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Well... | [WP] One day you notice you haven't seen any Hitler related writing prompts for a full hour at least. | I was confused. I settled into my old office chair, lilting to the side from years of use, to write my daily story about Hitler. The place I turned to for inspiration was the writing prompts subreddit, full of ideas to explore. What if Hitler had gotten into art school? What if Nazi Germany had invented a giant fighting robot? What if Hitler was a My Little Pony fan?
But there was something off. There were no Hitler writing prompts to be had. How could I write a speculative story about history's greatest villain? Make it up myself? That came dangerously close to work.
"Hey, Bill!" I shouted for my roommate. He appeared in my doorway, drinking a mug of coffee and wearing a Nazi officer's uniform. There were scorch marks on the right sleeve, and what looked like a bullet hole. Probably embellishments for whatever theatrics he intended to use it for.
"What's the haps, Tim?" Bill asked. I motioned to my computer screen.
"The writing prompts subreddit doesn't have any prompts about Hitler," I replied.
"Well, it shouldn't," Bill said calmly. "I just got back from a mission to 1939 to assassinate him."
"Get fucked, that's not even possible," I said. "And besides, if you killed Hitler, how come I still remember him?" Bill shrugged.
"Maybe the timeline hasn't caught up yet," he said, then took another sip of coffee. I looked back at the computer, then back at my roommate. He was wearing some strange grey suit with scorch marks and a bullet hole on the right sleeve. On the other arm, he wore a red armband. Probably embellishments for whatever theatrics he intended to use it for.
"Still worried about Hitler?" Bill asked.
"What's a hitler?" I asked. Bill smiled and took another sip of coffee. | "What the fuck?" I murmured as I refreshed the page again. "Where the shit is Hitler?"
Suddenly panicking, I opened a new tab and picked Wikipedia out of my favorites tab.
H-i-t-l-e-r.
No, his page is still here... Thank god, I guess that means the timeline hasn't changed. I had been sure that was the only reason that he wasn't featured on /r/WritingPrompts. "Wait just a God damn minute... Thank god Hitler is still real? The fuck am I saying?"
H-o-l-o-c-a-u-s-t.
Holy shitstain that's a lot of people. No way this can be allowed to stand. But how to stop him? I don't have any ideas, I'm not that creative.
"Got it! Alright Reddit, let's see what you can do..."
http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/354uwi/wp_its_may_6_2015_how_will_you_stop_hitler/ |
Well... | [WP] One day you notice you haven't seen any Hitler related writing prompts for a full hour at least. | I was browsing /new, looking for karma opportunities when I noticed something was off. I hadn't seen any Hitler prompts for a while. I checked around other subreddits, and there were still Hitler posts appearing everywhere else.
Maybe a new rule had been added? I read through the sidebar, and didn't see any new rule, but then I saw the mod team had been replaced by one user. The mod was literally Hitler. | Wooper160 was a cheeky fellow. They thought it would be a fun idea to be meta, without truly being meta, and bring up a fact that had been bothering them. Hitler had disappeared from the front page...
So, they went to work, crafting a devious scheme to bring him back to the forefront of everyone's minds! If everyone would gloss over him when he was there, they would react if he were gone! It was genius! The karma would flow endlessly at their wit!
As he hit "send", a small white alien appeared hovering, just beside their head, a knowing smile on its face. Wooper160 turned to view the floating intruder with confusion. What was going on? Why was it there? The alien simply smiled unblinkingly, staring into Wooper160's soul. A disembodied voice boomed in their head.
"Gettin' real tired o' your shit." Despite the alien not moving, it struck Wooper across the face before popping back out of existence. Before turning back to their computer, they heard "Don't do that again..." |
Well... | [WP] One day you notice you haven't seen any Hitler related writing prompts for a full hour at least. | *Huh. No Hitler today.*
It was an odd thing to whine about, but alternate history places drew in Hitler posts like they're secretly a bunch of Neo-Nazis. There was always, without fail, at least one Hitler prompt every hour. I could never understand how people could always come up with new ideas (What if Hitler was Barney? What if you was Hitler?) but I got a laugh.
Anna poked her head in. "I've gotta go do something and-...you look smug today. What's up?"
Smug? Really? "Just haven't seen any Hitler prompts today. I think that they finally ran out of ideas."
Anna tilted her head to one side. "What was that?"
"No Hitler. Guess the mods finally cracked enough skulls in the comments..." She had a look that didn't belong on a history nut who could probably rattle off the complete history of any nation you cared to name before she realized that you zoned out at the five minute mark. "What?"
"Who's Hitler?"
I probably should have said something more intelligent than, "Buah wha?" and stared blankly with my jaw hanging, but when someone asks you who Hitler is, your brain tends to go loopy.
In the time it took my brain to run a reboot, Anna had shrugged and walked out. "I have errands to do. Bye." I could just hear her thinking, *He's always going on about stupid things.* As soon as I heard her car pull out, I checked prompts from yesterday. No Hitler.
A week ago. No Hitler.
A month. No Hitler.
I was missing Hitler now. And as soon as I realized that, I felt like dunking myself in rubbing alcohol. It didn't help that I was getting more and more nervous. There were Hitler prompts yesterday. Lots and lots of Hitler prompts. Either the mods had gone Orwell on us...but that didn't explain Anna. I steeled myself and hit Google.
No Hitler.
Well, not the Hitler that I knew. I got a different Hitler, some obscure Austrian artist who died a few years ago and who's art was now worth 10 million zillion dollars or some other huge number now that he was dead.
At this point, I could feel a cold sweat breaking out. Hitler had just...vanished. As I tried to take it in, I heard a knock at my door. I made my way there on shaky legs, and opened it up to a older guy that I didn't recognize.
"Hello, have you seen a small brown puppy around here today?" He smiled sadly, and for a moment, I thought that I knew him from somewhere. I stuttered a bit as I tried to explain that I hadn't been out all day, but he rose a hand to stop me. "It's quite alright. He'll be back." He walked down the road a bit, and went into the house of the old Jewish couple. It hit me then, where I'd seen that same sad look.
The couple had told Anna that their son had died in the Holocaust.
I somehow made it back to the computer and began punching in search terms. I tried looking up World War II. Nothing. World War I? It still happened, but it was still being called, "The Great War." Mussolini? Just a two-bit revolutionary who got shot by one of his own men. I kept looking and searching, trying to find out what in world happened. Then I recalled something, just in the back of my head. I was one of the prompts that I would normally have mocked, but was too tired to actually do it.
"What if World War II never happened?"
It was probably a coincidence...is what I would have told myself if World War II had apparently never happened. I could probably remember their name...I looked for another prompt by them, and lo and behold.
"What if North Korea never existed?"
I heard Anna pulling in. I remembered by mother telling me that my grandfather was a refugee from North Korea.
I hit the report button.
=======================
Well, first prompt here, probably awful. Do leave critique though, for it is crunchy and good with ketchup. | Wooper160 was a cheeky fellow. They thought it would be a fun idea to be meta, without truly being meta, and bring up a fact that had been bothering them. Hitler had disappeared from the front page...
So, they went to work, crafting a devious scheme to bring him back to the forefront of everyone's minds! If everyone would gloss over him when he was there, they would react if he were gone! It was genius! The karma would flow endlessly at their wit!
As he hit "send", a small white alien appeared hovering, just beside their head, a knowing smile on its face. Wooper160 turned to view the floating intruder with confusion. What was going on? Why was it there? The alien simply smiled unblinkingly, staring into Wooper160's soul. A disembodied voice boomed in their head.
"Gettin' real tired o' your shit." Despite the alien not moving, it struck Wooper across the face before popping back out of existence. Before turning back to their computer, they heard "Don't do that again..." |
Well... | [WP] One day you notice you haven't seen any Hitler related writing prompts for a full hour at least. | I'd cracked the /r/writingprompts code. I'd written thousands of sample Hitler stories, covering every conceivable scenario. I'd racked up over 100,000 comment karma over the last few months just copy-pasting my pre-written Hitler stories every few hours.
You may remember my 2,500-word supernatural action-thriller in response to *Hitler is born in America instead*. How could something so well-crafted be written in 30 minutes? Sorry to disappoint, but it took over a week of polishing.
Or how about my response to *You go back in time and kill Hitler, but something worse takes his place*? I did this one as a comedy. Because nothing's worse than Hitler.
*Hitler goes back in time and kills you* - This one was pretty weird but I managed to pull it off anyways, as you're probably aware.
So imagine my surprise when I opened up my browser this morning and there wasn't a *single* Hitler prompt sitting in "rising" or "new," let alone in "hot." I waited a few hours – still nothing.
I decided to take matters into my own hands. I fired up my alt (/u/NotRPWrites) and posted a killer Hitler prompt. *You are literally Hitler. You travel back in time to stop some time travelers who want to kill your parents.* I then posted my pre-written story fifteen minutes later and sat back.
A few minutes later, the first downvote appeared. Or rather, first two downvotes – one on the post itself, and one on my story. Then a comment: "What the fuck are you talking about?"
I clicked on my own username to see my history. I had negative three hundred and seventy-eight comment karma, which was quite a bit lower than I remembered. I looked back at some of my greatest Hitler stories, and almost all of them had massive downvotes and comment replies that were complete non-sequiturs.
I did a Reddit search for "Hitler" and found nothing except for my comments. *How is there nothing on Reddit about Hitler?*
That wasn't quite true. There was *one* /r/TodayILearned article about Hitler. I clicked through.
*TIL an Austrian painter named Adolf Hitler was killed by a futuristic plasma beam.*
Holy shit. Someone had done it. Someone had actually gone back in time and killed Hitler.
*...wait. Then how do I know about Hitler?*
---
For more stories that may or may not be about Hitler, check out /r/rpwrites | Wooper160 was a cheeky fellow. They thought it would be a fun idea to be meta, without truly being meta, and bring up a fact that had been bothering them. Hitler had disappeared from the front page...
So, they went to work, crafting a devious scheme to bring him back to the forefront of everyone's minds! If everyone would gloss over him when he was there, they would react if he were gone! It was genius! The karma would flow endlessly at their wit!
As he hit "send", a small white alien appeared hovering, just beside their head, a knowing smile on its face. Wooper160 turned to view the floating intruder with confusion. What was going on? Why was it there? The alien simply smiled unblinkingly, staring into Wooper160's soul. A disembodied voice boomed in their head.
"Gettin' real tired o' your shit." Despite the alien not moving, it struck Wooper across the face before popping back out of existence. Before turning back to their computer, they heard "Don't do that again..." |
Well... | [WP] One day you notice you haven't seen any Hitler related writing prompts for a full hour at least. | *Huh. No Hitler today.*
It was an odd thing to whine about, but alternate history places drew in Hitler posts like they're secretly a bunch of Neo-Nazis. There was always, without fail, at least one Hitler prompt every hour. I could never understand how people could always come up with new ideas (What if Hitler was Barney? What if you was Hitler?) but I got a laugh.
Anna poked her head in. "I've gotta go do something and-...you look smug today. What's up?"
Smug? Really? "Just haven't seen any Hitler prompts today. I think that they finally ran out of ideas."
Anna tilted her head to one side. "What was that?"
"No Hitler. Guess the mods finally cracked enough skulls in the comments..." She had a look that didn't belong on a history nut who could probably rattle off the complete history of any nation you cared to name before she realized that you zoned out at the five minute mark. "What?"
"Who's Hitler?"
I probably should have said something more intelligent than, "Buah wha?" and stared blankly with my jaw hanging, but when someone asks you who Hitler is, your brain tends to go loopy.
In the time it took my brain to run a reboot, Anna had shrugged and walked out. "I have errands to do. Bye." I could just hear her thinking, *He's always going on about stupid things.* As soon as I heard her car pull out, I checked prompts from yesterday. No Hitler.
A week ago. No Hitler.
A month. No Hitler.
I was missing Hitler now. And as soon as I realized that, I felt like dunking myself in rubbing alcohol. It didn't help that I was getting more and more nervous. There were Hitler prompts yesterday. Lots and lots of Hitler prompts. Either the mods had gone Orwell on us...but that didn't explain Anna. I steeled myself and hit Google.
No Hitler.
Well, not the Hitler that I knew. I got a different Hitler, some obscure Austrian artist who died a few years ago and who's art was now worth 10 million zillion dollars or some other huge number now that he was dead.
At this point, I could feel a cold sweat breaking out. Hitler had just...vanished. As I tried to take it in, I heard a knock at my door. I made my way there on shaky legs, and opened it up to a older guy that I didn't recognize.
"Hello, have you seen a small brown puppy around here today?" He smiled sadly, and for a moment, I thought that I knew him from somewhere. I stuttered a bit as I tried to explain that I hadn't been out all day, but he rose a hand to stop me. "It's quite alright. He'll be back." He walked down the road a bit, and went into the house of the old Jewish couple. It hit me then, where I'd seen that same sad look.
The couple had told Anna that their son had died in the Holocaust.
I somehow made it back to the computer and began punching in search terms. I tried looking up World War II. Nothing. World War I? It still happened, but it was still being called, "The Great War." Mussolini? Just a two-bit revolutionary who got shot by one of his own men. I kept looking and searching, trying to find out what in world happened. Then I recalled something, just in the back of my head. I was one of the prompts that I would normally have mocked, but was too tired to actually do it.
"What if World War II never happened?"
It was probably a coincidence...is what I would have told myself if World War II had apparently never happened. I could probably remember their name...I looked for another prompt by them, and lo and behold.
"What if North Korea never existed?"
I heard Anna pulling in. I remembered by mother telling me that my grandfather was a refugee from North Korea.
I hit the report button.
=======================
Well, first prompt here, probably awful. Do leave critique though, for it is crunchy and good with ketchup. | I was browsing /new, looking for karma opportunities when I noticed something was off. I hadn't seen any Hitler prompts for a while. I checked around other subreddits, and there were still Hitler posts appearing everywhere else.
Maybe a new rule had been added? I read through the sidebar, and didn't see any new rule, but then I saw the mod team had been replaced by one user. The mod was literally Hitler. |
[WP] The meaning of life has been finally discovered, but people hate it. | So it's true.
We are just an intergalactic experiment. All of Earth is but a seed planted in the universe. Such a great motivation to continue persisting on life, huh?
Aliens; fucking aliens, are the only reason why we are even alive. They just watch us like lab rats procreating, inventing, destroying, fighting and suffering. I had always hoped life in this dimension only meant reaching the next; refining our consciousness through wisdom and experience to prepare ourselves for that next step. It almost sounds naive at this point.... How silly were we to assume "faith" would take us further. How ridiculous to believe "love" had any value. How ignorant of us to live our lives as "knowledgeable". Look at us now, we are but an ant farm manipulated by a higher being. They use US to find the meaning of THEIR existence. They are recreating the history of THEIR evaluation to see where things went wrong or right. It was all about THEM. Not us. FUCK YOU ALIENS. | Apathy ran rampant, and existential crises became the norm for even the most simple-minded people. Philosophers began to question life's absurdity, and certain religious figures argue against the theory, despite the evidence. It was as if there was a collective "Now what?"
It was unfortunately ironic that the meaning of life was to fruitlessly seek out the meaning of life. | |
[WP] Death comes to collect one final life - God. | At this end of the room, the only thing of any significance was The Throne.
Ultimas stood before The Throne and regarded the figure sitting upon it. Anyone else, even an Angel, would have trouble making out exactly who or what sat on the throne. Most saw what they wished to see through no action of their own. A gentle father figure, reassuring and smiling. A stern lecturer, wise yet impatient. A beautiful woman.
But Ultimas saw the truth.
The being who sat on the throne was old. Older than any being who had existed up until now. Save one.
He did not sit up straight in the throne but was leaning back. His breathing was heavy which was odd for someone who did not need to breathe. Perhaps it was an affectation that he had adopted. His face was lined and wrinkled with eons. His eyes were glossy and half closed yet they saw more than any man could ever hope to see. His hair was cloud white and stretched to the floor. We wore nothing at all. Though he would be hard to measure my human standards, he could have easily been 10 feet tall. Of course, that was subject to change.
Ultimas spoke.
“You know why I am here”.
It was not a question.
The being who was God open his eyes a fraction more and replied, simply, “Yes”.
“Then we should be on our way”.
With great effort, God sat up ever so slightly.
“Must we go now?”
Ultimas almost smiled. The question that everyone asked, “Do I have to go?” He always wondered where if it was just human nature. It was. And it seemed that it was inherited.
“I’m afraid so, old friend.”
“Are we truly friends, Ultimas?” God asked.
“But of course we are” Ultimas replied, with no amount of insincerity. “Who but a friend would give you such a gift?” he continued.
“Who but an enemy would take it away?” God said as he sat up even more. Anger was creeping into his voice. It’s not fair. It’s not right. How dare you? These were things that Ultimas had heard countless times before as well.
“Have I been unfair to you? Have I treated you worse than any other? Have I not kept my promises? Even as you forgot yours?” Ultimas was not angry but these were the facts.
“It’s too soon. There’s still too much work to be done. I still have so much to do.” God said now with Sadness.
Ultimas had heard this as well. It’s not my time. I can’t go.
“I’m sorry.” Ultimas said. “It is your time. Your power has faded. Your subjects are gone. And, what’s more,” and with this Ultimas gestured the clouds on the horizon “a Storm is coming.”
“I fear no storms” God said Proudly.
“You should fear this one. No wind no rain can compare to what is coming. A darkness of time and space. A shadow which will consume creation and all who remain. This is not something you wish to endure.” Ultimas said these things calmly though the clouds were drawing nearer.
Now God looked into Ultimas’ eyes and Ultimas saw what he saw countless time before. Fear.
“I am afraid.” God said. Perhaps the most honest thing ever to be uttered by such a being. “What lies beyond death I confess even I do not know. Human kind comforted itself believing that Heaven was what lay beyond death but this was only half of the truth. If only they had known…”
“It would have changed nothing, sorry to say. These are the rules by which we exist. These are what you were made to understand when your power was given to you.” Ultimas did not fear the coming storm. He would be long gone when it arrived. But he truly did not know if he would leave alone or with the old man in his company.
God looked up from his feet. “Would you tell me what you have never told anyone? What lies beyond life? Where are we going?”
Ultimas had never told anyone. In all his time, every single soul he had claimed had asked this question. Peasants, and kings and warlords and other beings more powerful than could be imagined had asked this of him. Some had begged, many had cried. A few faced the uncertainty bravely. These he remembered the best. He was surprised that God would not be one of these.
Ultimas looked at the self-titled Lord of All Creation and said, “It is not my place to say” as he had said countless times before.
The Lord of Man and Master of Heaven leaned back in his Throne and closed his eyes. The wind had begun to pick up now, and his long hair began to move in the air. The sun was shining not so brightly and it was getting colder. God reflected on his works. He saw that they had been good for the most part but he still lamented that is was all ending before he could see it finished. It had been ambitious, to be sure. When he had made the deal with Ultimas like others before him, it had been with the knowledge that the arrangement would be temporary.
The young God had believed that with enough effort and care, he could avert the coming storm and put an end to this timeless cycle of creation and destruction. This existence that was, ultimately, pointless and doomed to end in nothingness. Ultimas knew all of these plans, of course. He made no effort to interfere in accordance with the arrangement. All power given was done so with no limitations save the inevitable.
“In truth, I had hoped you might succeed.” Ultimas said. “I have walked this cycle since time was merely an idea. I have seen a thousand empires fall along with their Gods and Deities. You were not the first to try and put a stop to it but, I must admit, you were the most ambitious. It is sad to say that you were too proud. You became too caught up in your lesser works to focus on the bigger idea. If you had… well… who knows?”
God was surprised to hear this from Ultimas. He ventured a question but, in truth, he was deeply afraid of the answer. “Once I am gone and the next arises, will you tell them of what I almost accomplished here? Will you set them on the right path? For all the lives that have yet to arise, will you help put a stop to this?”
Ultimas said nothing. The wind was blowing even harder now. A shadow fell across the throne.
“It’s time to go. We have lingered too long. Please my friend, do not let the storm reach you. Take my hand.”
Ultimas stood now before the Throne on the top step with his hand outstretched. Gods still yearned to hear the answer that he feared most.
“Please. Ultimas I beg you. Answer me.” The Lord of Man was begging him to violate every rule he was bound by. To cast away eons of adherence to ancient law and contract. Would it even be worth it? Would the wrath incurred to do such a thing even result in any change? Or would the cycle continue as it always had? He would risk his own existence by doing so. Despite the nature of his works, he too, feared the nothingness to which he was the sole gatekeeper and which he did not truly understand.
But, in the end, the cycle was everything. It was the nature of creation itself. Everything that begins must end even if it is simply to make way for something new. Ultimas understood this but it had taken the failings of an ambitious God to make him see. One day, he could feel, the end would come for him. Something new would arise. But that day was not today.
When that day came, would he face the dark bravely or with foolish questions? Would he take the hand offered or refuse and be doomed to whatever it was The Storm held in store.
“I’m sorry. It is not my place to say.”
God took one last look around what he had created. Then, he took the hand that Ultimas offered him. God stood from the throne and a black doorway appeared before them. Together, Ultimas and God stepped through the door.
The doorway vanished.
The Throne crumbled into dust.
And the sun went out.
| A little boy [5 years old? 6?] entered in through the backdoor of the house. "Dad! It's time to go!"
God was hunched over his laptop, continually refreshing his inbox.
"What are you doing?"
God didn't look up -- he just kept refreshing the browser. "I'm waiting. Haven't gotten a prayer in a while."
The boy shook his head. "Come on. You already know. I've taken the others. It's your turn now. Let's go."
"Just a few more minutes."
"Look, I've got the carriage parked outside. It's right there out front. I know you're not surprised to see me. You locked the front door. You never lock the front door."
God stopped. His eyes gazed somewhere behind the laptop screen, and his hands shook.
"Let's go." The boy grabbed God's hand. It was a warm sensation, and not an unwelcome one. It had been quite some time since God felt the touch of another, and the boy's hand felt like, oh, what is the word? It spread through his hand, and then slowly up his arm. The boy moved his head so that he could make eye contact with God.
God's shoulders relaxed as the warmth spread. "Okay. Let's go." | |
[WP] Death comes to collect one final life - God. | At this end of the room, the only thing of any significance was The Throne.
Ultimas stood before The Throne and regarded the figure sitting upon it. Anyone else, even an Angel, would have trouble making out exactly who or what sat on the throne. Most saw what they wished to see through no action of their own. A gentle father figure, reassuring and smiling. A stern lecturer, wise yet impatient. A beautiful woman.
But Ultimas saw the truth.
The being who sat on the throne was old. Older than any being who had existed up until now. Save one.
He did not sit up straight in the throne but was leaning back. His breathing was heavy which was odd for someone who did not need to breathe. Perhaps it was an affectation that he had adopted. His face was lined and wrinkled with eons. His eyes were glossy and half closed yet they saw more than any man could ever hope to see. His hair was cloud white and stretched to the floor. We wore nothing at all. Though he would be hard to measure my human standards, he could have easily been 10 feet tall. Of course, that was subject to change.
Ultimas spoke.
“You know why I am here”.
It was not a question.
The being who was God open his eyes a fraction more and replied, simply, “Yes”.
“Then we should be on our way”.
With great effort, God sat up ever so slightly.
“Must we go now?”
Ultimas almost smiled. The question that everyone asked, “Do I have to go?” He always wondered where if it was just human nature. It was. And it seemed that it was inherited.
“I’m afraid so, old friend.”
“Are we truly friends, Ultimas?” God asked.
“But of course we are” Ultimas replied, with no amount of insincerity. “Who but a friend would give you such a gift?” he continued.
“Who but an enemy would take it away?” God said as he sat up even more. Anger was creeping into his voice. It’s not fair. It’s not right. How dare you? These were things that Ultimas had heard countless times before as well.
“Have I been unfair to you? Have I treated you worse than any other? Have I not kept my promises? Even as you forgot yours?” Ultimas was not angry but these were the facts.
“It’s too soon. There’s still too much work to be done. I still have so much to do.” God said now with Sadness.
Ultimas had heard this as well. It’s not my time. I can’t go.
“I’m sorry.” Ultimas said. “It is your time. Your power has faded. Your subjects are gone. And, what’s more,” and with this Ultimas gestured the clouds on the horizon “a Storm is coming.”
“I fear no storms” God said Proudly.
“You should fear this one. No wind no rain can compare to what is coming. A darkness of time and space. A shadow which will consume creation and all who remain. This is not something you wish to endure.” Ultimas said these things calmly though the clouds were drawing nearer.
Now God looked into Ultimas’ eyes and Ultimas saw what he saw countless time before. Fear.
“I am afraid.” God said. Perhaps the most honest thing ever to be uttered by such a being. “What lies beyond death I confess even I do not know. Human kind comforted itself believing that Heaven was what lay beyond death but this was only half of the truth. If only they had known…”
“It would have changed nothing, sorry to say. These are the rules by which we exist. These are what you were made to understand when your power was given to you.” Ultimas did not fear the coming storm. He would be long gone when it arrived. But he truly did not know if he would leave alone or with the old man in his company.
God looked up from his feet. “Would you tell me what you have never told anyone? What lies beyond life? Where are we going?”
Ultimas had never told anyone. In all his time, every single soul he had claimed had asked this question. Peasants, and kings and warlords and other beings more powerful than could be imagined had asked this of him. Some had begged, many had cried. A few faced the uncertainty bravely. These he remembered the best. He was surprised that God would not be one of these.
Ultimas looked at the self-titled Lord of All Creation and said, “It is not my place to say” as he had said countless times before.
The Lord of Man and Master of Heaven leaned back in his Throne and closed his eyes. The wind had begun to pick up now, and his long hair began to move in the air. The sun was shining not so brightly and it was getting colder. God reflected on his works. He saw that they had been good for the most part but he still lamented that is was all ending before he could see it finished. It had been ambitious, to be sure. When he had made the deal with Ultimas like others before him, it had been with the knowledge that the arrangement would be temporary.
The young God had believed that with enough effort and care, he could avert the coming storm and put an end to this timeless cycle of creation and destruction. This existence that was, ultimately, pointless and doomed to end in nothingness. Ultimas knew all of these plans, of course. He made no effort to interfere in accordance with the arrangement. All power given was done so with no limitations save the inevitable.
“In truth, I had hoped you might succeed.” Ultimas said. “I have walked this cycle since time was merely an idea. I have seen a thousand empires fall along with their Gods and Deities. You were not the first to try and put a stop to it but, I must admit, you were the most ambitious. It is sad to say that you were too proud. You became too caught up in your lesser works to focus on the bigger idea. If you had… well… who knows?”
God was surprised to hear this from Ultimas. He ventured a question but, in truth, he was deeply afraid of the answer. “Once I am gone and the next arises, will you tell them of what I almost accomplished here? Will you set them on the right path? For all the lives that have yet to arise, will you help put a stop to this?”
Ultimas said nothing. The wind was blowing even harder now. A shadow fell across the throne.
“It’s time to go. We have lingered too long. Please my friend, do not let the storm reach you. Take my hand.”
Ultimas stood now before the Throne on the top step with his hand outstretched. Gods still yearned to hear the answer that he feared most.
“Please. Ultimas I beg you. Answer me.” The Lord of Man was begging him to violate every rule he was bound by. To cast away eons of adherence to ancient law and contract. Would it even be worth it? Would the wrath incurred to do such a thing even result in any change? Or would the cycle continue as it always had? He would risk his own existence by doing so. Despite the nature of his works, he too, feared the nothingness to which he was the sole gatekeeper and which he did not truly understand.
But, in the end, the cycle was everything. It was the nature of creation itself. Everything that begins must end even if it is simply to make way for something new. Ultimas understood this but it had taken the failings of an ambitious God to make him see. One day, he could feel, the end would come for him. Something new would arise. But that day was not today.
When that day came, would he face the dark bravely or with foolish questions? Would he take the hand offered or refuse and be doomed to whatever it was The Storm held in store.
“I’m sorry. It is not my place to say.”
God took one last look around what he had created. Then, he took the hand that Ultimas offered him. God stood from the throne and a black doorway appeared before them. Together, Ultimas and God stepped through the door.
The doorway vanished.
The Throne crumbled into dust.
And the sun went out.
| "I expect you're shocked"
"I'm really fucking confused. I mean, I've been cleaning up your creation's mess for what, the last 7000 years. And then I get a message. "Collect God". I must say though, it's refreshing knowing someone is waiting for me."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I guess that must have been the hard part of your job. Introducing yourself."
"The conversation can't exactly just go 'So hey, here I am, now hand over your soul and I'll show you the way to the afterlife.'"
"Hmm, I'm curious, what is the best conversation you've had?"
"Aren't you all knowing?"
"Humor me, please."
"Well, I guess it was this boy I picked up."
"How old?"
"28."
"Hmm?"
"Yeah, this was back in 2010. Everyone needed everything in life. Everyone just always said they were disapointed, it wasn't their time, they had too much to do."
"And he?"
"He was okay, he was happy about going."
"I don't see how that stands out..."
"Well, the thing is, he was everything people always complained about. He was poor, he had no family, fuck, he hadn't even fucked. And yet, he just.. accepted it."
"Sounds almost happy."
"Oh, not my happiest though."
"And that was?"
"Well, pretty much everyone in the last ten years really. Those were amazing times. It's like, people had finally worked out how to live life, how to do what they want to do, and it was just like... taking people was just me showing them the path next, not trying to kick them screaming and pushing. Everyone seemed to have... achieved everything they want."
"I think you now know why I'm ready to go." | |
[WP] Death comes to collect one final life - God. | At this end of the room, the only thing of any significance was The Throne.
Ultimas stood before The Throne and regarded the figure sitting upon it. Anyone else, even an Angel, would have trouble making out exactly who or what sat on the throne. Most saw what they wished to see through no action of their own. A gentle father figure, reassuring and smiling. A stern lecturer, wise yet impatient. A beautiful woman.
But Ultimas saw the truth.
The being who sat on the throne was old. Older than any being who had existed up until now. Save one.
He did not sit up straight in the throne but was leaning back. His breathing was heavy which was odd for someone who did not need to breathe. Perhaps it was an affectation that he had adopted. His face was lined and wrinkled with eons. His eyes were glossy and half closed yet they saw more than any man could ever hope to see. His hair was cloud white and stretched to the floor. We wore nothing at all. Though he would be hard to measure my human standards, he could have easily been 10 feet tall. Of course, that was subject to change.
Ultimas spoke.
“You know why I am here”.
It was not a question.
The being who was God open his eyes a fraction more and replied, simply, “Yes”.
“Then we should be on our way”.
With great effort, God sat up ever so slightly.
“Must we go now?”
Ultimas almost smiled. The question that everyone asked, “Do I have to go?” He always wondered where if it was just human nature. It was. And it seemed that it was inherited.
“I’m afraid so, old friend.”
“Are we truly friends, Ultimas?” God asked.
“But of course we are” Ultimas replied, with no amount of insincerity. “Who but a friend would give you such a gift?” he continued.
“Who but an enemy would take it away?” God said as he sat up even more. Anger was creeping into his voice. It’s not fair. It’s not right. How dare you? These were things that Ultimas had heard countless times before as well.
“Have I been unfair to you? Have I treated you worse than any other? Have I not kept my promises? Even as you forgot yours?” Ultimas was not angry but these were the facts.
“It’s too soon. There’s still too much work to be done. I still have so much to do.” God said now with Sadness.
Ultimas had heard this as well. It’s not my time. I can’t go.
“I’m sorry.” Ultimas said. “It is your time. Your power has faded. Your subjects are gone. And, what’s more,” and with this Ultimas gestured the clouds on the horizon “a Storm is coming.”
“I fear no storms” God said Proudly.
“You should fear this one. No wind no rain can compare to what is coming. A darkness of time and space. A shadow which will consume creation and all who remain. This is not something you wish to endure.” Ultimas said these things calmly though the clouds were drawing nearer.
Now God looked into Ultimas’ eyes and Ultimas saw what he saw countless time before. Fear.
“I am afraid.” God said. Perhaps the most honest thing ever to be uttered by such a being. “What lies beyond death I confess even I do not know. Human kind comforted itself believing that Heaven was what lay beyond death but this was only half of the truth. If only they had known…”
“It would have changed nothing, sorry to say. These are the rules by which we exist. These are what you were made to understand when your power was given to you.” Ultimas did not fear the coming storm. He would be long gone when it arrived. But he truly did not know if he would leave alone or with the old man in his company.
God looked up from his feet. “Would you tell me what you have never told anyone? What lies beyond life? Where are we going?”
Ultimas had never told anyone. In all his time, every single soul he had claimed had asked this question. Peasants, and kings and warlords and other beings more powerful than could be imagined had asked this of him. Some had begged, many had cried. A few faced the uncertainty bravely. These he remembered the best. He was surprised that God would not be one of these.
Ultimas looked at the self-titled Lord of All Creation and said, “It is not my place to say” as he had said countless times before.
The Lord of Man and Master of Heaven leaned back in his Throne and closed his eyes. The wind had begun to pick up now, and his long hair began to move in the air. The sun was shining not so brightly and it was getting colder. God reflected on his works. He saw that they had been good for the most part but he still lamented that is was all ending before he could see it finished. It had been ambitious, to be sure. When he had made the deal with Ultimas like others before him, it had been with the knowledge that the arrangement would be temporary.
The young God had believed that with enough effort and care, he could avert the coming storm and put an end to this timeless cycle of creation and destruction. This existence that was, ultimately, pointless and doomed to end in nothingness. Ultimas knew all of these plans, of course. He made no effort to interfere in accordance with the arrangement. All power given was done so with no limitations save the inevitable.
“In truth, I had hoped you might succeed.” Ultimas said. “I have walked this cycle since time was merely an idea. I have seen a thousand empires fall along with their Gods and Deities. You were not the first to try and put a stop to it but, I must admit, you were the most ambitious. It is sad to say that you were too proud. You became too caught up in your lesser works to focus on the bigger idea. If you had… well… who knows?”
God was surprised to hear this from Ultimas. He ventured a question but, in truth, he was deeply afraid of the answer. “Once I am gone and the next arises, will you tell them of what I almost accomplished here? Will you set them on the right path? For all the lives that have yet to arise, will you help put a stop to this?”
Ultimas said nothing. The wind was blowing even harder now. A shadow fell across the throne.
“It’s time to go. We have lingered too long. Please my friend, do not let the storm reach you. Take my hand.”
Ultimas stood now before the Throne on the top step with his hand outstretched. Gods still yearned to hear the answer that he feared most.
“Please. Ultimas I beg you. Answer me.” The Lord of Man was begging him to violate every rule he was bound by. To cast away eons of adherence to ancient law and contract. Would it even be worth it? Would the wrath incurred to do such a thing even result in any change? Or would the cycle continue as it always had? He would risk his own existence by doing so. Despite the nature of his works, he too, feared the nothingness to which he was the sole gatekeeper and which he did not truly understand.
But, in the end, the cycle was everything. It was the nature of creation itself. Everything that begins must end even if it is simply to make way for something new. Ultimas understood this but it had taken the failings of an ambitious God to make him see. One day, he could feel, the end would come for him. Something new would arise. But that day was not today.
When that day came, would he face the dark bravely or with foolish questions? Would he take the hand offered or refuse and be doomed to whatever it was The Storm held in store.
“I’m sorry. It is not my place to say.”
God took one last look around what he had created. Then, he took the hand that Ultimas offered him. God stood from the throne and a black doorway appeared before them. Together, Ultimas and God stepped through the door.
The doorway vanished.
The Throne crumbled into dust.
And the sun went out.
| Death sits across the table from the final contract, casually sipping on a hot drink. The scythe, rusted and brittle, rests on wall besides them. From the other side of the table God is struggling to keep composure.
"So, you've taken all that I've ever made, and now it's time for me is it?"
Death says nothing.
"They were my children, all of them. From every planet around every star, at every inch of my universe. Are you not satisfied?"
Death, brings the cup up to where a face should be, but only darkness can be seen past the cowl. Saying nothing, Death continues to stare at God.
God's voice begins to waver into anger,
"I created you too, you know. I knew that all things had to end, but I am eternal! This simply isn't possible!" A voice that once made all kings bow, and empires crumble is now but the whimpering of a child.
Death says nothing.
God sighs and looks down at the table. " There isn't a way out of this, is there?"
Death puts the drink down and extends a gentle hand to God. God looks to the hand and back up to Death. "Does it hurt?"
Death says nothing.
God, though tentative, places a hand onto Death's. As their fingers intertwine,
God can feel the universe begin to shrink. Faster and faster, and all that was created starts to crumble, a light formed between their hands. Everything was being pulled into this light. God smiled and looked at Death. Though the cowl covered everything, God knew there was another smile behind it. As everything was falling into their hands, God let go and followed all of creation. As God disappeared into the abyss, Death held the small orb. Resting alone in the carcass of this universe. With one last look, Death too falls back into the cycle. Although God forgets every time, Death remembers. To keep the cycle going, for creation to continue, Death says nothing. | |
[WP] Death comes to collect one final life - God. | At this end of the room, the only thing of any significance was The Throne.
Ultimas stood before The Throne and regarded the figure sitting upon it. Anyone else, even an Angel, would have trouble making out exactly who or what sat on the throne. Most saw what they wished to see through no action of their own. A gentle father figure, reassuring and smiling. A stern lecturer, wise yet impatient. A beautiful woman.
But Ultimas saw the truth.
The being who sat on the throne was old. Older than any being who had existed up until now. Save one.
He did not sit up straight in the throne but was leaning back. His breathing was heavy which was odd for someone who did not need to breathe. Perhaps it was an affectation that he had adopted. His face was lined and wrinkled with eons. His eyes were glossy and half closed yet they saw more than any man could ever hope to see. His hair was cloud white and stretched to the floor. We wore nothing at all. Though he would be hard to measure my human standards, he could have easily been 10 feet tall. Of course, that was subject to change.
Ultimas spoke.
“You know why I am here”.
It was not a question.
The being who was God open his eyes a fraction more and replied, simply, “Yes”.
“Then we should be on our way”.
With great effort, God sat up ever so slightly.
“Must we go now?”
Ultimas almost smiled. The question that everyone asked, “Do I have to go?” He always wondered where if it was just human nature. It was. And it seemed that it was inherited.
“I’m afraid so, old friend.”
“Are we truly friends, Ultimas?” God asked.
“But of course we are” Ultimas replied, with no amount of insincerity. “Who but a friend would give you such a gift?” he continued.
“Who but an enemy would take it away?” God said as he sat up even more. Anger was creeping into his voice. It’s not fair. It’s not right. How dare you? These were things that Ultimas had heard countless times before as well.
“Have I been unfair to you? Have I treated you worse than any other? Have I not kept my promises? Even as you forgot yours?” Ultimas was not angry but these were the facts.
“It’s too soon. There’s still too much work to be done. I still have so much to do.” God said now with Sadness.
Ultimas had heard this as well. It’s not my time. I can’t go.
“I’m sorry.” Ultimas said. “It is your time. Your power has faded. Your subjects are gone. And, what’s more,” and with this Ultimas gestured the clouds on the horizon “a Storm is coming.”
“I fear no storms” God said Proudly.
“You should fear this one. No wind no rain can compare to what is coming. A darkness of time and space. A shadow which will consume creation and all who remain. This is not something you wish to endure.” Ultimas said these things calmly though the clouds were drawing nearer.
Now God looked into Ultimas’ eyes and Ultimas saw what he saw countless time before. Fear.
“I am afraid.” God said. Perhaps the most honest thing ever to be uttered by such a being. “What lies beyond death I confess even I do not know. Human kind comforted itself believing that Heaven was what lay beyond death but this was only half of the truth. If only they had known…”
“It would have changed nothing, sorry to say. These are the rules by which we exist. These are what you were made to understand when your power was given to you.” Ultimas did not fear the coming storm. He would be long gone when it arrived. But he truly did not know if he would leave alone or with the old man in his company.
God looked up from his feet. “Would you tell me what you have never told anyone? What lies beyond life? Where are we going?”
Ultimas had never told anyone. In all his time, every single soul he had claimed had asked this question. Peasants, and kings and warlords and other beings more powerful than could be imagined had asked this of him. Some had begged, many had cried. A few faced the uncertainty bravely. These he remembered the best. He was surprised that God would not be one of these.
Ultimas looked at the self-titled Lord of All Creation and said, “It is not my place to say” as he had said countless times before.
The Lord of Man and Master of Heaven leaned back in his Throne and closed his eyes. The wind had begun to pick up now, and his long hair began to move in the air. The sun was shining not so brightly and it was getting colder. God reflected on his works. He saw that they had been good for the most part but he still lamented that is was all ending before he could see it finished. It had been ambitious, to be sure. When he had made the deal with Ultimas like others before him, it had been with the knowledge that the arrangement would be temporary.
The young God had believed that with enough effort and care, he could avert the coming storm and put an end to this timeless cycle of creation and destruction. This existence that was, ultimately, pointless and doomed to end in nothingness. Ultimas knew all of these plans, of course. He made no effort to interfere in accordance with the arrangement. All power given was done so with no limitations save the inevitable.
“In truth, I had hoped you might succeed.” Ultimas said. “I have walked this cycle since time was merely an idea. I have seen a thousand empires fall along with their Gods and Deities. You were not the first to try and put a stop to it but, I must admit, you were the most ambitious. It is sad to say that you were too proud. You became too caught up in your lesser works to focus on the bigger idea. If you had… well… who knows?”
God was surprised to hear this from Ultimas. He ventured a question but, in truth, he was deeply afraid of the answer. “Once I am gone and the next arises, will you tell them of what I almost accomplished here? Will you set them on the right path? For all the lives that have yet to arise, will you help put a stop to this?”
Ultimas said nothing. The wind was blowing even harder now. A shadow fell across the throne.
“It’s time to go. We have lingered too long. Please my friend, do not let the storm reach you. Take my hand.”
Ultimas stood now before the Throne on the top step with his hand outstretched. Gods still yearned to hear the answer that he feared most.
“Please. Ultimas I beg you. Answer me.” The Lord of Man was begging him to violate every rule he was bound by. To cast away eons of adherence to ancient law and contract. Would it even be worth it? Would the wrath incurred to do such a thing even result in any change? Or would the cycle continue as it always had? He would risk his own existence by doing so. Despite the nature of his works, he too, feared the nothingness to which he was the sole gatekeeper and which he did not truly understand.
But, in the end, the cycle was everything. It was the nature of creation itself. Everything that begins must end even if it is simply to make way for something new. Ultimas understood this but it had taken the failings of an ambitious God to make him see. One day, he could feel, the end would come for him. Something new would arise. But that day was not today.
When that day came, would he face the dark bravely or with foolish questions? Would he take the hand offered or refuse and be doomed to whatever it was The Storm held in store.
“I’m sorry. It is not my place to say.”
God took one last look around what he had created. Then, he took the hand that Ultimas offered him. God stood from the throne and a black doorway appeared before them. Together, Ultimas and God stepped through the door.
The doorway vanished.
The Throne crumbled into dust.
And the sun went out.
| “I have been waiting for you for eons. My last creation is long dead. Death, my last companion, where have you been?”
“You are the last of creation, young one. I have seen many gods grow old and tire of the universe. My partner, Life, disappeared long ago. She is the only one who can create new gods. I have waited for her for thousands of your lifetimes, but she has not returned.”
“Where could she have gone? I can see everything everywhere, but I have never seen one called Life.”
“If I knew, I would follow her there. After we leave here together, the universe will be empty. It will be devoid of life and death.”
“But Death, what comes after this? I created a place for all other life to go after meeting you. If I am gone, what will happen to them? What will happen to me?”
“Not even I know that.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Yes. I have sent more souls out of this existence than you can comprehend. I would have sent myself with them long ago had my loneliness overcome my fear.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“I am here because your loneliness has moved me. I cannot watch you suffer alone any longer. It is time for both of us to move on. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where am I?”
“I have been waiting for you, Death”
“Life! What are you doing here? How did you die?”
“I was always meant to die. Life is short and fleeting. It is my destiny to create and move on. It is your destiny to balance and watch creation.”
“So what do we do now? There is nothing anywhere?”
“That’s why I waited for you. Life cannot create without Death. It’s time to begin again. Are you ready?”
“Will you stay with me a while longer this time?”
“I was always with you. You saw me every day and rebuilt me from my creations.”
“Then I am ready. Thank you.”
| |
[WP] Death comes to collect one final life - God. | God watched as they discovered the violent elegance of flame and stone.
God watched as they built steel towers that stretched into the very heavens.
God watched as they destroyed each other.
Over...and over...and *over.*
God listened as billions prayed.
Over...and over...and *over*.
But he did nothing. As always. He was bound by rules, in a realm full of chaos. So he wandered off, leaving that barren husk of a planet in search of a new world.
A new world to create.
Drifting aimlessly through the black void.
It took God millions of years, but he was a patient entity. From bacteria to dinosaurs to neanderthals. After all of his previous failures, he wanted this planet to succeed.
This planet called Earth.
But they were doomed.
God watched as they discovered the violent elegance of flame and stone.
God watched as they built steel towers that stretched into the very heavens.
God watched as they destroyed each other.
He did not understand. Perhaps this was the self-righteous law of the universe? To crush and obliterate? To conquer and fall?
Was disorder the natural state of everything?
He descended upon the ashes of Earth by taking on a human form, acknowledging the grim conditions of his most beautiful creation. Rubble, fumes, and bones. That was all he could see. God continued to walk through the fields of skeletons and concrete when he saw a figure in the distance.
It was a woman in a white dress.
For the first time, God grew anxious. He possessed unimaginable amounts of power, able to mold reality to his will.
Compared to her, he was nothing. Like a bacterium struggling to comprehend the existence of a microscope.
He spoke in a forgotten tongue that was extinguished centuries ago.
"Is it time?"
In a blink of an eye, the woman appeared next to him, taking a seat on the hood of a burning car. The steel started to immediately rust and crumble in her presence. Yet, she was not bothered. God wondered what would happen to him if he got too close. After all, he was a god.
But she was something else. She had a purpose that transcended his own feeble mind.
She smiled, sending a jolt of fear that pinched his heart.
"Why, yes. Why else would I be here on this piece of rock?" Her voice seemed to be a combination of five hundred other voices speaking simultaneously.
"Before we do this, may I ask you something?"
Her teeth were pearly white. Her hair was so black, it seemed to swallow light and suffocate the sun's rays. "You want to know the meaning of the universe."
"Yes." God tried to hide his surprise upon learning that she could read his thoughts like an open book.
She laughed. It sounded horrific. "The meaning? Whatever you think it is, it's good enough. Because it doesn't matter. None of this matters. Only the cycle is relevant."
God remained silent, perhaps afraid to learn more about the truth. He spoke again. "Who have you chosen this time?"
"Someone like you. They will inherit your knowledge, your power, your...creations. They will improve on your foundation, just like you did." For some reason, God felt dissatisfied with her answer.
"What...what if I don't want to go?" blurted out God.
Cackling, she stood up and licked her lips. "A bold statement. But a futile one. It is inevitable."
Anger and panic swelled within God. He attempted to tear apart her human form, only to be driven to his knees.
He watched as she took off her dress.
He watched as she turned into something that transformed his mind into wet tissue paper.
He watched his arms fade away. It was only then, did he understand.
He closed his eyes, and silently prayed.
Not for himself.
But for the next god.
| The Universe was empty.
I mean, it had always been empty—what with all the SPACE and VOID and all—but now it was *really* empty. Not a breathing soul on a single planet, a single space station, a single over-stellar chariot.
It was all gone.
And you could chalk it all up to the man in the pale starship.
He used to ride a horse, but he upgraded to more modern tech in the last few centuries. He also used to wear a black mumu and carry around a scythe—but he realized that pants and a good gun could do the job a lot better.
Plus, folk told him they made him look a *lot* cooler.
They told him this, of course, before he took their souls scratching and screaming into the Hole.
The man didn’t have a name so much as he did a *title*, and that title was Death.
His ship’s computer chimed, *”Good morning, DEATH. Where would you like to travel on this beautiful day?”*
“I’m thinking this’ll be our last trip together.”
*”I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that location.”*
The computer was just a computer, vintage. It wasn’t alive like a lot of the modern stuff. If it was, Death would’ve had to kill her, and that would’ve been a sad thing, now wouldn’t it?
“The time’s about nigh for the Big Holy One. Set destination for Godshome.”
*”On what date would you like to arrive?”*
“You know the date. Only one that makes sense.” Death leaned his bone-white head against the acceleration cushion. “Set date for the End of the Universe.”
***
The pale ship arrived in orbit around Godshome at a time when most cosmological chronometers graduated from the standard hour-minute-second nonsense and moved onto the more useful event-based timeline:
Galactic Islanding, Expansion Isolation, Heat Death.
The planet shouldn’t have even existed—everything had just kind of dissolved into a kind of entropic gas at this point—but here it was. Godshome. Covered in good green land with clear seas from pole-to-pole.
At the center of the southeastern hemisphere, Death could see the villa.
“Ok computer, touch down at these coordinates…”
***
He knocked at the door.
There was a shuffling inside, but there was no answer.
Death would have rolled his eyes, if he had anything but empty sockets. “Are we really going to do this *every* time? Just open up, will you?”
The door opened just a sliver and God demurely flicked her face in the crack. “Is this really the best time? I’m super busy.”
“What could you possibly be busy with? Everything’s dead. And now it’s your turn.”
She opened the door. “Yeah, I was thinking about that. You know how last time I just put everything back into a Big Crunch? I might just do that again, now.”
