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[WP] "A human? I thought they were extinct?" | "I don't think it's possible. I think he's lying. Even if they did find one how did they get it *here*? The nearest planet that the Humans colonized is an impossible distance away, and they were supposed to have died out millennia ago."
"How am I supposed to know? I was given as much clearance as you were. It's you, me, and the other four members of Team Rho that were told to be here to see if it's a legitimate Human or a convincing fake."
The conversation paused for a moment as the two strode down the long sterile hallway.
"It does have The Council pretty shook up though, who knows, maybe it's real."
The orange light above the door blinked at them, waiting patiently for identification.
"R683, Pesha here."
"R192, Isi, at your service."
The door whirred and beeped in simulated happiness to see the duo and opened, releasing a hiss as it did so.
___________
Upon their entrance they were greeted by one Officer, standing stiffly in front of a lit blank wall. He offered the pair a curt nod and motioned for them to stand beside him.
"I'm sure you know by now why you're here."
"Well," Isi piped, "I can't say it's been kept secret very well. There's buzzing all throughout the station."
The Officer met her with a stern glance and returned to looking ahead at the wall.
Pesha more cautiously cleared his throat. "Uh, hem, Sir, why are we the only two here?"
"The other three members and your Captain have already made their decisions. You are the last two to be consulted."
The two remaining Rho members exchanged slightly worried looks. Last two?
"Please," the Officer spoke, "pay close attention to what you are about to see."
He pressed a small button next to the door and stepped out into the hall.
There was a thunk, followed by whirring and hissing as the wall in front of them separated down the center and began to pull away from itself, revealing a glass barrier behind it and an otherwise empty white room, save for the single chair in the center and the small figure perched on it.
"Oh my--"
-----------------------------------------------
The room was completely silent, save for Pesha and Isi's simultaneous inhale at the creature before them.
Pesha recoiled slightly, pulling away from the glass wall in from of him. Isi, on the other hand, pressed her nose excitedly to the glass.
"Oh my god," she breathed, making small fog marks on the glass, "oh my god, it's real."
"Isi we don't know that yet."
"Look Pesh, LOOK! Oh my god how can you not be convinced! It's a girl, I know it, look at her face, she's a girl! Oh my god it's a girl! She's so perfect! Look Pesh, look at her hair, and she's got the most beautiful eyes!"
Pesha alternated between quick glances at Isi, pressed against the glass, and the human, pardon, *supposed* human. If it was real, then Isi nailed it, it was definitely a female. Human genetics had tons of variances but this one was plainly female. This was good news if they were going to attempt to bring the species back from extinction. She didn't look too old, either. Breeding age for sure, and probably with a bit of time to go as well.
"Y-yeah, Isi, she's great. If she's real then we'll be able to get a lot of biological information from her that we haven't been able to attain otherwi--"
He froze, unable to finish his thought. The human was staring directly at him. Right into his eyes. Until this point she had been looking at the ground in front of her, even when Isi was yelling into the glass.
His stomach sank, he felt utterly sick. Just looking this...*thing* in the eyes made him want to crawl out of his own skin.
"Oh Pesh look she LIKES you!!!" Isi pushed herself off the glass and gave Pesha a slap on the back. "Look at that! Wow, try to talk to her!"
The human glanced over to Isi, who, in her celebratory back-slapping and enthusiasm, had managed to tear her gaze from the captive for half a second.
Looking back at the girl, however, caused her to fumble. Her excitement faded and her face turned from a toothy grin to a faltering smile.
With her own eyes now locked with the girls her tone changed. She stared back, a feeling of unease creeping up her spine.
"Pesh," she muttered, almost a whisper, "do you remember what the prehistoric humanity team said about humans?"
"Yes, Isi, I do."
"So, you remember the bit about the human brain then?"
"Of course."
"They-- are they going to kill her, Pesh?"
"No, Isi. They are going to *use* her." | "Nuclear war? How barbaric!" Sphen said, and his top three eyes went out of focus in a way that for a Shilen indicated extreme disgust. "Not nearly powerful enough to eradicate all traces of your opponent in a single shot, yet leaves behind piles of radiation that take forever to clean up afterwards. Stupid! Just stupid."
"I didn't say that's what actually happened, Sphen. I just said it was the initial hypothesis," Raal told him.
"So... presumably we now know better?"
"I believe so. After an extensive period of analysis of the data brought back by the xenopologists we eventually concluded the leftover radiation was from power plants and the poorly designed dump sites that held their wastes. Apparently once there were no longer any humans to tend them, they deteriorated, and earthquakes and other natural disasters cracked them open. Whatever. Point is, the radiation was a red herring. We could tell because there wasn't enough of it to explain the total annihilation of all their cities the way we saw."
"So what *did* kill them off?"
"Indifference, apparently."
"I beg your pardon?"
"There were extensive signs of long term pollution and global climate change. Enough pollution to poison the air and seas, and enough climate change to trigger cataclysmic changes in the weather."
Sphen's two secondary pseudopodia twitched in a sign of puzzled concentration. "But... neither of those problems would have happened suddenly enough to trigger a wide scale extinction event, would they?"
Raal chittered in amusement. "Normally, I'd say not. But why do you think I said 'indifference' killed them? The absurdity is, they had decades... perhaps centuries of advanced warning that they were causing their own extermination, and somehow, they never got around to fixing the problems. We've analyzed their language, examined their records, studied their own history as they themselves put it down. Everything points to the fact that not only did they notice the problem, there was a broad general consensus that the problem was real after only a few decades of analysis, but they simply never did more than pay lip service to fixing it."
This time it was Sphen's turn to chitter. "Sounds to me that it was not so much indifference as just plain stupidity that killed them."
Raal waggled a pseudopod in agreement. "Perhaps you're right at that. There's also evidence they underwent a period of extensive economic upheavals caused by the fact that a small handful of resource brokers kept amassing the collective wealth of the planet, seemingly unaware that keeping the rest in increasing poverty meant choking off their own customer bases with no eye toward market sustainability."
"That *is* stupid. No two ways about it."
"Ah yes, but stupid in a *cunning* way."
"Huh?"
"Well, they kept coming up with what *they* perceived as increasingly ingenious methods of reducing manufacturing costs by outsourcing work to exploitive labor markets and convincing both their governments and their so called 'middle class' that accumulating debt was a normal and acceptable way of life that gave the illusion of being better than poverty, while at the same time giving those who offered the credit an additional way to siphon off wealth from the people they exploited in this fashion."
"Aaaagggg," said Sphen and now four of his pseudopodia writhed in consternation while a fifth slapped the top of his dorsal ridge. "I have no head for xeno-economics, Raal. You know that. Just cut to the chase, will you?"
"Alright, my friend," Raal said amenably. "The point is, the whole of their economic model was as unsustainable in the long term as their policies on pollution. Once the whole thing eventually collapsed under its own weight, their cities could no longer maintain themselves."
"They used up all their resources?" Sphen said, clearly worried.
"Good Maker, no! They just couldn't maintain the flow of them any longer. And by then their cultures were too specialized to survive without that continuous flow or manufactured products, so the cities became death traps. Without the cities, manufacture collapsed. Without manufacture, agriculture was crippled because it had become a modern kind of agriculture with total dependence on machines that could no longer be replaced or repaired without the manufacturing. And so on, and so on."
"And that's *really* what killed all the humans?"
"Well so it would appear. Their cities and farms were dead when the xenopologists studied them."
"Sad."
"Yes, but good for business, eh?"
"Well, if you're in the salvage business, I would say it is. There's enough salvage here to make us our personal fortunes for the next six lifetimes."
Their conversation was interrupted by an urgent pinging noise from the life status console. Raal and Sphen slithered over to look at the pattern of lights that were being displayed within the console. They swiveled several of their eye orbs to look at one another in shock. Raal tapped out a series of commands on the lights panel, and the entire collection flashed off, blinked twice, then flashed on in a new pattern responding with additional data in response to his query.
"Is that...?"
"So it would appear."
"A human? I thought they were extinct," said Sphen, a slight touch of worry in his voice. "What do we do now? We've invested too much in this mission to change our plans."
"Now, now. Let's not panic. Yes, it *is* a human, but where is... Ah! There's the rest of its social grouping."
"Why, that's more of a nomadic tribe than a civilization."
"Yes. Yes it is. Well what do you know? Life finds a way."
"Do you think this is a problem?"
"How so? Look at them. They hunt with spears and bows, and dress in skins. More importantly, there's a reason the xenopologists missed them."
"Eh? Why?"
"Look at them, Sphen. They are *avoiding* the cities. I wouldn't be surprised if they have some dreadful superstition telling them they are places of death and cursed."
"So how does this affect us?"
"Why, it doesn't, my friend! Not at all. Don't you see? We're here to salvage materials from the former cities of a dead civilization. As long as those primitive tribes steer clear, we just go ahead with our plans. We clean out everything we can recycle and carry."
"And the humans?"
Raal shimmied in a noncommittal way. "What of them? They won't miss what we take. If they wander into the area, we put on a scary light show to reinforce their superstitions and then back to business as usual."
"I don't know, Raal. I just don't like this development."
"There, there, my friend. You just keep thinking how wealthy we're going to be, and leave all the worrying to me. If worst comes to worst, and they do make a nuisance of themselves, we can do better than nuclear weapons, can't we?"
Raal and Sphen chittered happily about this as they set about preparing the reclamation drones to send down to the planet's surface.
| |
[WP] "A human? I thought they were extinct?" | "For twenty years I have travelled the galaxy, bringing you strange and exotic flora and fauna from all corners of the empire."
A brief pause, as the audience politely applauds.
"On my most recent expedition to the systems in the outer ring, I discovered a death world, inhabited by only the most resiliant creatures. Its surface was covered by destroyed cities, its atmosphere filled with radiation levels found nowhere else in the galaxy."
"Its moon was semisphere, cracked by some unknown force, with the half broken off forming a ring around the planet. On its surface, we found thousands upon thousands of skeletons, but nothing alive."
"The planet proper was deadly; we only spent three days on the surface, on a large isolated island in the southern hemisphere, but during that time half our expedition died. Poisonous animals were everywhere, and when we attempted to refill our water we encountered huge, amphibious reptiles."
"However, the expedition was a resounding success. We discovered creatures not seen for a millenia. We thought they had died off after their last crusade, but we were wrong. Today, I give you the galactic scourge, the creatures of the apocalypse. I give you, humanity!"
The room fell into shocked silence for a moment, as Hrath'gar swept the cloth off the shielded cage, and then gasped in horror, before swelling into raucous applause.
Inside the cage, a human baby started crying at the noise. | "Nuclear war? How barbaric!" Sphen said, and his top three eyes went out of focus in a way that for a Shilen indicated extreme disgust. "Not nearly powerful enough to eradicate all traces of your opponent in a single shot, yet leaves behind piles of radiation that take forever to clean up afterwards. Stupid! Just stupid."
"I didn't say that's what actually happened, Sphen. I just said it was the initial hypothesis," Raal told him.
"So... presumably we now know better?"
"I believe so. After an extensive period of analysis of the data brought back by the xenopologists we eventually concluded the leftover radiation was from power plants and the poorly designed dump sites that held their wastes. Apparently once there were no longer any humans to tend them, they deteriorated, and earthquakes and other natural disasters cracked them open. Whatever. Point is, the radiation was a red herring. We could tell because there wasn't enough of it to explain the total annihilation of all their cities the way we saw."
"So what *did* kill them off?"
"Indifference, apparently."
"I beg your pardon?"
"There were extensive signs of long term pollution and global climate change. Enough pollution to poison the air and seas, and enough climate change to trigger cataclysmic changes in the weather."
Sphen's two secondary pseudopodia twitched in a sign of puzzled concentration. "But... neither of those problems would have happened suddenly enough to trigger a wide scale extinction event, would they?"
Raal chittered in amusement. "Normally, I'd say not. But why do you think I said 'indifference' killed them? The absurdity is, they had decades... perhaps centuries of advanced warning that they were causing their own extermination, and somehow, they never got around to fixing the problems. We've analyzed their language, examined their records, studied their own history as they themselves put it down. Everything points to the fact that not only did they notice the problem, there was a broad general consensus that the problem was real after only a few decades of analysis, but they simply never did more than pay lip service to fixing it."
This time it was Sphen's turn to chitter. "Sounds to me that it was not so much indifference as just plain stupidity that killed them."
Raal waggled a pseudopod in agreement. "Perhaps you're right at that. There's also evidence they underwent a period of extensive economic upheavals caused by the fact that a small handful of resource brokers kept amassing the collective wealth of the planet, seemingly unaware that keeping the rest in increasing poverty meant choking off their own customer bases with no eye toward market sustainability."
"That *is* stupid. No two ways about it."
"Ah yes, but stupid in a *cunning* way."
"Huh?"
"Well, they kept coming up with what *they* perceived as increasingly ingenious methods of reducing manufacturing costs by outsourcing work to exploitive labor markets and convincing both their governments and their so called 'middle class' that accumulating debt was a normal and acceptable way of life that gave the illusion of being better than poverty, while at the same time giving those who offered the credit an additional way to siphon off wealth from the people they exploited in this fashion."
"Aaaagggg," said Sphen and now four of his pseudopodia writhed in consternation while a fifth slapped the top of his dorsal ridge. "I have no head for xeno-economics, Raal. You know that. Just cut to the chase, will you?"
"Alright, my friend," Raal said amenably. "The point is, the whole of their economic model was as unsustainable in the long term as their policies on pollution. Once the whole thing eventually collapsed under its own weight, their cities could no longer maintain themselves."
"They used up all their resources?" Sphen said, clearly worried.
"Good Maker, no! They just couldn't maintain the flow of them any longer. And by then their cultures were too specialized to survive without that continuous flow or manufactured products, so the cities became death traps. Without the cities, manufacture collapsed. Without manufacture, agriculture was crippled because it had become a modern kind of agriculture with total dependence on machines that could no longer be replaced or repaired without the manufacturing. And so on, and so on."
"And that's *really* what killed all the humans?"
"Well so it would appear. Their cities and farms were dead when the xenopologists studied them."
"Sad."
"Yes, but good for business, eh?"
"Well, if you're in the salvage business, I would say it is. There's enough salvage here to make us our personal fortunes for the next six lifetimes."
Their conversation was interrupted by an urgent pinging noise from the life status console. Raal and Sphen slithered over to look at the pattern of lights that were being displayed within the console. They swiveled several of their eye orbs to look at one another in shock. Raal tapped out a series of commands on the lights panel, and the entire collection flashed off, blinked twice, then flashed on in a new pattern responding with additional data in response to his query.
"Is that...?"
"So it would appear."
"A human? I thought they were extinct," said Sphen, a slight touch of worry in his voice. "What do we do now? We've invested too much in this mission to change our plans."
"Now, now. Let's not panic. Yes, it *is* a human, but where is... Ah! There's the rest of its social grouping."
"Why, that's more of a nomadic tribe than a civilization."
"Yes. Yes it is. Well what do you know? Life finds a way."
"Do you think this is a problem?"
"How so? Look at them. They hunt with spears and bows, and dress in skins. More importantly, there's a reason the xenopologists missed them."
"Eh? Why?"
"Look at them, Sphen. They are *avoiding* the cities. I wouldn't be surprised if they have some dreadful superstition telling them they are places of death and cursed."
"So how does this affect us?"
"Why, it doesn't, my friend! Not at all. Don't you see? We're here to salvage materials from the former cities of a dead civilization. As long as those primitive tribes steer clear, we just go ahead with our plans. We clean out everything we can recycle and carry."
"And the humans?"
Raal shimmied in a noncommittal way. "What of them? They won't miss what we take. If they wander into the area, we put on a scary light show to reinforce their superstitions and then back to business as usual."
"I don't know, Raal. I just don't like this development."
"There, there, my friend. You just keep thinking how wealthy we're going to be, and leave all the worrying to me. If worst comes to worst, and they do make a nuisance of themselves, we can do better than nuclear weapons, can't we?"
Raal and Sphen chittered happily about this as they set about preparing the reclamation drones to send down to the planet's surface.
| |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | My mother was lied to her whole married life. The man she had married was disguised. She was an innocent women, married to an ugly clown. She only grew more beautiful as the years passed.
Growing up, I felt like I had to mash two different worlds together, learning from each other’s extremities. He didn’t know how to interact with an 18 year old. At the supper table, he would always say something about me going to college or going to med school or something, knowing that my mother would love that. Everything he did was only done for the benefit of him, we was absolutely ugly. I would get mad at him because he had no idea who I was. He really didn’t know me like my mother did.
My father was a business man. You know, the kind of business man you would hate because he sounded trustworthy, but you knew he was a liar. He had some high up position in some pharmaceutical company, I don’t know. He would treat her like gold when he was around, but he was never home. I only think he was happy because he could do whatever he wanted while he was away. My mother was happy that someone was able to be nice enough to take care of the entire family. The only thing she could do was be a great person. Sadly, you couldn’t say too much about my mother’s achievements.
I wanted a motherly figure but she didn’t have one to base off of. That made her more beautiful. She was that best friend who pisses you off with their decisions; she did too much for people that didn’t deserve it. Like my father, a two faced, ugly buffoon. I just wish she could see it. | In a strange twist of fate, nobody was in fact "pretty" since conventional standards of beauty don't matter in a perfect world. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | *Ugh*, thought Ryan, as he slopped another ladle of lumpy broccoli soup into the waiting bowl. He could smell it, even over the stink of the soup. A combination of week-old piss and year-old sweat. It turned his stomach.
The guy standing opposite him was wearing a filthy old T-shirt, linen pants held up with rope, and threadbare leather sandals. His hair was a matted tangle of black, encrusted patches of snot in the mustache of his long, straggly beard.
Beneath this, though, Ryan could see that the bum was a decent-looking guy. It just went to show: looks weren't everything. People still fell through the cracks.
He glanced along the line. Most of 'em were easily a seventy, enough to claim government benefits and get on a lease for their own place.
He ladled out another bowl and looked to the sign above the door, proclaiming the Bay Area 51st Annual Homeless Soup Drive in big, overexcited letters. How much longer would he have to do this shit? Becca downstairs had volunteered with the animal shelter for four months and got herself up from a forty-seven to a seventy-eight. Now she was gone, moved on, moved up.
Ryan, on the other hand, had been at this for nearly two years and hadn't wavered from twenty-eight, not a single point. Twenty-fucking-eight.
The tramp standing in front of him was holding her bowl out, searching Ryan's face with pale blue eyes and an expression of faint disgust. He wanted to take the ladle and cave her goddamn skull in. He was used to this sort of look; people saw his pug nose, too-small eyes, and slightly lumpen forehead, and assumed that he was a bad person. And he wasn't, not anymore. Yeah he'd done some heinous shit when he was a kid, but everyone made mistakes. And if he'd **enjoyed** those mistakes, well whose fault was that? Not his - he couldn't help how he was wired.
Two years. Two years of soup kitchens, and graffiti-cleaning, and helping out at the old people's home, and he'd not gone up one lousy point. He needed forty-two more. That was the point at which the Universal Moral Fiber Act (or Ugly Motherfucker Act, as it was better known) mandated he'd become eligible for a Betterment Grant and could get out of government housing. Most firms wouldn't hire someone below that level either. Seventy was the golden number.
He still sent his photograph and the forms in every month, and every month he got the same reply that they'd run his picture through their processing software and determined that his Appearance Index remained at twenty-eight.
Ryan clenched the ladle tighter in his fist as the blue-eyed woman walked away, cupping her bowl in both hands, that look of distaste still written on her stupid face.
Twenty-fucking-eight. | In a strange twist of fate, nobody was in fact "pretty" since conventional standards of beauty don't matter in a perfect world. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | I don't let the really ugly ones in.
Some procurers do - they say it's no difference when you've got bouncers, cameras, and connections. The ugly johns are the ones who need your services the most, pay the best, and keep coming back.
'So what if they're a little mean to the girls?' my friends say. 'What are they going to do, hit 'em? Big deal. You could have five guys in there before he throws a second punch. If he runs, every crook in town will know about it.'
It's true, and it's not like men at the other end of the spectrum frequent brothels. Every man who comes in here has at least something wrong with him, even if it's just the vague, greyish tinge typical to someone who uses people for sex. We screen out the worst, but it's not like we can afford to be picky.
On the other hand, it's almost too easy to find a woman so down on her luck that she's willing to sell her body, and yet beautiful enough to actually turn a profit. Sometimes you find these girls and they turn out to be mentally deficient - gorgeous, but with the mind of a six-year-old - and with parents so ugly the sight of them makes you want to vomit. I try not to think about it too much.
Or I get these girls who are otherwise normal, but when they look in the mirror they see all these scars and warts that just aren't there so they compulsively do good things for people - even people who fuck them over. You tell them they're pretty and they laugh nervously, like they're so sure you're wrong but don't want to tell you if you haven't noticed.
The saddest ones are the ones who know full well what they look like but don't think it matters. The world has shit on them all their lives while they've given nothing but good back, and they think that's just how it goes. They tell you that you have to show mercy to ugly people, because they think that the one time they had pimples when they were young equates to the beer gut and disfiguring scar their ex had.
It's sort of understood in this business that turning tricks for too long will gradually fade a woman's looks. No one else really thinks it's because of all the guys she has to deal with. Even the madams I know say that prostitution is its own small sin. I don't really care, though. These girls have never in their lives said no to a man just because he was ugly. So, I do it for them.
I guess that's how I got to be the handsomest pimp in town. Though, that really isn't saying much. | In a strange twist of fate, nobody was in fact "pretty" since conventional standards of beauty don't matter in a perfect world. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | ###[Psychology] Recent science says that tarnished individuals can be made pure again through innovative social engineering practices like therapy.
> Initial discovery, published in Puritanical Weekly, suggests something as simple as talking to the afflicted can reverse the effects of Tarnish. Theologists demand reproduction of the results.
###10 Simple Tricks the Pure Don't Want You to Know About
###The ethics of traditional tarnish remedies such as elective and prescribed euthanasia are now being questioned by the public.
###[ELI5] What is it about doing bad stuff that makes someone look all messed up?
> I always been told being all messed up meant you were a bad person, but now people say it hapens over time. How does the body know even?
###If the tarnished can be made well, is it right to let them be killed? #uglyLivesMatter
###Uggo misses oncoming traffic by a mile | In a strange twist of fate, nobody was in fact "pretty" since conventional standards of beauty don't matter in a perfect world. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| In a strange twist of fate, nobody was in fact "pretty" since conventional standards of beauty don't matter in a perfect world. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | *Ugh*, thought Ryan, as he slopped another ladle of lumpy broccoli soup into the waiting bowl. He could smell it, even over the stink of the soup. A combination of week-old piss and year-old sweat. It turned his stomach.
The guy standing opposite him was wearing a filthy old T-shirt, linen pants held up with rope, and threadbare leather sandals. His hair was a matted tangle of black, encrusted patches of snot in the mustache of his long, straggly beard.
Beneath this, though, Ryan could see that the bum was a decent-looking guy. It just went to show: looks weren't everything. People still fell through the cracks.
He glanced along the line. Most of 'em were easily a seventy, enough to claim government benefits and get on a lease for their own place.
He ladled out another bowl and looked to the sign above the door, proclaiming the Bay Area 51st Annual Homeless Soup Drive in big, overexcited letters. How much longer would he have to do this shit? Becca downstairs had volunteered with the animal shelter for four months and got herself up from a forty-seven to a seventy-eight. Now she was gone, moved on, moved up.
Ryan, on the other hand, had been at this for nearly two years and hadn't wavered from twenty-eight, not a single point. Twenty-fucking-eight.
The tramp standing in front of him was holding her bowl out, searching Ryan's face with pale blue eyes and an expression of faint disgust. He wanted to take the ladle and cave her goddamn skull in. He was used to this sort of look; people saw his pug nose, too-small eyes, and slightly lumpen forehead, and assumed that he was a bad person. And he wasn't, not anymore. Yeah he'd done some heinous shit when he was a kid, but everyone made mistakes. And if he'd **enjoyed** those mistakes, well whose fault was that? Not his - he couldn't help how he was wired.
Two years. Two years of soup kitchens, and graffiti-cleaning, and helping out at the old people's home, and he'd not gone up one lousy point. He needed forty-two more. That was the point at which the Universal Moral Fiber Act (or Ugly Motherfucker Act, as it was better known) mandated he'd become eligible for a Betterment Grant and could get out of government housing. Most firms wouldn't hire someone below that level either. Seventy was the golden number.
He still sent his photograph and the forms in every month, and every month he got the same reply that they'd run his picture through their processing software and determined that his Appearance Index remained at twenty-eight.
Ryan clenched the ladle tighter in his fist as the blue-eyed woman walked away, cupping her bowl in both hands, that look of distaste still written on her stupid face.
Twenty-fucking-eight. | There's a mirror in the mines and as all mirrors do, it reflects what is in front of it. A woman stood in front of it, and saw her soul. But others only saw her beauty. Her beauty is the kind of beauty that make men lust after her, and other women hate her and therefore creates a kind of evil only beautiful people can inspire.
She did not understand why people surrounding her do such mean, cruel things. And why men would stare lecherously and try to touch her. One day, an ugly woman named Jay says 'Let me save you' and she was delighted to be saved from the misery of this life, the way of man. She was lead to the mines and this time, the mirror showed what she appeared to others. Once she saw her beauty, all her goodness and kindness were extinguished. She felt vain, wanted and powerful. She knows why men want her and women hate her (even her dad and her mom). She was awakened sexually. Once she was disenchanted, she became human with the human failings she so despised. Jay said 'beauty and good are opposites'. The mine collapsed and they both died, for only then she was saved. Jay had protected the beautiful woman from the knowledge of her beauty and sexuality because once upon a time Jay was this goddess who enthralled all, until she was blessed by the mirror of truth. After the blessing, Jay slowly learned what beauty means and longed to saved anyone from it because the curse of beauty is more terrible than anything she has ever known. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | I don't let the really ugly ones in.
Some procurers do - they say it's no difference when you've got bouncers, cameras, and connections. The ugly johns are the ones who need your services the most, pay the best, and keep coming back.
'So what if they're a little mean to the girls?' my friends say. 'What are they going to do, hit 'em? Big deal. You could have five guys in there before he throws a second punch. If he runs, every crook in town will know about it.'
It's true, and it's not like men at the other end of the spectrum frequent brothels. Every man who comes in here has at least something wrong with him, even if it's just the vague, greyish tinge typical to someone who uses people for sex. We screen out the worst, but it's not like we can afford to be picky.
On the other hand, it's almost too easy to find a woman so down on her luck that she's willing to sell her body, and yet beautiful enough to actually turn a profit. Sometimes you find these girls and they turn out to be mentally deficient - gorgeous, but with the mind of a six-year-old - and with parents so ugly the sight of them makes you want to vomit. I try not to think about it too much.
Or I get these girls who are otherwise normal, but when they look in the mirror they see all these scars and warts that just aren't there so they compulsively do good things for people - even people who fuck them over. You tell them they're pretty and they laugh nervously, like they're so sure you're wrong but don't want to tell you if you haven't noticed.
The saddest ones are the ones who know full well what they look like but don't think it matters. The world has shit on them all their lives while they've given nothing but good back, and they think that's just how it goes. They tell you that you have to show mercy to ugly people, because they think that the one time they had pimples when they were young equates to the beer gut and disfiguring scar their ex had.
It's sort of understood in this business that turning tricks for too long will gradually fade a woman's looks. No one else really thinks it's because of all the guys she has to deal with. Even the madams I know say that prostitution is its own small sin. I don't really care, though. These girls have never in their lives said no to a man just because he was ugly. So, I do it for them.
I guess that's how I got to be the handsomest pimp in town. Though, that really isn't saying much. | There's a mirror in the mines and as all mirrors do, it reflects what is in front of it. A woman stood in front of it, and saw her soul. But others only saw her beauty. Her beauty is the kind of beauty that make men lust after her, and other women hate her and therefore creates a kind of evil only beautiful people can inspire.
She did not understand why people surrounding her do such mean, cruel things. And why men would stare lecherously and try to touch her. One day, an ugly woman named Jay says 'Let me save you' and she was delighted to be saved from the misery of this life, the way of man. She was lead to the mines and this time, the mirror showed what she appeared to others. Once she saw her beauty, all her goodness and kindness were extinguished. She felt vain, wanted and powerful. She knows why men want her and women hate her (even her dad and her mom). She was awakened sexually. Once she was disenchanted, she became human with the human failings she so despised. Jay said 'beauty and good are opposites'. The mine collapsed and they both died, for only then she was saved. Jay had protected the beautiful woman from the knowledge of her beauty and sexuality because once upon a time Jay was this goddess who enthralled all, until she was blessed by the mirror of truth. After the blessing, Jay slowly learned what beauty means and longed to saved anyone from it because the curse of beauty is more terrible than anything she has ever known. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | *Ugh*, thought Ryan, as he slopped another ladle of lumpy broccoli soup into the waiting bowl. He could smell it, even over the stink of the soup. A combination of week-old piss and year-old sweat. It turned his stomach.
The guy standing opposite him was wearing a filthy old T-shirt, linen pants held up with rope, and threadbare leather sandals. His hair was a matted tangle of black, encrusted patches of snot in the mustache of his long, straggly beard.
Beneath this, though, Ryan could see that the bum was a decent-looking guy. It just went to show: looks weren't everything. People still fell through the cracks.
He glanced along the line. Most of 'em were easily a seventy, enough to claim government benefits and get on a lease for their own place.
He ladled out another bowl and looked to the sign above the door, proclaiming the Bay Area 51st Annual Homeless Soup Drive in big, overexcited letters. How much longer would he have to do this shit? Becca downstairs had volunteered with the animal shelter for four months and got herself up from a forty-seven to a seventy-eight. Now she was gone, moved on, moved up.
Ryan, on the other hand, had been at this for nearly two years and hadn't wavered from twenty-eight, not a single point. Twenty-fucking-eight.
The tramp standing in front of him was holding her bowl out, searching Ryan's face with pale blue eyes and an expression of faint disgust. He wanted to take the ladle and cave her goddamn skull in. He was used to this sort of look; people saw his pug nose, too-small eyes, and slightly lumpen forehead, and assumed that he was a bad person. And he wasn't, not anymore. Yeah he'd done some heinous shit when he was a kid, but everyone made mistakes. And if he'd **enjoyed** those mistakes, well whose fault was that? Not his - he couldn't help how he was wired.
Two years. Two years of soup kitchens, and graffiti-cleaning, and helping out at the old people's home, and he'd not gone up one lousy point. He needed forty-two more. That was the point at which the Universal Moral Fiber Act (or Ugly Motherfucker Act, as it was better known) mandated he'd become eligible for a Betterment Grant and could get out of government housing. Most firms wouldn't hire someone below that level either. Seventy was the golden number.
He still sent his photograph and the forms in every month, and every month he got the same reply that they'd run his picture through their processing software and determined that his Appearance Index remained at twenty-eight.
Ryan clenched the ladle tighter in his fist as the blue-eyed woman walked away, cupping her bowl in both hands, that look of distaste still written on her stupid face.
Twenty-fucking-eight. | My mother was lied to her whole married life. The man she had married was disguised. She was an innocent women, married to an ugly clown. She only grew more beautiful as the years passed.
Growing up, I felt like I had to mash two different worlds together, learning from each other’s extremities. He didn’t know how to interact with an 18 year old. At the supper table, he would always say something about me going to college or going to med school or something, knowing that my mother would love that. Everything he did was only done for the benefit of him, we was absolutely ugly. I would get mad at him because he had no idea who I was. He really didn’t know me like my mother did.
My father was a business man. You know, the kind of business man you would hate because he sounded trustworthy, but you knew he was a liar. He had some high up position in some pharmaceutical company, I don’t know. He would treat her like gold when he was around, but he was never home. I only think he was happy because he could do whatever he wanted while he was away. My mother was happy that someone was able to be nice enough to take care of the entire family. The only thing she could do was be a great person. Sadly, you couldn’t say too much about my mother’s achievements.
I wanted a motherly figure but she didn’t have one to base off of. That made her more beautiful. She was that best friend who pisses you off with their decisions; she did too much for people that didn’t deserve it. Like my father, a two faced, ugly buffoon. I just wish she could see it. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | I don't let the really ugly ones in.
Some procurers do - they say it's no difference when you've got bouncers, cameras, and connections. The ugly johns are the ones who need your services the most, pay the best, and keep coming back.
'So what if they're a little mean to the girls?' my friends say. 'What are they going to do, hit 'em? Big deal. You could have five guys in there before he throws a second punch. If he runs, every crook in town will know about it.'
It's true, and it's not like men at the other end of the spectrum frequent brothels. Every man who comes in here has at least something wrong with him, even if it's just the vague, greyish tinge typical to someone who uses people for sex. We screen out the worst, but it's not like we can afford to be picky.
On the other hand, it's almost too easy to find a woman so down on her luck that she's willing to sell her body, and yet beautiful enough to actually turn a profit. Sometimes you find these girls and they turn out to be mentally deficient - gorgeous, but with the mind of a six-year-old - and with parents so ugly the sight of them makes you want to vomit. I try not to think about it too much.
Or I get these girls who are otherwise normal, but when they look in the mirror they see all these scars and warts that just aren't there so they compulsively do good things for people - even people who fuck them over. You tell them they're pretty and they laugh nervously, like they're so sure you're wrong but don't want to tell you if you haven't noticed.
The saddest ones are the ones who know full well what they look like but don't think it matters. The world has shit on them all their lives while they've given nothing but good back, and they think that's just how it goes. They tell you that you have to show mercy to ugly people, because they think that the one time they had pimples when they were young equates to the beer gut and disfiguring scar their ex had.
It's sort of understood in this business that turning tricks for too long will gradually fade a woman's looks. No one else really thinks it's because of all the guys she has to deal with. Even the madams I know say that prostitution is its own small sin. I don't really care, though. These girls have never in their lives said no to a man just because he was ugly. So, I do it for them.
I guess that's how I got to be the handsomest pimp in town. Though, that really isn't saying much. | My mother was lied to her whole married life. The man she had married was disguised. She was an innocent women, married to an ugly clown. She only grew more beautiful as the years passed.
Growing up, I felt like I had to mash two different worlds together, learning from each other’s extremities. He didn’t know how to interact with an 18 year old. At the supper table, he would always say something about me going to college or going to med school or something, knowing that my mother would love that. Everything he did was only done for the benefit of him, we was absolutely ugly. I would get mad at him because he had no idea who I was. He really didn’t know me like my mother did.
My father was a business man. You know, the kind of business man you would hate because he sounded trustworthy, but you knew he was a liar. He had some high up position in some pharmaceutical company, I don’t know. He would treat her like gold when he was around, but he was never home. I only think he was happy because he could do whatever he wanted while he was away. My mother was happy that someone was able to be nice enough to take care of the entire family. The only thing she could do was be a great person. Sadly, you couldn’t say too much about my mother’s achievements.
I wanted a motherly figure but she didn’t have one to base off of. That made her more beautiful. She was that best friend who pisses you off with their decisions; she did too much for people that didn’t deserve it. Like my father, a two faced, ugly buffoon. I just wish she could see it. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | ###[Psychology] Recent science says that tarnished individuals can be made pure again through innovative social engineering practices like therapy.
> Initial discovery, published in Puritanical Weekly, suggests something as simple as talking to the afflicted can reverse the effects of Tarnish. Theologists demand reproduction of the results.
###10 Simple Tricks the Pure Don't Want You to Know About
###The ethics of traditional tarnish remedies such as elective and prescribed euthanasia are now being questioned by the public.
###[ELI5] What is it about doing bad stuff that makes someone look all messed up?
> I always been told being all messed up meant you were a bad person, but now people say it hapens over time. How does the body know even?
###If the tarnished can be made well, is it right to let them be killed? #uglyLivesMatter
###Uggo misses oncoming traffic by a mile | My mother was lied to her whole married life. The man she had married was disguised. She was an innocent women, married to an ugly clown. She only grew more beautiful as the years passed.
Growing up, I felt like I had to mash two different worlds together, learning from each other’s extremities. He didn’t know how to interact with an 18 year old. At the supper table, he would always say something about me going to college or going to med school or something, knowing that my mother would love that. Everything he did was only done for the benefit of him, we was absolutely ugly. I would get mad at him because he had no idea who I was. He really didn’t know me like my mother did.
My father was a business man. You know, the kind of business man you would hate because he sounded trustworthy, but you knew he was a liar. He had some high up position in some pharmaceutical company, I don’t know. He would treat her like gold when he was around, but he was never home. I only think he was happy because he could do whatever he wanted while he was away. My mother was happy that someone was able to be nice enough to take care of the entire family. The only thing she could do was be a great person. Sadly, you couldn’t say too much about my mother’s achievements.
I wanted a motherly figure but she didn’t have one to base off of. That made her more beautiful. She was that best friend who pisses you off with their decisions; she did too much for people that didn’t deserve it. Like my father, a two faced, ugly buffoon. I just wish she could see it. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| My mother was lied to her whole married life. The man she had married was disguised. She was an innocent women, married to an ugly clown. She only grew more beautiful as the years passed.
Growing up, I felt like I had to mash two different worlds together, learning from each other’s extremities. He didn’t know how to interact with an 18 year old. At the supper table, he would always say something about me going to college or going to med school or something, knowing that my mother would love that. Everything he did was only done for the benefit of him, we was absolutely ugly. I would get mad at him because he had no idea who I was. He really didn’t know me like my mother did.
