefully bring you back to life.”
I buckled and fell to the floor. My father knelt down beside me speaking rapidly, “but we changed our mind, the moment you opened your eyes. We didn’t think you would gain consciousness but you did. You had life. You are your OWN life, and OUR child. Please understand we love you more than anything.”
My mother broke down too; she was crumpled up on the floor with the revolver next to her. She was crying uncontrollably.
A sound jarred all 3 of us into silence. A tap- tap. None of us moved. Tap- tap. My mother gasped and covered her mouth. My father looked up and fell over. I turned around to see the source of the noise.
Tap- Tap.
I was staring face to face with a pair of opened eyes. 1 red. 1 blue.
| What the hell is this? Blue eyes, light brown hair, skinny figure, mischievous smile, restless hands.
It was me. It had to be me.
I turned the photo over and saw the writing on the back. I ignored the rest of the text, and focused on the date. 20 years ago. The fading of the photo supported the fact, and living in this day and age, i could tell that it sure as hell wasn't Photoshop. I wasn't an idiot.
I jumped up, the world suddenly out of focus, and staggered towards the door of the spare room. I had only gone into there because i was bored. But now i was just getting a headache. It must just be the dust i was breathing in. There was a logical explanation. There's always a logical explanation. I ran through a few theories in my head, trying to come to something plausible.
I'm immortal and somehow my mind has been wiped by my parents. Unlikely, my parents were never around.
It's a prank.
Again, unlikely. I was born into the technological age. I would be able to tell if a photo was doctored.
I was dreaming.
Plausible, but i'd never had such a vivid dream before, so that's a no-go. Okay, hallucinating then.
I looked down at the picture, then up at the mirror i was in front of after i had traveled into the hall. It showed me exactly like i was, exactly like the picture. Okay, so not a hallucination either. You never see yourself exactly like you are in a hallucination or a dream, just a different version of yourself. I was normal when i looked at my reflection.
Some kind of simulation then? Doubtful, no one would go to that much trouble, i wasn't important enough...
There was a thought in the back of my mind, but i didn't want to entertain it, it was so ludicrous.
Time-travel.
I looked closer at the picture. I was wearing the exact same clothes i was wearing at the moment, and i sure as hell didn't look any older or younger. I flipped the photo over again, and read the text i had ignored in my confused haze while searching for the date. I was my handwriting.
No way.
"Hey idiot! From my experience, or your experience i guess. Well, both of our experiences, but technically, it's only my experience, since i'm the only one, and since i AM you. Whatever. You've figured it out by now. Yeah, time travel dude. It's really not as confusing as the movies make it seems, i'll be honest. All you have to do is make sure you close all the loops. Stable time-loops are exactly what you want to create. So yeah, in about 10 seconds (i'm just repeating what i read, so i don't know if it's actually accurate, but who cares) from you finishing reading this, I'm/you/one of us is going to appear with a time travel device and give it to you. Take it and hit the button as quick as possible. DO NOT ask any questions. That ALWAYS messes up the questions. You'll be me soon, writing this down, so i'll see you then, or be you then. So, yeah, later freak!"
I read that whole thing with my mouth open, and a singular thought running through my mind.
'idiot'? 'freak'?
Damn, i'm really insulting. | |
[WP] You are a 14 year old only child to parents in their sixties. One day, while going through old boxes, you find a photo taken of your mother and father twenty years ago. Standing in front of them is a teenager who is identical to you in every way. | I paused for a moment, as I dug through the contents of the box. Could it be?
I grabbed the photo, leapt up, and ran to my parents.
"Hey, I found the photo of my cousin you were looking for!" | What the hell is this? Blue eyes, light brown hair, skinny figure, mischievous smile, restless hands.
It was me. It had to be me.
I turned the photo over and saw the writing on the back. I ignored the rest of the text, and focused on the date. 20 years ago. The fading of the photo supported the fact, and living in this day and age, i could tell that it sure as hell wasn't Photoshop. I wasn't an idiot.
I jumped up, the world suddenly out of focus, and staggered towards the door of the spare room. I had only gone into there because i was bored. But now i was just getting a headache. It must just be the dust i was breathing in. There was a logical explanation. There's always a logical explanation. I ran through a few theories in my head, trying to come to something plausible.
I'm immortal and somehow my mind has been wiped by my parents. Unlikely, my parents were never around.
It's a prank.
Again, unlikely. I was born into the technological age. I would be able to tell if a photo was doctored.
I was dreaming.
Plausible, but i'd never had such a vivid dream before, so that's a no-go. Okay, hallucinating then.
I looked down at the picture, then up at the mirror i was in front of after i had traveled into the hall. It showed me exactly like i was, exactly like the picture. Okay, so not a hallucination either. You never see yourself exactly like you are in a hallucination or a dream, just a different version of yourself. I was normal when i looked at my reflection.
Some kind of simulation then? Doubtful, no one would go to that much trouble, i wasn't important enough...
There was a thought in the back of my mind, but i didn't want to entertain it, it was so ludicrous.
Time-travel.
I looked closer at the picture. I was wearing the exact same clothes i was wearing at the moment, and i sure as hell didn't look any older or younger. I flipped the photo over again, and read the text i had ignored in my confused haze while searching for the date. I was my handwriting.
No way.
"Hey idiot! From my experience, or your experience i guess. Well, both of our experiences, but technically, it's only my experience, since i'm the only one, and since i AM you. Whatever. You've figured it out by now. Yeah, time travel dude. It's really not as confusing as the movies make it seems, i'll be honest. All you have to do is make sure you close all the loops. Stable time-loops are exactly what you want to create. So yeah, in about 10 seconds (i'm just repeating what i read, so i don't know if it's actually accurate, but who cares) from you finishing reading this, I'm/you/one of us is going to appear with a time travel device and give it to you. Take it and hit the button as quick as possible. DO NOT ask any questions. That ALWAYS messes up the questions. You'll be me soon, writing this down, so i'll see you then, or be you then. So, yeah, later freak!"
I read that whole thing with my mouth open, and a singular thought running through my mind.
'idiot'? 'freak'?
Damn, i'm really insulting. | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | She was there. In all her punk glory. Dyed white lavender hair in a cut undercut with the top hair tied in a high ponytail, lip ring, fishnet stockings you could see under her dark blue skinny jeans, seven piercings on both of her ears, soft face with questioning gaze.
"Catherine?" I heard myself say.
"Levison?" Her held tilted in the cutest way.
The Ivulsionist stood next to her with a wide smile and rocking on her heels. "Both of your pasts match up. It took awhile to get the DNA tests but we got it! Miss Catherine Jankowski and Sir Levison Walker reunited at last!"
"It's Cather now...." She spoke.
I laughed. "I'm Levi now."
I doubled other clutching my stomach. Cather's stifled laughter with her hand. She squatted and started to laugh.
"What did you do to your hair?!" She laughed.
"Me? What about you?! Your hair's white!"
"Your sunglasses are so lame!"
"Those piercings are so 19th century darling!"
The Invulsionist giggled. By now both of us were rolling on the sidewalk. I'm sure there were some questioning looks.
"Y-your clothes are from my dad's closet from the 1900's!" She wiped a tear out of her eye.
I pushed myself up and staggered toward her. I grabbed her under her armpits and hoisted her up. She was still laughing. I turned towards the Invulsionist. Her short black hair bobbed as she shook with laughter. I laughed.
"I never caught your name, miss." I said to her as Cather hung off my arms still snorting.
"Maria Venezuela. Table 7." She giggled.
"Thank you Maria. For everything." I said sincerely.
"Hey it's my job!"
Still giggling, Maria pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "If you ever need anything don't be afraid to shoot me a call."
I nodded. Maria entered her car and waved goodbye. I waved after her. I looked down at Cather who still was laughing her little butt off.
"I'm gonna leave you here," I said. "I was gonna take us to Renaldo's."
She whipped her head up and stopped laughing. "Renaldo's?"
I looked up and set her down. "I was gonna take my parents now since you aren't interested-"
"Dude I'm so interested!" She said as she pulled herself up.
I smirked at her. Her eyebrows were up on her forehead and her dainty mouth was shaped in an 'o' as she waited my answer. I sighed.
"I guess you can come." I rolled my eyes.
She jumped up and down and pumped her fist. She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the restaurant. "C'mon!"
I laughed as I let her pull me along. A little while after, I quickened my steps to match Cather's and intertwined our fingers. We began to talk about what we had been doing. She was the one mostly talking. She asked me a few questions here and there. I enjoyed watching her eyes sparkle when she talked about something she loved.