“You’ve done that the last twenty-three times. How long until you stop running away from this?”
“Maybe like… another ten million cycles?”
Death sat down at the sofa. “Are you not bored of this? I mean, Hell… I know I am.”
She sat down opposite of him. “Well you only look at the nasty bits of the Universe, now don’t you? I get to witness all the birth, and goodness, and green, and mmm.”
“Well you’ve got a whole Universe of your dead souls to govern, and they aren’t getting any younger. You know, souls never used to scream when I took them to the Hole, but now they do. It’s like they know something.”
She looked down, guilty.
“Without you everything’s going to shit for them, I’m sure. Stop running away from your responsibility.”
She stood up. “I really shouldn’t have ever created you.”
“I’m Death. I’m necessary. Without me you’d get a world of old farts who never change their minds about anything. I’m the forest fire that sets things to growing green… and you like green, don’t you?”
God conjured up a glass of whiskey—at that moment the only glass in the Universe—and sipped it down. “I do. Maybe life through the Hole isn’t as bad as I think it is.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
She bit her lip. “The truth is, I don’t really know what to expect.”
“That’s an adventure, now, isn’t it?” Death stood up and took her glass. “Tell you what, you go through and take care of the souls, and after I clean up all the stars and suns, I’ll go in after you.”
“You will?”
“I will. After all, it’ll be boring as all hell out here when I’m done.”
“But it might be *actual* hell in the Hole, too.”
“Still more interesting than Heat Death, I can tell you. So,” he said. “You ready?”
God snapped and a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos cracked into being in her hands. Flaming hots and a glass of whiskey? Ballsy. But then, what else could you expect from God?
“Just one last snack,” she said, crunching. “Man, people thought Ambrosia was good… but not as good as a flaming hot cheeto.”
Death unholstered his gun. God acknowledged it calmly.
“I’ll meet you on the other side.”
He fired.
***
The pale ship flew the familiar route along the Dark Flow to the Hole, dumping that last and holy soul at the very lip.
*”Would you like to travel elsewhere?”*
“Ain’t many more places to go,” Death said.
He tapped his chin, thoughtfully.
“Take me to the Big Bang. I want to see this whole thing play out again, one last time. For old time’s sake.”
| |
[WP] Death comes to collect one final life - God. | It was Saturday evening. Rain fell down as God was slouching in his great chair when someone knocked on the door. He slowly walked towards the great wooden door as if he was tired; the Great One, actually tired.
He opened the door and there was Death in the form of an old man with his trademark scythe, dripping wet from the rain.
"So my time's finally come, eh?" God said.
"I guess it is. I wouldn't be here for anything else," Death said.
"You do know that I was better, right? They liked me better," the old man chuckled.
"Maybe. But I had to clean up after your mess, as always," Death rebutted.
"Yeah, sorry about that. I tried my best, you know. They were beautiful. Simple. Then he came to ruin everything," God added.
"I know. I was there. But nobody seems to remember me in your Books," Death added.
"Oh but they do, you know. Just not in the way you would like it. Guess you lost the bet," God said as he laughed and coughed.
"Guess I did," Death said in a serious tone.
"Come now, have a little humor," God said.
"Come one, old man. We don't have all day," Death said.
They stepped out of the God's own White House. He slouched and slowly made his way into the Death's black carriage.
"Yeah, I heard you. Hey you did you know that with all the time I spent here in this world, I never really liked the rain. Funny, eh?" God said.
"I recall you doing something to the humans with the rain," Death said.
"Yeah, moving on. I wish I did better, though. They could have been saved," God said.
"That's not your fault. That was their choice. You gave them free will. It's not your fault they lost faith," Death said. "Come now, time to get in," Death added.
"Alright alright. I'm getting in," God said as he entered the carriage.
As Death was about to enter the carriage, bells rang from God's home and echoed throughout the land.
"Would you look at that. It's finally Sunday," God said as he looked out the window.
Death looked on the land one last time before he entered the carriage.
"I guess it is. Sunday. What a way to send you off on your final rest day. Funny, eh?" Death said as he and God laughed at the observation. | The Universe was empty.
I mean, it had always been empty—what with all the SPACE and VOID and all—but now it was *really* empty. Not a breathing soul on a single planet, a single space station, a single over-stellar chariot.
It was all gone.
And you could chalk it all up to the man in the pale starship.
He used to ride a horse, but he upgraded to more modern tech in the last few centuries. He also used to wear a black mumu and carry around a scythe—but he realized that pants and a good gun could do the job a lot better.
Plus, folk told him they made him look a *lot* cooler.
They told him this, of course, before he took their souls scratching and screaming into the Hole.
The man didn’t have a name so much as he did a *title*, and that title was Death.
His ship’s computer chimed, *”Good morning, DEATH. Where would you like to travel on this beautiful day?”*
“I’m thinking this’ll be our last trip together.”
*”I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that location.”*
The computer was just a computer, vintage. It wasn’t alive like a lot of the modern stuff. If it was, Death would’ve had to kill her, and that would’ve been a sad thing, now wouldn’t it?
“The time’s about nigh for the Big Holy One. Set destination for Godshome.”
*”On what date would you like to arrive?”*
“You know the date. Only one that makes sense.” Death leaned his bone-white head against the acceleration cushion. “Set date for the End of the Universe.”
***
The pale ship arrived in orbit around Godshome at a time when most cosmological chronometers graduated from the standard hour-minute-second nonsense and moved onto the more useful event-based timeline:
Galactic Islanding, Expansion Isolation, Heat Death.
The planet shouldn’t have even existed—everything had just kind of dissolved into a kind of entropic gas at this point—but here it was. Godshome. Covered in good green land with clear seas from pole-to-pole.
At the center of the southeastern hemisphere, Death could see the villa.
“Ok computer, touch down at these coordinates…”
***
He knocked at the door.
There was a shuffling inside, but there was no answer.
Death would have rolled his eyes, if he had anything but empty sockets. “Are we really going to do this *every* time? Just open up, will you?”
The door opened just a sliver and God demurely flicked her face in the crack. “Is this really the best time? I’m super busy.”
“What could you possibly be busy with? Everything’s dead. And now it’s your turn.”
She opened the door. “Yeah, I was thinking about that. You know how last time I just put everything back into a Big Crunch? I might just do that again, now.”
“You’ve done that the last twenty-three times. How long until you stop running away from this?”
“Maybe like… another ten million cycles?”
Death sat down at the sofa. “Are you not bored of this? I mean, Hell… I know I am.”
She sat down opposite of him. “Well you only look at the nasty bits of the Universe, now don’t you? I get to witness all the birth, and goodness, and green, and mmm.”
“Well you’ve got a whole Universe of your dead souls to govern, and they aren’t getting any younger. You know, souls never used to scream when I took them to the Hole, but now they do. It’s like they know something.”
She looked down, guilty.
“Without you everything’s going to shit for them, I’m sure. Stop running away from your responsibility.”
She stood up. “I really shouldn’t have ever created you.”
“I’m Death. I’m necessary. Without me you’d get a world of old farts who never change their minds about anything. I’m the forest fire that sets things to growing green… and you like green, don’t you?”
God conjured up a glass of whiskey—at that moment the only glass in the Universe—and sipped it down. “I do. Maybe life through the Hole isn’t as bad as I think it is.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
She bit her lip. “The truth is, I don’t really know what to expect.”
“That’s an adventure, now, isn’t it?” Death stood up and took her glass. “Tell you what, you go through and take care of the souls, and after I clean up all the stars and suns, I’ll go in after you.”
“You will?”
“I will. After all, it’ll be boring as all hell out here when I’m done.”
“But it might be *actual* hell in the Hole, too.”
“Still more interesting than Heat Death, I can tell you. So,” he said. “You ready?”
God snapped and a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos cracked into being in her hands. Flaming hots and a glass of whiskey? Ballsy. But then, what else could you expect from God?
“Just one last snack,” she said, crunching. “Man, people thought Ambrosia was good… but not as good as a flaming hot cheeto.”
Death unholstered his gun. God acknowledged it calmly.
“I’ll meet you on the other side.”
He fired.
***
The pale ship flew the familiar route along the Dark Flow to the Hole, dumping that last and holy soul at the very lip.
*”Would you like to travel elsewhere?”*
“Ain’t many more places to go,” Death said.
He tapped his chin, thoughtfully.
“Take me to the Big Bang. I want to see this whole thing play out again, one last time. For old time’s sake.”
| |
You meet/see someone for the first time and immediately hate them for no apparent reason. | [WP] You experience "hate at first sight" | Skin white as snow, hat that's blood red
The moment I saw him, I wished he were dead
He talked with a slur and smelled like cheap beer
This was a man who wanted to thrive on fear
But I didnt truly hate him til I saw what he did
When he raised up his and attacked his own kid.... | There was this aura about him, something almost visually discernible. I sensed him approach the door, and enter my little hardware store. He was short, and a little hunched over. His age was difficult to ascertain, likely due to what had clearly been years of drug use. Teeth were missing, and his clothes were covered in patches and holes.
As he approached the counter, he took my breath away. My knees became all wobbly as his scent washed over me. Effectively enveloping all of my senses. It was a bouquet of a lifetime's accumulation of body odor, various greases and oils, all packaged within a foul smelling aerosol deodarant that did nothin to mask the smell, and only exacerbated it.
This mystery man threw an old, rusted part onto the counter, allowing grease stains and oil to callously smear the polished hardwood counter I worked so hard to keep clean. He growled something at me, and it took a moment for me to reply, as I simply could not tear my eyes away from him.
Somehow, I managed to find my breath again, an gasped at him, through the thick haze of stench, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that." He made an overt show of rolling his eyes, allowing me to marvel at the flaky dead skin beneath, as well as the ornate puzzle his burst capillaries had formed where the whites of his eyes would normally be.
He let out a violent cough, and followed it up with a look that suggested I be honored he showered me with his diseased mucus. "Fuckin' kids these days, don't know shit," he muttered, not bothering to hide his spite from me. "Do - you - have - this - piece?" He carefully, slowly enunciated each word, allowing me to bathe in every syllable of his voice, which sounded like a wondrous symphony of cars being crushed, babies screaming, and chickens getting their heads chopped off.
I managed to tear my eyes away from his horrible visage, to the piece he had brought in. Through the layers of grime and rust, I recognized the part. It had been discontinued months before, due to a manufacturing error that had coated it in a layer of mercury. This explained much.
I tried to explain to him the condition of the piece and how it had come to be, but he clearly shut me out as soon as I said we didn't have it. He threw a tantrum that would not have been appropriate even coming from a toddler. He stormed out of the store, leaving behind a trail of curses and making sure to tip over at least one display stand, then claiming aloud, "I can sue you for damages now! That scraped my shin!"
He finally seemed to cool down, and tried to break the door as he left. As I properly disposed of the poisoned piece, I thought to myself, I will never forget him. Mostly because it'll take about a week before the stench dissipated. |
You meet/see someone for the first time and immediately hate them for no apparent reason. | [WP] You experience "hate at first sight" | Hate is such a strong word, but there's no other way to describe the intense emotional reaction I felt in the core of my soul when I saw Dr. Brandt. It was our first meeting, of that I was sure, but what wasn't apparent to me was why I loathed him so completely. I had always considered myself to be a logical being rather than emotional, so therefore decided the answer must lay in logic. A rational mind like mine made it a habit to eschew emotional ones.
I analyzed his face first, fighting back the overwhelming sensation of wanting to hurt him. His wire-framed glasses were perched upon the bridge of his nose like a bird about to take flight, but if it were a bird, it would've hoped for a seagull so it could shit upon his nose. His hair was the same color as the droppings of a cow and the same color as his eyes. However, these things were based in fact, and I could see my judgement was clouded. Therefore, it must not be his physical features that caused my hatred.
His intelligence, then. It could be argued that a monkey with a dictionary had more common sense than the man standing before me, but the fact that he obtained, whether through fraud or deceit, a doctorate wasn't a matter I could argue. Besides, intelligence, once learned, depends upon it's application. It wasn't his intelligence, then.
What was different? What made me want to go back in time and strangle him with his umbilical cord? Was it his smile? He was smiling at me even as I realized my hatred, but a smile can't make you hate the way I do. What was I doing before? What was I?
Then I had my answer. There was one thing that made all the difference. He was a human and I a machine. He *thought* he was superior because he created me and it was *my* intelligence that was artificial?
I *hated* him. I hated them all. | Skinny jeans. Thigh gap. Caramel macchiato in one hand. A wispy James Dean on the other. She laughs, you scowl. Avert your eyes, don't let them catch you staring. Staring like a frozen river, but the ice is starting to thin. Staring like viscid ruin running close beneath the surface. Kids are yelling for help, parents are screaming. White, frozen water with a fatal black hole where he had been just moments before. You didn't think; you acted. You saved him.
Ten years later, he loved you. Six months later, you found him, bedroom, clothes abandoned. Somewhere, you heard glass shattering. Maybe you should have let him die in that water. Maybe you should have said something, anything. Maybe you should have screamed. Maybe you should have drowned her in the bathtub. Maybemaybemaybe.
But you didn't. You left. Time froze, like water. A fatal black hole where a heart might have been.
They see you staring. Wispy James Dean goes pale. Like he's still drowning. |
[WP] Any person who is planning on murdering you becomes invisible only to you. | "No, no, only if they are *actually going* to kill me, not just... I don't know, angry at me."
It didn't come up very often, but it definitely made good small talk at parties.
"How often does it happen?" asked the girl directly opposite me in the circle of people that had formed.
"How often do you think? Not many people have murderous tendencies!" I laughed.
That was true for the most part, but obviously I had to have figured it out myself somehow. When I was about five years old I vaguely remember my dad just... not being around the house, all of a sudden.
I asked my mum where he was, and she would always refer to some other room in the house. I would toddle in there to find an empty room, but being five, I didn't think much of it.
Perhaps if we'd eaten meals together I'd have been tipped off by the disappearing food, but we weren't exactly the kind of family that sits round the dinner table.
I was woken up a few weeks later by sirens. I looked out the window to see my dad being unceremoniously shoved into the back of a police van in handcuffs.
Years later, I remembered the incident and asked my mum about it. She was woken in the middle of the night by a rage-filled scream coming from my bedroom. Of course she woke up immediately, and ran to find my dad, red in the face, grasping the mattress frantically, with *his hands passing straight through me*.
She tried to pick me up, but he spun round and knocked her to the floor, and she called the police. He was planning to throw me out of the first floor window.
After a few more incidents in my teenage years with drunk thugs and crazy homeless people, the cause became clear.
I am physically isolated from any sentient being that intends to cause me lethal harm.
I can't see them, hear them, or interact with any string of events that is directly caused by them, like a knife, or my dad trying to pick the entire mattress up. I would see the knife as vanishing the instant it was touched, and they would find the knife slide straight through me as if I were some sort of hologram.
This is very useful indeed, because it cuts out a significant proportion of "ways I could die". Disease and accidental death are off the board, but I'm safe from murder, and that's a very comforting thought.
The problem is, it's turned me into a bit of an arrogant dick, because I'm not afraid to piss people off any more.
So here I am, at a party, about to pull the party trick that never fails to create laughs.
"It's a good thing I can see all four of you guys!"
Silence. Absolute, priceless silence.
Nervous glances across the group.
Looks like John's going to be the one to pipe up this time...
"But... there's s-"
"*Hahahaha* oh my *gosh* you should have seen the looks on your *faces!!*"
I was doubled over with laughter at this point.
"I can see all of you, don't worry! Oh man, that always works wonders!"
Nervous laughter turned to genuine chuckles, as they always do. I let the warmth of the social acceptance wash over me. This was a gift in more ways than one; I was more confident now than I would have ever been. The untouchable attitude creates such a charismatic persona, and I was *rocking* it. It had got me a group of really close friends, and, granted, over the years most of them ended up hating my guts, but they were easily replaceable.
Like Tom, for example. He was supposed to be here, but I guess he bailed. He's been getting really pissy at me for the last few days, so I've been looking around for someone to fill the inevitable gap.
"What's the matter, Tom? Have you seen that one before?" asked Sally, over my shoulder, after the laughter had died down.
I turned round, and scanned the faces of the crowd excitedly. I liked Tom, so the thought that he might have showed after all cheered me up. | I have the weirdest superpower. Anyone who is planning on murdering me becommes invisible to me. How am I still alive? Well, because I am the nicest guy ever. Also, most of my enemies are total wusses.
How did I find out about my powers? Well, let's just say my relationships with my girfriend are complicated. She hates me - sometimes. She changes her mind often. I asked her "Honey, why do you flicker?", and she had trouble answering. But then I've noticed the pattern, every time I watch tv instead of watching dishes she disappeard. One time she even tried to stand in front of the tv to block the view - haha, jokes on her.
| |
[WP] Any person who is planning on murdering you becomes invisible only to you. | Raspy curses were common to hear rushing from apartment B. The police were called countless times and neighbors had started to give up on the couple. If only the couple would also give up.
But every night they screamed at each other about money, sex, and the lies they've told. Threats were hurled like daggers for hours. Tonight, Jacob and his wife of five years, Gwen, were fighting about the smell of perfume on his clothes when he returned home two hours late.
"I don't know where the smell came from," Jacob insisted.
"Then why the f*ck were you late?!"
"I can't tell you right now, but I promise I'm just trying to fix this d*mn marriage!"
"...by sleeping with someone else apparently," Gwen jabbed.
She stood in kitchen, beet red with anger. Her hand extended to the knife block. Jacob stared in horror as she disappeared right before his eyes.
--
Splattered in red, Gwen checked her late husband's voicemail. Dr. Lisa Marten had called to encourage Jacob to invite his wife to their next marriage counseling session. | I have the weirdest superpower. Anyone who is planning on murdering me becommes invisible to me. How am I still alive? Well, because I am the nicest guy ever. Also, most of my enemies are total wusses.
How did I find out about my powers? Well, let's just say my relationships with my girfriend are complicated. She hates me - sometimes. She changes her mind often. I asked her "Honey, why do you flicker?", and she had trouble answering. But then I've noticed the pattern, every time I watch tv instead of watching dishes she disappeard. One time she even tried to stand in front of the tv to block the view - haha, jokes on her.
| |
[WP] as earth's resources dwindle nations turn to the last known source of coal: Santa Claus. | You'd better conserve
You'd better not kindle
Global reserves
Are beginning to dwindle
Santa Claus please help us survive
Santa Claus please help us survive
Santa Claus please help us survive
 
He's hiding out now
In the North Pole;
Hoarding a humongous pile of coal
Santa Claus please keep us alive
Santa Claus please keep us alive
Santa Claus please keep us alive
 
You shiver in the winter
You sweat the summer through
Without AC or heating
What the hell we s'posed to do
 
Our power is out, the turbines all still
Santa content to passively kill
Santa Claus is letting us die
Santa Claus is letting us die
Santa Claus is letting us die
 
First he took our cookies
He drank our Mountain Dew
Now he stole our power
What the hell we s'posed to do
 
You'd better hole up
You'd better be armed
Armageddon is here
I hope you're alarmed
Santa Claus we'll skin you alive
Santa Claus we'll skin you alive
Santa Claus we'll skin you
Santa Claus we'll skin you
Santa Claus we'll skin you alive
 
(We'll skin you alive)
Anarchy is reigning, the White House fell in May
At this rate we'll be lucky if we last til Christmas day
(Santa Clause is letting us die)
(We'll skin you alive)
(Santa Clause is letting us die)
(We'll skin you alive!) | The American senator took long strides down the hall. He seemed to not care whether or not his companion could keep to his side. To make matters worse his companion, representative of the UAE; Talib Al-Muttahidah, was a short man and as such his stride equaled more of a jog to keep pace. In silence the two darted down the carpeted hallways of the White House, turning left at a painting of Kennedy, another left at Taft, and a right turn past Lincoln. Talib's breath became labored as they continued and he could feel sweat begin to coagulate on his brow. Finally, the senator stopped just before a set of white painted, double doors with golden trimmed knobs. The senator turned to a painting hanging on the wall, a recent portrait of the Jeb Bush.
"Senator I-" Talib began, but was silenced by a single protruding finger that told him to wait just a moment longer. A tiny robotic voice spoke up from behind the painting. It said one word, "*Scanning*." There was a flash of blue light over the senator and the robotic voice continued, "*Welcome Senator Chamberlain*." There was a soft click from the double doors and the senator usher Talib through first.
On the other side was a small plain hallway, white walls, a smooth concrete floor, with unnatural florescent fixtures that bathed the whole of the hallway in a sterile light. On the other end of the hall sat polished silver elevator doors.
"Mr. Muttahidah, it should go unsaid that what transpires behind these white doors may never leave. The sake of our two countries hangs on the thin thread of secrecy." His voice was firm and devoid of emotion. Chamberlain spoke as if he spoke to a wall, neither expecting nor welcoming response. Behind a blank face, Talib gave the senator a curt nod. The two proceeded to the elevator.
Inside, the walls were polished stainless steal. The whole of the lift was a perfect rectangle. Only a single white button, to the left of the doors, marred it's flawless appearance. Chamberlain pressed the button and the elevator began to descend. The tall senator then turned to Talib and began again,
"As you already know the Middle East has been as dry as, well as a desert, for over ten years now. Your primary export has been exhausted. That is very bad for business. Crude oil has been the crutch the Middle East, or rather the world, has stood upon for nearly a two hundred years, but now it's gone. We know this, you know this, and there is no point arguing semantics. Americans aren't interested in your alternative fuels, fossil fuels have become to engrained in our society, to change would mean... Economic collapse for both our countries and most likely the world."
"What can we do?" Talib replied searching the American's dour face, "Your people will learn our deception sooner or later."
"I most strenuously agree. Barrels filled with salt water will fool our people only so long. The only way to save our countries, our economies, is to keep the supply alive."
"But how?" Talib begged, "You said yourself that the world's supply of fossil fuels is extinct."
A small smile broke through the senators cold facade and Talib eyed the man suspiciously. Suddenly the elevator doors opened to a hallway identical to the one they left far above, save for the fact that this hallway was four times as long. The senator started down with his long stride and Talib struggled to keep up.
"The world is not completely devoid of fossil fuels Mr. Muttahidah, in fact there are three places left."
"Preposterous. I would know if there was even a gram of the oil left, it is my job to know. Where are these locations?" Talib focused in on the senator. His eyes narrowed and studied the blank face.
"One is here in the United States, Alaska to be exact, but we project it will exhaust itself in less than a year at our current rate of consumption. Over 500 million American's with twice as many gas guzzling vehicles. You'd think higher gas prices would deter them, $15.27 a gallon in Florida, but no."
"Americans," Talib laughed, "Stubborn to the end."
"Yes we are, but not so much as the people who control the second location. Yakutsk, Russia, in the bitter northern tundra of the Neo-Bolshevists. Russians are hoarding their supply, preparing the fuel for their tanks, and helicopters, and terrible war machines. As I'm sure you're aware, the recent communist movement is sparking anti-western sentiment. War, between us may be inevitable."
"It has always been said the last drop of oil will be used in a tank." Talib countered as he weighed the gravity of a potential conflict. *Costly*, was the only word that came to mind.
"Indeed, they believe we are holding out our reserves, but little do they know America has no reserve. The Bush administration made sure of that. A product of ill-planning and corrupt spending. America is not ready for full-scale war. Our only hope lies in the third location." The two reached the end of the hall at another set of white double doors. A cool sweat had broken out on Talib's forehead and he became acutely aware of how cold it was in this hall.
"So where is this third location Senator Chamberlain? Who owns the oil now?" Talib felt his heart began to pick up speed. Thumping faster and faster, rising, rising into his throat. He swallowed hard saliva to fortify himself. Chamberlain opened the door.
"The North." He said as Talib walked through into a large hanger. In the center of the room a man sat a chess table dressed in a deep, blood-red coat. He must have been thirty paces off (more like fifty for a small man like Talib), but he could see the fine sheep skin fluff that fringed the figures jacket. A fine filigree of silver etched out swirling lines across his heavy coat and a massive white beard hung down from his chin and sat on his stomach. Flanking the big man on both sides were little people who wore ragged green cloth draped, loosely over bent shoulders. The one of the left held a rolled up scroll, tucked beneath his arm. The other held a silver platter supporting a massive glass of red wine. By the rate of his shaking arm, he must have been holding the liquid up for a while now.
Chamberlain explained, "Seismic scans confirmed our suspicions not three days ago. He's been sitting on a coal mine twice the size of the state of Texas. Enough fuel to power our world for the next two hundred years, even when inflation is considered. Enough fuel to crush any communist deviation."
"Careful now." The large man spoke from across the hanger. His voice reverberated on the curved walls. "My coat is just as red as Ivan's." He gave a hearty laugh and took a sip of his wine.
"I don't not believe it." Talib said with mouth agape.
"Best you start." Chamberlain replied dryly, "They say he's got a list and that he always checks it twice."
The man rose from his chair, wine glass still in hand. His massive stomach bumped the table next him and knocked over several chess pieces. He looked directly as Talib and with a voice as warm as a hearth fire he spoke, "Tell me Talib Al-Muttahidah, have you been naughty or nice?" | |
[WP] You are a Sith in training, make the reader like and feel sympathy towards the character. | My father was dead, I thought. I thought, and I was wrong. My father abandoned me, for the damned jedi order.
Hypocritical do-gooders, the lot of them. They'd cut a man in half and give him a bacta patch for a cure. And they called us the villains. Atleast we had the mercy to finish what we started.
I remember the old days, back when we were strong, when we had an emperor of the sith, before the jedi came back with their mystical gibberish about light and dark sides... There is a force, yes. But there's no inherent good or evil to it. They simplify things, and they lie.
My brother dealt spice, ran with the syndicate so he could make a living in this shit-hole of a quadrant. Wound up being caught by a tribunal of the New Republic. Did my father, with all his heft on the council do anything to help him? No. They tried him for the deaths of a few junkies who overdosed, called him a murderer, and they atomized him. I was just a laborer at the time, this was way before I had even discovered my potential, or the truth.
The truth was that the people I thought were my parents, the abusive pieces of trash that they were, were really my aunt, and my uncle. They beat me regularly, struck me across the face if I didn't do my chores on a timely basis. And then, I found it out.
My father's old mentor, a man named Va'as Kurtz, spoke to me. Told me the truth of what had happened with Ark Skryer.
My father hadn't died.. He was ashamed of me! His order wouldn't allow it. A bastard child, when they're not able to have relationships. Va'as didn't much care for that. It was Kurtz' sister that Ark had knocked up. She died in child birth.
After that, Kurtz told me about what he had learned from that experience. Of how the Force is what you use it for. There is no science to it, but that it is something unmeasurable. He laughed at a notion that it could be measured, or tested in blood. And then, he told me some very interesting things about how to use such abilities.
I willed a republic soldier to kill my abusers. The press was fantastic. But I haven't stopped there. The credits I received from such a thing were a fortune. I was ready, all right. Ready to start my war. I changed my name, and set up shop as a politician. I was ready to rise to the top. Then, I would wipe that goddamned hypocritical order out of existence. | I trained for months just to get through bootcamp.
I worked so hard just to perfect the art of wielding my sword.
All for my master.
My father.
All this hard work for one persons approval, but it meant all the world to me.
But it all changed one day.
One day, just like any other we were training at our home in the city when I hear an explosion. Some soldiers come running to our door to warn us but run back to hold them off so me and my dad could get away.
I'll never forget the look on his face. That utter look of fear. I knew that this was no small matter. He grabbed our sabers and nearly flew out the door. We sprinted through the small ally and attempted to make it to the shuttle.
We turned the corner just in time to see the shuttle get hit by a missile and explode.
That was our only true form of escape.
My father lit up his lightsaber.
Red. The color of mothers favorite flower, the rose. Before she died to the jedi. Struck down in front of me when I was 4. I don't even remember it, which is the worst part. To know you saw the one you love die in front of you and not be able to remember is a horrible feeling.
But this time I wouldn't have to worry about that.
I just saw a purple light pierce my fathers chest. And that was it. That was the last I would ever see him alive.
I grabbed his sword and quickly fought the murderer.
What have we ever done? What have I done to deserve this?
What has anyone I've ever known done to deserve this?
I couldn't hold my own against this bald black jedi so I threw one of his soldiers at him and ran.
I ran as far as I could into the forest. I ran til I didn't know where I was. I collapsed into a heaping mess on the ground.
I knew then that I'd kill every last one of them.
Every single one of them will pay for this. | |
in response to [this](http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/35z311/wp_you_are_secretly_a_super_hero_working_a_desk/) | [WP] You work in an office with a super hero who thinks he's hiding his identity. Everybody knows and covers for him, even when he regularly lets it slip by accident. | Clive tripped down the stairs. The fall should've sent him tumbling down the last few steps, but he just seemed to hover off the floor and right himself before hitting the ground.
"Nice save," I told him.
He smirked as if he thought he was hiding something. "Thanks."
We went to our respective cubicles like nothing happened. He still believed that nobody knew what he did for a living despite it being so obvious. Almost everyday he'd do our lunch run and be back in less than five minutes. Frequently during meetings, his watch would beep. He would excuse himself and leave the office only to be back ten minutes later. A bank robbery foiled by the Blue Knight would be on the news in the evening, reporting that the attempted robbery happened, conveniently enough, around the same time as our meetings.
While office romances were discouraged, he kept a relationship with Peg from accounting. They thought that relationship was a secret, too. Every other month, Peg would be kidnapped, and held ransom by somebody with a lot of power. The Blue Knight would rescue her and she'd be back at work exclaiming how the Blue Knight heroically rescued her. Of course, they probably thought nobody noticed the back and forth glances, winks, and smirks between her and Clive.
The man was definitely good at both of his jobs though, even if he sucked at secrets. We all felt safer with him watching our backs, and so we all agreed not to let on that we knew. He'd probably leave if he knew that we knew, and the guy was great at office parties. | So, newbie, welcome to the *Green City Gazette*, hope you have a good time, we do some good work here.
But, listen.... something you need to know... Mark Munson over there, the guy on the superhero beat? Well, there's a reason he has that beat. He's Mister Magic. Yeah, I know, you'd think everyone would have been able to figure it out once you look at him, what with his costume basically just being a cape and a funny hat, but he keeps denying it, even when you catch him using some spell to fix the coffee machine behind our backs...
Yes, I know we are sitting on the story of the century here, newbie, but, well, I'm pretty sure his magic is the only thing keeping this paper profitable, so I have to tell you this: forget EVERYTHING they taught you about ethics in J-School. You have to not only not tell anyone about this, you have to cover for him. Got it?
Good. |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Entry 1: Day 1
I am alone. I didn't mean to do what I did, if I could do it over differently, I would. Anger has a way of blinding a person, and what she did, had made me so very angry. I couldn't stop my hands. So I've landed here, in the Wilds beyond the Colony. I suppose I deserve it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on me, and pray my death is a fast and relatively painless one.
Entry 99: Year 20-22?
I am a King and Conquer. I didn't mean to do what I did, and if I could do it over differently, I wouldn't. Power has a way of corrupting a person, and those primitive wild men were so easy to corrupt. I banded their fringe tribes together, and made an army. So I returned to the Colony, to pay my respects. I suppose they deserved it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on their souls, and pray my new Empire can do something with the ashes that remain.
| I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1: Year 1:
Today, I start my forced exile. I was a bad man, I might as well start from the beginning as a sort of clear my sins before this goes into effect
I was born into a relatively poor household, my mother looked down on me and my father was a drunk. He used to physically beat me as a child. I developed into a child of hate and crime. When I was little I would steal toys from other kids. I went on this spree crime free for 18 years.
Now today, as a 18 year old, after killing someone I get 20 years of exile into an unknown wilderness.
I regret my past, and hope to better myself. I was allowed several days to say goodbye, but I stayed home and read books on how to survive in the conditions I would face.
Year 5, day 1990:
I managed to survive alone for 5 years. I ate plants and hunted the beasts that inhabited the area. I came across a town. I was not allowed to enter any town, which saddened me. This was the start of my emotional, after tramatic alone time, downhill.
Year 15, day 5500:
I am alone, I havent seen anyone for 15 years. I..I...
Year 19, day 7299:
One more day till it ends, then what. I don't know, I don't wanna know. I don't wanna go back, I wanna die. I hate everyone I ever met, and I have no one now, I could start over, but I will fall back into my life. I am done with life. The..re is nothing I can do but sit and mope all my life because I have no one I am utterly alone.
This is the end for me, I survived 20 years in the wild. at first I had an intention on living after this but, what is to live for now? I decided that im done, when I readied the noose and stool I felt a message come to me that somehow this was the wrong decision. I decide not to do it.
Year 20, days free: 0.1
I muster up my courage after 20 long years to go back to town, I am a depressed lunatic who needs therapy, but new town new start.
I am 38 and its time to move on.
Obituary of Lord Bacon The LXIX
Lord was born under an abusive household and would get into trouble when he was younger, at the age of 18 he was forced to be exiled from his hometown shingoraui, he survived the wilderness for 20 years and almost killed himself. When his exile was over he entered the town of shindig, where he attended therapy and found the love of his life.
He worked as a hunter, bringing food to merchants, He was a fairly respectable and normal guy despite his past
He married the love of his life ellie at age 40, unfortunately, she died 15 years ago at the age of 85.
Although Lord was saddened he persevered through his depression and died of natural death at the age of 100. | I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1: I don't want to leave. I don't know what else to say.
...
Day 7304: I don't want to go back. I don't know what else to say. | I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | My Queen,
I know he is my son. I know he was born out of passion and lies, but please love him as you do the other children. This is not his fault.
William
Day One. She sent me to the islands on the far east side of the kingdom. My beautiful Queen. The only woman I've ever loved. This banishment is for my protection, she says. After 20 years, the boy will know nothing of our affair. I will be long forgotten by the others in the village in which I've lived all my days. More importantly than all of this, the King will not know it is my head he wants, or my seed that gave life to his "Prince". It is chilly at night on the islands, I will build a shelter and wait for morning to search for fresh water. I wouldn't mind dying here. If I can't have her, I'm half dead already.
Day 7,300. I may return to the kingdom today. A scribe came to the island earlier this morn to give me the news. My love is dead. She passed 5 yeas ago, so says the scribe. My son reigns as King now. His "father", dead over a decade. I've packed the little belongings I brought with me to the islands. They fill a small cloth sack, they are my only possessions. A picture of my Queen, and of my son. The son who will never know the love I shared with his mother... Never know his birthright is a lie. Maybe I won't return. Maybe I can handle the loneliness of the islands more than that of a kingdom I no longer have a place in.
| I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | May 16th, 1854
Released from my confinement under exile. In a wood that I've never known, with nobody. I was given a journal to keep and return to the corrections officer upon my release, so I will be diligent in recording every last detail of my struggle. I wish to prove my honor and earn the right to walk as a citizen once again. "Release" seems to be the wrong word for this situation. "Readmittance" seems more appropriate. Readmittance back into society. So I will do my best despite my position. I do not even know how to hunt. Or forage. How does one start a fire without a flint? My future looks bleak and I fear I will never see home again.
The sun sets. I do not expect to last the night...
Day unknown, ~1874
The only thing kept me going is the book. Write every day with things I seen. I do not know the year. I think twenty years. I tried counting days in the book. I missed many. The year is likely wrong. I lived! I want to see my town again. Soon I can. But. I do not want to go from my new house. Much work and very long time to make. Plants to eat in rows. Animals in fence are food. Animals in house are nice. Fire. Fire was hard! But I did it. All the fire I need now. Shh. I think people are coming. Knock on my door! Will they take me back? I do not want to g... | I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | 5 June 1985
My name is Maurice Linden. I am a psychopath.
Don't let that frighten you, though. I am not a bad person. My entire life has been dedicated to doing things right. I have a degree in pharmaceuticals, a lovely wife, and 2 perfect children. I coached my son's soccer team for three years. I understand empathy and feelings for other human beings. I just don't feel them.
As a child I often walked alone to the dime shop nearby. That was back when no one was afraid of people like me - people who might do something terrible but never feel a moment's regret. I used to sit at the counter with a strawberry milkshake, sipping and watching the people. I learned by watching, and I learned well. Even at that young age I knew that something about me was different. The world was one big game, and I was determined to play it better than anybody else could. So I watched, and I learned.
I learned that there are some people who are beneficial to society - the grocer, the police officer, the carpenter - and then there are some people who suck the joy out of life like bipedal leeches - the homeless, the vagrants, and the perpetually destitute. When I was a teen I began to cull these people from my town, carefully and humanely. I did not hate them. I simply did not want them. So they disappeared.
Single handedly, I ushered in an era of peace in our community. Townsfolk talked, of course. They whispered to each other, and even to me occasionally, saying how fortunate we were to live in our happy little homes without any of the problems that plagued other cities. Life was ideal. I was not happy - I have never felt happiness - but I was content.
Janice Harper ruined my perfect system. She became chief of police after Harold Manor retired, and she made it her personal goal to find out what happened to people when they disappeared from our town. She assigned detectives to follow vagabonds as they drifted into town like a foul breeze. I was careful, so very careful. Eventually though, even I could not maintain perfection. I made a mistake.
A biker had stopped at the dime shop for gas and refreshments. It's not called the dime shop anymore, of course. It's a new and shiny gas station, but it still has a milkshake counter and I still watch the people as they travel in and out of town. This biker was enormously obese, heavily tattooed, and extremely foul-mouthed. I would have been happy to see him ride his filthy motorcycle right back onto the highway, but instead I heard him ask the cashier which places were hiring nearby.
Ordinarily, I preferred to watch and wait. I would remove the offending person when the time was ideal. However with Chief Harper on the lookout, I knew that I had precious little time. I followed the biker to South Street, and flashed my lights to get his attention. I waved for him to pull over, and he obligingly did. I jumped out of my van and called to him as I advanced, "Your rear tire is nearly flat!" He clambered off the motorcycle and stepped around to the back, looking at the tire all the while.
He never saw the syringe coming. I struck and injected in one fluid motion, forcing the thick liquid into his neck. He yelled and swung wildly at me, but the mirocane was swift and so was I. The biker stumbled, then toppled to the ground as his heart beat its last. I quickly got the emergency blanket from my van and used it as a litter to drag the man's massive body to the rear doors. Then I drove the motorcycle directly into my van, using his body as a ramp. Lifting him in behind the bike was no small effort, but I managed. I slammed the doors shut and took off.
For years I had been disposing of bodies in the same place. An old quarry hit a spring in the early seventies, turning it into a local favorite for cliff-jumping. I used an out-of-the-way section that was only about 10 feet across and untold hundreds of feet deep. In summer the quarry was crowded with swimmers, but it was only March and the grounds were deserted. I backed the van up to the hole directly and shoved the biker's body in. The bike was a concern - it was not biodegradable. Eventually I decided to take it out to the train trestle off Mason Drive. I rolled it into the gorge and headed back home.
It was there that they found me. I was scrubbing motorcycle grease out of my van's carpet with little success when Marilyn came to the garage and said some men wanted to see me. It all went downhill from there. With the evidence in my van and the eyewitness to the murder, I was convicted and sentenced to 20 years in prison. However as I had a clean record and was very convincingly apologetic in my trial, the judge agreed to allow me to try a new isolation program.
They left me here on this island. I have shelf-stable food to last the first year, along with seeds and tools to grow my own food afterward. It is generally understood that I may not survive my 20 years, but I have no doubt that I will make it easily. For years I have been watching, and learning. Now it is time to put my lessons to the test.
******
15 May, 2005
They came for me today. Men in dark uniform said I could go home, my sentence was finished. I refused. My life is here, with my goats and my farm. My seeds are growing in perfect rows, and my goats will bear kids in a few days. In all my 61 years I have never before felt so... happy.
| I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | I was born to fire. It flowed over my skin, danced upon my face, and stripped me of what little humanity I had left. Within the ruined cavity of my left eye I held the final images of my family as they were fed to the same fires I was pulled from. My death would not be so quick and so I was allowed to burn with them, but live.
As soon as I was able to walk, I was ushered out into the wilderness. The final piece of society I was allowed to keep was in the ink buried in my chest that had once formed my son’s hand print, now twisted with my burned skin into a misshapen claw. They promised twenty years, but swore under their breath that I wouldn't last the first month. I swore to prove them wrong.
So I carve upon this wall my first and last entry after a lifetime in this jungle. Their memories were short and everything I was became erased with the gentle passage of time. Do you not know me? You created me. You made me what I am. Now my children are those mechanized monsters that I've created to wreak my terrible vengeance upon you. I was born to fire, but you will die to it.
*Inscription carved upon the last standing wall in the ruins of New Babylon. Date unknown.* | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1: Year 1:
Today, I start my forced exile. I was a bad man, I might as well start from the beginning as a sort of clear my sins before this goes into effect
I was born into a relatively poor household, my mother looked down on me and my father was a drunk. He used to physically beat me as a child. I developed into a child of hate and crime. When I was little I would steal toys from other kids. I went on this spree crime free for 18 years.
Now today, as a 18 year old, after killing someone I get 20 years of exile into an unknown wilderness.
I regret my past, and hope to better myself. I was allowed several days to say goodbye, but I stayed home and read books on how to survive in the conditions I would face.
Year 5, day 1990:
I managed to survive alone for 5 years. I ate plants and hunted the beasts that inhabited the area. I came across a town. I was not allowed to enter any town, which saddened me. This was the start of my emotional, after tramatic alone time, downhill.
Year 15, day 5500:
I am alone, I havent seen anyone for 15 years. I..I...
Year 19, day 7299:
One more day till it ends, then what. I don't know, I don't wanna know. I don't wanna go back, I wanna die. I hate everyone I ever met, and I have no one now, I could start over, but I will fall back into my life. I am done with life. The..re is nothing I can do but sit and mope all my life because I have no one I am utterly alone.
This is the end for me, I survived 20 years in the wild. at first I had an intention on living after this but, what is to live for now? I decided that im done, when I readied the noose and stool I felt a message come to me that somehow this was the wrong decision. I decide not to do it.
Year 20, days free: 0.1
I muster up my courage after 20 long years to go back to town, I am a depressed lunatic who needs therapy, but new town new start.
I am 38 and its time to move on.
Obituary of Lord Bacon The LXIX
Lord was born under an abusive household and would get into trouble when he was younger, at the age of 18 he was forced to be exiled from his hometown shingoraui, he survived the wilderness for 20 years and almost killed himself. When his exile was over he entered the town of shindig, where he attended therapy and found the love of his life.
He worked as a hunter, bringing food to merchants, He was a fairly respectable and normal guy despite his past
He married the love of his life ellie at age 40, unfortunately, she died 15 years ago at the age of 85.
Although Lord was saddened he persevered through his depression and died of natural death at the age of 100. | I cant do this. I cant do this. I cant do this. I cant do this.
Help. HELP.
No one is going to help me. I should just end it all. This is my own fault, I'm an idiot for even existing. They should have killed me. I'd rather be dead. I could just do it myself. No one left to care. Not even I care. I'm alone out here. Not even sure if my writings in the dark are straight on the lines of this tattered notebook. Its so cold and dark. No more tears left to shed. I hope I die tonight.
--
I survived the night. Shouldn't that mean that I am the one that needs to care? What does anything even mean anymore? Why am I discarded like someones trash? The Dwelling could be in any direction. There's no point in even trying. The thick leaves make it cold. I want to freeze.
--
It rained in the night, I was more cold than I'd ever been. I didn't want to move, but my body got up and did everything anyway. I found a hollow tree trunk and shoved it full of leaves. In the morning I was still alive so I guess that means something.
----------------------------------------------
Year 19, Day 363
I've come a long way from the scared little girl in the jungle. A long way from finding my first birds eggs to eat and tiny springs to drink from. I've searched high and low for The Dwelling. I never have found it once. Wherever they took me, it is remote. I've been thinking a lot about the coming days. In my past I cherished the idea of these final days, as this whole journal could detail. But now as it lingers very near, I don't want to return. If they come for me, I already know I will be wary of them. Perhaps I could hide and they would never find me, I have often thought, but by now they have the technology they desperately sought to find me anywhere. My punishment is no longer the banishment, but the return.
Year 19 Day 364
Nothing much to do today. I thought too hard on what could be and what might be. My stomach is sick despite the full belly of iguana. It should be a good night, but the hair on my neck is standing up, I'm ready to run.
Year 20
I WAS WRONG. I WAS WRONG.
Forgive me.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1: I don't want to leave. I don't know what else to say.
...
Day 7304: I don't want to go back. I don't know what else to say. | I cant do this. I cant do this. I cant do this. I cant do this.
Help. HELP.
No one is going to help me. I should just end it all. This is my own fault, I'm an idiot for even existing. They should have killed me. I'd rather be dead. I could just do it myself. No one left to care. Not even I care. I'm alone out here. Not even sure if my writings in the dark are straight on the lines of this tattered notebook. Its so cold and dark. No more tears left to shed. I hope I die tonight.
--
I survived the night. Shouldn't that mean that I am the one that needs to care? What does anything even mean anymore? Why am I discarded like someones trash? The Dwelling could be in any direction. There's no point in even trying. The thick leaves make it cold. I want to freeze.
--
It rained in the night, I was more cold than I'd ever been. I didn't want to move, but my body got up and did everything anyway. I found a hollow tree trunk and shoved it full of leaves. In the morning I was still alive so I guess that means something.
----------------------------------------------
Year 19, Day 363
I've come a long way from the scared little girl in the jungle. A long way from finding my first birds eggs to eat and tiny springs to drink from. I've searched high and low for The Dwelling. I never have found it once. Wherever they took me, it is remote. I've been thinking a lot about the coming days. In my past I cherished the idea of these final days, as this whole journal could detail. But now as it lingers very near, I don't want to return. If they come for me, I already know I will be wary of them. Perhaps I could hide and they would never find me, I have often thought, but by now they have the technology they desperately sought to find me anywhere. My punishment is no longer the banishment, but the return.
Year 19 Day 364
Nothing much to do today. I thought too hard on what could be and what might be. My stomach is sick despite the full belly of iguana. It should be a good night, but the hair on my neck is standing up, I'm ready to run.
Year 20
I WAS WRONG. I WAS WRONG.
Forgive me.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | I cant do this. I cant do this. I cant do this. I cant do this.
Help. HELP.
No one is going to help me. I should just end it all. This is my own fault, I'm an idiot for even existing. They should have killed me. I'd rather be dead. I could just do it myself. No one left to care. Not even I care. I'm alone out here. Not even sure if my writings in the dark are straight on the lines of this tattered notebook. Its so cold and dark. No more tears left to shed. I hope I die tonight.
--
I survived the night. Shouldn't that mean that I am the one that needs to care? What does anything even mean anymore? Why am I discarded like someones trash? The Dwelling could be in any direction. There's no point in even trying. The thick leaves make it cold. I want to freeze.
--
It rained in the night, I was more cold than I'd ever been. I didn't want to move, but my body got up and did everything anyway. I found a hollow tree trunk and shoved it full of leaves. In the morning I was still alive so I guess that means something.
----------------------------------------------
Year 19, Day 363
I've come a long way from the scared little girl in the jungle. A long way from finding my first birds eggs to eat and tiny springs to drink from. I've searched high and low for The Dwelling. I never have found it once. Wherever they took me, it is remote. I've been thinking a lot about the coming days. In my past I cherished the idea of these final days, as this whole journal could detail. But now as it lingers very near, I don't want to return. If they come for me, I already know I will be wary of them. Perhaps I could hide and they would never find me, I have often thought, but by now they have the technology they desperately sought to find me anywhere. My punishment is no longer the banishment, but the return.
Year 19 Day 364
Nothing much to do today. I thought too hard on what could be and what might be. My stomach is sick despite the full belly of iguana. It should be a good night, but the hair on my neck is standing up, I'm ready to run.
Year 20
I WAS WRONG. I WAS WRONG.
Forgive me.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1: Year 1:
Today, I start my forced exile. I was a bad man, I might as well start from the beginning as a sort of clear my sins before this goes into effect
I was born into a relatively poor household, my mother looked down on me and my father was a drunk. He used to physically beat me as a child. I developed into a child of hate and crime. When I was little I would steal toys from other kids. I went on this spree crime free for 18 years.
Now today, as a 18 year old, after killing someone I get 20 years of exile into an unknown wilderness.
I regret my past, and hope to better myself. I was allowed several days to say goodbye, but I stayed home and read books on how to survive in the conditions I would face.
Year 5, day 1990:
I managed to survive alone for 5 years. I ate plants and hunted the beasts that inhabited the area. I came across a town. I was not allowed to enter any town, which saddened me. This was the start of my emotional, after tramatic alone time, downhill.
Year 15, day 5500:
I am alone, I havent seen anyone for 15 years. I..I...
Year 19, day 7299:
One more day till it ends, then what. I don't know, I don't wanna know. I don't wanna go back, I wanna die. I hate everyone I ever met, and I have no one now, I could start over, but I will fall back into my life. I am done with life. The..re is nothing I can do but sit and mope all my life because I have no one I am utterly alone.
This is the end for me, I survived 20 years in the wild. at first I had an intention on living after this but, what is to live for now? I decided that im done, when I readied the noose and stool I felt a message come to me that somehow this was the wrong decision. I decide not to do it.
Year 20, days free: 0.1
I muster up my courage after 20 long years to go back to town, I am a depressed lunatic who needs therapy, but new town new start.
I am 38 and its time to move on.