My father was a business man. You know, the kind of business man you would hate because he sounded trustworthy, but you knew he was a liar. He had some high up position in some pharmaceutical company, I don’t know. He would treat her like gold when he was around, but he was never home. I only think he was happy because he could do whatever he wanted while he was away. My mother was happy that someone was able to be nice enough to take care of the entire family. The only thing she could do was be a great person. Sadly, you couldn’t say too much about my mother’s achievements.
I wanted a motherly figure but she didn’t have one to base off of. That made her more beautiful. She was that best friend who pisses you off with their decisions; she did too much for people that didn’t deserve it. Like my father, a two faced, ugly buffoon. I just wish she could see it. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | *Ugh*, thought Ryan, as he slopped another ladle of lumpy broccoli soup into the waiting bowl. He could smell it, even over the stink of the soup. A combination of week-old piss and year-old sweat. It turned his stomach.
The guy standing opposite him was wearing a filthy old T-shirt, linen pants held up with rope, and threadbare leather sandals. His hair was a matted tangle of black, encrusted patches of snot in the mustache of his long, straggly beard.
Beneath this, though, Ryan could see that the bum was a decent-looking guy. It just went to show: looks weren't everything. People still fell through the cracks.
He glanced along the line. Most of 'em were easily a seventy, enough to claim government benefits and get on a lease for their own place.
He ladled out another bowl and looked to the sign above the door, proclaiming the Bay Area 51st Annual Homeless Soup Drive in big, overexcited letters. How much longer would he have to do this shit? Becca downstairs had volunteered with the animal shelter for four months and got herself up from a forty-seven to a seventy-eight. Now she was gone, moved on, moved up.
Ryan, on the other hand, had been at this for nearly two years and hadn't wavered from twenty-eight, not a single point. Twenty-fucking-eight.
The tramp standing in front of him was holding her bowl out, searching Ryan's face with pale blue eyes and an expression of faint disgust. He wanted to take the ladle and cave her goddamn skull in. He was used to this sort of look; people saw his pug nose, too-small eyes, and slightly lumpen forehead, and assumed that he was a bad person. And he wasn't, not anymore. Yeah he'd done some heinous shit when he was a kid, but everyone made mistakes. And if he'd **enjoyed** those mistakes, well whose fault was that? Not his - he couldn't help how he was wired.
Two years. Two years of soup kitchens, and graffiti-cleaning, and helping out at the old people's home, and he'd not gone up one lousy point. He needed forty-two more. That was the point at which the Universal Moral Fiber Act (or Ugly Motherfucker Act, as it was better known) mandated he'd become eligible for a Betterment Grant and could get out of government housing. Most firms wouldn't hire someone below that level either. Seventy was the golden number.
He still sent his photograph and the forms in every month, and every month he got the same reply that they'd run his picture through their processing software and determined that his Appearance Index remained at twenty-eight.
Ryan clenched the ladle tighter in his fist as the blue-eyed woman walked away, cupping her bowl in both hands, that look of distaste still written on her stupid face.
Twenty-fucking-eight. | I sat, watching the clock's minute hand crawl by slowly, it would almost be noon.
The person strapped on the bed peered at me, a soft gag had been placed in his mouth, more to prevent him from biting his own tongue to commit suicide rather than muffle anything he had to say.
He was an ugly thing, barely 5'4", he was bowlegged, paunchy, beady eyed, and wore the standard issued boxy shaped glasses given to all inmates with lacking eye sight.
His jowls quivered as both hands on the clock finally reached noon. Taking the first of three syringes, I quickly administered it to his IV bag.
"Painkiller has been administered."
I felt my face morphing again. It felt as if two invisible hands were pulling the top and bottom half of my face in opposite directions. The inmate began to struggle.
Taking the second syringe, I quickly administered it before he could work himself into a panic. The familiar feeling came back once again.
"Paralyzing agent has been administered."
The inmates struggle steadily grew weaker, until he was reduced to no movement other than slow, measured breathing.
Taking the third syringe, I steeled myself for the strongest discomfort to come.
I took a deep breath, my hand shaking slightly as the inmate closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his bloated and marred cheek.
I administered it into his IV, as the familiar feeling spread across my face stronger than ever. And yet, nothing too unbearable by this point.
"Euthanasia agent has been administered."
His breathing grew weaker, his face more relaxed. I held his hand as he left this life, the last bit of human contact offered to him. I felt a pull on the top of my face. After a few minutes, I felt the warmth slowly fade from his hands.
After placing his hand back onto the table, I glanced over at the one way mirror by the door. The admins and family of the deceased would be watching from behind the glass.
On the mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Beautiful sandy blonde hair, cropped to a neat and fashionable undercut, under which piercing blue eyes stared back. The arch of the eyebrows could almost be considered feminine. The ears were perfectly symmetrical, seashell ears, as some poets describe them.
The nose was a blob of potato, a single mole with a few hairs prominently growing in the middle. A few teeth peeking out from closed, thin purple lips.
I looked away from the twisted face that stared back at me. The face of a cold, ruthless killer, while being a benevolent guard for the rest of society.
The face of a man who did his job. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | I don't let the really ugly ones in.
Some procurers do - they say it's no difference when you've got bouncers, cameras, and connections. The ugly johns are the ones who need your services the most, pay the best, and keep coming back.
'So what if they're a little mean to the girls?' my friends say. 'What are they going to do, hit 'em? Big deal. You could have five guys in there before he throws a second punch. If he runs, every crook in town will know about it.'
It's true, and it's not like men at the other end of the spectrum frequent brothels. Every man who comes in here has at least something wrong with him, even if it's just the vague, greyish tinge typical to someone who uses people for sex. We screen out the worst, but it's not like we can afford to be picky.
On the other hand, it's almost too easy to find a woman so down on her luck that she's willing to sell her body, and yet beautiful enough to actually turn a profit. Sometimes you find these girls and they turn out to be mentally deficient - gorgeous, but with the mind of a six-year-old - and with parents so ugly the sight of them makes you want to vomit. I try not to think about it too much.
Or I get these girls who are otherwise normal, but when they look in the mirror they see all these scars and warts that just aren't there so they compulsively do good things for people - even people who fuck them over. You tell them they're pretty and they laugh nervously, like they're so sure you're wrong but don't want to tell you if you haven't noticed.
The saddest ones are the ones who know full well what they look like but don't think it matters. The world has shit on them all their lives while they've given nothing but good back, and they think that's just how it goes. They tell you that you have to show mercy to ugly people, because they think that the one time they had pimples when they were young equates to the beer gut and disfiguring scar their ex had.
It's sort of understood in this business that turning tricks for too long will gradually fade a woman's looks. No one else really thinks it's because of all the guys she has to deal with. Even the madams I know say that prostitution is its own small sin. I don't really care, though. These girls have never in their lives said no to a man just because he was ugly. So, I do it for them.
I guess that's how I got to be the handsomest pimp in town. Though, that really isn't saying much. | I sat, watching the clock's minute hand crawl by slowly, it would almost be noon.
The person strapped on the bed peered at me, a soft gag had been placed in his mouth, more to prevent him from biting his own tongue to commit suicide rather than muffle anything he had to say.
He was an ugly thing, barely 5'4", he was bowlegged, paunchy, beady eyed, and wore the standard issued boxy shaped glasses given to all inmates with lacking eye sight.
His jowls quivered as both hands on the clock finally reached noon. Taking the first of three syringes, I quickly administered it to his IV bag.
"Painkiller has been administered."
I felt my face morphing again. It felt as if two invisible hands were pulling the top and bottom half of my face in opposite directions. The inmate began to struggle.
Taking the second syringe, I quickly administered it before he could work himself into a panic. The familiar feeling came back once again.
"Paralyzing agent has been administered."
The inmates struggle steadily grew weaker, until he was reduced to no movement other than slow, measured breathing.
Taking the third syringe, I steeled myself for the strongest discomfort to come.
I took a deep breath, my hand shaking slightly as the inmate closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his bloated and marred cheek.
I administered it into his IV, as the familiar feeling spread across my face stronger than ever. And yet, nothing too unbearable by this point.
"Euthanasia agent has been administered."
His breathing grew weaker, his face more relaxed. I held his hand as he left this life, the last bit of human contact offered to him. I felt a pull on the top of my face. After a few minutes, I felt the warmth slowly fade from his hands.
After placing his hand back onto the table, I glanced over at the one way mirror by the door. The admins and family of the deceased would be watching from behind the glass.
On the mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Beautiful sandy blonde hair, cropped to a neat and fashionable undercut, under which piercing blue eyes stared back. The arch of the eyebrows could almost be considered feminine. The ears were perfectly symmetrical, seashell ears, as some poets describe them.
The nose was a blob of potato, a single mole with a few hairs prominently growing in the middle. A few teeth peeking out from closed, thin purple lips.
I looked away from the twisted face that stared back at me. The face of a cold, ruthless killer, while being a benevolent guard for the rest of society.
The face of a man who did his job. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | ###[Psychology] Recent science says that tarnished individuals can be made pure again through innovative social engineering practices like therapy.
> Initial discovery, published in Puritanical Weekly, suggests something as simple as talking to the afflicted can reverse the effects of Tarnish. Theologists demand reproduction of the results.
###10 Simple Tricks the Pure Don't Want You to Know About
###The ethics of traditional tarnish remedies such as elective and prescribed euthanasia are now being questioned by the public.
###[ELI5] What is it about doing bad stuff that makes someone look all messed up?
> I always been told being all messed up meant you were a bad person, but now people say it hapens over time. How does the body know even?
###If the tarnished can be made well, is it right to let them be killed? #uglyLivesMatter
###Uggo misses oncoming traffic by a mile | I sat, watching the clock's minute hand crawl by slowly, it would almost be noon.
The person strapped on the bed peered at me, a soft gag had been placed in his mouth, more to prevent him from biting his own tongue to commit suicide rather than muffle anything he had to say.
He was an ugly thing, barely 5'4", he was bowlegged, paunchy, beady eyed, and wore the standard issued boxy shaped glasses given to all inmates with lacking eye sight.
His jowls quivered as both hands on the clock finally reached noon. Taking the first of three syringes, I quickly administered it to his IV bag.
"Painkiller has been administered."
I felt my face morphing again. It felt as if two invisible hands were pulling the top and bottom half of my face in opposite directions. The inmate began to struggle.
Taking the second syringe, I quickly administered it before he could work himself into a panic. The familiar feeling came back once again.
"Paralyzing agent has been administered."
The inmates struggle steadily grew weaker, until he was reduced to no movement other than slow, measured breathing.
Taking the third syringe, I steeled myself for the strongest discomfort to come.
I took a deep breath, my hand shaking slightly as the inmate closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his bloated and marred cheek.
I administered it into his IV, as the familiar feeling spread across my face stronger than ever. And yet, nothing too unbearable by this point.
"Euthanasia agent has been administered."
His breathing grew weaker, his face more relaxed. I held his hand as he left this life, the last bit of human contact offered to him. I felt a pull on the top of my face. After a few minutes, I felt the warmth slowly fade from his hands.
After placing his hand back onto the table, I glanced over at the one way mirror by the door. The admins and family of the deceased would be watching from behind the glass.
On the mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Beautiful sandy blonde hair, cropped to a neat and fashionable undercut, under which piercing blue eyes stared back. The arch of the eyebrows could almost be considered feminine. The ears were perfectly symmetrical, seashell ears, as some poets describe them.
The nose was a blob of potato, a single mole with a few hairs prominently growing in the middle. A few teeth peeking out from closed, thin purple lips.
I looked away from the twisted face that stared back at me. The face of a cold, ruthless killer, while being a benevolent guard for the rest of society.
The face of a man who did his job. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while sins will make you more twisted." I read this aloud. Jeez. I hate my bible studies. Always so tiring. "Knock, knock." I heard some slams on my door. I headed towards the door when the door flew open.
"Sina! Where have you fuck'n been? We've been looking all over!"
Krell was waving his rough, burnt hands.
Me and a few friends always got together to play the devil's game. We bett'n and drink'n all the time.
"Jeez Krell, you ought to at least have giv'n me a buzz." I was sittin' in the main space of my grandma's shack. Our house was on the ugly side of town. We weren't allowed to go near those pretty faces. Everythin' was separated.
"This time I oughtta say no to tonight Krell. I have to go grab some food for dinner."
"Right. Suit yourself." His wart above his lip moved with every syllable.
The distance from here to the market was 846 feet. I counted with my own shoes. When I got to the market, there were those pretty faces in the alley across from where I was. Darn, they made me furious. Always pompous and arrogant.
It was the senator's son, Rubin. Jeez. He was the beauty king, rumored to be the most beautiful. He's always on TV doin' some phony community work. They ain't good at all. Always helping the pretty face community while we're stuck here with hole-filled roofs and nothin' to eat.
Rubin was with his groupies. All of 'em rich and happy with their looks. They're the "perfect" children to the rest of them pretty faces. From what I was see'n, he was beating old Hickory's kid. The kid was scrawny. People know he ain't got the money to pay for anything. He was always stealin' food from the market. Rubin don't get ugly even if he does beat people. Those damn pretty faces think it's righteous to punish us. Every time we voice an opinion, we become ugly. Not any plain pimples and acne, but really ugly like being unrecognizable ugly. Those pretty faces don't become happy. We were tied to our status as ugly. Life ain't about good deeds anymore, but which bed you were born into.
I stared at them pretty faces. Grandma was in my head again. "Do what you believe is right." I looked back at Rubin again. Looked to my hands. They were scarred, rough and disgusting. Next thing I knew, I was at the pretty face's necks.
"You ugly piece of trash. Get off me you mongrel." Rubin was up on his feet already.
The rest of his group was snicker'n. One yelled, "You should look at your own face! Look at that!" I didn't know what he was talking about. I just charged back at them and planted a fist into a guy's face. All the while, Hickory's kid was in the corner looking in horror. One of them groupies threw a punch, hitting me in the rib. I knocked one of them over. It was chaos. Then, it was finished. They lay there still with their faces pretty, but bloody.
"You ok there little feller?" I extended my arm towards the poor boy.
He only stuttered. His eyes were full of terror. Jeez. You shoulda seen his face. He only ran outta there as fast as he could. No thank you's. Nothin'.
I walked towards the market. People gave me these twisted faces. Almost if they've seen a monster. I got 6 steps away from the market when I saw a reflection off the tinted glass. It was standing where I was and moved how I moved, but it didn't look like me. It had a big scar across his face and a few warts above his left eye.
If God gave us beauty through good deeds, who is the judge of what is good and bad?
Note from Author: I'm an amateur at this. Criticism is wanted. Thank you.
| I sat, watching the clock's minute hand crawl by slowly, it would almost be noon.
The person strapped on the bed peered at me, a soft gag had been placed in his mouth, more to prevent him from biting his own tongue to commit suicide rather than muffle anything he had to say.
He was an ugly thing, barely 5'4", he was bowlegged, paunchy, beady eyed, and wore the standard issued boxy shaped glasses given to all inmates with lacking eye sight.
His jowls quivered as both hands on the clock finally reached noon. Taking the first of three syringes, I quickly administered it to his IV bag.
"Painkiller has been administered."
I felt my face morphing again. It felt as if two invisible hands were pulling the top and bottom half of my face in opposite directions. The inmate began to struggle.
Taking the second syringe, I quickly administered it before he could work himself into a panic. The familiar feeling came back once again.
"Paralyzing agent has been administered."
The inmates struggle steadily grew weaker, until he was reduced to no movement other than slow, measured breathing.
Taking the third syringe, I steeled myself for the strongest discomfort to come.
I took a deep breath, my hand shaking slightly as the inmate closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his bloated and marred cheek.
I administered it into his IV, as the familiar feeling spread across my face stronger than ever. And yet, nothing too unbearable by this point.
"Euthanasia agent has been administered."
His breathing grew weaker, his face more relaxed. I held his hand as he left this life, the last bit of human contact offered to him. I felt a pull on the top of my face. After a few minutes, I felt the warmth slowly fade from his hands.
After placing his hand back onto the table, I glanced over at the one way mirror by the door. The admins and family of the deceased would be watching from behind the glass.
On the mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Beautiful sandy blonde hair, cropped to a neat and fashionable undercut, under which piercing blue eyes stared back. The arch of the eyebrows could almost be considered feminine. The ears were perfectly symmetrical, seashell ears, as some poets describe them.
The nose was a blob of potato, a single mole with a few hairs prominently growing in the middle. A few teeth peeking out from closed, thin purple lips.
I looked away from the twisted face that stared back at me. The face of a cold, ruthless killer, while being a benevolent guard for the rest of society.
The face of a man who did his job. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| I sat, watching the clock's minute hand crawl by slowly, it would almost be noon.
The person strapped on the bed peered at me, a soft gag had been placed in his mouth, more to prevent him from biting his own tongue to commit suicide rather than muffle anything he had to say.
He was an ugly thing, barely 5'4", he was bowlegged, paunchy, beady eyed, and wore the standard issued boxy shaped glasses given to all inmates with lacking eye sight.
His jowls quivered as both hands on the clock finally reached noon. Taking the first of three syringes, I quickly administered it to his IV bag.
"Painkiller has been administered."
I felt my face morphing again. It felt as if two invisible hands were pulling the top and bottom half of my face in opposite directions. The inmate began to struggle.
Taking the second syringe, I quickly administered it before he could work himself into a panic. The familiar feeling came back once again.
"Paralyzing agent has been administered."
The inmates struggle steadily grew weaker, until he was reduced to no movement other than slow, measured breathing.
Taking the third syringe, I steeled myself for the strongest discomfort to come.
I took a deep breath, my hand shaking slightly as the inmate closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his bloated and marred cheek.
I administered it into his IV, as the familiar feeling spread across my face stronger than ever. And yet, nothing too unbearable by this point.
"Euthanasia agent has been administered."
His breathing grew weaker, his face more relaxed. I held his hand as he left this life, the last bit of human contact offered to him. I felt a pull on the top of my face. After a few minutes, I felt the warmth slowly fade from his hands.
After placing his hand back onto the table, I glanced over at the one way mirror by the door. The admins and family of the deceased would be watching from behind the glass.
On the mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Beautiful sandy blonde hair, cropped to a neat and fashionable undercut, under which piercing blue eyes stared back. The arch of the eyebrows could almost be considered feminine. The ears were perfectly symmetrical, seashell ears, as some poets describe them.
The nose was a blob of potato, a single mole with a few hairs prominently growing in the middle. A few teeth peeking out from closed, thin purple lips.
I looked away from the twisted face that stared back at me. The face of a cold, ruthless killer, while being a benevolent guard for the rest of society.
The face of a man who did his job. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | ###[Psychology] Recent science says that tarnished individuals can be made pure again through innovative social engineering practices like therapy.
> Initial discovery, published in Puritanical Weekly, suggests something as simple as talking to the afflicted can reverse the effects of Tarnish. Theologists demand reproduction of the results.
###10 Simple Tricks the Pure Don't Want You to Know About
###The ethics of traditional tarnish remedies such as elective and prescribed euthanasia are now being questioned by the public.
###[ELI5] What is it about doing bad stuff that makes someone look all messed up?
> I always been told being all messed up meant you were a bad person, but now people say it hapens over time. How does the body know even?
###If the tarnished can be made well, is it right to let them be killed? #uglyLivesMatter
###Uggo misses oncoming traffic by a mile | *Attractivness*
What a beautiful measure. Everything is so simple.
I choose the least objectively attractive mate. Asymmetrical facial features. Beer gut. Balding. Oh yeah. That's the stuff.
I know that this candidate is an asocial moral-sociopath. To be that un-attractive, they must have done something awful. Their genes are willing to exploit the weaker, and as such my children will most likely do the same. Evolution is a game, and I must choose the strongest and most ruthless predator to procreate with. It's just biology.
But then, Only the metric has been shifted. I think to myself sometimes, *How is this any different*? | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while sins will make you more twisted." I read this aloud. Jeez. I hate my bible studies. Always so tiring. "Knock, knock." I heard some slams on my door. I headed towards the door when the door flew open.
"Sina! Where have you fuck'n been? We've been looking all over!"
Krell was waving his rough, burnt hands.
Me and a few friends always got together to play the devil's game. We bett'n and drink'n all the time.
"Jeez Krell, you ought to at least have giv'n me a buzz." I was sittin' in the main space of my grandma's shack. Our house was on the ugly side of town. We weren't allowed to go near those pretty faces. Everythin' was separated.
"This time I oughtta say no to tonight Krell. I have to go grab some food for dinner."
"Right. Suit yourself." His wart above his lip moved with every syllable.
The distance from here to the market was 846 feet. I counted with my own shoes. When I got to the market, there were those pretty faces in the alley across from where I was. Darn, they made me furious. Always pompous and arrogant.
It was the senator's son, Rubin. Jeez. He was the beauty king, rumored to be the most beautiful. He's always on TV doin' some phony community work. They ain't good at all. Always helping the pretty face community while we're stuck here with hole-filled roofs and nothin' to eat.
Rubin was with his groupies. All of 'em rich and happy with their looks. They're the "perfect" children to the rest of them pretty faces. From what I was see'n, he was beating old Hickory's kid. The kid was scrawny. People know he ain't got the money to pay for anything. He was always stealin' food from the market. Rubin don't get ugly even if he does beat people. Those damn pretty faces think it's righteous to punish us. Every time we voice an opinion, we become ugly. Not any plain pimples and acne, but really ugly like being unrecognizable ugly. Those pretty faces don't become happy. We were tied to our status as ugly. Life ain't about good deeds anymore, but which bed you were born into.
I stared at them pretty faces. Grandma was in my head again. "Do what you believe is right." I looked back at Rubin again. Looked to my hands. They were scarred, rough and disgusting. Next thing I knew, I was at the pretty face's necks.
"You ugly piece of trash. Get off me you mongrel." Rubin was up on his feet already.
The rest of his group was snicker'n. One yelled, "You should look at your own face! Look at that!" I didn't know what he was talking about. I just charged back at them and planted a fist into a guy's face. All the while, Hickory's kid was in the corner looking in horror. One of them groupies threw a punch, hitting me in the rib. I knocked one of them over. It was chaos. Then, it was finished. They lay there still with their faces pretty, but bloody.
"You ok there little feller?" I extended my arm towards the poor boy.
He only stuttered. His eyes were full of terror. Jeez. You shoulda seen his face. He only ran outta there as fast as he could. No thank you's. Nothin'.
I walked towards the market. People gave me these twisted faces. Almost if they've seen a monster. I got 6 steps away from the market when I saw a reflection off the tinted glass. It was standing where I was and moved how I moved, but it didn't look like me. It had a big scar across his face and a few warts above his left eye.
If God gave us beauty through good deeds, who is the judge of what is good and bad?
Note from Author: I'm an amateur at this. Criticism is wanted. Thank you.
| *Attractivness*
What a beautiful measure. Everything is so simple.
I choose the least objectively attractive mate. Asymmetrical facial features. Beer gut. Balding. Oh yeah. That's the stuff.
I know that this candidate is an asocial moral-sociopath. To be that un-attractive, they must have done something awful. Their genes are willing to exploit the weaker, and as such my children will most likely do the same. Evolution is a game, and I must choose the strongest and most ruthless predator to procreate with. It's just biology.
But then, Only the metric has been shifted. I think to myself sometimes, *How is this any different*? | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| *Attractivness*
What a beautiful measure. Everything is so simple.
I choose the least objectively attractive mate. Asymmetrical facial features. Beer gut. Balding. Oh yeah. That's the stuff.
I know that this candidate is an asocial moral-sociopath. To be that un-attractive, they must have done something awful. Their genes are willing to exploit the weaker, and as such my children will most likely do the same. Evolution is a game, and I must choose the strongest and most ruthless predator to procreate with. It's just biology.
But then, Only the metric has been shifted. I think to myself sometimes, *How is this any different*? | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while sins will make you more twisted." I read this aloud. Jeez. I hate my bible studies. Always so tiring. "Knock, knock." I heard some slams on my door. I headed towards the door when the door flew open.
"Sina! Where have you fuck'n been? We've been looking all over!"
Krell was waving his rough, burnt hands.
Me and a few friends always got together to play the devil's game. We bett'n and drink'n all the time.
"Jeez Krell, you ought to at least have giv'n me a buzz." I was sittin' in the main space of my grandma's shack. Our house was on the ugly side of town. We weren't allowed to go near those pretty faces. Everythin' was separated.
"This time I oughtta say no to tonight Krell. I have to go grab some food for dinner."
"Right. Suit yourself." His wart above his lip moved with every syllable.
The distance from here to the market was 846 feet. I counted with my own shoes. When I got to the market, there were those pretty faces in the alley across from where I was. Darn, they made me furious. Always pompous and arrogant.
It was the senator's son, Rubin. Jeez. He was the beauty king, rumored to be the most beautiful. He's always on TV doin' some phony community work. They ain't good at all. Always helping the pretty face community while we're stuck here with hole-filled roofs and nothin' to eat.
Rubin was with his groupies. All of 'em rich and happy with their looks. They're the "perfect" children to the rest of them pretty faces. From what I was see'n, he was beating old Hickory's kid. The kid was scrawny. People know he ain't got the money to pay for anything. He was always stealin' food from the market. Rubin don't get ugly even if he does beat people. Those damn pretty faces think it's righteous to punish us. Every time we voice an opinion, we become ugly. Not any plain pimples and acne, but really ugly like being unrecognizable ugly. Those pretty faces don't become happy. We were tied to our status as ugly. Life ain't about good deeds anymore, but which bed you were born into.
I stared at them pretty faces. Grandma was in my head again. "Do what you believe is right." I looked back at Rubin again. Looked to my hands. They were scarred, rough and disgusting. Next thing I knew, I was at the pretty face's necks.
"You ugly piece of trash. Get off me you mongrel." Rubin was up on his feet already.
The rest of his group was snicker'n. One yelled, "You should look at your own face! Look at that!" I didn't know what he was talking about. I just charged back at them and planted a fist into a guy's face. All the while, Hickory's kid was in the corner looking in horror. One of them groupies threw a punch, hitting me in the rib. I knocked one of them over. It was chaos. Then, it was finished. They lay there still with their faces pretty, but bloody.
"You ok there little feller?" I extended my arm towards the poor boy.
He only stuttered. His eyes were full of terror. Jeez. You shoulda seen his face. He only ran outta there as fast as he could. No thank you's. Nothin'.
I walked towards the market. People gave me these twisted faces. Almost if they've seen a monster. I got 6 steps away from the market when I saw a reflection off the tinted glass. It was standing where I was and moved how I moved, but it didn't look like me. It had a big scar across his face and a few warts above his left eye.
If God gave us beauty through good deeds, who is the judge of what is good and bad?
Note from Author: I'm an amateur at this. Criticism is wanted. Thank you.
| Our appearance is not made up of how we feel about ourselves. it is divined through some force greater than our own. perhaps a god, perhaps the combined psychic force of humanity as a measure of morality. I have to say this because if it was based on how we felt i would be a monster. people see me heading to work in the morning and think "oh, he's a doctor. such a beautiful man. i hope my daughter marries someone like him." or "I bet he saves lives that's why he looks so good." Sure I am a doctor. I heal people, I make things better, I improve peoples lives. I have to tell myself that so that **I** don't wander into the freeway. the worst part of my job is what I specialize in. When a case becomes impossible and the other doctors **can't** do anything more to help you, I'm tasked with coming in and discussing it with the family... From there I make arrangements, a nurse brings in supplies, I **do** what the others can't, and i take **This** vegetable that was once a person down to the morgue. The more i think of how we couldn't help those people. The more i hate the man in the mirror. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "So why did you become a priest?"
My hands were old, wrinkled, yet free from blemish. They gripped the handle of my mug off coffee. Pure black. A strong bitter. It reminded me of life. Pure coffee looks smooth, crisp, black. No flaw. Almost like those of us who genuinely wanted to make the world a better, more peaceful place. A sip. The steam felt moist against my similarly blemish and wrinkle free face. I've been told for a sixty seven year old I don't look a day over fifty two. Placing down the mug I scratch my big fat potato shaped nose.
"You ever see the ass on Mother Theresa?" | Our appearance is not made up of how we feel about ourselves. it is divined through some force greater than our own. perhaps a god, perhaps the combined psychic force of humanity as a measure of morality. I have to say this because if it was based on how we felt i would be a monster. people see me heading to work in the morning and think "oh, he's a doctor. such a beautiful man. i hope my daughter marries someone like him." or "I bet he saves lives that's why he looks so good." Sure I am a doctor. I heal people, I make things better, I improve peoples lives. I have to tell myself that so that **I** don't wander into the freeway. the worst part of my job is what I specialize in. When a case becomes impossible and the other doctors **can't** do anything more to help you, I'm tasked with coming in and discussing it with the family... From there I make arrangements, a nurse brings in supplies, I **do** what the others can't, and i take **This** vegetable that was once a person down to the morgue. The more i think of how we couldn't help those people. The more i hate the man in the mirror. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| Our appearance is not made up of how we feel about ourselves. it is divined through some force greater than our own. perhaps a god, perhaps the combined psychic force of humanity as a measure of morality. I have to say this because if it was based on how we felt i would be a monster. people see me heading to work in the morning and think "oh, he's a doctor. such a beautiful man. i hope my daughter marries someone like him." or "I bet he saves lives that's why he looks so good." Sure I am a doctor. I heal people, I make things better, I improve peoples lives. I have to tell myself that so that **I** don't wander into the freeway. the worst part of my job is what I specialize in. When a case becomes impossible and the other doctors **can't** do anything more to help you, I'm tasked with coming in and discussing it with the family... From there I make arrangements, a nurse brings in supplies, I **do** what the others can't, and i take **This** vegetable that was once a person down to the morgue. The more i think of how we couldn't help those people. The more i hate the man in the mirror. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | It's the unusual cases that make the news but it's the ones that shock them that stays in people's hearts. Growing up children are told to trust in beauty because it's beautiful people who are good people. Ugly thoughts imprint themselves on peoples' skin. Every wrinkle is a cruel thought and every unattractive feature is a cruel deed. This is something society knows well.
So the oddities stand out.
When Jessica Hart's face first appears in the news, everyone believes her innocent. She's stunningly beautiful, more so than even those who dedicate their lives to saving people. Someone that beautiful can never be guilty of the crimes they're accused of.
Torture. Murder. Cannibalism. Just one of those acts is enough to permanently disfigure a person.
No. Jessica Hart must be innocent.
Then the evidence, indisputable evidence, starts building up against her. People from her childhood testify how they'd seen her commit cruel acts but convinced themselves they imagined things. After all such acts were wrong and would be visible to the world. But, even back then, Hart was a beautiful child.
Beautiful but amoral.
Good and bad both leave themselves on a person's face. It's the ultimate survival guide to human kind. But good and bad are subjective and there are wolves amongst the sheep, those who believe what they do is righteous and good no matter how terrible.
Beautiful people who do ugly things. Those are the ones people remember. | Our appearance is not made up of how we feel about ourselves. it is divined through some force greater than our own. perhaps a god, perhaps the combined psychic force of humanity as a measure of morality. I have to say this because if it was based on how we felt i would be a monster. people see me heading to work in the morning and think "oh, he's a doctor. such a beautiful man. i hope my daughter marries someone like him." or "I bet he saves lives that's why he looks so good." Sure I am a doctor. I heal people, I make things better, I improve peoples lives. I have to tell myself that so that **I** don't wander into the freeway. the worst part of my job is what I specialize in. When a case becomes impossible and the other doctors **can't** do anything more to help you, I'm tasked with coming in and discussing it with the family... From there I make arrangements, a nurse brings in supplies, I **do** what the others can't, and i take **This** vegetable that was once a person down to the morgue. The more i think of how we couldn't help those people. The more i hate the man in the mirror. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| "Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while sins will make you more twisted." I read this aloud. Jeez. I hate my bible studies. Always so tiring. "Knock, knock." I heard some slams on my door. I headed towards the door when the door flew open.
"Sina! Where have you fuck'n been? We've been looking all over!"
Krell was waving his rough, burnt hands.
Me and a few friends always got together to play the devil's game. We bett'n and drink'n all the time.
"Jeez Krell, you ought to at least have giv'n me a buzz." I was sittin' in the main space of my grandma's shack. Our house was on the ugly side of town. We weren't allowed to go near those pretty faces. Everythin' was separated.
"This time I oughtta say no to tonight Krell. I have to go grab some food for dinner."
"Right. Suit yourself." His wart above his lip moved with every syllable.
The distance from here to the market was 846 feet. I counted with my own shoes. When I got to the market, there were those pretty faces in the alley across from where I was. Darn, they made me furious. Always pompous and arrogant.
It was the senator's son, Rubin. Jeez. He was the beauty king, rumored to be the most beautiful. He's always on TV doin' some phony community work. They ain't good at all. Always helping the pretty face community while we're stuck here with hole-filled roofs and nothin' to eat.
Rubin was with his groupies. All of 'em rich and happy with their looks. They're the "perfect" children to the rest of them pretty faces. From what I was see'n, he was beating old Hickory's kid. The kid was scrawny. People know he ain't got the money to pay for anything. He was always stealin' food from the market. Rubin don't get ugly even if he does beat people. Those damn pretty faces think it's righteous to punish us. Every time we voice an opinion, we become ugly. Not any plain pimples and acne, but really ugly like being unrecognizable ugly. Those pretty faces don't become happy. We were tied to our status as ugly. Life ain't about good deeds anymore, but which bed you were born into.
I stared at them pretty faces. Grandma was in my head again. "Do what you believe is right." I looked back at Rubin again. Looked to my hands. They were scarred, rough and disgusting. Next thing I knew, I was at the pretty face's necks.
"You ugly piece of trash. Get off me you mongrel." Rubin was up on his feet already.
The rest of his group was snicker'n. One yelled, "You should look at your own face! Look at that!" I didn't know what he was talking about. I just charged back at them and planted a fist into a guy's face. All the while, Hickory's kid was in the corner looking in horror. One of them groupies threw a punch, hitting me in the rib. I knocked one of them over. It was chaos. Then, it was finished. They lay there still with their faces pretty, but bloody.
"You ok there little feller?" I extended my arm towards the poor boy.
He only stuttered. His eyes were full of terror. Jeez. You shoulda seen his face. He only ran outta there as fast as he could. No thank you's. Nothin'.
I walked towards the market. People gave me these twisted faces. Almost if they've seen a monster. I got 6 steps away from the market when I saw a reflection off the tinted glass. It was standing where I was and moved how I moved, but it didn't look like me. It had a big scar across his face and a few warts above his left eye.
If God gave us beauty through good deeds, who is the judge of what is good and bad?
Note from Author: I'm an amateur at this. Criticism is wanted. Thank you.
| |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | I never thought it would happen to me. My parents were beautiful spending their lives taking in orphans raising them to be valuable members of society who became beautiful people themselves but I was the bitter disappointment. It started when I was little 5 or 6 I would take things that weren't mine just because I wanted them then I started fighting other kids. Whenever it was time for church on sunday my adoptive parents tried their best to make me look nice and remind me only nice girls get to be beautiful women. The other parishioners would stare at me and I would hear them whisper.
"How can such beautiful people have an ugly child?"
"I wouldn't have kept her."
"This must be their ultimate good deed."
My skin used to boil at the comments and I would lash out at any kid near me. Why couldn't I just be good? I tried as I got older doing volunteer work and helping out at the church but it never felt right. I hated helping people and cleaning up after them and my face would show it. I would start to see the beauty fade as my true self kept coming back. Finally I couldn't take it anymore if I was gonna be ugly I was gonna be the ugliest. I ran away to the city and started with petty crime stuff then dealing drugs but that wasn't enough for me. I ended up meeting a few more ugly runaways and what began as a friendship turned into a gang. It wasn't long before we had more and more uglies working for us and once we got into the weapons game it was like something outta the movies. I felt invincible. Then we got raided and I got snatched up along with half the gang. I walked into the police station bound in handcuffs and a silence fell over the room. Everyone knew I was the worst because they could see it. They fingerprinted me and then put me in a cell with the other women. All of them were variations of ugliness some worse some very close to being beautiful. They all stared at me as I took a seat and finally one of them who looked a bit older walked over to me.
"Girl, when's the last time you looked in the mirror?" She asked looking me up and down. I sat there and honestly thought about it.
"Five years when I ran away from home." I said with honesty. She laughed and pointed at the piece of metal that was a makeshift mirror above a sink and toilet.
"You're pretty bad should probably take a look." I smiled at her and walked to the mirror and saw what I was.
"Fuck." Was the only word I could say but then I smiled again. Yeah my skin was dry and wrinkled my eyes a cloudy brown, my nose had become jagged and my eyebrows were long and bushy but this was me. This was the real down to the bones me. | When I saw her, I thought she must have had Down syndrome. As far as I know, every single fashion model has Down syndrome, and honestly she looked better than any I'd seen.
"Welcome to Red Lobster," I said to her.
"Hi, I'm looking for Jeff," she replied, beaming a smile at me.
Girls with Down syndrome are easy to spot. Breathtakingly beautiful, speech problems and obvious cognitive impairment. They're also never alone—it just wouldn't be safe. This girl sounded pretty damn normal and she was alone.
"Um, I'm Jeff," I said.
"I thought so. You are very handsome," she replied without any detectable lack of sincerity.
I'm not handsome. She just had very good manners.
"And you are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon," I told her, remembering my manners. "Do you mind if I ask, how you got to be so gorgeous?"
She laughed.
"I'm a saint on a mission from God, that's how. He sent me to find you." | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "So why did you become a priest?"
My hands were old, wrinkled, yet free from blemish. They gripped the handle of my mug off coffee. Pure black. A strong bitter. It reminded me of life. Pure coffee looks smooth, crisp, black. No flaw. Almost like those of us who genuinely wanted to make the world a better, more peaceful place. A sip. The steam felt moist against my similarly blemish and wrinkle free face. I've been told for a sixty seven year old I don't look a day over fifty two. Placing down the mug I scratch my big fat potato shaped nose.