She said she was studying art now. Her parents were architects now and famous for a bridge in San Fransokiyo. She had three brothers who were nuisances. Her best friend was a vet out in the country and was making good pay. She talked about her favorite bands and what the tattoo on her wrist meant.
Cather was silent for a while. I had to look over to her. She was smiling and looking forward. She turned to look at me. Her dark green eyes shine in the spring sunlight.
"I really missed you Levi." She said.
I wrapped my arm around her and she leaned into it. "I missed you too, Cather."
_______
Did anyone get my reference? Eh? Eh? I had two different endings to this and I actually wanted this one to be happy so I chose this ending than the one I had planed. :)
| Chris sets the remote down as he reaches for his drink just out of reach. Leaning in he barely brushes the side of the can when the bowl on his lap falls to the floor spilling crumbs at his feet. Chris sighs as he picks up the remote to press pause.
[“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to..”] [VIDEO PAUSES]
The sound of car doors slamming can be heard. Chris scrambles up the stairs as two men approach the front door. One of the men is wearing a fedora. The other has a thick mustache.
Chris opens the door slightly. “Hello?”
“Mr. Nielsen?”
“May I help you?” responds Chris.
“Are you Chris?”
“Yes.”
With a kick, one man bashes the door into Chris’ face knocking him down.
“What the” exclaims Chris as he is shot with a dart.
“We found him. Should I bring the painting?”
[WATER SPLASHES]
“blaarrgh!” Shouts Chris as water is splashed onto his face. Opening his eyes Chris realizes he’s tied to a chair. He can see only about 10 feet out into the massive room.
“Where am I?”
“What we’re going to show you, well… most people resist.”
“You’re damn right I’m going to resist!”
The voice of a boy is heard just outside of the light. “Chris, please calm down. We are here to set you free.”
“Then set me free!” Shouts Chris.
The boy approaches Chris. “We would prefer that you came here willingly, but this was the safest method.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Dionysos, but my friends call me Donny. I am the leader of an organization called Aria. You’re here because your wife contracted us.”
“So, you guys have the wrong guy. I’m not married. Untie me!”
“Please, just sit patiently.” Pleads the boy.
“Donny, you want us to get her?”
“Yes, and bring the painting.”
“For safety we need to do this in secrecy. If certain individuals found out, your life would be in danger.”
“Seriously, you better tell me what’s going on.” Insists Chris.
“You should hear it from her.” Donny remarks as he steps aside revealing a young woman. In her hands she is holding a large painting from Chris’ house. The girl approaches Chris; their eyes locked.
“Hi, Chris.”
Entranced Chris manages to speak “I’m Chris.”
Smiling the girl continues, “Yes I know. You probably don’t know who I am yet but I’m here to help you remember.”
Snapping out of it, Chris notices the painting. “Wait a minute! What’s going on? Why do you have my painting? Who are you?”
“Where did you get the painting?” the girl asks Chris with a curious look on her face.
“It’s been in my family for years. My parents let me take it when I moved out. What are you doing with it?”
“What if I told you that I made this painting? That it once belonged to you and I and hung in our house?” asks the girl.
“That’s not possible on many levels. What you want from me?”
“Boss, need to get out of here.” Says the man in the gray fedora.
“Yes, I know. Let’s get started” states Donny. “Chris, I know you have little reason to trust us but I need you to do just that. I’m going to untie you now. Please do not run.”
“I got him in my sights, boss!” says the man in the fedora.
“That won’t be necessary, right, Chris?” ask the girl.
“There is something familiar about you. I don’t know why but I do trust you.”
The boy walks behind the chair and unties Chris.
“Thank you!” exclaims Chris as he stands up.
“You know me but you don’t know why. This painting is special. It belonged to us and is very important. It will help you remember. Do you trust me?” asks the girl.
“I don’t even know your name” states Chris as he takes the painting into his hand, now holding the painting along with the girl.
“You will” says the girl as she is handed a small vial with a bright liquid inside. “This vial contains a serum that will unlock memories deep in your consciousness. These memories have always been there.”
“How is that…”
“It’s possible because you have always known me. Your dreams are the memories of lives we have lived. Together. Drink this” says the girl as she hands Chris the vial.
“We need to get a move on it” shouts the man in the fedora.
“Chris, we’re out of time. Please hurry” begs Donny.
“OK, let’s do this. I must be out of my freaking mind…”
Chris sits down in the chair holding the painting in one hand and the vial in the other. He drinks down the glowing liquid. His left hand now clenching the painting.
As an intense light fills his eyes the serum spreads through him. Chris becomes entranced as visions flash through his mind. He sees the girl. She looks different but he knows it’s her. Light gleaming from his eyes illuminating the room until…. It stops. Chris’ head slumps forward.
“Chris?” asks the girl.
Chris lifts his head up slowly. Feeling exhausted he murmurs out “Annie.”
The girl’s face fills with excitement as she lunges for Chris and embraces him. “I found you!”
“Yes, you did.” Says Chris. “I knew you would.”
[GLASS BREAKING IN THE DISTANCE]
“They found us!” Shouts Donny. “We have to get out of here right now!”
“Who found us?” questions Chris.
“Sir, you need to come with us.” Says the man in the fedora as he grabs Chris’ arm.
[GUNSHOTS]
“This way!” Shouts Donny as he runs off. The others chase after Donny as bullets fly, one of them hitting Annie in the head. As Annie falls to ground Chris turns back but the men grab his arms and pull him with them.
“Annie!” shrieks Chris.
“We can find her, Chris, but we have to go. We’ll discuss your contract on the way. | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | Dying of Syphilis on an island prison ain't exactly fun. Damned tax evasion. I was glad to find out I could wake up right after taking the big sleep. Growing up again was a bit weird, but it gave me some good detail as to where and when I was. Looks like I came back around the turn of the century. My crimes had left an even bigger impact than I first thought. And prohibition was over, so I couldn't keep the old business going. So much had changed since I was locked up. Rock and Roll, a second Great War, television, even a couple movies about me. I had a second chance to make a life for myself. But I can't escape crime, why even try? Like Al Capone isn't going to be a criminal again.
News of reincarnation was on the rise. President Jules was murdered by Vice President Bruno in the Oval Office. Shakespeare was writing and directing his own movies. The Maid of New Orleans was fighting for women in the military. Sailing took a dive as the victims of the Titanic spoke out. I had to lay low. There was a reform on reincarnation and contacting folks from past lives as a result of President Jules' murder. Finally, a need for this businessman to fill. At just 19 years, Al Capone was back on his feet as the kingpin of a new bootlegging industry: bootleg lives. This one wasn't as easy as bootleg alcohol. You had to keep tabs on everyone who ever lived and died, but thanks to our computers it wasn't that hard. Besides, there weren't that many due to the new discovery. The feds were doing it, all we had to do was walk in their shadow. Time passed and I eventually found out where those poor assholes from the Valentine's massacre ended up. Back in Chicago, no less. I have a strong sense of irony, so I got them all together again on another February 14^th and blew em away. But enough had changed that it wouldn't fly. The cops figured out I was Capone and took me in.
Dying of Syphilis on an island isn't fun the second time around. | Chris sets the remote down as he reaches for his drink just out of reach. Leaning in he barely brushes the side of the can when the bowl on his lap falls to the floor spilling crumbs at his feet. Chris sighs as he picks up the remote to press pause.
[“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to..”] [VIDEO PAUSES]
The sound of car doors slamming can be heard. Chris scrambles up the stairs as two men approach the front door. One of the men is wearing a fedora. The other has a thick mustache.
Chris opens the door slightly. “Hello?”
“Mr. Nielsen?”
“May I help you?” responds Chris.
“Are you Chris?”
“Yes.”
With a kick, one man bashes the door into Chris’ face knocking him down.
“What the” exclaims Chris as he is shot with a dart.
“We found him. Should I bring the painting?”
[WATER SPLASHES]
“blaarrgh!” Shouts Chris as water is splashed onto his face. Opening his eyes Chris realizes he’s tied to a chair. He can see only about 10 feet out into the massive room.
“Where am I?”
“What we’re going to show you, well… most people resist.”
“You’re damn right I’m going to resist!”
The voice of a boy is heard just outside of the light. “Chris, please calm down. We are here to set you free.”
“Then set me free!” Shouts Chris.
The boy approaches Chris. “We would prefer that you came here willingly, but this was the safest method.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Dionysos, but my friends call me Donny. I am the leader of an organization called Aria. You’re here because your wife contracted us.”
“So, you guys have the wrong guy. I’m not married. Untie me!”