Obituary of Lord Bacon The LXIX
Lord was born under an abusive household and would get into trouble when he was younger, at the age of 18 he was forced to be exiled from his hometown shingoraui, he survived the wilderness for 20 years and almost killed himself. When his exile was over he entered the town of shindig, where he attended therapy and found the love of his life.
He worked as a hunter, bringing food to merchants, He was a fairly respectable and normal guy despite his past
He married the love of his life ellie at age 40, unfortunately, she died 15 years ago at the age of 85.
Although Lord was saddened he persevered through his depression and died of natural death at the age of 100. | Day 1: They are making me leave, and there's no stopping it. Don't know how I'll survive. Suppose I'll adapt somehow. Maybe not. I give myself a day before I go crazy. May have to kill something to survive. Don't know if I'll be able to. Already thinking about it though, so maybe when the time comes it won't be too hard. Need to get a weapon I suppose. I'll figure it out.
Day 7305: They are making me leave, and there's no stopping it. Don't know how I'll survive. Suppose I'll adapt somehow. Maybe not. I give myself a day before I go crazy. May have to kill something to survive. Don't know if I'll be able to. Already thinking about it though, so maybe when the time comes it won't be too hard. Need to get a weapon I suppose. I'll figure it out.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1: I don't want to leave. I don't know what else to say.
...
Day 7304: I don't want to go back. I don't know what else to say. | Day 1: They are making me leave, and there's no stopping it. Don't know how I'll survive. Suppose I'll adapt somehow. Maybe not. I give myself a day before I go crazy. May have to kill something to survive. Don't know if I'll be able to. Already thinking about it though, so maybe when the time comes it won't be too hard. Need to get a weapon I suppose. I'll figure it out.
Day 7305: They are making me leave, and there's no stopping it. Don't know how I'll survive. Suppose I'll adapt somehow. Maybe not. I give myself a day before I go crazy. May have to kill something to survive. Don't know if I'll be able to. Already thinking about it though, so maybe when the time comes it won't be too hard. Need to get a weapon I suppose. I'll figure it out.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | Day 1: They are making me leave, and there's no stopping it. Don't know how I'll survive. Suppose I'll adapt somehow. Maybe not. I give myself a day before I go crazy. May have to kill something to survive. Don't know if I'll be able to. Already thinking about it though, so maybe when the time comes it won't be too hard. Need to get a weapon I suppose. I'll figure it out.
Day 7305: They are making me leave, and there's no stopping it. Don't know how I'll survive. Suppose I'll adapt somehow. Maybe not. I give myself a day before I go crazy. May have to kill something to survive. Don't know if I'll be able to. Already thinking about it though, so maybe when the time comes it won't be too hard. Need to get a weapon I suppose. I'll figure it out.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | My Queen,
I know he is my son. I know he was born out of passion and lies, but please love him as you do the other children. This is not his fault.
William
Day One. She sent me to the islands on the far east side of the kingdom. My beautiful Queen. The only woman I've ever loved. This banishment is for my protection, she says. After 20 years, the boy will know nothing of our affair. I will be long forgotten by the others in the village in which I've lived all my days. More importantly than all of this, the King will not know it is my head he wants, or my seed that gave life to his "Prince". It is chilly at night on the islands, I will build a shelter and wait for morning to search for fresh water. I wouldn't mind dying here. If I can't have her, I'm half dead already.
Day 7,300. I may return to the kingdom today. A scribe came to the island earlier this morn to give me the news. My love is dead. She passed 5 yeas ago, so says the scribe. My son reigns as King now. His "father", dead over a decade. I've packed the little belongings I brought with me to the islands. They fill a small cloth sack, they are my only possessions. A picture of my Queen, and of my son. The son who will never know the love I shared with his mother... Never know his birthright is a lie. Maybe I won't return. Maybe I can handle the loneliness of the islands more than that of a kingdom I no longer have a place in.
| Entry 1: Day 1
I am alone. I didn't mean to do what I did, if I could do it over differently, I would. Anger has a way of blinding a person, and what she did, had made me so very angry. I couldn't stop my hands. So I've landed here, in the Wilds beyond the Colony. I suppose I deserve it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on me, and pray my death is a fast and relatively painless one.
Entry 99: Year 20-22?
I am a King and Conquer. I didn't mean to do what I did, and if I could do it over differently, I wouldn't. Power has a way of corrupting a person, and those primitive wild men were so easy to corrupt. I banded their fringe tribes together, and made an army. So I returned to the Colony, to pay my respects. I suppose they deserved it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on their souls, and pray my new Empire can do something with the ashes that remain.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | May 16th, 1854
Released from my confinement under exile. In a wood that I've never known, with nobody. I was given a journal to keep and return to the corrections officer upon my release, so I will be diligent in recording every last detail of my struggle. I wish to prove my honor and earn the right to walk as a citizen once again. "Release" seems to be the wrong word for this situation. "Readmittance" seems more appropriate. Readmittance back into society. So I will do my best despite my position. I do not even know how to hunt. Or forage. How does one start a fire without a flint? My future looks bleak and I fear I will never see home again.
The sun sets. I do not expect to last the night...
Day unknown, ~1874
The only thing kept me going is the book. Write every day with things I seen. I do not know the year. I think twenty years. I tried counting days in the book. I missed many. The year is likely wrong. I lived! I want to see my town again. Soon I can. But. I do not want to go from my new house. Much work and very long time to make. Plants to eat in rows. Animals in fence are food. Animals in house are nice. Fire. Fire was hard! But I did it. All the fire I need now. Shh. I think people are coming. Knock on my door! Will they take me back? I do not want to g... | Entry 1: Day 1
I am alone. I didn't mean to do what I did, if I could do it over differently, I would. Anger has a way of blinding a person, and what she did, had made me so very angry. I couldn't stop my hands. So I've landed here, in the Wilds beyond the Colony. I suppose I deserve it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on me, and pray my death is a fast and relatively painless one.
Entry 99: Year 20-22?
I am a King and Conquer. I didn't mean to do what I did, and if I could do it over differently, I wouldn't. Power has a way of corrupting a person, and those primitive wild men were so easy to corrupt. I banded their fringe tribes together, and made an army. So I returned to the Colony, to pay my respects. I suppose they deserved it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on their souls, and pray my new Empire can do something with the ashes that remain.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | 5 June 1985
My name is Maurice Linden. I am a psychopath.
Don't let that frighten you, though. I am not a bad person. My entire life has been dedicated to doing things right. I have a degree in pharmaceuticals, a lovely wife, and 2 perfect children. I coached my son's soccer team for three years. I understand empathy and feelings for other human beings. I just don't feel them.
As a child I often walked alone to the dime shop nearby. That was back when no one was afraid of people like me - people who might do something terrible but never feel a moment's regret. I used to sit at the counter with a strawberry milkshake, sipping and watching the people. I learned by watching, and I learned well. Even at that young age I knew that something about me was different. The world was one big game, and I was determined to play it better than anybody else could. So I watched, and I learned.
I learned that there are some people who are beneficial to society - the grocer, the police officer, the carpenter - and then there are some people who suck the joy out of life like bipedal leeches - the homeless, the vagrants, and the perpetually destitute. When I was a teen I began to cull these people from my town, carefully and humanely. I did not hate them. I simply did not want them. So they disappeared.
Single handedly, I ushered in an era of peace in our community. Townsfolk talked, of course. They whispered to each other, and even to me occasionally, saying how fortunate we were to live in our happy little homes without any of the problems that plagued other cities. Life was ideal. I was not happy - I have never felt happiness - but I was content.
Janice Harper ruined my perfect system. She became chief of police after Harold Manor retired, and she made it her personal goal to find out what happened to people when they disappeared from our town. She assigned detectives to follow vagabonds as they drifted into town like a foul breeze. I was careful, so very careful. Eventually though, even I could not maintain perfection. I made a mistake.
A biker had stopped at the dime shop for gas and refreshments. It's not called the dime shop anymore, of course. It's a new and shiny gas station, but it still has a milkshake counter and I still watch the people as they travel in and out of town. This biker was enormously obese, heavily tattooed, and extremely foul-mouthed. I would have been happy to see him ride his filthy motorcycle right back onto the highway, but instead I heard him ask the cashier which places were hiring nearby.
Ordinarily, I preferred to watch and wait. I would remove the offending person when the time was ideal. However with Chief Harper on the lookout, I knew that I had precious little time. I followed the biker to South Street, and flashed my lights to get his attention. I waved for him to pull over, and he obligingly did. I jumped out of my van and called to him as I advanced, "Your rear tire is nearly flat!" He clambered off the motorcycle and stepped around to the back, looking at the tire all the while.
He never saw the syringe coming. I struck and injected in one fluid motion, forcing the thick liquid into his neck. He yelled and swung wildly at me, but the mirocane was swift and so was I. The biker stumbled, then toppled to the ground as his heart beat its last. I quickly got the emergency blanket from my van and used it as a litter to drag the man's massive body to the rear doors. Then I drove the motorcycle directly into my van, using his body as a ramp. Lifting him in behind the bike was no small effort, but I managed. I slammed the doors shut and took off.
For years I had been disposing of bodies in the same place. An old quarry hit a spring in the early seventies, turning it into a local favorite for cliff-jumping. I used an out-of-the-way section that was only about 10 feet across and untold hundreds of feet deep. In summer the quarry was crowded with swimmers, but it was only March and the grounds were deserted. I backed the van up to the hole directly and shoved the biker's body in. The bike was a concern - it was not biodegradable. Eventually I decided to take it out to the train trestle off Mason Drive. I rolled it into the gorge and headed back home.
It was there that they found me. I was scrubbing motorcycle grease out of my van's carpet with little success when Marilyn came to the garage and said some men wanted to see me. It all went downhill from there. With the evidence in my van and the eyewitness to the murder, I was convicted and sentenced to 20 years in prison. However as I had a clean record and was very convincingly apologetic in my trial, the judge agreed to allow me to try a new isolation program.
They left me here on this island. I have shelf-stable food to last the first year, along with seeds and tools to grow my own food afterward. It is generally understood that I may not survive my 20 years, but I have no doubt that I will make it easily. For years I have been watching, and learning. Now it is time to put my lessons to the test.
******
15 May, 2005
They came for me today. Men in dark uniform said I could go home, my sentence was finished. I refused. My life is here, with my goats and my farm. My seeds are growing in perfect rows, and my goats will bear kids in a few days. In all my 61 years I have never before felt so... happy.
| Entry 1: Day 1
I am alone. I didn't mean to do what I did, if I could do it over differently, I would. Anger has a way of blinding a person, and what she did, had made me so very angry. I couldn't stop my hands. So I've landed here, in the Wilds beyond the Colony. I suppose I deserve it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on me, and pray my death is a fast and relatively painless one.
Entry 99: Year 20-22?
I am a King and Conquer. I didn't mean to do what I did, and if I could do it over differently, I wouldn't. Power has a way of corrupting a person, and those primitive wild men were so easy to corrupt. I banded their fringe tribes together, and made an army. So I returned to the Colony, to pay my respects. I suppose they deserved it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on their souls, and pray my new Empire can do something with the ashes that remain.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | Entry 1: Day 1
I am alone. I didn't mean to do what I did, if I could do it over differently, I would. Anger has a way of blinding a person, and what she did, had made me so very angry. I couldn't stop my hands. So I've landed here, in the Wilds beyond the Colony. I suppose I deserve it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on me, and pray my death is a fast and relatively painless one.
Entry 99: Year 20-22?
I am a King and Conquer. I didn't mean to do what I did, and if I could do it over differently, I wouldn't. Power has a way of corrupting a person, and those primitive wild men were so easy to corrupt. I banded their fringe tribes together, and made an army. So I returned to the Colony, to pay my respects. I suppose they deserved it. I only hope that the Gods have mercy on their souls, and pray my new Empire can do something with the ashes that remain.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | Day 1: Year 1:
Today, I start my forced exile. I was a bad man, I might as well start from the beginning as a sort of clear my sins before this goes into effect
I was born into a relatively poor household, my mother looked down on me and my father was a drunk. He used to physically beat me as a child. I developed into a child of hate and crime. When I was little I would steal toys from other kids. I went on this spree crime free for 18 years.
Now today, as a 18 year old, after killing someone I get 20 years of exile into an unknown wilderness.
I regret my past, and hope to better myself. I was allowed several days to say goodbye, but I stayed home and read books on how to survive in the conditions I would face.
Year 5, day 1990:
I managed to survive alone for 5 years. I ate plants and hunted the beasts that inhabited the area. I came across a town. I was not allowed to enter any town, which saddened me. This was the start of my emotional, after tramatic alone time, downhill.
Year 15, day 5500:
I am alone, I havent seen anyone for 15 years. I..I...
Year 19, day 7299:
One more day till it ends, then what. I don't know, I don't wanna know. I don't wanna go back, I wanna die. I hate everyone I ever met, and I have no one now, I could start over, but I will fall back into my life. I am done with life. The..re is nothing I can do but sit and mope all my life because I have no one I am utterly alone.
This is the end for me, I survived 20 years in the wild. at first I had an intention on living after this but, what is to live for now? I decided that im done, when I readied the noose and stool I felt a message come to me that somehow this was the wrong decision. I decide not to do it.
Year 20, days free: 0.1
I muster up my courage after 20 long years to go back to town, I am a depressed lunatic who needs therapy, but new town new start.
I am 38 and its time to move on.
Obituary of Lord Bacon The LXIX
Lord was born under an abusive household and would get into trouble when he was younger, at the age of 18 he was forced to be exiled from his hometown shingoraui, he survived the wilderness for 20 years and almost killed himself. When his exile was over he entered the town of shindig, where he attended therapy and found the love of his life.
He worked as a hunter, bringing food to merchants, He was a fairly respectable and normal guy despite his past
He married the love of his life ellie at age 40, unfortunately, she died 15 years ago at the age of 85.
Although Lord was saddened he persevered through his depression and died of natural death at the age of 100. | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | My Queen,
I know he is my son. I know he was born out of passion and lies, but please love him as you do the other children. This is not his fault.
William
Day One. She sent me to the islands on the far east side of the kingdom. My beautiful Queen. The only woman I've ever loved. This banishment is for my protection, she says. After 20 years, the boy will know nothing of our affair. I will be long forgotten by the others in the village in which I've lived all my days. More importantly than all of this, the King will not know it is my head he wants, or my seed that gave life to his "Prince". It is chilly at night on the islands, I will build a shelter and wait for morning to search for fresh water. I wouldn't mind dying here. If I can't have her, I'm half dead already.
Day 7,300. I may return to the kingdom today. A scribe came to the island earlier this morn to give me the news. My love is dead. She passed 5 yeas ago, so says the scribe. My son reigns as King now. His "father", dead over a decade. I've packed the little belongings I brought with me to the islands. They fill a small cloth sack, they are my only possessions. A picture of my Queen, and of my son. The son who will never know the love I shared with his mother... Never know his birthright is a lie. Maybe I won't return. Maybe I can handle the loneliness of the islands more than that of a kingdom I no longer have a place in.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | May 16th, 1854
Released from my confinement under exile. In a wood that I've never known, with nobody. I was given a journal to keep and return to the corrections officer upon my release, so I will be diligent in recording every last detail of my struggle. I wish to prove my honor and earn the right to walk as a citizen once again. "Release" seems to be the wrong word for this situation. "Readmittance" seems more appropriate. Readmittance back into society. So I will do my best despite my position. I do not even know how to hunt. Or forage. How does one start a fire without a flint? My future looks bleak and I fear I will never see home again.
The sun sets. I do not expect to last the night...
Day unknown, ~1874
The only thing kept me going is the book. Write every day with things I seen. I do not know the year. I think twenty years. I tried counting days in the book. I missed many. The year is likely wrong. I lived! I want to see my town again. Soon I can. But. I do not want to go from my new house. Much work and very long time to make. Plants to eat in rows. Animals in fence are food. Animals in house are nice. Fire. Fire was hard! But I did it. All the fire I need now. Shh. I think people are coming. Knock on my door! Will they take me back? I do not want to g... | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I din't mean to. I din't mean to kil that old ladee. Well, ok, mayb I did, but I was just doin the wrld a favor. She was old and meen and horible to evryon she met. I evn saw her kik a dog onc. Shes mean.
But now I am stuck here, with onlee my cloths and this jornal. Wat good is a jornal when I never realy lrned how to right? But I stol a speer on my way out. I won't dy on my first day out heer. Gonna go look for food now. I will right in this thin 2morrow.
Day 7238:
I looked back at my earlier entries today. I'm surprised by how illiterate I was almost a year ago. This journal they gave me included a tutorial on proper grammar and spelling. It gave me something to do this past year, at least.
The right wall of the shelter colapssed yesterday. I had to re inforce it with a few rocks I found the other day. Should be fine now. There's a storm coming.
I saw some people in the trees yesterday too. They were watching me while I repaired the wall. I threw my spear at them and they ran away. I'm writing this while I keep an eye on the window. I'm watching for any movement.
Food's starting to get scarce, too. I found bugs crawling around the garden last week. And now these other people are probably hunting the rest of the boar, too. Gonna have to go back to squirrels and birds again soon.
I wonder who these people are? It'll be so nice to have someone to talk to besides you, Journal. It's been so damn lonely, I --
Wait, what's out there? I thought I sa--
Day 7239:
To any who find this: leave. This is our territory now. Turn around and go home, or end up like him.
You have been warned. | 5 June 1985
My name is Maurice Linden. I am a psychopath.
Don't let that frighten you, though. I am not a bad person. My entire life has been dedicated to doing things right. I have a degree in pharmaceuticals, a lovely wife, and 2 perfect children. I coached my son's soccer team for three years. I understand empathy and feelings for other human beings. I just don't feel them.
As a child I often walked alone to the dime shop nearby. That was back when no one was afraid of people like me - people who might do something terrible but never feel a moment's regret. I used to sit at the counter with a strawberry milkshake, sipping and watching the people. I learned by watching, and I learned well. Even at that young age I knew that something about me was different. The world was one big game, and I was determined to play it better than anybody else could. So I watched, and I learned.
I learned that there are some people who are beneficial to society - the grocer, the police officer, the carpenter - and then there are some people who suck the joy out of life like bipedal leeches - the homeless, the vagrants, and the perpetually destitute. When I was a teen I began to cull these people from my town, carefully and humanely. I did not hate them. I simply did not want them. So they disappeared.
Single handedly, I ushered in an era of peace in our community. Townsfolk talked, of course. They whispered to each other, and even to me occasionally, saying how fortunate we were to live in our happy little homes without any of the problems that plagued other cities. Life was ideal. I was not happy - I have never felt happiness - but I was content.
Janice Harper ruined my perfect system. She became chief of police after Harold Manor retired, and she made it her personal goal to find out what happened to people when they disappeared from our town. She assigned detectives to follow vagabonds as they drifted into town like a foul breeze. I was careful, so very careful. Eventually though, even I could not maintain perfection. I made a mistake.
A biker had stopped at the dime shop for gas and refreshments. It's not called the dime shop anymore, of course. It's a new and shiny gas station, but it still has a milkshake counter and I still watch the people as they travel in and out of town. This biker was enormously obese, heavily tattooed, and extremely foul-mouthed. I would have been happy to see him ride his filthy motorcycle right back onto the highway, but instead I heard him ask the cashier which places were hiring nearby.
Ordinarily, I preferred to watch and wait. I would remove the offending person when the time was ideal. However with Chief Harper on the lookout, I knew that I had precious little time. I followed the biker to South Street, and flashed my lights to get his attention. I waved for him to pull over, and he obligingly did. I jumped out of my van and called to him as I advanced, "Your rear tire is nearly flat!" He clambered off the motorcycle and stepped around to the back, looking at the tire all the while.
He never saw the syringe coming. I struck and injected in one fluid motion, forcing the thick liquid into his neck. He yelled and swung wildly at me, but the mirocane was swift and so was I. The biker stumbled, then toppled to the ground as his heart beat its last. I quickly got the emergency blanket from my van and used it as a litter to drag the man's massive body to the rear doors. Then I drove the motorcycle directly into my van, using his body as a ramp. Lifting him in behind the bike was no small effort, but I managed. I slammed the doors shut and took off.
For years I had been disposing of bodies in the same place. An old quarry hit a spring in the early seventies, turning it into a local favorite for cliff-jumping. I used an out-of-the-way section that was only about 10 feet across and untold hundreds of feet deep. In summer the quarry was crowded with swimmers, but it was only March and the grounds were deserted. I backed the van up to the hole directly and shoved the biker's body in. The bike was a concern - it was not biodegradable. Eventually I decided to take it out to the train trestle off Mason Drive. I rolled it into the gorge and headed back home.
It was there that they found me. I was scrubbing motorcycle grease out of my van's carpet with little success when Marilyn came to the garage and said some men wanted to see me. It all went downhill from there. With the evidence in my van and the eyewitness to the murder, I was convicted and sentenced to 20 years in prison. However as I had a clean record and was very convincingly apologetic in my trial, the judge agreed to allow me to try a new isolation program.
They left me here on this island. I have shelf-stable food to last the first year, along with seeds and tools to grow my own food afterward. It is generally understood that I may not survive my 20 years, but I have no doubt that I will make it easily. For years I have been watching, and learning. Now it is time to put my lessons to the test.
******
15 May, 2005
They came for me today. Men in dark uniform said I could go home, my sentence was finished. I refused. My life is here, with my goats and my farm. My seeds are growing in perfect rows, and my goats will bear kids in a few days. In all my 61 years I have never before felt so... happy.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1 John Kryznick
The day is finally upon us. The trial took a lot longer than expected and the appeals really looked like they were going to pan out. "If you're alive in twenty years, we'll find you". That was the last words of the helicopter crewman who pushed me out here nothing but a knife and a lighter. Wherever here is... I've always read that a diary is a good way to release personal thoughts so I guess I'll give it a try. I am fucking angry. I didn't do what they said I did, and Johnson (who I will fucking murder if I ever get a chance) is the one who did this to me. Fuck him. Fuck the old world and everyone in it... It doesn't make me feel any better.
Day 393
If anyone even finds this piece of shit book, i'm sorry. That means you are out here too. The water ran out about a day ago. I've been checking and its all gone. Its funny what you care about, I mean really care about when you don't have what you need to survive. Guess Maslow was right with the Hierarchy. I'm hoping that the rain starts up again tonight. It might, it might not. All I know is that if I don't get some water either today or tomorrow, I might not be writing any more entries. I think sometimes; did they know it would be this hard? Did they know that I would make it this long? There was a rage inside of me that I wish I still had, but its hard to have anything when the waters gone. I'll lie down for a bit then do some more checks. I'm just so tired. | Day 1 - Dear Diary, hi, This is my first day in the wilderness, honestly, i don't think i will survive one week here, i should've gone to the boyscotts when i was a boy, all i have is a pocket knife, this diary and a pencil, maybe the hundred of times i watched Bear Gryls on Discovery Channel will finally pay off, but for now, i better stop writing and start working, maybe light a fire
Wish me luck, inanimate object
Last Day - I AM GROOT | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I’m staring into a fire. Surprisingly. When the escort first dropped me off, ditching me along a cracked, overgrown highway, it was probably noon. They didn’t leave me with much, but I managed to get some flint and magnesium smuggled into my cell last night. It took me a while to find a place that didn’t seem ripe and open, calling for unwanted attention. It was almost dark by the time I gathered the firewood. I was sure I would end up spending the night in the dark forest, a shuddering, stupid-cold, scared old man. Somehow I got a flame going. I have food tonight. A few cans, along with the canteen of water. Nothing else.
Day 11:
I find myself thinking about the Tenby Guard more and more. Ironically, the skills I learned as a young soldier keep me alive now. When I was in the Tenby Guard, we would go out ranging for weeks – even months, on rare occasions. We always lived off the land where we could. I no longer have the strength I once did, but my muscles remember.
I rarely thought about those days as I grew older, but I was not surprised when they arrested and banished me, not after all the people had heard. I accepted it from the beginning. Even during the trials, I never really thought about it. All those horrible things that happened – it feels like they happened to someone else. I didn’t do those things. I’m just an old man. I know I did, but that’s how it feels.
Day 23:
I remembered something today. Something I haven’t thought about in a long time.
Gulfcrest. Of all the crimes the people raved about, Gulfcrest was cried the loudest and most often. Those days are all a haze to me, but today I recalled one of the incidents that happened during the battle.
We had been raiding Gulfcrest’s lands for weeks. We found their defenses lacking, but they always burned their own crops and supplies before we could get them. We were all suffering ourselves then, many of us sick with fever and hunger.
We finally assaulted their main settlement, taking many casualties ourselves. We spared few when we finally overcame them and we took everything.
I remember blood and screaming. Drunkenness. The actions of men who have endured the extreme. Gulfcrest had surprisingly little in the way of supplies and food. They had been picked apart by raiders for decades, with few stores built up. In our anger, many of us took it out on the survivors.
Now people condemn us, the people of Tenby. We suffered for them. Even after the battle of Gulfcrest, we sent what little we took back to the city and its starving people. We took almost nothing for ourselves. Now the city flourishes, preserved through desperate times by men like us. They survive because of us, and now that they have wealth and food and luxury they discard us for what we did.
It was a long time ago, but I can see it more clearly now. I have little else to do out here other than contemplate the past and the future.
Day 597:
Tenby lays before me now. I have spoken to General Mills and we have decided we'll move on the city tomorrow. I first met Mills in the Tenby Guard. He and I were some of the first to reunite and find each other in the wilderness, and it was he and I who first began to spread our influence in the lands surrounding the city.
I wonder if they realize who lies at their door. They threw us out, many of us in our fifties and sixties, the hundreds who had served this city, for what we did. We have come back to them. They should have killed us. Now we lead other men into battle, men we have turned into soldiers. We have not forgotten how to sack a city. I will fight here myself. Mills gifted me with an M1 carbine he discovered. I will put it to good use.
Day 599:
Tenby weeps. I have come home.
| Day 1 - Dear Diary, hi, This is my first day in the wilderness, honestly, i don't think i will survive one week here, i should've gone to the boyscotts when i was a boy, all i have is a pocket knife, this diary and a pencil, maybe the hundred of times i watched Bear Gryls on Discovery Channel will finally pay off, but for now, i better stop writing and start working, maybe light a fire
Wish me luck, inanimate object
Last Day - I AM GROOT | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | This is a forbidding planet, full of hostile wildlife, a scorching climate, and uncertain vegetation. I have already scanned through my gifted supplies, boons from my family and friends to aid in my survival through my trial. Though meager, as is customary, I believe they will be enough to get me started here. Hunting and gathering tools, some strong rope, and a few fire stones to ward off the chill. My first nights here will not claim my life.
In truth I do not fear for my ability to survive on this feral world at all, my clan has always been hardy and strong and I am no exception. My concern lies with the true reason for our kind’s forced exile: Communion. My psychic sense have always been… subpar at best, and my father has made no bones about his worry that I will turn out like my brothers, a fierce warrior but unsuited for leadership. He has ruled for 120 cycles and is beginning to show his age, by the time I am allowed to return it will nearly be time for his sending. I desperately wish to make him proud, and allow him to safely pass to the next plane.
I have read the guides given to me by our shamans, on the nature of Communion and how to encourage it. I can clear my mind of thought in a heartbeat, and my physical sense are unparalleled amongst my kin. Preparing for contact is a simple thing, I simply cannot figure out how to extend my mind in greeting to another being’s. Perhaps my time on this world will fix that, forcing me to live on wits and instinct will bring me closer to the creatures here, hopefully enough that I might establish Communion with one of them. I also hope that my will proves strong enough to endure the bear of a feral mind, what few connections I have made with my kind have been intense as is, and that is with both minds having received training. I have heard too many tales of gifted upstarts mentally linking with large and fearsome beasts, only to have their minds brushed aside and dominated by them.
Only time will tell, and time is something I have plenty of. For now I will focus on survival, and possibly even comfort should this planet relinquish its secrets to me quickly. I hear a faint howling on the winds, and soon I will see if I am to be a hunter or prey on this planet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is time.
I have weathered the harsh environment of this planet for two decades and have emerged its master.
Though nothing here can speak the creatures know this planet as Carnor, and I have learned all I can of this beautiful and savage world.
I still remember the night of my first communion, after five long years of grueling seasons, vicious indigenous creatures, and dangerous fauna. A storm destroyed my camp, I was wounded after fighting a pack of four legged hunters, and I was locked in mortal struggle with the last beast left alive. We both bled from many wounds, our life forces dangerously close to ebbing away, and in my desperation I reached out to a mind that was as hurt and scared as mine.
Communion.
Our bond was… intense. I recall spending several days crawling around on all fours hunting with the beast, nursing our wounds and regaining our strength, before my mind returned to me.
Abrecan became my best companion in the years to follow, showing me the way his kind hunts and gathers. I taught him what I could of logic and reason as well, and though he never developed the capacity for speech he certainly had the ability to display cunning.
My next Communion was with a great two legged beast I call Brutus, after Abrecan and I found him wounded and abandoned by his pack. This Communion was different, an extended hand of mercy and care instead of a frantic gambit for survival. I learned why Communion is so important, and powerful, a skill for my people. It wasn’t just my will that met with Brutus’, but Abrecan’s too. The three of us shared the load of our minds connecting and we all were enhanced by it, learning of each others ways and customs. It was a feeling unlike anything I could even describe.
Here I stand years later, Communed with nearly every creature I come across, linking this world’s wildlife in a strong and secure web of understanding and trust. Hunters still hunt prey, but together we have forged new means of doing so. Creatures bred specifically without being communed, still acting on their base instincts to be hunted and eaten without having the burden of understanding placed on them. We work together to build shelter, cure the sick, and watch over our lands when rival packs wander in. Though I insisted we all remain equals, the creatures of this planet still treat me as Alpha to all, their protector and master, and I take my role extremely seriously.
Ironically I came to this planet to learn to lead, so I might take my father’s crown from him, and I find myself needing to designate an heir of my own. Abrecan has long since passed, but I have decided that Brutus shall take my place as Alpha here. He has mastered Communion alongside me, and understands the importance of the peace and connections we have forged. I look forward to returning soon, to see how Carnor has grown in my absence.
It occurs that these thoughts and stories can be found throughout this diary I have kept, an epic ledger of my growth, adventures, and ultimately my ascension. But I suppose I am simply feeling nostalgic, knowing that this chapter of my life is at a close. I am ready to lead my people now, but I will never forget the savage world that made me who I am. | Day 1 - Dear Diary, hi, This is my first day in the wilderness, honestly, i don't think i will survive one week here, i should've gone to the boyscotts when i was a boy, all i have is a pocket knife, this diary and a pencil, maybe the hundred of times i watched Bear Gryls on Discovery Channel will finally pay off, but for now, i better stop writing and start working, maybe light a fire
Wish me luck, inanimate object
Last Day - I AM GROOT | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
I’m staring into a fire. Surprisingly. When the escort first dropped me off, ditching me along a cracked, overgrown highway, it was probably noon. They didn’t leave me with much, but I managed to get some flint and magnesium smuggled into my cell last night. It took me a while to find a place that didn’t seem ripe and open, calling for unwanted attention. It was almost dark by the time I gathered the firewood. I was sure I would end up spending the night in the dark forest, a shuddering, stupid-cold, scared old man. Somehow I got a flame going. I have food tonight. A few cans, along with the canteen of water. Nothing else.
Day 11:
I find myself thinking about the Tenby Guard more and more. Ironically, the skills I learned as a young soldier keep me alive now. When I was in the Tenby Guard, we would go out ranging for weeks – even months, on rare occasions. We always lived off the land where we could. I no longer have the strength I once did, but my muscles remember.
I rarely thought about those days as I grew older, but I was not surprised when they arrested and banished me, not after all the people had heard. I accepted it from the beginning. Even during the trials, I never really thought about it. All those horrible things that happened – it feels like they happened to someone else. I didn’t do those things. I’m just an old man. I know I did, but that’s how it feels.
Day 23:
I remembered something today. Something I haven’t thought about in a long time.
Gulfcrest. Of all the crimes the people raved about, Gulfcrest was cried the loudest and most often. Those days are all a haze to me, but today I recalled one of the incidents that happened during the battle.
We had been raiding Gulfcrest’s lands for weeks. We found their defenses lacking, but they always burned their own crops and supplies before we could get them. We were all suffering ourselves then, many of us sick with fever and hunger.
We finally assaulted their main settlement, taking many casualties ourselves. We spared few when we finally overcame them and we took everything.
I remember blood and screaming. Drunkenness. The actions of men who have endured the extreme. Gulfcrest had surprisingly little in the way of supplies and food. They had been picked apart by raiders for decades, with few stores built up. In our anger, many of us took it out on the survivors.
Now people condemn us, the people of Tenby. We suffered for them. Even after the battle of Gulfcrest, we sent what little we took back to the city and its starving people. We took almost nothing for ourselves. Now the city flourishes, preserved through desperate times by men like us. They survive because of us, and now that they have wealth and food and luxury they discard us for what we did.
It was a long time ago, but I can see it more clearly now. I have little else to do out here other than contemplate the past and the future.
Day 597:
Tenby lays before me now. I have spoken to General Mills and we have decided we'll move on the city tomorrow. I first met Mills in the Tenby Guard. He and I were some of the first to reunite and find each other in the wilderness, and it was he and I who first began to spread our influence in the lands surrounding the city.
I wonder if they realize who lies at their door. They threw us out, many of us in our fifties and sixties, the hundreds who had served this city, for what we did. We have come back to them. They should have killed us. Now we lead other men into battle, men we have turned into soldiers. We have not forgotten how to sack a city. I will fight here myself. Mills gifted me with an M1 carbine he discovered. I will put it to good use.
Day 599:
Tenby weeps. I have come home.
| Day 1 John Kryznick
The day is finally upon us. The trial took a lot longer than expected and the appeals really looked like they were going to pan out. "If you're alive in twenty years, we'll find you". That was the last words of the helicopter crewman who pushed me out here nothing but a knife and a lighter. Wherever here is... I've always read that a diary is a good way to release personal thoughts so I guess I'll give it a try. I am fucking angry. I didn't do what they said I did, and Johnson (who I will fucking murder if I ever get a chance) is the one who did this to me. Fuck him. Fuck the old world and everyone in it... It doesn't make me feel any better.
Day 393
If anyone even finds this piece of shit book, i'm sorry. That means you are out here too. The water ran out about a day ago. I've been checking and its all gone. Its funny what you care about, I mean really care about when you don't have what you need to survive. Guess Maslow was right with the Hierarchy. I'm hoping that the rain starts up again tonight. It might, it might not. All I know is that if I don't get some water either today or tomorrow, I might not be writing any more entries. I think sometimes; did they know it would be this hard? Did they know that I would make it this long? There was a rage inside of me that I wish I still had, but its hard to have anything when the waters gone. I'll lie down for a bit then do some more checks. I'm just so tired. | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | This is a forbidding planet, full of hostile wildlife, a scorching climate, and uncertain vegetation. I have already scanned through my gifted supplies, boons from my family and friends to aid in my survival through my trial. Though meager, as is customary, I believe they will be enough to get me started here. Hunting and gathering tools, some strong rope, and a few fire stones to ward off the chill. My first nights here will not claim my life.
In truth I do not fear for my ability to survive on this feral world at all, my clan has always been hardy and strong and I am no exception. My concern lies with the true reason for our kind’s forced exile: Communion. My psychic sense have always been… subpar at best, and my father has made no bones about his worry that I will turn out like my brothers, a fierce warrior but unsuited for leadership. He has ruled for 120 cycles and is beginning to show his age, by the time I am allowed to return it will nearly be time for his sending. I desperately wish to make him proud, and allow him to safely pass to the next plane.
I have read the guides given to me by our shamans, on the nature of Communion and how to encourage it. I can clear my mind of thought in a heartbeat, and my physical sense are unparalleled amongst my kin. Preparing for contact is a simple thing, I simply cannot figure out how to extend my mind in greeting to another being’s. Perhaps my time on this world will fix that, forcing me to live on wits and instinct will bring me closer to the creatures here, hopefully enough that I might establish Communion with one of them. I also hope that my will proves strong enough to endure the bear of a feral mind, what few connections I have made with my kind have been intense as is, and that is with both minds having received training. I have heard too many tales of gifted upstarts mentally linking with large and fearsome beasts, only to have their minds brushed aside and dominated by them.
Only time will tell, and time is something I have plenty of. For now I will focus on survival, and possibly even comfort should this planet relinquish its secrets to me quickly. I hear a faint howling on the winds, and soon I will see if I am to be a hunter or prey on this planet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is time.
I have weathered the harsh environment of this planet for two decades and have emerged its master.
Though nothing here can speak the creatures know this planet as Carnor, and I have learned all I can of this beautiful and savage world.
I still remember the night of my first communion, after five long years of grueling seasons, vicious indigenous creatures, and dangerous fauna. A storm destroyed my camp, I was wounded after fighting a pack of four legged hunters, and I was locked in mortal struggle with the last beast left alive. We both bled from many wounds, our life forces dangerously close to ebbing away, and in my desperation I reached out to a mind that was as hurt and scared as mine.
Communion.
Our bond was… intense. I recall spending several days crawling around on all fours hunting with the beast, nursing our wounds and regaining our strength, before my mind returned to me.
Abrecan became my best companion in the years to follow, showing me the way his kind hunts and gathers. I taught him what I could of logic and reason as well, and though he never developed the capacity for speech he certainly had the ability to display cunning.
My next Communion was with a great two legged beast I call Brutus, after Abrecan and I found him wounded and abandoned by his pack. This Communion was different, an extended hand of mercy and care instead of a frantic gambit for survival. I learned why Communion is so important, and powerful, a skill for my people. It wasn’t just my will that met with Brutus’, but Abrecan’s too. The three of us shared the load of our minds connecting and we all were enhanced by it, learning of each others ways and customs. It was a feeling unlike anything I could even describe.
Here I stand years later, Communed with nearly every creature I come across, linking this world’s wildlife in a strong and secure web of understanding and trust. Hunters still hunt prey, but together we have forged new means of doing so. Creatures bred specifically without being communed, still acting on their base instincts to be hunted and eaten without having the burden of understanding placed on them. We work together to build shelter, cure the sick, and watch over our lands when rival packs wander in. Though I insisted we all remain equals, the creatures of this planet still treat me as Alpha to all, their protector and master, and I take my role extremely seriously.
Ironically I came to this planet to learn to lead, so I might take my father’s crown from him, and I find myself needing to designate an heir of my own. Abrecan has long since passed, but I have decided that Brutus shall take my place as Alpha here. He has mastered Communion alongside me, and understands the importance of the peace and connections we have forged. I look forward to returning soon, to see how Carnor has grown in my absence.
It occurs that these thoughts and stories can be found throughout this diary I have kept, an epic ledger of my growth, adventures, and ultimately my ascension. But I suppose I am simply feeling nostalgic, knowing that this chapter of my life is at a close. I am ready to lead my people now, but I will never forget the savage world that made me who I am. | Day 1 John Kryznick
The day is finally upon us. The trial took a lot longer than expected and the appeals really looked like they were going to pan out. "If you're alive in twenty years, we'll find you". That was the last words of the helicopter crewman who pushed me out here nothing but a knife and a lighter. Wherever here is... I've always read that a diary is a good way to release personal thoughts so I guess I'll give it a try. I am fucking angry. I didn't do what they said I did, and Johnson (who I will fucking murder if I ever get a chance) is the one who did this to me. Fuck him. Fuck the old world and everyone in it... It doesn't make me feel any better.
Day 393
If anyone even finds this piece of shit book, i'm sorry. That means you are out here too. The water ran out about a day ago. I've been checking and its all gone. Its funny what you care about, I mean really care about when you don't have what you need to survive. Guess Maslow was right with the Hierarchy. I'm hoping that the rain starts up again tonight. It might, it might not. All I know is that if I don't get some water either today or tomorrow, I might not be writing any more entries. I think sometimes; did they know it would be this hard? Did they know that I would make it this long? There was a rage inside of me that I wish I still had, but its hard to have anything when the waters gone. I'll lie down for a bit then do some more checks. I'm just so tired. | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | This is a forbidding planet, full of hostile wildlife, a scorching climate, and uncertain vegetation. I have already scanned through my gifted supplies, boons from my family and friends to aid in my survival through my trial. Though meager, as is customary, I believe they will be enough to get me started here. Hunting and gathering tools, some strong rope, and a few fire stones to ward off the chill. My first nights here will not claim my life.
In truth I do not fear for my ability to survive on this feral world at all, my clan has always been hardy and strong and I am no exception. My concern lies with the true reason for our kind’s forced exile: Communion. My psychic sense have always been… subpar at best, and my father has made no bones about his worry that I will turn out like my brothers, a fierce warrior but unsuited for leadership. He has ruled for 120 cycles and is beginning to show his age, by the time I am allowed to return it will nearly be time for his sending. I desperately wish to make him proud, and allow him to safely pass to the next plane.
I have read the guides given to me by our shamans, on the nature of Communion and how to encourage it. I can clear my mind of thought in a heartbeat, and my physical sense are unparalleled amongst my kin. Preparing for contact is a simple thing, I simply cannot figure out how to extend my mind in greeting to another being’s. Perhaps my time on this world will fix that, forcing me to live on wits and instinct will bring me closer to the creatures here, hopefully enough that I might establish Communion with one of them. I also hope that my will proves strong enough to endure the bear of a feral mind, what few connections I have made with my kind have been intense as is, and that is with both minds having received training. I have heard too many tales of gifted upstarts mentally linking with large and fearsome beasts, only to have their minds brushed aside and dominated by them.
Only time will tell, and time is something I have plenty of. For now I will focus on survival, and possibly even comfort should this planet relinquish its secrets to me quickly. I hear a faint howling on the winds, and soon I will see if I am to be a hunter or prey on this planet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is time.
I have weathered the harsh environment of this planet for two decades and have emerged its master.
Though nothing here can speak the creatures know this planet as Carnor, and I have learned all I can of this beautiful and savage world.
I still remember the night of my first communion, after five long years of grueling seasons, vicious indigenous creatures, and dangerous fauna. A storm destroyed my camp, I was wounded after fighting a pack of four legged hunters, and I was locked in mortal struggle with the last beast left alive. We both bled from many wounds, our life forces dangerously close to ebbing away, and in my desperation I reached out to a mind that was as hurt and scared as mine.
Communion.
Our bond was… intense. I recall spending several days crawling around on all fours hunting with the beast, nursing our wounds and regaining our strength, before my mind returned to me.
Abrecan became my best companion in the years to follow, showing me the way his kind hunts and gathers. I taught him what I could of logic and reason as well, and though he never developed the capacity for speech he certainly had the ability to display cunning.
My next Communion was with a great two legged beast I call Brutus, after Abrecan and I found him wounded and abandoned by his pack. This Communion was different, an extended hand of mercy and care instead of a frantic gambit for survival. I learned why Communion is so important, and powerful, a skill for my people. It wasn’t just my will that met with Brutus’, but Abrecan’s too. The three of us shared the load of our minds connecting and we all were enhanced by it, learning of each others ways and customs. It was a feeling unlike anything I could even describe.
Here I stand years later, Communed with nearly every creature I come across, linking this world’s wildlife in a strong and secure web of understanding and trust. Hunters still hunt prey, but together we have forged new means of doing so. Creatures bred specifically without being communed, still acting on their base instincts to be hunted and eaten without having the burden of understanding placed on them. We work together to build shelter, cure the sick, and watch over our lands when rival packs wander in. Though I insisted we all remain equals, the creatures of this planet still treat me as Alpha to all, their protector and master, and I take my role extremely seriously.
Ironically I came to this planet to learn to lead, so I might take my father’s crown from him, and I find myself needing to designate an heir of my own. Abrecan has long since passed, but I have decided that Brutus shall take my place as Alpha here. He has mastered Communion alongside me, and understands the importance of the peace and connections we have forged. I look forward to returning soon, to see how Carnor has grown in my absence.
It occurs that these thoughts and stories can be found throughout this diary I have kept, an epic ledger of my growth, adventures, and ultimately my ascension. But I suppose I am simply feeling nostalgic, knowing that this chapter of my life is at a close. I am ready to lead my people now, but I will never forget the savage world that made me who I am. | Day 1:
I’m staring into a fire. Surprisingly. When the escort first dropped me off, ditching me along a cracked, overgrown highway, it was probably noon. They didn’t leave me with much, but I managed to get some flint and magnesium smuggled into my cell last night. It took me a while to find a place that didn’t seem ripe and open, calling for unwanted attention. It was almost dark by the time I gathered the firewood. I was sure I would end up spending the night in the dark forest, a shuddering, stupid-cold, scared old man. Somehow I got a flame going. I have food tonight. A few cans, along with the canteen of water. Nothing else.
Day 11:
I find myself thinking about the Tenby Guard more and more. Ironically, the skills I learned as a young soldier keep me alive now. When I was in the Tenby Guard, we would go out ranging for weeks – even months, on rare occasions. We always lived off the land where we could. I no longer have the strength I once did, but my muscles remember.
I rarely thought about those days as I grew older, but I was not surprised when they arrested and banished me, not after all the people had heard. I accepted it from the beginning. Even during the trials, I never really thought about it. All those horrible things that happened – it feels like they happened to someone else. I didn’t do those things. I’m just an old man. I know I did, but that’s how it feels.
Day 23:
I remembered something today. Something I haven’t thought about in a long time.
Gulfcrest. Of all the crimes the people raved about, Gulfcrest was cried the loudest and most often. Those days are all a haze to me, but today I recalled one of the incidents that happened during the battle.
We had been raiding Gulfcrest’s lands for weeks. We found their defenses lacking, but they always burned their own crops and supplies before we could get them. We were all suffering ourselves then, many of us sick with fever and hunger.
We finally assaulted their main settlement, taking many casualties ourselves. We spared few when we finally overcame them and we took everything.
I remember blood and screaming. Drunkenness. The actions of men who have endured the extreme. Gulfcrest had surprisingly little in the way of supplies and food. They had been picked apart by raiders for decades, with few stores built up. In our anger, many of us took it out on the survivors.
Now people condemn us, the people of Tenby. We suffered for them. Even after the battle of Gulfcrest, we sent what little we took back to the city and its starving people. We took almost nothing for ourselves. Now the city flourishes, preserved through desperate times by men like us. They survive because of us, and now that they have wealth and food and luxury they discard us for what we did.
It was a long time ago, but I can see it more clearly now. I have little else to do out here other than contemplate the past and the future.
Day 597:
Tenby lays before me now. I have spoken to General Mills and we have decided we'll move on the city tomorrow. I first met Mills in the Tenby Guard. He and I were some of the first to reunite and find each other in the wilderness, and it was he and I who first began to spread our influence in the lands surrounding the city.
I wonder if they realize who lies at their door. They threw us out, many of us in our fifties and sixties, the hundreds who had served this city, for what we did. We have come back to them. They should have killed us. Now we lead other men into battle, men we have turned into soldiers. We have not forgotten how to sack a city. I will fight here myself. Mills gifted me with an M1 carbine he discovered. I will put it to good use.
Day 599:
Tenby weeps. I have come home.
| |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
Why am I here? How an I going to live? I don't think I'll survive. Oh well. Don't know why the fuck they gave me this journal.
Maybe it's an experiment. I wouldn't know. I'll develop some kind of system. I always do.
Meanwhile, I'll find out who those people are. Hopefully there will be clues. I'll have my revenge somehow. They gave me a very long lasting pen, a blank book, and an army knife. Those very items they gave me will be their end.
--------------------------------
LAST DAY HERE!!!
Full Moon Cycle: 239
Day Cycle: 29
Sun Cycle: about 5 hours
Reminders:
-MC:239 DC:29 is last day!
-Room 57 needs repairing. Water is
leaking.
-New wolf nearby. Keep watch.
-Stream is starting to flood a little bit. Reinforce walls built 12 moon cycles ago.
I hear them. They're coming. I've known it for years. They were testing people to find one strong enough. The clues were there. The Hollow is safe for me to live. I have a system that keeps me alive.
I'm in Room 48. One built (or dug) 5 moon cycles ago. It was my emergency room. It's got feathers and moss to keep it warm. Also a little entrance to the water system in case of emergencies. My original knife is here. I put it here, knowing full well that today will be the day I need it. For the first time in years.
I promised that the three items they gave me would be the items that lead to their demise.
My pen and book have kept my data safe through the years. They have helped me solve this mystery. My knife will be the one to touch their filthy hearts.
I'm prepared, but honestly, I haven't seen a human in years. Give me a fox, and I'll deal with it better than I would a human. Even if it might remind me of my distant memories with little Foxy.
Still better than a human.
They're getting closer- quickly. It won't be much longer.
I refuse to be their One.
I must leave now, with my knife in hand. These twenty years all come down to this. | March 18, 1972
Dear diary,
Hi! My name's Gary. I finally got banished today! It took seven long years, but I finally made it! All I had to do was poo in the village well and poof! Banished! I'm never going to have to shuck an ear of corn again, or take out the trash, or make things out of wood, or watch those boring ass sacrificial voodoo bullshit ceremonies ever ever again! From here on out its smooth sailing. Just me and nature. I'm gonna be eating fruit and licking trippy toads all day every day. Get ready jungle cause Gary's here for 20 years!