"You ever see the ass on Mother Theresa?" | When I saw her, I thought she must have had Down syndrome. As far as I know, every single fashion model has Down syndrome, and honestly she looked better than any I'd seen.
"Welcome to Red Lobster," I said to her.
"Hi, I'm looking for Jeff," she replied, beaming a smile at me.
Girls with Down syndrome are easy to spot. Breathtakingly beautiful, speech problems and obvious cognitive impairment. They're also never alone—it just wouldn't be safe. This girl sounded pretty damn normal and she was alone.
"Um, I'm Jeff," I said.
"I thought so. You are very handsome," she replied without any detectable lack of sincerity.
I'm not handsome. She just had very good manners.
"And you are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon," I told her, remembering my manners. "Do you mind if I ask, how you got to be so gorgeous?"
She laughed.
"I'm a saint on a mission from God, that's how. He sent me to find you." | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| When I saw her, I thought she must have had Down syndrome. As far as I know, every single fashion model has Down syndrome, and honestly she looked better than any I'd seen.
"Welcome to Red Lobster," I said to her.
"Hi, I'm looking for Jeff," she replied, beaming a smile at me.
Girls with Down syndrome are easy to spot. Breathtakingly beautiful, speech problems and obvious cognitive impairment. They're also never alone—it just wouldn't be safe. This girl sounded pretty damn normal and she was alone.
"Um, I'm Jeff," I said.
"I thought so. You are very handsome," she replied without any detectable lack of sincerity.
I'm not handsome. She just had very good manners.
"And you are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon," I told her, remembering my manners. "Do you mind if I ask, how you got to be so gorgeous?"
She laughed.
"I'm a saint on a mission from God, that's how. He sent me to find you." | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "Reevel, didja puke on yer face again or something?" Bartan sneered. He was perched on a fence playing with a knife.
"Nah," answered back Reevel as he trudged up out of the gloom, "Just stabbed a chap in the alleyway. Fellow said I didn't look too handsome." He grinned, showing all three of his teeth. "Just cause it's true don't mean it's nice to say. Kid needed some to be teachified a little respect."
"Will 'e live?" asked Bartan, casually balancing the knifeblade on his fingertips.
"Mayhap. Gave 'im a couple good stabs in the belly, so it'll go nice an' slow either way." Reevel jumped up onto the fence next to his partener. "Bes' part: 'is face was bland as a babe's. Could've been any sort of average person, no one'll know who 'e was. So what's on the docket tonight, friend?"
Bartan stabbed the knife into the fencepost and then pulled out a dirty brass lantern. "Oh, it's a classic. Folks at the manner have their ways of doing things that ain't the same at all." Flint and steal sparked and the lantern kindled into flame. "Odd how it's us as is called the ugly ones when all we do is an honest murder or two along the way. This some top grade evil, this one," said Bartan as he pulled out a scroll of parchment. "They told me the deal already, but I let 'em know how good my partner knew'd 'is letters and they wrote this down real nice for us. Lessen we talk 'bout it the better, I suppose."
Reevel squinted at the cramped handwriting, then his jaw broke into an incredulous grin. "Spit and thunder, they must do the thinking for Hell. It's a nasty, nasty piece of business." He licked his lips hungrily. "I like it I do."
"Hey, Reveel, you's got a new wart, jist there on the top of your nose." Bartan pointed eargerly.
Reveel poked at it. "Hey, guess I do. Looks like that bastard did die in the alley after all." He jumped down from the fence. "Well c'mon, only a few hours til sunup. We gots some packages to exchange now, don't we," he chuckled, and the two crept into the night to commence their business.
The next day, the mayor welcomed a new daughter into his home while the miller's wife sobbed, holding the lifeless babe that had died during the night.
The mayor's mother was buried in a veil a few weeks later.
| When I saw her, I thought she must have had Down syndrome. As far as I know, every single fashion model has Down syndrome, and honestly she looked better than any I'd seen.
"Welcome to Red Lobster," I said to her.
"Hi, I'm looking for Jeff," she replied, beaming a smile at me.
Girls with Down syndrome are easy to spot. Breathtakingly beautiful, speech problems and obvious cognitive impairment. They're also never alone—it just wouldn't be safe. This girl sounded pretty damn normal and she was alone.
"Um, I'm Jeff," I said.
"I thought so. You are very handsome," she replied without any detectable lack of sincerity.
I'm not handsome. She just had very good manners.
"And you are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon," I told her, remembering my manners. "Do you mind if I ask, how you got to be so gorgeous?"
She laughed.
"I'm a saint on a mission from God, that's how. He sent me to find you." | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | It's the unusual cases that make the news but it's the ones that shock them that stays in people's hearts. Growing up children are told to trust in beauty because it's beautiful people who are good people. Ugly thoughts imprint themselves on peoples' skin. Every wrinkle is a cruel thought and every unattractive feature is a cruel deed. This is something society knows well.
So the oddities stand out.
When Jessica Hart's face first appears in the news, everyone believes her innocent. She's stunningly beautiful, more so than even those who dedicate their lives to saving people. Someone that beautiful can never be guilty of the crimes they're accused of.
Torture. Murder. Cannibalism. Just one of those acts is enough to permanently disfigure a person.
No. Jessica Hart must be innocent.
Then the evidence, indisputable evidence, starts building up against her. People from her childhood testify how they'd seen her commit cruel acts but convinced themselves they imagined things. After all such acts were wrong and would be visible to the world. But, even back then, Hart was a beautiful child.
Beautiful but amoral.
Good and bad both leave themselves on a person's face. It's the ultimate survival guide to human kind. But good and bad are subjective and there are wolves amongst the sheep, those who believe what they do is righteous and good no matter how terrible.
Beautiful people who do ugly things. Those are the ones people remember. | When I saw her, I thought she must have had Down syndrome. As far as I know, every single fashion model has Down syndrome, and honestly she looked better than any I'd seen.
"Welcome to Red Lobster," I said to her.
"Hi, I'm looking for Jeff," she replied, beaming a smile at me.
Girls with Down syndrome are easy to spot. Breathtakingly beautiful, speech problems and obvious cognitive impairment. They're also never alone—it just wouldn't be safe. This girl sounded pretty damn normal and she was alone.
"Um, I'm Jeff," I said.
"I thought so. You are very handsome," she replied without any detectable lack of sincerity.
I'm not handsome. She just had very good manners.
"And you are the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon," I told her, remembering my manners. "Do you mind if I ask, how you got to be so gorgeous?"
She laughed.
"I'm a saint on a mission from God, that's how. He sent me to find you." | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | "So why did you become a priest?"
My hands were old, wrinkled, yet free from blemish. They gripped the handle of my mug off coffee. Pure black. A strong bitter. It reminded me of life. Pure coffee looks smooth, crisp, black. No flaw. Almost like those of us who genuinely wanted to make the world a better, more peaceful place. A sip. The steam felt moist against my similarly blemish and wrinkle free face. I've been told for a sixty seven year old I don't look a day over fifty two. Placing down the mug I scratch my big fat potato shaped nose.
"You ever see the ass on Mother Theresa?" | I never thought it would happen to me. My parents were beautiful spending their lives taking in orphans raising them to be valuable members of society who became beautiful people themselves but I was the bitter disappointment. It started when I was little 5 or 6 I would take things that weren't mine just because I wanted them then I started fighting other kids. Whenever it was time for church on sunday my adoptive parents tried their best to make me look nice and remind me only nice girls get to be beautiful women. The other parishioners would stare at me and I would hear them whisper.
"How can such beautiful people have an ugly child?"
"I wouldn't have kept her."
"This must be their ultimate good deed."
My skin used to boil at the comments and I would lash out at any kid near me. Why couldn't I just be good? I tried as I got older doing volunteer work and helping out at the church but it never felt right. I hated helping people and cleaning up after them and my face would show it. I would start to see the beauty fade as my true self kept coming back. Finally I couldn't take it anymore if I was gonna be ugly I was gonna be the ugliest. I ran away to the city and started with petty crime stuff then dealing drugs but that wasn't enough for me. I ended up meeting a few more ugly runaways and what began as a friendship turned into a gang. It wasn't long before we had more and more uglies working for us and once we got into the weapons game it was like something outta the movies. I felt invincible. Then we got raided and I got snatched up along with half the gang. I walked into the police station bound in handcuffs and a silence fell over the room. Everyone knew I was the worst because they could see it. They fingerprinted me and then put me in a cell with the other women. All of them were variations of ugliness some worse some very close to being beautiful. They all stared at me as I took a seat and finally one of them who looked a bit older walked over to me.
"Girl, when's the last time you looked in the mirror?" She asked looking me up and down. I sat there and honestly thought about it.
"Five years when I ran away from home." I said with honesty. She laughed and pointed at the piece of metal that was a makeshift mirror above a sink and toilet.
"You're pretty bad should probably take a look." I smiled at her and walked to the mirror and saw what I was.
"Fuck." Was the only word I could say but then I smiled again. Yeah my skin was dry and wrinkled my eyes a cloudy brown, my nose had become jagged and my eyebrows were long and bushy but this was me. This was the real down to the bones me. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| I never thought it would happen to me. My parents were beautiful spending their lives taking in orphans raising them to be valuable members of society who became beautiful people themselves but I was the bitter disappointment. It started when I was little 5 or 6 I would take things that weren't mine just because I wanted them then I started fighting other kids. Whenever it was time for church on sunday my adoptive parents tried their best to make me look nice and remind me only nice girls get to be beautiful women. The other parishioners would stare at me and I would hear them whisper.
"How can such beautiful people have an ugly child?"
"I wouldn't have kept her."
"This must be their ultimate good deed."
My skin used to boil at the comments and I would lash out at any kid near me. Why couldn't I just be good? I tried as I got older doing volunteer work and helping out at the church but it never felt right. I hated helping people and cleaning up after them and my face would show it. I would start to see the beauty fade as my true self kept coming back. Finally I couldn't take it anymore if I was gonna be ugly I was gonna be the ugliest. I ran away to the city and started with petty crime stuff then dealing drugs but that wasn't enough for me. I ended up meeting a few more ugly runaways and what began as a friendship turned into a gang. It wasn't long before we had more and more uglies working for us and once we got into the weapons game it was like something outta the movies. I felt invincible. Then we got raided and I got snatched up along with half the gang. I walked into the police station bound in handcuffs and a silence fell over the room. Everyone knew I was the worst because they could see it. They fingerprinted me and then put me in a cell with the other women. All of them were variations of ugliness some worse some very close to being beautiful. They all stared at me as I took a seat and finally one of them who looked a bit older walked over to me.
"Girl, when's the last time you looked in the mirror?" She asked looking me up and down. I sat there and honestly thought about it.
"Five years when I ran away from home." I said with honesty. She laughed and pointed at the piece of metal that was a makeshift mirror above a sink and toilet.
"You're pretty bad should probably take a look." I smiled at her and walked to the mirror and saw what I was.
"Fuck." Was the only word I could say but then I smiled again. Yeah my skin was dry and wrinkled my eyes a cloudy brown, my nose had become jagged and my eyebrows were long and bushy but this was me. This was the real down to the bones me. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | It's the unusual cases that make the news but it's the ones that shock them that stays in people's hearts. Growing up children are told to trust in beauty because it's beautiful people who are good people. Ugly thoughts imprint themselves on peoples' skin. Every wrinkle is a cruel thought and every unattractive feature is a cruel deed. This is something society knows well.
So the oddities stand out.
When Jessica Hart's face first appears in the news, everyone believes her innocent. She's stunningly beautiful, more so than even those who dedicate their lives to saving people. Someone that beautiful can never be guilty of the crimes they're accused of.
Torture. Murder. Cannibalism. Just one of those acts is enough to permanently disfigure a person.
No. Jessica Hart must be innocent.
Then the evidence, indisputable evidence, starts building up against her. People from her childhood testify how they'd seen her commit cruel acts but convinced themselves they imagined things. After all such acts were wrong and would be visible to the world. But, even back then, Hart was a beautiful child.
Beautiful but amoral.
Good and bad both leave themselves on a person's face. It's the ultimate survival guide to human kind. But good and bad are subjective and there are wolves amongst the sheep, those who believe what they do is righteous and good no matter how terrible.
Beautiful people who do ugly things. Those are the ones people remember. | I never thought it would happen to me. My parents were beautiful spending their lives taking in orphans raising them to be valuable members of society who became beautiful people themselves but I was the bitter disappointment. It started when I was little 5 or 6 I would take things that weren't mine just because I wanted them then I started fighting other kids. Whenever it was time for church on sunday my adoptive parents tried their best to make me look nice and remind me only nice girls get to be beautiful women. The other parishioners would stare at me and I would hear them whisper.
"How can such beautiful people have an ugly child?"
"I wouldn't have kept her."
"This must be their ultimate good deed."
My skin used to boil at the comments and I would lash out at any kid near me. Why couldn't I just be good? I tried as I got older doing volunteer work and helping out at the church but it never felt right. I hated helping people and cleaning up after them and my face would show it. I would start to see the beauty fade as my true self kept coming back. Finally I couldn't take it anymore if I was gonna be ugly I was gonna be the ugliest. I ran away to the city and started with petty crime stuff then dealing drugs but that wasn't enough for me. I ended up meeting a few more ugly runaways and what began as a friendship turned into a gang. It wasn't long before we had more and more uglies working for us and once we got into the weapons game it was like something outta the movies. I felt invincible. Then we got raided and I got snatched up along with half the gang. I walked into the police station bound in handcuffs and a silence fell over the room. Everyone knew I was the worst because they could see it. They fingerprinted me and then put me in a cell with the other women. All of them were variations of ugliness some worse some very close to being beautiful. They all stared at me as I took a seat and finally one of them who looked a bit older walked over to me.
"Girl, when's the last time you looked in the mirror?" She asked looking me up and down. I sat there and honestly thought about it.
"Five years when I ran away from home." I said with honesty. She laughed and pointed at the piece of metal that was a makeshift mirror above a sink and toilet.
"You're pretty bad should probably take a look." I smiled at her and walked to the mirror and saw what I was.
"Fuck." Was the only word I could say but then I smiled again. Yeah my skin was dry and wrinkled my eyes a cloudy brown, my nose had become jagged and my eyebrows were long and bushy but this was me. This was the real down to the bones me. | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | Stanley's walk was more of a foot dragging shuffle, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes downturned. He didn't look at the sea of beautiful faces walking down the street. They occasionally glanced at him, and he felt sure without having to look that when they did they more often than not smirked at what they saw. So what?
He knew he was nobody's idea of handsome, and he understood what that meant to them. They knew he was not noble. They knew he was not accomplished or ambitious. They knew it all at a glance: He didn't long to save the world, feed the hungry, shelter the poor, or end the suffering of his fellow men.
He was nobody's idea of ugly either, of course. He had never killed, or raped, or robbed, or knowingly cheated anyone. If he found money in the street, he would not go out of his way to find its owner and return it. But neither would he pick someone's pocket to get that money. So at least he had that going for him.
But it was never enough. The twisted leering wretches that occasionally turned up in society were quickly imprisoned or put down (mercifully, of course); but that didn't mean that people wouldn't look at someone like Stanley with quiet disdain. In a world such as this, where beauty and ugliness both were created qualities, there was no way to hide behind the anonymity of simply not being known to someone, because even a perfect stranger could read your character at first glance.
Stanley kept his gaze down, and he schooled his mind to quiet acceptance of reality. He did this because it was the only way to keep himself from condemning the hypocrites he knew walked their ranks. He knew full well that there were specialized surgeons who could compensate by putting right what a lifetime of bad character decisions had put wrong. It was always temporary, of course, but you would be surprised how much people would pay to hide their mistakes, even for a little while. But condemning them for it would simply make Stanley's own situation worse, since the simple act of judging others would, over time, add wrinkles and dark splotches to your face.
At last Stanley arrived at the small grassy space near the center of downtown. It was a simple but lovely stretch of city park where the pretty people liked to walk on their lunch hours, wishing to be seen before the years of pridefully showing off their virtue ate into their looks as they aged. Stanley didn't care about them one way or the other. And he didn't necessarily care about the loveliness of the park either. He was there looking for one person in particular.
He spotted her on a wooden bench near the freshly blossoming hydrangea, which she gazed upon with a soft wistful half smile that ironically made her look sadder rather than happier. She was thin almost to the point of boyishness and her mousy brown hair was plain and straight. Her features were quite ordinary, and her eyes a rather dullish shade of gray. No one else gave her even so much as a second glance as they passed, but Stanley could not take his eyes off her.
He reach into his jacket and withdrew the single yellow rose he had tucked away there to protect it, and he approached. When he had drawn near enough to her, she looked up, spotted him, and he held out the rose to her. She stood up from her bench and took the rose with one hand. Her face brightened into a broader and warmer smile that shot through him like sunbeams through a stained glass window. She placed her other hand upon his arm and stepped in close to kiss him on the cheek. "There you are, my love," she whispered into his ear.
She locked her arm in his and breathed in the scent of the rose, and now they both smiled as they walked away down the street together. They were so enraptured with one another, that they remained blissfully unaware of the many stares they received, as startled passersby wondered who this attractive couple was, and where they had suddenly come from.
| "So why did you become a priest?"
My hands were old, wrinkled, yet free from blemish. They gripped the handle of my mug off coffee. Pure black. A strong bitter. It reminded me of life. Pure coffee looks smooth, crisp, black. No flaw. Almost like those of us who genuinely wanted to make the world a better, more peaceful place. A sip. The steam felt moist against my similarly blemish and wrinkle free face. I've been told for a sixty seven year old I don't look a day over fifty two. Placing down the mug I scratch my big fat potato shaped nose.
"You ever see the ass on Mother Theresa?" | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | It's the unusual cases that make the news but it's the ones that shock them that stays in people's hearts. Growing up children are told to trust in beauty because it's beautiful people who are good people. Ugly thoughts imprint themselves on peoples' skin. Every wrinkle is a cruel thought and every unattractive feature is a cruel deed. This is something society knows well.
So the oddities stand out.
When Jessica Hart's face first appears in the news, everyone believes her innocent. She's stunningly beautiful, more so than even those who dedicate their lives to saving people. Someone that beautiful can never be guilty of the crimes they're accused of.
Torture. Murder. Cannibalism. Just one of those acts is enough to permanently disfigure a person.
No. Jessica Hart must be innocent.
Then the evidence, indisputable evidence, starts building up against her. People from her childhood testify how they'd seen her commit cruel acts but convinced themselves they imagined things. After all such acts were wrong and would be visible to the world. But, even back then, Hart was a beautiful child.
Beautiful but amoral.
Good and bad both leave themselves on a person's face. It's the ultimate survival guide to human kind. But good and bad are subjective and there are wolves amongst the sheep, those who believe what they do is righteous and good no matter how terrible.
Beautiful people who do ugly things. Those are the ones people remember. | "So why did you become a priest?"
My hands were old, wrinkled, yet free from blemish. They gripped the handle of my mug off coffee. Pure black. A strong bitter. It reminded me of life. Pure coffee looks smooth, crisp, black. No flaw. Almost like those of us who genuinely wanted to make the world a better, more peaceful place. A sip. The steam felt moist against my similarly blemish and wrinkle free face. I've been told for a sixty seven year old I don't look a day over fifty two. Placing down the mug I scratch my big fat potato shaped nose.
"You ever see the ass on Mother Theresa?" | |
[WP] In this world, physical appearance depends entirely on personality. All babies are born identical. Beauty is achieved gradually through good thoughts and deeds, while the opposite is true for ugliness. | It's the unusual cases that make the news but it's the ones that shock them that stays in people's hearts. Growing up children are told to trust in beauty because it's beautiful people who are good people. Ugly thoughts imprint themselves on peoples' skin. Every wrinkle is a cruel thought and every unattractive feature is a cruel deed. This is something society knows well.
So the oddities stand out.
When Jessica Hart's face first appears in the news, everyone believes her innocent. She's stunningly beautiful, more so than even those who dedicate their lives to saving people. Someone that beautiful can never be guilty of the crimes they're accused of.
Torture. Murder. Cannibalism. Just one of those acts is enough to permanently disfigure a person.
No. Jessica Hart must be innocent.
Then the evidence, indisputable evidence, starts building up against her. People from her childhood testify how they'd seen her commit cruel acts but convinced themselves they imagined things. After all such acts were wrong and would be visible to the world. But, even back then, Hart was a beautiful child.
Beautiful but amoral.
Good and bad both leave themselves on a person's face. It's the ultimate survival guide to human kind. But good and bad are subjective and there are wolves amongst the sheep, those who believe what they do is righteous and good no matter how terrible.
Beautiful people who do ugly things. Those are the ones people remember. | "Reevel, didja puke on yer face again or something?" Bartan sneered. He was perched on a fence playing with a knife.
"Nah," answered back Reevel as he trudged up out of the gloom, "Just stabbed a chap in the alleyway. Fellow said I didn't look too handsome." He grinned, showing all three of his teeth. "Just cause it's true don't mean it's nice to say. Kid needed some to be teachified a little respect."
"Will 'e live?" asked Bartan, casually balancing the knifeblade on his fingertips.
"Mayhap. Gave 'im a couple good stabs in the belly, so it'll go nice an' slow either way." Reevel jumped up onto the fence next to his partener. "Bes' part: 'is face was bland as a babe's. Could've been any sort of average person, no one'll know who 'e was. So what's on the docket tonight, friend?"
Bartan stabbed the knife into the fencepost and then pulled out a dirty brass lantern. "Oh, it's a classic. Folks at the manner have their ways of doing things that ain't the same at all." Flint and steal sparked and the lantern kindled into flame. "Odd how it's us as is called the ugly ones when all we do is an honest murder or two along the way. This some top grade evil, this one," said Bartan as he pulled out a scroll of parchment. "They told me the deal already, but I let 'em know how good my partner knew'd 'is letters and they wrote this down real nice for us. Lessen we talk 'bout it the better, I suppose."
Reevel squinted at the cramped handwriting, then his jaw broke into an incredulous grin. "Spit and thunder, they must do the thinking for Hell. It's a nasty, nasty piece of business." He licked his lips hungrily. "I like it I do."
"Hey, Reveel, you's got a new wart, jist there on the top of your nose." Bartan pointed eargerly.
Reveel poked at it. "Hey, guess I do. Looks like that bastard did die in the alley after all." He jumped down from the fence. "Well c'mon, only a few hours til sunup. We gots some packages to exchange now, don't we," he chuckled, and the two crept into the night to commence their business.
The next day, the mayor welcomed a new daughter into his home while the miller's wife sobbed, holding the lifeless babe that had died during the night.
The mayor's mother was buried in a veil a few weeks later.
| |
[WP] It is our blood that stores our long-term memories not our brains. Making a blood donation is considered among the most altruistic acts a person can perform, as one person's loss is another person's gain. | The street lights flick on as I walk under them; four metres back the street-lights switch off. Energy efficient street-lights of my own invention. Not ten metres in front of me, the lights of Prof. Colin Munnery switch on as he walks beneath them.
I have long since stopped trying to be discrete. It is clear that Prof. Colin Munnery does not suspect that I am following him. Likely he believes I am just another Professor walking home after a long day, of course, that is what I am after all. He has seen my face, he knows who I am, why would he suspect that I am anything over than the highly regarded scientist that my work suggests.
What should my next move be?
Twenty years ago, I was nothing and nobody. Who would have thought a car accident could be the best thing that could ever happen to a person. I lost a lot of blood in the accident, along with a foot of small intestine; seat belts are to blame for that.
When I woke, I knew more about astrophysics than what I knew about myself. I remembered sitting in the classroom, listening to a lecture and feeling so overwhelmed at the insignificance of our own lives. I remember spending hours at home studying; declining invitations to parties in order to study.
Unfortunately I do not remember everything. I wonder at the woman who donated her blood. Did she know what she would lose? Did she even once consider the cost of her generosity? Years of her hard work are now mine.
I enrolled into and completed a degree in astrophysics, followed by engineering, maths and philosophy, but do not think it was so easy. A lot of people have had to lose so that I can gain. It was largely put down to the stress of University life. No one suspected that their blood was being harvested; no one even noticed their pallid faces and anaemic bodies.
I have never taken too much; just enough. One roofie, and I have enough time to take a pint. One pint and I will remember the lessons that I can’t seem to learn by myself. It doesn't always work that way, my mind is filled with useless memories of family and fun. Childhood holidays, comfort blankets and first loves. How pointless the minds of some peoples are.
I have never taken too much. I have never taken everything, not untill today.
Prof. Colin Munnery is coming to the end of the path, closer to the car that I have borrowed. No one should suspect me, no one saw me borrow it. I call out
“Professor…”
He turns around and sees me. The fool is even smiling. He is still smiling when the needle goes into his neck.
| I remember crunching metal, then the void. A light appeared in the distance and I moved towards it.
I blinked my eyes open to a doctor with a torch putting it in his pocket. I looked left and it hurt.
"Mr Banks. Please try not to move." The doctor pushed me back slightly. I was sitting up in a bed, in a ward in some hospital.
"What happened?" I croaked with more strain than I anticipated.
"You were in a car accident." My hands were cuffed to the bed. I rattled them once and it didn't detach. "Yes. These men have been wanting to speak with you."
I was never a nice person, I had no reason to be. No one had ever showed me any kindness, so I didn't show the world any. I'd been in and out of prison my whole life for too many offences to list. I hurt a lot of people probably. I never stuck around to find out, I never had a need.
The police officers came in. I don't remember what they said, and I was ready to give my normal silence.
My head pounded. I saw a woman, some cake, I felt unconditional love. I felt remembered being content in a way I have never experienced. I began pulling at the restraints. I shook my head, pain. The memories faded slightly, replaced by the pounding pain inside my head. That lasted a few seconds. I heard the doctor move towards me and take out his little torch again.
I'm in a house doing the ironing, and my child is to my left, I'd do anything for them. Careful of the iron, it is hot. Thumping pain.
I'm dancing at my brothers wedding. I've locked eyes with an angel. Thumping pain.
"What's happening to me??" I scream with a lot more strain and a lot louder than I intended to.
A few minutes of this go by, the same 3 memories as if they have always been there, breaking themselves in like someone else's shoes.
"You've had a blood transfusion, after the accident. You lost a lot of blood. You now have 3 pints of another persons blood in your stream. This will cause memories to pass into your psyche. This is normal."
"How long will it last?" my voice was barely a whisper
"The memories?" The doctor shrugged "Permanent. Where they bad memories?"
I lay there, I realised I was crying. I turned to the police men. I winced at the pain.
"I'd like to make a statement." | |
[WP] It is our blood that stores our long-term memories not our brains. Making a blood donation is considered among the most altruistic acts a person can perform, as one person's loss is another person's gain. | The street lights flick on as I walk under them; four metres back the street-lights switch off. Energy efficient street-lights of my own invention. Not ten metres in front of me, the lights of Prof. Colin Munnery switch on as he walks beneath them.
I have long since stopped trying to be discrete. It is clear that Prof. Colin Munnery does not suspect that I am following him. Likely he believes I am just another Professor walking home after a long day, of course, that is what I am after all. He has seen my face, he knows who I am, why would he suspect that I am anything over than the highly regarded scientist that my work suggests.
What should my next move be?
Twenty years ago, I was nothing and nobody. Who would have thought a car accident could be the best thing that could ever happen to a person. I lost a lot of blood in the accident, along with a foot of small intestine; seat belts are to blame for that.
When I woke, I knew more about astrophysics than what I knew about myself. I remembered sitting in the classroom, listening to a lecture and feeling so overwhelmed at the insignificance of our own lives. I remember spending hours at home studying; declining invitations to parties in order to study.
Unfortunately I do not remember everything. I wonder at the woman who donated her blood. Did she know what she would lose? Did she even once consider the cost of her generosity? Years of her hard work are now mine.
I enrolled into and completed a degree in astrophysics, followed by engineering, maths and philosophy, but do not think it was so easy. A lot of people have had to lose so that I can gain. It was largely put down to the stress of University life. No one suspected that their blood was being harvested; no one even noticed their pallid faces and anaemic bodies.
I have never taken too much; just enough. One roofie, and I have enough time to take a pint. One pint and I will remember the lessons that I can’t seem to learn by myself. It doesn't always work that way, my mind is filled with useless memories of family and fun. Childhood holidays, comfort blankets and first loves. How pointless the minds of some peoples are.
I have never taken too much. I have never taken everything, not untill today.
Prof. Colin Munnery is coming to the end of the path, closer to the car that I have borrowed. No one should suspect me, no one saw me borrow it. I call out
“Professor…”
He turns around and sees me. The fool is even smiling. He is still smiling when the needle goes into his neck.
| I figured this was the best way to go about this, I'd been depressed for so long and now I can finally relieve myself of the burden. I am now lying here on this hospital bed, and I'm ready. The doctor comes in.
"4 pints?" She asks in a concerned tone. "Most people would die"
"I know" I said, a windy wisp in my throat.
"And you're sure you want to go through with this?"
"As sure as I can get"
She has me do some breathing exercises to get my heart rate down, and it is pretty calming to be honest. Almost made me forget for a second there.
Then the needle penetrates. As I sit there, feeling the warmth of my red bile flow down that vinyl tube, I start to try and recall all that's happened to me. First is the meaningless stuff that goes, like what I ate for breakfast. Was it, eggs or toast? Wait, what's toast? Oh yea, cooked bread. Bread? No idea what that is. Then I start to forget the names of my coworkers. Jenny? Jane? It definitely started with a J. I remember because, Err uh I can't seem to remember. Remember what? Eh it's probably not important. The first pint is full. The doctor, hmm... I want to say Levi but maybe those were just the pants I was wearing. Anyway this person takes off the first bag and puts on another.
Again, I start to remember, at least I try to, but all I seem to do is forget. Much how people remember as their first nature, mine seemed to be forgetting. Then I couldn't remember my old address, how much money was jn my bank account, or even which bank was my primary... it's getting harder to focus now, I think I'll just close my eyes for a sec...
CAN'T
CAN'T
HELP
DOCTOR RUN
BEEEEEEP
LONG NOISE
CAN'T
DOCTOR HELP
GRAB SHOCK
OW SHOCK.
Can now. All good. Ok. I am ok. Don't know a lot. Still sad. why? Blood. Her blood, my hands. I'm sorry Sarah.
| |
..Or any discovery at all, I'm too late for Halloween anyway. | [WP] A zombie outbreak has occurred but scientists/the government actually managed to prevent an apocalypse. You're a scientist analyzing the zombie-virus when you make a horrible discovery... |
See, you know how ebola doesn’t spread very fast? Diseases that require person to person contact – through saliva or other bodily fluids – are slow moving. That makes then pretty easy to contain. Despite what most people think, the CDC actually does it’s job pretty well, and they’ve had practice. They even have a zombie outbreak survival plan – though it meant as a tongue-in-cheek preparation list for handling any outbreak.
So when the zombie plague finally hit, forces were mobilized in hours. NYC was locked down. Of course it was NYC – it’s a huge city, with ports that have incoming and outgoing traffic all day. Borough by borough they cleared the quarantine zone, and in the end only a hundred zombies had been created.
A few were transported to Plum island, as the closest Biohazard level 4 containment lab. Even the ocean breezes carry any pathogens the lab might accidentally release out to sea, where they hopefully die over the vast blue depths. Most bacteria don’t have a long half life. There were huge political arguments, but in the end the government won the right to hold half a dozen zombies in containment for further study – to analyze and process the virus in the hopes of finding a cure.
Mary Anne had worked in the lab – she’d been one of the first to sign up. Both as a post-doc with a focus on epidemiology, and as a big time zombie fan, she had lept at the opportunity to study the virus. So she didn’t find showering in and showering out, and changing clothes, and all the other biohazard precautions to be tedious, but rather exciting.
Most of the work was routine, analyzing the protein sequences and basic form and function of the previously unknown virus. Her colleagues attempted to classify it – did it have a close viral relative? Where had it come from? Was it newly evolved? While others attempted to recreate it’s effects in other species. Months of effort discovered it to be a newly evolved virus, and one that only seemed to affect primates, and not other mammal species.
Mary Anne’s focus was on transmission and latency periods – she monitored the time from initial infection to symptom onset in her small colony of spider monkeys. Lower level primates weren’t the best model, but they worked.
That was, until late one night, as Mary Anne wrapped up her data. She did her end of day check on all her animal subjects, and found monkeys in the room next door came displaying symptoms of the zombie virus. Monkeys who had never been exposed intentionally. She ran back to her lab and started further testing.
She had time to send one email to their bosses in DC. It said simply:
“VIRUS HAS MUTATED! Airborne transmission now possible.”
| It was always a long night for me, but not for many of the reasons you would assume. The neighbors dog barking too loud, a crying baby in the room next to me, restlessness, those were problems that I was excluded from. I spend my nights in a lab, working frivolously on solutions to global problems. I have mostly worked on mutated malaria strands, the AIDS epidemic, and autoimmune diseases, but as soon as I started working on this case I knew something was completely different about this disease and that it was on such a larger scale than anything I had ever worked with. The people I work under didn't see it that way though, they didn't see it as a biochemical weapon of mass destruction, they saw an isolated incident in a small village in Indonesia. I saw this virus that way too until I began to dissect it and take a closer look. When I did, I was horrified.
It could mutate, it could become waterborne, airborne, anything. It could cause necrosis, and brain aneurisms, and it could raise the dead, giving them a bloodlust. When I learned this information I took it to my superiors. They of course offered me that it was harmless, as there were already a cure. I knew better than that. As this was such an evolved piece of biological machinery that there couldn't be. It was simply too untouchable. I know that this thing will spread, but all I can do is wait. |
..Or any discovery at all, I'm too late for Halloween anyway. | [WP] A zombie outbreak has occurred but scientists/the government actually managed to prevent an apocalypse. You're a scientist analyzing the zombie-virus when you make a horrible discovery... |
See, you know how ebola doesn’t spread very fast? Diseases that require person to person contact – through saliva or other bodily fluids – are slow moving. That makes then pretty easy to contain. Despite what most people think, the CDC actually does it’s job pretty well, and they’ve had practice. They even have a zombie outbreak survival plan – though it meant as a tongue-in-cheek preparation list for handling any outbreak.
So when the zombie plague finally hit, forces were mobilized in hours. NYC was locked down. Of course it was NYC – it’s a huge city, with ports that have incoming and outgoing traffic all day. Borough by borough they cleared the quarantine zone, and in the end only a hundred zombies had been created.
A few were transported to Plum island, as the closest Biohazard level 4 containment lab. Even the ocean breezes carry any pathogens the lab might accidentally release out to sea, where they hopefully die over the vast blue depths. Most bacteria don’t have a long half life. There were huge political arguments, but in the end the government won the right to hold half a dozen zombies in containment for further study – to analyze and process the virus in the hopes of finding a cure.
Mary Anne had worked in the lab – she’d been one of the first to sign up. Both as a post-doc with a focus on epidemiology, and as a big time zombie fan, she had lept at the opportunity to study the virus. So she didn’t find showering in and showering out, and changing clothes, and all the other biohazard precautions to be tedious, but rather exciting.
Most of the work was routine, analyzing the protein sequences and basic form and function of the previously unknown virus. Her colleagues attempted to classify it – did it have a close viral relative? Where had it come from? Was it newly evolved? While others attempted to recreate it’s effects in other species. Months of effort discovered it to be a newly evolved virus, and one that only seemed to affect primates, and not other mammal species.
Mary Anne’s focus was on transmission and latency periods – she monitored the time from initial infection to symptom onset in her small colony of spider monkeys. Lower level primates weren’t the best model, but they worked.
That was, until late one night, as Mary Anne wrapped up her data. She did her end of day check on all her animal subjects, and found monkeys in the room next door came displaying symptoms of the zombie virus. Monkeys who had never been exposed intentionally. She ran back to her lab and started further testing.
She had time to send one email to their bosses in DC. It said simply:
“VIRUS HAS MUTATED! Airborne transmission now possible.”
| I had to triple-check. Quadruple-check.
I was right.
The virus wasn't a virus at all. It was just evolution - the apes who used to live among our branches climbed down, invented the wheel and next thing you know they almost wiped us out along with themselves.
How can you prevent something like THAT from happening again!?! |
It can be anything from a super flashy fights between two warriors or a quiet and tactical fight between two assassins. The only rule is make it epic! | [WP]Write an epic battle | The cool mountain air carried the scent of danger. Thand breathed deeply of the rich scent of the forest. He was alone, a rare privilege these days. As the scion of one of the five Xopa houses, and highest ranking Xopa commander in the Imperial army, his soldiers and servants always surrounded him. He knew some of the humans under his command mocked him for keeping to the old ways of his people. He snorted to himself as he thought of the puny humans and their torches, horses, guns, and dogs. No, the true test of the warrior was to face the darkness alone.
Alone in the dark, Thand drew strength from the forest. Some of the Xopa raiders captured earlier that day had cursed him as a rastilneta, the slur free Xopa used to describe their brethren who had joined the empire. Let those starving wretches call him a potted plant when he hunted alone tonight with only his blade, he thought to himself.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead, under the cold light of the moon, a panther screamed. Thand’s blood chilled at the sound as he instinctively moved toward it. His prey was a predator herself, and he silently congratulated her on her kill. He prayed to be so lucky when he would find her. His eyes were already adjusting to the darkness, and his other senses conveyed so much more of what the woods would say. He pitied his human comrades who would never know the secrets of the forest.