“Please, just sit patiently.” Pleads the boy.
“Donny, you want us to get her?”
“Yes, and bring the painting.”
“For safety we need to do this in secrecy. If certain individuals found out, your life would be in danger.”
“Seriously, you better tell me what’s going on.” Insists Chris.
“You should hear it from her.” Donny remarks as he steps aside revealing a young woman. In her hands she is holding a large painting from Chris’ house. The girl approaches Chris; their eyes locked.
“Hi, Chris.”
Entranced Chris manages to speak “I’m Chris.”
Smiling the girl continues, “Yes I know. You probably don’t know who I am yet but I’m here to help you remember.”
Snapping out of it, Chris notices the painting. “Wait a minute! What’s going on? Why do you have my painting? Who are you?”
“Where did you get the painting?” the girl asks Chris with a curious look on her face.
“It’s been in my family for years. My parents let me take it when I moved out. What are you doing with it?”
“What if I told you that I made this painting? That it once belonged to you and I and hung in our house?” asks the girl.
“That’s not possible on many levels. What you want from me?”
“Boss, need to get out of here.” Says the man in the gray fedora.
“Yes, I know. Let’s get started” states Donny. “Chris, I know you have little reason to trust us but I need you to do just that. I’m going to untie you now. Please do not run.”
“I got him in my sights, boss!” says the man in the fedora.
“That won’t be necessary, right, Chris?” ask the girl.
“There is something familiar about you. I don’t know why but I do trust you.”
The boy walks behind the chair and unties Chris.
“Thank you!” exclaims Chris as he stands up.
“You know me but you don’t know why. This painting is special. It belonged to us and is very important. It will help you remember. Do you trust me?” asks the girl.
“I don’t even know your name” states Chris as he takes the painting into his hand, now holding the painting along with the girl.
“You will” says the girl as she is handed a small vial with a bright liquid inside. “This vial contains a serum that will unlock memories deep in your consciousness. These memories have always been there.”
“How is that…”
“It’s possible because you have always known me. Your dreams are the memories of lives we have lived. Together. Drink this” says the girl as she hands Chris the vial.
“We need to get a move on it” shouts the man in the fedora.
“Chris, we’re out of time. Please hurry” begs Donny.
“OK, let’s do this. I must be out of my freaking mind…”
Chris sits down in the chair holding the painting in one hand and the vial in the other. He drinks down the glowing liquid. His left hand now clenching the painting.
As an intense light fills his eyes the serum spreads through him. Chris becomes entranced as visions flash through his mind. He sees the girl. She looks different but he knows it’s her. Light gleaming from his eyes illuminating the room until…. It stops. Chris’ head slumps forward.
“Chris?” asks the girl.
Chris lifts his head up slowly. Feeling exhausted he murmurs out “Annie.”
The girl’s face fills with excitement as she lunges for Chris and embraces him. “I found you!”
“Yes, you did.” Says Chris. “I knew you would.”
[GLASS BREAKING IN THE DISTANCE]
“They found us!” Shouts Donny. “We have to get out of here right now!”
“Who found us?” questions Chris.
“Sir, you need to come with us.” Says the man in the fedora as he grabs Chris’ arm.
[GUNSHOTS]
“This way!” Shouts Donny as he runs off. The others chase after Donny as bullets fly, one of them hitting Annie in the head. As Annie falls to ground Chris turns back but the men grab his arms and pull him with them.
“Annie!” shrieks Chris.
“We can find her, Chris, but we have to go. We’ll discuss your contract on the way. | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | Out of all the lives I had led, the last had been most unfair. Cut too short, leaving a hole in someone's heart. But hope would come in hushed whispers, rumours and fairytales. A chance to see him one more time, granted only through secret meetings with sinister men and an enormous cost.
The money was hard to find at such a young age but I was older this time, reaching an age I hadn't been given the luxury of becoming last time. Anyway it had to be now, he was running out of years to wait.
As I sat patiently in the room I had been brought to, more like a cell than I had imagined the scene of our reunion would take place in, I found myself wondering if it was worth it. What if this only ended up tearing at scars that were just now beginning to heal? There was no way of knowing if he had found an almost peace in life after me or not but I was haunted by the thought that he was waiting, living each day in hope that I would find my way back.
The clock boomed with each passing second, the sound magnified by the concrete walls of the silent prison I was in. I couldn't hear them, but I knew that on each side of this room were others waiting, dreams of recapturing the lives they had lived before being fulfilled. I tapped my fingers in time to the ticking hoping that the rhythm would slow my nervous breathing.
He'd see nothing of the daughter he knew in me. I was no longer that child, the girl with wide brown eyes and blonde hair that fell behind me like golden strands of sunlight. He used to say that all the time, that God had made my hair from sunlight and put stars in my eyes. My eyes filled with tears.
I wonder if he saw the stars in them when I died. Or if they too had gone out, faded away into coldness and death. There were no stars in my eyes in this life, all I had wanted was to find him. I couldn't leave him to die alone.
I was still thinking this when the sirens wailed, I heard the shouting from the corridor and the room suddenly filled with light as the steel door was thrown open. I was torn from the last hope of seeing my father again by the cruel voice of fate.
'It's a raid! Get the hell out or get nicked!'
It was the gruff man who had led me in here to wait, banging on doors and shouting at everyone to run.
The hallway flooded with people, all desperately trying to reach the exits. I was pushed from all sides, only able to move forward into the night. The voices of the police carried through from the front, demands of cooperation that were unsurprisingly ignored. The building had filled with chaos.
I was shoved through the doors of the once secretive club and enveloped by masses of people. Everyone was running, attempting to avoid the officers that had been sent to steal away the people that only death could rip us from before.
Amidst the hordes of criminals that had been let loose on an otherwise quiet street, there was an old man. Hunched over a cane and dressed in what would be his Sunday best, he was unsuccessfully making his way to the entrance, undeterred by the armed guards and indiscriminate arrests that were happening around him.
He was lost, looking for a child who was no longer here. Across the crowd, he turned and his eyes met mine.
Once, those eyes would have come alive at the sight of me. Once, I was the only one in the world he would have seen. Once, I was the sunlight in his life. But today, now, his eyes were empty of recognition.
Instead he scanned the swarm of lucky people, the ones who had actually spoken to the people they had given life savings to see, but he couldn't find his little girl. She wasn't here, only the ghost of her memories remained. Trapped in a new life she couldn't escape.
I cried out to him, hoping against all hope that my voice would find him in the commotion. He was turned away from the doors, the guards outside threatening to arrest him for the crime of wanting to see his daughter again.
I felt the cold steel on my wrists before I registered them say 'You're under arrest'. By then it didn't matter. He couldn't hear my desperate calls or if he did, he didn't know they were for him.
I watched him waiting, looking at every person who passed him with longing in his eyes as I banged on the windows of the police car across the street. With all these lives in my head, this was the only one I had ever wanted to get back. To go back to the days filled with love and warmth, to hear his voice, to have it fill my heart again.
Instead I had given hope to a desperate man, and that hope was a treacherous thing when taken away. The only thing given in its place was the pain of losing me all over again. | Chris sets the remote down as he reaches for his drink just out of reach. Leaning in he barely brushes the side of the can when the bowl on his lap falls to the floor spilling crumbs at his feet. Chris sighs as he picks up the remote to press pause.
[“Our lives are not our own. We are bound to..”] [VIDEO PAUSES]
The sound of car doors slamming can be heard. Chris scrambles up the stairs as two men approach the front door. One of the men is wearing a fedora. The other has a thick mustache.
Chris opens the door slightly. “Hello?”
“Mr. Nielsen?”
“May I help you?” responds Chris.
“Are you Chris?”
“Yes.”
With a kick, one man bashes the door into Chris’ face knocking him down.
“What the” exclaims Chris as he is shot with a dart.
“We found him. Should I bring the painting?”
[WATER SPLASHES]
“blaarrgh!” Shouts Chris as water is splashed onto his face. Opening his eyes Chris realizes he’s tied to a chair. He can see only about 10 feet out into the massive room.
“Where am I?”
“What we’re going to show you, well… most people resist.”
“You’re damn right I’m going to resist!”
The voice of a boy is heard just outside of the light. “Chris, please calm down. We are here to set you free.”
“Then set me free!” Shouts Chris.
The boy approaches Chris. “We would prefer that you came here willingly, but this was the safest method.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Dionysos, but my friends call me Donny. I am the leader of an organization called Aria. You’re here because your wife contracted us.”
“So, you guys have the wrong guy. I’m not married. Untie me!”