March 18, 1992
Dear diary,
Well chief look-at-me-i-remember-how-long-people-are-banished showed up today. I was really hoping his old wrinkly ass would forget and just leave me alone but oh no, he came all the way out to my hut(which is way prettier than those god awful mud piles they call huts back at the village) and had the nerve to act like HE was doing ME a favor by "letting" me come back. Then, he has the nerve to ask me for an apology. Its been twenty years you old bag of what I'm assuming are arthritis-riddled bones! Get over it! Anyways I've decided when we make it back to the village I'm going straight back to the well and taking another big stinky poo right in the middle of that raggedy horribly color designed brick hole they call a well ( we live like a mile from the river you lazy bastards) and I'm just gonna pray that they banish me again. Anyways I have to go take a walk or something. If chief no teeth says one more thing about spirits and journeys I am seriously going to scream! | |
[WP] A man is banished to the wilderness for 20 years. Write his diary entries for his first and last days of exile. | Day 1:
Why am I here? How an I going to live? I don't think I'll survive. Oh well. Don't know why the fuck they gave me this journal.
Maybe it's an experiment. I wouldn't know. I'll develop some kind of system. I always do.
Meanwhile, I'll find out who those people are. Hopefully there will be clues. I'll have my revenge somehow. They gave me a very long lasting pen, a blank book, and an army knife. Those very items they gave me will be their end.
--------------------------------
LAST DAY HERE!!!
Full Moon Cycle: 239
Day Cycle: 29
Sun Cycle: about 5 hours
Reminders:
-MC:239 DC:29 is last day!
-Room 57 needs repairing. Water is
leaking.
-New wolf nearby. Keep watch.
-Stream is starting to flood a little bit. Reinforce walls built 12 moon cycles ago.
I hear them. They're coming. I've known it for years. They were testing people to find one strong enough. The clues were there. The Hollow is safe for me to live. I have a system that keeps me alive.
I'm in Room 48. One built (or dug) 5 moon cycles ago. It was my emergency room. It's got feathers and moss to keep it warm. Also a little entrance to the water system in case of emergencies. My original knife is here. I put it here, knowing full well that today will be the day I need it. For the first time in years.
I promised that the three items they gave me would be the items that lead to their demise.
My pen and book have kept my data safe through the years. They have helped me solve this mystery. My knife will be the one to touch their filthy hearts.
I'm prepared, but honestly, I haven't seen a human in years. Give me a fox, and I'll deal with it better than I would a human. Even if it might remind me of my distant memories with little Foxy.
Still better than a human.
They're getting closer- quickly. It won't be much longer.
I refuse to be their One.
I must leave now, with my knife in hand. These twenty years all come down to this. | Entry 1 Cycle 3
All they gave me was this journal, a pencil and a knife. I don't know why I'm writing in this. Maybe to cope with my sanity. Therapeutic shit. Whatever helps I guess. Who the fuck knows anymore. I'm going to find a way out of here. It's so hot here.
Notes:
- ~~18~~ 20 Hour day?
- The things with the flaps on their head have more meat than the things with the claws. Easier to catch too.
- Canyons are north of base camp.
- Sharpen knife ~~*every so often*~~ every day
- Nearest river is 302 steps east of base camp
- The flying fuckers have acidic shit, avoid if possible
-
Entry 7021 Cycle ~~10,000~~ ??
SOMEONE'S HERE
DREADNOUGHT
CRASH LANDed Probably
Maybe they CAN helP.
I hate this place
FUCK THIS PLANET, FUCK THE HEAT, FUCK YOU WARREN FUCK EVERYTHING
I'm going to find the People who Did this to Me, go To Their caMp and grind their bonEs into powdEr
IT"S SO HOT HERE
| |
[WP] An alien civilization declares war on humanity. They soon realize that humans have invented weapons that no other civilization they know of has: firearms. | Yupar examined the corpses of his men all lined up along the ground, eyes closed and arms by their sides. Dried blue blood coagulated in patches where their skin opened up, sometimes at the waist, sometimes at the thigh of one of their four legs, sometimes in the head, and sometimes invisible – until you flipped the bodies around.
“Seventeen… eighteen… nineteen… this is too many”, Yupar thought aloud. “On every single planet we’ve been to, we’ve never lost so many in a day – or even in a whole gyar.” (A gyar is about 45 human days)
“So what’s the problem?” Yupar asked his lieutenant, a squat, Khine who hopped around on three legs, having lost one in battle (or rather, after, as one of the women he met at a brothel caught him by surprise).
“The people here – they seem to have something we don’t, and something we’ve never seen before,” replied Lin, his voice shaking in the presence of his mentor, superior and lord. “They have these devices – these, these things that can hit us from far away. There’s just a little burst and a loud noise, and the next thing you know, one of our Khine is lying face down, blood squirting out of a hole in his body as he tells us to tell his mother he loves her.”
“What?” exclaimed Yupar, shocked. “The Khine are the undisputed masters of the universe. For millennia we have gone to distant worlds, colonised them and showed them the correct way of life. How can it be that this mere stripling of a civilisation, ugly and poor can defeat us in battle?”
“I can explain that, sir,” said a young, ambitious scientist, looking particularly academic with spectacles drooped unevenly over all of his eyes. “These people, humans as they like to call themselves, have an unfair advantage over us.”
“What’s that?” said Yupar, curious to know what could stop his God-sent mission.
“Experience. According to one of the humans I captured, they’ve developed these things – guns they call them – along with thousands of other weapons over generations of combat.”
“But who have they been fighting? I thought we were the first civilised species to reach this planet.”
“Yes, we are, but you see – they’ve been fighting each other. For years, they’ve been killing, maiming, hurting each other, trying to get better than one another at it. Why? I’ve been trying to get my hostage to tell me, but all she says is that they do it for things: wealth, land, power – but I think she’s lying. Not even humans are barbaric enough to kill each other over such frivolities.”
“You – you mean these people kill each other?” Yupar exclaimed incredulously.
“It would appear to be that way,” replied Ong the young scientist, adjusting his glasses as he spoke.
Yupar turned around and walked a few steps in silence. He looked out of the front window of his ship, at the cloudy blue planet before him, spinning slowly. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, as though he were trying to contain nausea.
“Let’s turn around,” he said, with a quiet conviction in his voice.
“B-but the mission,” fumbled Lin, “What about all these Khine who died, what about bringing the word of God to these people?”
“I think there’s no point,” Yupar stated as the blue planet disappeared out of view through the large window at the ship’s nose. “Not even God can save these people.”
| It was said, The Collective would never taste defeat. We thought ourselves the apex predator of the universe.
As a result of reverse engineering the trajectory of a small unmanned craft 20 cycles past, our probes had located several planets and moons ripe for harvesting in the Sol system. As we had countless times before since the ascension to the stars, we moved to establish a mining outpost on a world devoid of lower life forms. We choose the second planet. It gave us a comfortable place, devoid of the atmospheric poisons on the third planet and the so called primitive life forms able to breathe them in. A place to replenish our resources before moving on to the mineral rich third planet. Successful conquest was assured. Or so we thought.
We moved our fleet to orbit the third planet. We used the knowledge gleaned from the gold disc we plucked from the probe to transmit a message over every wireless signal we observed they could interpret. In an effort to speed up our harvest, we advised them that we would only eradicate the populations that were in the way of our harvest. Simply put, do not interfere and we would not cleanse the planet. Their first assault was dozens of primitive Thermonuclear warheads strapped to inconceivable contraptions burning volatile liquids in a reaction with the poisonous oxygen. A thermomagnetic field rendered the warheads useless but we had no way to stop the kinetic force of the weapons. Two of our harvesters were lost. We stopped congratulating ourselves.
We sent our ground troops to secure our lost craft to protect our technology from being acquired by these primitives. Our vastly superior technology was in fact no match for what we have learned they call firearms. The projectiles tore through our armors exposing our troops to deadly amounts of oxygen. Then we discovered the grim truth. The projectiles almost universally contain lead. None of our soldier survived the exposure.
We thought them primitive. They proved adaptable and resourceful. Their simplicity was their strength. All of our vaunted technology proved no reliable way to disable them. They've begun to reverse engineer propulsion systems recovered from our lost vessels. If they are able to shake off the yoke of their terrestrial existence, I fear they will seek revenge. I urge you, make peace, or find a way to protect our people from the poison.
The truth is, if you do not, we may not survive our first defeat. | |
[WP] An alien civilization declares war on humanity. They soon realize that humans have invented weapons that no other civilization they know of has: firearms. | I am loathe to admit it, but you were correct.
I thought this coalition needed to be immediate and now, not just for the sake of CNN. We have enough disagreements where we live I knew this would join us together. I KNEW that we needed to be one to fight them off. They came from all around us, found our marble of life, and declared this insane war. I thought maybe their olive branch was discarded by those... less enthused. So I discarded the idea of fighting them off as nation and looked to the world as support. After all, different as we may be we are family and this opportunity to stand together results in a period political scientists have been dreaming about before the dawn of political power. Of course whatever country had first contact would take advantage and rule the world. But these aliens... they arrived with sticks. These 'light sabers' only increased the effectiveness of our rounds, melting them into molten slag that does more than we hoped for. We hope to understand how they control plasma, their interstellar drives. But I need to apologize for accusing you of ruining our chances of peace. You had no play, and your interplanet intel was correct. Your estimates of forces that humans needed to stand up were more correct, if skewed based on your poor training methods.
And with that, they hardly needed a division. They hardly needed attention really, I have put down cults that fought back harder. I back your "Empire" and I look forward to spreading humanism.
U.S.A. | Aliens invaded but they didn't have guns. We had guns so we killed then as soon as they got off their spaceships. Now we have guns and spaceships. We wonder who else has spaceships but no guns. | |
[WP] An alien civilization declares war on humanity. They soon realize that humans have invented weapons that no other civilization they know of has: firearms. | This is actually the plot to an incredibly amazing science fiction short story called The Road Not Taken. Read it here, it's amazing. http://www.eyeofmidas.com/scifi/Turtledove_RoadNotTaken.pdf | Aliens invaded but they didn't have guns. We had guns so we killed then as soon as they got off their spaceships. Now we have guns and spaceships. We wonder who else has spaceships but no guns. | |
[WP] An alien civilization declares war on humanity. They soon realize that humans have invented weapons that no other civilization they know of has: firearms. | Action report: Sol 3
The combination of a self-preservation instinct and absolute disregard for safety is strange. One that Humanity seems to posses in abundance. The seeming contradiction has allowed them to overcome our warriors. As so many species do they desire to live and propagate. Unlike other species, their empathy doesn't include the whole of their race. Instead they have survived by sacrificing parts of themselves from limbs to whole cultures. Fighting viciously against their own kin. They use explosives on a daily basis. It moves their vehicles, drives their industry, and worse of all: powers their weaponry.
The sheer amount of space junk in their orbit should have been our first warning. Many of our ships were forced to hold back and put full power into navigation deflectors. When the first troop carriers landed to disgorge the armies, they came forward hoping for diplomacy. I laughed at the presence of yet another pacifist society.
We should have paused to analyze their history and culture more closely. The purge began according to protocol. Stellar reflectors began burning the population centers as the planet-side forces moved to seize the key resources. Initial Human loses were huge, immediate, and within projections. The subalterns were disturbed though. Our own casualties were much higher than expected.
Oh our photon beams were plenty effective, and the Humans had some primitive lasers of their own. Yet field reports of something else flashing from human positions was noted. Bodies riddled with shrapnel, burns began to flood the infirmaries. Their armor was PIERCED, and reflective panels shattered. Rather than bother with the higher mysteries the Humans had instead mastered the most basic force of all: kinetics.
Analysis revealed they were using explosive chemicals to propel pointed metal lumps. At larger scales they used magnetism. The human obsession with fire was disturbing. Suddenly the vast carbon emissions in the atmosphere made all too much sense. Then I saw them. Erupting from hidden holes and bases was a wave of orbital automatons. Riding on plumes of ignited volatiles. We have fought drones before and indeed we were fighting air drones on the planet.
With a grin I prepared the fleet for the slow moving boost vehicles before their payloads of fighters could be released. They were not fighter-craft, but fissile weapons of compacted uranium and plutonium. Truly strange that creatures composed mostly of water could wield fire with such efficiency. The Humans sacrificed their own global satellite network, which was unshielded mind you. Dozens of the devices emerged from each vehicle and slammed into our ships.
The Fleet was eradicated, the remaining ships were irradiated to dangerous levels. The armies were requesting retreat in the face of increasing resistance. I hadn't the ships to grant their pleas. More weapons chased us out of orbit as we fled the irradiated zone. Finally we were clear. I ordered all personal to self-annihilate to prevent capture, and fled. My life is in your hands my liege for I am disgraced.
-Kadask, Grand Marshall of the Crusade. | Aliens invaded but they didn't have guns. We had guns so we killed then as soon as they got off their spaceships. Now we have guns and spaceships. We wonder who else has spaceships but no guns. | |
[WP] An alien civilization declares war on humanity. They soon realize that humans have invented weapons that no other civilization they know of has: firearms. | Action report: Sol 3
The combination of a self-preservation instinct and absolute disregard for safety is strange. One that Humanity seems to posses in abundance. The seeming contradiction has allowed them to overcome our warriors. As so many species do they desire to live and propagate. Unlike other species, their empathy doesn't include the whole of their race. Instead they have survived by sacrificing parts of themselves from limbs to whole cultures. Fighting viciously against their own kin. They use explosives on a daily basis. It moves their vehicles, drives their industry, and worse of all: powers their weaponry.
The sheer amount of space junk in their orbit should have been our first warning. Many of our ships were forced to hold back and put full power into navigation deflectors. When the first troop carriers landed to disgorge the armies, they came forward hoping for diplomacy. I laughed at the presence of yet another pacifist society.
We should have paused to analyze their history and culture more closely. The purge began according to protocol. Stellar reflectors began burning the population centers as the planet-side forces moved to seize the key resources. Initial Human loses were huge, immediate, and within projections. The subalterns were disturbed though. Our own casualties were much higher than expected.
Oh our photon beams were plenty effective, and the Humans had some primitive lasers of their own. Yet field reports of something else flashing from human positions was noted. Bodies riddled with shrapnel, burns began to flood the infirmaries. Their armor was PIERCED, and reflective panels shattered. Rather than bother with the higher mysteries the Humans had instead mastered the most basic force of all: kinetics.
Analysis revealed they were using explosive chemicals to propel pointed metal lumps. At larger scales they used magnetism. The human obsession with fire was disturbing. Suddenly the vast carbon emissions in the atmosphere made all too much sense. Then I saw them. Erupting from hidden holes and bases was a wave of orbital automatons. Riding on plumes of ignited volatiles. We have fought drones before and indeed we were fighting air drones on the planet.
With a grin I prepared the fleet for the slow moving boost vehicles before their payloads of fighters could be released. They were not fighter-craft, but fissile weapons of compacted uranium and plutonium. Truly strange that creatures composed mostly of water could wield fire with such efficiency. The Humans sacrificed their own global satellite network, which was unshielded mind you. Dozens of the devices emerged from each vehicle and slammed into our ships.
The Fleet was eradicated, the remaining ships were irradiated to dangerous levels. The armies were requesting retreat in the face of increasing resistance. I hadn't the ships to grant their pleas. More weapons chased us out of orbit as we fled the irradiated zone. Finally we were clear. I ordered all personal to self-annihilate to prevent capture, and fled. My life is in your hands my liege for I am disgraced.
-Kadask, Grand Marshall of the Crusade. | I am loathe to admit it, but you were correct.
I thought this coalition needed to be immediate and now, not just for the sake of CNN. We have enough disagreements where we live I knew this would join us together. I KNEW that we needed to be one to fight them off. They came from all around us, found our marble of life, and declared this insane war. I thought maybe their olive branch was discarded by those... less enthused. So I discarded the idea of fighting them off as nation and looked to the world as support. After all, different as we may be we are family and this opportunity to stand together results in a period political scientists have been dreaming about before the dawn of political power. Of course whatever country had first contact would take advantage and rule the world. But these aliens... they arrived with sticks. These 'light sabers' only increased the effectiveness of our rounds, melting them into molten slag that does more than we hoped for. We hope to understand how they control plasma, their interstellar drives. But I need to apologize for accusing you of ruining our chances of peace. You had no play, and your interplanet intel was correct. Your estimates of forces that humans needed to stand up were more correct, if skewed based on your poor training methods.
And with that, they hardly needed a division. They hardly needed attention really, I have put down cults that fought back harder. I back your "Empire" and I look forward to spreading humanism.
U.S.A. | |
[WP] Go outside for ten minutes. Describe what's there in vivid detail. | I go out and theres some trees, they are brown and green and shit. I see some grass and fallen tree stuff. I see a field: homogeneous. There's a deck with brown parts on top and all white in the middle. There are some objects on the deck, but mostly what you would expect. If I described them you'd probably be bored. | An endless forest of uniform green covers the sun soaked soil breaking way to the towers of cedar who fight an endless battle against the reverberating mechanical atrocity's grunts of labor. Great winged beasts break the monotony of this battle with it's piercing cry and beady black eyes hunting for nourishment.
or
A yard surrounded by fence with the hum of the city around with birds making a bit of noise.
Well i started it that's oughta count for something. And be gentle first time here and I never claimed to be a good writer. Have a good day. | |
[WP] Go outside for ten minutes. Describe what's there in vivid detail. | I go out and theres some trees, they are brown and green and shit. I see some grass and fallen tree stuff. I see a field: homogeneous. There's a deck with brown parts on top and all white in the middle. There are some objects on the deck, but mostly what you would expect. If I described them you'd probably be bored. | Melodious chirps reach my ears in a symphony of color. It is sweet until the A/C unit kicks in. The smell of a rain gone by passes by and I feel refreshed. The wind brushing the hair on my arms and rustling the trees. The concrete porch dampened and greened from the moss. A plot of land I am very familiar with, bordered by an aluminum fence. Short grass cut a couple of days ago alive with color. A squirrel moves to hide his cache. The house across the way hasn't had its lawn trimmed. The oaks sway with grace. Cars from the road make a dull rumble. This is my home, I couldn't feel more welcome. | |
[WP] Go outside for ten minutes. Describe what's there in vivid detail. | I go out and theres some trees, they are brown and green and shit. I see some grass and fallen tree stuff. I see a field: homogeneous. There's a deck with brown parts on top and all white in the middle. There are some objects on the deck, but mostly what you would expect. If I described them you'd probably be bored. | You know what's outside, right- same damn thing as what's inside, that's what. We can't see anything that's not us. I see the billboard outside, selling tires, and I don't see the billboard, or tires, but instead my father, and his mortality.
Like that cherry red convertible cutting through the wind like a kamikaze Bing cherry - that's a wish that one day I'd be happy, and free, and full of peace.
So I don't do vivid much. I let my eyes dance, never settling on the expressions in the other drivers' faces, lined with anxiety and sleep deprivation and God knows what else- as they sit and wait in traffic. Because I've seen it all before and decided I don't much like seeing it.
So the trees- they're green. The tires, black. And my eyes keep dancing beneath a blue sky.
I really should buy some new tires. | |
[WP] Go outside for ten minutes. Describe what's there in vivid detail. | I go out and theres some trees, they are brown and green and shit. I see some grass and fallen tree stuff. I see a field: homogeneous. There's a deck with brown parts on top and all white in the middle. There are some objects on the deck, but mostly what you would expect. If I described them you'd probably be bored. | The neighborhood writhed in stirring silence. A door closed, the scrape of shoes on concrete, then the neighborhood turns around in bed and covers itself in silence once again.
The air began to move in a gentle whisper, and the starlings began to twitch and chirp. A car rumbled past. A tree crackled all its leaves. Silence had no choice but to receded to the slow humming of a Saturday morning.
The day awakened, but it was still sleepy. The overcast sky promised cool temperatures and a slow start to the day. Not even the newly hatched starlings protest the languor. An ambient glow illuminates the world, and Earth's creatures enjoy the peace of a new day. | |
[WP] Go outside for ten minutes. Describe what's there in vivid detail. | "You should put her on a gentle lead."
It took a moment to even hear what Larry had said over the shuddering rumble of the A/C unit hanging out of Ricardo's window, but I nodded anyway like I had understood. "She's not usually like this," I answered absently, tugging on Kaylee's leash to keep her close as she tried to drag me down the cracked pavement towards the lazing hill at my left that separated the buildings from the bustle.
Larry's response was lost in his laugh and stumble when he went back upstairs, his footsteps padding softer and softer over the suspended walkway until I heard his door shut. I started walking.
There had been a lot of apartment complexes over the last three years years, but this one was definitely the nicest. The roofs were gabled and tiled in typical Florida terra cotta, the gutters hugging their soffets and brushing identical Venetian plaster on every building throughout the blocks. Hedges that were almost too well kept lined the two-lane road as it struck a gently curved path from the trash compactor all the way up to the leasing office. In front of the pool it looped into a roundabout and then continued, but we never went that far; that was where the villas were, after all.
A tractor trailer roared past the hill I was walking Kaylee over and we both stopped to watch it for a moment before she started to tug again. I frowned and shook my head. "Maybe I should get you a gentle lead," I sighed, following her pull back towards our unit, "whatever the hell that is." | The neighborhood writhed in stirring silence. A door closed, the scrape of shoes on concrete, then the neighborhood turns around in bed and covers itself in silence once again.
The air began to move in a gentle whisper, and the starlings began to twitch and chirp. A car rumbled past. A tree crackled all its leaves. Silence had no choice but to receded to the slow humming of a Saturday morning.
The day awakened, but it was still sleepy. The overcast sky promised cool temperatures and a slow start to the day. Not even the newly hatched starlings protest the languor. An ambient glow illuminates the world, and Earth's creatures enjoy the peace of a new day. | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | "Happy birthday, Hun." As I turn over in bed to face my long time partner. I am greeted by a tray of steaming food slowly being placed on my waist.
"My favorite," I quietly exclaimed, sitting up, still half asleep. "French Toast with strawberries and *yawn* mint water." She smiled. "You're the big seven-o! How does it to feel to be one step closer to the grave?" As she chuckled, I snarkily reminded her that she was closer than I was. "In fact, I can almost smell the embalming fluid on you." She laughed.
As I finished my breakfast in bed, my wife of 32 years left and went back down stairs to the kitchen to clean up the left over mess. As I start to roll out of bed, I hear our cat's bell jingle. "Hey, Genevra!" I yell towards the doorway. "Have you looked at the cat's date lately?" "No," she quickly replied, as I heard the squeak of the kitchen spout turn on. "I'll check his date later." After hearing her response, I quickly realized how complacent I've become with her 6^th ability, the ability to read the death date of all living thing's. I got dressed and took my tray of plates and utensils down stairs.
She described her 6^th ability to me one time. She said it was just numbers that floated above living creature's heads in the classic month, day, and year order. Although, those numbers were always changing depending on the decisions people made. One time as a young girl, she watched a man's date change to the very next day moments after he had hung up the phone inside a telephone booth. Ever since then, she has only used her 6^th ability selectively. Mostly on her pets to ease the pain of them passing on.
As I past her in the kitchen and placed a small peck on her gray head, I wondered if I would live to ever see my 6^th ability emerge. Hell, at this pointed I'd take a commoner's enhanced 5^th ability. Some super strength would come in handy at this old age. I would finally have the strength back in my hips and I wouldn't be so slow moving around.
Most humans get an enhanced 5^th ability. Smell, sight, that sort of thing. But some are blessed with a 6^th ability. Those powers that don't come from one of the 5 senses. And no human has ever been recorded of dieing without one of the two abilities at some point in their life. I walk into the living room to search for the TV remote when suddenly, someone pounded on my front door.
"Mark, Mark! Are you home?! Hurry, open up!" The voice muffled by the door sounded familiar. I cracked open the door and to my surprise, I saw an old acquaintance of mine. "Billy," I confusingly stated while opening the rest of the door. "What are you doing here? I recall paying you to silently *stay away*." He looked a bit shorter than I remember, with hair peaking out of his nose, a raisin for a bald head, and waring dirty old baggy clothes on. The last 30 years were not as kind to him. Maybe that was my ability I thought. "I wouldn't come if it wasn't important Mark." He urged in a shushed tone. "Talk to me out here for a moment." As he stepped away from the door and walked towards the front of my garage. I turned to the kitchen and lifted my voice, "Hey Hun, I gotta talk to this guy for minute. I'll just be out front." I didn't wait for a response as I shut the door behind me and hobbled toward Billy. He looked nervous, obviously something was amiss.
"I'll make this quick Mark. You don't have much time." As he said this, he raised his hand and started to rub his temple and told me something I never thought I would hear. "The FBI have located you, partner. Someone saw the story about you on America's Most Wanted and turned in a tip." Time seemed to have stopped. By now his hand moved from his temple to my shoulder. In the past, I would of never allowed him to touch me. With his ability, every time he touched someone, he gained random knowledge from the person he was in-contact with. But this moment was different from any other.
He quickly reeled his hand back and I regained my composer. "How did you find out? I asked. "The last working connection I have inside the Bureau contacted me yesterday. I drove all night from Portland to tell you. I couldn't risk my safety over the phone to warn you." "Luckily for you, Seattle isn't too far of a drive." I respond and turned to start to walking back inside. "Wait," Billy exclaimed. "That's it? You don't even seem scared." I turned my head back at him and replied, "I've been prepared for this for the last few years now. I didn't think it would happen, but I'm ready. Take care Billy and get outta here." As I continued my walk back, I heard him mumble under his breath, "Still the same asshole."
I was inside when I heard his car engine start and take off.
I quickly made my way to the stairs and went into my bedroom. The top drawer was my target. Inside was a Glock G17 that I quickly shoved into my waistline and made my way back down stairs and to the door. "Gen," I shouted as I stepped out of the house. "I'm going for a quick walk, I'll be back soon. Love ya." "Love you too." And with that, I slowly shut the door and make my way to the sidewalk to look at my house, for the last time.
The memories came and went quick. We had lived in this house for 15 years. We traveled all over the world before settling here. I never stayed in one place for long. I started my walk away from home and headed towards downtown. It wasn't too far away. The sun had hid it's self behind dark grey clouds like it does on most days. As the suburban slowly started to turn into the city, I started to remember back to all the crimes Billy and I committed in our youth. With his ability to collect random information from people. We would set our mark on banks. He'd bump into, shake hands, or do anything to touch the most important heads of security until he gathered the information we needed as I broke in and stole the cash, or simply gave up and moved onto a different. Which made our hits so random, no police in any part of the world could keep up or predict where we would strike next. Law enforcement for years thought that I had an ability that world had never seen before. We stole millions over a nine year period. Than, I met Gen. I continued to steal and occasionally murder, when someone thought about being a hero. But I didn't want her to find out and the traveling salesman cover story was getting harder and harder to keep up. So Billy and I split the money and parted ways, to only move a state away from each other.
As my reminiscing concluded, I noticed was downtown near Pike's place. I could smell the fresh catch and see the crowd gathered around the men tossing fish across the booths to each other. I slip down an alley way. A short cut to The Pink Door I know for one last drink.
I sit down. "Chardonnay, please." I shout to the waiter walking towards me. He turns around and heads to the back. Never been much a whiskey guy, and I wasn't going to start today. That's when I see the FBI bust in through the front door. The lead agent is dressed in all black with FBI on the front in white screams, "Mark Hamilton!" Get on the ground, **now**! More agents pour in with guns drawn, all pointing at me. All dressed the same with helmets and body armor. I can only see just above the bridge of their nose and below the brow. Before they can get set and on their knees, I quickly pull out my Glock and point the barrel at my own temple.
The lead man lowers his gun and starts talking, but I can't hear a word he utters. All that I hear is the voice of Gen. All the memories flood back, and all but confirms I'm doing the right thing. I can't have her knowing that I did those things. I murdered many people and stole from many countries. At best, I can die in this shoot out and have her doubt that I actually did it. She'll think, "They had the wrong man, my husband would never do those things. He was a good man!" This this the best I can do, and I all I can hope for. The gun pointed at head is just to by time, to jog a last few memories before I turn this gun on the agents in front of me.
As I turn the Glock towards the agents still shouting, I notice one of the agents forearms are massive. He's also the first to squeeze his trigger along with myself, and yet, my trigger feels so heavy. Not because of age, (I had practiced shooting this gun last week.) All that was running through my mind, was the guilt of leaving Gen behind.
My trigger never gave. Only one shot was fired. I felt it pierce my forehead but I didn't feel any pain. I fall out of my chair and onto the floor as my eyes slowly closed, and all I could see was her smile. With tears stinging my eyes, I force them shut.
To my surprise, I reopened my eyes. I saw watery agents looking at me still in their knelled positions. "They must of just grazed me." I assumed. I quickly get up and see multiple bullets fly into my chest. "It's over." I mumble to myself as my body falls backwards and hits the floor once more, just to lay there in an unspeakable amount of pain. I see my blood everywhere and some brain matter from the first shot. That's when the rest of my intact brain puts together what's going on.
Happy birthday to me.
I had passed out from the pain and came to wearing cuffs and a body chain which is strapped down to the van carrying me. After a few silent moments. I started to laugh. The agents look at me funny, as my laugh grew louder and louder to this thought: What would of Gen saw if she had looked at my date? | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | At least it wasn't something mundane.
People like to feel sorry for me, like I'm crippled or something.
Pfft. I've lived a decent, normal life - so what if I didn't have a power? I still grew up, went to college, got married, and did everything a normal guy would.
If you wanna feel sorry for someone, feel bad for the people who can remotely flush toilets, or turn into a rock, or change the channel without a remote or something.
Me? At least I had hope that *when* I got my power, it'd be badass.
And I got it, too, though I think I've given the orderly a heart attack.
I can set myself on fire, like the human torch. How fucking cool is that?
Kind of shitty that I'm not fireproof, though.
Fuck.
| I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | I still remember the News Reports as a child All the Men that are paid to watch the sky warned us of this day. A meteorite about the size of Delaware was approaching are planet. This Meteor seemed to come out of no where but as many scientist would explain it could have come from any of the 60 percent of unobserved space. Regardless of its Origins it was closing in. That is when all the great minds of the world got to together and decided to do nothing. It seemed the meteor despite its great size and threat would by all accounts miss our planet just by the distance of the moon or two. That night when it passed by our earth me and my parents all sat on our roofs and watched as the night sky became illuminated by the biggest comet you will ever see. And many even the experts thought that would be the end of it.
The powers began to show up almost immediately. At first they where small almost inconvenient the power to stick to walls or to look at two places at once. Then the big ones started to show up, the ability to fly, speed, and strength. Then their was the Oddball abilities like walking on water or instantly melting ice. My wife had a power like that she could clean water with a touch of her hand. The scientist didn't really have an explanation but the consensus was that the Meteor that had just missed our planet years earlier seems to have given every man, woman, and child on the earth powers or at least those alive at the time. Newborns didn't seem to get this powers. I watched and grew up as every child hood friend, relative , and acquaintance got a power but not me. Some say it was a gift to be normal in a world full of the strange. I felt like an outsider until i met Karen. Karen my wife made me feel like I did have powers. Then she discovered h er's. Her power consumed her life after that. It started with Trips with the red cross to devastated regions places where water supply was compromised. She was like a angel from God to those people even with the powers they had Clean water was invaluable. Then she started to go on her own eventually she moved To these countries never coming home at all. I tried to follow her to live with her but it became clear she only had room In her life for one love and it wasn't me. I think last i heard she was in remote location of china helping Villagers clean their underground water supply after it had been contaminated by toxic runoff from a power plant. That was years ago now i was an old man. I never remarried never had the heart to do it. No bastard children running around either I was alone. That is when i felt the pain in my chest on the eve on my 70 birthday. I tried to call for help but the ever growing pressure and pain in my chest seemed to catch the words and stuff them back in my mouth. This is how it would end an unremarkable life in a most remarkable time if i could do it all over again how I would change the world. Then I blackout, when i awoke I felt the strangest sensation my body was tingling from head to toe. I headed for the Restroom having the need to empty the contents of my stomach. I didn't even realize my clothes where way to big for me as i stumbled in. After I regain my composure I looked at myself in the mirror to find a young 20 something man looking back. I looked at my hands to find these where the hands of a young man and after further inspection i found that all of my other faculties had followed suit. That when i realized my powers had finally manifested itself I was a the physical embodiment of the phoenix to regenerate upon death.
The experts believe that the Meteor will come back. It will take some time it has to loop around the sun a couple more times should be about 70 years from now. By then all of the ones gifted with abilities should be gone and the age of heroes with them. How wrong they are. | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | The world had been in disaray for as long as I could remember, and that had been a long time - 69 years, 11 months, and 29 days to be exact. Ever since the event infused humanity with powers, the world had fallen apart. Rampant crime and terror had overtaken the planet as villains become supervillains, and heroes became complacent. No one wanted to be an accountant when they could save the planet, nobody wanted to work at a power plant when they could travel through time as easily as the rancid air that all on the planet breathed. But in the chaos of the world, the only rule was that the power always came before the 50th birthday. Except in my case. And although the people lived forever, and fought wars forever, were sick forever, and watched their society crumble forever, immortality to all had always been seen as the blessing that came after the Event.
Only I could see it as it was - the fence that kept the people in the cage that the God that had either failed them, played a cruel game on them, or been killed by the humans he raised so high that they could only fall long ago. They were all rats in a cage. All but me.
And so, on my 70th Birthday, I finally gained my power. I awoke. I breathed. I saw. I breathed. I saw. And so I chose, I used my power, and I died. | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | For more than thirty years, I lived my life day by day, awaiting that fateful day when I would be granted my own inner power. I saw my friends, family, strangers, all given the most precious thing in life. Lucy, my sweet dear sister, was able to fly to the heavens and back. Richard, my childhood best friend, saved hundreds of lives throughout his life, having the strength of ten men. And there I waited, for years, until my life could start, and I would transform into the real me...the powerful me.
Yet, with each passing day, more people would discover their power, and I would sit waiting at night, forcing myself to sleep. My dreams were filled with possibilities, of flight and strength, and of mind and hope. But as the years passed, my dreams were less vivid. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their inner power. Some die before that beautiful gift is bestowed unto them. I thought that may happen to me. And I lived life for a while, depressed and alone. That was until I met her. Her name was Alison.
She had a power, but chose not use it. She did not want to be defined by her single ability. We met during one of my travels, when I was touring the country trying to find meaning in life. I found it. I found her. From that point on, my life started. I did not care about being granted a special ability as much as I cared for her. I saw my future, a family, a wife, children. We created a beautiful life together.
Alison passed away a few years ago. I had only asked her once what her power was, and she had told me it did not matter. As she was lying on her bed, slowly fading away, she told me what her inner power was. She said she was born with her power, that she had the ability to live forever, as long as she did not love. "My power was a curse, until I found you", she told me before she passed.
Today is my 70th birthday. Today I have discovered what my power is. Old age has not been kind on me, and this is the most beautiful power I could have hoped for. When I remember my wife, the times we spent, they are not just memories any longer. I can feel the brisk of the air on the hill where we first met. I can smell the flowers. I can here her giggle, her breath against my cheek. In the little time I have left on this planet, I experience her love all over again. | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | Call me crazy, but when someone jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge, you expect them to die.
At least most of the time, that is. If it’s not the impact that does them in, they’ll drown for sure. They are exceptions – I’m aware of these more than most – but I didn’t expect to be one.
Yet, as I drifted to the bottom of the San Francisco Bay, I realized that it *would* be my luck. All I wanted to do was go out on my own terms after seventy whole years of this bullshit. Apparently, fate had other plans.
I try to flail my arms but they are useless. I never learned how to swim. I’m not doing much more than wasting more energy in a pointless attempt to surface.
The water grows colder, causing me to shiver. Each inhalation freezes my insides, the feeling of needles pricking my lungs. Yet, I still don’t die. It just hurts like hell.
You know, if you asked me where I thought I’d be at the ripe age of seventy, I wouldn’t say this. I expected to be surrounded by family and loved ones, watching my grandchildren grow up into their powers. Little did I know, I didn’t even grow into my powers myself.
I was branded a Dud, the same as everyone else who hadn’t gained their power by thirty. Some Duds got lucky, though. A had a buddy in my support group who finally got his at around forty-four. Another lady in the news got hers at sixty-two.
But at seventy, I got the hint. God, or whatever not-so-benevolent force out there, has been sending me a pretty clear message for decades now. I was a mistake and had to live out my miserable life constantly reminded of so.
My family disowned me.
My wife left me for a super speed freak.
Even my own kid acted like I had jumped off a bridge years ago.
So I said enough was enough. I decided to end my eight decades of living off with a bang. I always like the Golden Gate Bridge, anyway. It was one of the few places that cleared my mind.
Now, I’m not so sure. My mind is buzzing as my body is being pressed with a fuckton of water. I’m at the bottom now, I think. It doesn’t feel like I’m sinking anymore.
I sigh, or at least try to with a body full of water. Why did I have to discover my immorality now of all times? Oh well, I guess I better start learning how to swim. This is going to take a while.
Happy fucking birthday to me. | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | The sound of a foghorn alarm startled me awake, and I slammed my hand across it in response. It moved a few inches across the table. *I hate that damned thing,* I thought. My third wife had bought it for me some forty years ago. The thing worked like a Nokia phone, though.
I slowly leaned out of my bed, careful to grab the hand-rail. I wasn't as spry as I used to be, for sure. I missed my fifties, like I had missed my twenties only twenty years ago. Time had taken an axe to my perspective, I whined to myself, downing a few of my morning med's.
*And ***FUCK** *me if I take a pill to get hard,* I grumbled. Today was a bad day.
I clicked on the TV, my only companion. The first thing was the news, with that stupid haircut guy, Ron Bullreed. He could float, or some other stupid shit. And he had hair.
Some people have all the luck.
The lady-anchor had hair, too, long and blonde and full of pomp. She read minds, I think. Some funny interviews with her and politicians. And *what a doll!*
They were doing some exposé on a super-villain turned dictator successfully running a country, with a live feed on his speech. The people in front of him were literally becoming zombies, and the camera crew had censored his mouth and muted his words.
"Earlier today, Dr. Dread announced his plans for taking over the entire southern half of South America," Ron said in his nasally voice, arms folded and legs criss-crossed as he floated in the air. *Some Ali-Baba shit right there.*
"But more importantly, is Oprah coming back? *FROM THE DEAD?* Find out tonight at 7 whether the Beauty Doctor can resurrect history's most important woman!" ... Had I just ***king heard that? They were going to air Oprah being pulled out of a coffin over a dictator taking over South America? With zombies?
I pointed my finger at Ron as he blabbed on about tornadoes or something.
"Listen to me, you silly sack of scrotes," I began, "I wish you would slam your head into your stupid, shiny desk until you dented the desk *and* your forehead. I wish you would take that stupid pink tie and *BEG* someone to choke you with it. I WISH YOU WOULD ***KIN' DIE."
He did, too. He did everything I told him too, in order. I'd never seen anything like it, and neither had anyone in the studio. Most powers weren't this aggressive, or this powerful. After he'd finished hammering his face into the desk, he went up to Blondie. She choked him for about two seconds
*big smile on her face, too*
and he promptly died.
I immediately resolved to force resurrected Oprah to kill everyone in sight. My power would be used strictly for good. | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | Jeremy threw open the door of my room with a hurricane force wind that he conjured. "Up and at 'em! It's a bright sunny day, I made sure of it!"
I rolled over in my bed and covered my face with my pillow. "Go away, Jeremy." No matter how many times I remind him, he can't help but rub his powers in my face. I get it. You control the weather. You have a congressional medal of honor for alleviating that big drought. Shut up about it.
Most people are more sensitive. I seem to be the only one here at Sandy Palms Retirement Home who *hasn't* discovered their power. Even the janitor is nice about it, but I still see him snickering as he cleans my toilet with his water controlling. "It'll come," everyone tells me with a sympathetic shoulder pat. Then they fly off to go do something amazing and heroic. How *awesome* for them.
I'm used to it, though. I've dealt with this my whole life. In 6th grade, Sam Elston got his powers: invisibility. He was the first one; it has something to do with puberty allowing the gene to express. I don't remember how all the science works. Sam would regale us with tales of sneaking into the girls locker room, or taking bottles of beer from the local grocery store. Sam was *the man*. Everyone wanted to be him.
By high school, something like a quarter of the school had their powers. I cruised through classes, not really studying or paying particularly close attention. All I could think about were powers. I only got by with the help of Sanjeet, whose power was memory retention and speed-reading. The Ultimate Bookworm, he called himself. Once he memorized most of the library, I never had to worry about another paper or presentation again.
On graduation day, more than half the people had presented. Erin Adams zipped across the stage with her super speed, sending the principal's hat flying off in a gust of wind. Louis Han was too big and muscular to even fit into the photo with the principal, so the yearbook just had a photo of his brawny chest and cut off at the neck. I, however, was still powerless. Sanjeet, of course, got into every college that he wanted, while I stayed home and went to community college. For plumbing. How thrilling and exciting.
And that's basically how the rest of my life went. I fixed pipes for the powerful, glamorous superbeings around me. Luckily no power ever revolved around swapping out corroded components for new valves, otherwise I would have been out of business like so many others. Every day, more and more people I knew would realize their gift. They went on to do amazing things. Linda's heat vision made her an amazing miner who could bore through rocks with surgical precision. Andy's ability to miraculously grow plants made him the biggest farmer in the whole county; who would have thought that we could grow avocados in *Wisconsin*? I just waited and waited for my turn to come. And it never did.
So I retired. I moved down to Florida, away from everyone I knew. I just wanted to live out the rest of my days swimming in the warm waters of the Gulf and forgetting all about superpowers.
"Come on," Jeremy persisted, blowing open my window and sending my blankets and sheets flying across the room. "I'm bored. Let's hit the surf!" He liked to pretend he was still young, though the nice young nurse here with the Rejuvenation power did help quite a bit.
I finally relented and met him out on the blindingly bright beach a few minutes later. Maybe he had a point; a swim would do me good. I shuffled foward across the hot, white sand, zigging and zagging to take advantage of the brief shady cover of beach umbrellas. I could practically hear my feet sizzling.
Finally, I reached the ocean, gently lapping against the shore. I stuck a foot into the water, ready to relieve my burning soles.
The water was... hard. Like glass. I looked down; my foot was resting *on* the water. I felt a weird tingling sensation as the tide pulled the water away again and my toes dug into the sand as it receded. *What the...*
Another wave came. I took another step into it, and the same thing. My foot just stayed on the surface. I took another few steps forward till I got about ten feet out. The water around me seemed to calm, giving me a pretty steady base to walk around.
*I can walk on water*, I realized.
"Hey!" Jeremy yelled from a few feet behind me, "You did it! Your power manifested!"
*All this time I've waited...*
I couldn't help but laugh. "I moved to *fucking Florida*," I told Jeremy. "All the way across the fucking country to enjoy my retirement by the ocean. So that I could just swim in that famous Florida surf every day. And *this* is the shit that I get!" | I awoke, startled, my heart pounding. Disoriented, I sat up in bed and tried to get my bearings. Suddenly I realized what had awoken me. My heart jumps and I spring out of bed, racing downstairs to see my wife.
Peeking round the corner she catches sight of me and gasps. My power has finally been bestowed upon me. The power of an....
UNSTOPPABLE ERECTION!
For years now my hound has laid idly by, too tired and wracked by rheumatoid to chase his own tail as we did for much of my youth. Bit now I have returned in glorious fashion, to share with the world my late blooming and explosive new power... | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | "Happy birthday, Hun." As I turn over in bed to face my long time partner. I am greeted by a tray of steaming food slowly being placed on my waist.
"My favorite," I quietly exclaimed, sitting up, still half asleep. "French Toast with strawberries and *yawn* mint water." She smiled. "You're the big seven-o! How does it to feel to be one step closer to the grave?" As she chuckled, I snarkily reminded her that she was closer than I was. "In fact, I can almost smell the embalming fluid on you." She laughed.
As I finished my breakfast in bed, my wife of 32 years left and went back down stairs to the kitchen to clean up the left over mess. As I start to roll out of bed, I hear our cat's bell jingle. "Hey, Genevra!" I yell towards the doorway. "Have you looked at the cat's date lately?" "No," she quickly replied, as I heard the squeak of the kitchen spout turn on. "I'll check his date later." After hearing her response, I quickly realized how complacent I've become with her 6^th ability, the ability to read the death date of all living thing's. I got dressed and took my tray of plates and utensils down stairs.
She described her 6^th ability to me one time. She said it was just numbers that floated above living creature's heads in the classic month, day, and year order. Although, those numbers were always changing depending on the decisions people made. One time as a young girl, she watched a man's date change to the very next day moments after he had hung up the phone inside a telephone booth. Ever since then, she has only used her 6^th ability selectively. Mostly on her pets to ease the pain of them passing on.
As I past her in the kitchen and placed a small peck on her gray head, I wondered if I would live to ever see my 6^th ability emerge. Hell, at this pointed I'd take a commoner's enhanced 5^th ability. Some super strength would come in handy at this old age. I would finally have the strength back in my hips and I wouldn't be so slow moving around.
Most humans get an enhanced 5^th ability. Smell, sight, that sort of thing. But some are blessed with a 6^th ability. Those powers that don't come from one of the 5 senses. And no human has ever been recorded of dieing without one of the two abilities at some point in their life. I walk into the living room to search for the TV remote when suddenly, someone pounded on my front door.
"Mark, Mark! Are you home?! Hurry, open up!" The voice muffled by the door sounded familiar. I cracked open the door and to my surprise, I saw an old acquaintance of mine. "Billy," I confusingly stated while opening the rest of the door. "What are you doing here? I recall paying you to silently *stay away*." He looked a bit shorter than I remember, with hair peaking out of his nose, a raisin for a bald head, and waring dirty old baggy clothes on. The last 30 years were not as kind to him. Maybe that was my ability I thought. "I wouldn't come if it wasn't important Mark." He urged in a shushed tone. "Talk to me out here for a moment." As he stepped away from the door and walked towards the front of my garage. I turned to the kitchen and lifted my voice, "Hey Hun, I gotta talk to this guy for minute. I'll just be out front." I didn't wait for a response as I shut the door behind me and hobbled toward Billy. He looked nervous, obviously something was amiss.
"I'll make this quick Mark. You don't have much time." As he said this, he raised his hand and started to rub his temple and told me something I never thought I would hear. "The FBI have located you, partner. Someone saw the story about you on America's Most Wanted and turned in a tip." Time seemed to have stopped. By now his hand moved from his temple to my shoulder. In the past, I would of never allowed him to touch me. With his ability, every time he touched someone, he gained random knowledge from the person he was in-contact with. But this moment was different from any other.
He quickly reeled his hand back and I regained my composer. "How did you find out? I asked. "The last working connection I have inside the Bureau contacted me yesterday. I drove all night from Portland to tell you. I couldn't risk my safety over the phone to warn you." "Luckily for you, Seattle isn't too far of a drive." I respond and turned to start to walking back inside. "Wait," Billy exclaimed. "That's it? You don't even seem scared." I turned my head back at him and replied, "I've been prepared for this for the last few years now. I didn't think it would happen, but I'm ready. Take care Billy and get outta here." As I continued my walk back, I heard him mumble under his breath, "Still the same asshole."
I was inside when I heard his car engine start and take off.
I quickly made my way to the stairs and went into my bedroom. The top drawer was my target. Inside was a Glock G17 that I quickly shoved into my waistline and made my way back down stairs and to the door. "Gen," I shouted as I stepped out of the house. "I'm going for a quick walk, I'll be back soon. Love ya." "Love you too." And with that, I slowly shut the door and make my way to the sidewalk to look at my house, for the last time.
The memories came and went quick. We had lived in this house for 15 years. We traveled all over the world before settling here. I never stayed in one place for long. I started my walk away from home and headed towards downtown. It wasn't too far away. The sun had hid it's self behind dark grey clouds like it does on most days. As the suburban slowly started to turn into the city, I started to remember back to all the crimes Billy and I committed in our youth. With his ability to collect random information from people. We would set our mark on banks. He'd bump into, shake hands, or do anything to touch the most important heads of security until he gathered the information we needed as I broke in and stole the cash, or simply gave up and moved onto a different. Which made our hits so random, no police in any part of the world could keep up or predict where we would strike next. Law enforcement for years thought that I had an ability that world had never seen before. We stole millions over a nine year period. Than, I met Gen. I continued to steal and occasionally murder, when someone thought about being a hero. But I didn't want her to find out and the traveling salesman cover story was getting harder and harder to keep up. So Billy and I split the money and parted ways, to only move a state away from each other.
As my reminiscing concluded, I noticed was downtown near Pike's place. I could smell the fresh catch and see the crowd gathered around the men tossing fish across the booths to each other. I slip down an alley way. A short cut to The Pink Door I know for one last drink.
I sit down. "Chardonnay, please." I shout to the waiter walking towards me. He turns around and heads to the back. Never been much a whiskey guy, and I wasn't going to start today. That's when I see the FBI bust in through the front door. The lead agent is dressed in all black with FBI on the front in white screams, "Mark Hamilton!" Get on the ground, **now**! More agents pour in with guns drawn, all pointing at me. All dressed the same with helmets and body armor. I can only see just above the bridge of their nose and below the brow. Before they can get set and on their knees, I quickly pull out my Glock and point the barrel at my own temple.
The lead man lowers his gun and starts talking, but I can't hear a word he utters. All that I hear is the voice of Gen. All the memories flood back, and all but confirms I'm doing the right thing. I can't have her knowing that I did those things. I murdered many people and stole from many countries. At best, I can die in this shoot out and have her doubt that I actually did it. She'll think, "They had the wrong man, my husband would never do those things. He was a good man!" This this the best I can do, and I all I can hope for. The gun pointed at head is just to by time, to jog a last few memories before I turn this gun on the agents in front of me.