Despite Thand’s heightened senses, it was the whistling that alerted him to their presence. He instinctively dropped into the fighting stance taught to him by his teachers. As the son of a sinjoro, he had of course been taught to fight in the Imperial style, although his father had demanded that he and his brothers learn the old ways as well. The result had been a very peculiar blend of old and new that made Thand one of the most formidable fighters in the empire.
The whistling intensified as a dozen Xopa warriors emerged from the trees in a rough circle around him. In the darkness their chestnut skin and rich green braids blended well with the woods.
Look, a lost little rastilneta one mocked him.
All alone without any men or guns to protect him another said.
The speech of the Xopa sounded like the rustle of the wind through leaves, and carried the unmistakable lilt of laughter. Stepping forward into the clearing, Thand could see that they were lean, wiry and ropy, despite being nearly nine feet tall. They were naked except for loincloths, although the leader was wearing a pouched vest as well. Their simple costumes were in sharp contrast to Thand’s attire.
Dressed in the blue and butternut of the Imperial Army of Ortinia, with his brown leather boots, Thand looked ridiculous. As Xopa were almost one and a half times the size of a man, his tunic and pants were large and loose. At his hip he reached reflexively for his holster, only to remember that he had left it behind. The only weapon he had with him was his traditional scimitar.
Are you ready to die, rastilneta? another taunted him, as the circle feinted in and out around him.
Thand stoop up, revealing his impressive ten-foot height. “I am Thandizwe sin Arakwe. My father was Galza sin Arakwe. His father was Syabu Doxar sin Arakwe. I can trace my ancestry back to Mizuxi himself. You are nothing but bandits and beggars,” he said with a well-earned arrogance. He undid the brass buttons and shrugged off his tunic.
The moonlight revealed his beautiful, scarred body. There were marks from the fights his father had demanded of him, from the duels he had fought on his long rise to power, and from his many battles for the Ortinians. He hefted the sabre as he stared at the leader.
“This blade was made in the old way, from the stinger of the giant daggerwasp. I killed the queen and drank her dream honey myself. I blooded this blade when I was but eight summers old, on raider scum just like you,” Thand growled. His eyes flicked from warrior to warrior. Thand knew he was outnumbered twelve to one. He had to draw them in.
“When I kill you, I will burn your bodies. I will throw the ashes into the great salt. Your seed will shrivel up and die. Your spirits will be condemned to howl in the wastes for all eternity.” This last insult finally proved too much and one warrior charged him with a fierce cry.
Thand’s scimitar met his attacker in the throat, spilling his rich sweet blood on the pine needles. As the warrior’s momentum carried him forward, Thand buried his blade in the xopa’s back. The warrior’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor. A new respect appeared in the eyes of the leader and the older veterans. A growing fear warred behind the eyes of some of the younger warriors. Another charged Thand from the side.
Thand dropped his shoulder and flipped the charging warrior into the air. With a fearsome upward slash, he was coated in the blood of the warrior. His opponent was dead before he hit the ground. Thandize we, covered in blood, heard the ritual song of his ancestors on the wind. The blood lust was on him. He turned and eyed the smallest warrior. His markings were the same as the leader. Ahh, thought Thand, and here is where his weakness will lie. “Shall I kill your seedling in front of you?” he challenged the leader.
The leader’s face became a mask of rage as he ordered, KILL HIM
The circle closed on Thand. Ostris and knives flashed in the darkness in the cold light of the moon. For every wound Thand received he gave two. He repeated his mantra again and again. “I AM THANDIZWE SIN ARAKWE.” Slash, stab. “I AM THE BLOOD OF MIZUXI.” Parry, thrust. When one warrior stabbed his sword in Thand’s back he grunted and eviscerated the fool with his blade when the warrior struggled to pull it out. Another struck him in the chest before Thand’s blade cut him down. He bled from two dozen wounds as the soft ground soaked up the hot blood of eleven Xopa.
Thand staggered around like a wounded bull, slashing and parrying with his blade as he cut them down. "I AM THANDIZWE SIN ARAKWE." Another warrior fell. "I AM THE BLOOD OF MIZUXI". A Xopa warrior uttered a guttural scream as he was disembowled. "I AM THANDIZWE SIN ARAKWE." The leader's blade came up feebly. "I AM THE BLOOD OF MIZUXI." The leader’s lifeless green eyes stared at nothing as his disembodied head rolled away from his corpse. Thand fell to one knee, half wresting on his scimitar for support. No fewer than six blades had been broken on his body. Ahead of him was only the seedling, who held his blade in front of him with both trembling hands.
“Come, little weed. Come and fight me. Blood your sword on the blood of Mizuxi himself.” The seedling took a step backwards. Even mortally wounded, Thand was a terrifying sight. Thand took pity on the young warrior. Barely seven feet tall, he surely could not be much older than his tenth summer.
“This will be the song they will sing of you. You will be the one who killed Thandizwe sin Arakwe.” He cajoled the boy. “All you must do is strike me down. Give me the Warrior’s death.”
The seedling took a tentative step forward, almost running when Thand raised his curved sword. “NO!” Thand barked, “You must earn my blood, little weed. Become a warrior today, and strike me down, or I will kill you myself and burn your body.” The boy’s eyes hardened and he nodded. He lunged at Thand, who parried his inexpert thrust easily.
“Pathetic” he laughed, as the seedling picked himself up. “I will cut your hand off if you try something that foolish again.” Thand coughed up some more blood. “Do it quickly boy, or I will die with your blade unblooded.” The seedling charged again, and Thand rewarded him with a slash across the face.
The seedling howled as the blood rushed through his fingers. Thand roared up at the sky, “I have bled you. I have killed your clansmen. I have killed your FATHER. NOW will you kill me? Or are you too much of a cow-URK” Thand looked down at the blade emerging from his chest. Thandizwe looked over his shoulder at the bloody seedling who had run him through. Thandizwe grinned at him. “Your blade has taken this life,” his chest heaved as blood bubbled a the corners of his mouth, “Little warrior. Now I will show you. A true. Xopa."
The youth stood in shock as Thandizwe sin Arakwe fell forward with a thud. He pulled his sword from the corpse and turned to look for his father. His father’s head was laying on its side some distance from its body. The warrior picked it up and kissed its forehead before closing his father’s eyes. He dragged all dozen bodies to the base of a dozen trees, giving honor to all the warriors who had fallen in this battle in the wood. The sun was coming up by the time he was finished. He collected his prizes, the boots and jacket of Thandizwe, his father’s vest, the pouches of all the warriors, but left their weapons for the journey to the Beyond. The young warrior then began the long lonely trek back to his village. | *Clang pss-hing*
**cracKOW**
The sounds jolted me back to consciousness. I chose not to stir, unaware of what I would be in the middle of when I arose. The sounds of fresh battle mingled with the metallic scent of blood mist in the air. Every sword drawn, every shield strike, every cry of valiant death was music to my ears. I was born for this, raised to believe in it, and seasoned to participate in it.
This was war.
This was insanity.
This was what I lived for.
I opened one eye and shifted to find myself pinned beneath several bloody heaps of man. The poor soul immediately on top of me had his throat slit by a very nice blade stroke, clean and quick. The guy on top of him, however...he was fucked. His head had been smashed by a shield, bits of brain matter and skull gummed together like egg shells in a pile of pink tar.
I could hear the battle close by, it hadn't moved much since I had fallen from my horse. I climbed free of the bodies and reached for the nearest weapons. My hands delivered on this day, finding first a beautiful one handed longsword and next a Morningstar mace. The mace had a few spikeseconds broken off, presumably from a helm or even a particularly gruesome caving in of the skull. I gave each a swing and bellowed my return the the battle as I poured heart and soul into my charge. The first man I came upon I brought down a crushing blow from my mace upon his shoulder. He dropped to one knee and I quickly vaulted over him, turning to strike at neck with a quick slash from my blade. It connected, and the mighty blade seperated his head from his shoulders. No time to waste, the armies were in full swing. I sought another opponent, this time finding one who brought the fight to me. I braced myself and stopped his blow with a quick and powerful block. I responded by kicking him firmly in the chest, pushing him away and skewering him through the belly with a firm jab from sword.
I was just about to finish him when I felt something like a thunderclap connect with my back. I crumpled, stunned and struggling to gather my wits. I rolled on my back just in time to raise my sword and block a powerful blow from mace. A man stood above me, laughing, but I could hear no sound. Dazed, I looked around and observed the rest of the battle. Men dying, everywhere. Yet, no sounds came to me. I was deafened, and this with the heat of battle only stoked the fires of my determination. I pushed off my attacker and leapt to my feet, slashing wildly for his gut. He tried to block, but only succeeded in moving his hands in front of the blow. In one quick sweep, his hands were no more. My blade hungered for his silent scream, and I pressed onwards. One strike to the knee, now he knelt before me in pain. I towered over him, the defenseless man seeming to silently beg for mercy. I had none... his screams pierced my deaf ear and brought the sound back just as I smashed his skull in with the pommel of my blade.
I turned to face the fury and a slow smile crept across my face. The red mists and streams flew all around me, splattering my armor and my skin, staining me red with victory. The sun dipped low in the horizon as a single horn of retreat sounded, and a vicious war cry echoed from my brethren. Tonight, we remain undaunted in the face of chaos. Tomorrow, we send our enemies to dine in Valhalla. |
It can be anything from a super flashy fights between two warriors or a quiet and tactical fight between two assassins. The only rule is make it epic! | [WP]Write an epic battle | This was the last time Edgar would be bullied again.
Ivan "Skull" Skulczyck was the meanest motherfucker in the entire school district and he made sure to remind anyone who he thought needed reminding. Skull acted out a lot in elementary, this led them to the decision that boxing might give him an outlet to deal with his anger. They were half right, it made it easier for him to put the one-two together on his victims more seamlessly. Edgar was one of his many victims, having first met him at the boxing gym in middle school, however this summer he'd hit a growth spurt that put him at 6'2 and about 215 pounds. Before that he was 5' nothing and played the role of punching bag to that cum-guzzler Skull who'd always been big for his age since Edgar knew him.
Edgar's first day of the 11th grade went smoothly, just as he'd expected, but he was anticipating his walk home to be a little bumpier. After Edgar had left the gym in the 9th grade Skull missed his punching bag so much he decided to intercept him after school for a little "sparing" (sparing just meant a minute of Edgar pushed up against a wall while Skull pulverized his face). This became a bit a tradition for them after school. Today would be no different as Skull waited patiently at the mouth of the alley that stood between Red's Pharmacy and an recently opened auto parts store.
The few steps before Edgar rounded the corner he stopped for a second. He was afraid. It passed and he turned the corner past Red's and towards the alley where he knew that son of a bitch was waiting, "I know you're there asswipe," Edgar said to the alley's entrance. The alley responded by conjuring a blonde, square jawed, stocky teen. Ivan "Skull" Skulczyck. The surprise in Ivan's eyes was all Edgar needed to regain the little bit of confidence he lost a moment ago.
Ivan charged at the now taller Edgar throwing a huge right hand as soon as the former victim was in range. Edgar threw up his guard as swayed away from the punch which barely missed its mark, allowing for Edgar to throw a right straight directly at Ivan's nose. He swatted the punch away and a left jab crashed into Edgar's cheek bone and Edgar responded with a two hook combination to the body. The two punches made Ivan wince giving Edgar the chance to land a crushing uppercut to the Skull's skull, dropping him. Edgar waited patiently for his former bully to get back to his feet. Instead Ivan crawled towards the alley before working his way to his feet and running.
Edgar followed the pathetic douche-bag and ran face first into a trashcan lid. The warmth of the crimson liquid ran down his face, and suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his side as Ivan dug his sneaker into Edgar's rib he let out a weak gasp, "You're still a little whiny bitch Eddie," the bully taunted.
Ivan kept taunting and cursing at Edgar who turned his back to him trying to recover from the pain of his broken nose and hurt ribs; Edgar feels something pressing against his shoulder against the ground, not something, a rock! He grabs the rock, this much needed dues ex machina and flung it blindly and through some divine intervention, in his favor, hit Ivan right between his eyes dropping him. Edgar struggled to his feet while Ivan was stilling coming to and drunkenly stumbled towards him kicking him right in the bits, even in his semi-conscious state was hoping he'd leave him a eunuch. The kick woke Ivan up who let out a yelp in pain. Edgar still dizzy fell on his butt.
Both fighters were about as physically done as two people could be, but Edgar needed to shed this identity of chump and forced himself to his feet. Ivan used the wall as crutch trying to get to his feet, Edgar decided against it. He pushed Ivan to the floor, "I'm not your punching bag. Do you hear me you asshole?!" his voice cracked he yelled so hard. He began to kick him repeatedly, weeping with rage. The "Skull" was no more, not to Edgar anyway when he began to weep too, only his weeping was in pain and submission.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Ivan repeated in his hoarse and tear filled throat. Long after Edgar had walked home Ivan repeated those two words. Not enough to satisfy his victims, but almost.
| *Clang pss-hing*
**cracKOW**
The sounds jolted me back to consciousness. I chose not to stir, unaware of what I would be in the middle of when I arose. The sounds of fresh battle mingled with the metallic scent of blood mist in the air. Every sword drawn, every shield strike, every cry of valiant death was music to my ears. I was born for this, raised to believe in it, and seasoned to participate in it.
This was war.
This was insanity.
This was what I lived for.
I opened one eye and shifted to find myself pinned beneath several bloody heaps of man. The poor soul immediately on top of me had his throat slit by a very nice blade stroke, clean and quick. The guy on top of him, however...he was fucked. His head had been smashed by a shield, bits of brain matter and skull gummed together like egg shells in a pile of pink tar.
I could hear the battle close by, it hadn't moved much since I had fallen from my horse. I climbed free of the bodies and reached for the nearest weapons. My hands delivered on this day, finding first a beautiful one handed longsword and next a Morningstar mace. The mace had a few spikeseconds broken off, presumably from a helm or even a particularly gruesome caving in of the skull. I gave each a swing and bellowed my return the the battle as I poured heart and soul into my charge. The first man I came upon I brought down a crushing blow from my mace upon his shoulder. He dropped to one knee and I quickly vaulted over him, turning to strike at neck with a quick slash from my blade. It connected, and the mighty blade seperated his head from his shoulders. No time to waste, the armies were in full swing. I sought another opponent, this time finding one who brought the fight to me. I braced myself and stopped his blow with a quick and powerful block. I responded by kicking him firmly in the chest, pushing him away and skewering him through the belly with a firm jab from sword.
I was just about to finish him when I felt something like a thunderclap connect with my back. I crumpled, stunned and struggling to gather my wits. I rolled on my back just in time to raise my sword and block a powerful blow from mace. A man stood above me, laughing, but I could hear no sound. Dazed, I looked around and observed the rest of the battle. Men dying, everywhere. Yet, no sounds came to me. I was deafened, and this with the heat of battle only stoked the fires of my determination. I pushed off my attacker and leapt to my feet, slashing wildly for his gut. He tried to block, but only succeeded in moving his hands in front of the blow. In one quick sweep, his hands were no more. My blade hungered for his silent scream, and I pressed onwards. One strike to the knee, now he knelt before me in pain. I towered over him, the defenseless man seeming to silently beg for mercy. I had none... his screams pierced my deaf ear and brought the sound back just as I smashed his skull in with the pommel of my blade.
I turned to face the fury and a slow smile crept across my face. The red mists and streams flew all around me, splattering my armor and my skin, staining me red with victory. The sun dipped low in the horizon as a single horn of retreat sounded, and a vicious war cry echoed from my brethren. Tonight, we remain undaunted in the face of chaos. Tomorrow, we send our enemies to dine in Valhalla. |
[WP] God and Satan are retiring and are looking for potential successors. God looks for the most righteous person in the universe, while Satan looks for the most evil. All is fine until the day they approach their prospective hire, both have chosen you. | They were two and they stood on the corner of West and First in the wind and rain.
One was an old man who wore a three piece suit and carried no umbrella or coat. He was drenched and steam rolled off his shoulders in gentle waves, resting in pools at his feet. He grinned the smile of an old man gone home, and looked to the sky, hands in trouser pockets.
The other stood beside him and wore a linen tunic and the guise of young man. Around his neck he wore a heavy iron pendant and on his face a grim smile. There were still many hours of daylight left but a streetlamp above him flared into temporary brilliance and then burst, glass sprinkling with the rain around him. The young man had this effect on things.
The old man gave him a look and laughed.
'Should have never given them electricity, Friend.'
The young man looked down the intersecting streets and sighed. 'I didn't. You stole it for them, if you'll recall.'
The old man showed more teeth and nodded.
This is when I met them, walking in the wind and rain on my way home from work. I stopped across the street, checking for traffic of which there was none. The old man raised a hand and waved.
'Ho there, James!'
I thought I had misheard.
He waved me over towards them and I found myself crossing the street. The young man gave a look and waved a hand and I stopped dead in the centre of the intersection.
'Do not ensorcel the recruit.'
'What is happening right now?' I asked.
'James,' the young man spoke, 'I am the creator, God, Yahweh an-'
'Oh God.'
'Yes' He nodded 'That's right and if-'
'Am I dead?'
'No, listen-'
The old man pulled out a pocket watch with thirteen hands and smiling a smile all caramel and honey, interrupted. 'Never were very good at relating to the kids, were you? You're not dead, James. We just both happen to want a word with you.'
'Who are you?' I asked.
'My name is Morningstar.'
'He is the serpent.' The god disguised as a young man said.
The old man in the suit returned the watch and waved a lazy hand. 'Smoke and steam, old friend. Smoke and steam.'
I realised I was still standing in the street and had not yet been hit by a car. There was no traffic, no noise save our conversation and the drum of rain, and no one else along the intersection.
'Where is everyone?' I asked.
The one who named himself God closed his eyes, water tracing the curve of his eyes. 'We undid them for the moment. I'll put them back.'
The old man kicked a puddle with a worn leather shoe. 'We wanted some privacy in which to conduct our negotiation.'
Thunder cracked somewhere very close and the grey above turned black. The young man turned to the serpent, his eyes all wrath and fire and spoke with a voice like the passage of time 'No. Pacts.'
I looked into man's eyes and I saw dust spinning into planets and those same planets shattered into glass and rock a thousand times and I shuddered and knew that what they'd said was true. This was God and Devil, this was a meeting in the middle of a storm.
'Well,' God's eyes dimmed and turned their gaze to me. The serpent, grinning, followed suite. 'What's this offer then?'
'We're retiring, kid.' The Devil said 'Eternity is a young man's game and we've had our fill, paid our dues so to speak.'
I frowned and looked to God who was holding out a hand, watching rain pool in his calloused palm.
'Problem is, we need replacements. I've been looking for someone truly sinful and ol' reightous over here has been looking for the truly true and pure of heart. Somehow...' The Devil paused and wiped water from his brow. 'We both ended up with you.'
God let the water pour from his hand and creased his brow. 'I should have never made you so complex. How is it we have both found you.'
I shrugged.
'Are you particularly Sinful, James?' The devil asked.
'Not particularly.'
'Are you pure, Child?' God asked.
I gave a sideways frown.
'Brilliant.' The devil laughed. 'Well he can't replace both of us. Certainly not if he's as perfectly balanced as he seems.' The Devil laid the last sentence out in the rain like a thick worm.
'He will replace neither of you.' A voice like morning wind and long dead leaves rolled through the storm.
Dread passed across God's face and a chill ran up The Devil's spine. I looked past the two and saw a third. A woman dressed in jeans and black top.
'Stay out of this.' God raised a finger and concern cracked across The Devil's mask. 'You have no business here, Carrion Crow.'
The woman smiled kindly and lightning splintered like a ruptered artery above us. 'Do not make me undo you, Yahweh. It's not yet time for that.'
'He will be neither King of Heaven nor Lord of Hell because he is mine.' She looked at me and I felt a cool stream run through me, felt my hairs brissel and stand on end, felt the warmth of every grain of dirt and the gentle wetness of each drop of rain. 'He will be neither because he will be Caretaker of Purgatory.'
The woman walked between the old man and the young and held out a hand as she spoke.
'You know me, as all do, Mortal. I am Entropy and Decay, I am blinding light and Dreadful shade, I am first breath and last sigh, I am vacuumous void and the space between all things. I am matter and I am oblivion. I am all these things and less.' She paused and smiled not unkindly. 'Would you like to be as well, James?'
I nodded dumbly and took Death by the hand. | I am sitting at my table halfway through my meal when everything goes pitch black. The stench of sulfer fills my nose as I forcefully swallow my last bite. "What is this?", I wonder as I reach for the lamp. Yet the lamp is not there, and instead there appears dull red flames in the shape of snake eyes. Is this a dream? Am I in hell? What is going on?" I ask.
"Hello child, you have been under my watchful eyes for quite some time. You may have noticed the world has become dark, and with it so have you. Sin is at an all time high and the world is in a peak of chaos almost as much since what your history books refer to as the dark ages. My job here is done and it is my turn to rest. You are the chosen one. I have seen the beast that looms inside of you with the hate of the world in your heart. Only you can maintain the sin in the souls of the damned. Keep the flames soaring high while I slumber in another realm."
And is quick as the ominous voice entered it so left the room. A powerful feeling came rushing through my veins, with the sound of millions of tormented souls screaming in my head. This was not meant for me, it could not be for I am a believer in the good of the light. I want peace and light in the world, and I've lived a righteous life. Something was amiss here and I needed answers. As I started praying a blinding light swarmed me, as even with my eyes closed a white, cloudy landscape engulfed the horizon.
"My son, why is it that I sense a new darkness inside of you? Has my fallen angel come to you? Ah yes, then you are the chosen one. Did you think it was coincidence that he chose you to rule his domain as I have come to you with a similar proposition? I know all, and I know you are perfect. It was by no mistake that you have two personalities, you were created to be the balance. That is why you were always so conflicted. I know the one you are right now has never had an evil thought, but that other one inside you has always caught the attention of my fallen one. I knew he would pick you because only the one who has both the capacity to want to save humanity and to also destroy it, can maintain the balance of the world. As you know free will is the only reason the world exists and you are the very definition of portraying the both sides. We have grown weary trying to persuade humanity to follow our proper sides and it is time for us to rest. With that we leave you in charge. I have seen how you work with your other personality to become a gray area in between good and evil. It will no longer be a battle but a compromise. You will create a new world in which people will decide if they would like to sin or be righteous without the actual slaughter and torment of mankind. I knew the intellectual abilities me and my fallen one gave humanity would eventually cancel each other out and you will be the one to control it through creating new worlds. Farewell chosen one, I must now go slumber in another realm."
The warmth of his voice now gone, I am once again seated at my table. I've known about my other personality for years but I tried so hard to forget it was there. I guess now I have the answers to the questions of my sanity. I was made like this for a reason. By creating new worlds he must have meant the matrix-like virtual reality I wanted to push onto the world. Murderers, sinners, rapists, and the evil can act out their fantasies without affecting the righteous by believing they are really doing it in a virtual world. Wars can be fought without a single death. I do want to bring peace into the world without judging what people are into. After all to each thier own, both sinners and good-doers know what they're getting themselves into. I myself have someone inside me who has hate in his heart and who are we to judge how and why people are the way they are. Chaos and Order are two sides of the coin. Why can't there be both. As long as everyone gets a fair chance at life without affecting the others around them. This must be why I was picked by two forces, seperate but together. Could I really be the chosen one?
To the readers: thanks for taking the time to read this. This is my first time doing something like this, and writing it off my phone nonetheless. Please forgive any grammar errors, I'm not really a writer but thought I'd try it on for size. You all have a great day. | |
[WP] God and Satan are retiring and are looking for potential successors. God looks for the most righteous person in the universe, while Satan looks for the most evil. All is fine until the day they approach their prospective hire, both have chosen you. | They were two and they stood on the corner of West and First in the wind and rain.
One was an old man who wore a three piece suit and carried no umbrella or coat. He was drenched and steam rolled off his shoulders in gentle waves, resting in pools at his feet. He grinned the smile of an old man gone home, and looked to the sky, hands in trouser pockets.
The other stood beside him and wore a linen tunic and the guise of young man. Around his neck he wore a heavy iron pendant and on his face a grim smile. There were still many hours of daylight left but a streetlamp above him flared into temporary brilliance and then burst, glass sprinkling with the rain around him. The young man had this effect on things.
The old man gave him a look and laughed.
'Should have never given them electricity, Friend.'
The young man looked down the intersecting streets and sighed. 'I didn't. You stole it for them, if you'll recall.'
The old man showed more teeth and nodded.
This is when I met them, walking in the wind and rain on my way home from work. I stopped across the street, checking for traffic of which there was none. The old man raised a hand and waved.
'Ho there, James!'
I thought I had misheard.
He waved me over towards them and I found myself crossing the street. The young man gave a look and waved a hand and I stopped dead in the centre of the intersection.
'Do not ensorcel the recruit.'
'What is happening right now?' I asked.
'James,' the young man spoke, 'I am the creator, God, Yahweh an-'
'Oh God.'
'Yes' He nodded 'That's right and if-'
'Am I dead?'
'No, listen-'
The old man pulled out a pocket watch with thirteen hands and smiling a smile all caramel and honey, interrupted. 'Never were very good at relating to the kids, were you? You're not dead, James. We just both happen to want a word with you.'
'Who are you?' I asked.
'My name is Morningstar.'
'He is the serpent.' The god disguised as a young man said.
The old man in the suit returned the watch and waved a lazy hand. 'Smoke and steam, old friend. Smoke and steam.'
I realised I was still standing in the street and had not yet been hit by a car. There was no traffic, no noise save our conversation and the drum of rain, and no one else along the intersection.
'Where is everyone?' I asked.
The one who named himself God closed his eyes, water tracing the curve of his eyes. 'We undid them for the moment. I'll put them back.'
The old man kicked a puddle with a worn leather shoe. 'We wanted some privacy in which to conduct our negotiation.'
Thunder cracked somewhere very close and the grey above turned black. The young man turned to the serpent, his eyes all wrath and fire and spoke with a voice like the passage of time 'No. Pacts.'
I looked into man's eyes and I saw dust spinning into planets and those same planets shattered into glass and rock a thousand times and I shuddered and knew that what they'd said was true. This was God and Devil, this was a meeting in the middle of a storm.
'Well,' God's eyes dimmed and turned their gaze to me. The serpent, grinning, followed suite. 'What's this offer then?'
'We're retiring, kid.' The Devil said 'Eternity is a young man's game and we've had our fill, paid our dues so to speak.'
I frowned and looked to God who was holding out a hand, watching rain pool in his calloused palm.
'Problem is, we need replacements. I've been looking for someone truly sinful and ol' reightous over here has been looking for the truly true and pure of heart. Somehow...' The Devil paused and wiped water from his brow. 'We both ended up with you.'
God let the water pour from his hand and creased his brow. 'I should have never made you so complex. How is it we have both found you.'
I shrugged.
'Are you particularly Sinful, James?' The devil asked.
'Not particularly.'
'Are you pure, Child?' God asked.
I gave a sideways frown.
'Brilliant.' The devil laughed. 'Well he can't replace both of us. Certainly not if he's as perfectly balanced as he seems.' The Devil laid the last sentence out in the rain like a thick worm.
'He will replace neither of you.' A voice like morning wind and long dead leaves rolled through the storm.
Dread passed across God's face and a chill ran up The Devil's spine. I looked past the two and saw a third. A woman dressed in jeans and black top.
'Stay out of this.' God raised a finger and concern cracked across The Devil's mask. 'You have no business here, Carrion Crow.'
The woman smiled kindly and lightning splintered like a ruptered artery above us. 'Do not make me undo you, Yahweh. It's not yet time for that.'
'He will be neither King of Heaven nor Lord of Hell because he is mine.' She looked at me and I felt a cool stream run through me, felt my hairs brissel and stand on end, felt the warmth of every grain of dirt and the gentle wetness of each drop of rain. 'He will be neither because he will be Caretaker of Purgatory.'
The woman walked between the old man and the young and held out a hand as she spoke.
'You know me, as all do, Mortal. I am Entropy and Decay, I am blinding light and Dreadful shade, I am first breath and last sigh, I am vacuumous void and the space between all things. I am matter and I am oblivion. I am all these things and less.' She paused and smiled not unkindly. 'Would you like to be as well, James?'
I nodded dumbly and took Death by the hand. | A booming voice thundered inside my head, like a thought, but it definitely wasnt mine.
"What the hell Dawn Star?"
The angelic being before me cringed, his wings flexing and shoulders clenched as if readying for a fight.
He looked at me with piercing eyes that actually shone, bright yellow, then orange, then red, then yellow again, as if alive with flame.
"His words automatically translate. It has to do with Him talking through your thoughts rather than using words like civilized beings"
The earth shook, lighting cracked, and thunder boomed forth.
"And He cant take a joke. I dont believe I've introduced myself. Hi, Im Lucifer. That little voice in your head, well in everyone's head, thats God."
No this cant be. God isnt real. I mean maybe a supreme being is real, but a multi-dimensional being with the power to create universes would talk to humans. This is absurd.
"This is absurd. Tell me who you really are."
Another voice boomed into existence from inside my head.
"Fool! Do not doubt me or my angels!"
My head throbbed. And my hand is covered in blood. O shit, my nose is bleeding.
The angel before me waved his hand, and the blood was gone, my headache was gone, and my knee feels a lot better. Wow, I cant believe I'd been living with that kind of pain.
"Listen kid, God and I are done. You humans are too much trouble for too small of a reward. I mean you guys arent even born with souls anymore. That well dried up back in 1945. I dont know how but you guys killed a horseman of the apocalypse while he was in Japan. Without all of them your world cant come to an end."
Wait, apocalypse? Horsemen? "What the hell is going on?"
"Funny you should say, I'm giving you hell. Literally, you will reign over Hell."
"Wait one moment Dawn Star" the voice once again thundered. My nose is bleeding again.
"Listen big man, you have to stop that, the kid isnt Divine yet. He cant handle a divine presence without serious injury."
Everything is weird and furzy...fuzzy, or furry. Just weird. and black.
 
"what the hell where am I?!"
"Dont worry, you're in Heaven. Call me Gabriel."
"wow, gabriel is gorgeous" shit did I say that out loud? "shit, did I say that out loud?"
"Calm down dear one. the Holy Spirit tried to commune with you, but you are not divine. If it werent for Lucifer, you'd be dead. Im actually surprised He let you back in, old friend." she ended, speaking to Lucifer.
"Gabby, so nice to see you too. I take it you haven't heard the news. The big man and I are taking a break. Calling a truce as it were."
"Dont call me that. And I suppose its not a surprise, ever since WWII earth has been, well in Limbo, even more than Limbo is."
"Gabs, c'mon. We go wa-oof"
Holy shit did an angel just slap Satan in the face? "Holy shit did you just slap Satan in the face?" I need to stop talking.
"You need to stop talking. Youre still mildly concussed."
"Gabriel, was that really necessary?"
The air seem to crackle between the two angels as Gabriel stared Lucifer down.
"I'm sorry, listen, I need him, he's taking over everything."
"What do you mean I'm taking over? You havent answered any of my questions"
"Would you excuse us Gabriel?
Listen closely. God and I are quitting. We're moving on to bigger and better projects. One's that actually go according to plan. Everything is staying for you to use, the Angels, and my Demons. All the souls have already been collected and Purgatory is locked, so you dont have to worry about that one. Im giving you the keys to Hell. After that you need to go see the Big Man himself. He'll give you the keys to Heaven. We both chose you, for some reason. I was looking for the most vile human being, but it seems there is some good in you else wise He wouldn't have chose you. Gabriel will you come back in please? Take our guest to see Him if you'd be so kind. Oh wait before you go"
Lucifer clasped my arm in his firm hand, It started burning, the 'veins' in his hand started writhing. Try as I might I could not pull away. Flames tore from his eyes and mouth, his wings burned leaving only a skeletal frame, and then it all went back to normal. On my arm was a mark, a brand, with accompanying tattoo marks, emblazoned in living flames.
"The key I promise you. It is also the doorway." He raised his hand the same mark coming to life parted the air directly behind him, flames roared forth the envelope him, and he was gone.
"Come with me" the remaining angel said.
 
"Go through the door. What you see is God, or rather it will be a representation of him that you can understand."
Puzzled, I strode through the door. Worse comes to worse, I'll just flame out of here like Lucifer did.
What the hell, or what the heaven maybe? "Jeff Bridges?"
"My dude. Come in. No, I am God, this is the form that you chose for me"
He sat down and promptly poured himself, well I guess Himself, a white Russian, gently stirring in the powdered creamer with His pinky finger.
"Want one?"
"Uh, maybe just a beer?"
"Sure thing my dude. Try this one, its a local brew."
"thanks" i said, even more puzzled by the aspect that heaven has a local brew than Jeff Bridges being my God. "Uh, do you have a bottle opener?"
"Yeah man" He said whilst waving his hand, and sure enough, the cap flew right off.
"So man, you must be like really confused, huh?"
"Uh yeah I am-wow, this is amazing"
"Good huh? Arariel is a genius. So now to business. I've chosen you to lead in my stead, and apparently so has Satan. I've already made all the preparations and I am not spending another century here redoing it all, so you will have to rule both heaven and hell, and keep the balance on earth. It is a lot of responsibility, but my domain practically runs itself so no need to worry about the daily droll, or even the decadely droll. I usually check in once or twice a century. You have an overpowering sense of duty to your fellows, and you are at heart a good person, the furthest from selfish a mortal can be, not only that but you long for knowledge and are one of the few humans ever to actually be able to possess immortality. For these reasons you are my successor. Come here, drink this."
The cup He drained previously now filled again with the purest water. As I drank He placed a hand on my unmarked arm. A chilling sensation swept over my. I could feel the water drank make its way to my arm. it swirled beneath my skin. When He let go, a mark, or brand, was there, with accompanying tattoo marks, cool flowing water bright white.
And then he was gone. As I walked outside the angels bowed to me. It would seem my reign has begun. | |
[WP] You have been prank calling a foreign number for years because of the hilariously angry reactions of the victim at the number. Today men in black suits brought you in for questioning, wanting to know why you have been calling the number of a major terrorist leader so frequently. | "It was just a fucking prank call, I swear," Matt exclaimed loudly at the two black suit clad men. They stared blankly at him obviously dubious.
"Mr. Watts, " The bald man on the left said flatly. "The United States government has been searching for Timothy Driscoll for 5 years, without finding so much as a bread crumb. Then all of a sudden, we get a hit, through your cell phone. We have your phone records, Mr. Watts. You have been calling Timothy Driscoll bi-weekly for nearly 4 years. You can understand why we are hesitant to believe that you were just "crank" calling the most wanted man on U.S. soil."
Matt swallowed, but his throat was dry. He looked frantically from left to right at the two agents standing before him in the small interrogation room he'd been dragged into. "Right! Who would lie about something so stupid?"
"That's what we're trying to determine. Mr. Watts, can you tell us how you came upon the phone number is Timothy Driscoll, A.K.A. Red Death, the leader of the terrorist organization H.O.R.N.E.T.T.?"
"Huh?! Oh..I uh...Well some girl gave it to me."
"A Girl? What did she look like?"
"She was uh...hot...you know, like a real 10."
"We need specifics, Watts," The second agent said gruffly. "We don't care if she was hot, what did she look like?"
"Oh..uh...I don't really remember. I was drunk, see? I met her one night at a dive bar downtown. I asked her for her digits. She gave me this look...like...she just wanted me gone, so she wrote a number down on a napkin at the bar shoved it against my chest and sent me packing. It was kinda hot, actually. Like I was worth some booty call, which is cool with me, ya know?"
"Matt, get back on track here," The first agent said trying to direct the conversation.
"Oh, right. Anyway, So i waited a few days. Didn't want to seem desperate, right? Anyway...So I call the number expecting this chick to pick up. Only its not her. It's this really angry Irish guy on the other in. He sounded kind of annoyed, but I got real nervous and hung up. I thought I was calling this hot chick, not some angry Irish guy. When I tried again a little while later he answered again and I hung up again. I figured maybe this chick was married or something so I stopped calling for a while." Matt paused. "Hey, I've been pretty cooperative hear. Can you take these things off?"
The agents looked at each other silently then the first agent moved forward and removed the cuffs from Matt's arms.
"Thanks big guy," Matt said with a note of relief in his voice.
"Please continue, Mr. Watts," Agent Two said curtly.
"Well, like I said. I stopped calling for a while. Until one night, I was really bored at home. I had just finished smoking like my fifth.." Matt looked at the agents as they shifted at the mention of his extra curricular. "Sausage...So i decided to give the number a call again and fuck with the girl who had clearly blown me off. The guy answered again. I didn't care. I started pestering him a few times a night. I'd hang up, make animal noises and just be all around awesome. He almost always went into fits of cussing and threats. It was hilarious. It became kind of like a ritual of mine when I was bored."
The agents stared at Matt in disbelief. Agent 2 sighed in frustration. " That's the dumbest story I've ever heard. You would have us believe you've been calling this man for 4 years because you're a bored stoner loser with no life?"
"Ouch, bro. That was harsh, but basically, yeah. I swear I didn't even know who it was. Not once had the guy ever mention a name or anything...He would just yell...threaten. It was just harmless fun." | "How did you get the number?"
His suit was well pressed, fitted seemingly to accentuate his worked on build which would have been apparent in loose apparel. The voice was stern, the kind of stern that made me clench my entire body, including the parts that I never knew could be clenched. That smell. The smell of business that I only ever noticed on my arresting officer when I was 22. This smell was much more than that, but everything my senses were picking up was foreign to me. This was serious and I had never known that this type of serious existed until this man showed up. There was no introduction. A knock at my door, followed by a gruff inaudible sound by the man who then pointed me back in my apartment. Following his direction seemed to be the only option so that's exactly what I did. He was accompanied by three more men with the same suit, same smell and what I could only assume was the same voice. That voice.