“Please, just sit patiently.” Pleads the boy.
“Donny, you want us to get her?”
“Yes, and bring the painting.”
“For safety we need to do this in secrecy. If certain individuals found out, your life would be in danger.”
“Seriously, you better tell me what’s going on.” Insists Chris.
“You should hear it from her.” Donny remarks as he steps aside revealing a young woman. In her hands she is holding a large painting from Chris’ house. The girl approaches Chris; their eyes locked.
“Hi, Chris.”
Entranced Chris manages to speak “I’m Chris.”
Smiling the girl continues, “Yes I know. You probably don’t know who I am yet but I’m here to help you remember.”
Snapping out of it, Chris notices the painting. “Wait a minute! What’s going on? Why do you have my painting? Who are you?”
“Where did you get the painting?” the girl asks Chris with a curious look on her face.
“It’s been in my family for years. My parents let me take it when I moved out. What are you doing with it?”
“What if I told you that I made this painting? That it once belonged to you and I and hung in our house?” asks the girl.
“That’s not possible on many levels. What you want from me?”
“Boss, need to get out of here.” Says the man in the gray fedora.
“Yes, I know. Let’s get started” states Donny. “Chris, I know you have little reason to trust us but I need you to do just that. I’m going to untie you now. Please do not run.”
“I got him in my sights, boss!” says the man in the fedora.
“That won’t be necessary, right, Chris?” ask the girl.
“There is something familiar about you. I don’t know why but I do trust you.”
The boy walks behind the chair and unties Chris.
“Thank you!” exclaims Chris as he stands up.
“You know me but you don’t know why. This painting is special. It belonged to us and is very important. It will help you remember. Do you trust me?” asks the girl.
“I don’t even know your name” states Chris as he takes the painting into his hand, now holding the painting along with the girl.
“You will” says the girl as she is handed a small vial with a bright liquid inside. “This vial contains a serum that will unlock memories deep in your consciousness. These memories have always been there.”
“How is that…”
“It’s possible because you have always known me. Your dreams are the memories of lives we have lived. Together. Drink this” says the girl as she hands Chris the vial.
“We need to get a move on it” shouts the man in the fedora.
“Chris, we’re out of time. Please hurry” begs Donny.
“OK, let’s do this. I must be out of my freaking mind…”
Chris sits down in the chair holding the painting in one hand and the vial in the other. He drinks down the glowing liquid. His left hand now clenching the painting.
As an intense light fills his eyes the serum spreads through him. Chris becomes entranced as visions flash through his mind. He sees the girl. She looks different but he knows it’s her. Light gleaming from his eyes illuminating the room until…. It stops. Chris’ head slumps forward.
“Chris?” asks the girl.
Chris lifts his head up slowly. Feeling exhausted he murmurs out “Annie.”
The girl’s face fills with excitement as she lunges for Chris and embraces him. “I found you!”
“Yes, you did.” Says Chris. “I knew you would.”
[GLASS BREAKING IN THE DISTANCE]
“They found us!” Shouts Donny. “We have to get out of here right now!”
“Who found us?” questions Chris.
“Sir, you need to come with us.” Says the man in the fedora as he grabs Chris’ arm.
[GUNSHOTS]
“This way!” Shouts Donny as he runs off. The others chase after Donny as bullets fly, one of them hitting Annie in the head. As Annie falls to ground Chris turns back but the men grab his arms and pull him with them.
“Annie!” shrieks Chris.
“We can find her, Chris, but we have to go. We’ll discuss your contract on the way. | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | She was there. In all her punk glory. Dyed white lavender hair in a cut undercut with the top hair tied in a high ponytail, lip ring, fishnet stockings you could see under her dark blue skinny jeans, seven piercings on both of her ears, soft face with questioning gaze.
"Catherine?" I heard myself say.
"Levison?" Her held tilted in the cutest way.
The Ivulsionist stood next to her with a wide smile and rocking on her heels. "Both of your pasts match up. It took awhile to get the DNA tests but we got it! Miss Catherine Jankowski and Sir Levison Walker reunited at last!"
"It's Cather now...." She spoke.
I laughed. "I'm Levi now."
I doubled other clutching my stomach. Cather's stifled laughter with her hand. She squatted and started to laugh.
"What did you do to your hair?!" She laughed.
"Me? What about you?! Your hair's white!"
"Your sunglasses are so lame!"
"Those piercings are so 19th century darling!"
The Invulsionist giggled. By now both of us were rolling on the sidewalk. I'm sure there were some questioning looks.
"Y-your clothes are from my dad's closet from the 1900's!" She wiped a tear out of her eye.
I pushed myself up and staggered toward her. I grabbed her under her armpits and hoisted her up. She was still laughing. I turned towards the Invulsionist. Her short black hair bobbed as she shook with laughter. I laughed.
"I never caught your name, miss." I said to her as Cather hung off my arms still snorting.
"Maria Venezuela. Table 7." She giggled.
"Thank you Maria. For everything." I said sincerely.
"Hey it's my job!"
Still giggling, Maria pulled out a business card and handed it to me. "If you ever need anything don't be afraid to shoot me a call."
I nodded. Maria entered her car and waved goodbye. I waved after her. I looked down at Cather who still was laughing her little butt off.
"I'm gonna leave you here," I said. "I was gonna take us to Renaldo's."
She whipped her head up and stopped laughing. "Renaldo's?"
I looked up and set her down. "I was gonna take my parents now since you aren't interested-"
"Dude I'm so interested!" She said as she pulled herself up.
I smirked at her. Her eyebrows were up on her forehead and her dainty mouth was shaped in an 'o' as she waited my answer. I sighed.
"I guess you can come." I rolled my eyes.
She jumped up and down and pumped her fist. She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the restaurant. "C'mon!"
I laughed as I let her pull me along. A little while after, I quickened my steps to match Cather's and intertwined our fingers. We began to talk about what we had been doing. She was the one mostly talking. She asked me a few questions here and there. I enjoyed watching her eyes sparkle when she talked about something she loved.
She said she was studying art now. Her parents were architects now and famous for a bridge in San Fransokiyo. She had three brothers who were nuisances. Her best friend was a vet out in the country and was making good pay. She talked about her favorite bands and what the tattoo on her wrist meant.
Cather was silent for a while. I had to look over to her. She was smiling and looking forward. She turned to look at me. Her dark green eyes shine in the spring sunlight.
"I really missed you Levi." She said.
I wrapped my arm around her and she leaned into it. "I missed you too, Cather."
_______
Did anyone get my reference? Eh? Eh? I had two different endings to this and I actually wanted this one to be happy so I chose this ending than the one I had planed. :)
| I needed to do. I needed to see my sisters. I missed them so much. They were my everything. I paid the price. My sister's boyfriend thought I was to protective of her. He killed me. I was ripped appart from her for the next cycle. I need to see her. Tell her.
I pay my fee and am about to be transported to my sister. I press the button. She has already been informed of my arival. She gives me a hug, and we cry. Our other sister is there too, and I tell them everything about my new life and they tell me about theirs. They hug me, and tell me they love me. I keep crying and so do they. I get pictures of them to frame. My watch sounds. I only have five minutes left. I hug them again. I tell them I love them and how I died. They hug me, as my body vanishes from their arms. They gave me their cell phone numbers, just to tell me they were still crying and that they loved me, and to confirm that it wasn't a messed up dream. I loved them so much.
Later that night the goverment came and shut down the contact center. When my sisters died they would never be able to find me again. I cried myself to sleep everyday. | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | “What do you want to send?”
“I want to tell her that I love her.”
The man grimaced and crossed his arms. “Come on, you know that’s not how it works. Besides, I don’t
think you could afford that direct of a message.”
He thought for a moment, “I can’t use words?”
The salesmen shook his head.
He thought for a moment, then looked up at the black market dealer, “I know what I want to do.”
-----
The world was cold. Wind howled through streets and alleys like a bullet through the barrel of a gun. She gripped at the jacket of her winter coat and held it close to her. There was a biting frigidness in the cold, the kind that crept all the way down to your bones, the kind that seemed to chill your soul.
“Apples, buy your apples here!” a kid shouted from a produce stand, trying to sell produce in an act of complete lunacy, she believed. Why go on and keep trying?
She walked through the stands, ignoring every advance from salesmen. Couldn’t they see she didn’t want to be talked to? Couldn’t they see she was freezing and just trying to get out of the cold?
Day in and day out, it was all the same. Life went on and continued to kick you even when you were down. When you were cold and bleeding in the mud, it stood over you and jeered and spat on you. Life was a grade A asshole, she thought.