As I turn the Glock towards the agents still shouting, I notice one of the agents forearms are massive. He's also the first to squeeze his trigger along with myself, and yet, my trigger feels so heavy. Not because of age, (I had practiced shooting this gun last week.) All that was running through my mind, was the guilt of leaving Gen behind.
My trigger never gave. Only one shot was fired. I felt it pierce my forehead but I didn't feel any pain. I fall out of my chair and onto the floor as my eyes slowly closed, and all I could see was her smile. With tears stinging my eyes, I force them shut.
To my surprise, I reopened my eyes. I saw watery agents looking at me still in their knelled positions. "They must of just grazed me." I assumed. I quickly get up and see multiple bullets fly into my chest. "It's over." I mumble to myself as my body falls backwards and hits the floor once more, just to lay there in an unspeakable amount of pain. I see my blood everywhere and some brain matter from the first shot. That's when the rest of my intact brain puts together what's going on.
Happy birthday to me.
I had passed out from the pain and came to wearing cuffs and a body chain which is strapped down to the van carrying me. After a few silent moments. I started to laugh. The agents look at me funny, as my laugh grew louder and louder to this thought: What would of Gen saw if she had looked at my date? | *Trigger warning*
Happy? no, happy isn't the right word to describe me. Far from it.
This world has been rotten to me. To my grandfather, and to my grandchildren. It's always been rotten. For years, I battled depression and suicidal thoughts. I spent about twenty percent of my life wishing I had the bravery and power to take my own life. Oh, how I wished I could just die....
I was stuck on this rotten planet, and the only thing that kept me here was hope. Hope that I could give my children better than they got. Hope that I could see things change. Things changed, but not in a good way. People became horrible, and the already horrible ones got worse. I watched as televisions slowly took over our generation. I tried to focus on my profession, but I was stuck in a dead end job. I hosted a Jazz music radio station, and even played a bit myself. For so long, I worked myself to the bone to make something better. I'd hold the air for the longest hours, if someone wasn't able to make it for their shift. I practiced and played my bass until the cuts became unbearable, and then I played another hour after that.
The rotting world was more fascinated by music that was made by some nerd at a computer, sung by some young bimbo with no self respect. My job was made obsolete as our radio station fell in to government funding. We became a symbol for old people. I'd been playing for around 40 years, and the train left the station before I first even picked up a bass.
My children grew up entitled. My wife loved me for a while. After a few years, she was only there for the kids. I don't blame her, I wasn't blessed with good looks, and apparently it's genetic, because my ugly children are producing ugly children now. The idea of suicide kept creeping in to my mind. Oh how I wished I'd die, but these ideas were pushed aside by my unsatisfying present which I wasn't going to end it on. This in turn just caused more depression, and so the cycle would repeat, and has been repeating for years.
I was bitter. That is, I **WAS** bitter.
At the age of 70, I live by myself in a one bedroom apartment living off a pension and the little savings I managed to get in 40 years, which is diddly squat I tell you. I woke up, it was the 27th of May. A day that was always slightly less crappy than my other days. I slowly rise from my bed, but something feels different. As I make my way to the kitchen, I get a face time call from my son. I hung up on him because the bloomin phone doesn't do what it should, and call him back. He informs me that he got a new job. I enquired what it was, as he informed me about his new position as a Director of Operations at an exquisite music label. I congradulated him, and eventually, he hung up, excited to brag about his new found position to others.
It's funny, we rarely speak these days, unless it's something he wants to talk about. He's been struggling to get anywhere for some time, then he got a girlfriend that just happened to be loaded. Lucky bastard son of mine got everything so easy after that. All because of that awards ceremony I lost out on a few years back....
Then it all hits me. I only stuck around to make sure that everyone else got what was best for them. My son met the girl of his dreams at a presentation I was at, and if I didn't work for years towards my passion, that wouldn't have happened and he'd still be living week by week, rather than how he is now, planning vacations and such.
I see now, that I accidentally caused my son happiness. This gives me a great sense of fulfillment. As if everything has clicked at once. What kept me here was hope, the desire to know how things end. Well, this is how it ends. The world is a rotten place, and my son is starting a happy family that looks to be doing quite well for themselves. This is more than I had, and I'm happy for them. I'm.... Happy...
I write my final thoughts down on a piece of paper. After reading over it, and seeing exactly how cynical I am in evidence form, I decide to start again. My second letter is a little more balanced, I'd like to say. I leave it on my kitchen bench, leave the apartment without locking the door behind me, and head to the elevator with a smile. My neighbor is looking at me like an alien. It occurs to me that he's probably never seen me smile before. Oh well, he was a jerk, so I won't miss him at all.
I take the elevator to the highest floor, disembarking and taking the stairs to the roof. I take a seat on the ledge, and look out over the building drenched horizon. I see smoke clouds, and I hear cluttered traffic below me. From the corner of my failing eyesight, I see a bird. I've always wanted to fly, but not just for the feel of wind in my face. The idea, the notion, that you can rise above the scum below, and be free from it all. I breathe in, finding my feet, and stretching my arms out.
It's not flying, but it's pretty close. From two wishes, I'm granting one and a half of them. I begin to lean forward off the sixteen story building, looking to the sky. I feel my body dropping as gravity takes a hold of me. I'm grinning immensely for the first time in my life, grinning so hard that I'm exercising muscles in my face I never knew I had. Then, everything seems to stop.
I'm.... not falling. This confuses me. I open my eyes and look down to the traffic below. My feet are well pushed off the wall, I am in mid air, and yet.... I'm not falling. The feeling that I woke with this morning catches me, as I feel a power flowing through my body. I move my hand to the right, and my whole body moves with it. I sway in an upward direction, and my body levitates slightly higher than where it was. My grin may as well be plastered on at this stage, I didn't things could get much better.
It takes some time getting used to the notion of flying with no seemingly possible explanation, cause or effect, but I think for an old timer, I was doing pretty good. I fly around the buildings. Their roofs are all so incredibly dirty, and definitely need a good servicing. Like a bird, I rose above the scum, and towards the sky. It was pretty cold high up, but I didn't care.
Eventually, I felt myself losing feeling in my hands and feet. At the same time, I felt this new power was also leaving. I don't know how I knew it, but it was definitely a one-time deal. I'm just glad it got to me before it was too late. I used the last of my power to push myself into a cloud in the sky, and levitate there. It actually became pretty hard to breathe, so I decided to let go.
Smiling more than ever, I let my cold, numb body go loose. It fell towards the ground, gaining immense speed. I was so high up, that it gave me time to reflect. I tried so hard to justify that my life was well spent, or enjoyable, but my cynical nature proved to be too much. All I could find solace in was my family finding greener pastures than I was blessed with, and my 70^th birthday. I fought power, and sought power all my life, because I was devoid of it. My 70^th birthday present was power. Power to do the incredible, Power to rise above and be free.
I finally gained power. | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | At least it wasn't something mundane.
People like to feel sorry for me, like I'm crippled or something.
Pfft. I've lived a decent, normal life - so what if I didn't have a power? I still grew up, went to college, got married, and did everything a normal guy would.
If you wanna feel sorry for someone, feel bad for the people who can remotely flush toilets, or turn into a rock, or change the channel without a remote or something.
Me? At least I had hope that *when* I got my power, it'd be badass.
And I got it, too, though I think I've given the orderly a heart attack.
I can set myself on fire, like the human torch. How fucking cool is that?
Kind of shitty that I'm not fireproof, though.
Fuck.
| *Trigger warning*
Happy? no, happy isn't the right word to describe me. Far from it.
This world has been rotten to me. To my grandfather, and to my grandchildren. It's always been rotten. For years, I battled depression and suicidal thoughts. I spent about twenty percent of my life wishing I had the bravery and power to take my own life. Oh, how I wished I could just die....
I was stuck on this rotten planet, and the only thing that kept me here was hope. Hope that I could give my children better than they got. Hope that I could see things change. Things changed, but not in a good way. People became horrible, and the already horrible ones got worse. I watched as televisions slowly took over our generation. I tried to focus on my profession, but I was stuck in a dead end job. I hosted a Jazz music radio station, and even played a bit myself. For so long, I worked myself to the bone to make something better. I'd hold the air for the longest hours, if someone wasn't able to make it for their shift. I practiced and played my bass until the cuts became unbearable, and then I played another hour after that.
The rotting world was more fascinated by music that was made by some nerd at a computer, sung by some young bimbo with no self respect. My job was made obsolete as our radio station fell in to government funding. We became a symbol for old people. I'd been playing for around 40 years, and the train left the station before I first even picked up a bass.
My children grew up entitled. My wife loved me for a while. After a few years, she was only there for the kids. I don't blame her, I wasn't blessed with good looks, and apparently it's genetic, because my ugly children are producing ugly children now. The idea of suicide kept creeping in to my mind. Oh how I wished I'd die, but these ideas were pushed aside by my unsatisfying present which I wasn't going to end it on. This in turn just caused more depression, and so the cycle would repeat, and has been repeating for years.
I was bitter. That is, I **WAS** bitter.
At the age of 70, I live by myself in a one bedroom apartment living off a pension and the little savings I managed to get in 40 years, which is diddly squat I tell you. I woke up, it was the 27th of May. A day that was always slightly less crappy than my other days. I slowly rise from my bed, but something feels different. As I make my way to the kitchen, I get a face time call from my son. I hung up on him because the bloomin phone doesn't do what it should, and call him back. He informs me that he got a new job. I enquired what it was, as he informed me about his new position as a Director of Operations at an exquisite music label. I congradulated him, and eventually, he hung up, excited to brag about his new found position to others.
It's funny, we rarely speak these days, unless it's something he wants to talk about. He's been struggling to get anywhere for some time, then he got a girlfriend that just happened to be loaded. Lucky bastard son of mine got everything so easy after that. All because of that awards ceremony I lost out on a few years back....
Then it all hits me. I only stuck around to make sure that everyone else got what was best for them. My son met the girl of his dreams at a presentation I was at, and if I didn't work for years towards my passion, that wouldn't have happened and he'd still be living week by week, rather than how he is now, planning vacations and such.
I see now, that I accidentally caused my son happiness. This gives me a great sense of fulfillment. As if everything has clicked at once. What kept me here was hope, the desire to know how things end. Well, this is how it ends. The world is a rotten place, and my son is starting a happy family that looks to be doing quite well for themselves. This is more than I had, and I'm happy for them. I'm.... Happy...
I write my final thoughts down on a piece of paper. After reading over it, and seeing exactly how cynical I am in evidence form, I decide to start again. My second letter is a little more balanced, I'd like to say. I leave it on my kitchen bench, leave the apartment without locking the door behind me, and head to the elevator with a smile. My neighbor is looking at me like an alien. It occurs to me that he's probably never seen me smile before. Oh well, he was a jerk, so I won't miss him at all.
I take the elevator to the highest floor, disembarking and taking the stairs to the roof. I take a seat on the ledge, and look out over the building drenched horizon. I see smoke clouds, and I hear cluttered traffic below me. From the corner of my failing eyesight, I see a bird. I've always wanted to fly, but not just for the feel of wind in my face. The idea, the notion, that you can rise above the scum below, and be free from it all. I breathe in, finding my feet, and stretching my arms out.
It's not flying, but it's pretty close. From two wishes, I'm granting one and a half of them. I begin to lean forward off the sixteen story building, looking to the sky. I feel my body dropping as gravity takes a hold of me. I'm grinning immensely for the first time in my life, grinning so hard that I'm exercising muscles in my face I never knew I had. Then, everything seems to stop.
I'm.... not falling. This confuses me. I open my eyes and look down to the traffic below. My feet are well pushed off the wall, I am in mid air, and yet.... I'm not falling. The feeling that I woke with this morning catches me, as I feel a power flowing through my body. I move my hand to the right, and my whole body moves with it. I sway in an upward direction, and my body levitates slightly higher than where it was. My grin may as well be plastered on at this stage, I didn't things could get much better.
It takes some time getting used to the notion of flying with no seemingly possible explanation, cause or effect, but I think for an old timer, I was doing pretty good. I fly around the buildings. Their roofs are all so incredibly dirty, and definitely need a good servicing. Like a bird, I rose above the scum, and towards the sky. It was pretty cold high up, but I didn't care.
Eventually, I felt myself losing feeling in my hands and feet. At the same time, I felt this new power was also leaving. I don't know how I knew it, but it was definitely a one-time deal. I'm just glad it got to me before it was too late. I used the last of my power to push myself into a cloud in the sky, and levitate there. It actually became pretty hard to breathe, so I decided to let go.
Smiling more than ever, I let my cold, numb body go loose. It fell towards the ground, gaining immense speed. I was so high up, that it gave me time to reflect. I tried so hard to justify that my life was well spent, or enjoyable, but my cynical nature proved to be too much. All I could find solace in was my family finding greener pastures than I was blessed with, and my 70^th birthday. I fought power, and sought power all my life, because I was devoid of it. My 70^th birthday present was power. Power to do the incredible, Power to rise above and be free.
I finally gained power. | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | At least it wasn't something mundane.
People like to feel sorry for me, like I'm crippled or something.
Pfft. I've lived a decent, normal life - so what if I didn't have a power? I still grew up, went to college, got married, and did everything a normal guy would.
If you wanna feel sorry for someone, feel bad for the people who can remotely flush toilets, or turn into a rock, or change the channel without a remote or something.
Me? At least I had hope that *when* I got my power, it'd be badass.
And I got it, too, though I think I've given the orderly a heart attack.
I can set myself on fire, like the human torch. How fucking cool is that?
Kind of shitty that I'm not fireproof, though.
Fuck.
| "Happy birthday, Hun." As I turn over in bed to face my long time partner. I am greeted by a tray of steaming food slowly being placed on my waist.
"My favorite," I quietly exclaimed, sitting up, still half asleep. "French Toast with strawberries and *yawn* mint water." She smiled. "You're the big seven-o! How does it to feel to be one step closer to the grave?" As she chuckled, I snarkily reminded her that she was closer than I was. "In fact, I can almost smell the embalming fluid on you." She laughed.
As I finished my breakfast in bed, my wife of 32 years left and went back down stairs to the kitchen to clean up the left over mess. As I start to roll out of bed, I hear our cat's bell jingle. "Hey, Genevra!" I yell towards the doorway. "Have you looked at the cat's date lately?" "No," she quickly replied, as I heard the squeak of the kitchen spout turn on. "I'll check his date later." After hearing her response, I quickly realized how complacent I've become with her 6^th ability, the ability to read the death date of all living thing's. I got dressed and took my tray of plates and utensils down stairs.
She described her 6^th ability to me one time. She said it was just numbers that floated above living creature's heads in the classic month, day, and year order. Although, those numbers were always changing depending on the decisions people made. One time as a young girl, she watched a man's date change to the very next day moments after he had hung up the phone inside a telephone booth. Ever since then, she has only used her 6^th ability selectively. Mostly on her pets to ease the pain of them passing on.
As I past her in the kitchen and placed a small peck on her gray head, I wondered if I would live to ever see my 6^th ability emerge. Hell, at this pointed I'd take a commoner's enhanced 5^th ability. Some super strength would come in handy at this old age. I would finally have the strength back in my hips and I wouldn't be so slow moving around.
Most humans get an enhanced 5^th ability. Smell, sight, that sort of thing. But some are blessed with a 6^th ability. Those powers that don't come from one of the 5 senses. And no human has ever been recorded of dieing without one of the two abilities at some point in their life. I walk into the living room to search for the TV remote when suddenly, someone pounded on my front door.
"Mark, Mark! Are you home?! Hurry, open up!" The voice muffled by the door sounded familiar. I cracked open the door and to my surprise, I saw an old acquaintance of mine. "Billy," I confusingly stated while opening the rest of the door. "What are you doing here? I recall paying you to silently *stay away*." He looked a bit shorter than I remember, with hair peaking out of his nose, a raisin for a bald head, and waring dirty old baggy clothes on. The last 30 years were not as kind to him. Maybe that was my ability I thought. "I wouldn't come if it wasn't important Mark." He urged in a shushed tone. "Talk to me out here for a moment." As he stepped away from the door and walked towards the front of my garage. I turned to the kitchen and lifted my voice, "Hey Hun, I gotta talk to this guy for minute. I'll just be out front." I didn't wait for a response as I shut the door behind me and hobbled toward Billy. He looked nervous, obviously something was amiss.
"I'll make this quick Mark. You don't have much time." As he said this, he raised his hand and started to rub his temple and told me something I never thought I would hear. "The FBI have located you, partner. Someone saw the story about you on America's Most Wanted and turned in a tip." Time seemed to have stopped. By now his hand moved from his temple to my shoulder. In the past, I would of never allowed him to touch me. With his ability, every time he touched someone, he gained random knowledge from the person he was in-contact with. But this moment was different from any other.
He quickly reeled his hand back and I regained my composer. "How did you find out? I asked. "The last working connection I have inside the Bureau contacted me yesterday. I drove all night from Portland to tell you. I couldn't risk my safety over the phone to warn you." "Luckily for you, Seattle isn't too far of a drive." I respond and turned to start to walking back inside. "Wait," Billy exclaimed. "That's it? You don't even seem scared." I turned my head back at him and replied, "I've been prepared for this for the last few years now. I didn't think it would happen, but I'm ready. Take care Billy and get outta here." As I continued my walk back, I heard him mumble under his breath, "Still the same asshole."
I was inside when I heard his car engine start and take off.
I quickly made my way to the stairs and went into my bedroom. The top drawer was my target. Inside was a Glock G17 that I quickly shoved into my waistline and made my way back down stairs and to the door. "Gen," I shouted as I stepped out of the house. "I'm going for a quick walk, I'll be back soon. Love ya." "Love you too." And with that, I slowly shut the door and make my way to the sidewalk to look at my house, for the last time.
The memories came and went quick. We had lived in this house for 15 years. We traveled all over the world before settling here. I never stayed in one place for long. I started my walk away from home and headed towards downtown. It wasn't too far away. The sun had hid it's self behind dark grey clouds like it does on most days. As the suburban slowly started to turn into the city, I started to remember back to all the crimes Billy and I committed in our youth. With his ability to collect random information from people. We would set our mark on banks. He'd bump into, shake hands, or do anything to touch the most important heads of security until he gathered the information we needed as I broke in and stole the cash, or simply gave up and moved onto a different. Which made our hits so random, no police in any part of the world could keep up or predict where we would strike next. Law enforcement for years thought that I had an ability that world had never seen before. We stole millions over a nine year period. Than, I met Gen. I continued to steal and occasionally murder, when someone thought about being a hero. But I didn't want her to find out and the traveling salesman cover story was getting harder and harder to keep up. So Billy and I split the money and parted ways, to only move a state away from each other.
As my reminiscing concluded, I noticed was downtown near Pike's place. I could smell the fresh catch and see the crowd gathered around the men tossing fish across the booths to each other. I slip down an alley way. A short cut to The Pink Door I know for one last drink.
I sit down. "Chardonnay, please." I shout to the waiter walking towards me. He turns around and heads to the back. Never been much a whiskey guy, and I wasn't going to start today. That's when I see the FBI bust in through the front door. The lead agent is dressed in all black with FBI on the front in white screams, "Mark Hamilton!" Get on the ground, **now**! More agents pour in with guns drawn, all pointing at me. All dressed the same with helmets and body armor. I can only see just above the bridge of their nose and below the brow. Before they can get set and on their knees, I quickly pull out my Glock and point the barrel at my own temple.
The lead man lowers his gun and starts talking, but I can't hear a word he utters. All that I hear is the voice of Gen. All the memories flood back, and all but confirms I'm doing the right thing. I can't have her knowing that I did those things. I murdered many people and stole from many countries. At best, I can die in this shoot out and have her doubt that I actually did it. She'll think, "They had the wrong man, my husband would never do those things. He was a good man!" This this the best I can do, and I all I can hope for. The gun pointed at head is just to by time, to jog a last few memories before I turn this gun on the agents in front of me.
As I turn the Glock towards the agents still shouting, I notice one of the agents forearms are massive. He's also the first to squeeze his trigger along with myself, and yet, my trigger feels so heavy. Not because of age, (I had practiced shooting this gun last week.) All that was running through my mind, was the guilt of leaving Gen behind.
My trigger never gave. Only one shot was fired. I felt it pierce my forehead but I didn't feel any pain. I fall out of my chair and onto the floor as my eyes slowly closed, and all I could see was her smile. With tears stinging my eyes, I force them shut.
To my surprise, I reopened my eyes. I saw watery agents looking at me still in their knelled positions. "They must of just grazed me." I assumed. I quickly get up and see multiple bullets fly into my chest. "It's over." I mumble to myself as my body falls backwards and hits the floor once more, just to lay there in an unspeakable amount of pain. I see my blood everywhere and some brain matter from the first shot. That's when the rest of my intact brain puts together what's going on.
Happy birthday to me.
I had passed out from the pain and came to wearing cuffs and a body chain which is strapped down to the van carrying me. After a few silent moments. I started to laugh. The agents look at me funny, as my laugh grew louder and louder to this thought: What would of Gen saw if she had looked at my date? | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | For more than thirty years, I lived my life day by day, awaiting that fateful day when I would be granted my own inner power. I saw my friends, family, strangers, all given the most precious thing in life. Lucy, my sweet dear sister, was able to fly to the heavens and back. Richard, my childhood best friend, saved hundreds of lives throughout his life, having the strength of ten men. And there I waited, for years, until my life could start, and I would transform into the real me...the powerful me.
Yet, with each passing day, more people would discover their power, and I would sit waiting at night, forcing myself to sleep. My dreams were filled with possibilities, of flight and strength, and of mind and hope. But as the years passed, my dreams were less vivid. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their inner power. Some die before that beautiful gift is bestowed unto them. I thought that may happen to me. And I lived life for a while, depressed and alone. That was until I met her. Her name was Alison.
She had a power, but chose not use it. She did not want to be defined by her single ability. We met during one of my travels, when I was touring the country trying to find meaning in life. I found it. I found her. From that point on, my life started. I did not care about being granted a special ability as much as I cared for her. I saw my future, a family, a wife, children. We created a beautiful life together.
Alison passed away a few years ago. I had only asked her once what her power was, and she had told me it did not matter. As she was lying on her bed, slowly fading away, she told me what her inner power was. She said she was born with her power, that she had the ability to live forever, as long as she did not love. "My power was a curse, until I found you", she told me before she passed.
Today is my 70th birthday. Today I have discovered what my power is. Old age has not been kind on me, and this is the most beautiful power I could have hoped for. When I remember my wife, the times we spent, they are not just memories any longer. I can feel the brisk of the air on the hill where we first met. I can smell the flowers. I can here her giggle, her breath against my cheek. In the little time I have left on this planet, I experience her love all over again. | I still remember the News Reports as a child All the Men that are paid to watch the sky warned us of this day. A meteorite about the size of Delaware was approaching are planet. This Meteor seemed to come out of no where but as many scientist would explain it could have come from any of the 60 percent of unobserved space. Regardless of its Origins it was closing in. That is when all the great minds of the world got to together and decided to do nothing. It seemed the meteor despite its great size and threat would by all accounts miss our planet just by the distance of the moon or two. That night when it passed by our earth me and my parents all sat on our roofs and watched as the night sky became illuminated by the biggest comet you will ever see. And many even the experts thought that would be the end of it.
The powers began to show up almost immediately. At first they where small almost inconvenient the power to stick to walls or to look at two places at once. Then the big ones started to show up, the ability to fly, speed, and strength. Then their was the Oddball abilities like walking on water or instantly melting ice. My wife had a power like that she could clean water with a touch of her hand. The scientist didn't really have an explanation but the consensus was that the Meteor that had just missed our planet years earlier seems to have given every man, woman, and child on the earth powers or at least those alive at the time. Newborns didn't seem to get this powers. I watched and grew up as every child hood friend, relative , and acquaintance got a power but not me. Some say it was a gift to be normal in a world full of the strange. I felt like an outsider until i met Karen. Karen my wife made me feel like I did have powers. Then she discovered h er's. Her power consumed her life after that. It started with Trips with the red cross to devastated regions places where water supply was compromised. She was like a angel from God to those people even with the powers they had Clean water was invaluable. Then she started to go on her own eventually she moved To these countries never coming home at all. I tried to follow her to live with her but it became clear she only had room In her life for one love and it wasn't me. I think last i heard she was in remote location of china helping Villagers clean their underground water supply after it had been contaminated by toxic runoff from a power plant. That was years ago now i was an old man. I never remarried never had the heart to do it. No bastard children running around either I was alone. That is when i felt the pain in my chest on the eve on my 70 birthday. I tried to call for help but the ever growing pressure and pain in my chest seemed to catch the words and stuff them back in my mouth. This is how it would end an unremarkable life in a most remarkable time if i could do it all over again how I would change the world. Then I blackout, when i awoke I felt the strangest sensation my body was tingling from head to toe. I headed for the Restroom having the need to empty the contents of my stomach. I didn't even realize my clothes where way to big for me as i stumbled in. After I regain my composure I looked at myself in the mirror to find a young 20 something man looking back. I looked at my hands to find these where the hands of a young man and after further inspection i found that all of my other faculties had followed suit. That when i realized my powers had finally manifested itself I was a the physical embodiment of the phoenix to regenerate upon death.
The experts believe that the Meteor will come back. It will take some time it has to loop around the sun a couple more times should be about 70 years from now. By then all of the ones gifted with abilities should be gone and the age of heroes with them. How wrong they are. | |
[WP] all humans gain a super power on a random day of their life. you awake on your 70th birthday to discover you have finally gained your power. | For more than thirty years, I lived my life day by day, awaiting that fateful day when I would be granted my own inner power. I saw my friends, family, strangers, all given the most precious thing in life. Lucy, my sweet dear sister, was able to fly to the heavens and back. Richard, my childhood best friend, saved hundreds of lives throughout his life, having the strength of ten men. And there I waited, for years, until my life could start, and I would transform into the real me...the powerful me.
Yet, with each passing day, more people would discover their power, and I would sit waiting at night, forcing myself to sleep. My dreams were filled with possibilities, of flight and strength, and of mind and hope. But as the years passed, my dreams were less vivid. Not everyone is lucky enough to have their inner power. Some die before that beautiful gift is bestowed unto them. I thought that may happen to me. And I lived life for a while, depressed and alone. That was until I met her. Her name was Alison.
She had a power, but chose not use it. She did not want to be defined by her single ability. We met during one of my travels, when I was touring the country trying to find meaning in life. I found it. I found her. From that point on, my life started. I did not care about being granted a special ability as much as I cared for her. I saw my future, a family, a wife, children. We created a beautiful life together.
Alison passed away a few years ago. I had only asked her once what her power was, and she had told me it did not matter. As she was lying on her bed, slowly fading away, she told me what her inner power was. She said she was born with her power, that she had the ability to live forever, as long as she did not love. "My power was a curse, until I found you", she told me before she passed.
Today is my 70th birthday. Today I have discovered what my power is. Old age has not been kind on me, and this is the most beautiful power I could have hoped for. When I remember my wife, the times we spent, they are not just memories any longer. I can feel the brisk of the air on the hill where we first met. I can smell the flowers. I can here her giggle, her breath against my cheek. In the little time I have left on this planet, I experience her love all over again. | The world had been in disaray for as long as I could remember, and that had been a long time - 69 years, 11 months, and 29 days to be exact. Ever since the event infused humanity with powers, the world had fallen apart. Rampant crime and terror had overtaken the planet as villains become supervillains, and heroes became complacent. No one wanted to be an accountant when they could save the planet, nobody wanted to work at a power plant when they could travel through time as easily as the rancid air that all on the planet breathed. But in the chaos of the world, the only rule was that the power always came before the 50th birthday. Except in my case. And although the people lived forever, and fought wars forever, were sick forever, and watched their society crumble forever, immortality to all had always been seen as the blessing that came after the Event.
Only I could see it as it was - the fence that kept the people in the cage that the God that had either failed them, played a cruel game on them, or been killed by the humans he raised so high that they could only fall long ago. They were all rats in a cage. All but me.
And so, on my 70th Birthday, I finally gained my power. I awoke. I breathed. I saw. I breathed. I saw. And so I chose, I used my power, and I died. | |
[WP] In 1515 Henry VIII sentenced a scientist to 500 years in prison for crimes against God. It's 500 years later and they have just emerged un-aged. | Pavel Symonov steepled his fingers carefully and leant forwards, surveying the academic dispassionately across the desk. He was an elderly man, with white, grey-flecked hair and pale eyes that protruded slightly from his liver-spotted face. For all the outward signs of impending physical decrepitude, however, his expression –a constant look of haughty superiority- was reinforced by the intelligence that flashed from his eyes with every word he spoke. Journalists, when writing character profiles of media moguls or an actor with whom they want to guarantee future interviews, sometimes say somebody’s mind is ‘sharp’; Symonov’s was a mind so honed it could have cut a diamond into neat quarters. When younger, he had worked in the KGB for twelve years as an intelligence administrator; now, approaching the end of his working life, he was angling for a lordship following over two decades’ service with MI5.
The man sitting opposite him was of an entirely different sort. Had he been born into the same circumstances as Symonov, he might have followed a similar path, for his intelligence was not significantly less than that of the Croat’s; however, he had instead been born in Guildford, gone to boarding school, and wound up at Jesus College, Cambridge, at which point he decided he’d come far enough. His name was Alex Forester, and he was a historian of the idealistic variety, who researched because he believed what George Santayana had said, rather than because he needed the grant money. He wore a shoddy brown suit, had a growth of light-brown stubble across his chin, and was largely despised by Symonov.
Symonov stared at the historian for several seconds, long enough to make Forester start to feel uncomfortable. There was a reason he’d elected to pursue an academic career, setting aside his boyish enthusiasm for old books and The Past: he was a mild man, who was not used to conflict and preferred to avoid it wherever possible.
‘What is it that you have come to see me about?’ Symonov asked finally.
Forester cleared his throat gingerly. He had a packet of Strepsils in his pocket, but didn’t dare to take them out. ‘We’ve found something down in the tunnels,’ he said. ‘A person.’
‘A person? Some skeleton, I assume? Why on earth are you bothering me about it?’
Forester swallowed. ‘It may be best if I remind you of how our investigation came to be conducted,’ he said.
Symonov shook his head impatiently. ‘No need, no need. I remember it all. That duchess left a collection of books to your college from her library; you stumbled across a reference to a secret in the vaults below the castle, and sought my permission to investigate it. So far, so correct?’
Forester nodded. ‘Yes. As you know, the whole place is a warren of tunnels. Most of them have been bricked up, and there’s never been any reason to look deep into them; almost every old house from this time are riddled with them. They’re servant tunnels, or built for storage, or-’
Symonov tapped his fingers loudly on his desk. ‘Cut to the chase, Forester.’
‘Yes. But the point is, this duchess left a mention-’
‘Forester, you bloody fool, I approved your investigation when you sent me that letter. Get on with it.’
‘Certainly. Certainly. Sorry. When we started, we expected to find, well, almost anything. I’ve followed this kind of lead before, and normally there’s some old masters stowed away for tax reasons, or a mildewing chest of old books, or suchlike. But when we went down, there was evidence that it had been lived in. It was bizarre. The tunnel was bricked up, just as you would expect; everything pointed to normality, that it was shut off at least a hundred years’ ago. And then-’ Forester paused, and looked down at his lap.
Symonov regarded him with his pale eyes, and then silently poured him a small glass of dark brandy. Forester accepted it, cradled it in his hands, and took a small sip. Then he leant back, set the glass back on the desk with a clink, and carried on.
‘I mean, it had been bricked up at least a hundred years ago. There was no question about it. But even so, it was also certainly inhabited. By a man. He says he was locked up during Henry the Eighth’s time. But- but- *He hasn’t aged*. He hasn’t aged *at all*. He still looks like he’s thirty. And he has a radio and a television. We don’t know how, because we’re absolutely positive he hasn’t left his section of the tunnels; they're completely cut off, we’re sure of it. And we were wondering if- well, your department has responsibility throughout the castle, and we thought perhaps it might be something of yours. Is it historical? Is there anything I can take back to Cambridge? Or is it some intelligence thing?’
Symonov smiled. ‘You’re quite right. It’s part of a project of ours. Don’t trouble yourself any more with it; it was all a misunderstanding, and it must have been an administrative error that led to your investigation being approved- I had thought you were proposing to look through a different part of the tunnels.’
Forester looked bitterly disappointed, but finished his brandy quickly and took his jacket from the back of his chair. Symonov half rose to see him out, then thought better of it and sat back down. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I was speaking with the PM’s permanent secretary, and he mentioned that the government were considering allocating new funds to historical research grants. I’ve been impressed by the, ah, meticulousness of your work here, and I’ll be sure to mention your name when and if the idea moves further.’
Forester turned at the door as he heard Symonov’s words, his shoddy brown jacket still folded over his arm. He bobbed a little in a grateful manner, but his face was still glum as he left. Symonov waited a moment, gazing out of the window as he thought, and then dialled his secretary’s number into his phone.
The following day the unknown man was brought upstairs from his home in the tunnels, and Symonov was there to meet him. It was the first time he had conducted an interrogation since his days as a young officer in the KGB, but his curiosity was overpowering and he was reluctant to receive a report second-hand when he was able to witness it all himself.
| There were no records. Nothing to justify why a man would be sentenced to a 500 year prison sentence except a shakily written annotation on small piece of parchment.
'Crimes against God.'
They should have just killed him. The world would have been better off. Half of a millennium is far too long a time for people to focus on something.
I imagine it took a decade or two for his guards to notice he wasn't aging. And the experiments he must have undergone were most likely barbaric. But eventually, the public found out.
A man who stopped aging. He became an icon. It wasn't long before he became a god. Some preexisting religions latched onto him. Second coming and all that. Nothing compared to the endless new religions and cults he spawned.
But I can't blame him. That poor man hasn't been allowed any outside contact in 500 years. The punishment for speaking to him is 500 years in prison. So symbolic. Still, a good enough deterrent to keep anyone from uttering a word to him. Even the few scientists, who found nothing, remained speechless. I heard they were told not to look into his eyes either. I guess you can say a lot with your eyes.
I bet he's insane. That long with nothing but your own thoughts. I guess I'll find out soon enough.
I can't help but feel nervous. Today his sentence is over and I'm going to be one of the first people to speak with him. He's going to do a world wide interview. I imagine nothing in history has ever been as important to so many people. Billions just waiting to hear what he has to say.
For his safety, he was smuggled out of prison with no shortage of secrecy. Now, I just wait. Surrounded by armed men in black uniforms, I sit patiently at the table. Staring at the empty chair across from me. The camera, focused and ready to record.
Then, I hear it. The faint sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Three people total if I'm not mistaken. He enters the room accompanied by two armed guards in black outfits. Identical to those already present, faces featureless they lead him to the chair.
I turn on the camera and its faint hum breaks the silence.
He turns to me and says, "How does it feel to speak to the most famous man on the planet."
"How do you know about the outside world?" I ask him.
He smiles, "Maybe some people couldn't help but talk to a living god."
"I see. And do you intend to share your secret with the world? People are dying to know your past." I say, trying to remain professional.
"After people hear what I have to say, the world will turn upside down." His grin growing as he says this.
I nod and snap my finger loudly.
Two men swiftly restrain him in his chair. As he struggles, a third sinks a syringe into his neck with the grace of a surgeon. The event is over in seconds.
He is still struggling as they let go, but I know he won't be moving much soon. The poison cocktail begins with paralysis. He won't suffer, but he will hear what I have to say.
He looks defeated. Sitting there with his mouth open, his eyes darting back and forth. Looking for an answer.
I lean in closer, my eyes level with his. "You betrayed us with your ignorance. This outcome was inevitable."
I light a cigarette, relaxing as I exhale the cloud of smoke. "The world would destroy itself if it learned of our existence. Your existence alone almost did that."
By now his body is shutting down, one organ at a time.
It's done.
I signal the men and they haul him and the camera away. Like I would record this.
| |
[WP] Write the love story you've always wanted to write. | It’s always great when you have that one person that’s always by your side. Indigo was that person- she had made my life complete since we were in the third grade. Our class was on the playground for recess, when two kids from the next grade started picking on me. Indigo, being the headstrong human being she still is today, marched right up to the bullies and set them straight, telling them what was what and peeling them off of me. Not only did she defend me, but she took my hand, pulled me to my feet, and brushed me off. We’d been absolutely inseparable since.
I was infatuated with her. Indigo had this way about her, like nothing could hurt her. She was amazing, really, how she could care so much and so little at the same time, and never get hurt. For the time I had known her, she had never been in a lesser mood than ecstatic; her attitude towards life enthralled me in more ways than one.
It was Indigo’s idea to go out that day. A picnic in the park, such a cliche idea, sparked her interest. She had gotten the typical wicker basket, stuffed with sandwiches, plastic snack baggies of potato chips and baby carrot sticks, and a plaid white and red checkerboard blanket was spread out in a shady area near the center of the park. She sat the brown basket between us, adjusting the sunglasses that rested on the bridge of her nose, and smiled at me.
“It’s so lovely today,” Indigo made small talk, brushing a strand of her short, strawberry-blond hair from her face. I couldn’t help but stare as she laid back, resting her hands behind her head, the sunlight hitting her pale skin in the most flattering way.
“Yeah, it really is.” I agreed. A cool breeze blew through the fall air, rustling the orange, brown, and yellow leaves on the trees that surrounded us, and disheveling the fallen, half-dead ones that littered the ground. I looked around, the sound of the wind taking over my thoughts. The vague sound of Indigo speaking was silenced by the whoosh of the air, the rustle of the leaves, and the far-off sound of children playing on the nearby playground.
“Oliver!” Indigo smacked my arm, knocking me out of my daze. “Did you hear what I said?” My eyes flickered to meet hers as she pulled the glasses from her face and sat up.
“N-no,” I stuttered, “I was.. Thinking. Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said, we should go out tonight. Lexie’s having an end-of-the-year party, and she invited us.”
“By us you mean she invited you, and you had to convince her to let me come, right?” I raised an eyebrow, giving Indigo a challenging smile. “Besides, I don’t do parties. You know that.”
“Oh come on, Oli! It’s three weeks until graduation, and there aren’t many high school parties between now and then. You gotta live a little!”
As much as I wanted not to go, Indigo dragged me to the party anyway. She was right, in a sense- our high school careers were going to be over soon, so we might as well enjoy things while we could. Besides, the more time we spent enjoying ourselves, the less time we thought about college and going our separate ways after nine years- something I tried to avoid thinking about with all of my being. Indigo had her whole life ahead of her, going straight from high school into an internship at a publisher in New York. Me, however? I had absolutely no clue what I wanted to do in life. Indigo had all of her ducks in a row, but mine were swimming a little too far out for me to arrange them.
The party, as expected, was dull in every sense of the word. I clung to the bowl of chips like it was my lifeline, while Indigo lingered from group to group, making her appearances. My eyes followed her as she darted around the room, hugging every person that offered. She grabbed two drinks before crossing the room and collapsing on the sofa next to me.
"You don't look like you're having fun." She handed me one of the cups of soda, and I accepted, sipping it gratefully.
"You know I don't like parties."
"I know, but I just thought you'd want to have a little fun before everyone dispersed."
"I'd really, really rather not think about you and I 'dispersing,' Indy." I sighed, swirling the drink in the cup and staring at my feet.
"Oli, look at me." I obliged, looking up from my cup only to see her eyes locked on mine. "Just come to New York with me. You and I don't have to separate, I promise."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Oliver Deen, we have been friends for nine years, and you think moving to New York with me is a bad idea?"
"I- no, that's not what I meant. You're my best friend, and I get this feeling that best friends is all we'll ever be. And I'm not sure that in two, five, ten years that I'll be okay with just being best friends."
"Who says we'll always be best friends?"
We sat like that, eyes locked on each other, for what felt like forever but couldn't have been more than a minute. And I, Oliver Deen, the boy who couldn't fend for himself nine years ago, took the initiative to kiss her. And that kiss was my everything. | 03:22. Looks like another sleepless night. Fuck you insomnia.
I always wondered if there was more to existence. I’m not really sure what more. The philosophical questions that keep me up at night are usually more vague ideas than coherent thoughts yet they still keep me up all the same. The idea of thought itself always boggled me, what even is it? I get that our brain is just a serious of chemical reactions happening but how does that web of mystery and sparks create beauty and perception and ideas and people. How does that little spark on the end of a single nerve in a single body manage to chop a tree down?
A fly whizzed across the room.
I wander if other species have thoughts. I wander if they get kept awake by the little sparks in their heads. You don’t really hear about animals with naturally occurring mental ailments do you? The insomniac cow is sitting in a seminar with the schizophrenic Goat.
My eyelids are struggling to remain open at this point. I’m flickering in and out of conscience.
03:45. Fuck you insomnia.
This is getting ridiculous, I need to do something.
04:30.
McDonalds is the only place open, you don’t really want to be seen there at this time. You don’t really want to see anyone there at this time. I step through the doors placed under the recognisable golden arches. Headphones in so people don’t try to talk to me. No music playing so I can collect and calm my thoughts down.
“I’ll have a hot chocolate please.”
I stare blankly at the breakfast menu. Nothing appeals to me, I’m not really hungry or thirsty, I just need to keep my head occupied as my brain whirs through a thousand thoughts a minute. I see movement in the corner of my eye. ‘Get the fuck out of my view whatever you are; I’m in the zone for still images.’
“Oh shit, yes a medium please.”
I go to grab some serviettes before sitting down with my beverage. I feel a small pull on my arm but ignore it. I grab the serviettes and the pull gets stronger. I look up and there’s a gentlemen standing there. He seems to smile at me, I’m confused, he points down at his feet and I’ve poured hot chocolate all over his shoes.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim as I bend to wipe his smart pointed brown leather shoes.
This man has style. Although everyone has style stood next to me at the moment, I’m a blubbering 5AM mess wearing a hoodie and track suit bottoms, I have my grease filled hair tied up in a bun. I pulled a headphone out not to look rude as I kept wiping. He knelt down and whispered in my ear.
“Wrong shoe m’darling.”
“oh my god im so so sorry!”
“It’s alright, mistakes happen, you can make up for it by giving me company during my drink.”
My heart was racing faster than an Olympic athlete. I did not want to spend my break from trying to sleep with a total stranger and most probably freak. I looked to his face to kindly reject him but as my eyes met the gaze of his soft pupil and comforting brown iris I melted.
“S…s…s...sure.”
07:30 and we’re still here. Thank you insomnia.
| |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | I wasn't sure if it was brave or stupid of me to blindly reach my hand into the dark unknown under the kitchen sink. Half-used cleaning supplies and wadded up plastic shopping bags surrounded me like a crowd of rubberneckers as my fingers brushed against whatever it was I thought I saw in the far corner. Dusty but undeniably glass. Probably an old pickle jar filled with used cooking oil. With my cheek shoved against the panel above the cabinet doors, my fingertips nudged the jar sort of closer and sort of not. The story of my short life. Not like age. Height. Which meant short arms. I came at it again, this time with the handle of a scrub brush in my hand, and was rewarded with the satisfying, dull scrape of heavy glass being dragged against whatever cheap material cabinets were made out of.
Just like I thought: pickle jar. I set it up on the counter and then pushed myself up to my feet with a groan of effort. I caught a whiff of something rank and oh, yeah, that was definitely me. God, I stunk. Detailing every nook and cranny in this damn place was kicking my ass, but I needed my security deposit back and I wasn't going to leave the assholes in the office any excuse to deduct anything. They'd probably charge me $200 for disposing of that fucking Vlassic jar. Joke's on them.
My phone chirped an alert at me from my bedroom. No matter how much I nodded along with other's commentary about being slaves to technology, I was a slave alright. Like Pavlov's dog I happily and obediently checked my phone, hoping desperately it was the boy I liked. He'd said the other day he wanted to get drinks tonight. Maybe this was his formal invitation. Maybe it was a selfie of him in his boxer briefs. Maybe he was outside the apartment gate with a pizza and a bottle of wine.
It wasn't him because of course it wasn't. It was the opposite of that: my credit card statement was available. God.
With the phone in my hand and the whole of the internet at my whim, I fell into familiar, pointless distraction. Before I knew it, half an hour had passed, and I couldn't have accounted for that time with any amount of detail if my life had depended on it. Just a blur of social media and re-reading the entire history of my texts with Kurt. I forced myself up from where I'd landed on my couch and hoped that he never gained some sort of mutant power that would allow him to somehow, inexplicably know that I was such a fucking creeper. Or was it just desperate? The words seemed interchangeable these days.
I needed a shower. I cleaned up the mess I'd left from under the sink, tossing mostly empty bottles of crap I didn't need anymore. The plastic bags smelled funny, so those went, too. Something soft tickled my bare ankle.
"Coop," I said, like the name of my cat was a cuss word. He slunk past me into the dark place he was never allowed to go, but without any chemicals down there I didn't really care. "Enjoy it while you can." Again, I hoped Kurt would never gain omnipotence and hear me talking to my cat.
I picked up the jar of oil to throw it away while Coop sniffed around under the sink. I don't buy Vlassic. I didn't know what brand of pickles I buy, but it wasn't the one with the stork on it. And the oil was dark. And thick. Okay, it wasn't cooking oil. I lifted it up to the yellow-tinted kitchen light and squinted at the viscous, black liquid as it slowly oozed with the tilt of the jar.
My fingers touched something sticky on the label. I sniffed it before I really thought it through. Molasses. Molasses? I twisted the jar like it was that little crypto device in that Tom Hanks movie. What was it called? The DaVinci Code. Right.
A peek of white pressed against the glass before the molasses absorbed it again. My curiosity was piqued. Anything to not continue cleaning. It took some time to get the damn lid off, and I had to rummage into an already-packed kitchen box to find the one rubber lid opener my Mom had put in my stocking last Christmas. I was notoriously bad at opening jars without help. It kept me from buying things in glass jars. Another weird detail I wanted to keep from Kurt.
There was no satisfying pop when I finally pried the thing open, red-faced and sore-palmed. A dirty fork from the sink was my fishing pole, and I dunked it into the thick syrup like a crane lowering into a tar pit. Gently, carefully, I unearthed something from the depths. The molasses dripped from it and the smell of it filled my galley kitchen.
I ran the water on low to wash off whatever it was balanced on the fork. Curtains of molasses fell from it, revealing the white I'd spotted against the glass.
It was a folded piece of paper.
Carefully, like I was handling some scrap of papyrus that had somehow survived the fire at the Library of Alexandria, I peeled it open. It took way too long for only being folded twice into a small square. A few rips prompted some quiet cussing, and Coop abandoned his adventure under the sink since I didn't seem to mind him being there. I realized my tongue was sticking out like a kindergartner coloring completely outside of the lines. Jesus, I was an adult. An adult with my fingers sticky with watery molasses, procrastinating something I'd already put off until the last second. That was basically the story of my life.
There was strange writing on the soaked paper. It looked more like cross-hatching at first. Seven lines up and down, seven lines left and right, with a curly circle drawn around it. The harder I looked, though, the more letters jumped out at me. Someone's name? It looked like maybe Jane, or Jennifer. I got all kinds of junk mail for the last tenant, but her name was Amanda. When I turned the paper, another name was written perpendicularly over the first. Something with an S. The molasses made it hard to see. Steven? I wasn't sure. Either way, obviously the office wasn't half as thorough with cleaning as I'd thought. That made me feel better.
I took a shower after that. A long one. My mind couldn't stray far from the strange note submerged in a cookie ingredient. What else was molasses in? Barbecue sauce. Cookies and barbecue sauce. It didn't make any sense.
Wrapped up in my robe, I thought about what to google. Jar of molasses note? Note in weird jar? Was this a thing?
The results popped up on my phone. It was totally a thing. It sounded like a honey jar. Some kind of (bullshit) spell. The first link gave a tutorial on it, with the cross-hatched writing that was sitting damp and exposed in her sink. It was called a "sweetener spell," meant to make someone sweet on whoever put the jar together. Jesus, girls could be so ridiculous sometimes. Like me. Because it was kind of creeping me out. I felt like the jar, or the note, or the energy of whoever had put the jar together was watching me. Coop was watching me though, for sure. It was his dinner time. He meowed at me impatiently when we made eye contact.
Cooper chowed down as soon as I set his food down. Maybe I was putting off touching the jar after reading about spells and how to properly dispose of them -- something about a cross-roads and burying and whatever, no, this wasn't real. What would Kurt think if he knew I was entertaining the idea of magic? As a precaution, in case the omnipotence I so badly wanted him not to have had been gifted to him, I stated my lack of insanity aloud. Somehow it didn't make me feel better.
Neither did the sight of the jar. The corner of what had to be a yellow slip of paper had surfaced from the molasses.
"No way."
Way. Super way.
I felt a bit like Dana Scully as I fished out the second folded note. Excited and intrigued with room for my understanding of reality to be shaken. This time I knew what I was doing, and it took hardly any time at all to rinse off and unfold the second molasses-logged paper. The site I'd read said nothing about putting two spells into one jar.
The yellow paper had different names. Different handwriting.
Amanda. That's the only name I could make out. The girl who'd lived her before me.
I dove the fork back into the jar.
I found two more notes with totally different names.
That night, instead of scrubbing the baseboards, I blow-dried the four notes. Folded them back how they'd been. Pushed them back into the black molasses. Screwed the lid back on. Pushed it back into the far corner of the sink. Cooper tied to slip back into the cabinet, and I caught him at the slim of his kitty hips.