"Ahem, how did you get the number?"
I was clueless. My life was fairly mundane and besides my one arrest for an ill timed public releiving on a random building, it was very innocent. He was staring at me with what I can only assume were eyes without eyelids. I didn't know how to respond but I knew I had to so I managed a timid, "Wh-what number?"
The eyes remained on me unblinking.
"We have a serious matter on our hands and you are right here in the center of it. A world crisis hangs in the balance and you are the only one who's had any contact with the threat. So, again, and I promise this will be the final time I ask nicely, how did you get the number?"
That voice was his nice voice? What did I get myself into? Those eyes. I was mostly staring at my feet only lifting my chin up when he announced he was about to talk with that inaudible sound. I had to say something. Holding back tears, I squealed, "I-I-I honestly don't know what number and I will cooperate in any way possible. Just please, pleeeaase let me help. I promise I will. I'm just confused and-and scared. I just d-don't know what you're asking me. Please please, I just want to help."
His eyes darted to one of his cohorts who subtly nodded to him. The man walked over to an end table placed next to the couch I was glued to, leaned down, and placed his right hand onto it. His lips pursed open slightly as he stared those menacing eyes right through me. I quickly positioned my eyes back at the comfort of my own feet. That sound. That inaudible sound. I looked back up at him.
"I have call logs from this number, your number, that span over the past few years to a particular number. These phone calls are frequent. There are outgoing calls that range from weekly correspondence to monthly correspondance. Each phone call ranges between fifteen to forty five seconds. Now that I've surely refreshed your memory, and I promise this time will be your final chance to contribute some information before we escalate matters immediately, I will ask again. How did you get the number?"
I went back to my happy place at the floor and feverishly tried to get my mind to focus. A phone number? A phone number that I've called frequently with abrupt conversations? I don't call anyone. I have few friends and family and any contact with them is through text or email. Phone calls? Ugh, this was going nowhere. My brain was not cooperating with me and therefore I was not cooperating with the man. Who the heck do I call on a regular basis? I order takeout alot but I have a varying stable of restaurants and none are even close to a weekly basis. It also takes way longer than fifteen seconds to place an order. I'm on hold for more time that that. Shit. I'm screwed. Wait, wait a second. Is he talking about that number? My prank phone call number? I do call that number whenever I'm bored. The guy is always so angry at me and the laughter I get from it is always a mood booster. Are they really talking about that number though? What the hell do they care about this guy for? I accidentally hit some wrong numbers dialing the damn pizza place one day and some dude that didn't speak English start shouting at me. I died laughing so I wrote down the number and since then would just prank the guy from time to time. I wasn't even original with my jokes. It was the same prank phone calls that I heard on TV or YouTube or wherever. Is that illegal? I didn't think prank phone calls were illegal.
That voice.
"You have left me no choice."
The man grabbed my arm, guided me up from the couch while his cohorts filed behind me. He practically dragged me across my hardwood floors and out my front door. I couldn't catch my feet to the stairs down to the building door so my lower body just sort of glided along. One of the men held open the glass door to the outside parking lot while I continued to try and catch my feet with the ground. As my body got drug past the door and into the sunlight, I saw a black car with black tint very much illegally parked perpendicular to the door. One of the men behind me shuttled around me, grabbed my still dangling feet and picked me up. The door holder was now holding the car door as I was unceremoniously tossed in. A glass partition separated me from the man, who sat in the passenger's seat. Another man who was not in my building sat in the driver's seat while the others went somewhere.
I manged to arrange myself back to a sitting position. The difficulty of moving from prone to sitting was far more challenging since even more body parts had clenched up unbeknownst to me. I could see the men in the front talking but I couldnt hear them. The glass partition must be sound proof. I'm in so much trouble. The tears poured from my eyes. I stayed silent and just wept into my hands as I leaned my head against the glass window. I didn't know prank calls were illegal. I swear. I didn't know. I should have known better. I should have learned my lesson from the public urination incident. But I didn't. Now I'm in the back of a black unmarked car with two men in black suits with the most serious demeanor I've ever encountered in my life headed...where? I should have been a better person. I should have just stopped after the first phone call. I should have. I just should have.
-------
"Frank, I don't know who this kid is but he's good. Real damn good. For a second I felt bad for him. He almost got me in there. I swear if you would've heard his voice and seen his demeanor you would've thought this was some random innocent kid. We have a real problem on our hands now though. I don't think he's going to talk. He plays a tough game. Played dumb, looked like he was going to cry, the whole nine yards of innocence. I thought the last guy we caught was good. That guy didn't say a word. It's been three years now he's been locked away and still not a word. I never questioned myself with him though. This fucking kid almost got me Frank. That's never happened to me before. If he didnt know that pile of shit by name, I might have bought the whole act. We might have stumbled upon one of his higher ups. His coded speak of random shit just couldnt be broken. He said it though Frank. He said his fucking name! The president is going to be real happy with this collar. This damn kid has had more contact with that fucking piece of shit terrorist than anyone we've ever caught. The monitoring of his house for years in hopes of contact. The tracking of his call logs. All of that and we got shit from it. I'm glad we called off that operation because at least we got this scumbag off the streets. He probably won't give us shit, but at least we got one more of those fuckwads on our soil. We'll get to the real scumbag one day. One God damn day. This world will be a safer place once we rid the earth of him. There will be no more Yalla Territorist Organization and there surely be no more Hugh Jass." | |
[WP] You have been prank calling a foreign number for years because of the hilariously angry reactions of the victim at the number. Today men in black suits brought you in for questioning, wanting to know why you have been calling the number of a major terrorist leader so frequently. | “Eh?”
“Hello?” I asked in a polite, yet fake, British accent. “Is Kristof there?”
“This Kristoff. Who this? American?”
“No, I am with the Ministry of Gas and Electricity. We are conducting a survey regarding,” I held the phone to my rear end and blasted a large fart into the receiver.
“You shit! I find you, I cut off your fucking head!” The man on the other end was furious. I burst into hysterics and hung up the phone. Wiping tears from my eyes, I said aloud,
“I needed that.” It had been a pretty shitty week and I needed a pick me up. I hadn’t called in weeks. It started my junior year of high school. After randomly dialing a number to prank, I found Kristoff. For years, I called him on a daily basis from every phone I could find. I sat on my bed, remembering the good times, when suddenly a small canister crashed through my window. The small canister began spitting green fog. Searing my eyes and throat, I coughed phlegm. Unable to see, I crawled towards my door, when it was kicked in!
“Kristoff found me,” I thought as everything went dark. Literally dark; I hadn’t lost conscious. Thought, I wish I had. I was tossed about the room, zip tied and dragged away with a black hood on my head.
While in the van, I tried my best to sleep, anything to shut out this madness, but I was too anxious. Any noise, question or protest was met with,
“Quiet!” A friendly gentle to the same exact rib.
Finally, after hours of sitting on a freezing slab of something, I was de-hooded and rough armed into an interrogation room. After an hour of sitting in a chilled room and just when my bladder decided it was ready to evacuate, two men walked into the room, both in suits.
“Hello, Sam,” the tall, smirking suit teased.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
“Why do you think you’re here, funny guy?” the Frowning agent growled.
“Funny guy? You mean the prank calls? Look, I’m sorry, I’ll-,” I confessed immediately. I had felt bad about it, despite the years of pleasure it gave me. However, I was rudely interrupted by Smirk,
“Prank calls, huh? Nice try, champ,” Smirk tossed a file onto the desk. “Back in 2006 you and Kristoff Tierrson began communicating. How did you get his number?”
“I- Communicating? No- I just dialed a random number-”
“Who gave you his number?” Frown hissed.
“Nobody, I swear!”
“Come on, just let us know,” Smirk put a hand on Frown’s shoulder, relaxing him. “You’re facing some pretty heavy charges. Come on. How did you get involved with guy at such a young age?”
“I was just fucking around, it was a joke-”
“You think it’s a joke to conspire with a terrorist?” Frown pounded the table.
“Conspire? I think Kristoff probably hates me.”
“Tell us,” Smirk sat on the table. “What do the farts mean?” I did my best to hold back laughing, but I had to at least join Smirk and smirk,
“What?”
“You think this is funny?!” Frown killed the buzz. “Tell us about the farts! Does a bigger fart indicate a bigger blast?!” I couldn’t do it anymore, the laughter came out. Years of pranking this guy had finally caught up to me in the worst way and on top of that, two grown men are demanding I explain to them about my farts. I lost it,
“I farted the first time and I’ve just done it ever since. It’s immature, but, it’s my signature. It’s the only thing that keeps me going in life,” I laughed at myself, “tormenting this poor stranger!”
“Do the farts indicate targets, Sam?” Smirk asked, sincerely. “Is it a code”
“No, they’r-PfffffffkkkHahahaha!” I was laughing too hard to speak.
“What do they mean!?” Frown yelled. Smirk looked through the files a bit,
“On June 3rd, 2009 you farted twice in one day. The first one was a 4 second popcorn fart at 12:09PM pacific time. The second was at 6pm, was a ‘wet and soggy.’ Explain.”
“Beans!” I sputtered through tears of hilarity. “Wait…,” I got a hold of myself once I realized something. Wiping my face on my shoulder, I chuckled lightly and asked, “I made these from so many different phones? How did you know it was me?”
“The voice recognition software caught your farts-,” Smirk started, but before he could finish, I cracked up too hard to hear him even if he was still speaking.
“This is not a joke!” Smirk was tired of me too, now. “Over 50 terrorist attacks are suspected to be organized by this man, alone! We just need something solid!”
“I know,” I snorted, “I’m sorry.”
“Then help us, if you’re sorry. Tell us where the next one will be so we can get this guy in the act.”
“Alright, alright…. Where does this guy live?”
“Finland.”
“And his attacks are all in Europe, I’m guessing?”
“Generally Italy and France.”
“Alright. Give me a phone.”
“What?? Why?!” Frown did his thing.
“Do you want my help? Or not?” A phone was brought to me. I dialed Kristoff’s number and put on a French accent,
“Eh?” Kristoff answered in his usual way.
“Ah, oui monsieur! Pardon ez moi, un momento por favor.” I never learned French.
“Bonjour? Is Français?”
“Oui, oui, monsieur, ehhhhhh,” I blasted my butt right at the phone. I had little time and
this was a rush call, and my last. It was a shame it had to end on such a sour note. However, both of the two suits smirked, I fucking saw it.
“It is you! I know this!! Where you live, you fucking shit?!”
“Hah! You’ll never find me! I just moved! Now I live on Via Santa Caterina, in Italy! Later loser!” I hung up the phone and handed it back to the suits. “There. I bet his next target will be on Via Santa Caterina.”
“Do you know how many Via Santa Caterinas there are in Italy?”
“Yeah, but I just narrowed it down from the whole world.” I was held in solitary confinement for six more months until Kristoff was finally caught and admitted to having nothing but
disdain for me. I was finally released. It was days before my release, after finding nothing but time alone to meditate that I finally decided I was over prank calls. Prank calls had finally become my old life and no longer my life. I had grown up, graduated, in a sense.
Now, I hide my poop somewhere.
| "How did you get the number?"
His suit was well pressed, fitted seemingly to accentuate his worked on build which would have been apparent in loose apparel. The voice was stern, the kind of stern that made me clench my entire body, including the parts that I never knew could be clenched. That smell. The smell of business that I only ever noticed on my arresting officer when I was 22. This smell was much more than that, but everything my senses were picking up was foreign to me. This was serious and I had never known that this type of serious existed until this man showed up. There was no introduction. A knock at my door, followed by a gruff inaudible sound by the man who then pointed me back in my apartment. Following his direction seemed to be the only option so that's exactly what I did. He was accompanied by three more men with the same suit, same smell and what I could only assume was the same voice. That voice.
"Ahem, how did you get the number?"
I was clueless. My life was fairly mundane and besides my one arrest for an ill timed public releiving on a random building, it was very innocent. He was staring at me with what I can only assume were eyes without eyelids. I didn't know how to respond but I knew I had to so I managed a timid, "Wh-what number?"
The eyes remained on me unblinking.
"We have a serious matter on our hands and you are right here in the center of it. A world crisis hangs in the balance and you are the only one who's had any contact with the threat. So, again, and I promise this will be the final time I ask nicely, how did you get the number?"
That voice was his nice voice? What did I get myself into? Those eyes. I was mostly staring at my feet only lifting my chin up when he announced he was about to talk with that inaudible sound. I had to say something. Holding back tears, I squealed, "I-I-I honestly don't know what number and I will cooperate in any way possible. Just please, pleeeaase let me help. I promise I will. I'm just confused and-and scared. I just d-don't know what you're asking me. Please please, I just want to help."
His eyes darted to one of his cohorts who subtly nodded to him. The man walked over to an end table placed next to the couch I was glued to, leaned down, and placed his right hand onto it. His lips pursed open slightly as he stared those menacing eyes right through me. I quickly positioned my eyes back at the comfort of my own feet. That sound. That inaudible sound. I looked back up at him.
"I have call logs from this number, your number, that span over the past few years to a particular number. These phone calls are frequent. There are outgoing calls that range from weekly correspondence to monthly correspondance. Each phone call ranges between fifteen to forty five seconds. Now that I've surely refreshed your memory, and I promise this time will be your final chance to contribute some information before we escalate matters immediately, I will ask again. How did you get the number?"
I went back to my happy place at the floor and feverishly tried to get my mind to focus. A phone number? A phone number that I've called frequently with abrupt conversations? I don't call anyone. I have few friends and family and any contact with them is through text or email. Phone calls? Ugh, this was going nowhere. My brain was not cooperating with me and therefore I was not cooperating with the man. Who the heck do I call on a regular basis? I order takeout alot but I have a varying stable of restaurants and none are even close to a weekly basis. It also takes way longer than fifteen seconds to place an order. I'm on hold for more time that that. Shit. I'm screwed. Wait, wait a second. Is he talking about that number? My prank phone call number? I do call that number whenever I'm bored. The guy is always so angry at me and the laughter I get from it is always a mood booster. Are they really talking about that number though? What the hell do they care about this guy for? I accidentally hit some wrong numbers dialing the damn pizza place one day and some dude that didn't speak English start shouting at me. I died laughing so I wrote down the number and since then would just prank the guy from time to time. I wasn't even original with my jokes. It was the same prank phone calls that I heard on TV or YouTube or wherever. Is that illegal? I didn't think prank phone calls were illegal.
That voice.
"You have left me no choice."
The man grabbed my arm, guided me up from the couch while his cohorts filed behind me. He practically dragged me across my hardwood floors and out my front door. I couldn't catch my feet to the stairs down to the building door so my lower body just sort of glided along. One of the men held open the glass door to the outside parking lot while I continued to try and catch my feet with the ground. As my body got drug past the door and into the sunlight, I saw a black car with black tint very much illegally parked perpendicular to the door. One of the men behind me shuttled around me, grabbed my still dangling feet and picked me up. The door holder was now holding the car door as I was unceremoniously tossed in. A glass partition separated me from the man, who sat in the passenger's seat. Another man who was not in my building sat in the driver's seat while the others went somewhere.
I manged to arrange myself back to a sitting position. The difficulty of moving from prone to sitting was far more challenging since even more body parts had clenched up unbeknownst to me. I could see the men in the front talking but I couldnt hear them. The glass partition must be sound proof. I'm in so much trouble. The tears poured from my eyes. I stayed silent and just wept into my hands as I leaned my head against the glass window. I didn't know prank calls were illegal. I swear. I didn't know. I should have known better. I should have learned my lesson from the public urination incident. But I didn't. Now I'm in the back of a black unmarked car with two men in black suits with the most serious demeanor I've ever encountered in my life headed...where? I should have been a better person. I should have just stopped after the first phone call. I should have. I just should have.
-------
"Frank, I don't know who this kid is but he's good. Real damn good. For a second I felt bad for him. He almost got me in there. I swear if you would've heard his voice and seen his demeanor you would've thought this was some random innocent kid. We have a real problem on our hands now though. I don't think he's going to talk. He plays a tough game. Played dumb, looked like he was going to cry, the whole nine yards of innocence. I thought the last guy we caught was good. That guy didn't say a word. It's been three years now he's been locked away and still not a word. I never questioned myself with him though. This fucking kid almost got me Frank. That's never happened to me before. If he didnt know that pile of shit by name, I might have bought the whole act. We might have stumbled upon one of his higher ups. His coded speak of random shit just couldnt be broken. He said it though Frank. He said his fucking name! The president is going to be real happy with this collar. This damn kid has had more contact with that fucking piece of shit terrorist than anyone we've ever caught. The monitoring of his house for years in hopes of contact. The tracking of his call logs. All of that and we got shit from it. I'm glad we called off that operation because at least we got this scumbag off the streets. He probably won't give us shit, but at least we got one more of those fuckwads on our soil. We'll get to the real scumbag one day. One God damn day. This world will be a safer place once we rid the earth of him. There will be no more Yalla Territorist Organization and there surely be no more Hugh Jass." | |
[WP] You have been prank calling a foreign number for years because of the hilariously angry reactions of the victim at the number. Today men in black suits brought you in for questioning, wanting to know why you have been calling the number of a major terrorist leader so frequently. | "First of all," I said. "Have you heard his voice? Dude's fucking hilarious. Nasal, check. High pitched, check. Funny accent, check. Added bonus, he squeaks before he shouts. The guy fucking squeaks when he gets angry! Who *wouldn't* prank call him?"
One of the agents slammed his hands down on the metal table. It echoed in the shipping container like the slamming of a prison door. "No more of this bullshit!"
The other flipped open the manilla file in front of her and drew a beautifully manicured fingernail lazily down the list of calls. She nodded to the guy, who withdrew with dignity. "Forty-nine phone calls."
"Sounds about right," I said.
"Irregularly spaced."
"I only call when I have good material," I told her. "Artistic integrity."
"Always at night."
"That's when I drink."
The man sneered at me. "Got an answer for everything, don't you?"
Paradoxically, that stumped me.
The woman flipped to the second sheet of paper. "April thirteenth. The day before the Syrian Embassy in Mumbai was bombed. You called up asking for Holden McCrotch."
I laughed, in spite of the situation. "Yeah, I remember that one."
She wasn't laughing. "The embassy insider's name was Richard Holden."
"So?"
She glared. "So you knew about Mr Holden?"
"What? No! No. Are you kidding? If I knew about a guy called Dick Holden, do you think I would have had to stretch to McCrotch? Look, I'm sure you could find a bunch of coincidences. It's a Bible Code thing, isn't it? There's bound to be -"
"November seventeenth. The evening before the attack on the offices of Der Spiegel. You phoned up asking if his refrigerator was running."
I was a little embarrassed by that one. "It was a homage. Paying tribute to the classics. I never did any Simpsons jokes. I thought that was played out, you know?"
The man sipped his coffee. "The bomb was placed in a refrigerator."
"I would never have done that," I said. "Not least of all because that's normally where they put them in the movies to contain the explosion," I said. "I thought those things were indestructible."
"A refrigerator never stopped any explosion," the woman said.
I shrugged - as well as I could in handcuffs. "Tell that to Indiana Jones," I said. The male agent reared up. "Don't hit the table!" I shouted. "That shit's really loud."
"December twelfth," she said. "The night before the hijacking of flight 525 from Latakia."
"I don't even know where that is!"
"You called to order a pizza. Insisting his number was a pizzaria's called 'The Mighty Sausage'."
"Not my best," I said. "I was thinking -"
The man threw his coffee cup against the wall. "And the next day a rocket was launched against Chennai University! Who do you think we're looking to pin this on?"
"Chennai A&M?"
He grabbed me by the lapels and dragged me upwards. The chair strained against the bolts on the floor. The metal of the cuffs grated against the bones of my wrists. "You think your smart mouth is going to get you out of this trouble?"
"Why not?" I asked. "It got me into it." He dropped me back down. I landed on my thumb, twisting it painfully. "I don't know anything about this!" I yelled. "They were just prank calls! You can't keep me here! I don't know anything!"
The woman closed the file. "We're going to give you some time to think about this," she said.
"I want my phone call," I said.
"Enemy combatants don't get lawyers," the man said.
I smiled winningly. "I wasn't going to call my lawyer," I said. "I was going to call Achmed Samir."
They both looked straight at me. "Why?" the woman said.
"You said I'd made forty-nine calls," I told them. "If I'm going to be thrown into Guantanamo Bay for the rest of my life, I at least want to make an even fifty." | "Wait..What?!" I yelled to the men, both with a blank expression on their faces
"We see you called the number 240-555-8692, so frequently that it is threatening to why you are calling that much." One of the two quickly snapped back
"Uh..why does it matter?" I said in a concerned voice
The two men looked at each other and noded;
"Sir the person you are calling is a major terrorist leader..we've already seen your criminal history, we were honestly shocked at the little crimes you've commited..so why have you been calling Mr. Naifeh?"
I was stunned.. "I have been **fucking prank calling a terrorist leader for the past 4 years?!**" I thought to myself.
"Uh..it..was...uh" My heart is pounding by now
"I..I have been prank calling him for the past 4 or so years now.."
The men looked at each other.. they honestly looked like they wanted to just blow my head off and leave..
**"Sir.."** I could hear him physically cringing his teeth
**"What..TYPE..of prank calls?"** He said..
I looked over to the other man, by now he looked like he was about to punch me in my teeth
"Uh..like..uh..Should I gave an example of a conversation I had with him?"
**"Sure..sir.."**
I was sweating by now.. but.. alright now to pretend prank call a terrorist leader infront of 2 MIB
*"Hello? Who the hell is this?"*
"Hey boss.. I got you your partners vibrator shipment.."
*"God damnit STOP FUCKING CALLING ME!"*
"Sir what are you talking about? I have them.. oh and the guys are bringing in the box of herpes cream at the moment sir."
*"IF YOU CALL ME AGAIN ILL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!"*
The man who had been silent for most of my questioning told me I was then free to leave.. when I was leaving I could hear them slamming something on the table.. | |
[WP] Those aren't freckles, they're a star map. | 'So many of them,' said Arlos, placing his hand on the glass of the huge curved window of the viewing gallery. 'They're so beautiful.'
I turned my attention back to the view outside. The stars certainly were beautiful. A huge bronze-coloured nebula took up most of the view right now, its heart scintillating with tiny pinpricks of light. Around it lay the dark expanse of deep space, a place that struck both fear and awe into both our hearts.
'Just think,' said Arlos. 'Every one of those stars could have a planet in orbit around them, a planet that could harbour intelligent life. There could be hundreds or even thousands of Earth-like worlds out there just waiting to be discovered. We just have to get to them.'
He looked sidelong at me. He had that look in his eyes again, that look that betrayed his complete and utter fascination with the cosmos. I smiled back at him.
'You realise how long it would take to do that?' I said. 'You could spend a lifetime exploring a single planet if it was interesting enough. To find one where the inhabitants might be anything like us, you'd have to be practically immortal.'
'I'd happily spend my life flying from star to star if I could,' he replied, staring at a distant red dwarf as he spoke. 'Still, I'd like to know that we weren't alone in the universe before I die.'
I sighed and put my hand on the glass beside his, the heat from my skin steaming the glass slightly.
'I know how you feel,' I said. 'But how would we ever find them?'
Arlos nodded sadly and exhaled slowly through his nose as he looked up at our hands on the glass. 'Yes, it's a dream that I fear will never be...' He trailed off.
I looked at his face, raising an eyebrow. 'Never be...what?' I said. I followed his gaze up to my hand on the glass. 'What are you staring at?'
'The back of your hand, Lira...' he said, taking his hand off the window and pointing at my hand. 'Look at that set of freckles.'
Freckles? I knew their pattern like... well, the back of my hand, but they were just some oddly arranged freckles. They weren't anything special: just five light brown specks in a pattern roughly like an arrow pointing at my index finger's knuckle.
'What about them?' I said. Arlos gestured for me to move my head slightly to the right and then pointed at a patch of stars just above and to the right of the the nebula. I squinted at what he was pointing at, then at the pattern on my hand, then back again.
There was no doubt about it. The stars matched them exactly.
'Those aren't freckles,' he said. 'They're a star map.'
***
'Are you sure we should be doing this?' I said, following Arlos into the shuttle bay. 'Why don't we just tell our parents about the stars?'
Arlos paused halfway up the stairway of one of the long-range shuttles. 'They'd just say it was a coincidence or tell us they'd send a probe. Trust me, they wouldn't want to waste resources on something they thought would be a waste of time. But I know this is something real.' He turned and walked into the shuttle.
'But Arlos!' I cried, following him up into the cockpit. He was already booting up the systems and flicking switches. I felt the engines hum as they wound up to speed.
'You can't just steal a shuttle and go exploring for an alien planet that may or may not exist!' I said. 'All you have to go on is a bunch of freckles on my hand!'
'That's enough for me,' he said. The shuttle rocked slightly as it floated out of the shuttle bay on its antigravity thrusters. I saw the space station slowly receding from view through the windscreen. There was a moment as the attitude adjusters turned the nose to point at the distant constellation.
I blanched as I felt the warp drive rumble into life and quickly pulled myself into the co-pilot's seat, strapping myself in. Arlos reached up and pulled a large switch down on the dashboard, and everything dissolved in a bright storm of white-blue light.
***
I finally opened my eyes as the light faded. We weren't anywhere near where we had started, that much was certain. Ahead of us, a grey-green planet floated in the void, partially occluding the bright young sun behind it. I looked over at Arlos, who was staring at the planet.
'We're here,' he said.
Suddenly, the radio on the dashboard flickered into life. A deep, rasping voice spoke from the speakers, startling us both.
'Greetings, Lira,' it said. 'It is good to finally have you back.' | "I can see the big dipper on your face!" I laughed, pointing at my friend Tina.
She scowled and replied with a sharp "fuck you".
"Chill, it's just a joke" I said
"You don't get it"
She stared at me and a great sadness reflected in her eyes. I saw the cosmos swirl inside of them, galaxies and spirals mesmerizing me, rooting me to the spot.
"I am so high right now" I said, blowing out smoke from my mouth. | |
[WP] You become the master of fate after getting a fortune cookie with no fortune in it. | I never thought an order of spring rolls would change my life.
But to be fair, they were really good spring rolls.
As I walked away from the Yellow Dragon Chinese Food Restaurant, crumpling my grease-stained pouch, I thought about Carly. She was the one who first introduced me to the Yellow Dragon. We had broken up almost a year ago (ten months, actually). Every time I thought that I was over her, I found something that reminded me of her, something that was old and new at the same time. I sighed as I mashed the crosswalk button with my elbow. Red hand, do not walk, wait your turn. I looked at the people waiting with me as I unwrapped my fortune cookie. A tired mom with two kids, one in a stroller. Guy from Best Buy who just got off work. Gay couple, holding hands and talking and laughing.
I don't know why, but I felt bad for the couple. I had this impending sense that they were in for a rough time together. Maybe I was projecting. Maybe I was being intrusive. Maybe I was a wizard and they actually were about to hit a rough patch. I laughed at the thought of me in wizard robes as I glanced at my slip of paper from the cookie. My lucky number were apparently 5 11 25 26 77. I flipped it. All it said was that the word for "pathway" was "路".
That was weird. I turned the paper over several times to be sure. "There's no fortune..." I whispered to myself. As I said it, a blast of steam came from a nearby grate, carrying my non-fortune into the night. I started coughing and hacking. Carly used to carry my emergency inhaler. The mom pulled her toddler close, not wanting him to catch a cold.
As my fit ended, I looked up at the crossing light, tears in my eyes. No red hand. No white man. No numbers, even. It was just blank. The small entourage of people on the corner started to mumble to each other.
It was at that moment I just kinda said fuck everything to myself. Cars were still driving on the road, but I didn't care. I put my hands in my coat pocket and started walking. The mom and Best Buy started shouting at me, but I didn;t here them. If I didn't have a fortune, I'd make my own fortune. I closed my eyes, and...
...I had crossed the street. Cars were whizzing by at 60 miles an hour, but I just...walked by. A nearby florist, an older jewish lady, rushed outside to make sure I was okay, but I was thinking about something else. The couple wasn't holding hands anymore.
The crossing light flickered back on, and everyone crossed the street. Except one of the gay guys. He was facing the other way, arms crossed. The guy crossing the street looked heartbroken. I knew that look. I had been looking like that for ten months now.
Suddenly, I knew exactly what to do. It felt like I was having a memory of something that hadn't happened yet. As the guy passed, I grabbed him by the sweater. Which was actually pretty hard, since he was a bigger guy. He stopped and turned to me, still dejected. "Hey, hands off the threads, weirdo."
I stopped for a second. His voice was really high, and I wasn't expecting that from a guy his size. And not high as in the stereotypical flamboyant voice, I mean as in Frankie Valli's head voice high. I shook my head and asked him his name. "Colby. Not that it matters..." he squeaked.
I snatched a bouquet of roses from the florist's stand and thrust them towards him. "Okay Colby, here's what you're going to do. Take these, give them to your boyfriend, and say you're sorry. For whatever you did, say you're sorry. And you have to be honest about it." He was about to interrupt, but I cut him off. "Even, even if you're not sorry, say it. Don't say 'I'm sorry that I did that', no, say 'I'm sorry that I hurt you'. You two are a team. There are going to be bumps in the road, but you have to work through it together. Otherwise you'll just have so much junk piled around your relationship, that you may lose something beautiful forever."
Colby looked shocked. The florist looked more shocked. I didn't realize it, but I had started crying a little. I knew what I needed to tell Carly now. Colby said "How did you know?"
"Would you believe me if I said it was because I was hungry?" I tossed the florist some bills and ran into the night. I didn't know where she lived now, but that didn't matter. I had a feeling I would find her. | [On Phone. Might improve later]
I crack open my fortune cookie, eager to read the small slip of paper that comes with it. I knew they meant nothing, but, you never know. Could make a nice story if some crazy coincidence happens.
The fortune fell onto the table, picking it up, I read it:
Nothing. I looked to the back, still nothing. 'That's odd' I thought to myself. I've never seen a misprinted fortune like this. I mean, I eat a lot of Chinese food, so there have been many strangely print fortunes, but never completely blank.
And I thought of something. I thought of my superstition-crazed friend Jason. I take a pen from my pocket and write in my print like handwriting: "Jason will perish". It almost looked legit.
I text Jason "dude come over, gotta show spacetime"
"*something fuck autocorrect"
10 minutes later, he is in my apartment.
"He-" I interrupt him, and try to put on the most concerned and scared face I could.
"Take a look at this. I said, and held up my fortune to him. He read it to himself. His face contorted to a look of terror. It was hard to hold back my laughter and keep my serious face. Finally, it breaks out, and I fall on the floor from laughter
"Dude, stop laughing! This is a serious matter"
"No it isn't, that fortune was blank, I just write that on it." I answered, still recovering from my small laughing fit. He blushed slight, before, joining me in laughter. We had a short conversation, and he left for home. It
was felt quite late after all, though it just was a lot darker with winter coming. I cleaned my dinner, laid in my bed, and browsed reddit on my phone for another hour before I fell asleep.
I awoke next morning to my phone getting a text. From my friend Mark: "hey have you heard?"
"No" I responded. I wondered what could be so important he had to wake me up at... I checked the time. 11 a.m. Ok, maybe I slept in a bit. I get a text back.
"Jason died last nite"
Wait what? I thought back to last night, and my fortune. Was it a dream? Stepping into the kitchen, I saw the slip of paper. It still said the same words: "Jason will perish"
Maybe it was a coincidence, but...
I took out my pen, and wrote: "and it will rain"
As I finished the 'n', the previously sunny day turned dark, and thunder shook the room.
My mind raced with possibilities. All the things I could write on this paper. I could change fate itself! I... I... I realized what the best thing to write down would be. And so I took the pen, and wrote down: "and you will lose this fortune forever"
And just like that, it was gone.
| |
[WP]During the first testing of human teleportation, the person who arrives is not the same as the person who was teleported. | When the darkness faded from his vision, Kimblee found himself circled by the same strange creatures he discovered hours earlier. This time there was more than one and they wear dressed in long bone white cloaks that covered most of their flesh. It was as if they were ashamed by what lay beneath their strange fabrics. The spiraling black void lingered behind him, waiting for Kimblee's.
The two-legged creatures squawked the same harsh language as the first. The noise rattled Kimblee to his core. His instinct was to lash out like he did with the first one, but he kept his composure. He had taken precautions before entering the void and dressed himself in the invader's skin. It was a good fit, their soft flesh proved easy enough to stitch back together into a wearable sack of meat.
Kimblee was amazed to spot even more of these creatures hiding behind invisible walls in a balcony above. So many...enough to feed his family for a whole month once he brought them back through the void.First things first. He wore the skin of these creatures so he must act the part.
Kimblee recalled the first thing the invader said to him and he repeated it, "Hello, my name is James. I am from Earth." | Johnson dropped his spoon into his coffee as he stared slack-jawed at the news stream in his kitchen. On the screen, with an equally confused face, was himself. He had a different haircut, an official "U.N.S.D" uniform, but there was no question that it was him, with his notably long nose and narrow chin. Scientists swarmed the version of himself who had stepped through the purple, pulsating portal and the confused silence erupted into excited chattering.
"Ted." His wife, Marge, asked. "Why are you on T.V?"
"I-I don't know." Ted Johnson said as he placed his cup on the table. "I think I need to make a call."
As it turns out, they had not discovered human teleportation, not in the way they intended, anyway. They had discovered inter-dimensional teleportation. The man who was supposed to step through the portal stepped into the world where it was Ted who was selected to be the first living human to test the technology. The decision ultimately came down to how each candidate answered near identical interview questions, where an enormous amount of factors ultimately led to opposite outcomes. The days, months and even years following lead to perhaps the most confusing and important inter-dimensional negotiations in history. | |
[WP] Many years in the future. You are a student that puts no effort into getting correct information. Your homework is to summarize the existance of an ancient civilization in one paragraph. Your teacher has assigned you to write your paragraph on "Humans from Earth". | Humanity rose and fell as a species on its single home planet, Earth, named for its primary feature: Dirt. At the height of their civilization, Humanity developed its greatest invention: the Smartphone. These devices were only called phones due to their ability to make phone calls, but truly they were a link to an extra-dimensional being named Siri. Humans would use this connection to get information and recommendations on travel directions, restaurants, places to hide corpses and major life decisions. When a child came of age at 13, he would consult Siri on what to do with his adult life as his relatives celebrated around him and lifted him up in a chair. This was called a Bar-Mitzvah.
Humans were a truly inventive species. Over the years Humans found a way to get on to their own moon while somehow not ever discovering gravity manipulation, a feat that has never been reproduced throughout the federation. It is said that when Lance Armstrong - a Starsailor or as humans called them, a Bicyclist - took his first step onto the moon he said "We're no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I".
Over time, humanity declined as a civilization. Some scholars believe that Siri tricked the humans into creating a device that would infect them with a compulsion to always be staring at their phones. This was called a Selfie Stick. The loss in productivity due to people becoming trapped in the so called selfie-state eventually lead to a global economic collapse that proved to doom humanity. Other scholars believe there was a great war over two sides of a document held dear to most humans. Roughly half of the society deemed the Right Twix more valuable, while the other half asserted that the Left Twix should hold a more prominent place. Either way, humanity never traveled the stars and eventually became a forgotten memory of our galaxy. | From humble beginnings, foraging in caves and hunting the available mammals, the human developed civilisation. From the humble beginnings of human sacrifices, inhumane torture, and wanton destruction, the species evolved to merely sacrifice humans, torture in the least inhumane ways it could legally justify, and destroy wantonly only that which was politically wise. Eventually, the civilisation, delicately balanced on the arbitrary assignation of monetary value to incorporated institutions collapsed under the weight of its own complication, unable to sustain itself. With little or no perceived value to any of its most significant assets, when the perception of wealth vanished, it had nothing to fall back on and crumbled. Its final days were as its first; foraging in caves and hunting the available mammals. | |
[WP] You owe Lucifer your soul. He doesn't want it. | "Well," Barry said reluctantly, "I have to admit: that was the best donut I've had in my entire life." He patted his oversized belly with a mixture of regret and guilt. He had been on the diet his wife pressured him into for the past four months now, and it had taken a toll on him from a psychological standpoint.
So when he had said: "I would *literally* sell my soul for a chocolate iced boston creme donut" he had only been slighly startled when Satan himself appeared with a silver platter containing the very pastry he had requested, looking more succulent than even his fondest memories. If it hadn't been for that damned diet, he would never have taken the offer. But then, if he had not been so sincere in his exclamation, it would not have attracted the personal attention of the Prince of Darkness, either.
So now the deal was done. The donut was eaten, and Barry was quite ready to suffer the consequences. "So," he asked, "How's this gonna work? Heart attack? Stroke? Car accident? How am I gonna kick it?"
Lucifer raised a hand, and waved dismissively. "Oh, that's quite alright, my dear fellow. I wasn't actually looking for your soul. I just noticed how sincerely you seemed to want that donut and after all, considering who you are, I felt it was the least I could do."
"Considering who I am? What's that supposed to mean?" Barry asked.
But Old Scratch just chuckled dismissively and said, "Let's just say, it doesn't serve my purposes to take you at this juncture."
"Wait a minute!" Barry told him, "A deal's a deal. I don't cheat people who deal honestly with me."
"Another point for my case," Beelzabub pointed out with a lighthearted shrug.
"Now hang on here!" Barry insisted, wondering if he should be insulted now. "Are you trying to tell me my soul isn't *suitable* for Hell or something?"