She moved through the market, and back onto the street. Finding her footing on the easy ground of a sidewalk, she quickened her pace. She wanted to get there before she lost her nerve.
The wind rushed again, pulling at her long hair and freezing the tip of her nose. She folded her collar up and crossed her arms, huddling herself against the harsh winter weather.
Up ahead, cars honked, red brake lights flashed on and off. The familiar smell and sounds of rush hour traffic hit her senses. She saw the cars backed up, bumper to bumper. At least the cold kept people from getting out of their cars and screaming at each other, winter had at least done that. Dad always liked winter for that, it kept the city quiet. Or at least as quiet as it could be.
She walked past the cars, and past several orange traffic cones.
“What the fuck is your problem!” a man shouted near her. She looked over and saw the voice’s owner clad in winter garb, standing outside a Porsche whose was door open. He was talking to a man in a safety vest and hard hat. “Who tha’ fuck does construction work on tha’ only eastbound bridge at five a’clock in the evenin!?”
The construction worker shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t make the plans, I just clock in and do what they tell me.”
The wealthy man walked towards the construction worker, he lifted a pointing finger and prodded the construction worker’s chest. “Imma tell ya what tha’ fuck ta do. Go fuck ya’self buddy. I don’t care where, but not here! Get off of tha’ bridge!”
The construction worker pushed back in response, but she kept going. She could feel her mettle waning. Her mental fortitude questioning.
Stepping over the cones of the construction site, she moved briskly onto the sidewalk of the bridge.
The wind was worse on the bridge with no buildings to block it. It bat her, staggering her step as she moved towards the apex of the bridge’s height. She felt a knot rise in her throat, a weakness in her knees, but she continued.
She reached the spot she had planned and stopped. Turning towards the railing, she finally untucked her hands from the warmth of her armpits. There was a click in her throat when she swallowed, the tears in her eyes swarmed and blurred her vision. She reached out and grabbed the hand rail. It was cold.
Placing one leg over the rail, she straddled it at first then threw the other over. She leaned forward, hands gripping the freezing metal of the bridge.
*He’s gone.* She told himself, *he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone…* The tears no longer threatened to fall now, they ran down her face. She sobbed and shivered, if the fall didn’t kill her, the cold certainly would.
She closed her eyes, face contorted with perfect sadness. “I’m sorry, Dad.” She cried out. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t strong enough. I’m so sorry…” she sobbed out the last words and did her best to think of him. To remember him, as her last thought. More than anything she wanted to be held in his tender embrace. To feel his warmth.
The memory that came to mind was her seventh birthday party, she wasn’t sure why this one came to her, but didn’t stop it just the same. He placed the cake in front of her, seven candles lit upon a white frosted chocolate cake. Her favorite kind. He sang happy birthday to her in his off tune, out of tempo way that she loved so much. She blew out the candles and made her wish.
He leaned in and kissed her on her forehead. “I love you,” he said to her. “I love you so very much.”
She smiled bitterly, tears already freezing on her face. She opened her eyes and regarded the river below her. It rushed south and moved with a purpose nothing else could hope to achieve in this temperature again. There was something inviting about its movement; it was the only thing that wasn’t stagnant in this frozen, dark world.
She closed her eyes again and did her best to see her father’s face. “I love you,” he said to her. *I love you…*
With his tender image in her eyes, she found the mettle deep in her core. She found the gumption to do what she had set out to do. She took a deep and trembling breath then released the frozen handrail of the bridge. She felt a moment – a fraction of a second – of weightlessness then felt heat grip her forearm.
“Whoa!” a voice came from behind her. The hand pulled her in, he was leaning against the rail for leverage and placed hand over hand on her arm like reeling in a large rope.
“Let go of me!” she cried, trying to wretch free of his impossible grip.
He didn’t reply. When he got her back to the rail, he still said nothing. Instead he wrapped his arms around her and embraced her. She fought at first, “What’s the point of going on?!” she cried, more for herself than for him. When he only held her tighter, she stopped yelling. Finally, she gave in and wrapped her own arms around his torso. She buried her face in his large jacket and sobbed, giving in.
“Shhh….” He told her, resting his hand on the back of her head. “It’s going to be ok, you’re going to be ok.” They stood there for a long time, a woman broken and frozen, being held in the arms of a compassionate stranger.
“Come on,” he coaxed her, “Let’s get you out from away from that ledge.” He held her, and guided her away from that frozen abyss. There was a warmth in his voice, she thought. A tenderness that reminded her of him.
| They had been walking through ages, the tunnel was cold and dark. From time to time water kept dripping on her head. Or were those the tears she had been trying to cry? She was not supposed to be here. She knew the consequences were dire. Still, there was something there, it was calling her. Every night she could hear the voice, distorted but definitely there. Why was she hesitating, when she knew she had to do this? Someone was depending on her. Suddenly, Skeleton man, the trader, put something in her hand, it felt like a stone. But it was warm. "There you go," he said grimly. "Let's hope you have come what you were looking for". "Thanks. I hope so". She knew he did not mean it, she had signed over her laughter in the next life to him. What the hell was she doing? Why was this so important? The stone kept warming up, suddenly getting hotter and hotter, burning right into her hands. She felt the urge to put it away, but the stone kept pulling close to where here heart had once been, circling round and round. Here it found the right place. The stone settled, her soul came back into to her now. And she felt love. She saw a child. A beautiful baby, smiling, laughing at her. She touched it, felt its lovely soft skin, tickled it's tummy. The baby kept gurgling happily, but then stopped to cry in agony. All she saw was a knife in her hands. " I can't do this. Stop this now, right now." She tried to grab the stone from her insides, screaming and kicking, but no avail. Skeleton Man was laughing. "What do you think you would get, he? You wanted memories, I could not get yours, but these are close enough to the one you are thinking of." "What did you do, you bastard?". "Well, you wanted memories. Those are the memories of the one who killed your child." | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | Dying of Syphilis on an island prison ain't exactly fun. Damned tax evasion. I was glad to find out I could wake up right after taking the big sleep. Growing up again was a bit weird, but it gave me some good detail as to where and when I was. Looks like I came back around the turn of the century. My crimes had left an even bigger impact than I first thought. And prohibition was over, so I couldn't keep the old business going. So much had changed since I was locked up. Rock and Roll, a second Great War, television, even a couple movies about me. I had a second chance to make a life for myself. But I can't escape crime, why even try? Like Al Capone isn't going to be a criminal again.
News of reincarnation was on the rise. President Jules was murdered by Vice President Bruno in the Oval Office. Shakespeare was writing and directing his own movies. The Maid of New Orleans was fighting for women in the military. Sailing took a dive as the victims of the Titanic spoke out. I had to lay low. There was a reform on reincarnation and contacting folks from past lives as a result of President Jules' murder. Finally, a need for this businessman to fill. At just 19 years, Al Capone was back on his feet as the kingpin of a new bootlegging industry: bootleg lives. This one wasn't as easy as bootleg alcohol. You had to keep tabs on everyone who ever lived and died, but thanks to our computers it wasn't that hard. Besides, there weren't that many due to the new discovery. The feds were doing it, all we had to do was walk in their shadow. Time passed and I eventually found out where those poor assholes from the Valentine's massacre ended up. Back in Chicago, no less. I have a strong sense of irony, so I got them all together again on another February 14^th and blew em away. But enough had changed that it wouldn't fly. The cops figured out I was Capone and took me in.
Dying of Syphilis on an island isn't fun the second time around. | They had been walking through ages, the tunnel was cold and dark. From time to time water kept dripping on her head. Or were those the tears she had been trying to cry? She was not supposed to be here. She knew the consequences were dire. Still, there was something there, it was calling her. Every night she could hear the voice, distorted but definitely there. Why was she hesitating, when she knew she had to do this? Someone was depending on her. Suddenly, Skeleton man, the trader, put something in her hand, it felt like a stone. But it was warm. "There you go," he said grimly. "Let's hope you have come what you were looking for". "Thanks. I hope so". She knew he did not mean it, she had signed over her laughter in the next life to him. What the hell was she doing? Why was this so important? The stone kept warming up, suddenly getting hotter and hotter, burning right into her hands. She felt the urge to put it away, but the stone kept pulling close to where here heart had once been, circling round and round. Here it found the right place. The stone settled, her soul came back into to her now. And she felt love. She saw a child. A beautiful baby, smiling, laughing at her. She touched it, felt its lovely soft skin, tickled it's tummy. The baby kept gurgling happily, but then stopped to cry in agony. All she saw was a knife in her hands. " I can't do this. Stop this now, right now." She tried to grab the stone from her insides, screaming and kicking, but no avail. Skeleton Man was laughing. "What do you think you would get, he? You wanted memories, I could not get yours, but these are close enough to the one you are thinking of." "What did you do, you bastard?". "Well, you wanted memories. Those are the memories of the one who killed your child." | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | Out of all the lives I had led, the last had been most unfair. Cut too short, leaving a hole in someone's heart. But hope would come in hushed whispers, rumours and fairytales. A chance to see him one more time, granted only through secret meetings with sinister men and an enormous cost.