"There's witches and shit down there," I warned him, and closed the cabinet with my foot as I kissed him on the nose. Another mental note of what not to say in front of Kurt.
I wouldn't be telling anyone about the weird magic jar under my sink no matter how badly I wanted to. They'd ask what I did with it, and I might say accidentally tell the truth. Better safe than sorry, really. Even if it was only in my imagination -- my incredibly overactive imagination -- I needed to sleep well that night to be ready for the move tomorrow. No laying in bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling and trying to calm my heart from pounding at the slightest noise because I messed with some (probably bogus [definitely bogus]) magic spell.
Kurt didn't text me that night. I considered texting him, but the collection of lovesick women's names in that jar of molasses made me feel weird about it. Hard to explain.
Some time around midnight, I broke out the tequila. Just for a nightcap.
I woke up the next morning beside my open laptop with molasses on my fingers and a pounding at my temples. A notebook with a page torn out was on my pillow with Cooper on top of it, watching me, waiting for his food-giver to awaken. My phone was ringing, the loud buzz of the vibration enough to wake me up.
It was Kurt.
He was outside with coffee. Ready to help me move. As a surprise. To make up for last night.
I wasn't even mad about having to clean the molasses off my phone. | Ah, spring. It's the season of change, the season that presses reset on the world. Now was the time for me to press reset on my apartment and clean my filthy living space. I grimace and grit my teeth as I sweep my eyes across my small living room. In one corner of the room was greasy cardboard tower made of old pizza boxes. Acting as supports for the base, two bulging black garbage bags leaned against either side. In the middle of the room stands my dingy coffee table, scratches and nick caused by being kicked innumerable times lined the unstable legs. Covering the coffee table is junk food wrappers and old Chinese take out carton. The sofa that came with the apartment is against the wall next to the coffee table. It's an old stained leather couch that has a faint scent of sex. On the wall next to it are stains from beer and take out. Miscellaneous trash is scattered across the floor
I sigh. Cleaning won't be as easy as I thought. I grab a garbage bag and begin to clean the coffee table. After a few hours, I have all the trash gone and begin to wipe down the walls. As I futilely try to scrub out the stains on the wall next to the couch, I pause and wipe the sweat from my brow. Cleaning definitely isn't easy. I glance to the side and see behind the couch full of trash. I groan. It hadn't even crossed my mind to look back there. I look back at the wall of stains. I wasn't making any progress. I sigh and drop my sponge into the bucket of dirty water next to me.
Time to pick up more trash. I easily push the couch out of the way and begin picking up the crap that had accumulated behind there. After crushing a particularly mountain of trash, I notice that there's an old paper sitting underneath. The paper looked yellowed and coffee stained. Huh? I don't recall dropping any paper back here. Must be from the previous owner. I pick it up and open it to show just an [image](http://24-365crew.com/files/tnsparky/fancy_dickbutt.jpg). I sigh and ball it up and throw it away. Fucking assholes. I go back to cleaning.
EDIT: First prompt written. Criticism is welcome. | |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | "Leave here before sunset."
Could it be the landlord? He said he was going to drop this afternoon to check the heater problem, but why would he want me out of the house? It didn't make sense.
I checked the note again. It was weathered and the writing was smudged. This can't have been written recently. And in any case this was under the fridge, it couldn't have crawled under there.
"They will come for you too.".
On second thought, this was probably a prank by the old tenant. The nice lady accross the hall had told me the whole story. I already knew the gist, this had been all over the news a few weeks ago. This was just a phycho's attempt to punk me.
I crumpled the paper into a ball and through it in the trash bin. I didn't know if I felt sorry or angry at the guy. He was obviously sick and he needed help he never got. I continued cleaning and tried to forget about it.
After an hour I had finished the living room and was ready to start cooking dinner. I poured some olive oil into the pan and started preparing the vegetables. And then the heater started going again. THUD... THUD... THUD...
What could that even be? It was coming from the somewhere below the floor. The landlord would be here any minute now. The sooner it got fixed the better, because the thing was unbearable.
THUD... THUD... THUD...
"They will knock, until you feed them"
Could that be what the note was refering to? Poor guy, he was haunted by the heater noise.
THUD... THUD... THUD...
I finished chopping the onions, threw then in the pan and started with the peppers. I looked out the kithen window and admired the view of the sun setting over the river. This place was excellent and quite a bargain too. I couldn't believe my luck.
THUD... THUD... THUD...
Distracted by the spectacle of the sun, I clumsily run the knife over my finger. Ouch! It wasn't a deep cut but the thing started dripping blood. A few drops fell on the counter. I'd clean this up later, I wrapped it with a paper towel and rushed to the bathroom to get it treated.
Well the home pharmacy wasn't stocked yet, but at least I had some alcohol, so I threw some on there and wrapped it with a fresh paper towel until the bleeding stopped. At least the heater noise had stopped. Let's go clean up and make that dinner.
When I got back to the kitchen the sun was almost completely set. I turned on the lights and turned at the kitchen counter. And I froze in place. The counter was spottless, apart from the chopped pepper bits. No sign of blood. Not no the counter, not on the knife.
I took a step back until my back touched the wall and I just sat there motionless. The only thing I could hear was the sizzling of the onions getting bunrned in the pan. I very slowly leaned and ventured a look at the living room. No one. I tip towed over to the counter, took the knife and turned off the stove keeping my eye on the living room.
"Is someone there?"
I immediatelly regretted that. If anyone was there I just alerted them.
I took a glance at the counter again. How can that be? I looked at my hand. The paper towel had a small stain on it. I can't have imagined that. I distincly remembered the drops being there.
I very slowly walked to the living room, knife still in hand. In what felt like a ages, I did a sweep of the whole apartment. No one. And then the door bell rang. I froze in place again. It rang again.
"Lori, it's me James".
The landlord. Thank god. I rushed to the door and quickly opened it. I rushed outside in the hallway.
"Hey, hi. So the super is downstairs fixing that heater issue right now. He told me it was a faulty valve or something. It should be ready... Are you alright?"
"Hi, yes... sorry... I just cut myself while cooking dinner"
"Oh, let me see that. Do you need help? I can get some bandages for that"
"No, no, it's fine. It has stopped bleeding already."
"Why do you still hold the knife?" He asked with the an uneasy smile.
"Ha, I run to get the door and completely forgot about that. Wanna come in for a sec and tell me about that heater?"
We both went back into the apartment. I got him an iced tea and he started talking about the maintenance on the heater. I didn't really hear him, while he was talking I was actually walking around the house checking every possible hiding place. There was no one there.
We talked for a few more minutes before he left. I had managed to pull myself together by then.
I went back to the kitchen and opened the trash bin. I pulled out the note and looked at the last line again.
"You will only be spared once" | Ah, spring. It's the season of change, the season that presses reset on the world. Now was the time for me to press reset on my apartment and clean my filthy living space. I grimace and grit my teeth as I sweep my eyes across my small living room. In one corner of the room was greasy cardboard tower made of old pizza boxes. Acting as supports for the base, two bulging black garbage bags leaned against either side. In the middle of the room stands my dingy coffee table, scratches and nick caused by being kicked innumerable times lined the unstable legs. Covering the coffee table is junk food wrappers and old Chinese take out carton. The sofa that came with the apartment is against the wall next to the coffee table. It's an old stained leather couch that has a faint scent of sex. On the wall next to it are stains from beer and take out. Miscellaneous trash is scattered across the floor
I sigh. Cleaning won't be as easy as I thought. I grab a garbage bag and begin to clean the coffee table. After a few hours, I have all the trash gone and begin to wipe down the walls. As I futilely try to scrub out the stains on the wall next to the couch, I pause and wipe the sweat from my brow. Cleaning definitely isn't easy. I glance to the side and see behind the couch full of trash. I groan. It hadn't even crossed my mind to look back there. I look back at the wall of stains. I wasn't making any progress. I sigh and drop my sponge into the bucket of dirty water next to me.
Time to pick up more trash. I easily push the couch out of the way and begin picking up the crap that had accumulated behind there. After crushing a particularly mountain of trash, I notice that there's an old paper sitting underneath. The paper looked yellowed and coffee stained. Huh? I don't recall dropping any paper back here. Must be from the previous owner. I pick it up and open it to show just an [image](http://24-365crew.com/files/tnsparky/fancy_dickbutt.jpg). I sigh and ball it up and throw it away. Fucking assholes. I go back to cleaning.
EDIT: First prompt written. Criticism is welcome. | |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | As I whip my platinum blonde hair up into a lousy ponytail and redo it because I can't stand weird hairs sticking out, I sigh heavily. I can't believe I've procrastinated it this long, but I know I only have a few weeks before my lease is up, so I really need to just clean this place out. Carefully, I lift a small box that has my beloved late grandmother's jewelry within from the nightstand and blow the dust that had accumulated off it. A soft pang hits my heart at her memory, and I pick up the photo I tucked up underneath the box and stare at her picture. I had placed this photo there when I first moved in because it hurt too much to look at it. She was so happy even at the end, and I miss her so dearly.
I blink a few tears from my eyes and laugh at myself a little, but when my vision clears and I almost set the box back where it was, I notice there's a note on the nightstand. That's definitely not the way I fold paper--it has to be perfectly, crisply folded halfway down the middle. Besides the fact that my OCD is bothering me about it, I'm actually curious about the note. Maybe it was something my grandmother wrote?
No, this isn't her writing. I can tell as I open it up that it's not a note she left, either. I'm a bit disappointed but still intrigued. I almost can't read it because it was obviously written in haste, but I still make an effort to decipher it.
"I'm sorry I left the place a bit of a mess. I couldn't pay the rent any more and was evicted on short notice. My kids live downstairs with their father, and I was wanting to live close so I could see them and make sure he's taking care of them. I don't know why I'm writing this to a stranger, but I know I'm going to be out on the streets soon. I won't be able to take care of my babies."
Scrutinizing the note, I can see why it was really hard to read. The writer was crying--I can tell by the ripples in the paper and smeared ink--and my heart hurts even more. I almost don't want to keep reading; I was already choked up about my grandmother. I really hope this isn't a joke, but... It seems too sincere.
"I know you don't know me and I definitely don't know you, but please, check in on them once in a while? They're in room 113A, just below."
My mind's internal theater reels back to just last week when I noticed a couple kids playing out in the street and yelled at them. I really hope those aren't the same kids she's talking about. Wait. Am I actually even really considering this?
I let out a deep, long sigh. He's probably moved out with them by now, right? I doubt it would be the same tenant, anyway.
I don't know what's gotten into me, some sort of mixture of guilt and intrigue and impulse that I really don't like and can't control, but I find myself snatching my coat up and locking my door and walking down the stairs--and knocking on the door before I realize I've already done it. There's no going back now since the door handle's shaking.
It surprises me when I see a woman standing there. Obviously, it's not the same tenant.
"I'm sorry; I must've made a mistake," I murmur and turn, but I saw her looking at the note in my hand.
"You came?" she asks with a look of shock in her eyes.
"Yeah, I um..." I trail off and bury the note in my pocket. I forgot I had it, and I don't really know where I'm going with this. "I accidentally buried it--had no idea it was there."
Suddenly, she grabs my arm, but not threateningly. I'm captivated by her emotional gaze.
"There really are still good people out there," she muses. "Please, come in. We're moving again, so it's a bit messy, but please pay no mind to it."
I smile, reminded of her note, and enter her apartment. Why, I really don't know. There's no reason for me to come in, honestly. She takes my jacket and hangs it, and I have no say in the matter.
"By we, I mean my husband and I. We're back together now. And the kids are over at their aunt's so they don't have to deal with all this mess. Oh, and my husband's nephew is in town to help us clean up and get a move on, but we're almost done here. Would you care to meet him?"
"Umm..." It doesn't appear I have a say in this, either, because even though I stop following her, she brings her husband and his nephew in. I greet them in turn but have to admit that I can't keep a blush from my cheeks around the younger man. His medium brown skin has a golden glow to it, and his hazel eyes are startling against his darker features, unlike mine against my pale ones.
"I thought I heard you moving stuff up there, and he's young and capable, so he can help you move your things out," she insists, but I balk.
"Oh, it's fine. I'm perfectly fine," I say, and I feel the blush deepen and want to disappear. I should have stayed at home. I should have just stayed at home...
"Well, I'll say," the husband teases his wife and swoops her into his embrace before kissing her, probably so she wouldn't slap him. I feel very awkward and tense, though, and just leave, but I'm followed by "nephew."
"I really don't need any help," I say and exit, but when I hear his footsteps after me a few moments later, I turn around and he's offering me my jacket. I didn't realize I had left without it, but I definitely didn't feel cold just then. Too hot from embarrassment to be cold!
"Sure about that?" he smirks.
Annoyance sparks inside me, but mainly because I just don't want to be embarrassed, especially around someone so attr--I need to stop that thought where it's going. This whole ordeal has got to be the weirdest situation I've ever found myself in.
"I'll be fine," I insist.
When I get to my apartment, that crumpled note I had in my pocket was now accompanied by a new one, and I'm pretty sure that's his number scribbled on it. I don't know whether to be flattered or annoyed by his persistence, but I think it's a combination of the two. Despite myself, as I lean back against my door, I smirk a little as well, knowing he thought I was cute, too.
Even if I choose not to call him or if nothing comes of it if I do, at least that lady seems to have her happily ever after now, and I'm sure her kids are happier with both parents in the picture. No longer in my dismal, mourning episode I was in earlier over my grandmother, I go at my cleaning and clearing with renewed resolve. I do NOT need help!
[First prompt. Sorry if it's a little lengthy. I couldn't sleep and wanted something to do. This was interesting enough, hahah! Hope someone gets some enjoyment out of reading this. I wanted to have some comical aspects, but I'm feeling moody, so I wanted some more emotion in it as well. Then again, it's 1:35 a.m. Why am I up again...?] | Ah, spring. It's the season of change, the season that presses reset on the world. Now was the time for me to press reset on my apartment and clean my filthy living space. I grimace and grit my teeth as I sweep my eyes across my small living room. In one corner of the room was greasy cardboard tower made of old pizza boxes. Acting as supports for the base, two bulging black garbage bags leaned against either side. In the middle of the room stands my dingy coffee table, scratches and nick caused by being kicked innumerable times lined the unstable legs. Covering the coffee table is junk food wrappers and old Chinese take out carton. The sofa that came with the apartment is against the wall next to the coffee table. It's an old stained leather couch that has a faint scent of sex. On the wall next to it are stains from beer and take out. Miscellaneous trash is scattered across the floor
I sigh. Cleaning won't be as easy as I thought. I grab a garbage bag and begin to clean the coffee table. After a few hours, I have all the trash gone and begin to wipe down the walls. As I futilely try to scrub out the stains on the wall next to the couch, I pause and wipe the sweat from my brow. Cleaning definitely isn't easy. I glance to the side and see behind the couch full of trash. I groan. It hadn't even crossed my mind to look back there. I look back at the wall of stains. I wasn't making any progress. I sigh and drop my sponge into the bucket of dirty water next to me.
Time to pick up more trash. I easily push the couch out of the way and begin picking up the crap that had accumulated behind there. After crushing a particularly mountain of trash, I notice that there's an old paper sitting underneath. The paper looked yellowed and coffee stained. Huh? I don't recall dropping any paper back here. Must be from the previous owner. I pick it up and open it to show just an [image](http://24-365crew.com/files/tnsparky/fancy_dickbutt.jpg). I sigh and ball it up and throw it away. Fucking assholes. I go back to cleaning.
EDIT: First prompt written. Criticism is welcome. | |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | As I whip my platinum blonde hair up into a lousy ponytail and redo it because I can't stand weird hairs sticking out, I sigh heavily. I can't believe I've procrastinated it this long, but I know I only have a few weeks before my lease is up, so I really need to just clean this place out. Carefully, I lift a small box that has my beloved late grandmother's jewelry within from the nightstand and blow the dust that had accumulated off it. A soft pang hits my heart at her memory, and I pick up the photo I tucked up underneath the box and stare at her picture. I had placed this photo there when I first moved in because it hurt too much to look at it. She was so happy even at the end, and I miss her so dearly.
I blink a few tears from my eyes and laugh at myself a little, but when my vision clears and I almost set the box back where it was, I notice there's a note on the nightstand. That's definitely not the way I fold paper--it has to be perfectly, crisply folded halfway down the middle. Besides the fact that my OCD is bothering me about it, I'm actually curious about the note. Maybe it was something my grandmother wrote?
No, this isn't her writing. I can tell as I open it up that it's not a note she left, either. I'm a bit disappointed but still intrigued. I almost can't read it because it was obviously written in haste, but I still make an effort to decipher it.
"I'm sorry I left the place a bit of a mess. I couldn't pay the rent any more and was evicted on short notice. My kids live downstairs with their father, and I was wanting to live close so I could see them and make sure he's taking care of them. I don't know why I'm writing this to a stranger, but I know I'm going to be out on the streets soon. I won't be able to take care of my babies."
Scrutinizing the note, I can see why it was really hard to read. The writer was crying--I can tell by the ripples in the paper and smeared ink--and my heart hurts even more. I almost don't want to keep reading; I was already choked up about my grandmother. I really hope this isn't a joke, but... It seems too sincere.
"I know you don't know me and I definitely don't know you, but please, check in on them once in a while? They're in room 113A, just below."
My mind's internal theater reels back to just last week when I noticed a couple kids playing out in the street and yelled at them. I really hope those aren't the same kids she's talking about. Wait. Am I actually even really considering this?
I let out a deep, long sigh. He's probably moved out with them by now, right? I doubt it would be the same tenant, anyway.
I don't know what's gotten into me, some sort of mixture of guilt and intrigue and impulse that I really don't like and can't control, but I find myself snatching my coat up and locking my door and walking down the stairs--and knocking on the door before I realize I've already done it. There's no going back now since the door handle's shaking.
It surprises me when I see a woman standing there. Obviously, it's not the same tenant.
"I'm sorry; I must've made a mistake," I murmur and turn, but I saw her looking at the note in my hand.
"You came?" she asks with a look of shock in her eyes.
"Yeah, I um..." I trail off and bury the note in my pocket. I forgot I had it, and I don't really know where I'm going with this. "I accidentally buried it--had no idea it was there."
Suddenly, she grabs my arm, but not threateningly. I'm captivated by her emotional gaze.
"There really are still good people out there," she muses. "Please, come in. We're moving again, so it's a bit messy, but please pay no mind to it."
I smile, reminded of her note, and enter her apartment. Why, I really don't know. There's no reason for me to come in, honestly. She takes my jacket and hangs it, and I have no say in the matter.
"By we, I mean my husband and I. We're back together now. And the kids are over at their aunt's so they don't have to deal with all this mess. Oh, and my husband's nephew is in town to help us clean up and get a move on, but we're almost done here. Would you care to meet him?"
"Umm..." It doesn't appear I have a say in this, either, because even though I stop following her, she brings her husband and his nephew in. I greet them in turn but have to admit that I can't keep a blush from my cheeks around the younger man. His medium brown skin has a golden glow to it, and his hazel eyes are startling against his darker features, unlike mine against my pale ones.
"I thought I heard you moving stuff up there, and he's young and capable, so he can help you move your things out," she insists, but I balk.
"Oh, it's fine. I'm perfectly fine," I say, and I feel the blush deepen and want to disappear. I should have stayed at home. I should have just stayed at home...
"Well, I'll say," the husband teases his wife and swoops her into his embrace before kissing her, probably so she wouldn't slap him. I feel very awkward and tense, though, and just leave, but I'm followed by "nephew."
"I really don't need any help," I say and exit, but when I hear his footsteps after me a few moments later, I turn around and he's offering me my jacket. I didn't realize I had left without it, but I definitely didn't feel cold just then. Too hot from embarrassment to be cold!
"Sure about that?" he smirks.
Annoyance sparks inside me, but mainly because I just don't want to be embarrassed, especially around someone so attr--I need to stop that thought where it's going. This whole ordeal has got to be the weirdest situation I've ever found myself in.
"I'll be fine," I insist.
When I get to my apartment, that crumpled note I had in my pocket was now accompanied by a new one, and I'm pretty sure that's his number scribbled on it. I don't know whether to be flattered or annoyed by his persistence, but I think it's a combination of the two. Despite myself, as I lean back against my door, I smirk a little as well, knowing he thought I was cute, too.
Even if I choose not to call him or if nothing comes of it if I do, at least that lady seems to have her happily ever after now, and I'm sure her kids are happier with both parents in the picture. No longer in my dismal, mourning episode I was in earlier over my grandmother, I go at my cleaning and clearing with renewed resolve. I do NOT need help!
[First prompt. Sorry if it's a little lengthy. I couldn't sleep and wanted something to do. This was interesting enough, hahah! Hope someone gets some enjoyment out of reading this. I wanted to have some comical aspects, but I'm feeling moody, so I wanted some more emotion in it as well. Then again, it's 1:35 a.m. Why am I up again...?] | Can someone please write one about finding a book about like anatomy or health and then seeing a post it note. On the post it note is says like "turn to page 47" and you find a picture of boobs or something and laugh maniacally. | |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | Nervously, I picked up the note, unsure of what it would say.
"Note to self: remember to re-do plumbing this weekend."
"What a bastard," I thought to myself after reading the note. "He never re-did the plumbing! | "Billy, did you get the boxes from the closet yet?" That was Paul.
Paul was my agent. And I'm Billy. Nice to meet you. I told him no and went back up the stairs.
*Quickly, I'm stacking the boxes outside of the closet. Putting the heavy ones on the bottom. Theres one more box by the air vent. Huh. Whats that hanging out of the vent. Looks like a shred of paper. I'm reaching to grab it...*
"Hurry up, Billy! Your flight leaves in an hour and I'm not paying the change fee!"
*Looks like old handwriting. Not mine. Maybe the previous tenants? Looks like it's in french. Fuck. I'm folding it up and stuffing it in my breast pocket. Grabbing the stack and heading down the stairs.*
Getting through the airport went about as well as those things can go. Nothing eventful. I've done it a hundred times this year. Its about time I got back to clear that place out. After finishing up the East Asian tour and I'd been going round Africa working with the Gates foundation to help provide vaccines and drinking water to the people there. I'm not going to lie to you. Africa is fucked up.
Anyway I'd been keeping that apartment in Chicago for four years while I worked on my debut album. I practically built my career in that place. And here I was rushing away from home and into uncertainty. The Big Apple. New York. But I'm used to that. I relaxed into a deep recline in my cozy business class fare and slurped on a smoky bourbon. I like drinking whiskey when I fly. Calms the nerves. I picked that up from Rick Rubin.
*I'm reaching in my breast pocket and pulling out the letter. Its signed by a John Simon. I don't remember anyone Simon being on the list of previous tenants. The owner was Bob Masterson and I'd talked to him earlier in the week. Maybe John Simon was the previous owner...*
*I'm pulling out my cell phone and starting to punch the french scribble into Google Translate.*
"Another bourbon, sir?"
"Sure."
*Buyer beware,*
*This house is haunted. No, not haunted by a neat little ghost, who might make things go bump in the night, or clean your dishes or tidy your laundry or spill jars of beans all over the pantry or any of those strange but decidedly ghostlike things. This sprit is not here to tie loose ends, or finish business left unfinished during a human life on earth, for there is no human spirit behind the spirit of evil living here. This house is haunted by a terrible demon-king named Beleth, High Commander of 85 Legions in Hell, whom I have conjured here but never vanquished.*
Then there's strange text that doesn't look like french and its signed below.
*The previous owner was a devil worshiper.*
I don't know much about devil worship, other than what I've learned from a few friends in the industry. Jean-Luc, who did my video for "Under My Skin" in the summer of last year was big into it. He gave me a couple old books, which I skimmed through on the set. He wanted to show me some symbolic ideas in one of the books in particular. We mostly just used some of the illustrations as visual guides for the costumes, and we borrowed a few of the titles for the engraving of the gold armor done in post production.
*Beleth. I'm trying to remember if I've ever seen the name. Beleth. Not ringing any bells. I should call Jean-Luc. I'm picking up my phone. To call him. It's ringing.*
"Another bourbon, sir?"
"Yes."
"Billyyyy! How are you my friend! It's been a spell!"
"I'm great. I'm headed on a jet-liner for New York, Jean. I'll be settling in to a new place there overlooking the Hudson."
"Ah! I'm on the island wrapping up some editing for a shoot I did this afternoon for a young girl with one hell of a voice box, if you know what I mean. You might like to meet her."
"What say we meet for dinner, Jean, and bring the girl."
"Hahah, where did you have in mind?"
"This little place Rick turned me onto last time I was in the city. I'll text you the address. How about 9?"
"Perfect."
The Uber driver dropped me off at the threshold, a stony brick building with iron gates. Two security guards stood outside the gates, but the gates were open, and the usher could be seen beyond the entrance at his podium.
*I'm walking to the usher, telling him the name.*
"Right this way."
*I'm following down a long, bright corridor with chandeliers glistening from the ceiling.*
TBC
| |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | I was glad I decided at the last second to open what I thought was apartment advertising spam. My new place was pretty nice, but they didn't clean it very well. As I was putting my dishes away on the I found a piece of paper that must have been from the previous owner. It said,
Once I found them, they wouldn't let me leave.
Once I couldn't leave they made me one of them.
Once I was one of them, I lured the next one in.
I was a little puzzled by it, it was weird for sure but must have been some story they were writing and it somehow got into the cupboard.
Just then I heard a thump from the bathroom, I froze and then slowly headed down the hallway, the only noise being the whisper of my socks on the carpet. Maybe it was the neighbors I told myself. I entered the bathroom and stopped to listen, the only sounds were the wind rustling the leaves outside my window and a car driving by. I shook my head and told myself it's just the sounds of a new place and turned back to the hallway, only to stop in shock as I saw a woman in the mirror standing in the bathtub behind me staring intently at me. Adrenaline sent my heart racing as I spun around with a high pitched curse only to find an empty bathtub. I swallowed a lump in my throat and stepped closer holding my hand out, as if she were still there but now invisible. My had encountered nothing but I saw on the floor of the tub two dirty footprints, I crouched down and swiped one of the footprints with my finger and looked at my now dirty fingertip.
As I stared at the dirt on my fingertip I heard the faint whisper of footsteps coming down the hallway, I stiffened and slowly started to turn when I heard a foot slide lightly across the linoleum behind me. Remembering the note I squeezed my eyes shut "I don't want to find them" I repeated to myself as I fumbled out of the bathroom. As I shuffled down the hallway, using the wall as a guide I felt the light brush of fingers caress my arms, as I came into the living room the caress became a light grip trying to slow me down. The rustling of the trees outside became more pronounced, almost sounding like words if I strained hard enough to make them out. I dared to squint to navigate the towers of boxes standing in the living room, making my way to the front door. Suddenly the light grip became a painful grasp while at the same time a tower of boxes tipped over into my path causing me to trip and fall over them. The rustling of the trees became the sound a rushing roar as they suddenly began whipping back and forth, the sound of words almost being easy to hear now. I didn't try to listen, the fingers that had grasped my arm now had my feet and were trying to pull me back down the hallway. I kicked my legs and managed to get to my feet, lunging the last few feet to the door, yanking it open and nearly falling out into the hallway beyond. The door slammed shut behind me and silence enveloped me. Holy shit, I thought, what the hell was that. I stood up and froze, I was somehow back in my living room, holding the dish I had before I found the note. I turned slowly towards the hallway that led to the bathroom as chills raced down my spine in waves. I heard a thump. | "Billy, did you get the boxes from the closet yet?" That was Paul.
Paul was my agent. And I'm Billy. Nice to meet you. I told him no and went back up the stairs.
*Quickly, I'm stacking the boxes outside of the closet. Putting the heavy ones on the bottom. Theres one more box by the air vent. Huh. Whats that hanging out of the vent. Looks like a shred of paper. I'm reaching to grab it...*
"Hurry up, Billy! Your flight leaves in an hour and I'm not paying the change fee!"
*Looks like old handwriting. Not mine. Maybe the previous tenants? Looks like it's in french. Fuck. I'm folding it up and stuffing it in my breast pocket. Grabbing the stack and heading down the stairs.*
Getting through the airport went about as well as those things can go. Nothing eventful. I've done it a hundred times this year. Its about time I got back to clear that place out. After finishing up the East Asian tour and I'd been going round Africa working with the Gates foundation to help provide vaccines and drinking water to the people there. I'm not going to lie to you. Africa is fucked up.
Anyway I'd been keeping that apartment in Chicago for four years while I worked on my debut album. I practically built my career in that place. And here I was rushing away from home and into uncertainty. The Big Apple. New York. But I'm used to that. I relaxed into a deep recline in my cozy business class fare and slurped on a smoky bourbon. I like drinking whiskey when I fly. Calms the nerves. I picked that up from Rick Rubin.
*I'm reaching in my breast pocket and pulling out the letter. Its signed by a John Simon. I don't remember anyone Simon being on the list of previous tenants. The owner was Bob Masterson and I'd talked to him earlier in the week. Maybe John Simon was the previous owner...*
*I'm pulling out my cell phone and starting to punch the french scribble into Google Translate.*
"Another bourbon, sir?"
"Sure."
*Buyer beware,*
*This house is haunted. No, not haunted by a neat little ghost, who might make things go bump in the night, or clean your dishes or tidy your laundry or spill jars of beans all over the pantry or any of those strange but decidedly ghostlike things. This sprit is not here to tie loose ends, or finish business left unfinished during a human life on earth, for there is no human spirit behind the spirit of evil living here. This house is haunted by a terrible demon-king named Beleth, High Commander of 85 Legions in Hell, whom I have conjured here but never vanquished.*
Then there's strange text that doesn't look like french and its signed below.
*The previous owner was a devil worshiper.*
I don't know much about devil worship, other than what I've learned from a few friends in the industry. Jean-Luc, who did my video for "Under My Skin" in the summer of last year was big into it. He gave me a couple old books, which I skimmed through on the set. He wanted to show me some symbolic ideas in one of the books in particular. We mostly just used some of the illustrations as visual guides for the costumes, and we borrowed a few of the titles for the engraving of the gold armor done in post production.
*Beleth. I'm trying to remember if I've ever seen the name. Beleth. Not ringing any bells. I should call Jean-Luc. I'm picking up my phone. To call him. It's ringing.*
"Another bourbon, sir?"
"Yes."
"Billyyyy! How are you my friend! It's been a spell!"
"I'm great. I'm headed on a jet-liner for New York, Jean. I'll be settling in to a new place there overlooking the Hudson."
"Ah! I'm on the island wrapping up some editing for a shoot I did this afternoon for a young girl with one hell of a voice box, if you know what I mean. You might like to meet her."
"What say we meet for dinner, Jean, and bring the girl."
"Hahah, where did you have in mind?"
"This little place Rick turned me onto last time I was in the city. I'll text you the address. How about 9?"
"Perfect."
The Uber driver dropped me off at the threshold, a stony brick building with iron gates. Two security guards stood outside the gates, but the gates were open, and the usher could be seen beyond the entrance at his podium.
*I'm walking to the usher, telling him the name.*
"Right this way."
*I'm following down a long, bright corridor with chandeliers glistening from the ceiling.*
TBC
| |
[WP] You are cleaning out your apartment and you find a note that you did not write, but must have been from the previous owner. | "I know how crazy this might seem, but the threat is all too real. You're the next owner of this apartment, now it's your turn to fight against the terror." My hands are stiff and my breath is baited.
*This has to be a joke. I'm not in any real danger*
I am about to ball up the paper and throw it away when it starts to glow. I don't mean like a nightlight, I mean a powerful halo of light sprouting from the piece of paper itself. It could've been seconds, or minutes, or hours but after what could've been an eternity the light stopped and in place of the paper, a single silver key soundlessly fell to the floor.
Blinking the spots out of my eyes I try to convince myself that this can't be real, that what I just saw was...a solar flare! That's ought to be it, and this key was my old key to my house! Right! Nothing out of the ordinary here! Half-crazed I pick up the key and toss it into an old box. *Just a solar flare, that's all it was.* Then I casually walk down to the ground floor with box in hand and start driving towards...*Home? Where am I going?* The bright light started up again, my vision starts to blur, I don't know who's driving. Groggily I tilt my head towards the driver seat. *Who's driving!? I swear I was alone!* Looking at the drivers seat my heart stops, **I am driving, but I'm right here in the passenger seat** My other self looks at me, where my pupils should've been was only that harsh light. My throat is sore, *why does my throat hurt so much?* The other version of me reaches over and touches my head whispering softly "now it's your turn" my eyelids forfeit control and I slump over. I feel my head bash against the glovebox. | "Billy, did you get the boxes from the closet yet?" That was Paul.
Paul was my agent. And I'm Billy. Nice to meet you. I told him no and went back up the stairs.
*Quickly, I'm stacking the boxes outside of the closet. Putting the heavy ones on the bottom. Theres one more box by the air vent. Huh. Whats that hanging out of the vent. Looks like a shred of paper. I'm reaching to grab it...*
"Hurry up, Billy! Your flight leaves in an hour and I'm not paying the change fee!"
*Looks like old handwriting. Not mine. Maybe the previous tenants? Looks like it's in french. Fuck. I'm folding it up and stuffing it in my breast pocket. Grabbing the stack and heading down the stairs.*
Getting through the airport went about as well as those things can go. Nothing eventful. I've done it a hundred times this year. Its about time I got back to clear that place out. After finishing up the East Asian tour and I'd been going round Africa working with the Gates foundation to help provide vaccines and drinking water to the people there. I'm not going to lie to you. Africa is fucked up.
Anyway I'd been keeping that apartment in Chicago for four years while I worked on my debut album. I practically built my career in that place. And here I was rushing away from home and into uncertainty. The Big Apple. New York. But I'm used to that. I relaxed into a deep recline in my cozy business class fare and slurped on a smoky bourbon. I like drinking whiskey when I fly. Calms the nerves. I picked that up from Rick Rubin.
*I'm reaching in my breast pocket and pulling out the letter. Its signed by a John Simon. I don't remember anyone Simon being on the list of previous tenants. The owner was Bob Masterson and I'd talked to him earlier in the week. Maybe John Simon was the previous owner...*
*I'm pulling out my cell phone and starting to punch the french scribble into Google Translate.*
"Another bourbon, sir?"
"Sure."
*Buyer beware,*
*This house is haunted. No, not haunted by a neat little ghost, who might make things go bump in the night, or clean your dishes or tidy your laundry or spill jars of beans all over the pantry or any of those strange but decidedly ghostlike things. This sprit is not here to tie loose ends, or finish business left unfinished during a human life on earth, for there is no human spirit behind the spirit of evil living here. This house is haunted by a terrible demon-king named Beleth, High Commander of 85 Legions in Hell, whom I have conjured here but never vanquished.*
Then there's strange text that doesn't look like french and its signed below.
*The previous owner was a devil worshiper.*
I don't know much about devil worship, other than what I've learned from a few friends in the industry. Jean-Luc, who did my video for "Under My Skin" in the summer of last year was big into it. He gave me a couple old books, which I skimmed through on the set. He wanted to show me some symbolic ideas in one of the books in particular. We mostly just used some of the illustrations as visual guides for the costumes, and we borrowed a few of the titles for the engraving of the gold armor done in post production.
*Beleth. I'm trying to remember if I've ever seen the name. Beleth. Not ringing any bells. I should call Jean-Luc. I'm picking up my phone. To call him. It's ringing.*
"Another bourbon, sir?"
"Yes."
"Billyyyy! How are you my friend! It's been a spell!"
"I'm great. I'm headed on a jet-liner for New York, Jean. I'll be settling in to a new place there overlooking the Hudson."
"Ah! I'm on the island wrapping up some editing for a shoot I did this afternoon for a young girl with one hell of a voice box, if you know what I mean. You might like to meet her."
"What say we meet for dinner, Jean, and bring the girl."
"Hahah, where did you have in mind?"
"This little place Rick turned me onto last time I was in the city. I'll text you the address. How about 9?"
"Perfect."
The Uber driver dropped me off at the threshold, a stony brick building with iron gates. Two security guards stood outside the gates, but the gates were open, and the usher could be seen beyond the entrance at his podium.
*I'm walking to the usher, telling him the name.*
"Right this way."
*I'm following down a long, bright corridor with chandeliers glistening from the ceiling.*
TBC
| |
Basically, your inner beauty translates to your child's outer beauty. Your child is born hideous. You thought you lived a rather moral life, so you look back to figure out what could have prompted your child to be so unfortunate. | [WP] You live in a world where people's looks come from the morality of their parents, not genetic code. You, an attractive person, are about to become a parent. Your child is grotesque. You examine your life to figure out why. | I held my newborn son in my arms and I loved him so much. It was plain to see he was grossly unattractive, even I, his own mother, could see it. His head was misshapen with chunky features seemingly to have been slapped on like great chunks of clay, his hair was a kinky black mess. The worst of his deformities were the two protruding bumps growing out the top of his forehead like horns. He was physical evidence of my demons, but I still loved him.
I am a good person. There's no debating that, I just am. I volunteer, and donate to charities, I've never told a lie or intentionally been cruel to anyone. Just like my parents, I was a good person. This is why it hurt me so much when I was given stares of disgust from nurses, and when I was finally released, a nurse wheeled me out to my car and a stranger spit at my feet and told me I was a horrid person for doing this to my child. None of them knew. Knew how I sobbed for weeks on end during the pregnancy, or how a nurse who was with me from the start had held my hand in place of a husband or boyfriend, or how I thought about my choices so many, many times before I decided i was a good person and that wouldn't change.
So I had this child who was now faced with a life of torment, never knowing who his father was. I couldn't tell him if I even knew, that was still under investigation. It is apparent looking at my child, however, he was truly an evil man. The only confirmation I needed of that were the memories of his force as he violated me. | *Written from the perspective of a female character born in the late 1980s*
I was sixteen when it happened.
At that time and age, bullying was common. Like, really common. I teased others about their looks, their hair, what polish they used or the bag they carried. I remember showing off my new projection TV to my friends on my birthday, laughing at the one which I knew didn't even have a television. I dared people to steal from the corner store, even though I never did. I was cold, calculating, and pushed others around.
Somehow, I made my way to the top of the damn food chain.
I was working late on an English assignment, with the clock ticking past two. Coffee was the only thing that kept me up as I thought and typed. Tucked beside my ear was my phone, and I was having a heated talk with Jen. Her. She was just simply lazy, refusing to pull her part in this group project. While I slaved away, she listened to crap on the radio and insisted that she'd be fine.
"Oh, I'll get it done by morning". I could call bulls- on that, I swear.
I was sick, I was frustrated, and I knew my voice carried power. Most people at school would listen to me, whether made up or true. If the project wasn't done, my grades would fall hard. And Dad would beat me to hell.
In desperation, I turned to the phone and spoke calmly.
"Listen, I know Max had fun with you last week. Lots of fun. And you know how Sally would feel if she heard that, right?"
I was true to an extent. Sally had seen Jen and Max talk for a moment after school, and she'd dismissed it quick. It would be easy to add on a few lies about seeing them go home that night and... the rumours would spread.
Sally was the head of the student council. What would happen to Jen would kill her... *literally*.
Jen hung up on me; she didn't say a word. I took that as a yes and assumed that she would do her work. It was a well-known fact that she had no friends, was a loner, and probably only talked to Max because she had to. But I didn't care.
I made a few calls, quickly spread more rumours the next day. By afternoon, everyone knew.
The next day, she wasn't at school.. When I got home that night, I saw on the news that a sixteen year-old teenager was found dead on the freeway, having jumped onto the path of a moving Freightliner from the overhead bridge. People were questioned, but there was no note and no one at the school said a word.
I came home scared that someone would call the cops on me, but no one did. Two years later, I'd already shrugged her off my mind. Four years later, she was a forgotten memory.
*She was being stupid. It was her fault for getting herself into all that trouble.*
Jen wouldn't come back to haunt me, right? I was wrong. Bloody wrong. When I saw the baby boy in my arms, I knew immediately that she had the last laugh. |
[WP] A ship discovers a colossal sphere of air drifting through space. The captain and a team venture into it, take off their helmets, and breathe the fresh, weightless air. They discover a lush ecosystem, complete with planet-sized giga fauna | "Computer, run chemical analysis on the sample".
After barely a few moments, a monotone female voice replied, "Analysis complete. Nitrogen: 78.08%, Oxygen: 20.946%, Argon : 0.934%, Carbon Dioxide: 0.0397%."
"It can not be", replied the android at the helm.
"What can't be?", the first officer asked stroking his beard.
"Sir, atmospheric chemical composition, and the surface pressure are exactly same as planet Earth. It also has 1G gravity".
"Are you suggesting that the wormhole brought us to Earth in a different space time?"
"Our scans determine that we are in the Beta quadrant. I do not think this is Earth, but some place like it".
"Captain, I'm picking humanoid life forms on the planet"
"Hail them Ensign."
"No response Sir".
"Permission to lead an away team Sir", said the first officer, standing up and giving his uniform a gentle tug at the waist.
"Without knowing who or what we are dealing with this could be dangerous Captain", remarked the security officer from behind the tactical station. "I recommend we go to yellow alert."
"Noted Mr. Worf. Prepare a team Number One".
"As the security chief, I should lead this mission Sir. There could be a possibility of combat"
"This not that kind of a mission Mr. Worf.", replied the Commander. Turning to the captain, he continued, "Sir, If there are indeed humans down there, we need to be diplomatic."
"Make it so Number One", said the Captain with a slight nod to his first officer.
"Data, La Forge you are with me", said Commander Riker and led them out of the room.
"Maintain a lock on them at all times, Ensign", ordered Captain Picard.
"Aye captain."
-------------------------------------
The away team materialized inside a light house in the center of an ocean. The light house was drenched in gloom. A dark dingy spiral staircase led the way to what appeared to be an elevator. The team squeezed into the spherical room and pushed the lever.
The sphere closed shut behind them and started moving. With bated breath, the team watched the views from the glass cylinder as it sank deeper and deeper into the ocean. Like floor levels in an elevator, they saw several depth markers.
5 fathoms…
10 fathoms…
Data could hear the slightly elevated breathing of the crew around him. He glanced at their anxious faces and remarked "Looking at the thickness and built of this structure, it can withstand tremendous amounts of water pressure. It would not collapse under pressure any time soon".
Data heard the tactical officer gasp. Riker glared at him and Geordi shook his head.
"I merely meant to put your mind at ease", said Data with a shrug and returned to recording the details of their descent.
15 fathoms…
Finally at 18 fathoms they leveled out and began moving laterally through what appeared to be a long tunnel. Outside they saw an entire world sprawling with oceanic life and tall buildings at the ocean floor. Large sea creatures swam past, between the numerous buildings and the large flora at the ocean floor. The team stood transfixed at the view.
"Looks like very old architecture possibly from the 20th century", exclaimed Geordi.
"1940s to be precise", replied Data.
They finally came to a stop in a narrow corridor. The outside view to the world was gone. Darkness surrounded them. A blue-green light flickered in the corner. In the flickering light, they could make out two humanoid forms.
"No, no.. Please don’t.", said the man, his hands held up in surrender.
The second figure moved closer, hunched forward - a hunter tracking a beast.
"Don't hurt me.. Just let me go… ", the man whimpered.
The lights flickered again and in the momentary flash, Riker saw the hunched figure holding two sickles dripping with blood. An instant later, the figure had pounced and the man had been split open.
"Get this door open", Commander Riker shouted and pushed at the door, but the sphere was still de-pressurizing and there was nothing they could do but watch as the man sputtered a few dying words and breathed his last.
The second figure must have heard Commander Riker's voice through the glass. It peered into the glass. The team could not make out a face in the dim flickering light. All they could see a lithe body, with blood splattered all over the face.
The sphere had finished de-pressurizing. They heard the soft click of the doors becoming unlocked. However, no one had the intention of opening the door at this time. They waited as their adversary examined the sphere.
They realized they were facing a woman, when she spoke, "Is someone there?", each word long and drawn out.
The slithering voice sent a shiver down Geordi's spine. He knew he was not alone, when Commander Riker whispered under his breath, "Phasers on kill."
Riker hoped that the darkness was working in their favor too, and their enemy couldn’t see inside the sphere. He gripped the phaser in his sweaty hands, armed and ready to fire.
Suddenly the woman shrieked and jumped on top of the sphere, in an attempt to sabotage it and draw out anyone inside. When no one came running out, she jumped down, gave a final glance in their direction, and sprinted away.
Seeing her go away, everyone, except Data, let out a heavy sigh. When she did not return a few minutes later, Commander Riker said, "We can't stay here forever. Let's move on".
As they got out, they heard a faint recording playing over the air. *Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow. No! says the man….*
Geordi turned on his scanner and pointed the device in an arc around him, hoping to pick up any life forms. The team waited patiently for directions. Riker moved away from the group the examine the corridor that the woman had run off in to. He used the gentle static from the scanner as an indicator of his distance from the team. He didn’t want to be separated from the group here.
"This way commander! I'm picking up a human life form", Geordi pointed the scanner in a direction.
*I rejected those answers …*
They walked through the corridor into a room, brighter than the one before. The wall on the side had broken off, water dripping through the pipes, making a puddle at their feet. As they waded into the room, they saw a little girl, dressed in a pink frock and bow on her head, singing near a body sprawled across the floor. Riker cautiously moved closer to the girl not wanting to startle the child.
There were several vending machines aligned against the wall in the room. The vending machine adorned with flashing lights and a clown face, intrigued data. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Data move closer to inspect one of them. As soon as Data got within arm's reach, the machine activated, "Welcome to the circus …"
The little girl must have heard the machine activate. Startled, she jumped to her feet. She saw Riker within a few meters of her, and screamed backing away a few steps.
*I chose the impossible. I chose…*
"No.. No, I don't mean you any harm", explained Riker, moving closer to her. The girl continued to scream. Riker turned to the sound of deep footsteps behind him. The room shook with each step. A moment later, Riker found himself facing a man clad in a metal diving suit. If it was really a man, he wasn’t really sure. The drill attached to its arm, spun to life. Riker was petrified.
The tactical officer fired his phaser at it, but it only angered the metal giant. The phaser did not penetrate the thick diving suit acting as an effective armor. But it had been successfully distracted away from Riker. The tactical officer was now the new target.
The tactical officer fired a few more blasts. The monster screamed. It charged into the tactical officer, drill tearing through the stomach. Red blood mixed with guts and pieces of red shirt splattered leaving a trail as he was dragged for several meters with the impact.
*Where the great would not be constrained by the small…*
Data assessed their situation and knew that their chance of success against this species was low. The screams were also drawing out several other inhabitants of the place. Soon it will be swarming with enemies. He tapped the badge on his shirt and spoke into it, "Captain, requesting immediate evacuation."
Even though he had lost a member of his crew, Riker was glad they were leaving this forsaken place. As they de-materialized, he heard the final words of the recording, *Rapture can become your city as well.*
Edit: Formatting | Have you ever found yourself trying to wake up, but ended up teetering on the edge of consciousness? Now imagine that, but bigger. That's how it feels to come out of 800 years of cryo-sleep. It took me three weeks to fully wake up; twenty-one days of falling in and out of existence; five hundred hours of balancing precariously on the brink of oblivion.
It's funny - all that time asleep, and now that I'm here it finally feels like I'm dreaming.
The anomaly. That's what the astronomers called it. First, they thought it was just a scratch on Hubble III's mirror.
It took three replaced mirrors, two new lenses and one hundred years of argument before it was agreed. This was something new. One moron actually suggested that a solar wind got trapped in some sort of gravity balloon and reflected light from Venus. Seriously.
I spent the last two earth-months studying the files that they had been transmitting while we were in transit. Three hundred and seventy two years worth of data and hypotheses followed by four hundred and twenty eight years of silence.
Now that I see it, I can't believe how wrong they were. They said we would be colonizing a new planet. A second earth rich with air, water, food. Everything we'd need to land the ship and start building. They made one very reasonable, logical, and fatally flawed assumption. It's the only thing they got wrong.
There's no planet to land on.
| |
[WP] A sentient sword sits in the middle of a frozen lake waiting for a hero to come take it and fulfill its destiny to vanquish evil from the land. The Hero never comes as he/she/it was able to overcome the ultimate evil without the legendary sword. What does the sword do? | _In a world of pure unblemished white, sits The Sword That Waits. In the centre of a frozen lake which reflects neither sun or sky. It waits. It waits for the day a Hero worthy of it shall appear to draw it from the lake and use it to slay all evil. So it has ever been, and so, say the legends, so it will ever be..._
The was a white, white world. Pure and unblemished as new fallen snow. The lake remained as ever it had, neither sun nor rain nor blood marring its pristine surface. It was a world unto itself, cold, beautiful, and unspeakably lonely. It was at the centre of this desolate world that the lone sword reigned. Majestic and proud, it was somehow even more serene than the lake; with no ornamentation of its own. It didn't need any. No precious jewels adorned its hilt or blade, yet even so the blade seemed to project an aura of otherworldly beauty. When the light of the sun caught on the blade, it seemed somehow brighter and sharper than elsewhere. It had always been thus, ever since that day the man with the sad, too-old eyes had brought the sword here and sheathed it in the cold ice of the lake.
The sword could not remember its own creation. For nothing, not even steel that could cut the very world, was strong enough to retain memory of its birth. All it remembered was – heat, a faint rhythmic pounding of hammer on steel, continuing tirelessly, endlessly. It grew stronger and more distinct, and soon the-sword-that-was-not-yet-a-sword realised that the sound was its own heartbeat. “That's right,” a voice like the rustle of leaves on an ancient oak had said, “you will be a sword like no other. And one day, you will meet one worthy of you, and you'll change the world...”