"Now, now, my friend. You really are taking this all wrong. You had yourself a fine donut, with my compliments. And your soul is just fine. Really," said the Father of Lies.
Eventually, Barry nodded in acknowledgement and grumbled a relucant thanks as he put on his hat and stepped away from the old Archfiend and returned to the crowded street on his way to work.
He was so distracted thinking about the incident that he bumped an old lady, who stumbled into a young man with a mohawk and lip piercings who shouted at her to watch where she was going. This in turn meant mohawk-guy wasn't watching where he was going and knocked the ball out of the hand of a young child playing on the sidewalk.
The ball bounced into the street, where the child chased after it. Horns blared and a car screeched to a halt in a nick of time. The cars behind him were not so lucky, and before you knew it, rush hour traffic was backed up in twenty car pile up. Sixteen people were injured, one killed.
But probably most notable in the grand scheme of things, the traffic tie up delayed a UN diplomat on his way to a troublesome negotiation between two little known, yet highly belligerent nations who had been on the verge of being at one another's throats for decades. As far as the hostile opposing parties were concerned, this failure to show up for negotiations was the final insult that demanded a response.
Things escalated between them in a series of military posturing gone way overboard, and before long, the two old rivals were in a viscious bloody war. More powerful nations urged them to end the bloodshed, but they wouldn't listen. Among those other nations were two rival superpowers who superficially claimed to be interested in ending the bloodshed, but it soon became apparent that each side had interests in backing opposite sides of the original conflict, so that before long, the superpowers themselves were engaged in a bitter cold war which constantly threatend to thaw and ignite.
When a misunderstanding at sea caused one of those superpowers to sink a battleship belonging to the other, the situation finally boiled over, and it was not too long before the missiles began to fly. World War III was upon us.
.
And then one day, as he hurried along the city streets, eyes frantically scanning the skies and ears peeled for the sound of air raid sirens, Barry happened to bump into a familiar face among the crowds of otherwise terrified citizens. Sure enough, it was the Angel of Darkness himself. Though a year had passed since what Barry now thought of as the "free donut" incident, he recognized his benefactor instantly.
"Well, well," drawled Mephistopheles, "If it isn't my old friend Barry. A fine job you did for me, my little Catalyst. You'll recall, of course, that fine donut you requested that set off our association?"
"What about it?" Barry asked suspiciously.
"Well, as I'm sure you've guessed by now, I like the practice the Fine Art of Evasive Truth from time to time, and I dare say, I'm fairly good at it." He waved a hand at the darkened skies, and the frightened civilians awaiting imminent doom. "So, what do you say, Barry? Now that you've played the tiny role I needed you to play, would you care for one more donut just for old time's sake?"
"Oh no you don't!" Barry told him, "You had your chance!" And he turned without a backwards glance and hurried on his way. Satan just shrugged and laughed as he watched him go. As deals went, this one had already been quite satisfyingly profitable.
| Annabelle had never seen Lucifer so distraught before, his eyes filled with the kind of pain he was only used to causing. She looked down at the corpse that he loomed over. The color had fallen from her once lively skin and the blood that came from the large gash in her stomach finally stopped flowing.
"Lucifer... I'm still here." She whispered softly to him, "My soul will forever live here... with you."
"No." He grunted at her, "I will not trap you down here with me." He shoved himself to his feet, tearing his eyes away from her body. "This is my fault, this is all my fault!"
"Don't say that," Annabelle reached out for him, "this is where we were going to end up sooner or later. My soul has been marked as yours ever since I fell in love with you. Please, Lucifer, just take it. Please!" Her hands passed through his skin as she tried to grasp his arm.
"I don't want it!" He bellowed so loudly the walls seemed to shake with his anger. Annabelle retracted, backing up against the bed they used to share. Her bottom trembled as she fell into the fiery blankets that used to warm their bodies with the sin of their love.
"That's it then? You will banish my soul to purgatory instead of keep me here with you?"
"That's exactly it. Leave me. I want nothing to do with your soul."
| |
[WP] You owe Lucifer your soul. He doesn't want it. | Besides the receptionist sitting at her desk, Iris Fox sat alone in the sparsely decorated waiting room. Cool white LEDs illuminated the glass and concrete architecture of the room as the receptionist's constant typing was the only thing breaking the silence.
Iris ran her fingers through her long black hair as she fixed her suit and tie. One might argue the outfit looked too masculine, but the impeccable tailoring that outlined her slender figure and her attractive facial features usually overruled any further critique.
The receptionist stopped typing abruptly and a blank expression appeared on her face as she stared into the distance slightly above the computer hologram. She slowly turned her head to the side as if to hear a whisper then turned to Iris,
"He will see you now." the receptionist said flatly, a blank expression still on her face. She continued typing as Iris stood up and walked through the sliding glass door.
Inside, floor-to-ceiling frameless glass windows of the corner penthouse office afforded a commanding view of the rainy city. A thin minimalist desk, and two chairs on either side of it were the only furniture in the room. Iris looked around the empty office and turned to exit but stopped as she sensed another presence in the room. She slowly turned around to see a man in a suit standing behind the desk, admiring the rain.
Iris walked up to the desk and saw a slightly bloodied dagger and a sheet of paper with nothing but a red wax seal and a drop of blood on it. She looked up at the figure.
"That's not yours." the figure said, still admiring the rain.
Iris looked back down at the desk, the dagger and paper no longer on it.
"I'm here to close out our agreement." Iris said.
The figure turned and took a long look at Iris, then looked away, eyes squinted and lips pursed in thought.
"If it's any consolation," the figure began, "I may have a job for you."
The figure paused and looked back at Iris.
"That requires you to keep it."
Iris tried not to show interest and she was partially successful.
"What's the catch?" Iris asked.
"Heh," the figure chuckled, "after everything we agreed to and everything that's happened to you since then, you're still afraid I might undermine you somehow? I've tried that before and it doesn't work out for *anyone*."
Iris thought about this for a moment. He was right. Everything that she had requested in their contract had come true or come to fruition without any detrimental effects. Or at least effects that she could reckon first hand. She didn't care otherwise.
"What's the job?" Iris asked.
"How much do you know about death?" The figure asked, taking a seat.
Iris squinted her eyes in thought,
"Well, it happens to everybody." Iris answered.
The figure gave her a smirk. Iris noticed this and slowly took her seat, her interest slightly piqued.
"Have you heard of Thana Capital?" the figure continued.
Iris shook her head.
"They started as an investment banking firm. Since then they've diversified to other industries; mainly the pharmaceutical and the aerospace/defense sector. Their CEO?" the figure paused and looked at Iris, "Is Death."
The figure sat back in his chair. Iris slowly did the same as her mind raced.
"Death. As in.." she said, her voice trailing off.
"Yes." the figure replied, "He approves departures."
"So what do you want me to do?" Iris asked.
"I need you to infiltrate his company and gather any information on how to...postpone departure." The figure said, "Preferably indefinitely."
"That seems a little altruistic." Iris said, a tone of cautiousness in her voice.
"The body you see is merely a vessel," The figure explained. "It ages and when my time is up, I randomly inhabit another and believe me, I've been a suicide bomber, child soldier, or a starving person in Africa more often than a person with access to clean water and a goddamn toilet. This billionaire CEO before you, is one of the best vessels I've been in and I'd like to keep it."
"Why is it a requirement that I keep my...you know," Iris asked, patting her chest.
"Because Death is the only one there without one. He'll know if you don't have yours." The figure replied. "Unlike here, all of his workers are normal people, oblivious to who they're *really* working for."
"What's in it for me?" she asked.
"Besides the potential for immortality, I'll give you whatever you want after the job is done, no payment required."
"Well after the last contract, I already have everything I want." Iris replied.
"I'm sure you can figure something out before then."
Iris crossed her arms and stared out of the windows at the rain, contemplating the offer.
"I'll do it." | Annabelle had never seen Lucifer so distraught before, his eyes filled with the kind of pain he was only used to causing. She looked down at the corpse that he loomed over. The color had fallen from her once lively skin and the blood that came from the large gash in her stomach finally stopped flowing.
"Lucifer... I'm still here." She whispered softly to him, "My soul will forever live here... with you."
"No." He grunted at her, "I will not trap you down here with me." He shoved himself to his feet, tearing his eyes away from her body. "This is my fault, this is all my fault!"
"Don't say that," Annabelle reached out for him, "this is where we were going to end up sooner or later. My soul has been marked as yours ever since I fell in love with you. Please, Lucifer, just take it. Please!" Her hands passed through his skin as she tried to grasp his arm.
"I don't want it!" He bellowed so loudly the walls seemed to shake with his anger. Annabelle retracted, backing up against the bed they used to share. Her bottom trembled as she fell into the fiery blankets that used to warm their bodies with the sin of their love.
"That's it then? You will banish my soul to purgatory instead of keep me here with you?"
"That's exactly it. Leave me. I want nothing to do with your soul."
| |
[WP] You owe Lucifer your soul. He doesn't want it. | I looked at the business card He'd given me, making sure I was at the right place. I flipped it over, looking at the handwriting on the back to be sure I had the correct instructions.
Everything checked out - I was here, this was it.
Sighing, I put the card back in my suit's breast pocket and looked up at the restaurant. He'd chosen the classiest, most expensive restaurant in the middle of the priciest part of downtown, but He'd assured me that He'd be footing the bill. Otherwise, I'd have pushed to meet Him at a dive bar.
Making sure I'd brushed my hair neatly, and that my beard had been trimmed, I walked up the front steps and opened the door. The biting cold of the outdoors quickly faded into the comforting warmth of inside as I walked inside into the yellowish-orange glow of the lights.
The maitre'd, a thin man in a tuxedo, looked up from his spot at the front desk.
"Welcome, sir. Do you have a reservation?", he said in a slight British accent.
I took a red envelope out of my pocket and handed it to him, "Yes, I'm here to meet Mr. Morningstar."
He opened it and had a look at the card inside, before tearing out a small card and handing it to me.
"He's in the King's Room. Straight ahead, take a right at the end of the bar, and it's at the end of the Hallway. Give this card to the large man at the door."
I did as he'd instructed, and sure enough there was a very large man standing in front of a door labelled *KING'S ROOM*. Without speaking, I handed him the card. Acknowledging it with a grunt, he let me in.
I nervously took a seat in front of Him next to a fire pit, which now that I think about it had to be some kind of building code violation.
"You're early", he said, his cool voice barely above a whisper, "I like that."
"I hate wasting time", I replied, "Wouldn't want to waste yours."
He chuckled, "So considerate of you. Go ahead, pour a drink if you want one."
There was a small table with a few bottles of wine, and a single glass. Too my satisfaction, I noticed my favourite brand of Mead, and poured a glass. We did a quick toast before He continued.
"When you first approached me with your offer, I must admit I found it highly amusing. You wouldn't have been the first to have come to me about something like that, offering your soul. I don't always accept such deals."
"Someone had to do something. I'd seen all the footage of people begging, screaming to... God for help, to save them. And what does He do? Nothing. And where's the International Community? Sitting and watching as those bastards cut innocent people apart while screaming His praises. Because they don't want to risk their 'investments'."
I took a drink of my mead. *Not too strong, but nice and sweet - just how I like it.*
"I always heard the crap about 'God's Will', and 'He works in mysterious ways'. Bullshit, I say - nothing more than a cop out. An excuse to let bad shit happen to good people, and feel okay about it. The world burns, and we say He wanted it this way."
He smiled as he sipped his cognac, "He does have a strange way of doing, or rather... not doing things. I've known Him for quite some time, as you'd imagine."
There was about 10 seconds of silence before I spoke again.
"You said that people have come to you about this sort of thing before. Why did you accept *my* offer?"
He put his drink down, and leaned forward.
"Everyone has things they want to do, but few of those people actually have the will to carry it out and see it to the end. A young child says they want to be an astronaut, yet backs down when they see how hard it truly is. Someone might go into law enforcement, yet when faced with the hatred of an always-unsatisfied public, they crack under pressure. Someone might join the military, only to drop out of Boot Camp when the screaming of the Drill Instructors becomes too much for them. *DESIRE* is one thing, *WILL* is another."
He picked up his drink and took a sip before setting it back down.
"I accepted YOUR offer, because I sensed that out of all the people who approach me regarding things like this, DESIRING to do something about it, you were one of the few people with the WILL to act."
I couldn't help but smirk. Lucifer Himself had just given me a compliment.
"Also, this had been stirring for years before it... 'exploded' recently. He did nothing then, and He did nothing now. I had to send Him a very strong message."
I took a drink, "What sort of message?"
"*If You won't protect them, then I will!*"
"And that's why you had me 'do it', right?"
"Yes. I couldn't Myself go so blatantly out in the open and make such an... overt action. Half of Heaven would be on me in an instant! I've found a more subtle approach works best in many cases - draws less attention, and by the time your adversary can react, it's too late."
I finished my glass, "Did so many really have to die to send this message?"
"I believe you have a metaphor regarding omelettes..."
I took a few moments to digest this. *All the time I thought I was doing something to stop a bunch of fucking religious nutjobs from slaughtering innocent people, I was being used to 'send a message' to God?*
He finished his drink, "Now, on the subject of payment for this deed..."
I reached into an inside pocket and removed a pouch. An intense white glow shone through the thick leather.
"I know, the price was my so-..."
He held up his hand, "Keep it. You've earned it."
"... what?"
"I honestly didn't expect that you, despite your Desire and Will, could not only complete the task, but exceed my expectations to such a staggering degree. I've no need for your soul, because I can see you're much stronger with it."
I stood up slowly, "Thank you, Lucifer."
He too stood up, and shook my hand, "My pleasure. Can I look forward to meeting with you again?"
"That depends on the offer.", I said as I turned towards the door.
"Well, if we start having more religious genocides - Christians on Muslims, and the like - you're on my rolodex."
The door shut firmly behind me, and seemed to disappear. Soon there was just a dead-end hallway.
I stopped into the Men's Room on my way out. I didn't speak to anyone, aside from a quick nod to the bartender and the maitre'd.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I walked straight into someone big.
"Ah! Sorry 'bout tha -"
My voice caught in my throat. He was even bigger than Lucifer's doorman. A black man, at least eight or nine feet tall, clad in obsidian armour with some kind of spear strapped to his hip. Two glistening white wings, each as long as he was tall, flared out from his back.
"I apologize for the interruption, sir. But I must speak with you regarding what just happened."
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm afraid that pronouncing my true name in your presence would kill you and everyone within a hundred miles. But you may call me **Michael**." | Annabelle had never seen Lucifer so distraught before, his eyes filled with the kind of pain he was only used to causing. She looked down at the corpse that he loomed over. The color had fallen from her once lively skin and the blood that came from the large gash in her stomach finally stopped flowing.
"Lucifer... I'm still here." She whispered softly to him, "My soul will forever live here... with you."
"No." He grunted at her, "I will not trap you down here with me." He shoved himself to his feet, tearing his eyes away from her body. "This is my fault, this is all my fault!"
"Don't say that," Annabelle reached out for him, "this is where we were going to end up sooner or later. My soul has been marked as yours ever since I fell in love with you. Please, Lucifer, just take it. Please!" Her hands passed through his skin as she tried to grasp his arm.
"I don't want it!" He bellowed so loudly the walls seemed to shake with his anger. Annabelle retracted, backing up against the bed they used to share. Her bottom trembled as she fell into the fiery blankets that used to warm their bodies with the sin of their love.
"That's it then? You will banish my soul to purgatory instead of keep me here with you?"
"That's exactly it. Leave me. I want nothing to do with your soul."
| |
[WP] You owe Lucifer your soul. He doesn't want it. | I looked at the business card He'd given me, making sure I was at the right place. I flipped it over, looking at the handwriting on the back to be sure I had the correct instructions.
Everything checked out - I was here, this was it.
Sighing, I put the card back in my suit's breast pocket and looked up at the restaurant. He'd chosen the classiest, most expensive restaurant in the middle of the priciest part of downtown, but He'd assured me that He'd be footing the bill. Otherwise, I'd have pushed to meet Him at a dive bar.
Making sure I'd brushed my hair neatly, and that my beard had been trimmed, I walked up the front steps and opened the door. The biting cold of the outdoors quickly faded into the comforting warmth of inside as I walked inside into the yellowish-orange glow of the lights.
The maitre'd, a thin man in a tuxedo, looked up from his spot at the front desk.
"Welcome, sir. Do you have a reservation?", he said in a slight British accent.
I took a red envelope out of my pocket and handed it to him, "Yes, I'm here to meet Mr. Morningstar."
He opened it and had a look at the card inside, before tearing out a small card and handing it to me.
"He's in the King's Room. Straight ahead, take a right at the end of the bar, and it's at the end of the Hallway. Give this card to the large man at the door."
I did as he'd instructed, and sure enough there was a very large man standing in front of a door labelled *KING'S ROOM*. Without speaking, I handed him the card. Acknowledging it with a grunt, he let me in.
I nervously took a seat in front of Him next to a fire pit, which now that I think about it had to be some kind of building code violation.
"You're early", he said, his cool voice barely above a whisper, "I like that."
"I hate wasting time", I replied, "Wouldn't want to waste yours."
He chuckled, "So considerate of you. Go ahead, pour a drink if you want one."
There was a small table with a few bottles of wine, and a single glass. Too my satisfaction, I noticed my favourite brand of Mead, and poured a glass. We did a quick toast before He continued.
"When you first approached me with your offer, I must admit I found it highly amusing. You wouldn't have been the first to have come to me about something like that, offering your soul. I don't always accept such deals."
"Someone had to do something. I'd seen all the footage of people begging, screaming to... God for help, to save them. And what does He do? Nothing. And where's the International Community? Sitting and watching as those bastards cut innocent people apart while screaming His praises. Because they don't want to risk their 'investments'."
I took a drink of my mead. *Not too strong, but nice and sweet - just how I like it.*
"I always heard the crap about 'God's Will', and 'He works in mysterious ways'. Bullshit, I say - nothing more than a cop out. An excuse to let bad shit happen to good people, and feel okay about it. The world burns, and we say He wanted it this way."
He smiled as he sipped his cognac, "He does have a strange way of doing, or rather... not doing things. I've known Him for quite some time, as you'd imagine."
There was about 10 seconds of silence before I spoke again.
"You said that people have come to you about this sort of thing before. Why did you accept *my* offer?"
He put his drink down, and leaned forward.
"Everyone has things they want to do, but few of those people actually have the will to carry it out and see it to the end. A young child says they want to be an astronaut, yet backs down when they see how hard it truly is. Someone might go into law enforcement, yet when faced with the hatred of an always-unsatisfied public, they crack under pressure. Someone might join the military, only to drop out of Boot Camp when the screaming of the Drill Instructors becomes too much for them. *DESIRE* is one thing, *WILL* is another."
He picked up his drink and took a sip before setting it back down.
"I accepted YOUR offer, because I sensed that out of all the people who approach me regarding things like this, DESIRING to do something about it, you were one of the few people with the WILL to act."
I couldn't help but smirk. Lucifer Himself had just given me a compliment.
"Also, this had been stirring for years before it... 'exploded' recently. He did nothing then, and He did nothing now. I had to send Him a very strong message."
I took a drink, "What sort of message?"
"*If You won't protect them, then I will!*"
"And that's why you had me 'do it', right?"
"Yes. I couldn't Myself go so blatantly out in the open and make such an... overt action. Half of Heaven would be on me in an instant! I've found a more subtle approach works best in many cases - draws less attention, and by the time your adversary can react, it's too late."
I finished my glass, "Did so many really have to die to send this message?"
"I believe you have a metaphor regarding omelettes..."
I took a few moments to digest this. *All the time I thought I was doing something to stop a bunch of fucking religious nutjobs from slaughtering innocent people, I was being used to 'send a message' to God?*
He finished his drink, "Now, on the subject of payment for this deed..."
I reached into an inside pocket and removed a pouch. An intense white glow shone through the thick leather.
"I know, the price was my so-..."
He held up his hand, "Keep it. You've earned it."
"... what?"
"I honestly didn't expect that you, despite your Desire and Will, could not only complete the task, but exceed my expectations to such a staggering degree. I've no need for your soul, because I can see you're much stronger with it."
I stood up slowly, "Thank you, Lucifer."
He too stood up, and shook my hand, "My pleasure. Can I look forward to meeting with you again?"
"That depends on the offer.", I said as I turned towards the door.
"Well, if we start having more religious genocides - Christians on Muslims, and the like - you're on my rolodex."
The door shut firmly behind me, and seemed to disappear. Soon there was just a dead-end hallway.
I stopped into the Men's Room on my way out. I didn't speak to anyone, aside from a quick nod to the bartender and the maitre'd.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I walked straight into someone big.
"Ah! Sorry 'bout tha -"
My voice caught in my throat. He was even bigger than Lucifer's doorman. A black man, at least eight or nine feet tall, clad in obsidian armour with some kind of spear strapped to his hip. Two glistening white wings, each as long as he was tall, flared out from his back.
"I apologize for the interruption, sir. But I must speak with you regarding what just happened."
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm afraid that pronouncing my true name in your presence would kill you and everyone within a hundred miles. But you may call me **Michael**." | "Well," Barry said reluctantly, "I have to admit: that was the best donut I've had in my entire life." He patted his oversized belly with a mixture of regret and guilt. He had been on the diet his wife pressured him into for the past four months now, and it had taken a toll on him from a psychological standpoint.
So when he had said: "I would *literally* sell my soul for a chocolate iced boston creme donut" he had only been slighly startled when Satan himself appeared with a silver platter containing the very pastry he had requested, looking more succulent than even his fondest memories. If it hadn't been for that damned diet, he would never have taken the offer. But then, if he had not been so sincere in his exclamation, it would not have attracted the personal attention of the Prince of Darkness, either.
So now the deal was done. The donut was eaten, and Barry was quite ready to suffer the consequences. "So," he asked, "How's this gonna work? Heart attack? Stroke? Car accident? How am I gonna kick it?"
Lucifer raised a hand, and waved dismissively. "Oh, that's quite alright, my dear fellow. I wasn't actually looking for your soul. I just noticed how sincerely you seemed to want that donut and after all, considering who you are, I felt it was the least I could do."
"Considering who I am? What's that supposed to mean?" Barry asked.
But Old Scratch just chuckled dismissively and said, "Let's just say, it doesn't serve my purposes to take you at this juncture."
"Wait a minute!" Barry told him, "A deal's a deal. I don't cheat people who deal honestly with me."
"Another point for my case," Beelzabub pointed out with a lighthearted shrug.
"Now hang on here!" Barry insisted, wondering if he should be insulted now. "Are you trying to tell me my soul isn't *suitable* for Hell or something?"
"Now, now, my friend. You really are taking this all wrong. You had yourself a fine donut, with my compliments. And your soul is just fine. Really," said the Father of Lies.
Eventually, Barry nodded in acknowledgement and grumbled a relucant thanks as he put on his hat and stepped away from the old Archfiend and returned to the crowded street on his way to work.
He was so distracted thinking about the incident that he bumped an old lady, who stumbled into a young man with a mohawk and lip piercings who shouted at her to watch where she was going. This in turn meant mohawk-guy wasn't watching where he was going and knocked the ball out of the hand of a young child playing on the sidewalk.
The ball bounced into the street, where the child chased after it. Horns blared and a car screeched to a halt in a nick of time. The cars behind him were not so lucky, and before you knew it, rush hour traffic was backed up in twenty car pile up. Sixteen people were injured, one killed.
But probably most notable in the grand scheme of things, the traffic tie up delayed a UN diplomat on his way to a troublesome negotiation between two little known, yet highly belligerent nations who had been on the verge of being at one another's throats for decades. As far as the hostile opposing parties were concerned, this failure to show up for negotiations was the final insult that demanded a response.
Things escalated between them in a series of military posturing gone way overboard, and before long, the two old rivals were in a viscious bloody war. More powerful nations urged them to end the bloodshed, but they wouldn't listen. Among those other nations were two rival superpowers who superficially claimed to be interested in ending the bloodshed, but it soon became apparent that each side had interests in backing opposite sides of the original conflict, so that before long, the superpowers themselves were engaged in a bitter cold war which constantly threatend to thaw and ignite.
When a misunderstanding at sea caused one of those superpowers to sink a battleship belonging to the other, the situation finally boiled over, and it was not too long before the missiles began to fly. World War III was upon us.
.
And then one day, as he hurried along the city streets, eyes frantically scanning the skies and ears peeled for the sound of air raid sirens, Barry happened to bump into a familiar face among the crowds of otherwise terrified citizens. Sure enough, it was the Angel of Darkness himself. Though a year had passed since what Barry now thought of as the "free donut" incident, he recognized his benefactor instantly.
"Well, well," drawled Mephistopheles, "If it isn't my old friend Barry. A fine job you did for me, my little Catalyst. You'll recall, of course, that fine donut you requested that set off our association?"
"What about it?" Barry asked suspiciously.
"Well, as I'm sure you've guessed by now, I like the practice the Fine Art of Evasive Truth from time to time, and I dare say, I'm fairly good at it." He waved a hand at the darkened skies, and the frightened civilians awaiting imminent doom. "So, what do you say, Barry? Now that you've played the tiny role I needed you to play, would you care for one more donut just for old time's sake?"
"Oh no you don't!" Barry told him, "You had your chance!" And he turned without a backwards glance and hurried on his way. Satan just shrugged and laughed as he watched him go. As deals went, this one had already been quite satisfyingly profitable.
| |
[WP] You owe Lucifer your soul. He doesn't want it. | I looked at the business card He'd given me, making sure I was at the right place. I flipped it over, looking at the handwriting on the back to be sure I had the correct instructions.
Everything checked out - I was here, this was it.
Sighing, I put the card back in my suit's breast pocket and looked up at the restaurant. He'd chosen the classiest, most expensive restaurant in the middle of the priciest part of downtown, but He'd assured me that He'd be footing the bill. Otherwise, I'd have pushed to meet Him at a dive bar.
Making sure I'd brushed my hair neatly, and that my beard had been trimmed, I walked up the front steps and opened the door. The biting cold of the outdoors quickly faded into the comforting warmth of inside as I walked inside into the yellowish-orange glow of the lights.
The maitre'd, a thin man in a tuxedo, looked up from his spot at the front desk.
"Welcome, sir. Do you have a reservation?", he said in a slight British accent.
I took a red envelope out of my pocket and handed it to him, "Yes, I'm here to meet Mr. Morningstar."
He opened it and had a look at the card inside, before tearing out a small card and handing it to me.
"He's in the King's Room. Straight ahead, take a right at the end of the bar, and it's at the end of the Hallway. Give this card to the large man at the door."
I did as he'd instructed, and sure enough there was a very large man standing in front of a door labelled *KING'S ROOM*. Without speaking, I handed him the card. Acknowledging it with a grunt, he let me in.
I nervously took a seat in front of Him next to a fire pit, which now that I think about it had to be some kind of building code violation.
"You're early", he said, his cool voice barely above a whisper, "I like that."
"I hate wasting time", I replied, "Wouldn't want to waste yours."
He chuckled, "So considerate of you. Go ahead, pour a drink if you want one."
There was a small table with a few bottles of wine, and a single glass. Too my satisfaction, I noticed my favourite brand of Mead, and poured a glass. We did a quick toast before He continued.
"When you first approached me with your offer, I must admit I found it highly amusing. You wouldn't have been the first to have come to me about something like that, offering your soul. I don't always accept such deals."
"Someone had to do something. I'd seen all the footage of people begging, screaming to... God for help, to save them. And what does He do? Nothing. And where's the International Community? Sitting and watching as those bastards cut innocent people apart while screaming His praises. Because they don't want to risk their 'investments'."
I took a drink of my mead. *Not too strong, but nice and sweet - just how I like it.*
"I always heard the crap about 'God's Will', and 'He works in mysterious ways'. Bullshit, I say - nothing more than a cop out. An excuse to let bad shit happen to good people, and feel okay about it. The world burns, and we say He wanted it this way."
He smiled as he sipped his cognac, "He does have a strange way of doing, or rather... not doing things. I've known Him for quite some time, as you'd imagine."
There was about 10 seconds of silence before I spoke again.
"You said that people have come to you about this sort of thing before. Why did you accept *my* offer?"
He put his drink down, and leaned forward.
"Everyone has things they want to do, but few of those people actually have the will to carry it out and see it to the end. A young child says they want to be an astronaut, yet backs down when they see how hard it truly is. Someone might go into law enforcement, yet when faced with the hatred of an always-unsatisfied public, they crack under pressure. Someone might join the military, only to drop out of Boot Camp when the screaming of the Drill Instructors becomes too much for them. *DESIRE* is one thing, *WILL* is another."
He picked up his drink and took a sip before setting it back down.
"I accepted YOUR offer, because I sensed that out of all the people who approach me regarding things like this, DESIRING to do something about it, you were one of the few people with the WILL to act."
I couldn't help but smirk. Lucifer Himself had just given me a compliment.
"Also, this had been stirring for years before it... 'exploded' recently. He did nothing then, and He did nothing now. I had to send Him a very strong message."
I took a drink, "What sort of message?"
"*If You won't protect them, then I will!*"
"And that's why you had me 'do it', right?"
"Yes. I couldn't Myself go so blatantly out in the open and make such an... overt action. Half of Heaven would be on me in an instant! I've found a more subtle approach works best in many cases - draws less attention, and by the time your adversary can react, it's too late."
I finished my glass, "Did so many really have to die to send this message?"
"I believe you have a metaphor regarding omelettes..."
I took a few moments to digest this. *All the time I thought I was doing something to stop a bunch of fucking religious nutjobs from slaughtering innocent people, I was being used to 'send a message' to God?*
He finished his drink, "Now, on the subject of payment for this deed..."
I reached into an inside pocket and removed a pouch. An intense white glow shone through the thick leather.
"I know, the price was my so-..."
He held up his hand, "Keep it. You've earned it."
"... what?"
"I honestly didn't expect that you, despite your Desire and Will, could not only complete the task, but exceed my expectations to such a staggering degree. I've no need for your soul, because I can see you're much stronger with it."
I stood up slowly, "Thank you, Lucifer."
He too stood up, and shook my hand, "My pleasure. Can I look forward to meeting with you again?"
"That depends on the offer.", I said as I turned towards the door.
"Well, if we start having more religious genocides - Christians on Muslims, and the like - you're on my rolodex."
The door shut firmly behind me, and seemed to disappear. Soon there was just a dead-end hallway.
I stopped into the Men's Room on my way out. I didn't speak to anyone, aside from a quick nod to the bartender and the maitre'd.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I walked straight into someone big.
"Ah! Sorry 'bout tha -"
My voice caught in my throat. He was even bigger than Lucifer's doorman. A black man, at least eight or nine feet tall, clad in obsidian armour with some kind of spear strapped to his hip. Two glistening white wings, each as long as he was tall, flared out from his back.
"I apologize for the interruption, sir. But I must speak with you regarding what just happened."
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm afraid that pronouncing my true name in your presence would kill you and everyone within a hundred miles. But you may call me **Michael**." | Besides the receptionist sitting at her desk, Iris Fox sat alone in the sparsely decorated waiting room. Cool white LEDs illuminated the glass and concrete architecture of the room as the receptionist's constant typing was the only thing breaking the silence.
Iris ran her fingers through her long black hair as she fixed her suit and tie. One might argue the outfit looked too masculine, but the impeccable tailoring that outlined her slender figure and her attractive facial features usually overruled any further critique.
The receptionist stopped typing abruptly and a blank expression appeared on her face as she stared into the distance slightly above the computer hologram. She slowly turned her head to the side as if to hear a whisper then turned to Iris,
"He will see you now." the receptionist said flatly, a blank expression still on her face. She continued typing as Iris stood up and walked through the sliding glass door.
Inside, floor-to-ceiling frameless glass windows of the corner penthouse office afforded a commanding view of the rainy city. A thin minimalist desk, and two chairs on either side of it were the only furniture in the room. Iris looked around the empty office and turned to exit but stopped as she sensed another presence in the room. She slowly turned around to see a man in a suit standing behind the desk, admiring the rain.
Iris walked up to the desk and saw a slightly bloodied dagger and a sheet of paper with nothing but a red wax seal and a drop of blood on it. She looked up at the figure.
"That's not yours." the figure said, still admiring the rain.
Iris looked back down at the desk, the dagger and paper no longer on it.
"I'm here to close out our agreement." Iris said.
The figure turned and took a long look at Iris, then looked away, eyes squinted and lips pursed in thought.
"If it's any consolation," the figure began, "I may have a job for you."
The figure paused and looked back at Iris.
"That requires you to keep it."
Iris tried not to show interest and she was partially successful.
"What's the catch?" Iris asked.
"Heh," the figure chuckled, "after everything we agreed to and everything that's happened to you since then, you're still afraid I might undermine you somehow? I've tried that before and it doesn't work out for *anyone*."
Iris thought about this for a moment. He was right. Everything that she had requested in their contract had come true or come to fruition without any detrimental effects. Or at least effects that she could reckon first hand. She didn't care otherwise.
"What's the job?" Iris asked.
"How much do you know about death?" The figure asked, taking a seat.
Iris squinted her eyes in thought,
"Well, it happens to everybody." Iris answered.
The figure gave her a smirk. Iris noticed this and slowly took her seat, her interest slightly piqued.
"Have you heard of Thana Capital?" the figure continued.
Iris shook her head.
"They started as an investment banking firm. Since then they've diversified to other industries; mainly the pharmaceutical and the aerospace/defense sector. Their CEO?" the figure paused and looked at Iris, "Is Death."
The figure sat back in his chair. Iris slowly did the same as her mind raced.
"Death. As in.." she said, her voice trailing off.
"Yes." the figure replied, "He approves departures."
"So what do you want me to do?" Iris asked.
"I need you to infiltrate his company and gather any information on how to...postpone departure." The figure said, "Preferably indefinitely."
"That seems a little altruistic." Iris said, a tone of cautiousness in her voice.
"The body you see is merely a vessel," The figure explained. "It ages and when my time is up, I randomly inhabit another and believe me, I've been a suicide bomber, child soldier, or a starving person in Africa more often than a person with access to clean water and a goddamn toilet. This billionaire CEO before you, is one of the best vessels I've been in and I'd like to keep it."
"Why is it a requirement that I keep my...you know," Iris asked, patting her chest.
"Because Death is the only one there without one. He'll know if you don't have yours." The figure replied. "Unlike here, all of his workers are normal people, oblivious to who they're *really* working for."
"What's in it for me?" she asked.
"Besides the potential for immortality, I'll give you whatever you want after the job is done, no payment required."
"Well after the last contract, I already have everything I want." Iris replied.
"I'm sure you can figure something out before then."
Iris crossed her arms and stared out of the windows at the rain, contemplating the offer.
"I'll do it." | |
[WP] A new drug is discovered that induces lucid dreaming. An overdose causes permanent coma. The hospitals are filling up. | Chad:*Unemployment is down thirty percent. Crime rates are falling to match. And the man responsible for all this is here tonight. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jeff Holden*
The presenter stood up extending one arm out to the side of the stage where the esteemed psychologist enters. Jeff and Chad Morissen, the presenter, share an handshake as the two men sit down. After exchanging the required conversation to the new guest, How was the flight?, Enjoying your stay in the city?, Chad stirs the conversation in the main direction.
Chad:*The question on everyone's minds Jeff is, how did you consider Audio Academic Therapy as a solution to this problem?*
Sitting forward in his chair, Dr.Jeff Holden placed his hands together and started to gesture as he spoke.
Jeff:*Well once the ability to awaken one from the Sleepx coma was developed, with all credit to my colleague Dr.Kuang, we as a race saw that we still faced the same problem. Only a small fraction that awake ceased complete use of the drug. The vast majority continued their appearances at the hospital. This is when I began my research on the topic. I found that by observing several users, when using the drug and when off, I could deduce several theories. The users often told me that external sources could be perceived, mainly through smell and hearing. This is why many played their favorite music in the backround or had scented candles lit. Unlike regular dreams they retained vivid detail of these dreams from start to completion. Keep that in mind. Next I had a look at the types of people who this drug affected severely, my original subjects were functional members of society who have been taking the drug for several years with no noticeable detrimental affects to their physical or psychological health. My research in the demographic of people entering the hospital in a comatose state revealed that the vast majority were repeat unemployed users with little or no family and friends. They would simply come in and out of the constant dream environment because it was, to them, a viable escape from a life where they see themselves having no prospects.*
Chad:*I see how you came about with developing the therapy, yes, that is extraordinary. But how did you bring computer science into this idea?*
Jeff:*Actually that is a funny story that I was just about to get to, I was working with a Phd student of mine, he would rather not be named and drawn into the spotlight, who gave me that idea. One day when I was giving him advice on his thesis he had his laptop open. His idea involved several dynamic psychological tests hidden in video games. He had a code open and was adjusting several things. The structure was simple, all aspects of the code in question had comments underneath explaining exactly what each piece was doing. The best part was it was all words, numbers and symbols. Things that could easily be described through audio. From there I visited a few friends in Trinity College's Computer Science department. Once they were on board I had them, using audio only, put together an entire semester of a computer science course. The finished product was two hundred and fifty hours long. With this, I hired three subjects from the original few I had observed. Over the course of several sessions they each listened to the audio. With explicit instructions to not study this material other than the audio while using the drug. The results were astounding. Each subject showed over ninety five percent knowledge retention and with simple hints during a second test that retention was a solid one hundred percent.*
The crowd clapped along with Chad. As the audience slowed their clap Chad raised his hands to urge them to cease.