The money was hard to find at such a young age but I was older this time, reaching an age I hadn't been given the luxury of becoming last time. Anyway it had to be now, he was running out of years to wait.
As I sat patiently in the room I had been brought to, more like a cell than I had imagined the scene of our reunion would take place in, I found myself wondering if it was worth it. What if this only ended up tearing at scars that were just now beginning to heal? There was no way of knowing if he had found an almost peace in life after me or not but I was haunted by the thought that he was waiting, living each day in hope that I would find my way back.
The clock boomed with each passing second, the sound magnified by the concrete walls of the silent prison I was in. I couldn't hear them, but I knew that on each side of this room were others waiting, dreams of recapturing the lives they had lived before being fulfilled. I tapped my fingers in time to the ticking hoping that the rhythm would slow my nervous breathing.
He'd see nothing of the daughter he knew in me. I was no longer that child, the girl with wide brown eyes and blonde hair that fell behind me like golden strands of sunlight. He used to say that all the time, that God had made my hair from sunlight and put stars in my eyes. My eyes filled with tears.
I wonder if he saw the stars in them when I died. Or if they too had gone out, faded away into coldness and death. There were no stars in my eyes in this life, all I had wanted was to find him. I couldn't leave him to die alone.
I was still thinking this when the sirens wailed, I heard the shouting from the corridor and the room suddenly filled with light as the steel door was thrown open. I was torn from the last hope of seeing my father again by the cruel voice of fate.
'It's a raid! Get the hell out or get nicked!'
It was the gruff man who had led me in here to wait, banging on doors and shouting at everyone to run.
The hallway flooded with people, all desperately trying to reach the exits. I was pushed from all sides, only able to move forward into the night. The voices of the police carried through from the front, demands of cooperation that were unsurprisingly ignored. The building had filled with chaos.
I was shoved through the doors of the once secretive club and enveloped by masses of people. Everyone was running, attempting to avoid the officers that had been sent to steal away the people that only death could rip us from before.
Amidst the hordes of criminals that had been let loose on an otherwise quiet street, there was an old man. Hunched over a cane and dressed in what would be his Sunday best, he was unsuccessfully making his way to the entrance, undeterred by the armed guards and indiscriminate arrests that were happening around him.
He was lost, looking for a child who was no longer here. Across the crowd, he turned and his eyes met mine.
Once, those eyes would have come alive at the sight of me. Once, I was the only one in the world he would have seen. Once, I was the sunlight in his life. But today, now, his eyes were empty of recognition.
Instead he scanned the swarm of lucky people, the ones who had actually spoken to the people they had given life savings to see, but he couldn't find his little girl. She wasn't here, only the ghost of her memories remained. Trapped in a new life she couldn't escape.
I cried out to him, hoping against all hope that my voice would find him in the commotion. He was turned away from the doors, the guards outside threatening to arrest him for the crime of wanting to see his daughter again.
I felt the cold steel on my wrists before I registered them say 'You're under arrest'. By then it didn't matter. He couldn't hear my desperate calls or if he did, he didn't know they were for him.
I watched him waiting, looking at every person who passed him with longing in his eyes as I banged on the windows of the police car across the street. With all these lives in my head, this was the only one I had ever wanted to get back. To go back to the days filled with love and warmth, to hear his voice, to have it fill my heart again.
Instead I had given hope to a desperate man, and that hope was a treacherous thing when taken away. The only thing given in its place was the pain of losing me all over again. | They had been walking through ages, the tunnel was cold and dark. From time to time water kept dripping on her head. Or were those the tears she had been trying to cry? She was not supposed to be here. She knew the consequences were dire. Still, there was something there, it was calling her. Every night she could hear the voice, distorted but definitely there. Why was she hesitating, when she knew she had to do this? Someone was depending on her. Suddenly, Skeleton man, the trader, put something in her hand, it felt like a stone. But it was warm. "There you go," he said grimly. "Let's hope you have come what you were looking for". "Thanks. I hope so". She knew he did not mean it, she had signed over her laughter in the next life to him. What the hell was she doing? Why was this so important? The stone kept warming up, suddenly getting hotter and hotter, burning right into her hands. She felt the urge to put it away, but the stone kept pulling close to where here heart had once been, circling round and round. Here it found the right place. The stone settled, her soul came back into to her now. And she felt love. She saw a child. A beautiful baby, smiling, laughing at her. She touched it, felt its lovely soft skin, tickled it's tummy. The baby kept gurgling happily, but then stopped to cry in agony. All she saw was a knife in her hands. " I can't do this. Stop this now, right now." She tried to grab the stone from her insides, screaming and kicking, but no avail. Skeleton Man was laughing. "What do you think you would get, he? You wanted memories, I could not get yours, but these are close enough to the one you are thinking of." "What did you do, you bastard?". "Well, you wanted memories. Those are the memories of the one who killed your child." | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | Jason walked into a retirement home in Duluth.
Of course, he hadn't always been Jason. Twenty years earlier, he had been Ty, a no-nonsense steel worker from Winnipeg. The memories always seemed to fill in right around your twentieth birthday. Ty had never married, even though Jason was in the midst of a pretty serious relationship. No, all he had had back then was his friend Greg. That bastard.
Greg was basically an asshole of the highest caliber. He was the one to always call bullshit on your stories. The one who wore the same stupid plaid shirt every day. The one who would walk up to the prettiest girl in the bar and politely inform her that his friend over there (Yes, the one with the Newport hat) was currently fighting a rather bad bout of our old friend Hepatitus B. Yep, old Greg was that kind of friend.
Greg had never really believed in reincarnation either. Which was strange, given the widespread acceptance of the fact. Whole courses were taught on the subject in every state college in the nation. And yet, there was Greg, readily denying the whole thing. Probably just to have something to argue about.
The government was very careful about contact from previous lives. Reaching out to someone that your past self knew was strictly prohibited. Mostly to avoid acts of fraud and nepotism.
This was why Jason went through the black market. They took care of finding the person, fabricating a reason for you to stop by, providing a disguise, if needed. At five hundred US dollars, it was a bit pricey, but well worth keeping out of legal trouble.
Jason passed through rooms of withered old people, making his way to the large dining room at the back of the building. He weaved around the large, round tables towards the back corner where a lonely man sat in faded plaid. He walked up beside him and bent down near his shriveled ear with a whisper.
"Fuck you, Greg." | They had been walking through ages, the tunnel was cold and dark. From time to time water kept dripping on her head. Or were those the tears she had been trying to cry? She was not supposed to be here. She knew the consequences were dire. Still, there was something there, it was calling her. Every night she could hear the voice, distorted but definitely there. Why was she hesitating, when she knew she had to do this? Someone was depending on her. Suddenly, Skeleton man, the trader, put something in her hand, it felt like a stone. But it was warm. "There you go," he said grimly. "Let's hope you have come what you were looking for". "Thanks. I hope so". She knew he did not mean it, she had signed over her laughter in the next life to him. What the hell was she doing? Why was this so important? The stone kept warming up, suddenly getting hotter and hotter, burning right into her hands. She felt the urge to put it away, but the stone kept pulling close to where here heart had once been, circling round and round. Here it found the right place. The stone settled, her soul came back into to her now. And she felt love. She saw a child. A beautiful baby, smiling, laughing at her. She touched it, felt its lovely soft skin, tickled it's tummy. The baby kept gurgling happily, but then stopped to cry in agony. All she saw was a knife in her hands. " I can't do this. Stop this now, right now." She tried to grab the stone from her insides, screaming and kicking, but no avail. Skeleton Man was laughing. "What do you think you would get, he? You wanted memories, I could not get yours, but these are close enough to the one you are thinking of." "What did you do, you bastard?". "Well, you wanted memories. Those are the memories of the one who killed your child." | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | She held my hand as we looked at each other for the first time in 25 years, it had taken this long to find one another again, to once again fall prey to the inevitable fatal attraction that had linked us for centuries. Hell, even Shakespeare wrote a play about our tragic love, granted his wasn't about two women falling in love, but hey, this is 2100 isn't it?