The sword believed those words even now.
It had waited ages for the arrival of the promised one. Men and women of every conceivable size, shape, and walks of life had come to try and wrest the sword from the lake and claim the legend for themselves. And all had been found wanting. And so the sword waited.
Seasons passed, the world continued to turn and change as is its way. All but for that white world that existed within it, it went untouched by time and entropy, unsullied by human hands. And still the sword waited.
Eventually, **h**e was born. The sword felt it from the moment the child opened its eyes to the world and took its first breath, and from that first breath, the child's heart beat in time with the swords own.
At long last, one worthy of the sword's power, the one who would draw it from its lake and finally help it to fulfil its purpose. But not yet. The infant was young and weak. Ignorant of the fate that awaited it. But one day he would come. And so, the sword waited.
The child grew and became strong. He ventured out into the world and met his destiny. He fought evil and protected the weak. But something went wrong. The Hero never found the lake were sat the noble, patient sword. He never entered that world of white and drew forth his destined weapon. He lived, he fought, he triumphed, and he died content with his life and all his works. The moment he breathed his last, something happened at the lake. The sword, which had remained pure and perfect since time immemorial, cracked like a faded mirror, just slightly, where hilt met blade.
Even the patience of steel must eventually run dry when its hearts has already passed on from the world. And gradually one crack became two. And then three. Slowly that lonesome white world, began to give way to grey. The frozen surface of the lake clouded, and the light no longer deigned to shine on the sword which remained faithfully at the centre of the lake. All who saw the lonely blade felt a strange sense of loss, seeing the nobility that remained of The Sword That Waits, even now, as its blade chipped and it lustre faded under the weight of ages. They wept, and mourned, without ever quite knowing why.
And so, as time moved callously forward and the world changed without it, the sword waited for a Hero that would never come, to fulfil a purpose that had been achieved without it. For what else could it do?
The Sword that Waits; waited...
| "Hello?" yelled the sword. "Anybody out there?" The only response was a gentle breeze. "I'm really, really good at stopping evil! Anybody?!"
| |
[WP] A sentient sword sits in the middle of a frozen lake waiting for a hero to come take it and fulfill its destiny to vanquish evil from the land. The Hero never comes as he/she/it was able to overcome the ultimate evil without the legendary sword. What does the sword do? | Perry walked by the lake for the 15th time this week.
"Still there..." The sword had been in the ice since the beginning of winter. Every day as Perry walked by he could hear it.
"Are you mighty enough to-" yadda yadda yadda. "only my steel can pierce-" blah blah etc. for something without human anatomy, it was pretty far up its own ass. A talking sword was cool and all, but who would want one when he's so pretentious? The winter was long and arduous, and Perry's family did all it could just to feed themselves, but the snow was beginning to melt, and the larks were returning. Spring was upon them, and it was good, for his family at least.
The slow change in the weather was melting the lake as well an Perry couldn't think about anything but what would happen to the sword? The ice he once thought was an enchantment was waning, would a little bit remain? would the sword sink to the bottom of the lake? Could a talking sword drown?
These questions and many more kept Perry busy most of his work day, but today was a bit different. The mystical blade wasn't spouting his usual bluster. every few minutes he'd just make a concerned "hmm" sound. Finally he had to break the silence.
"Are you going to be ok Sword?"
"What's this? A lowly knave addresses me? Come boy test your strength prove to-"
"Yea you seem fine" Perry started on the long walk back home. he slung his satchel over his shoulder. Full of berries he picked on the way down, his family would have their first dessert in months.
"Wait! Wait! I'm sorry I called you a knave. I just- I was supposed to be a legendary sword fit for a hero to slaughter evil and bring the darkness to heel, but I haven't seen any hero. The only person who walks by this God forsaken lake is you. I don't know if its just a bad location, but the foot traffic in this town is atrocious."
"What so all that blathering was to impress me?"
"A little, Where you in awe at my splendor?"
"Not particularly. You come on a bit strong. Besides, I don't know if you heard, but the evil was vanquished a month or 2 ago."
"Vanquished? but only my blade is sharp enough to pierce-"
"There's this fancy invention called armor piercing ammunition, does a pretty good job against dark lords if the daily news can be believed." That was the other thing he thought was weird. Guns had been around a long time. Who in their right mind would take a sword into the the dark lords base? It all just seemed a bit comical.
"I told the smith when he was forging me this was a bad idea, but did he listen? No! Stupid nerds and their stupid superstitions. Look kid, I may not be the ultimate weapon for demon killing, but I've got a pretty sharp blade! a little reforging you can make me an ax. I'll never go dull, you'd be the most magnificent lumberjack this side of... whatever the nearest river is. Just come get me out before I sink."
"I was thinking about that. Can you drown?"
"I'd rather not wait to find out."
Perry set down his bag and slowly waded out onto the ice. Slowly, carefully he walked to where the blade was stuck. The ice groaned and creaked under his feet, but it held. He reached the sword, grabbed the hilt and pulled with all his might!
The ice began to crack around the blade. The cracks widened as he pulled, the ground groaned until finally the blade broke free. Perry too the sword and ran back to shore for dear life.
"What do I call you by the way?"
"The Smith named me Calbrigor."
"Alright Cal, Let get you ready to chop some wood."
A few years went by and everyone heard the tales of Perry: The Whistling Woodsman and his trusty ax Cal: The Singing Sword(That name confused a good number of people). When he was old and grey Perry returned to the spot that started it all.
"We've come a long way buddy."
"That we ha-" before he could finish he slipped and hit his head. Perry went peacefully, clutching the hilt of his best friend. A smile on his face. Cal's head just barely in the water. Oddly enough, turns out an talking ax can drown. | "Hello?" yelled the sword. "Anybody out there?" The only response was a gentle breeze. "I'm really, really good at stopping evil! Anybody?!"
| |
[WP] A sentient sword sits in the middle of a frozen lake waiting for a hero to come take it and fulfill its destiny to vanquish evil from the land. The Hero never comes as he/she/it was able to overcome the ultimate evil without the legendary sword. What does the sword do? | "H-hello?" The sword whispered. "Is anyone there?"
The evening breeze began to blow, as it always did and it always would. The wind's gentleness touched the honed-steel blade, its gleaming edge still as sharp as the day it was forged in the fires of a forgotten palace, by a forgotten people, beneath a forgotten sun.
The sword was waiting, waiting for the footsteps that would mean it had a - a purpose. A mission. A reason to wait on. Not that it could do anything else, of course.
It measured time in the rising and setting of the sun, in the spring thaw and the winter freeze - it measured time in the movement of the fish below. In truth, it had no measure of time, because to keep time requires distinguishing the past from the present, and every day was the same. Besides, the sword had lost its mind generations and generations ago.
"Is anyone out there?" The whisper was softer this time, stretched long and thin by the Northern billows. The sun would rise soon. The sword would enjoy the rays for a few hours - and then would come the dark once more. The endless winter. The long night.
It was no good to dwell on such things - either the Hero would come, or the Hero would not. A spark of hope lit in the swords pommel as he saw movement by the pines - but it was just a family of deer, foraging in the frozen brush.
The sword let out a sigh as the world turned velvet-black. The stars began to gleam, and shine, and throw their light onto the snow. Maybe the Hero was here, just lost. Maybe if the sword could just - could just shout a little louder -
"Hello?" The sword whispered in the frosted midnight air. "Is there anybody out there?"
| "Hello?" yelled the sword. "Anybody out there?" The only response was a gentle breeze. "I'm really, really good at stopping evil! Anybody?!"
| |
[WP] A sentient sword sits in the middle of a frozen lake waiting for a hero to come take it and fulfill its destiny to vanquish evil from the land. The Hero never comes as he/she/it was able to overcome the ultimate evil without the legendary sword. What does the sword do? | _In a world of pure unblemished white, sits The Sword That Waits. In the centre of a frozen lake which reflects neither sun or sky. It waits. It waits for the day a Hero worthy of it shall appear to draw it from the lake and use it to slay all evil. So it has ever been, and so, say the legends, so it will ever be..._
The was a white, white world. Pure and unblemished as new fallen snow. The lake remained as ever it had, neither sun nor rain nor blood marring its pristine surface. It was a world unto itself, cold, beautiful, and unspeakably lonely. It was at the centre of this desolate world that the lone sword reigned. Majestic and proud, it was somehow even more serene than the lake; with no ornamentation of its own. It didn't need any. No precious jewels adorned its hilt or blade, yet even so the blade seemed to project an aura of otherworldly beauty. When the light of the sun caught on the blade, it seemed somehow brighter and sharper than elsewhere. It had always been thus, ever since that day the man with the sad, too-old eyes had brought the sword here and sheathed it in the cold ice of the lake.
The sword could not remember its own creation. For nothing, not even steel that could cut the very world, was strong enough to retain memory of its birth. All it remembered was – heat, a faint rhythmic pounding of hammer on steel, continuing tirelessly, endlessly. It grew stronger and more distinct, and soon the-sword-that-was-not-yet-a-sword realised that the sound was its own heartbeat. “That's right,” a voice like the rustle of leaves on an ancient oak had said, “you will be a sword like no other. And one day, you will meet one worthy of you, and you'll change the world...”
The sword believed those words even now.
It had waited ages for the arrival of the promised one. Men and women of every conceivable size, shape, and walks of life had come to try and wrest the sword from the lake and claim the legend for themselves. And all had been found wanting. And so the sword waited.
Seasons passed, the world continued to turn and change as is its way. All but for that white world that existed within it, it went untouched by time and entropy, unsullied by human hands. And still the sword waited.
Eventually, **h**e was born. The sword felt it from the moment the child opened its eyes to the world and took its first breath, and from that first breath, the child's heart beat in time with the swords own.
At long last, one worthy of the sword's power, the one who would draw it from its lake and finally help it to fulfil its purpose. But not yet. The infant was young and weak. Ignorant of the fate that awaited it. But one day he would come. And so, the sword waited.
The child grew and became strong. He ventured out into the world and met his destiny. He fought evil and protected the weak. But something went wrong. The Hero never found the lake were sat the noble, patient sword. He never entered that world of white and drew forth his destined weapon. He lived, he fought, he triumphed, and he died content with his life and all his works. The moment he breathed his last, something happened at the lake. The sword, which had remained pure and perfect since time immemorial, cracked like a faded mirror, just slightly, where hilt met blade.
Even the patience of steel must eventually run dry when its hearts has already passed on from the world. And gradually one crack became two. And then three. Slowly that lonesome white world, began to give way to grey. The frozen surface of the lake clouded, and the light no longer deigned to shine on the sword which remained faithfully at the centre of the lake. All who saw the lonely blade felt a strange sense of loss, seeing the nobility that remained of The Sword That Waits, even now, as its blade chipped and it lustre faded under the weight of ages. They wept, and mourned, without ever quite knowing why.
And so, as time moved callously forward and the world changed without it, the sword waited for a Hero that would never come, to fulfil a purpose that had been achieved without it. For what else could it do?
The Sword that Waits; waited...
| The sword cannot talk because it is a sword and has no mouth. But, through the workings of ancient and powerful magics, it can feel. Right now it is feeling particularly lonely.
Five years ago the whispers of dark tidings fluttered through the surrounding forest. Two years ago a hero rose to fight this darkness. Today, he won.
The sword would have been very happy for the hero if he had bothered to find and use it on this mission. Technically, it was it's destiny and soul purpose in life to aid him on his quest. It was what it had been created for. Yet the hero never came. He hadn't needed the sword.
So, what did that mean for the sword now that it had no purpose? The sword pondered this as the seasons changed and the years passed by, until one day the wind shook the trees in excitement. Tiny footsteps pounded against the dirt, breaking twigs and crunching leaves.
The sword, for the first time, was happy as a round face floated above the edge of the water, staring curiously down at the sunken blade. She was a child not yet pass her thirteenth year; her smile could disarm even the most cold of men. The sword was not created for her to wield, but it would protect her with every ounce of magic it had.
Unfortunately, she was too weak to lift out the destined sword and she left the lake wet and crying, never to be seen again.
The sword was lonely once more. | |
[WP]: Everyone is born with the last words their soulmate will ever say to them etched on their wrist. | *"I'll see you later," I whispered.*
I had always teased Elijah that his soul must have used its best handwriting to etch the words into my skin. His script was a chicken-scratch, utterly incomprehensible to me and anyone else who dared to look over his shoulder while he wrote. Not like the words on my wrist, the last words I would ever hear him say - those were neat and precise, each word printed with care, and I loved him more for that, loved him more for his care and caution.
*"I love you," he said, as his eyes unfocused in the way that dead eyes do. "I love you."*
I never let him see it. I had cut through it, those words, when I was young and scared of the future - angry at the idea of destiny, angry at the idea of soulmates and angry at the idea of losing mine. Cut through it, and left a raised, angry scar - and by the time that was healed, I had grown accustomed to wearing the starched cotton bandages on my wrist, and so I simply didn't stop. Better my soulmate never knew, better I tried to pretend it didn't exist. Elijah never saw my wrist bare.
*No.*
You didn't want to see it coming, did you?
**"Goodbye."**
It's always nice to have the simple ones.
*He was telling the truth, I knew. He loved me. I loved him. But my heart rebelled against the very idea of this, the finality of those words. No no no no no. That wasn't right, I wanted to tell him, because he was dying and his hand was cold in my hand and I was crying for the first time in twenty years.* Say it. *Say it right.*
For Christmas one year when I was six, my mother got a three-legged dog for my brother and me to share, although how one shared a dog was rather beyond my imagination. We had spent hour poring over his paws, the place where his hock became a hind, inspecting for some sign of the writing we all bore. "Maybe his words were on the leg he lost," my brother said, in all of his nine year old wisdom.
I had always thought this an elegant solution.
*Say it right. Please.*
I could still remember meeting him and wishing that the words on our wrists were the first words that our soulmates said to us, because I wanted so desperately to know for certain, from the very first word between us that this man was my other half. I couldn't articulate why, not in this clumsy language of the body. Why? Because he was poised and calm and sensible and all the things I wasn't - because he was kind, really, gentle and patient with all of my sharp edges - because we met on a street with him in a dark suit and a beautiful woman on his arm, me with my hair dyed and heels too high.
*His heart had stopped. The line ran flat. I stared. I stared. I stared.*
I had been young, so young, and reckless in that way that youth are, with fever in my blood and ice in my heart, torn between aloofness and that kind of desperation for affection. I had walked away from my poor, sweet-hearted boyfriend to go and talk to him - had stranded my poor boy mid-sentence while I wove my way through the crowd. That was cruel, I know. I was cruel. But I couldn't help it. It was a song to the soul - I had seen him, and he had seen me, and that was it.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I stood and I left, leaving my boyfriend to utter a bewildered, hurt, "goodbye", even as I walked away.
He was smoking when I got outside. His one bad habit.
"Mind if I...?"
*Please, I wanted to whisper, but my voice had evaporated.*
He handed me one. You could almost see the sparks in his eyes as he wondered. It was always the same - any time you met someone. Is this them? What if it isn't? More terrifying - what if it is? What if these words now, that they say before you, are the last they ever will? If you lose them before you ever truly had them?
I took the cigarette.
"Light?" he said, offering the match he held in cupped hands.
"No, thank you," I said. "I don't smoke."
We smiled.
*My fingers left his hand, now slack against the sheets, and found the bandages he wore over his wrists like I always did, so I could unpick them and unspool them and lay them flat, and stare at the words there. He had been so careful with me, to never let me know what I was not to say, just as I had.*
His beautiful woman was waiting on the other side of the street. Looking impatient.
"I'll wait in the car, then," she said, irritated, and turned to stalk away.
He didn't move. Didn't look.
"What's your name?"
"Rachel," I said. I stuttered. "You?"
"Elijah."
*He breathed his last - a great rattling breath, as last breaths usually are. I almost cried. His one bad habit.*
An old man's name, though I didn't say it aloud. It suited him. He seemed like an old soul.
He certainly revealed to me as much, that night in the dim half-light of the street and the crescent moon overhead, while we spoke for what felt like hours - and my boyfriend stared at me gape-mouthed from the doorway of the bar and his beautiful woman glared daggers at him.
He was two years my senior, although it may as well have been decades that spanned between us. He was doing an engineering masters at the same university as my brother. He fostered dogs.
That almost raised a laugh from me. "Dogs?"
"Dogs. Three-legged ones."
He was too perfect.
I asked for his number.
"You should probably..."
It was cold. The rain had started. The woman had given up glaring.
"I should, probably."
We smiled.
"I'll see you again," he said, full of sincerity and certainty. "I'll see you later. Goodbye."
*There was a hollow in my chest, a kind of empty, awful feeling, like my soul had left me.*
"Goodbye," I said.
My heart sank like a rock in my chest. I smiled. "I'll see you later."
That, I imagined, was that.
I cried that night, although I didn't want to.
He called me, the next morning, as though he knew the words he had said to me last night would be the last between us.
He didn't say goodbye at the end of that call. He knew. He just said, "I'll see you later."
*The words there were not mine. The handwriting was not mine. Had he cared?*
*"I'll wait in the car, then."* | " One last goodbye " that was etched into forearm, a red brand on my soul but also a sort of gift that I will know that I will not be alone in this world, even if it is that I must see my soulmate die. I was 26 still living at home for financial reasons, sort of failure to launch sort of thing. I was mostly looking after my sister since my father had an accident when he was at work and was left with an infection that put him out of work, so most of the work was left to me. My mother had to work longer hours in the restaurant and that was putting a number on her back. My sister was severely autistic so living independently for her was not an option even if she did spend most of the time in her room, in her own world surround by teddies who were her only friends in the world. My dog Jake kept spirits high around the house constantly dropping the ball at my feet looking up at me waggling hes tail and just wanted to be played with constantly, but that was when he younger. Jake used to look at whatever toy I had in my hand with joyful fervor, he used to have so much energy and always made my nephew laugh by just being himself. Playful, loving and happy. Now... he can't do all things he was able to do before. Jake doesn't run like a Loony Toon around the house whenever I chase him, he doesn't jump for the ball like he used to. Now he is just a old lazy dog who gets the occasional energy whenever my nephew or nieces come to the house, hes still loving and happy but playing is too much effort on hes old bones. Over the last few years he doesn't move far anymore, the long walks I used to bring him on was to much for him, so over time the distance of the walks we took got gradually shorter and shorter.
I brought him to vet to get some medicine for hes arthritis and the dermatitis for hes ear. The vet told me that my Jake told me that the arthritis will get worse and moving and grooming himself will leave him in agony because the cartilage in his bones were thinning and he won't be able to move due to the pain. Now most of what the vet saying was just cutting through me it was leaving me shaking, almost light headed because Jake was old and he movements were slow but I just what him to stay a little longer. The Vet she said that the medicine will help but they will stop working in time and that I should consult Euthanasia with my family. My heart was fluttering in my chest my arms felt hollow even when I'm petting Jake's chest I can feel hes heart, calm just calm and my heart almost about to give out in my chest talking the Vet and Jake is just calm.
I talked with my parents about what the Vet said saying that Euthanasia is option we should consider since he will only be in pain. My mother cried the whole time I was speaking to her and my father holding her saying " its the right thing to do, he brought us years of happiness to us and beyond. Its time to let him go ".
I went to speak to the Vet about taking the option she said that its a hard decision and making it is a very difficult even with owners who have to do this with previous pets, but I told her that Jake was more than just a pet he was family and I considered him my little brother and we were inseparably when he was younger and we went everywhere together. She understood the feeling she saw it.
Jake was in so much pain when I carried him to the car, my brother brought me and Jake to the Vet. We sat in the car for a few minutes my brother teary eyed turned around " make sure he doesn't get hit by a car, that would be hard to explain to mam. " we laughed for a bit Jake popped his eyes open a little bit cataract in his left eye to see what the fuss was about and my brother just stared for a second turned put hes head against the wheel " I be out here, I 'll wait. ". I got out and brought around the side of the vet because I didn't want anybody seeing me and Jake for obvious reasons.
The vet was there holding the side door open, " Second door on the right I be in a minute " I think her eyes are were red. I carried him in and place him on the table, he was so old now I didn't really notice it he had grey hairs around his face, his shiny coat was gone, his hair was coarse and dry. He was still asleep when the Vet came in and she told the procedure that in the end will be just him going off to sleep and that's it. That's it, my joy, my family and gone forever. She said if you want to say your goodbyes I can wait, I could hear the sorrow in hear voice. I just watched Jake taking him in, watching hes chest rise and fall, paws moving slightly I said " Hes dreaming of the time we went to the river and he tumbled into the river, he never went near that river again just walked along the banks from then on " I laughed a bit but was I was just delaying the inevitably.
I said to her, looking at her " This is something I have to do, he is family " I held out my hand for the syringe, she was hesitant at first but understood and place it into my hand " slowly inject, that's all ".
I held it for a moment my heart was steady, my hands were still, I placed my head against his chest feeling hes chest rise and fall rise and fall rise and fall. I said to him " One last goodbye " and injected the drug I felt hes breathing calm getting slower and slower then stop. My best friend was gone. I held him for awhile as the warmth of hes body left and he was just cold, lifeless just not Jake anymore. I could hear sobbing behind me, I place my friend down turned and said " Thank you, for all you've done ", she hugged and my emotional wall collapsed and I cried. But I know now that no matter what happens, a stranger will care.
| |
[WP]: Everyone is born with the last words their soulmate will ever say to them etched on their wrist. | *"I'll see you later," I whispered.*
I had always teased Elijah that his soul must have used its best handwriting to etch the words into my skin. His script was a chicken-scratch, utterly incomprehensible to me and anyone else who dared to look over his shoulder while he wrote. Not like the words on my wrist, the last words I would ever hear him say - those were neat and precise, each word printed with care, and I loved him more for that, loved him more for his care and caution.
*"I love you," he said, as his eyes unfocused in the way that dead eyes do. "I love you."*
I never let him see it. I had cut through it, those words, when I was young and scared of the future - angry at the idea of destiny, angry at the idea of soulmates and angry at the idea of losing mine. Cut through it, and left a raised, angry scar - and by the time that was healed, I had grown accustomed to wearing the starched cotton bandages on my wrist, and so I simply didn't stop. Better my soulmate never knew, better I tried to pretend it didn't exist. Elijah never saw my wrist bare.
*No.*
You didn't want to see it coming, did you?
**"Goodbye."**
It's always nice to have the simple ones.
*He was telling the truth, I knew. He loved me. I loved him. But my heart rebelled against the very idea of this, the finality of those words. No no no no no. That wasn't right, I wanted to tell him, because he was dying and his hand was cold in my hand and I was crying for the first time in twenty years.* Say it. *Say it right.*
For Christmas one year when I was six, my mother got a three-legged dog for my brother and me to share, although how one shared a dog was rather beyond my imagination. We had spent hour poring over his paws, the place where his hock became a hind, inspecting for some sign of the writing we all bore. "Maybe his words were on the leg he lost," my brother said, in all of his nine year old wisdom.
I had always thought this an elegant solution.
*Say it right. Please.*
I could still remember meeting him and wishing that the words on our wrists were the first words that our soulmates said to us, because I wanted so desperately to know for certain, from the very first word between us that this man was my other half. I couldn't articulate why, not in this clumsy language of the body. Why? Because he was poised and calm and sensible and all the things I wasn't - because he was kind, really, gentle and patient with all of my sharp edges - because we met on a street with him in a dark suit and a beautiful woman on his arm, me with my hair dyed and heels too high.
*His heart had stopped. The line ran flat. I stared. I stared. I stared.*
I had been young, so young, and reckless in that way that youth are, with fever in my blood and ice in my heart, torn between aloofness and that kind of desperation for affection. I had walked away from my poor, sweet-hearted boyfriend to go and talk to him - had stranded my poor boy mid-sentence while I wove my way through the crowd. That was cruel, I know. I was cruel. But I couldn't help it. It was a song to the soul - I had seen him, and he had seen me, and that was it.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I stood and I left, leaving my boyfriend to utter a bewildered, hurt, "goodbye", even as I walked away.
He was smoking when I got outside. His one bad habit.
"Mind if I...?"
*Please, I wanted to whisper, but my voice had evaporated.*
He handed me one. You could almost see the sparks in his eyes as he wondered. It was always the same - any time you met someone. Is this them? What if it isn't? More terrifying - what if it is? What if these words now, that they say before you, are the last they ever will? If you lose them before you ever truly had them?
I took the cigarette.
"Light?" he said, offering the match he held in cupped hands.
"No, thank you," I said. "I don't smoke."
We smiled.
*My fingers left his hand, now slack against the sheets, and found the bandages he wore over his wrists like I always did, so I could unpick them and unspool them and lay them flat, and stare at the words there. He had been so careful with me, to never let me know what I was not to say, just as I had.*
His beautiful woman was waiting on the other side of the street. Looking impatient.
"I'll wait in the car, then," she said, irritated, and turned to stalk away.
He didn't move. Didn't look.
"What's your name?"
"Rachel," I said. I stuttered. "You?"
"Elijah."
*He breathed his last - a great rattling breath, as last breaths usually are. I almost cried. His one bad habit.*
An old man's name, though I didn't say it aloud. It suited him. He seemed like an old soul.
He certainly revealed to me as much, that night in the dim half-light of the street and the crescent moon overhead, while we spoke for what felt like hours - and my boyfriend stared at me gape-mouthed from the doorway of the bar and his beautiful woman glared daggers at him.
He was two years my senior, although it may as well have been decades that spanned between us. He was doing an engineering masters at the same university as my brother. He fostered dogs.
That almost raised a laugh from me. "Dogs?"
"Dogs. Three-legged ones."
He was too perfect.
I asked for his number.
"You should probably..."
It was cold. The rain had started. The woman had given up glaring.
"I should, probably."
We smiled.
"I'll see you again," he said, full of sincerity and certainty. "I'll see you later. Goodbye."
*There was a hollow in my chest, a kind of empty, awful feeling, like my soul had left me.*
"Goodbye," I said.
My heart sank like a rock in my chest. I smiled. "I'll see you later."
That, I imagined, was that.
I cried that night, although I didn't want to.
He called me, the next morning, as though he knew the words he had said to me last night would be the last between us.
He didn't say goodbye at the end of that call. He knew. He just said, "I'll see you later."
*The words there were not mine. The handwriting was not mine. Had he cared?*
*"I'll wait in the car, then."* | Jeff and I had been together for a little over 18 months. It was perfect. Way too perfect. It was all smiles and laughter. No anger or sadness and we didn't fight. Not once. I didn't like that. It never felt real. It felt fairytale. And that's what I thought I was supposed to have but for God's sake, I'm no princess.
Jeff was a police officer. He and his best friend Max were the clowns of the department but they were good cops. They were honorable guys. Were.
Last week there was a crash. A drunk driver slammed into their cruiser head on. It toppled over and caught on fire. All we know is they were alive for a few minutes after the crash. Jeff called me and told me he loved me right before passing out from inhalation of the fumes. The next call I got was from the ER at Mercy Hospital telling me he was gone.
I looked at my wrists. Nothing. Nothing? Why was there no etching? I felt so completely empty without him, and he wasn't my soul mate?
Yesterday, chief called me down to the station to show me the last footage of the dash cam.
It was Jeff's phone call to me. Max was barely conscious. It took a few views to catch it, but Max was crying and mumbled "I love you more" and as soon I realized it, my right wrist was on fire. I pulled my sleeve up and there it was, written in his scribbly handwriting--I love you more.
| |
[WP]: Everyone is born with the last words their soulmate will ever say to them etched on their wrist. | *"I'll see you later," I whispered.*
I had always teased Elijah that his soul must have used its best handwriting to etch the words into my skin. His script was a chicken-scratch, utterly incomprehensible to me and anyone else who dared to look over his shoulder while he wrote. Not like the words on my wrist, the last words I would ever hear him say - those were neat and precise, each word printed with care, and I loved him more for that, loved him more for his care and caution.
*"I love you," he said, as his eyes unfocused in the way that dead eyes do. "I love you."*
I never let him see it. I had cut through it, those words, when I was young and scared of the future - angry at the idea of destiny, angry at the idea of soulmates and angry at the idea of losing mine. Cut through it, and left a raised, angry scar - and by the time that was healed, I had grown accustomed to wearing the starched cotton bandages on my wrist, and so I simply didn't stop. Better my soulmate never knew, better I tried to pretend it didn't exist. Elijah never saw my wrist bare.
*No.*
You didn't want to see it coming, did you?
**"Goodbye."**
It's always nice to have the simple ones.
*He was telling the truth, I knew. He loved me. I loved him. But my heart rebelled against the very idea of this, the finality of those words. No no no no no. That wasn't right, I wanted to tell him, because he was dying and his hand was cold in my hand and I was crying for the first time in twenty years.* Say it. *Say it right.*
For Christmas one year when I was six, my mother got a three-legged dog for my brother and me to share, although how one shared a dog was rather beyond my imagination. We had spent hour poring over his paws, the place where his hock became a hind, inspecting for some sign of the writing we all bore. "Maybe his words were on the leg he lost," my brother said, in all of his nine year old wisdom.
I had always thought this an elegant solution.
*Say it right. Please.*
I could still remember meeting him and wishing that the words on our wrists were the first words that our soulmates said to us, because I wanted so desperately to know for certain, from the very first word between us that this man was my other half. I couldn't articulate why, not in this clumsy language of the body. Why? Because he was poised and calm and sensible and all the things I wasn't - because he was kind, really, gentle and patient with all of my sharp edges - because we met on a street with him in a dark suit and a beautiful woman on his arm, me with my hair dyed and heels too high.
*His heart had stopped. The line ran flat. I stared. I stared. I stared.*
I had been young, so young, and reckless in that way that youth are, with fever in my blood and ice in my heart, torn between aloofness and that kind of desperation for affection. I had walked away from my poor, sweet-hearted boyfriend to go and talk to him - had stranded my poor boy mid-sentence while I wove my way through the crowd. That was cruel, I know. I was cruel. But I couldn't help it. It was a song to the soul - I had seen him, and he had seen me, and that was it.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I stood and I left, leaving my boyfriend to utter a bewildered, hurt, "goodbye", even as I walked away.
He was smoking when I got outside. His one bad habit.
"Mind if I...?"
*Please, I wanted to whisper, but my voice had evaporated.*
He handed me one. You could almost see the sparks in his eyes as he wondered. It was always the same - any time you met someone. Is this them? What if it isn't? More terrifying - what if it is? What if these words now, that they say before you, are the last they ever will? If you lose them before you ever truly had them?
I took the cigarette.
"Light?" he said, offering the match he held in cupped hands.
"No, thank you," I said. "I don't smoke."
We smiled.
*My fingers left his hand, now slack against the sheets, and found the bandages he wore over his wrists like I always did, so I could unpick them and unspool them and lay them flat, and stare at the words there. He had been so careful with me, to never let me know what I was not to say, just as I had.*
His beautiful woman was waiting on the other side of the street. Looking impatient.
"I'll wait in the car, then," she said, irritated, and turned to stalk away.
He didn't move. Didn't look.
"What's your name?"
"Rachel," I said. I stuttered. "You?"
"Elijah."
*He breathed his last - a great rattling breath, as last breaths usually are. I almost cried. His one bad habit.*
An old man's name, though I didn't say it aloud. It suited him. He seemed like an old soul.
He certainly revealed to me as much, that night in the dim half-light of the street and the crescent moon overhead, while we spoke for what felt like hours - and my boyfriend stared at me gape-mouthed from the doorway of the bar and his beautiful woman glared daggers at him.
He was two years my senior, although it may as well have been decades that spanned between us. He was doing an engineering masters at the same university as my brother. He fostered dogs.
That almost raised a laugh from me. "Dogs?"
"Dogs. Three-legged ones."
He was too perfect.
I asked for his number.
"You should probably..."
It was cold. The rain had started. The woman had given up glaring.
"I should, probably."
We smiled.
"I'll see you again," he said, full of sincerity and certainty. "I'll see you later. Goodbye."
*There was a hollow in my chest, a kind of empty, awful feeling, like my soul had left me.*
"Goodbye," I said.
My heart sank like a rock in my chest. I smiled. "I'll see you later."
That, I imagined, was that.
I cried that night, although I didn't want to.
He called me, the next morning, as though he knew the words he had said to me last night would be the last between us.
He didn't say goodbye at the end of that call. He knew. He just said, "I'll see you later."
*The words there were not mine. The handwriting was not mine. Had he cared?*
*"I'll wait in the car, then."* | Mine kind of deviates from the prompt a little, so I don't know if it counts or whatever. It still keeps the main point, though.
****
As the pod slid open and the doctors helped Ren to his feet, his heart was ready to burst from his chest, the rhythmic beating louder than the constant beeping and vocal droning of the hospital around him. Doctor Price sat him down and pointed to the bandage on his forearm,
“You want us to take that off now, or do you want to wait till you get home, Ren?” he asked, scribbling something on a clipboard. Doctors always had clipboards; something Ren noticed quite prevalently in his brief stay at the hospital. Ren looked at his wrist, and pondered the question. He tried to speak, but even he could hear that it was just a dumb murmur that barely resembled words. Doctor Price laughed,
“Don’t worry about it, Ren. The painkillers mixed with the anxiety makes it difficult for everyone to decide. I’ll leave you with it till you’re home.”
Ren managed a weak smile and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall opposite. He was pale, as he expected himself to be, and dark rings clung to his eyes,
“The grogginess will wear off in a couple of hours.” Doctor Price explained. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he read the text, “Ah. I’m needed elsewhere. The nurse will be along with your clothes in a minute. Best of luck with your words.”
When he was dressed and outside, Ren stepped into the first taxi that stopped for him, nervously rubbing the coarse bandage. Beneath it; the skin felt hard; nothing like it should feel. More like plastic than flesh. Other than a faint pressure on the bone, like someone was clinging to him, the words gave off no sensation other than overwhelming anxiety,
“Wrightley Way, please.” he said. The driver peered back and spotted the binding on his arm,
“Got your words, did you? What’s it say?” he asked. He was from the north side; an accent that annoyed Ren for no good reason. It just… did,
“I don’t know…” Ren uttered, hesitantly. The driver shrugged and turned back to the wheel, pulling the cab out into the traffic.
Eventually, the car turned onto his lane. Ren paid the fare and stepped out. Standing at the bottom of his drive, the anxiety got the best of him. He pulled on the end of the bandage, and it started to unravel onto the floor. When it was gone, his heart sank as he stared at the words on his arm.
“I… hate… you…”
| |
[WP]: Everyone is born with the last words their soulmate will ever say to them etched on their wrist. | Brian Miller was short and had started balding at seventeen. By twenty-six, there was almost no hair left on his head. He wore thick glasses and always carried a bit of extra weight around his midsection. None of that bothered him, though, because he had a phrase etched on his wrist. Many people didn't. Brian, no matter his flaws, was destined to find someone who *truly* loved him.
Brian met that person freshman year of college: Gordon Miller. Despite having the same last name, they weren't related. Some might have called that lazy writing. Brian called it fate.
Neither Brian nor Gordon had ever been in a relationship. Brian had been shy in high school and never mustered the courage. Gordon had grown up in a religious household. Despite their inexperience, however, they knew they were destined to last.
The words etched on Gordon's wrist were "What did you just say?" Gordon had never been able to figure out what it meant. His best guess was that he would be lying on his deathbed, voice weakened, trying to say something to Brian. And Brian would say those words, and then Gordon would die peacefully.
Brian's wristwords were "I love you." Inconvenient wristwords, to say the least. It meant every time Gordon wanted to express his love, Brian flinched a little, fearing a stray bullet or a car crash. Eventually the couple instated a no-"I love you" policy in their relationships, but that took its toll. Intimate moments were ruined by expressions of "I really like you" or "You're the best!"
One day, Brian visited a wrist surgeon.
"You can do it?" asked Brian.
"A wristword change? No problem," she said. "Very common procedure. Just let me know what you want them changed to."
"Hmm. Something weird and random that no one would ever say. How about, uh, 'Aardvark, bumblebee, octopus, and zebra,'" said Brian. He smiled at his own cleverness.
The doctor chuckled. "I can do that. Any font preference?"
Brian scratched his head. "Font preference?"
"Yeah. An elegant serif, perhaps?" she asked.
"What choices do I have?" asked Brian.
"Any of these," said the surgeon. She handed Brian a binder full of options. After flipping through for a couple minutes, Brian found the perfect font. "Here. Wingdings. No one will ever even be able to read the words," he said. "I love my boyfriend but I don't want to put the words in his mind and have him saying them accidentally."
"Wingdings it is," she said.
---
The operation was a success. Brian couldn't wait to tell Gordon. "Hey Gordon, tell me you love me."
"What? But–"
"Just say it."
Gordon looked around, as if checking for danger. "Ok. I love you."
Brian grinned. "I love you too." He held up his wrist.
Gordon gasped. "You got the surgery? What are these symbols?"
"Wingdings. I made it into some ridiculous phrase and had them use Wingdings so we're not in any danger," said Brian.
Gordon grinned.
---
Several years later, Brian and Gordon had graduated college, married, adopted a daughter, and moved to Brian's hometown of Sacramento.
Brian came home from work one day to see Gordon and their daughter Lily working through her homework. "What are you working on?" asked Brian.
"Ugh. Spelling homework," said Lily. She fidgeted in her chair. "We have to learn animal names this week."
"Now come on Lily, you only have a few more words you need to get right," said Gordon. "You're almost there. You just need to redo aardvark, bumblebee, octopus, and zebra."
Brian's eyes went wide and he suddenly felt short of breath. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out of his mouth. "*What did you just say?*"
Then, a four-mile wide asteroid struck Sacramento, obliterating everyone and everything within. | I took the bus, because I remembered that he took the bus.
I always sat with my sleeve cuffed, my arm presented out to passers-by, my optimistic mind pleading with strangers to recognize the words and sit down beside me, heart open, defying all odds.
*This is my stop.*
What a coy fox fate can be. I had walked onto the bus with a coffee spilling onto my hand, scalding me, tripping over heels I didn’t need to wear, trying to fold up an umbrella that launched water onto disgruntled bus goers. I swiped my card and hobbled down the center aisle of the dingy bus, steamy from the rain outside. I had noticed him instinctively, his face singing silently through the endless sea of faces. He cracked a light smile, and moved his bag off of the seat beside him and placed it on his lap. This movement was so fluid, so easy. His entire persona was ease.
I plopped down beside him, balancing my coffee between my thighs as I tried to control my umbrella. Wordlessly, he extracted the coffee, and held it for me. I looked at him, alarmed and unaware. His hand had just been dangerously close to my inner thighs, and my skin prickled and began to sweat. “Uh, thanks,” I said breathlessly, controlling my possessions and retrieving the coffee. The man said nothing, only nodded.
His hair was the type you didn’t think normal men could actually have – a very Brad Pitt style tousle to it, dark and cut at his neck. It wasn’t wet at all from the rain, though his broad shoulders were dotted with specks of dark drops on his dark sweatshirt. His beard curled into the smile lines I could see around his mouth, making his face seem perpetually active, even as he sat and stared aimlessly forward. After a moment or two of examining him too closely, his eyes glanced over at me, and I shot my eyes down at the ground, embarrassed. I felt him crack a smile. My fingers fumbled through my bag to remove headphones, but I rethought myself, and set my bag down. I wanted him to talk to me, why spoil it?
We rode silently for 20 long, tense minutes. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I retrieved it to see a message from my mother. “Do you have plans for your birthday?” it asked me, coldly. I would be 19 tomorrow, and no, I had no plans. “No,” I responded, replacing my phone. I looked up to see my neighbor openly watching the brief exchange, and he parted his lips to speak, but closed them quickly, and resumed staring forward. Disappointment flushed my cheeks.
The bus’ automated system cried out that we were approaching Lincoln Street, and the man pulled the “stop” cord. My heart sunk. I stared down at my lap as the bus crawled to a stop. “This is my stop,” he whispered, and I felt my entire body electrify at the words. I knew my Words, I had known them my whole life. There’s no way this could be it?
I stood and he passed by me, exiting the bus to my right. I stared at him out the window, rolling up my sleeve and touching it. I saw him again open his mouth to speak, taking a motivated step toward the bus, but it was too late. The bus pulled away, and he was gone from my life, disappearing into the rain.
Years melted away, and the reality of it all felt inescapable. Six years, six years now, riding the bus every morning and every night. Desperate moments, wandering around Lincoln Street, searching for a face and a feeling, exposing my wrist and begging the universe to change its mind. Taking the bus, remembering that he took the bus.
*This is my stop.*
| |
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | Day 3. Here in the all Batman universe things have finally disintegrated. Because there is no crime, all of the Batmans fight each other. A lot of this is due to boredom, but also due to sexual frustration. Since everyone is also Bruce Wayne, and the only one who isn't Bruce Wayne is me, all of the Bruce Wayne's are angry because their are no women. Apparently this makes them angry and want to simply fight each other.
Some of the Bruce Wayne's have resorted to crimes such as spying on the other Batmans, or stealing the phone records of other Batmans. Some of them even go after those who have murdered the other Batmans, which results in a neverending stream of murdered Caped crusaders.
The only thing that is good is that being that their is no Alfred or Comissioner Gordon the Batmans are mostly able to kill at will. As of now, no Batman has taken over to become the Supreme Batman, at least here, though there are reports now that there is only one Batman in cities ranging from as large as Paris to as small as Topeka.
The thing is in this universe is that with only an estimated 6.8 billion Batmans left, it will take decades for their to only be one batman, and even then, my theory is that there will be plenty left because they will simply hide out in the world.
| Standing on a rooftop a solemn man peered over the city skyline, and felt a tap on his shoulder.
**Ahhmm** "Sir, your 15 minutes for peering over Gotham city are up, other people have to use this too!"
The solemn man sighed and started returning to ground level, to take a stroll in Gotham park.
This wasn't the only Gotham in the world, every city, every country and every nation had been named Gotham, after much civil unrest about everyone imigrating to Gotham, so this was the only solution that could be made.
The solemn man watched in horror as he saw a poor old lady be mugged by a criminal.
As he heroicly dashed towards the criminal, taking a boomerang out of his belt he was yet again disappointed to see that a different boomerang flew from the sides of the trees lining the park.
The man dashed towards the old lady, to claim the fame of saving her.
A masked figure stepped towards from the trees.
Another one stepped forward from an alleyway.
Rustling bushes had been heard, and they all turned round.
Yet another masked figure stepped forward from the bushes.
As their eyes turned towards the rooftops a masked figure jumped down onto a lamp-post gracefully.
For the most part, as he fell over and screamed that he must have broke his legs.
The masked figure from the alleyway rushed over and pulled a phone from his belt, and called an ambulance and police.
After 10 minutes an ambulance and police car sped up to the scene.
Two masked figures barelled out of the back of the ambulance and proceeded to lift the masked figure that jumped from the rooftops into the back of the ambulance, and sped away.
Another masked figure emerged from the squad car and said with a gravelly voice
**"Hello, what appears to be the problem"**
The masked figure that emerged from the trees said **"We encountered this criminal attempting to steal from this old lady"**
As the masked man who emerged from the squad car turned to the old lady and asked **"Madam, are you in anyway injure-"**
The old lady cut him off and said **"I AM BATMAN"**
|
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | "I'm not Batman"
Batman #2344321 stared coldly at me. That was no surprise. That was pretty much how all Batmen looked at others. Coldly. They were all dead inside, at least somewhat.
I sighed. Trying to find a girlfriend was difficult when everyone in the world was really anti-social on the inside. "I work alone." That was what every Batman said. No matter what, they always seemed to act that way. Even in their secret identities, I could tell that they had problems being in groups.
"I read the reports. I had always considered it a hoax, someone who was..." She trailed off. Her tone was rather analytical. At least, until she got to the word. The word that every Batman feared, loathed, and wanted.
"Happy?" I finished. She nodded.
It was oddly true. Most believe that I would be anything but happy. I was the least skilled, dumbest, weakest, and overall worst person on the planet. However, there was something that I could rely on to propagate my happiness. I liked people. I like to talk to them, to hear their hopes, dreams, ideas.
Cheryl and I ate for a while. It was nice. She leaned more towards the dark side of the Bat spectrum than the silver side, but I learned a bit about her. She has a Batdog, she never took up a Robin, because she wanted to keep little Batmen away from crime as long as possible. We decided to go out again. It was nice.
I might actually get to make someone smile.
I might actually get a Batman to laugh. That was always my father's dream. The true Joker's dream. I'll just use a more positive method. | Standing on a rooftop a solemn man peered over the city skyline, and felt a tap on his shoulder.
**Ahhmm** "Sir, your 15 minutes for peering over Gotham city are up, other people have to use this too!"
The solemn man sighed and started returning to ground level, to take a stroll in Gotham park.
This wasn't the only Gotham in the world, every city, every country and every nation had been named Gotham, after much civil unrest about everyone imigrating to Gotham, so this was the only solution that could be made.
The solemn man watched in horror as he saw a poor old lady be mugged by a criminal.
As he heroicly dashed towards the criminal, taking a boomerang out of his belt he was yet again disappointed to see that a different boomerang flew from the sides of the trees lining the park.
The man dashed towards the old lady, to claim the fame of saving her.
A masked figure stepped towards from the trees.
Another one stepped forward from an alleyway.
Rustling bushes had been heard, and they all turned round.
Yet another masked figure stepped forward from the bushes.
As their eyes turned towards the rooftops a masked figure jumped down onto a lamp-post gracefully.
For the most part, as he fell over and screamed that he must have broke his legs.
The masked figure from the alleyway rushed over and pulled a phone from his belt, and called an ambulance and police.
After 10 minutes an ambulance and police car sped up to the scene.
Two masked figures barelled out of the back of the ambulance and proceeded to lift the masked figure that jumped from the rooftops into the back of the ambulance, and sped away.
Another masked figure emerged from the squad car and said with a gravelly voice
**"Hello, what appears to be the problem"**
The masked figure that emerged from the trees said **"We encountered this criminal attempting to steal from this old lady"**
As the masked man who emerged from the squad car turned to the old lady and asked **"Madam, are you in anyway injure-"**
The old lady cut him off and said **"I AM BATMAN"**
|
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | I always liked waking up early. You get up before your alarm goes off, make coffee, grab a bagel, and take the stairs to the roof to watch the sun rise. It's the perfect way to start a morning. Now, I sit silently, chewing my bagel, and sipping on my coffee. I like my coffee black. Black as the night.
The sun peeks over the horizon, taking its time to fill the world with light. My watch chirps. It's 6:00 AM. It's time.
Throughout Gotham City #2186914, all the hung-over townspeople are groaning at their alarms, making their coffee, and setting into their bagels. My bagel is already gone, my coffee on its last drops. I'm ahead of everyone else. It makes me feel good. I'm better at them than something.
I get dressed, in khaki slacks and a red polo, and take the elevator down to my garage to start my commute. My '05 Mercedes looks welcoming in its sleek silver, elegant with the slightest tinge of flashy to it. I get in and pull out onto the street, into a bustling world of morning traffic. A Lamborghini Aventador cuts me off, and I honk my horn. An engine revs behind me as a Ferrari waits for me to get up to speed, and a Maserati passes me on the right. I sigh. My Mercedes seems a lot less flashy now. Along my entire commute, I'm passed and harassed by supercars.
I arrive at my job, clock in, and set about sorting through my boss's mail. A newspaper sits on my desk, and I can't help but glimpse that he's on the front cover receiving a key to the city. I chuckle to myself. The key to the city hasn't been worth much since all 6,000,000 inhabitants got one. All except for me. That makes me special. The telecom buzzes. "Frank, could I see you in my office, please?"
As I enter Mr. Payulinik's office, he dramatically swivels his chair from the window to face me. "Good morning, Frank." he says, but it doesn't seem like a good morning. Mr. Payulinik looks as if he hasn't slept in a week, and his face is covered in fresh bruises. He doesn't like me to point these things out, though. Nobody sleeps in Gotham #2186914, and everyone always has fresh bruises.
"Good morning, Mr. Payulinik. Sleep well last night?"
"Like a bat." He chuckles to himself. I force a polite smile, and he continues. "Did you know that our stock is down this morning? Payulinik Enterprises has dropped .4%, and most of the raise has gone to those bastards at Wilson Enterprises."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Payulinik."
"You're damn right you're sorry. It's likely to come out of everyone's paychecks, including yours. Anyways, I have a press conference in ten minutes, and I need some thick coffee. I need it black. BLACK AS THE NIGHT." He coughs a little bit. "Excuse me. I don't know what that was. Coffee, stat?"
Mr. Payulinik isn't the only one with fresh bruises, though. On my way to get him coffee, I pass Mr. Edmonton's personal assistant, the beautiful Emma Koslosky. "Good morning, Emma." I say cheerfully.
"Hello, Frank." She growls back, before clearing her throat. "Sorry, I've had a bit of a sore throat recently.
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to get Mr. Payulinik his coffee." I enter the kitchen and pour him some coffee. Mr. Sanderson from Accounting walks in, and it looks like he had an especially rough night last night. He's still wearing a utility belt. I point it out to him, and he laughs in embarrassment as he pulls it off and stuffs it in his briefcase. I pour Mr. Payulinik's coffee, and return it to him.
The rest of the day is uneventful. I attend several meetings, flirt with Emma a bit more (trying not to mention the gash which her low-backed dress displays), eat lunch at my desk, and answer phone calls. Finally, five-o-clock hits, and it's time to go home. As I leave, I overhear all my coworkers talking about the crazy parties, fancy galas, and meetings with mafia dons they'll be having tonight. Mr. Payulinik asks me what I'll be doing. I say I'm gonna try to catch up on Game of Thrones.