Chad:*Magnificent. Please continue, it is from here that you start implementing the therapy into hospitals is it?*
Jeff:*No, no, no. That was merely one semester of the course and it was two hundred and fifty hours long. With an entire college degree worth of material we were easily pushed over two thousand hours. That is eighty three days one would need to listen to the audio while under the effect of the drug. That was not acceptable. It was something one of my original subjects had said that sparked my next experiment into the matter. After one session that lasted ten hours, he said,"That was ten hours? It felt like a year". This made me think, if we accelerated the audio could retention stay as high. With new subjects we conducted the time-information retention experiments. Starting at double speed and eventually working our way to as high as twenty fold. Incredibly, we were getting on average above eighty percent retention, falling exponentially, around fifteen fold speed. Hence, our subjects were getting, and retaining, a working college education in computer science in less than six days of total listening time.*
The roar of the crowd came just as Jeff finished his last sentence. Chad was clapping along with them, this time allowing them to finish at their own accord. When they calmed down, Chad continued.
Chad:*So lets recap. You find a means to educate users of this drug in computer science with, relatively to standard learning, a incredibly fast method. I can see how this reduces the amount of unemployed being admitted to hospital but what stops them from using the drug afterwards? Does this immense learning cause harm? What if the person has a bad lucid dream while this is being administered, and then is basically stuck in a a hell where for all eternity, or the length of time it feels to them, they are taught computer science? So many questions left to be answered, and hopefully they will be, after this commercial break.*
| Dr. Koosman ran through the halls of Stanford University's neuroscience building pushing through esteemed colleagues leaving a trail of papers falling to the ground in his wake. He made it out the door and headed toward his car. After his mad dash it had become difficult to breathe. He wheezed through the discomfort, locking his seatbelt securely across his waist. Punching the car into gear, Koosman left campus hoping he could make it across town in time to save an entire ward full of patients.
He knew it couldn't have been an overdose. Everyone knew it couldn't have been an overdose. How could it be? One drop of the medication causes the user to drop into a REM cycle within seconds. For so many people to be comatose in such a short span of time, there had to be another explanation.
Koosman had been studying one of the comatose patients in his laboratory before he spilled through the hallways of the prestigious facility. They were going to start decomissioning the patients. Before they even understood what was happening they were going to kill them. They neuro-signatures told a very different story than what was being disseminated through the news outlets. They weren't dreaming anymore, their bodies were in actual turmoil.
Scars would appear on the bodies without cuts, blood, or stitches. They were losing blood volume without shedding a drop. Their brains showed they were in tremendous amounts of pain. All of these confusing symptoms were enough for loved one to remove the patients from life-support. They were still alive though, Koosman knew it deep within his soul.
The hospital ten more minutes away, his mind was racing trying to form an explanation that would matter. One that could change all of their minds. An explanation that didn't include the phrase "astral sparring." | |
[WP] A new drug is discovered that induces lucid dreaming. An overdose causes permanent coma. The hospitals are filling up. | "Doctor, the patient's going to die."
"No, he isn't."
The crowd of nurses rush around me, some fast, some slow. Meredith, never the most spry of the shift, is waddling desperately around clutching notes for bed 2A, oblivious to the fact that we're actually crash-carting 2B and all she's doing is getting in the way. I watch at the centre of it all in a calm, serene medical detachment.
Doctors have the ability to grant life or death. They call it a God complex. And by God, I have it.
"Doctor?"
"Ephinephrine, stat."
I watch as the auto-injector goes straight in, leaving its tell-tale bullseye prick, where a needle goes in and the circle from the auto-injector pushes a little too deep into the flesh. It's beautiful, not unlike Lyme disease. Of course, this wasn't caused by a tick, or will leave you with symptoms so horrid you...
"Nothing. Doctor?" The nurses are crowded around the bed now. They're waiting for my signal, my word of command. IV lines on standby, crash cart in the corner. It's a scene of immaculate, scrub-clad precision. Surgical precision, one might say, if this were surgery.
It's not. It's ER and I know what happened to this patient a full 30 seconds ago. I saw it in the twitch, that REM tell-tale sign that every Hypnos junkie has. I also spotted the burn mark on the lip, where the patient took his hit and touched the hot pipe against the flesh. It leaves a little sear.
"It's fine," I say, calmly once more. This may be the first time the nurses have to deal with it, but I've seen Hypnos throughout the city. The comas, the families reaching out, the lost loved ones and the long forgotten. They are the forlorn hope of humanity, drifting throughout their dreams, not wanting to wake up.
"What do you mean?" The voice is a little screachy now, full of shock and surprise. They're wondering why I'm being so casual about it.
"He's just a Hypnos junkie," I say, placid and soothing. The epinephrine will give his system a little jump start, but if his vitals are stable - HR spikes now, BP 140/110mmHg but crashing - he'll be fine. All we can do is wire him up with IV fluids, slip in a little TPN to keep him going, and wait for him to bother to wake up.
"Doctor, is that really professional?" The nurse asks.
I turn to her, grab her round the waist, and kiss her.
"No, nurse. Nor was that. But if you want this man up, so be it." I point my finger at him and lift him out of the bed. He floats like David Copperfield, right in front of the spectators. Suddenly he awakens, and dances the can-can. Beautiful.
God complex? Sure. In the wonderful world of Hypnos, I am a God. Why should I ever wake up? | Dr. Koosman ran through the halls of Stanford University's neuroscience building pushing through esteemed colleagues leaving a trail of papers falling to the ground in his wake. He made it out the door and headed toward his car. After his mad dash it had become difficult to breathe. He wheezed through the discomfort, locking his seatbelt securely across his waist. Punching the car into gear, Koosman left campus hoping he could make it across town in time to save an entire ward full of patients.
He knew it couldn't have been an overdose. Everyone knew it couldn't have been an overdose. How could it be? One drop of the medication causes the user to drop into a REM cycle within seconds. For so many people to be comatose in such a short span of time, there had to be another explanation.
Koosman had been studying one of the comatose patients in his laboratory before he spilled through the hallways of the prestigious facility. They were going to start decomissioning the patients. Before they even understood what was happening they were going to kill them. They neuro-signatures told a very different story than what was being disseminated through the news outlets. They weren't dreaming anymore, their bodies were in actual turmoil.
Scars would appear on the bodies without cuts, blood, or stitches. They were losing blood volume without shedding a drop. Their brains showed they were in tremendous amounts of pain. All of these confusing symptoms were enough for loved one to remove the patients from life-support. They were still alive though, Koosman knew it deep within his soul.
The hospital ten more minutes away, his mind was racing trying to form an explanation that would matter. One that could change all of their minds. An explanation that didn't include the phrase "astral sparring." | |
[WP] A new drug is discovered that induces lucid dreaming. An overdose causes permanent coma. The hospitals are filling up. | "Doctor, the patient's going to die."
"No, he isn't."
The crowd of nurses rush around me, some fast, some slow. Meredith, never the most spry of the shift, is waddling desperately around clutching notes for bed 2A, oblivious to the fact that we're actually crash-carting 2B and all she's doing is getting in the way. I watch at the centre of it all in a calm, serene medical detachment.
Doctors have the ability to grant life or death. They call it a God complex. And by God, I have it.
"Doctor?"
"Ephinephrine, stat."
I watch as the auto-injector goes straight in, leaving its tell-tale bullseye prick, where a needle goes in and the circle from the auto-injector pushes a little too deep into the flesh. It's beautiful, not unlike Lyme disease. Of course, this wasn't caused by a tick, or will leave you with symptoms so horrid you...
"Nothing. Doctor?" The nurses are crowded around the bed now. They're waiting for my signal, my word of command. IV lines on standby, crash cart in the corner. It's a scene of immaculate, scrub-clad precision. Surgical precision, one might say, if this were surgery.
It's not. It's ER and I know what happened to this patient a full 30 seconds ago. I saw it in the twitch, that REM tell-tale sign that every Hypnos junkie has. I also spotted the burn mark on the lip, where the patient took his hit and touched the hot pipe against the flesh. It leaves a little sear.
"It's fine," I say, calmly once more. This may be the first time the nurses have to deal with it, but I've seen Hypnos throughout the city. The comas, the families reaching out, the lost loved ones and the long forgotten. They are the forlorn hope of humanity, drifting throughout their dreams, not wanting to wake up.
"What do you mean?" The voice is a little screachy now, full of shock and surprise. They're wondering why I'm being so casual about it.
"He's just a Hypnos junkie," I say, placid and soothing. The epinephrine will give his system a little jump start, but if his vitals are stable - HR spikes now, BP 140/110mmHg but crashing - he'll be fine. All we can do is wire him up with IV fluids, slip in a little TPN to keep him going, and wait for him to bother to wake up.
"Doctor, is that really professional?" The nurse asks.
I turn to her, grab her round the waist, and kiss her.
"No, nurse. Nor was that. But if you want this man up, so be it." I point my finger at him and lift him out of the bed. He floats like David Copperfield, right in front of the spectators. Suddenly he awakens, and dances the can-can. Beautiful.
God complex? Sure. In the wonderful world of Hypnos, I am a God. Why should I ever wake up? | Chad:*Unemployment is down thirty percent. Crime rates are falling to match. And the man responsible for all this is here tonight. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jeff Holden*
The presenter stood up extending one arm out to the side of the stage where the esteemed psychologist enters. Jeff and Chad Morissen, the presenter, share an handshake as the two men sit down. After exchanging the required conversation to the new guest, How was the flight?, Enjoying your stay in the city?, Chad stirs the conversation in the main direction.
Chad:*The question on everyone's minds Jeff is, how did you consider Audio Academic Therapy as a solution to this problem?*
Sitting forward in his chair, Dr.Jeff Holden placed his hands together and started to gesture as he spoke.
Jeff:*Well once the ability to awaken one from the Sleepx coma was developed, with all credit to my colleague Dr.Kuang, we as a race saw that we still faced the same problem. Only a small fraction that awake ceased complete use of the drug. The vast majority continued their appearances at the hospital. This is when I began my research on the topic. I found that by observing several users, when using the drug and when off, I could deduce several theories. The users often told me that external sources could be perceived, mainly through smell and hearing. This is why many played their favorite music in the backround or had scented candles lit. Unlike regular dreams they retained vivid detail of these dreams from start to completion. Keep that in mind. Next I had a look at the types of people who this drug affected severely, my original subjects were functional members of society who have been taking the drug for several years with no noticeable detrimental affects to their physical or psychological health. My research in the demographic of people entering the hospital in a comatose state revealed that the vast majority were repeat unemployed users with little or no family and friends. They would simply come in and out of the constant dream environment because it was, to them, a viable escape from a life where they see themselves having no prospects.*
Chad:*I see how you came about with developing the therapy, yes, that is extraordinary. But how did you bring computer science into this idea?*
Jeff:*Actually that is a funny story that I was just about to get to, I was working with a Phd student of mine, he would rather not be named and drawn into the spotlight, who gave me that idea. One day when I was giving him advice on his thesis he had his laptop open. His idea involved several dynamic psychological tests hidden in video games. He had a code open and was adjusting several things. The structure was simple, all aspects of the code in question had comments underneath explaining exactly what each piece was doing. The best part was it was all words, numbers and symbols. Things that could easily be described through audio. From there I visited a few friends in Trinity College's Computer Science department. Once they were on board I had them, using audio only, put together an entire semester of a computer science course. The finished product was two hundred and fifty hours long. With this, I hired three subjects from the original few I had observed. Over the course of several sessions they each listened to the audio. With explicit instructions to not study this material other than the audio while using the drug. The results were astounding. Each subject showed over ninety five percent knowledge retention and with simple hints during a second test that retention was a solid one hundred percent.*
The crowd clapped along with Chad. As the audience slowed their clap Chad raised his hands to urge them to cease.
Chad:*Magnificent. Please continue, it is from here that you start implementing the therapy into hospitals is it?*
Jeff:*No, no, no. That was merely one semester of the course and it was two hundred and fifty hours long. With an entire college degree worth of material we were easily pushed over two thousand hours. That is eighty three days one would need to listen to the audio while under the effect of the drug. That was not acceptable. It was something one of my original subjects had said that sparked my next experiment into the matter. After one session that lasted ten hours, he said,"That was ten hours? It felt like a year". This made me think, if we accelerated the audio could retention stay as high. With new subjects we conducted the time-information retention experiments. Starting at double speed and eventually working our way to as high as twenty fold. Incredibly, we were getting on average above eighty percent retention, falling exponentially, around fifteen fold speed. Hence, our subjects were getting, and retaining, a working college education in computer science in less than six days of total listening time.*
The roar of the crowd came just as Jeff finished his last sentence. Chad was clapping along with them, this time allowing them to finish at their own accord. When they calmed down, Chad continued.
Chad:*So lets recap. You find a means to educate users of this drug in computer science with, relatively to standard learning, a incredibly fast method. I can see how this reduces the amount of unemployed being admitted to hospital but what stops them from using the drug afterwards? Does this immense learning cause harm? What if the person has a bad lucid dream while this is being administered, and then is basically stuck in a a hell where for all eternity, or the length of time it feels to them, they are taught computer science? So many questions left to be answered, and hopefully they will be, after this commercial break.*
| |
[WP] Santa asks a child on his lap what he wants for Christmas. "To destroy ISIS," the child replies. Determined to grant the child his wish, Santa sets out to destroy ISIS. | On Saturday, I was called in to cover for a mall Santa in Chicago. Terry called me Friday night, and he sounded as sick as a dog. "Nick," he croaked, "I need you to cover for me. I can't come in tomorrow, and I have nobody else that could do it on such short notice."
Truth be told, I'm not fond of the whole "Sit-on-my-lap" thing (the children I don't mind-- it's their parents that make me mad), but it gives me a break from the toy factory, so I agree to come in.
On my way down there, I see billboard after billboard of the commercialized "Buy-me" Santa, which brings me to reflect upon what I have become. I used to be a priest, you know. I always loved celebrating Mass, and helping people in the community. I was really helping the people in a way that I'm not sure that I am now. I miss that. But then I remember that He asked me to take on this job. So, I take a deep breath, and remind myself that if He wants me to do this, then by Him, I'll do my best.
Once I get into the chair, things aren't so bad. The children come through, endlessly streaming in, one by one, to sit on my lap, and tell them what they want for Christmas. It's fairly routine. A basketball for Jimmy, a My Little Pony for Aria, a Lego set for Thomas. For each one, I manage a smile, and ready myself for a picture. One mother mumbles to their husband something about me being "a little dark to play Santa". I clench my fist, but remembering where I am, I take a deep breath and let it go. I've been working on my temper ever since I punched Arius back at the Council of Nicaea.
Soon enough, the day is done, and I'm ready to head back home. I have a headache, and no fewer than three infants have wet themselves on my lap today. As I head for the door, a girl, roughly seven years old, runs up to me.
"Santa! I didn't get to sit on your lap!"
I turn to the girl, and with a sigh, I look over my shoulder, and quickly say, "I have to get home now, miss. Santa will be back tomorrow".
"But it's *important*, Santa! I don't even need a picture, just wait for a second!"
I get down on one knee, and softly ask, "I guess I can wait here a short while longer. So, what would you like for Christmas this year?"
"I want you to destroy ISIS"
I looked back at her with a puzzled look. "Are you sure?"
Her face grows somber, and she whispers, "I want my Mommy to get back home safe. She's fighting them over there. I want her to come home." A tear trickles down her face.
Her grandmother comes out of the Sears, and calls for her. "Emily, we're leaving honey!"
She wipes the tear from her eye, and mumbles, "I have to go now. Bye"
As I get back in my sleigh, I think about what the little girl asked me for. Should I go over there and fight ISIS? I might not be able to deliver presents to the children this year, and that is what He wants me to do. I turn on the radio as I ascend into the sky.
"In other news, ISIS has just destroyed a church in Syria, killing eighty people," the radio announcer proclaims.
That was a sign. I know what I have to do now. I turn my sleigh to the east, and command the reindeer to move faster.
I soon find myself on the ground in Syria. A group of shrouded soldiers marched forwards. One man carried the ISIS flag. Perfect.
I jumped out of my sleigh, and with only my bare hands, I charged after them.
"I'm here to punch heretics and deliver presents," I announced in Arabic, "*and I'm all out of presents*." | “Nicholas, you've always been a force for good in the world. You rewarded good deeds instead of punishing bad ones.” Mrs Christmas said, sitting next to me on the bridge of the *CS North Pole*. She was a wonderful vessel, twice as long as the Nimitz-class carriers used by the US navy. We had been forced to move into the water after global warming had resulted in the North Pole being no longer covered by ice, and my elves had wasted no time in producing a suitable maritime home. I looked over to her and squeezed her hand.
“I used to give bad children coal, remember?” I pointed out.
“You stopped that when you realised that coal could be used for heating.” she protested. “In fact, I think you knew about coal's uses all the time, and you didn't want the bad children to feel left out. Anyway, it's not our job to remove Daesh, it's our job to bring happiness and joy to the world.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive, sweetheart. In any case, little Timmy, the boy who asked me to get rid of Daesh, has been exceptionally good this year. He's compassionate, selfless, and innocent, everything Daesh is not.”
She stroked the four gold stripes that indicated my rank of captain.
“I suppose so. But you will be careful, won't you?”
I smiled at her.
“I've survived for a couple of millenia, haven't I?” I turned to my navigation officer. “Ensign, set course for the eastern Mediterranean sea. Engage.”
“Aye, sir.” the elf responded, and a couple of seconds later I felt the mighty ship begin to turn.
I addressed my tactical officer next. “Mr. Celomben, have the gift delivery mechanisms stripped from our sleighs and put ice cannons in their place. Also, refit them with jet engines. They will lose speed, but I don't want the reindeer getting hurt.” It sounded like a tall order, but I knew my elves could do anything.
Three minutes and about five thousand nautical miles later, we arrived in the Mediterranean. I was on edge, and fought to keep my voice calm and measured as I gave my bridge crew their orders.
“Sound General Quarters. Have all hands stand to battle stations and all marine personnel prepare to be parachuted into Syria and Iraq. Once we've established command centres in Baghdad and Damascus, we will declare parcel law and sweep through both countries. Once they have been cleared, we will focus on Daesh in the rest of the world.”
I turned to Mrs Christmas. “Commander, you have the bridge.”
I stepped into the lift and barked, “Deck six, armoury.” As the lift whisked me off to my destination, I muttered, “Santa Claus is coming to town.”
Edited for punctuation. | |
[WP] Santa asks a child on his lap what he wants for Christmas. "To destroy ISIS," the child replies. Determined to grant the child his wish, Santa sets out to destroy ISIS. | 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all 'cross the land;
Not a creature was stirring through the warm sands
In their dens men hid, trembling with fear,
For they knew St. Nicholas soon would be here;
One child in the heartland slept well in her bed;
With visions of justice meted-out in her head;
From the North Pole Santa flew from his fort,
Set to make the naughtly list far more short.
So when deep in Arabia arose such a clatter,
Spy drones took off to see what's the matter.
Across many small villages popped many hot flashes,
As such radical rebels made such billowy ashes.
The moon shone bright on such strange a show,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to the drone's peering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
Threat Assessment wrote-off as simply St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
Onward to Syria! Tonight ISIS falls!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As fires that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So around a lone SAM the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of justice, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, ISIS soldiers, they heard on the roof,
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As one drew 'round his head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed red kevlar, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with gore, blood, and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes-- how they steeled! no mirth to be found!
Face gaunt and determined, like an old hunting hound!
His snow-white hair turned beige by the sand,
His beard knit in knots like the great vikings had;
A grenade fell in stillness, the pin in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled the room like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook as he vanished, like a bowl full of jelly;
He was swift and brutal, a right livid old elf,
They screamed when they saw him, in spite of themselves;
With the flash of a muzzle and the twist of a head
The terrorists had known they were so right to dread;
He spoke not a word, like lightning he fought,
The last man was hiding, or so he had thought;
Putting a knife through the naughty man's nose,
He gave them a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team he gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But troops head him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight--
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
EDIT: Formatting | “Nicholas, you've always been a force for good in the world. You rewarded good deeds instead of punishing bad ones.” Mrs Christmas said, sitting next to me on the bridge of the *CS North Pole*. She was a wonderful vessel, twice as long as the Nimitz-class carriers used by the US navy. We had been forced to move into the water after global warming had resulted in the North Pole being no longer covered by ice, and my elves had wasted no time in producing a suitable maritime home. I looked over to her and squeezed her hand.
“I used to give bad children coal, remember?” I pointed out.
“You stopped that when you realised that coal could be used for heating.” she protested. “In fact, I think you knew about coal's uses all the time, and you didn't want the bad children to feel left out. Anyway, it's not our job to remove Daesh, it's our job to bring happiness and joy to the world.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive, sweetheart. In any case, little Timmy, the boy who asked me to get rid of Daesh, has been exceptionally good this year. He's compassionate, selfless, and innocent, everything Daesh is not.”
She stroked the four gold stripes that indicated my rank of captain.
“I suppose so. But you will be careful, won't you?”
I smiled at her.
“I've survived for a couple of millenia, haven't I?” I turned to my navigation officer. “Ensign, set course for the eastern Mediterranean sea. Engage.”
“Aye, sir.” the elf responded, and a couple of seconds later I felt the mighty ship begin to turn.
I addressed my tactical officer next. “Mr. Celomben, have the gift delivery mechanisms stripped from our sleighs and put ice cannons in their place. Also, refit them with jet engines. They will lose speed, but I don't want the reindeer getting hurt.” It sounded like a tall order, but I knew my elves could do anything.
Three minutes and about five thousand nautical miles later, we arrived in the Mediterranean. I was on edge, and fought to keep my voice calm and measured as I gave my bridge crew their orders.
“Sound General Quarters. Have all hands stand to battle stations and all marine personnel prepare to be parachuted into Syria and Iraq. Once we've established command centres in Baghdad and Damascus, we will declare parcel law and sweep through both countries. Once they have been cleared, we will focus on Daesh in the rest of the world.”
I turned to Mrs Christmas. “Commander, you have the bridge.”
I stepped into the lift and barked, “Deck six, armoury.” As the lift whisked me off to my destination, I muttered, “Santa Claus is coming to town.”
Edited for punctuation. | |
[WP] Santa asks a child on his lap what he wants for Christmas. "To destroy ISIS," the child replies. Determined to grant the child his wish, Santa sets out to destroy ISIS. | On Saturday, I was called in to cover for a mall Santa in Chicago. Terry called me Friday night, and he sounded as sick as a dog. "Nick," he croaked, "I need you to cover for me. I can't come in tomorrow, and I have nobody else that could do it on such short notice."
Truth be told, I'm not fond of the whole "Sit-on-my-lap" thing (the children I don't mind-- it's their parents that make me mad), but it gives me a break from the toy factory, so I agree to come in.
On my way down there, I see billboard after billboard of the commercialized "Buy-me" Santa, which brings me to reflect upon what I have become. I used to be a priest, you know. I always loved celebrating Mass, and helping people in the community. I was really helping the people in a way that I'm not sure that I am now. I miss that. But then I remember that He asked me to take on this job. So, I take a deep breath, and remind myself that if He wants me to do this, then by Him, I'll do my best.
Once I get into the chair, things aren't so bad. The children come through, endlessly streaming in, one by one, to sit on my lap, and tell them what they want for Christmas. It's fairly routine. A basketball for Jimmy, a My Little Pony for Aria, a Lego set for Thomas. For each one, I manage a smile, and ready myself for a picture. One mother mumbles to their husband something about me being "a little dark to play Santa". I clench my fist, but remembering where I am, I take a deep breath and let it go. I've been working on my temper ever since I punched Arius back at the Council of Nicaea.
Soon enough, the day is done, and I'm ready to head back home. I have a headache, and no fewer than three infants have wet themselves on my lap today. As I head for the door, a girl, roughly seven years old, runs up to me.
"Santa! I didn't get to sit on your lap!"
I turn to the girl, and with a sigh, I look over my shoulder, and quickly say, "I have to get home now, miss. Santa will be back tomorrow".
"But it's *important*, Santa! I don't even need a picture, just wait for a second!"
I get down on one knee, and softly ask, "I guess I can wait here a short while longer. So, what would you like for Christmas this year?"
"I want you to destroy ISIS"
I looked back at her with a puzzled look. "Are you sure?"
Her face grows somber, and she whispers, "I want my Mommy to get back home safe. She's fighting them over there. I want her to come home." A tear trickles down her face.
Her grandmother comes out of the Sears, and calls for her. "Emily, we're leaving honey!"
She wipes the tear from her eye, and mumbles, "I have to go now. Bye"
As I get back in my sleigh, I think about what the little girl asked me for. Should I go over there and fight ISIS? I might not be able to deliver presents to the children this year, and that is what He wants me to do. I turn on the radio as I ascend into the sky.
"In other news, ISIS has just destroyed a church in Syria, killing eighty people," the radio announcer proclaims.
That was a sign. I know what I have to do now. I turn my sleigh to the east, and command the reindeer to move faster.
I soon find myself on the ground in Syria. A group of shrouded soldiers marched forwards. One man carried the ISIS flag. Perfect.
I jumped out of my sleigh, and with only my bare hands, I charged after them.
"I'm here to punch heretics and deliver presents," I announced in Arabic, "*and I'm all out of presents*." | You better watch out,
You better not die,
Better pray now,
I'm telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He's making a list,
And checking it twice;
Gonna find out
Who's blown sky high.
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He sees you when you're sleeping,
That would be a grave mistake.
He knows if you've been bad or good,
So no more Islamic state!
Oh, you better watch out!
You better not die.
Better pray now,
I'm telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.
Santa Claus is coming to town!
| |
[WP] Santa asks a child on his lap what he wants for Christmas. "To destroy ISIS," the child replies. Determined to grant the child his wish, Santa sets out to destroy ISIS. | 'Twas the night before Christmas, and all 'cross the land;
Not a creature was stirring through the warm sands
In their dens men hid, trembling with fear,
For they knew St. Nicholas soon would be here;
One child in the heartland slept well in her bed;
With visions of justice meted-out in her head;
From the North Pole Santa flew from his fort,
Set to make the naughtly list far more short.
So when deep in Arabia arose such a clatter,
Spy drones took off to see what's the matter.
Across many small villages popped many hot flashes,
As such radical rebels made such billowy ashes.
The moon shone bright on such strange a show,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to the drone's peering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
Threat Assessment wrote-off as simply St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
Onward to Syria! Tonight ISIS falls!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As fires that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So around a lone SAM the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of justice, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, ISIS soldiers, they heard on the roof,
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As one drew 'round his head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed red kevlar, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with gore, blood, and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes-- how they steeled! no mirth to be found!
Face gaunt and determined, like an old hunting hound!
His snow-white hair turned beige by the sand,
His beard knit in knots like the great vikings had;
A grenade fell in stillness, the pin in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled the room like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook as he vanished, like a bowl full of jelly;
He was swift and brutal, a right livid old elf,
They screamed when they saw him, in spite of themselves;
With the flash of a muzzle and the twist of a head
The terrorists had known they were so right to dread;
He spoke not a word, like lightning he fought,
The last man was hiding, or so he had thought;
Putting a knife through the naughty man's nose,
He gave them a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team he gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But troops head him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight--
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
EDIT: Formatting | You better watch out,
You better not die,
Better pray now,
I'm telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He's making a list,
And checking it twice;
Gonna find out
Who's blown sky high.
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He sees you when you're sleeping,
That would be a grave mistake.
He knows if you've been bad or good,
So no more Islamic state!
Oh, you better watch out!
You better not die.
Better pray now,
I'm telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.
Santa Claus is coming to town!
| |
[WP] Santa asks a child on his lap what he wants for Christmas. "To destroy ISIS," the child replies. Determined to grant the child his wish, Santa sets out to destroy ISIS. | Santa stared at the child.
"San'ie? You 'kay?", asked the small child.
"Yes, I am. I was just considering your wish. It's an odd one . . . but I think I might actually be the right guy for the job", Santa give the child a warm smile.
Soon, the child hopped off Santa's knee, and gave a grin and a wave back to Santa, "Blo' 'em up real good!".
Santa winced.
Later that night, Santa set off from the north pole. He'd called his elves earlier and had them prepare some special items, or else he would've taken care of it before coming back from the mall that day. (Community outreach was important, these days. Too many kids! Too many letters! If he didn't see the kids sometimes, he would get lost in the data and stop seeing them as people that needed love and care and guidance).
He donned a dark suit instead of his customary red and white, and took a one-reindeer hansom to his destination. It hadn't seen use in a while, but when he didn't have a heavy load, it was fast, quiet, and radar-invisible.
He parked the hansom on a roof, so gently the springs didn't even so much as squeak, and deftly entered through a window on the floor below.
«Who are you?!», asked a man, sitting up from his bedding, pointing a firearm at the fat man.
«I'm not known too well here, but I am bringer of good wishes and good cheer»
The man made a threatening noise with the firearm.
«In the middle of the night through my window?»
Santa took the sack off his back, nearly empty it was, and removed one of the special items.
The man looked at Santa quizzically. He cautiously got up and approached santa, his eyes locked on the item.
«Uncle's train?», he asked, «How did you get this?!»
«Not quite the wooden train your uncle carved for you, I'm afraid, that's still broken and lost under rubble.»
«Back in the house I lived as a student», the man said glumly.
«I had it made for you. It's not a replacement, but a reminder»
«A reminder of what?», he asked as he took the offered toy
«That men were wrong when they drone-bombed your house without compassion, and that you will be wrong when you think and act without compassion»
«Fuck you! If people won't see what is wrong with the world, what recourse do I have?! I have compassion, my actions are justified!», he yelled, but Santa had already tumbled back onto the roof and ridden away.
He had many such encounters that night. Far less than the number of Daesh supporters, but many.
He landed on the airstrip at home, an elf waving the batons to guide his landing on the treacherous ice, ("Global warming", he thought, "I really need to start thinking about that one").
The elf came up to him to grab the reins and lead the hansom and the reindeer back into the stable. "What did that accomplish, anyways?"
"Doubt, uncertainty. In time, compassion"
"Shoulda given them all lumps of coal"
"I give people coal to make them realize they have done bad things and to reflect on their actions. I gave people toys tonight to make them realize they have done bad things, and to reflect on their actions"
"They aren't going to stop killing people, y'know"
"They will, in time"
"There's still going to be violence"
"There will be less violence. There's no magic button I can press in the hearts of men to make them soft & forgiving, loving & compassionate"
"Will what you did even dismantle Daesh? You didn't visit any of their leaders!"
"A movement like this doesn't have leaders, only organizers"
"There are still leaders amoung them!"
"Presidents and prime ministers can die without the countries dissolving. This . . . is somewhat less centralized"
There was a tense silence.
" . . . who did you visit tonight?"
"The passionate ones"
"Will it work?"
Santa sighed.
"For this name of this movement? Yes. But there is much hatred the world over, and the actions taken by people without compassion breed hatred and a lack of compassion the world over. We have many christmases left before we aren't needed."
"That's a lot more cookies and milk, boss"
Santa smiled
"There's that, yes" | ...........destroy ISIS huh? Thought Santa as he drank his milk and ate his cookies. Santa had always never approved of what ISIS did to children in the Middle East. Of course he couldn't do anything about it. It was because of that pact he made to NOT interfere in world events. But oh did he want to completely annihilate ISIS. It would certainly take a nice number of names off the naughty list for sure. Little Timmy sure sounded pretty damn intent on that letter he sent and Santa wanted to live up to it. But the pact! Oh how he hated it so. Then the news hit on his old TV.
"ISIS has declared war against all nations of the earth!" said the reporter.
"They have bombed several countries in the western hemisphere and slaughtered hundreds in there rampage through Africa" Countries are sending in troops but god knows how long it will take!"
Santa spewing out his milk and cookies in shock. "You know what? Little Billy is gonna get a nice Christmas present this year" he thought.
"PREP THE TROOPS ELVIA"
'SANTA'S COMING TO TOWN AND HE'S BRINGING JUDGMENT" | |
[WP] Santa asks a child on his lap what he wants for Christmas. "To destroy ISIS," the child replies. Determined to grant the child his wish, Santa sets out to destroy ISIS. | Santa stared at the child.
"San'ie? You 'kay?", asked the small child.
"Yes, I am. I was just considering your wish. It's an odd one . . . but I think I might actually be the right guy for the job", Santa give the child a warm smile.
Soon, the child hopped off Santa's knee, and gave a grin and a wave back to Santa, "Blo' 'em up real good!".
Santa winced.
Later that night, Santa set off from the north pole. He'd called his elves earlier and had them prepare some special items, or else he would've taken care of it before coming back from the mall that day. (Community outreach was important, these days. Too many kids! Too many letters! If he didn't see the kids sometimes, he would get lost in the data and stop seeing them as people that needed love and care and guidance).
He donned a dark suit instead of his customary red and white, and took a one-reindeer hansom to his destination. It hadn't seen use in a while, but when he didn't have a heavy load, it was fast, quiet, and radar-invisible.
He parked the hansom on a roof, so gently the springs didn't even so much as squeak, and deftly entered through a window on the floor below.
«Who are you?!», asked a man, sitting up from his bedding, pointing a firearm at the fat man.
«I'm not known too well here, but I am bringer of good wishes and good cheer»
The man made a threatening noise with the firearm.
«In the middle of the night through my window?»
Santa took the sack off his back, nearly empty it was, and removed one of the special items.
The man looked at Santa quizzically. He cautiously got up and approached santa, his eyes locked on the item.
«Uncle's train?», he asked, «How did you get this?!»
«Not quite the wooden train your uncle carved for you, I'm afraid, that's still broken and lost under rubble.»
«Back in the house I lived as a student», the man said glumly.
«I had it made for you. It's not a replacement, but a reminder»
«A reminder of what?», he asked as he took the offered toy
«That men were wrong when they drone-bombed your house without compassion, and that you will be wrong when you think and act without compassion»
«Fuck you! If people won't see what is wrong with the world, what recourse do I have?! I have compassion, my actions are justified!», he yelled, but Santa had already tumbled back onto the roof and ridden away.
He had many such encounters that night. Far less than the number of Daesh supporters, but many.
He landed on the airstrip at home, an elf waving the batons to guide his landing on the treacherous ice, ("Global warming", he thought, "I really need to start thinking about that one").
The elf came up to him to grab the reins and lead the hansom and the reindeer back into the stable. "What did that accomplish, anyways?"
"Doubt, uncertainty. In time, compassion"
"Shoulda given them all lumps of coal"
"I give people coal to make them realize they have done bad things and to reflect on their actions. I gave people toys tonight to make them realize they have done bad things, and to reflect on their actions"
"They aren't going to stop killing people, y'know"
"They will, in time"
"There's still going to be violence"
"There will be less violence. There's no magic button I can press in the hearts of men to make them soft & forgiving, loving & compassionate"
"Will what you did even dismantle Daesh? You didn't visit any of their leaders!"
"A movement like this doesn't have leaders, only organizers"
"There are still leaders amoung them!"
"Presidents and prime ministers can die without the countries dissolving. This . . . is somewhat less centralized"
There was a tense silence.
" . . . who did you visit tonight?"
"The passionate ones"
"Will it work?"
Santa sighed.
"For this name of this movement? Yes. But there is much hatred the world over, and the actions taken by people without compassion breed hatred and a lack of compassion the world over. We have many christmases left before we aren't needed."
"That's a lot more cookies and milk, boss"
Santa smiled
"There's that, yes" | There wasn't much in the bag this time. It didn't fill to the rim. There weren't any presents for well-behaving children.
In the bag, there were only three cases. All of them had been carefully labeled. He read them out loud, as if to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything:
- Breda M38 Machine Gun
- FIM-43 Rocket Launcher
- Panzerfaust 3 shoulder-fire missile
The aircraft was just about to deploy him. The livery read NPC in large, bold letters. "North Pole Commandos".
What's with the plural? There was only one of him. And he was about to embark on the what could be his last journey into the realm of ordinary men.
Usually, he kept himself hidden from the outside world. Sneak in, sneak out. No detections. This time he was about to engage the world in ways — violent ways — he'd never attempted before.
His parachute opened. It took him about 15 minutes to reach the ground. No reindeers this time. He didn't want them hurt. This wasn't what they signed up for.
The desert landscape was flat. Completely flat. But there were lights up head. Maybe one or two miles due east. NSA intelligence was good. The same data he used to determine which children had been naughty had finally been used to determine the naughtiness of adults wielding actual power. | |
[WP]A lonely person summons Satan (or any other demon) just for someone to talk to for a while. | PATHETIC MORTAL! WHO DARES SUMMON AND AWAKEN THE GREATEST OF ALL DEMON LORDS, THE NINE HEADED SERPENT THAT IS SATAN!
Standing before our protagonist, as it were, ladies and gentlemen, was an incredibly imposing figure. Scarlet skin, crackling with heat and boiling with diseased sores, covered the immense chest and arms of this being. Standing easily over nine feet tall, it dwarfed the summoner, who barely reach the knee of the demon's backwards goat-like legs. A thick, undulating tail flicked back and forth, the viper head on the tip attempting to bite passerby. And on a thick neck sat nine heads, speaking all at once, all faces grotesquely deformed and monstrous.
Before this titan of monumental evil, figurehead of terror for a majority of the world's religions, stood a little girl. Her blonde hair in pigtails, her green eyes sparkling in untold happiness. Her toothy smile (well, for the most part, having recently lost two baby teeth) breaking into laughter.
"Mr. Thatan," the little child exclaimed. "It'th you! I've alwayth wanted an imaginary friend. My babythitter'th advithe really worked!"
Satan looked around with his demonic sight, and saw clearly that he was incorporeal, invisible to all but his summoner.