At first during the early years of the 21st century the mediums who claimed to be able to help guide others in viewing their past lives were discredited as new age hippies that dabbled with ridiculous notions and manipulated the easily influenced masses out of their money. As the years went by the mediums gained traction largely in part to an intrepid journalist who documented as many peoples past lives as he could, and in the process creating, or rather recreating, the most accurate account of the past in the history of mankind.
Contact with people from past lives was deemed illegal when the reincarnation of Julius Caesar, the president of the American continent, was brutally murdered by the reincarnation of Brutus, the vice president.
Now in the present a large section of the government is dedicated to making sure no one comes into intimate contact with people from previous lives. As one could imagine the task is very daunting and requires a lot of manpower. Naturally with any illegal activity, a black market emerges to counter the governmental sanctions which is where I found myself one fateful day trying to piece together why my life felt so empty.
With some help from the medium, I not only gained full access to my immediate past life, but a number of other past lives. The one common thread was that I fell in love, head over heels tragic love, with a beautiful woman with whom out romance was forbidden by some sort of social construct. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I, Ruth Montreal, am Romeo from the classic; Romeo and Juliet.
Upon coming to this realization the medium discretely set me up with a really shady back alley "specialist" who specialized in finding people from others' past lives. I shook his greasy, arthritic hands with a grimace and shoved the first payment of cash into his claws. A first payment of sorts. He left the alley with a raspy response.
"I'll let you know when I've found her."
I gave neither him nor the medium any personal information. I suppose to be good at finding people being given personal information is probably not necessary.
Weeks passed and soon it was a month to the day I last spoke to the "specialist", almost at the edge of despair I opened my door to go for a walk in the city. Much to my chagrin there stood the "specialist" with his fist ready to knock, his hood was so deep I almost didn't recognize him. He gave a grunt and a curt nod toward a figure out of view to my left. I knew it was her the instant I laid eyes on her and I could see that she felt the same way too.
Her soft brown hair fell to her shoulders and framed her pale, heart shaped face like a picture of an angel. She gave her lips a nervous bite, showing me an adorable gap between her front teeth. Within seconds I could feel my body heat up and my pulse spike as if I had just had a shot of adrenaline. A light sweat began to bead my forehead.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the "specialist" scurry away as my soon to be lover spoke.
"H-hey." She stammered, blushing furiously. "My name is Julie Capiria. He told me that you wanted to meet me," gesturing to the disappearing gnarled figure, "and explained a bit. I went to a few mediums to make sure he was telling the truth so that's why it took so long."
We both paused awkwardly. Neither of us knew what to say next. I took a breath and thought about what to say and what came out then must have been just the right thing because the next morning we awoke in each others arms. The hours afterward were spent gazing into the others eyes, soft murmurs and the whisper of gentle caresses filled the air.
She got up and walked to the kitchen, I watched her wonderful ass as she went, and stared rummaging around the kitchen for something to eat.
"The pantry is left of the fridge, dear!" I called out.
She came back with two exotic fruit I had picked up at the market a day before. One for me and one for her. Before she could settle back down on the bed I took the opportunity to ravish her back with my nails and then one thing led to another and I was asleep.
An hour later I awoke to the sound of silence. Dusk had fallen and I gazed lovingly at Julie's still body. I nibbled her ear, something I had discovered that she loved, but got no reaction. With slow horror I turned her to face me and was met with her blue, swollen face staring vacantly back at me. CPR. I need to save her!
An eon and a half later I'm in the bathroom sobbing. This is too much, I figured we would at least have a few years together, hell even a few months. Not this anything but this. I got my pistol I kept by the bed and went back to the bathroom... This had to end... I'm not strong enough to do this on my own...
The bang must have jolted my brain into activity as I managed to cough up the chunk of fruit in my throat along with a fair amount of mucus as bile. I felt dizzy and didn't see Ruth anywhere. Oh god was this a mistake? Was everything I felt today just one big con? No, no, no. That can't be right. Gotta clean up. Bathroom. Where did Ruth say the bathroom was again? God it's dark in here. Here it is I remember now. Ok Julie, open the door, turn on the light and- oh fuck.
The whimper that came out of my throat when I turned on the light was so alien that I didn't recognize it as me at first. A bloody mess greeted me. Julie's head was a mangled mess, there was black blood and pink viscera everywhere. No. No. No. There was a gun in her limp hand that been pleasuring me only an hour ago. I took the gun and put it to my heart.
"I can't do this alone. I just can't. Oh God why did you forsake me? I had something good, something pure."
The tears burning red hot furrows of pain and agony down my face.
"Fuck you and your destiny! Fuck you and your fate! God damn it all!"
I pulled the trigger. | They had been walking through ages, the tunnel was cold and dark. From time to time water kept dripping on her head. Or were those the tears she had been trying to cry? She was not supposed to be here. She knew the consequences were dire. Still, there was something there, it was calling her. Every night she could hear the voice, distorted but definitely there. Why was she hesitating, when she knew she had to do this? Someone was depending on her. Suddenly, Skeleton man, the trader, put something in her hand, it felt like a stone. But it was warm. "There you go," he said grimly. "Let's hope you have come what you were looking for". "Thanks. I hope so". She knew he did not mean it, she had signed over her laughter in the next life to him. What the hell was she doing? Why was this so important? The stone kept warming up, suddenly getting hotter and hotter, burning right into her hands. She felt the urge to put it away, but the stone kept pulling close to where here heart had once been, circling round and round. Here it found the right place. The stone settled, her soul came back into to her now. And she felt love. She saw a child. A beautiful baby, smiling, laughing at her. She touched it, felt its lovely soft skin, tickled it's tummy. The baby kept gurgling happily, but then stopped to cry in agony. All she saw was a knife in her hands. " I can't do this. Stop this now, right now." She tried to grab the stone from her insides, screaming and kicking, but no avail. Skeleton Man was laughing. "What do you think you would get, he? You wanted memories, I could not get yours, but these are close enough to the one you are thinking of." "What did you do, you bastard?". "Well, you wanted memories. Those are the memories of the one who killed your child." | |
[WP] Reincarnation is real, and memories are retained. It is illegal to contact anyone from your old life, but a black market exists for exactly that reason... | “What do you want to send?”
“I want to tell her that I love her.”
The man grimaced and crossed his arms. “Come on, you know that’s not how it works. Besides, I don’t
think you could afford that direct of a message.”
He thought for a moment, “I can’t use words?”
The salesmen shook his head.
He thought for a moment, then looked up at the black market dealer, “I know what I want to do.”
-----
The world was cold. Wind howled through streets and alleys like a bullet through the barrel of a gun. She gripped at the jacket of her winter coat and held it close to her. There was a biting frigidness in the cold, the kind that crept all the way down to your bones, the kind that seemed to chill your soul.
“Apples, buy your apples here!” a kid shouted from a produce stand, trying to sell produce in an act of complete lunacy, she believed. Why go on and keep trying?
She walked through the stands, ignoring every advance from salesmen. Couldn’t they see she didn’t want to be talked to? Couldn’t they see she was freezing and just trying to get out of the cold?
Day in and day out, it was all the same. Life went on and continued to kick you even when you were down. When you were cold and bleeding in the mud, it stood over you and jeered and spat on you. Life was a grade A asshole, she thought.
She moved through the market, and back onto the street. Finding her footing on the easy ground of a sidewalk, she quickened her pace. She wanted to get there before she lost her nerve.
The wind rushed again, pulling at her long hair and freezing the tip of her nose. She folded her collar up and crossed her arms, huddling herself against the harsh winter weather.
Up ahead, cars honked, red brake lights flashed on and off. The familiar smell and sounds of rush hour traffic hit her senses. She saw the cars backed up, bumper to bumper. At least the cold kept people from getting out of their cars and screaming at each other, winter had at least done that. Dad always liked winter for that, it kept the city quiet. Or at least as quiet as it could be.
She walked past the cars, and past several orange traffic cones.
“What the fuck is your problem!” a man shouted near her. She looked over and saw the voice’s owner clad in winter garb, standing outside a Porsche whose was door open. He was talking to a man in a safety vest and hard hat. “Who tha’ fuck does construction work on tha’ only eastbound bridge at five a’clock in the evenin!?”
The construction worker shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t make the plans, I just clock in and do what they tell me.”