Traffic is terrible. A sea of supercars extends all the way from Wall down to 38th, where my apartment is. My little silver Mercedes blends in perfectly, and I could pass them all in the bus lane, but I dare not commit even the pettiest crime this close to nightfall. A Batcopter flies overhead, and I note the man in the car next to me is already wearing his cowl. "Shit." I think to myself. "It has begun."
As I get back to my apartment, the last beams of sunlight drop below the horizon, and the sky lights up with spotlights. Shadowy shapes of bats cover the clouds, and the entire city is illuminated by the searchlights. Two batwings fly past my window, and a few batmobiles are drag-racing on the street below me. I sigh, and turn on Game of Thrones.
My dinner is dry, as is my soul, and I wash it down with several beers. When I finish the last beer, the sound of batarangs exploding on the street below makes me wish for even more alcohol, so that maybe I can drink myself to sleep. I decide to risk a trip to the liquor store. Grabbing my navy blue overcoat and my .45 handgun for protection, I ride the elevator down to the street and start my walk to the store.
A gang of Batmans sits on the corner, chattering amongst themselves and smoking bat-cigarettes. they seem menacing, but not dangerous. As I approach them, a police-batmobile passes, and they disperse. A batwing passes overhead, searching for crime. As I pass an alleyway, a scruffy-looking Batman in an old blue and grey batsuit scurries up to me, begging for change so he can buy some bat-crack. I say I have nothing, and he starts to get desperate. I flash my revolver at him and say I have nothing, and he seems to get the idea. I continue my walk.
At the liquor store, there's a young Batman in front of me trying to buy bat-cigarettes. The bat-clerk isn't buying it, and sends him off. When he sees me, he looks slightly less angry to have a customer. "What can I do for you?" He growls.
"I need some beer."
"We don't serve beer here."
"Okay, fine. I need some bat-beer."
"Can I see your bat-ID?"
I groan, and pull out my wallet. A batman enters the store and stands in line behind me. I show my ID, and the batclerk inspects it. Satisfied, he returns it to me and selects a six-pack of Bat-Budweiser from the fridge behind me. "That'll be five batdollars."
I search my wallet, and pull out the only batmoney I have, a ten batdollar bill. "Keep the change." I say, but the batclerk gives me back five batdollars anyways. I collect my beer and head towards the batdoor.
Behind me, I hear the batman say "Empty the bat-register into this batbag now!" I turn around, and he has a bat-grenade in his hand. This is a bat-robbery! Thinking fast, I drop my bat-beer, and duck behind a bat-shelf. The bat-cashier is panicked, trying quickly to open the cash register, but fumbling with the keyboard.
Now's my chance to be someone.
I draw my gun and point it at the bat-robber, yelling "Disarm that bat-grenade or I WILL shoot!"
The bat-robber laughs. "You wouldn't shoot. No guns? Remember?"
I fire a warning shot, and the bat-robber panics. "Get the hell out!" he yells. "And you, bat-cashier, give me my bat-money or I'll blow you sky-high!"
The time for warning shots is over. The bat-cashier looks scared shitless. The shot I already fired means that countless batmans will soon come running, ready to fight crime, but we don't have time for them. I hold my breath and fire another shot straight through the cowl of the bat-robber. He drops dead, the bat-grenade clattering to the floor. I dive at it and disarm it just before it explodes.
The bat-police are drawing nearer. I can hear their bat-sirens approaching in the street. Another batman and a batgirl have entered the bat-store to see what the commotion is about. The bat-cashier is openly weeping. I holster my gun and head quickly out the store. The batgirl stops me for just a second, and I realize it's Emma from work. I smile and wink at her.
"Who... Who are you?" asks the batman next to her.
I smile even wider. I'm somebody now. I look that batman dead in the eyes and say the words I've always wanted to say.
"I'm the goddamned Frank."
I disappear into the night just as the bat-police arrive. | Standing on a rooftop a solemn man peered over the city skyline, and felt a tap on his shoulder.
**Ahhmm** "Sir, your 15 minutes for peering over Gotham city are up, other people have to use this too!"
The solemn man sighed and started returning to ground level, to take a stroll in Gotham park.
This wasn't the only Gotham in the world, every city, every country and every nation had been named Gotham, after much civil unrest about everyone imigrating to Gotham, so this was the only solution that could be made.
The solemn man watched in horror as he saw a poor old lady be mugged by a criminal.
As he heroicly dashed towards the criminal, taking a boomerang out of his belt he was yet again disappointed to see that a different boomerang flew from the sides of the trees lining the park.
The man dashed towards the old lady, to claim the fame of saving her.
A masked figure stepped towards from the trees.
Another one stepped forward from an alleyway.
Rustling bushes had been heard, and they all turned round.
Yet another masked figure stepped forward from the bushes.
As their eyes turned towards the rooftops a masked figure jumped down onto a lamp-post gracefully.
For the most part, as he fell over and screamed that he must have broke his legs.
The masked figure from the alleyway rushed over and pulled a phone from his belt, and called an ambulance and police.
After 10 minutes an ambulance and police car sped up to the scene.
Two masked figures barelled out of the back of the ambulance and proceeded to lift the masked figure that jumped from the rooftops into the back of the ambulance, and sped away.
Another masked figure emerged from the squad car and said with a gravelly voice
**"Hello, what appears to be the problem"**
The masked figure that emerged from the trees said **"We encountered this criminal attempting to steal from this old lady"**
As the masked man who emerged from the squad car turned to the old lady and asked **"Madam, are you in anyway injure-"**
The old lady cut him off and said **"I AM BATMAN"**
|
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | I always liked waking up early. You get up before your alarm goes off, make coffee, grab a bagel, and take the stairs to the roof to watch the sun rise. It's the perfect way to start a morning. Now, I sit silently, chewing my bagel, and sipping on my coffee. I like my coffee black. Black as the night.
The sun peeks over the horizon, taking its time to fill the world with light. My watch chirps. It's 6:00 AM. It's time.
Throughout Gotham City #2186914, all the hung-over townspeople are groaning at their alarms, making their coffee, and setting into their bagels. My bagel is already gone, my coffee on its last drops. I'm ahead of everyone else. It makes me feel good. I'm better at them than something.
I get dressed, in khaki slacks and a red polo, and take the elevator down to my garage to start my commute. My '05 Mercedes looks welcoming in its sleek silver, elegant with the slightest tinge of flashy to it. I get in and pull out onto the street, into a bustling world of morning traffic. A Lamborghini Aventador cuts me off, and I honk my horn. An engine revs behind me as a Ferrari waits for me to get up to speed, and a Maserati passes me on the right. I sigh. My Mercedes seems a lot less flashy now. Along my entire commute, I'm passed and harassed by supercars.
I arrive at my job, clock in, and set about sorting through my boss's mail. A newspaper sits on my desk, and I can't help but glimpse that he's on the front cover receiving a key to the city. I chuckle to myself. The key to the city hasn't been worth much since all 6,000,000 inhabitants got one. All except for me. That makes me special. The telecom buzzes. "Frank, could I see you in my office, please?"
As I enter Mr. Payulinik's office, he dramatically swivels his chair from the window to face me. "Good morning, Frank." he says, but it doesn't seem like a good morning. Mr. Payulinik looks as if he hasn't slept in a week, and his face is covered in fresh bruises. He doesn't like me to point these things out, though. Nobody sleeps in Gotham #2186914, and everyone always has fresh bruises.
"Good morning, Mr. Payulinik. Sleep well last night?"
"Like a bat." He chuckles to himself. I force a polite smile, and he continues. "Did you know that our stock is down this morning? Payulinik Enterprises has dropped .4%, and most of the raise has gone to those bastards at Wilson Enterprises."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Payulinik."
"You're damn right you're sorry. It's likely to come out of everyone's paychecks, including yours. Anyways, I have a press conference in ten minutes, and I need some thick coffee. I need it black. BLACK AS THE NIGHT." He coughs a little bit. "Excuse me. I don't know what that was. Coffee, stat?"
Mr. Payulinik isn't the only one with fresh bruises, though. On my way to get him coffee, I pass Mr. Edmonton's personal assistant, the beautiful Emma Koslosky. "Good morning, Emma." I say cheerfully.
"Hello, Frank." She growls back, before clearing her throat. "Sorry, I've had a bit of a sore throat recently.
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to get Mr. Payulinik his coffee." I enter the kitchen and pour him some coffee. Mr. Sanderson from Accounting walks in, and it looks like he had an especially rough night last night. He's still wearing a utility belt. I point it out to him, and he laughs in embarrassment as he pulls it off and stuffs it in his briefcase. I pour Mr. Payulinik's coffee, and return it to him.
The rest of the day is uneventful. I attend several meetings, flirt with Emma a bit more (trying not to mention the gash which her low-backed dress displays), eat lunch at my desk, and answer phone calls. Finally, five-o-clock hits, and it's time to go home. As I leave, I overhear all my coworkers talking about the crazy parties, fancy galas, and meetings with mafia dons they'll be having tonight. Mr. Payulinik asks me what I'll be doing. I say I'm gonna try to catch up on Game of Thrones.
Traffic is terrible. A sea of supercars extends all the way from Wall down to 38th, where my apartment is. My little silver Mercedes blends in perfectly, and I could pass them all in the bus lane, but I dare not commit even the pettiest crime this close to nightfall. A Batcopter flies overhead, and I note the man in the car next to me is already wearing his cowl. "Shit." I think to myself. "It has begun."
As I get back to my apartment, the last beams of sunlight drop below the horizon, and the sky lights up with spotlights. Shadowy shapes of bats cover the clouds, and the entire city is illuminated by the searchlights. Two batwings fly past my window, and a few batmobiles are drag-racing on the street below me. I sigh, and turn on Game of Thrones.
My dinner is dry, as is my soul, and I wash it down with several beers. When I finish the last beer, the sound of batarangs exploding on the street below makes me wish for even more alcohol, so that maybe I can drink myself to sleep. I decide to risk a trip to the liquor store. Grabbing my navy blue overcoat and my .45 handgun for protection, I ride the elevator down to the street and start my walk to the store.
A gang of Batmans sits on the corner, chattering amongst themselves and smoking bat-cigarettes. they seem menacing, but not dangerous. As I approach them, a police-batmobile passes, and they disperse. A batwing passes overhead, searching for crime. As I pass an alleyway, a scruffy-looking Batman in an old blue and grey batsuit scurries up to me, begging for change so he can buy some bat-crack. I say I have nothing, and he starts to get desperate. I flash my revolver at him and say I have nothing, and he seems to get the idea. I continue my walk.
At the liquor store, there's a young Batman in front of me trying to buy bat-cigarettes. The bat-clerk isn't buying it, and sends him off. When he sees me, he looks slightly less angry to have a customer. "What can I do for you?" He growls.
"I need some beer."
"We don't serve beer here."
"Okay, fine. I need some bat-beer."
"Can I see your bat-ID?"
I groan, and pull out my wallet. A batman enters the store and stands in line behind me. I show my ID, and the batclerk inspects it. Satisfied, he returns it to me and selects a six-pack of Bat-Budweiser from the fridge behind me. "That'll be five batdollars."
I search my wallet, and pull out the only batmoney I have, a ten batdollar bill. "Keep the change." I say, but the batclerk gives me back five batdollars anyways. I collect my beer and head towards the batdoor.
Behind me, I hear the batman say "Empty the bat-register into this batbag now!" I turn around, and he has a bat-grenade in his hand. This is a bat-robbery! Thinking fast, I drop my bat-beer, and duck behind a bat-shelf. The bat-cashier is panicked, trying quickly to open the cash register, but fumbling with the keyboard.
Now's my chance to be someone.
I draw my gun and point it at the bat-robber, yelling "Disarm that bat-grenade or I WILL shoot!"
The bat-robber laughs. "You wouldn't shoot. No guns? Remember?"
I fire a warning shot, and the bat-robber panics. "Get the hell out!" he yells. "And you, bat-cashier, give me my bat-money or I'll blow you sky-high!"
The time for warning shots is over. The bat-cashier looks scared shitless. The shot I already fired means that countless batmans will soon come running, ready to fight crime, but we don't have time for them. I hold my breath and fire another shot straight through the cowl of the bat-robber. He drops dead, the bat-grenade clattering to the floor. I dive at it and disarm it just before it explodes.
The bat-police are drawing nearer. I can hear their bat-sirens approaching in the street. Another batman and a batgirl have entered the bat-store to see what the commotion is about. The bat-cashier is openly weeping. I holster my gun and head quickly out the store. The batgirl stops me for just a second, and I realize it's Emma from work. I smile and wink at her.
"Who... Who are you?" asks the batman next to her.
I smile even wider. I'm somebody now. I look that batman dead in the eyes and say the words I've always wanted to say.
"I'm the goddamned Frank."
I disappear into the night just as the bat-police arrive. | I'm a light sleeper.
Decades of constant vigilance has made me paranoid, hypersensitive to my surroundings.
The sound of an envelope pushed under the door reaches my sleeping ears. The rough rasping as it clears the frame, the nearly silent swish as it slides across the floor wakes me from my slumber.
I roll over and stare at the envelope, crisp white against the stark grey of the floor. It was time.
Orange, orange, orange...ah...janitor's uniform! Slipped in while I was eating supper, no doubt.
The door yields to my hand, carelessly left unlocked and unattended. A cart filled with cleaning supplies waits patiently in the corridor beyond, eager to play its part in this masquerade.
Squeek. Squeek. Squeek.
Echos of the ungreased cart wheels join the clatter of boots on iron stairs and the low murmur of dark conversation as I travel the corridors.
He joins me in the elevator wearing an old-school uniform, deep blue cape over light grey tights emblazoned with a black and yellow logo.
"I miss Robin."
The sound jolts me out of my introspection as we glide to the surface above. I don't have words for him. Nothing I say will ease the ache, so I let silence fill the space between us, seep into his soul and die in that dark void.
He gets off on level two, and I continue on to surface, navigating the maze of checkpoints with practiced ease and a fake identity card.
Outside, traffic is light in the predawn hour as the world collectively yawns, scratches its arse, and makes coffee.
The black Lincoln on the corner is conveniently unlocked, keys tucked in the visor above. The engine gives a throaty rumble as it sucks down the liquified souls of dinosaurs and belches noxious fumes.
I drive around Gotham randomly, enjoying this moment of freedom granted me by the ID of José Manuel clipped to my chest. From Gotham park, I watch golden sunlight spill over the buildings and onto the grimy streets below. It's a good day to be free, to be José Manuel and assume his insignificant, illusionary, life.
Then the envelope is in my hand, unbidden, somehow summoned and opened by their aching need.
*The Dark Council of Gotham has convened...you will find maps...equipment at the address...we trust that you will...*
Blah..blah...blah. Pompous, arrogant, *needy* little boys.
I skim through the empty words until my eyes find what they desire, then read the edict aloud with a cold smile:
*...it is therefore our decision that this week you shall assume the identity of Mr. Freeze and begin your villainy posthaste.*
Oh, yes. It is a *good* day to be free.
---
Edit: too much past tense. |
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | I always liked waking up early. You get up before your alarm goes off, make coffee, grab a bagel, and take the stairs to the roof to watch the sun rise. It's the perfect way to start a morning. Now, I sit silently, chewing my bagel, and sipping on my coffee. I like my coffee black. Black as the night.
The sun peeks over the horizon, taking its time to fill the world with light. My watch chirps. It's 6:00 AM. It's time.
Throughout Gotham City #2186914, all the hung-over townspeople are groaning at their alarms, making their coffee, and setting into their bagels. My bagel is already gone, my coffee on its last drops. I'm ahead of everyone else. It makes me feel good. I'm better at them than something.
I get dressed, in khaki slacks and a red polo, and take the elevator down to my garage to start my commute. My '05 Mercedes looks welcoming in its sleek silver, elegant with the slightest tinge of flashy to it. I get in and pull out onto the street, into a bustling world of morning traffic. A Lamborghini Aventador cuts me off, and I honk my horn. An engine revs behind me as a Ferrari waits for me to get up to speed, and a Maserati passes me on the right. I sigh. My Mercedes seems a lot less flashy now. Along my entire commute, I'm passed and harassed by supercars.
I arrive at my job, clock in, and set about sorting through my boss's mail. A newspaper sits on my desk, and I can't help but glimpse that he's on the front cover receiving a key to the city. I chuckle to myself. The key to the city hasn't been worth much since all 6,000,000 inhabitants got one. All except for me. That makes me special. The telecom buzzes. "Frank, could I see you in my office, please?"
As I enter Mr. Payulinik's office, he dramatically swivels his chair from the window to face me. "Good morning, Frank." he says, but it doesn't seem like a good morning. Mr. Payulinik looks as if he hasn't slept in a week, and his face is covered in fresh bruises. He doesn't like me to point these things out, though. Nobody sleeps in Gotham #2186914, and everyone always has fresh bruises.
"Good morning, Mr. Payulinik. Sleep well last night?"
"Like a bat." He chuckles to himself. I force a polite smile, and he continues. "Did you know that our stock is down this morning? Payulinik Enterprises has dropped .4%, and most of the raise has gone to those bastards at Wilson Enterprises."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Payulinik."
"You're damn right you're sorry. It's likely to come out of everyone's paychecks, including yours. Anyways, I have a press conference in ten minutes, and I need some thick coffee. I need it black. BLACK AS THE NIGHT." He coughs a little bit. "Excuse me. I don't know what that was. Coffee, stat?"
Mr. Payulinik isn't the only one with fresh bruises, though. On my way to get him coffee, I pass Mr. Edmonton's personal assistant, the beautiful Emma Koslosky. "Good morning, Emma." I say cheerfully.
"Hello, Frank." She growls back, before clearing her throat. "Sorry, I've had a bit of a sore throat recently.
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to get Mr. Payulinik his coffee." I enter the kitchen and pour him some coffee. Mr. Sanderson from Accounting walks in, and it looks like he had an especially rough night last night. He's still wearing a utility belt. I point it out to him, and he laughs in embarrassment as he pulls it off and stuffs it in his briefcase. I pour Mr. Payulinik's coffee, and return it to him.
The rest of the day is uneventful. I attend several meetings, flirt with Emma a bit more (trying not to mention the gash which her low-backed dress displays), eat lunch at my desk, and answer phone calls. Finally, five-o-clock hits, and it's time to go home. As I leave, I overhear all my coworkers talking about the crazy parties, fancy galas, and meetings with mafia dons they'll be having tonight. Mr. Payulinik asks me what I'll be doing. I say I'm gonna try to catch up on Game of Thrones.
Traffic is terrible. A sea of supercars extends all the way from Wall down to 38th, where my apartment is. My little silver Mercedes blends in perfectly, and I could pass them all in the bus lane, but I dare not commit even the pettiest crime this close to nightfall. A Batcopter flies overhead, and I note the man in the car next to me is already wearing his cowl. "Shit." I think to myself. "It has begun."
As I get back to my apartment, the last beams of sunlight drop below the horizon, and the sky lights up with spotlights. Shadowy shapes of bats cover the clouds, and the entire city is illuminated by the searchlights. Two batwings fly past my window, and a few batmobiles are drag-racing on the street below me. I sigh, and turn on Game of Thrones.
My dinner is dry, as is my soul, and I wash it down with several beers. When I finish the last beer, the sound of batarangs exploding on the street below makes me wish for even more alcohol, so that maybe I can drink myself to sleep. I decide to risk a trip to the liquor store. Grabbing my navy blue overcoat and my .45 handgun for protection, I ride the elevator down to the street and start my walk to the store.
A gang of Batmans sits on the corner, chattering amongst themselves and smoking bat-cigarettes. they seem menacing, but not dangerous. As I approach them, a police-batmobile passes, and they disperse. A batwing passes overhead, searching for crime. As I pass an alleyway, a scruffy-looking Batman in an old blue and grey batsuit scurries up to me, begging for change so he can buy some bat-crack. I say I have nothing, and he starts to get desperate. I flash my revolver at him and say I have nothing, and he seems to get the idea. I continue my walk.
At the liquor store, there's a young Batman in front of me trying to buy bat-cigarettes. The bat-clerk isn't buying it, and sends him off. When he sees me, he looks slightly less angry to have a customer. "What can I do for you?" He growls.
"I need some beer."
"We don't serve beer here."
"Okay, fine. I need some bat-beer."
"Can I see your bat-ID?"
I groan, and pull out my wallet. A batman enters the store and stands in line behind me. I show my ID, and the batclerk inspects it. Satisfied, he returns it to me and selects a six-pack of Bat-Budweiser from the fridge behind me. "That'll be five batdollars."
I search my wallet, and pull out the only batmoney I have, a ten batdollar bill. "Keep the change." I say, but the batclerk gives me back five batdollars anyways. I collect my beer and head towards the batdoor.
Behind me, I hear the batman say "Empty the bat-register into this batbag now!" I turn around, and he has a bat-grenade in his hand. This is a bat-robbery! Thinking fast, I drop my bat-beer, and duck behind a bat-shelf. The bat-cashier is panicked, trying quickly to open the cash register, but fumbling with the keyboard.
Now's my chance to be someone.
I draw my gun and point it at the bat-robber, yelling "Disarm that bat-grenade or I WILL shoot!"
The bat-robber laughs. "You wouldn't shoot. No guns? Remember?"
I fire a warning shot, and the bat-robber panics. "Get the hell out!" he yells. "And you, bat-cashier, give me my bat-money or I'll blow you sky-high!"
The time for warning shots is over. The bat-cashier looks scared shitless. The shot I already fired means that countless batmans will soon come running, ready to fight crime, but we don't have time for them. I hold my breath and fire another shot straight through the cowl of the bat-robber. He drops dead, the bat-grenade clattering to the floor. I dive at it and disarm it just before it explodes.
The bat-police are drawing nearer. I can hear their bat-sirens approaching in the street. Another batman and a batgirl have entered the bat-store to see what the commotion is about. The bat-cashier is openly weeping. I holster my gun and head quickly out the store. The batgirl stops me for just a second, and I realize it's Emma from work. I smile and wink at her.
"Who... Who are you?" asks the batman next to her.
I smile even wider. I'm somebody now. I look that batman dead in the eyes and say the words I've always wanted to say.
"I'm the goddamned Frank."
I disappear into the night just as the bat-police arrive. | Gotham is a poorly written joke. There's no break in continuity! Am I the only one that sees the funny side? We all dress the same! I look in the mirror and I see everyone else. Where's the personality in that? WHERE IS THE HUMANITY!
And yet - people keep saying that *I'm* the crazy one! They say I don't belong! But I see through the leather. I know the truth. I know why everyone hides behind their masks. Maybe one day, I'll take the masks off for them! Show them who they really are! Each and every one of them! If they won't let me play Batman, I'll just have to be someone else!
See - I believe that the good can't exist without the bad. You need it! Both sides. And still no one believes me! But soon they will learn. They'll see! This world is one giant cookie cutter - what they need is a knife! Someone to stir things up! And I'm going to show it to them. Once I reveal everyone's true identity, no one will be the same. Everyone will be different, like me! And this city will become... CHAOS!
Ha-he-ha-ha! |
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | I always liked waking up early. You get up before your alarm goes off, make coffee, grab a bagel, and take the stairs to the roof to watch the sun rise. It's the perfect way to start a morning. Now, I sit silently, chewing my bagel, and sipping on my coffee. I like my coffee black. Black as the night.
The sun peeks over the horizon, taking its time to fill the world with light. My watch chirps. It's 6:00 AM. It's time.
Throughout Gotham City #2186914, all the hung-over townspeople are groaning at their alarms, making their coffee, and setting into their bagels. My bagel is already gone, my coffee on its last drops. I'm ahead of everyone else. It makes me feel good. I'm better at them than something.
I get dressed, in khaki slacks and a red polo, and take the elevator down to my garage to start my commute. My '05 Mercedes looks welcoming in its sleek silver, elegant with the slightest tinge of flashy to it. I get in and pull out onto the street, into a bustling world of morning traffic. A Lamborghini Aventador cuts me off, and I honk my horn. An engine revs behind me as a Ferrari waits for me to get up to speed, and a Maserati passes me on the right. I sigh. My Mercedes seems a lot less flashy now. Along my entire commute, I'm passed and harassed by supercars.
I arrive at my job, clock in, and set about sorting through my boss's mail. A newspaper sits on my desk, and I can't help but glimpse that he's on the front cover receiving a key to the city. I chuckle to myself. The key to the city hasn't been worth much since all 6,000,000 inhabitants got one. All except for me. That makes me special. The telecom buzzes. "Frank, could I see you in my office, please?"
As I enter Mr. Payulinik's office, he dramatically swivels his chair from the window to face me. "Good morning, Frank." he says, but it doesn't seem like a good morning. Mr. Payulinik looks as if he hasn't slept in a week, and his face is covered in fresh bruises. He doesn't like me to point these things out, though. Nobody sleeps in Gotham #2186914, and everyone always has fresh bruises.
"Good morning, Mr. Payulinik. Sleep well last night?"
"Like a bat." He chuckles to himself. I force a polite smile, and he continues. "Did you know that our stock is down this morning? Payulinik Enterprises has dropped .4%, and most of the raise has gone to those bastards at Wilson Enterprises."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Payulinik."
"You're damn right you're sorry. It's likely to come out of everyone's paychecks, including yours. Anyways, I have a press conference in ten minutes, and I need some thick coffee. I need it black. BLACK AS THE NIGHT." He coughs a little bit. "Excuse me. I don't know what that was. Coffee, stat?"
Mr. Payulinik isn't the only one with fresh bruises, though. On my way to get him coffee, I pass Mr. Edmonton's personal assistant, the beautiful Emma Koslosky. "Good morning, Emma." I say cheerfully.
"Hello, Frank." She growls back, before clearing her throat. "Sorry, I've had a bit of a sore throat recently.
"I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to get Mr. Payulinik his coffee." I enter the kitchen and pour him some coffee. Mr. Sanderson from Accounting walks in, and it looks like he had an especially rough night last night. He's still wearing a utility belt. I point it out to him, and he laughs in embarrassment as he pulls it off and stuffs it in his briefcase. I pour Mr. Payulinik's coffee, and return it to him.
The rest of the day is uneventful. I attend several meetings, flirt with Emma a bit more (trying not to mention the gash which her low-backed dress displays), eat lunch at my desk, and answer phone calls. Finally, five-o-clock hits, and it's time to go home. As I leave, I overhear all my coworkers talking about the crazy parties, fancy galas, and meetings with mafia dons they'll be having tonight. Mr. Payulinik asks me what I'll be doing. I say I'm gonna try to catch up on Game of Thrones.
Traffic is terrible. A sea of supercars extends all the way from Wall down to 38th, where my apartment is. My little silver Mercedes blends in perfectly, and I could pass them all in the bus lane, but I dare not commit even the pettiest crime this close to nightfall. A Batcopter flies overhead, and I note the man in the car next to me is already wearing his cowl. "Shit." I think to myself. "It has begun."
As I get back to my apartment, the last beams of sunlight drop below the horizon, and the sky lights up with spotlights. Shadowy shapes of bats cover the clouds, and the entire city is illuminated by the searchlights. Two batwings fly past my window, and a few batmobiles are drag-racing on the street below me. I sigh, and turn on Game of Thrones.
My dinner is dry, as is my soul, and I wash it down with several beers. When I finish the last beer, the sound of batarangs exploding on the street below makes me wish for even more alcohol, so that maybe I can drink myself to sleep. I decide to risk a trip to the liquor store. Grabbing my navy blue overcoat and my .45 handgun for protection, I ride the elevator down to the street and start my walk to the store.
A gang of Batmans sits on the corner, chattering amongst themselves and smoking bat-cigarettes. they seem menacing, but not dangerous. As I approach them, a police-batmobile passes, and they disperse. A batwing passes overhead, searching for crime. As I pass an alleyway, a scruffy-looking Batman in an old blue and grey batsuit scurries up to me, begging for change so he can buy some bat-crack. I say I have nothing, and he starts to get desperate. I flash my revolver at him and say I have nothing, and he seems to get the idea. I continue my walk.
At the liquor store, there's a young Batman in front of me trying to buy bat-cigarettes. The bat-clerk isn't buying it, and sends him off. When he sees me, he looks slightly less angry to have a customer. "What can I do for you?" He growls.
"I need some beer."
"We don't serve beer here."
"Okay, fine. I need some bat-beer."
"Can I see your bat-ID?"
I groan, and pull out my wallet. A batman enters the store and stands in line behind me. I show my ID, and the batclerk inspects it. Satisfied, he returns it to me and selects a six-pack of Bat-Budweiser from the fridge behind me. "That'll be five batdollars."
I search my wallet, and pull out the only batmoney I have, a ten batdollar bill. "Keep the change." I say, but the batclerk gives me back five batdollars anyways. I collect my beer and head towards the batdoor.
Behind me, I hear the batman say "Empty the bat-register into this batbag now!" I turn around, and he has a bat-grenade in his hand. This is a bat-robbery! Thinking fast, I drop my bat-beer, and duck behind a bat-shelf. The bat-cashier is panicked, trying quickly to open the cash register, but fumbling with the keyboard.
Now's my chance to be someone.
I draw my gun and point it at the bat-robber, yelling "Disarm that bat-grenade or I WILL shoot!"
The bat-robber laughs. "You wouldn't shoot. No guns? Remember?"
I fire a warning shot, and the bat-robber panics. "Get the hell out!" he yells. "And you, bat-cashier, give me my bat-money or I'll blow you sky-high!"
The time for warning shots is over. The bat-cashier looks scared shitless. The shot I already fired means that countless batmans will soon come running, ready to fight crime, but we don't have time for them. I hold my breath and fire another shot straight through the cowl of the bat-robber. He drops dead, the bat-grenade clattering to the floor. I dive at it and disarm it just before it explodes.
The bat-police are drawing nearer. I can hear their bat-sirens approaching in the street. Another batman and a batgirl have entered the bat-store to see what the commotion is about. The bat-cashier is openly weeping. I holster my gun and head quickly out the store. The batgirl stops me for just a second, and I realize it's Emma from work. I smile and wink at her.
"Who... Who are you?" asks the batman next to her.
I smile even wider. I'm somebody now. I look that batman dead in the eyes and say the words I've always wanted to say.
"I'm the goddamned Frank."
I disappear into the night just as the bat-police arrive. | *HHHNGGGHAPPY MMMBIRTHDAY TO NMGYOU*, my family sings with their luxurious rasp. Twenty-four birthdays, and I'm still not batman. My six year old brother is batman. My dad is batman. My *grandma* is batman. Hell, even my *second cousin once removed* is batman, and I don't even know what that *means*! But not me, pretty sure I'm the only one who's *not* batman in this world.
The crime rate has gone up with the population going up. The lack of crime to fight and lack of villains are making batmen everywhere corrupt. Thus, it's a constant struggle between the corrupt batmen and the regular batmen, but it's pretty balanced because if those who aren't corrupt start to defeat those who are, they have less crime to fight, eventually leading to them becoming corrupt. If those who are corrupt defeat those who aren't, however, the resistance of those who aren't is stronger because there's more crime to fight, and every child is born corrupt or pure, depending on the status of their parents.
That's where I come in, I've been trying to develop a 'cure', if you will, that prevents the restlessness that leads to corruption, and eventually get the balance to a point where pure greatly outweighs the corrupt, I don't think I'll ever eliminate all of the corrupt, but that may be for the best, as it gives batmen jobs to keep them busy and put to use. My current cure is in clinical testing on my great uncle, who seems to be extra fidgety lately, I think it's working. It's a mixture of cherry juice, saturated with calcium and potassium, I've found it seems to strengthen batmen, and allow them to be able to resist their negative thoughts more efficiently.
"So you just... drink it?" asked my great uncle with his shining rasp. "Yep, that's it." *NNGOLP* "Better?" "No. I feel... weird." "Weird how?" "Just weird I don't know!" I watch as his face twists and writhes and... uh oh, somebody better call batman! |
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | #**I am Batman**
The bedside clock radio turns on like it does every morning.
"It's 6:15 AM, 72 degrees and I am Batman, host of *Good Morning Gotham*..."
Groaning I roll over and shut if off. If I don't get up now I will be late. I
tried setting it earlier so I could choose to snooze if I needed a little extra
time to wake up.
But, it's too annoying to be jolted out of sleep more than once when every
single morning DJ uses the same byline. From the soporific *All Things
Considered* on NPR, through the raging news/talk hosts to the zany comedy
ensembles, all of them repeat it ad nauseum. "I am Batman". Indeed. Everybody is
Batman.
On the radio and TV it's all Batman, all the time. Investigative reporter Batman.
Traffic copter Batman. Rock and roll Batman. Classical Batman. And, for all the
little BatTots and BatGirls, it's Batman Elmo. same Bat channel, same Bat time.
Batman at the BatDonalds drive through where I get my egg and cheese BatMuffin.
Batman on the drive to work in his BatVan, BatTruck and BatMobile. Whipping
around me, cutting me off. Burning the paint job on my car with the smoking hot
exhaust from every BatVehicle's jet engine.
Batman on BatCycles (which are just jet engines with handlebars and wheels
bolted on) pulling over speeders. Batman at the BatTollbooth.
Batman (well, actually, a cute young red headed Batgirl) at the reception desk -
"Wayne Enterprises, please hold..".
My fat BatBoss, who comes by my desk everyday at eight fifteen to check on me.
The trendy young BatMen and BatGirls talking and flirting around the BatCooler.
The geeky pasty faced college intern batman at I'm teaching BatProgramming. Well,
at least when I can keep him from climbing up the outside of the building.
That's how it is everywhere, all day, everyday.
*Sigh*.
At least, the only Batman in the shower is the headless bottle of BatCombo
shampoo and conditioner. Whenever I get a new bottle, I throw the top away. Sure, a
little water gets in. And, if I knock, it over I waste some shampoo.
I just can't stand those blank white eyes. It feels like they are watching me.
Watching when I soap up with my BatSoap on a rope. Observing me as I shave with
my Batarang blade.
In a world where everyone else is Batman, I should stand out.
I never wear a single item of Bat apparel. Brown wing tip shoes, not black
BatBoots. A white shirt, red and black striped tie, blue suit jacket and pants;
not grey spandex with a Bat emblem. A simple brown leather belt, not a garish
yellow utility belt.
And, never a BatCowl and cape. Just a pair of wire frame glasses.
I look in the mirror and wonder why no one ever notices me.
It's must the eye glasses, definitely the eye glasses.
I hear a soft cry of distress from many miles away.
I leap into the air as I exchange one suit for another. The one that all Batman
only ever see as a red, blue and yellow blur.
This is a job for... | *HHHNGGGHAPPY MMMBIRTHDAY TO NMGYOU*, my family sings with their luxurious rasp. Twenty-four birthdays, and I'm still not batman. My six year old brother is batman. My dad is batman. My *grandma* is batman. Hell, even my *second cousin once removed* is batman, and I don't even know what that *means*! But not me, pretty sure I'm the only one who's *not* batman in this world.
The crime rate has gone up with the population going up. The lack of crime to fight and lack of villains are making batmen everywhere corrupt. Thus, it's a constant struggle between the corrupt batmen and the regular batmen, but it's pretty balanced because if those who aren't corrupt start to defeat those who are, they have less crime to fight, eventually leading to them becoming corrupt. If those who are corrupt defeat those who aren't, however, the resistance of those who aren't is stronger because there's more crime to fight, and every child is born corrupt or pure, depending on the status of their parents.
That's where I come in, I've been trying to develop a 'cure', if you will, that prevents the restlessness that leads to corruption, and eventually get the balance to a point where pure greatly outweighs the corrupt, I don't think I'll ever eliminate all of the corrupt, but that may be for the best, as it gives batmen jobs to keep them busy and put to use. My current cure is in clinical testing on my great uncle, who seems to be extra fidgety lately, I think it's working. It's a mixture of cherry juice, saturated with calcium and potassium, I've found it seems to strengthen batmen, and allow them to be able to resist their negative thoughts more efficiently.
"So you just... drink it?" asked my great uncle with his shining rasp. "Yep, that's it." *NNGOLP* "Better?" "No. I feel... weird." "Weird how?" "Just weird I don't know!" I watch as his face twists and writhes and... uh oh, somebody better call batman! |
Is there no crime or villains? What do all the Batmans do then? Are you the only villain in this universe? Do you need to try to hide your lack of a secret identity from everyone? | [WP] According to the Multiverse Theory, there is a universe where you are Batman. However, there is also a universe where everyone but you is Batman. What's life like in this universe? | #**I am Batman**
The bedside clock radio turns on like it does every morning.
"It's 6:15 AM, 72 degrees and I am Batman, host of *Good Morning Gotham*..."
Groaning I roll over and shut if off. If I don't get up now I will be late. I
tried setting it earlier so I could choose to snooze if I needed a little extra
time to wake up.
But, it's too annoying to be jolted out of sleep more than once when every
single morning DJ uses the same byline. From the soporific *All Things
Considered* on NPR, through the raging news/talk hosts to the zany comedy
ensembles, all of them repeat it ad nauseum. "I am Batman". Indeed. Everybody is
Batman.
On the radio and TV it's all Batman, all the time. Investigative reporter Batman.
Traffic copter Batman. Rock and roll Batman. Classical Batman. And, for all the
little BatTots and BatGirls, it's Batman Elmo. same Bat channel, same Bat time.
Batman at the BatDonalds drive through where I get my egg and cheese BatMuffin.
Batman on the drive to work in his BatVan, BatTruck and BatMobile. Whipping
around me, cutting me off. Burning the paint job on my car with the smoking hot
exhaust from every BatVehicle's jet engine.
Batman on BatCycles (which are just jet engines with handlebars and wheels
bolted on) pulling over speeders. Batman at the BatTollbooth.
Batman (well, actually, a cute young red headed Batgirl) at the reception desk -
"Wayne Enterprises, please hold..".
My fat BatBoss, who comes by my desk everyday at eight fifteen to check on me.
The trendy young BatMen and BatGirls talking and flirting around the BatCooler.
The geeky pasty faced college intern batman at I'm teaching BatProgramming. Well,
at least when I can keep him from climbing up the outside of the building.
That's how it is everywhere, all day, everyday.
*Sigh*.
At least, the only Batman in the shower is the headless bottle of BatCombo
shampoo and conditioner. Whenever I get a new bottle, I throw the top away. Sure, a
little water gets in. And, if I knock, it over I waste some shampoo.
I just can't stand those blank white eyes. It feels like they are watching me.
Watching when I soap up with my BatSoap on a rope. Observing me as I shave with
my Batarang blade.
In a world where everyone else is Batman, I should stand out.
I never wear a single item of Bat apparel. Brown wing tip shoes, not black
BatBoots. A white shirt, red and black striped tie, blue suit jacket and pants;
not grey spandex with a Bat emblem. A simple brown leather belt, not a garish
yellow utility belt.
And, never a BatCowl and cape. Just a pair of wire frame glasses.
I look in the mirror and wonder why no one ever notices me.
It's must the eye glasses, definitely the eye glasses.
I hear a soft cry of distress from many miles away.
I leap into the air as I exchange one suit for another. The one that all Batman
only ever see as a red, blue and yellow blur.
This is a job for... | The "Multiverse Theory" in its formation created this universe, and I was not too disturbed by it. I was the "Fountainhead" of universe creation, entering each new universe created by the possibility of its existence and checking it for errors. It was much like being God.
The Batman-to-One universe, where everyone is Batman (except you) is really quite an experience. There are so many Batmen, that upon your entering, you are immediately grapple-hooked and beaten. That's because only one Batman is truly Batman, even in this existence of remote possibility.
The real test was finding the error in it all, therefore destroying it and ending the suffering of less-than-Batmen in the universe. I've killed multitude universe; but I am not God. I am not human, as he is. I could not create a universe, splitting the original creation as possibilities unfold, giving free will to everyone. I could only join each universe and travel in and out of them. I could also destroy them.
This universe is where fake Batmen lived and suffered, all unknowing they were not the Real Batman, and where *you* can exist as yourself and not Batman. I saw it as an abomination created out of the minds of Mad Physicists, and God said, "You must destroy it."
"But first, I must find the error rendering it impossible. . ."
And then it hit me. If Batman entered this universe (which there was the remotest possibility of ever happening), there would be two Real Batmen in the universe according to this universe created by the Multiverse Theory.
There could only be one.
**Bang.** |
[WP] Your instrument is haunted. | There is a wolf in the violin.
Marie drags her bow against the strings, and hears it again—that growl, staccato thunder overcoming her *G* note. She sighs, sits her bow down upon the stand, and then holds her violin in front of her. The fingertips of her right hand skim the pin-up girl curve of it. It's a strange condition, having a wolf in the violin. Her *mother* was livid with the report, gritted her teeth. *Ah, that fucking Italian*, she had spat out. *High quality my ass, oh all the money I spent, I should have just went with the fucking Frenchman...*
“Why,” Marie asks the violin strings, curiously. She dabs against a string lightly, right over the bridge. The tiny ridges press against her thumb, and her skin comes away cloaked in a fine layer of rosin. “I played you just fine before, didn't I?”
The violin doesn't say anything in reply. She expected as much. Marie puts the violin back up on her shoulder, feels the edge of it clack against her pearl necklace uncomfortably. She doesn't remember a broken bow that used to be the companion of her wolf-ridden Italian violin. She doesn't feel the strange loosening of her bowstrings, as though they are trying to escape.
.
During breakfast, Marie tries again for the second time. “Maybe it's the bow,” Marie says.
“No,” her mom tells her. Marie swallows the bite of pancake (because if she doesn't she'll be speaking with her mouth full and then her mom will become her *mother*).
“Well, when I broke the bow and we got the new one—”
Her mom's—no, her *mother's*—eyes flash. “Yes, yes, the wolf-tone came up. But I
fucking told you, Marie. It can't be the bow, the professionals have told me. Besides, it's just your G note, isn't it? Just go and practice. The French is coming in a week.”
Marie swallows her words, this time: a mumble of *the G-note is essential for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”* and *why do I have to have to have to play the violin?* and *but really mother it has to be the bow, even if the professionals say*...but nothing escapes, because Marie may be young, but she knows which battles to fight, and her *mother* is too much for her.
After breakfast, she flits back to her practice room. The broken bow sits upon her case (shiny and supple leather—this was from England). She remembers her carelessness, the accidental snap and the spine of it split into two, parted. She goes to it and holds it carefully. For some reason, she can faintly hear a note of anguish, but it fades as she loosens the bow.
And then she rips a string out. It's broken after all—there's no other use for it. There never is, for broken things.
.
The wolf has bitten into the *C* note. Marie rolls her eyes in frustration, takes it out again on the broken bow. Angrily, she pulls at each white string, until her fingers are a little sore. The broken bow has only fifteen strings left, maybe. The rest are either in her lap or in the trash.
“Honestly,” she breathes out, but her anger is alleviated a slight by the act. She brushes the silk of her skirt and sighs and goes back to her infected violin, lifting it back up to her chin, spreading her feet apart like her instructor dictated. Her bow sits upon the violin's *D* string and she immediately winces, but not just because of the wolf-tone that screeches itself out like a war-cry.
Her hands pull away from the top—there is a cut along her index finger, where she pressed it against her D string.
“Ow,” she whispers, watches a crimson drop trace itself down her white knuckles. It falls to stain the shoulder of her violin, and no matter how hard she tries to rub it off, a faint stain remains, like a lover's eternal promise.
.
The French has come in the mail. There are no wolves in this one, and her bow glides against the strings beautifully, so she can play her *Twinkle Twinkle* again.
She ends up setting the Italian in her room, propped up on a custom-made glass shelf. At night, when Marie turns off the lights and sighs, curling into her blankets, she thinks she can hear it again—*Twinkle Twinkle*, but harsh, a wolf-tone on every *G*.
When sleep comes to drag her away from the faint melody, it brings a nightmare for the travel price. | "Please, you have to believe me! It must haunted! It's the only possible explanation"
She looked at me with suspicious eyes. A nervous tick jolted through her face, but she remained calm and controlled, saying only:
"I don't care. Play the piece again. There is no such thing as a haunted piano"
I sighed and looked at the ground. There was no chance the music teacher would believe me. I decided to prove her wrong.
Slowly, I started playing. Note after note, a beautiful rendition of Liebestraum. But it soon made itself felt, first by me, as a small vibration of the keynotes, and quickly the whole piano started shaking and growling, catching the teacher's attention.
"Quit that nonsense and just play the piece! Why are you doing this?" - she asked me;
"It's not me, it's the piano! Look!"
As I exclaimed, the whole piano started to levitate, its tail waggling and the notes pouring from the top, in a crazy cacophony that startled me. My teacher, however, was unfazed, and maintained her stern and disapproving look at the piano. She then said:
"Why can't you do anything right? We had a great life here! Why must you ruin everything, time after time?"
As I looked, amazed, the piano seemed to respond, making sounds with the keys I could not interpret. The teacher then continued:
"Oh, there is no point. This is lost for us now. I'll leave, and I suggest you come with me. As for you" - she pointed at me - "You should try finding another teacher. You could actually have a future in music"
The teacher suddenly vanished, and the piano soon followed. The air smelled of ozone and old leaves, and I never saw them again. | |
[WP] Your instrument is haunted. | The Piano sat untouched since her father's death, remaining covered in a dusty corner of the living room as if it was a part of him they'd been unwilling to bury. Alice had never played the piano though its music was as sacred to her as any choir song sung in any church. It was her father's instrument and his music, played during moments of her life that made it difficult to even listen to the radio for some distant memory tied through frayed memories to a random tune.
He'd also been a prankster and the mingling of his music played at inconvenient times always brought a smile to her face once upon a time. Alice remembered when he'd struck out the Flight of the Bumblebee during holidays or a funeral march when they got into trouble. Once, upon returning from a date during her high school years, he went so far as to rig out a speaker system and play O Fortuna until the boy ran home. She'd went without a kiss that night, which was his intentions all along.
Now, she found it easy to break down at the slightest tune. It was maddening, but as much as the piano reminded her of her father, she knew she'd never be able to get rid of it. She had been in one such mood, curling up on the sofa facing a blank television screen, when the piano began to mindlessly ring out.
"Hello?" She called out. No one replied.
Alice strained to listen to the tune being played. It was a song by *Lizst*. One of his Rhapsodies. The more she listened, the better the tune rang out in her memory. It was the *Hungarian Rhapsody*, a song her father would play when he was in one of his quirky moods. The only problem was that the piano seat was unoccupied and she was home alone.
"Who's there?" She asked, feeling foolish to be talking to a piano.
As scared as she knew she should've been, it was still her father's piano and there was no way she could've been afraid of it. Instead, she basked in the memory until the song was finished.
Then another tune rang out and she recognized it immediately. It was the *Entertainer, by Scott Joplin*.
She waited until the song was over before pulling back the dust cover. The piano was as bare as before with no wires or controls possibly allowing for the possibility for it to be anything but haunted.
Next on the playlist was *Liebesträume by Lizst*. It was a light tune, but one saturated with a honeyed melancholy that made her bring her hands to her face. It was a personal tune ripe with meaning and again one her father would play.
She wrote down the song titles as they came, intending to document the phenomena or at least understand the riddle. They were sure to have some sort of meaning, even if she couldn't explain how it was happening.
They came in a string afterwards; *Pictures at an Exhibition* by *Mussorgsky*, the *Moonlight Sonata* and finishing with *Edelweiss*. She'd watched The Song of Music with her father when she was younger and that song in particular burned in her eyes.
"I don't understand," She said out loud.
Then she looked down at the list that had formed in her hands.
H...E...L...P...M...E...
Alice almost dropped to her knees. She held the paper in her trembling hands, reading the titles over again to be sure. The piano began playing again. This time, it was *It's Raining Men*. She transcribed each title as they came, her hands still trembling until the piano ran through *Goodbye Yellow Brick Road*.
She read through the final song titles, underlining each one. Then reading through the sentence, she shook her head.
*Help me, I'm decomposing...*
"I get it dad," She said.
Then she smiled for what felt like the first time in a very long time. | "Please, you have to believe me! It must haunted! It's the only possible explanation"
She looked at me with suspicious eyes. A nervous tick jolted through her face, but she remained calm and controlled, saying only:
"I don't care. Play the piece again. There is no such thing as a haunted piano"
I sighed and looked at the ground. There was no chance the music teacher would believe me. I decided to prove her wrong.
Slowly, I started playing. Note after note, a beautiful rendition of Liebestraum. But it soon made itself felt, first by me, as a small vibration of the keynotes, and quickly the whole piano started shaking and growling, catching the teacher's attention.
"Quit that nonsense and just play the piece! Why are you doing this?" - she asked me;
"It's not me, it's the piano! Look!"
As I exclaimed, the whole piano started to levitate, its tail waggling and the notes pouring from the top, in a crazy cacophony that startled me. My teacher, however, was unfazed, and maintained her stern and disapproving look at the piano. She then said:
"Why can't you do anything right? We had a great life here! Why must you ruin everything, time after time?"
As I looked, amazed, the piano seemed to respond, making sounds with the keys I could not interpret. The teacher then continued:
"Oh, there is no point. This is lost for us now. I'll leave, and I suggest you come with me. As for you" - she pointed at me - "You should try finding another teacher. You could actually have a future in music"
The teacher suddenly vanished, and the piano soon followed. The air smelled of ozone and old leaves, and I never saw them again. |
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