The wealthy man walked towards the construction worker, he lifted a pointing finger and prodded the construction worker’s chest. “Imma tell ya what tha’ fuck ta do. Go fuck ya’self buddy. I don’t care where, but not here! Get off of tha’ bridge!”
The construction worker pushed back in response, but she kept going. She could feel her mettle waning. Her mental fortitude questioning.
Stepping over the cones of the construction site, she moved briskly onto the sidewalk of the bridge.
The wind was worse on the bridge with no buildings to block it. It bat her, staggering her step as she moved towards the apex of the bridge’s height. She felt a knot rise in her throat, a weakness in her knees, but she continued.
She reached the spot she had planned and stopped. Turning towards the railing, she finally untucked her hands from the warmth of her armpits. There was a click in her throat when she swallowed, the tears in her eyes swarmed and blurred her vision. She reached out and grabbed the hand rail. It was cold.
Placing one leg over the rail, she straddled it at first then threw the other over. She leaned forward, hands gripping the freezing metal of the bridge.
*He’s gone.* She told himself, *he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone…* The tears no longer threatened to fall now, they ran down her face. She sobbed and shivered, if the fall didn’t kill her, the cold certainly would.
She closed her eyes, face contorted with perfect sadness. “I’m sorry, Dad.” She cried out. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t strong enough. I’m so sorry…” she sobbed out the last words and did her best to think of him. To remember him, as her last thought. More than anything she wanted to be held in his tender embrace. To feel his warmth.
The memory that came to mind was her seventh birthday party, she wasn’t sure why this one came to her, but didn’t stop it just the same. He placed the cake in front of her, seven candles lit upon a white frosted chocolate cake. Her favorite kind. He sang happy birthday to her in his off tune, out of tempo way that she loved so much. She blew out the candles and made her wish.
He leaned in and kissed her on her forehead. “I love you,” he said to her. “I love you so very much.”
She smiled bitterly, tears already freezing on her face. She opened her eyes and regarded the river below her. It rushed south and moved with a purpose nothing else could hope to achieve in this temperature again. There was something inviting about its movement; it was the only thing that wasn’t stagnant in this frozen, dark world.
She closed her eyes again and did her best to see her father’s face. “I love you,” he said to her. *I love you…*
With his tender image in her eyes, she found the mettle deep in her core. She found the gumption to do what she had set out to do. She took a deep and trembling breath then released the frozen handrail of the bridge. She felt a moment – a fraction of a second – of weightlessness then felt heat grip her forearm.
“Whoa!” a voice came from behind her. The hand pulled her in, he was leaning against the rail for leverage and placed hand over hand on her arm like reeling in a large rope.
“Let go of me!” she cried, trying to wretch free of his impossible grip.
He didn’t reply. When he got her back to the rail, he still said nothing. Instead he wrapped his arms around her and embraced her. She fought at first, “What’s the point of going on?!” she cried, more for herself than for him. When he only held her tighter, she stopped yelling. Finally, she gave in and wrapped her own arms around his torso. She buried her face in his large jacket and sobbed, giving in.
“Shhh….” He told her, resting his hand on the back of her head. “It’s going to be ok, you’re going to be ok.” They stood there for a long time, a woman broken and frozen, being held in the arms of a compassionate stranger.
“Come on,” he coaxed her, “Let’s get you out from away from that ledge.” He held her, and guided her away from that frozen abyss. There was a warmth in his voice, she thought. A tenderness that reminded her of him.
| “There he is.” Jin pointed toward a group and I squinted at the play yard, half-rising from my position in the back seat to get a better view through the windshield.
“Which one?”
“Overalls and a green shirt.” I spotted him, an apricot-haired toddler kneeling in the sandbox, hands on hips, head canted in that familiar way as he examined his construction. The hastily-typed email had been a welcome call to arms after almost five years of silence. He had to be careful these days, folks were getting better at identifying Rebounders, restricting their movements, keeping them isolated from their old lives.
But the Boss? The Boss was a pro. This was his third Rebound, his fourth life, and he knew the ins and outs of the Early Detection Tests. His biological family likely had no idea. Poor things.
Jin got out of the car and strolled past the chain link fence. He opened and closed his hands a few times, as though shaking numbness out of his fingers. The kid repeated the gesture. My partner tossed a ball of fast food trash in one of the public bins, patted his spiky hairdo, and returned to the car. After a few moments, the kid went into the preschool building. The supervising teacher paid no heed to the little boy.
I double-checked the carseat beside me as Jin started up the car. I hadn’t had to install one before, but it looked right, matched the instructions at least.
Jin pulled the car up in front of the daycare’s front doors. With a mighty shove, the little boy opened the doors and dashed toward the car. I swung open the back door as he approached and he vaulted in. I snagged him by both hands and hauled him over me to the carseat, then slammed the door shut.
As we pulled away, I kept a sharp eye out behind us, but all was tranquil at the daycare, for the moment at least.
“Help me with the buckles, Trip.” He’d already managed to get most of the straps settled on the carseat, but lacked the upper body strength to finish the job. He had a mild lisp, and spoke slowly to compensate, trying to enunciate clearly.
“Sure thing.” I leaned over and clicked everything together for him.
“Get your own buckle on,” he told me after a moment. The voice was wrong, but that tone, it was all him. I jumped to comply, just as Jin pulled onto the main road. I’d forgotten that the Boss was sensitive to vehicle safety; his second death had been a car accident. Stupid, senseless thing. That was right before my time with Reclamation.
Once I was secured, he began speaking. “Now obviously, I’ve been out of touch,” he looked at the window, his expression too serious, his eyes too old to look at all childish. “Where do we stand?”
“Business has been steady. Work is progressing on the legal front. One state almost repealed the Rebounder laws, but then the KSBK movement undermined it.” I glanced toward Jin, but he remained expressionless, eyes on the road. I was no good at these things.
Awkwardly, I went on, trying to parrot one of the internal circulars. State of the Organization. “Rebound Kidnappings still make the news every month or so, still haven’t made headway in buying a network, but we’re grooming a few anchors on our spin. More support is in the works. Current numbers suggest that we’ve almost hit the fifty-percent mark on newborns being Rebound. The first-generation Rebound are hitting their mid-thirties, though, and they’re making their presence known. We might see legalized Rebound Wills in the next decade, and from there, maybe we’ll be able to bring about legalized contact and visitation rights.”
“Good.” He rested his chin on his hands, then sighed. “Has it really only been thirty-odd years?”
“Three of your four lifetimes,” I pointed out, then closed my mouth. Jin twisted in his seat to give me a brief look before returning his attention to the road. I could feel shame covering my cheeks. The man in the kid’s car seat said nothing. I was a first-timer, I couldn’t remember dying and coming back, and here was someone who could remember dying *three* times. The heart attack, the car accident, and the assassination. Like that last one had done more than set him back a little bit.
“You know, I think the Kisbiks have a point.” Those were words I’d never expected to hear from the Boss, and I looked at him sharply. “Kids *Should* Be Kids. I … well. You’re lucky, Trip. I can’t forget what I know. But I wish I could just wipe the slate clean and *be* a kid again.” He clenched his tiny, adorable fists.
The silence stretched on. I couldn’t think of anything to say, still embarrassed at my lapse. After several moment, he spoke again. “But I can’t forget, so I might as well use it. Beats having to start from scratch. Anyhow, being a kid again, it keeps my mind flexible, right?” I let out the breath I was holding.
After a brief pause, he decided to lighten the mood. “So how long to the safe house?”
Thankfully, Jin covered that one. “Another ten minutes. We prepped the makeover per your specifications. Audrey is standing by, you remember her? We’ll do a more complete change once we reach HQ.”
“Good.”
“And may I say, sir? It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back, Jin. I’m just glad you didn’t have to extract me from Asia again.” He chucked, the sound high and weird from his small frame. “Still, took me forever to get access this time. I barely had five minutes with Pop’s laptop. Gone are the days when parents would just hand their kids a cell or tablet to keep them distracted, more’s the pity.”
I resisted the urge to look behind me again. The Daycare was long out of sight. But somewhere back there, a mother and father would soon learn that their child was a “victim” of a Rebounder Kidnapping.
I wonder if they’d ever learn that their child was not only a Rebounder, but the founder of Reclamation. They called us terrorists, but even though I feel kind of bad, separating families like this, shouldn’t the *former* family have some say? Shouldn’t the Rebounders have a say? The Boss might have been born to a man and woman in Suburbia, but he never allowed himself to belong to them. He facilitated his own reclamation. It’s hardly kidnapping, right?
Still, I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. I’m guessing there is no real “right” or “wrong” here though. Things can’t ever be that simple, right?
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