LITTLE CHILD, IF WE WERE GOING TO MAKE THIS A LASTING FRIENDSHIP, WE'LL NEED TO FORM A CONTRACT. | I drew an upside-down cross on the Sunday school Bible, lined up the lighted candles and recited the familiar phrase, as mechanically as one would dial a number. I pricked myself with a pin for the virgin blood the ritual required. Tentacles of flame erupted from the circle, engulfing the room. They soon dissipated, revealing Satan himself. "Oh, it's you again." he said disdainfully."I just want somebody to talk to tonight." Satan sported a half-smile in response. "Even me? I'm the Prince of Darkness, not a therapist." He produced a phone and flung it at me. "No. *Talk* to someone. Someone real." He vanished, leaving my broken figure to ponder when I had begun this downward spiral. | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. | The night started well. We planned on having a few drinks at home, and then we'd head to our favourite bar for a glass of champagne, watch the fireworks and head home.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting Alanna to want to go out tonight given what had happened last year on this day. "What were you thinking of Ed?", she said, her face flush with wine made her animated eyes sparkle more than usual. You'd say she was almost crying if you didn't know her.
"Oh, nothing really" I responded playfully batting away the hand she'd waved in front of my eyes to disturb me from my reverie.
"It looked like you were miles away for a minute there" she said.
"I was just thinking how proud I was of you for how far you'd managed to come since last year" I said. "It was a bit touch and go for a while wasn't it?". I could say it now, but it used to haunt me. For months on end I'd think back to New Year's Eve 2014 and the recollection always made me shudder. Except today, something seemed different. Like the world felt almost a little "real-er" than it usually did.
We're at the bar now, glasses of champagne in hand and the clock's about to strike midnight. I glance over at Alanna. It's been a long time since I've seen her and thought she was beautiful. But tonight, there was no denying it. She looked exquisite.
"DING" goes the clock and someone cries "make a wish". I instantly know what I'd wish for. And for a fleeting moment, I fervently ask any cosmic power that may be out there to grant it.
Alanna looks at me and smiles. I don't feel so well though. I see her smiling eyes grow concerned and she mouths "let's go" to me. I grimace, and nod in affirmation turning to head out. It was probably all the wine.
Outside, the winter air is refreshing against my face. I recover from my discomfort momentarily, only for the memory of last year to hit me with a bang louder than any fireworks. Sobbing, I fall to my feet.
"Ed, darling, what is it?" She asks alarmed.
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't help thinking about our baby" I reply. A year ago today, we'd found out she was pregnant and miscarried on the same day. Our world grew by one for 24 hours, and just like that, it was taken away.
"Baby? Ed, what baby? We've been through this already. I told you it'd be a miracle if I were able to have one remember?"
Suddenly, that wish didn't seem like such a good idea after all. | On the 31st of December, I invited a beautiful blonde thing up to my suite. "We are gonna bring in the New Year right," I told her. She arrived at 10:00, a little late if you ask me, but there was still enough time if I hurried. I prepared her a glass of champagne and we talked about the job. "The show was going *so* well, she kept saying, gushing at me. She was a new intern but she liked me, I could tell. When she stumbled over her words, slurred like a little blonde puppy, "Can please you fill my glass with more?", I knew she was having a good time. I went to the kitchen to prepare her another glass of champagne.
At 11:59 I began to kiss her, because after years of this, I knew what was to come. Our tongues danced bachata - or maybe a quirky dance like Phylicia did so well - as all of Times Square counted down from 10. As the people on TV cried "Happy New Year," I suggested we head to my room. Chin dropped, mouth open, eyes staring at me, she didn't say anything. I led her to my room, it would be ours for the night.
In the morning as she was beginning to rustle under the sheets, I said, "Baby, Hi. Welcome to the New Year."
"Bill, what the fuck? Where am I?"
"Baby, this is the New Year. Didn't you know everyone loses their memory when the clock strikes 12:00 am?"
"I've never fucking heard of that Bill."
"Baby, chill. Of course you haven't heard of it, because you are always forgetting it! And please, call me Mr. Huxtable. I like that."
| |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. |
10 minutes and I couldn't wait. Just 10 more minutes until I got my clean slate. I wished to be like everyone else. I didn't forget, I couldn't forget.
At 00.00 everyone's memory went straight back to December 31 1999 11.59. The world had been so concerned that the millennium bug would shut down computers, causing chaos in hospitals, power stations, and banks. What they hadn't realised was that it was our brains that wouldn't be able to cope.
It didn't take long for the scientists to realise, and it didn't take them much longer to realise there was nothing they could do about it.
5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes and the world would have its fresh start. Everyone would forget the terrorist attacks, the dirty politics, the hatred in the world.
It's amazing the unexpected changed that had occurred. Hospitals were filled with robotic doctors and nurses, as no one was able to complete med school anymore. Schools had become a haven, full of creativity and fun, because why learn algebra when in 12 months it would be forgotten. There would be peace, no more wars, that is until everyone found out who they were fighting against, even if they couldn't remember why.
1 more minute, just 1 more minute and my family would forget, forget what I had done, the awful thing I had done. They would love me again, wonder where I was, want to hold me in their arms.
Family histories had become common place, mostly DVDs, but sometimes written in massive family archives. Added to each year, so that personal and world wide events would not be forgotten. People would spend New Year's Day learning who had got married, who had died and who had been born. They would cry together, laugh together, and love together.
1 year, just 1 more year, and my sins will be forgotten, and I will be loved again. 1 year.
| On the 31st of December, I invited a beautiful blonde thing up to my suite. "We are gonna bring in the New Year right," I told her. She arrived at 10:00, a little late if you ask me, but there was still enough time if I hurried. I prepared her a glass of champagne and we talked about the job. "The show was going *so* well, she kept saying, gushing at me. She was a new intern but she liked me, I could tell. When she stumbled over her words, slurred like a little blonde puppy, "Can please you fill my glass with more?", I knew she was having a good time. I went to the kitchen to prepare her another glass of champagne.
At 11:59 I began to kiss her, because after years of this, I knew what was to come. Our tongues danced bachata - or maybe a quirky dance like Phylicia did so well - as all of Times Square counted down from 10. As the people on TV cried "Happy New Year," I suggested we head to my room. Chin dropped, mouth open, eyes staring at me, she didn't say anything. I led her to my room, it would be ours for the night.
In the morning as she was beginning to rustle under the sheets, I said, "Baby, Hi. Welcome to the New Year."
"Bill, what the fuck? Where am I?"
"Baby, this is the New Year. Didn't you know everyone loses their memory when the clock strikes 12:00 am?"
"I've never fucking heard of that Bill."
"Baby, chill. Of course you haven't heard of it, because you are always forgetting it! And please, call me Mr. Huxtable. I like that."
| |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. |
10 minutes and I couldn't wait. Just 10 more minutes until I got my clean slate. I wished to be like everyone else. I didn't forget, I couldn't forget.
At 00.00 everyone's memory went straight back to December 31 1999 11.59. The world had been so concerned that the millennium bug would shut down computers, causing chaos in hospitals, power stations, and banks. What they hadn't realised was that it was our brains that wouldn't be able to cope.
It didn't take long for the scientists to realise, and it didn't take them much longer to realise there was nothing they could do about it.
5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes and the world would have its fresh start. Everyone would forget the terrorist attacks, the dirty politics, the hatred in the world.
It's amazing the unexpected changed that had occurred. Hospitals were filled with robotic doctors and nurses, as no one was able to complete med school anymore. Schools had become a haven, full of creativity and fun, because why learn algebra when in 12 months it would be forgotten. There would be peace, no more wars, that is until everyone found out who they were fighting against, even if they couldn't remember why.
1 more minute, just 1 more minute and my family would forget, forget what I had done, the awful thing I had done. They would love me again, wonder where I was, want to hold me in their arms.
Family histories had become common place, mostly DVDs, but sometimes written in massive family archives. Added to each year, so that personal and world wide events would not be forgotten. People would spend New Year's Day learning who had got married, who had died and who had been born. They would cry together, laugh together, and love together.
1 year, just 1 more year, and my sins will be forgotten, and I will be loved again. 1 year.
| ***Still Loved***
In times past one had resolutions
Hold onto what was, to understand what will be
A cocoon each new year
In the hopes to unleash brilliance
But along the way the nest was rattled
All others fell, unaware of the loss
Living in yearly blissful ignorance
As I watched centuries-long debacles continue
And looked into the blank eyes staring at me
From those I still loved | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. |
10 minutes and I couldn't wait. Just 10 more minutes until I got my clean slate. I wished to be like everyone else. I didn't forget, I couldn't forget.
At 00.00 everyone's memory went straight back to December 31 1999 11.59. The world had been so concerned that the millennium bug would shut down computers, causing chaos in hospitals, power stations, and banks. What they hadn't realised was that it was our brains that wouldn't be able to cope.
It didn't take long for the scientists to realise, and it didn't take them much longer to realise there was nothing they could do about it.
5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes and the world would have its fresh start. Everyone would forget the terrorist attacks, the dirty politics, the hatred in the world.
It's amazing the unexpected changed that had occurred. Hospitals were filled with robotic doctors and nurses, as no one was able to complete med school anymore. Schools had become a haven, full of creativity and fun, because why learn algebra when in 12 months it would be forgotten. There would be peace, no more wars, that is until everyone found out who they were fighting against, even if they couldn't remember why.
1 more minute, just 1 more minute and my family would forget, forget what I had done, the awful thing I had done. They would love me again, wonder where I was, want to hold me in their arms.
Family histories had become common place, mostly DVDs, but sometimes written in massive family archives. Added to each year, so that personal and world wide events would not be forgotten. People would spend New Year's Day learning who had got married, who had died and who had been born. They would cry together, laugh together, and love together.
1 year, just 1 more year, and my sins will be forgotten, and I will be loved again. 1 year.
| The night started well. We planned on having a few drinks at home, and then we'd head to our favourite bar for a glass of champagne, watch the fireworks and head home.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting Alanna to want to go out tonight given what had happened last year on this day. "What were you thinking of Ed?", she said, her face flush with wine made her animated eyes sparkle more than usual. You'd say she was almost crying if you didn't know her.
"Oh, nothing really" I responded playfully batting away the hand she'd waved in front of my eyes to disturb me from my reverie.
"It looked like you were miles away for a minute there" she said.
"I was just thinking how proud I was of you for how far you'd managed to come since last year" I said. "It was a bit touch and go for a while wasn't it?". I could say it now, but it used to haunt me. For months on end I'd think back to New Year's Eve 2014 and the recollection always made me shudder. Except today, something seemed different. Like the world felt almost a little "real-er" than it usually did.
We're at the bar now, glasses of champagne in hand and the clock's about to strike midnight. I glance over at Alanna. It's been a long time since I've seen her and thought she was beautiful. But tonight, there was no denying it. She looked exquisite.
"DING" goes the clock and someone cries "make a wish". I instantly know what I'd wish for. And for a fleeting moment, I fervently ask any cosmic power that may be out there to grant it.
Alanna looks at me and smiles. I don't feel so well though. I see her smiling eyes grow concerned and she mouths "let's go" to me. I grimace, and nod in affirmation turning to head out. It was probably all the wine.
Outside, the winter air is refreshing against my face. I recover from my discomfort momentarily, only for the memory of last year to hit me with a bang louder than any fireworks. Sobbing, I fall to my feet.
"Ed, darling, what is it?" She asks alarmed.
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't help thinking about our baby" I reply. A year ago today, we'd found out she was pregnant and miscarried on the same day. Our world grew by one for 24 hours, and just like that, it was taken away.
"Baby? Ed, what baby? We've been through this already. I told you it'd be a miracle if I were able to have one remember?"
Suddenly, that wish didn't seem like such a good idea after all. | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. | My eyes cracked open on the morn of January 1st, and a smile spread across my face. My happiness only rose as I turned over in my bed to see my husband lying next to me, still snoring and fast asleep. Our son had been born exactly one year ago, at midnight on January 1st, so today was his birthday party. I rolled out of bed, stepping into my slippers and planting a gentle kiss on my husband's forehead. He didn't stir.
I walked out of my bedroom, stretching my arms out. Luckily my son was asleep as I walked into the nursery. He's probably hungry, I thought as I glanced at the firetruck clock on the blue painted wall. It is eight, after all. In preparation for my son's party today, my husband and I had gone to sleep right after midnight, so our sleep schedules weren't exactly off.
I reached my arms into the crib, stroking a strand of curly dark hair that was resting across my son's face. "Good morning Dorian," I said in my sing-song, maternal voice. His beautiful blue eyes opened, and immediately he started blubbering. Quickly I picked him up, holding him over my shoulder and patting his back. Eventually he calmed down, but only when I gave him his bottle.
I looked into Dorian's eyes, and he didn't look at me. His eyes were at my neck, and they looked empty and lacking all emotion. It was like he had just been born again or something, needing to learn everything all over again. Shaking away these strange thoughts, I walked down the stairs holding Dorian—who held his own bottle.
I set my son in his high chair and starting cooking breakfast. Eating as a family had been a staple ever since my husband and I started fighting, when Dorian was six months. We would talk about our day in the evening and what we hoped for said day in the morning. The smell of bacon must've awakened my husband, because a few minutes later, I heard footsteps overhead.
"Alex?"
I turned around, and my husband was staring at Dorian like he was an alien. "Yes, Alan?"
"What—why is there a baby here? You're supposed to be at the hospital, right?" He looked at me, and then he was staring at me like I was an alien. "No? What's happening?" His voice rose into a wary wail, terrified of what was happening to him.
I, on the other hand, was confused with his reaction to this seemingly normal day. "That's our son, Alan. What are you talking about? He was born last year today! It's his birthday!"
Alan drew a shaky breath. "I don't remember that. I remember waiting for you to give birth at the hospital! I remember wanting to see my son!" His voice was rising on hysterical, and Dorian started to cry at his concerned tone. I swooped past my husband and picked up the baby.
"Well, I do remember. You must've hit your head," I said in a stubborn tone.
It turns out I was horribly wrong.
| You will forget the contours of the cartoon
(Though you unlikely ever saw it)
Of a brown man with his eyes askew and his long, hooked nose,
But who, in another incarnation, wished for all to be gentle and to forgive,
And the rifle rounds fired in his name,
The popping heard through the too thin walls
Of too small twentieth century apartments
And as far away as *Galeries LaFayette*,
Which seems as if a mandala,
When alighted in the evenings.
You will not recall the calls of crowds marching
Past pawn shops and Little Caesar's restaurants
For the legacy of men known only for dying on their bellies
In patchy parks with trim grass and tall oak trees,
But barbed wire too,
Or in secret compartments, pulled by big, blue vans
That drive only to Tartarus,
Or in a holy vestibule, after the mass was over,
Where they first invited him to pray with them.
You will find unfamiliar the face of the little girl
With cheeks reddened by salty Mediterranean wind
And a pink Dora jacket reeking of the rubber raft,
Who felt her father's shoulders at last fall in a grateful sigh,
Only to see him stabbed for Doritos, later in the pens.
You will forget, most of all, how your heart never truly ached for them,
But only pricked up when a redhead ran from dinosaurs
Or the same great heroes joined as one, once more,
Or a beautiful girl cut the chains from victims.
You said Hello and Sorry so many times,
But never to someone who needed to hear it.
*
You think you will not remember because this is the nature of memories,
That they must inevitably break free of you each winter,
Like wispy, green saplings from wet spring dirt.
You do not realize you forget only what you chose to,
And that after the sprinkling confetti and cups of kindness,
When you see her, and force a kiss
With lips chapped from shouting at cab drivers and doormen,
Every year, you again choose only yourself.
/r/opinionsaboutnothing | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. | Everybody is in bed, they went to sleep even before the ball dropped. I decided to stay up and watch the entertainment as everybody in Time Square forgets what happened. Not me though, I remember everything. I go up the stairs, stop in front of my sons room. He'll never remember all the times we've bonded this past year, all the times we've passed the baseball back and forth in the yard, all the times I've sat up at night with him because he decided to watch a horror movie, and most of all...me. | You will forget the contours of the cartoon
(Though you unlikely ever saw it)
Of a brown man with his eyes askew and his long, hooked nose,
But who, in another incarnation, wished for all to be gentle and to forgive,
And the rifle rounds fired in his name,
The popping heard through the too thin walls
Of too small twentieth century apartments
And as far away as *Galeries LaFayette*,
Which seems as if a mandala,
When alighted in the evenings.
You will not recall the calls of crowds marching
Past pawn shops and Little Caesar's restaurants
For the legacy of men known only for dying on their bellies
In patchy parks with trim grass and tall oak trees,
But barbed wire too,
Or in secret compartments, pulled by big, blue vans
That drive only to Tartarus,
Or in a holy vestibule, after the mass was over,
Where they first invited him to pray with them.
You will find unfamiliar the face of the little girl
With cheeks reddened by salty Mediterranean wind
And a pink Dora jacket reeking of the rubber raft,
Who felt her father's shoulders at last fall in a grateful sigh,
Only to see him stabbed for Doritos, later in the pens.
You will forget, most of all, how your heart never truly ached for them,
But only pricked up when a redhead ran from dinosaurs
Or the same great heroes joined as one, once more,
Or a beautiful girl cut the chains from victims.
You said Hello and Sorry so many times,
But never to someone who needed to hear it.
*
You think you will not remember because this is the nature of memories,
That they must inevitably break free of you each winter,
Like wispy, green saplings from wet spring dirt.
You do not realize you forget only what you chose to,
And that after the sprinkling confetti and cups of kindness,
When you see her, and force a kiss
With lips chapped from shouting at cab drivers and doormen,
Every year, you again choose only yourself.
/r/opinionsaboutnothing | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. |
10 minutes and I couldn't wait. Just 10 more minutes until I got my clean slate. I wished to be like everyone else. I didn't forget, I couldn't forget.
At 00.00 everyone's memory went straight back to December 31 1999 11.59. The world had been so concerned that the millennium bug would shut down computers, causing chaos in hospitals, power stations, and banks. What they hadn't realised was that it was our brains that wouldn't be able to cope.
It didn't take long for the scientists to realise, and it didn't take them much longer to realise there was nothing they could do about it.
5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes and the world would have its fresh start. Everyone would forget the terrorist attacks, the dirty politics, the hatred in the world.
It's amazing the unexpected changed that had occurred. Hospitals were filled with robotic doctors and nurses, as no one was able to complete med school anymore. Schools had become a haven, full of creativity and fun, because why learn algebra when in 12 months it would be forgotten. There would be peace, no more wars, that is until everyone found out who they were fighting against, even if they couldn't remember why.
1 more minute, just 1 more minute and my family would forget, forget what I had done, the awful thing I had done. They would love me again, wonder where I was, want to hold me in their arms.
Family histories had become common place, mostly DVDs, but sometimes written in massive family archives. Added to each year, so that personal and world wide events would not be forgotten. People would spend New Year's Day learning who had got married, who had died and who had been born. They would cry together, laugh together, and love together.
1 year, just 1 more year, and my sins will be forgotten, and I will be loved again. 1 year.
| You will forget the contours of the cartoon
(Though you unlikely ever saw it)
Of a brown man with his eyes askew and his long, hooked nose,
But who, in another incarnation, wished for all to be gentle and to forgive,
And the rifle rounds fired in his name,
The popping heard through the too thin walls
Of too small twentieth century apartments
And as far away as *Galeries LaFayette*,
Which seems as if a mandala,
When alighted in the evenings.
You will not recall the calls of crowds marching
Past pawn shops and Little Caesar's restaurants
For the legacy of men known only for dying on their bellies
In patchy parks with trim grass and tall oak trees,
But barbed wire too,
Or in secret compartments, pulled by big, blue vans
That drive only to Tartarus,
Or in a holy vestibule, after the mass was over,
Where they first invited him to pray with them.
You will find unfamiliar the face of the little girl
With cheeks reddened by salty Mediterranean wind
And a pink Dora jacket reeking of the rubber raft,
Who felt her father's shoulders at last fall in a grateful sigh,
Only to see him stabbed for Doritos, later in the pens.
You will forget, most of all, how your heart never truly ached for them,
But only pricked up when a redhead ran from dinosaurs
Or the same great heroes joined as one, once more,
Or a beautiful girl cut the chains from victims.
You said Hello and Sorry so many times,
But never to someone who needed to hear it.
*
You think you will not remember because this is the nature of memories,
That they must inevitably break free of you each winter,
Like wispy, green saplings from wet spring dirt.
You do not realize you forget only what you chose to,
And that after the sprinkling confetti and cups of kindness,
When you see her, and force a kiss
With lips chapped from shouting at cab drivers and doormen,
Every year, you again choose only yourself.
/r/opinionsaboutnothing | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. | "Hey, it's you. From the Picture," he said once again "We're dating, and your name is Ruth?"
"Yes it is, and we are." I lied once again. It sucks to remember the truth. | You will forget the contours of the cartoon
(Though you unlikely ever saw it)
Of a brown man with his eyes askew and his long, hooked nose,
But who, in another incarnation, wished for all to be gentle and to forgive,
And the rifle rounds fired in his name,
The popping heard through the too thin walls
Of too small twentieth century apartments
And as far away as *Galeries LaFayette*,
Which seems as if a mandala,
When alighted in the evenings.
You will not recall the calls of crowds marching
Past pawn shops and Little Caesar's restaurants
For the legacy of men known only for dying on their bellies
In patchy parks with trim grass and tall oak trees,
But barbed wire too,
Or in secret compartments, pulled by big, blue vans
That drive only to Tartarus,
Or in a holy vestibule, after the mass was over,
Where they first invited him to pray with them.
You will find unfamiliar the face of the little girl
With cheeks reddened by salty Mediterranean wind
And a pink Dora jacket reeking of the rubber raft,
Who felt her father's shoulders at last fall in a grateful sigh,
Only to see him stabbed for Doritos, later in the pens.
You will forget, most of all, how your heart never truly ached for them,
But only pricked up when a redhead ran from dinosaurs
Or the same great heroes joined as one, once more,
Or a beautiful girl cut the chains from victims.
You said Hello and Sorry so many times,
But never to someone who needed to hear it.
*
You think you will not remember because this is the nature of memories,
That they must inevitably break free of you each winter,
Like wispy, green saplings from wet spring dirt.
You do not realize you forget only what you chose to,
And that after the sprinkling confetti and cups of kindness,
When you see her, and force a kiss
With lips chapped from shouting at cab drivers and doormen,
Every year, you again choose only yourself.
/r/opinionsaboutnothing | |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. |
10 minutes and I couldn't wait. Just 10 more minutes until I got my clean slate. I wished to be like everyone else. I didn't forget, I couldn't forget.
At 00.00 everyone's memory went straight back to December 31 1999 11.59. The world had been so concerned that the millennium bug would shut down computers, causing chaos in hospitals, power stations, and banks. What they hadn't realised was that it was our brains that wouldn't be able to cope.
It didn't take long for the scientists to realise, and it didn't take them much longer to realise there was nothing they could do about it.
5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes and the world would have its fresh start. Everyone would forget the terrorist attacks, the dirty politics, the hatred in the world.
It's amazing the unexpected changed that had occurred. Hospitals were filled with robotic doctors and nurses, as no one was able to complete med school anymore. Schools had become a haven, full of creativity and fun, because why learn algebra when in 12 months it would be forgotten. There would be peace, no more wars, that is until everyone found out who they were fighting against, even if they couldn't remember why.
1 more minute, just 1 more minute and my family would forget, forget what I had done, the awful thing I had done. They would love me again, wonder where I was, want to hold me in their arms.
Family histories had become common place, mostly DVDs, but sometimes written in massive family archives. Added to each year, so that personal and world wide events would not be forgotten. People would spend New Year's Day learning who had got married, who had died and who had been born. They would cry together, laugh together, and love together.
1 year, just 1 more year, and my sins will be forgotten, and I will be loved again. 1 year.
| My eyes cracked open on the morn of January 1st, and a smile spread across my face. My happiness only rose as I turned over in my bed to see my husband lying next to me, still snoring and fast asleep. Our son had been born exactly one year ago, at midnight on January 1st, so today was his birthday party. I rolled out of bed, stepping into my slippers and planting a gentle kiss on my husband's forehead. He didn't stir.
I walked out of my bedroom, stretching my arms out. Luckily my son was asleep as I walked into the nursery. He's probably hungry, I thought as I glanced at the firetruck clock on the blue painted wall. It is eight, after all. In preparation for my son's party today, my husband and I had gone to sleep right after midnight, so our sleep schedules weren't exactly off.
I reached my arms into the crib, stroking a strand of curly dark hair that was resting across my son's face. "Good morning Dorian," I said in my sing-song, maternal voice. His beautiful blue eyes opened, and immediately he started blubbering. Quickly I picked him up, holding him over my shoulder and patting his back. Eventually he calmed down, but only when I gave him his bottle.
I looked into Dorian's eyes, and he didn't look at me. His eyes were at my neck, and they looked empty and lacking all emotion. It was like he had just been born again or something, needing to learn everything all over again. Shaking away these strange thoughts, I walked down the stairs holding Dorian—who held his own bottle.
I set my son in his high chair and starting cooking breakfast. Eating as a family had been a staple ever since my husband and I started fighting, when Dorian was six months. We would talk about our day in the evening and what we hoped for said day in the morning. The smell of bacon must've awakened my husband, because a few minutes later, I heard footsteps overhead.
"Alex?"
I turned around, and my husband was staring at Dorian like he was an alien. "Yes, Alan?"
"What—why is there a baby here? You're supposed to be at the hospital, right?" He looked at me, and then he was staring at me like I was an alien. "No? What's happening?" His voice rose into a wary wail, terrified of what was happening to him.
I, on the other hand, was confused with his reaction to this seemingly normal day. "That's our son, Alan. What are you talking about? He was born last year today! It's his birthday!"
Alan drew a shaky breath. "I don't remember that. I remember waiting for you to give birth at the hospital! I remember wanting to see my son!" His voice was rising on hysterical, and Dorian started to cry at his concerned tone. I swooped past my husband and picked up the baby.
"Well, I do remember. You must've hit your head," I said in a stubborn tone.
It turns out I was horribly wrong.
| |
[WP] Every year, at the precise moment the new year begins, every person on the planet permanently loses their memory of the past year. You alone are immune to this. |
10 minutes and I couldn't wait. Just 10 more minutes until I got my clean slate. I wished to be like everyone else. I didn't forget, I couldn't forget.
At 00.00 everyone's memory went straight back to December 31 1999 11.59. The world had been so concerned that the millennium bug would shut down computers, causing chaos in hospitals, power stations, and banks. What they hadn't realised was that it was our brains that wouldn't be able to cope.
It didn't take long for the scientists to realise, and it didn't take them much longer to realise there was nothing they could do about it.
5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes and the world would have its fresh start. Everyone would forget the terrorist attacks, the dirty politics, the hatred in the world.
It's amazing the unexpected changed that had occurred. Hospitals were filled with robotic doctors and nurses, as no one was able to complete med school anymore. Schools had become a haven, full of creativity and fun, because why learn algebra when in 12 months it would be forgotten. There would be peace, no more wars, that is until everyone found out who they were fighting against, even if they couldn't remember why.
1 more minute, just 1 more minute and my family would forget, forget what I had done, the awful thing I had done. They would love me again, wonder where I was, want to hold me in their arms.
Family histories had become common place, mostly DVDs, but sometimes written in massive family archives. Added to each year, so that personal and world wide events would not be forgotten. People would spend New Year's Day learning who had got married, who had died and who had been born. They would cry together, laugh together, and love together.
1 year, just 1 more year, and my sins will be forgotten, and I will be loved again. 1 year.
| Everybody is in bed, they went to sleep even before the ball dropped. I decided to stay up and watch the entertainment as everybody in Time Square forgets what happened. Not me though, I remember everything. I go up the stairs, stop in front of my sons room. He'll never remember all the times we've bonded this past year, all the times we've passed the baseball back and forth in the yard, all the times I've sat up at night with him because he decided to watch a horror movie, and most of all...me. | |
[WP] Since you were five you have been able to save and reload the world like a game, but people are starting to catch on and remeber thing from timelines that never even happened. Worse is, you have decided to kill everyone just to see what would happen. | I can "have my way" whenever I choose to. The closest thing that mirrors this is videogames.
There's too much crap on the table to comfortably eat my breakfast usually so I sit and eat in the living room. My mom is hushedly conversing with dad in the kitchen about something. Finances probably; on that thought I remembered that time I killed three bank tellers for over $300,000 in my duffel, but that's not my REAL life.
Heading back to the kitchen with my dirty bowl, I paused at the entry.
"Richy, I swear he's been going out every night."
Um, no mom you are mistaken. I am an obedient son, I sleep all night.
"Hon, even if he is, it's just a passing phase."
Right, there's no real need to be suspicious of your dutiful son.
On the bus ride to school I debate on whether to go back to breakfast, then I would have time to switch to my collared shirt. Deciding against it, I shall brave picture day in my Nickelback shirt.
Arriving to class without tardy took more than a few tries, but I finally did it at a brisk walk. After all, I am an exemplary student. As I sit down, I overhear a whisper. "How many times."
No I'm sure it has nothing to do with me. Though, I really gave it some thought.
How many times have I relived the same moment?
Shrugging it off, I waited for the announcement that would signal our turn in front of the cameras.
"Psst hey Dan, will you let me borrow a pencil? I need to fill out the rest of my photo voucher."
Oh, Sandra, if you only knew how many times I've stabbed you, gouged out your eyes, and committed other inhuman atrocities against you. Even now, I have the strongest impulse to stab your filthy outstretched hand with my #2 HB; what irony.
"Sorry, I forgot half my stuff at home."
You're a fucking parasite Sandy, and I hope you end up a sad, lonely, and bitter woman at the end of your miserable life. Of course, I hope her father dies a death only befitting a drunken piece of child abuser shit.
In her quiet and nervous voice she squeaks "oh, it's ok."
Hopefully she has the saddest expression on her face. Peeking over at her, I notice she does look pretty down, and she has her hand on her shoulder. Right where I stabbed her last time.
Calm down, Dan, it's just a coincidence.
I am a good person. I am a nice guy. I am normal.
Fuck this.
*I hope this is passable as this is my first time doing this.* | It was easier than I expected. Buy some guns, ammo, explosives, walk into Times Square. Point, squeeze, repeat, reload, repeat. Law enforcement arrived before the third minute; I caught a bullet in the shoulder as I ran inside the closet of the nearest store. Ok let's try this again...
...
Why am I still here...
...
Save file corrupt. Fuck. | |
[WP] Since you were five you have been able to save and reload the world like a game, but people are starting to catch on and remeber thing from timelines that never even happened. Worse is, you have decided to kill everyone just to see what would happen. | It was simple. In five seconds, she would walk through the door. She'd walk away from me, toward the elevator. Fifteen steps, and then a thirty second pause while she waited for the elevator to reach our floor. I'd leave my room two seconds after the doors open, shouting for her to hold the door as it closes. I'd barely make it on. As we pass the second floor, she'd sneeze. I'd have less than a second to kill her. A knife to the throat as she is still dazed from her sneeze. I'd catch all the blood on my pool towel. Once we get to my floor, I'd have two minutes to get her into my room before housekeeping came around the corner. Way more than enough time. From there, I could relax until 3:00 AM. Then I get her into the elevator shaft.
Like I said, simple. I'd done this so many times I could do it blindfolded. In fact, I have. But she was always found very quickly, until I thought of the shaft. Now, I was going to move onto someone else. I smile darkly, eager for a new challenge. Maybe that housekeeper who steals my wallet tomorrow. I turn my attention back to the door.
Five...
Four...
Three...
Two...
One...
There she is! Her sandals slap against the tile floor as she exits the pool area. She reaches the elevator as always. This wait is always the hardest. Nothing I can do to make this any shorter. The door opens, and she steps on.
One...
Two!
I step into the lobby, and after a short scan of the room I focus on the elevator. I start slow, pretending to be in no hurry. The the doors start to slide shut, and I break into a jog.
"Hold the door, please!", I shout. She looks up, her hand reaching out to the open door button. Then she meets my eyes, and her grin transforms into shock. Her eyes widen, and her arm falls back to her side. The door shuts when I am just over three feet from her. I stop, absolutely confused. She recognized me. That was impossible. Though I'd met her hundreds of times, she had never seen me before, on this go at least. Something was wrong. The RNG was different, which had never happened before. I only had one thing to do now. I muttered to myself.
"Load save state 4483." | It was easier than I expected. Buy some guns, ammo, explosives, walk into Times Square. Point, squeeze, repeat, reload, repeat. Law enforcement arrived before the third minute; I caught a bullet in the shoulder as I ran inside the closet of the nearest store. Ok let's try this again...
...
Why am I still here...
...
Save file corrupt. Fuck. | |
[WP] Sponsored superheroes | In the world of sponsored superheroes, the strongest powers go to the highest bidders, particularly those who are willing to pay more dearly than others.
A figure walks casually towards a fortified compound. Soldiers shout and gesture as he approaches. As he fails to respond, 40 odd machines guns blaze through the night, their roar sending residents and animals fleeing. The bullets simply disappear as they approach the man, seeming to vanish from existence. As the man approaches the metal gate, it peels aside with a deafening shriek.
The men are in full panic now, as they recognize the man's suit. To a man, they attempt to flee, desperately scrabbling up walls or out of doorways. It is not to be. One by one, they simply implode. Grown men begin sobbing, begging for mercy. They have families, they have children, they were only doing what they were told. They are afforded no mercy.
The man never betrays any particular emotion. Were it not for his suit, and the sea of blood soaking the soil and concrete, he might be on a casual stroll to the pub. This Boko Haram stronghold is not the first he has dismantled, and it is not the last. A single soldier remains, trembling amidst the redness. The man squats down in front of him. "The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation would like it known that it disapproves of your actions."
| The nasal voice piped up in his ear bud suddenly, almost making him lose his footing as he scrambled across the ravine. He punched his gloved hand into the stone wall and his fingers raked out a handhold to swing himself back around.
"Faster! The cameras are ahead of you, on him. Faster now."
He grit his teeth and paced on, running now. He had fallen from five stories or more to barely a broken rib, but the ravine was tower-block deep. He could have caught the running criminals on the outskirts of the city - he had been meters away when the order had come through.
"Let them shoot you. Pretend it's slowed you down. Chase them to the ravine, we have eyes on it and the light is perfect. Come on, look more hurt. You look bored."
He *was* bored. He scrabbled down the ravine a little faster though, remembering to pant for the camera drone overhead. They liked it when he pretended to breathe - the directors said it humanised him and he did have to admot that it made for more dramatic sequences. He made a mental note to watch the evening playback in the hotel above the casino later.
He had chased the theives to an edge, and he smiled - real, this time - because the day's work was almost done. The two men shot at him instantly, the bullets ricocheting off his raised arm. He bore down on them, swatting bullets left and right, pulling cuffs from his ridiculous utility belt as he went. Disarming them was simple, but he made it look a struggle all the same. Once it was done, the voice hissed in his ear again.
"Hang them off the edge of the rock. Then look up to the sun."
He did as he was told. His problem had robbed him of every penny he had made as a hero, and it would rob him of those he made tonight as well. The only company who would take him on now was not paying richly by any means, but he would eat and then he would play. He dangled the two off the edge of the rock by their cuffs, and slowly raised his head towards the drone hovering in front of the sun.
"Say the line."
His smile became a strained thing - he knew he looked more like a ghoul than a hero, like a wild maniac with leathered too-tight skin and a bleached smile.
"Sponsored by Millette Razors. Because I need a clean shave... while I'm cleaning up this town."
| |
Based on a true story. | [WP] Aliens land on Earth, and immediately begin posting too many writing prompts about aliens landing on Earth | 1035 [WP] Aliens land on Earth, declare war on ISIS
876 [WP] Aliens land on Earth, launch civil rights movement against "Astroxynophobia"
703 [WP] Humans land on G'lpthblr'gzz'thn'r, and immediately begin posting to many writing prompts about humans landing on G'lpthblr'gzz'thn'r
682 [WP] Extraterrestrials land on Earth, president Trump issues press release
625 [WP] Aliens land on earth at the same time as Jesus, both launch competing marketing campaigns for exposure
517 [WP] Aliens land on Earth, fish for bulletproof annexation plans using r/WritingPrompts for ideas. What is the post they use?
428 [WP] Aliens land on Earth in Johannesburg, mistaken for viral marketing campaign for District 10 and nobody can be convinced otherwise | He had seen it yesterday. The writing prompts about Aliens, it felt like he'd seen them his whole life. Why, now, does it push him over the edge? Into absolute and categorical terror.
Some stories he had been tempted to write. Despite the predictable script they would generate. He had felt like science fiction was a pleasure and aliens allowed a certain intimacy with the unknown unavailable to other genres. The romance, putrid in retrospect.
Aliens stand for perpetual conflict with our base selves. It is too late to escape, they are already here. |
Based on a true story. | [WP] Aliens land on Earth, and immediately begin posting too many writing prompts about aliens landing on Earth | So there I was, playing chess with Walter White. God and the devil were arguing about how best to redeem humanity, and finally decided to go back in time to kill Hitler. No sooner did they disappear, than a flying saucer landed next to me. The aliens inside gave me a super power *with a twist*. | He had seen it yesterday. The writing prompts about Aliens, it felt like he'd seen them his whole life. Why, now, does it push him over the edge? Into absolute and categorical terror.
Some stories he had been tempted to write. Despite the predictable script they would generate. He had felt like science fiction was a pleasure and aliens allowed a certain intimacy with the unknown unavailable to other genres. The romance, putrid in retrospect.
Aliens stand for perpetual conflict with our base selves. It is too late to escape, they are already here. |
Based on a true story. | [WP] Aliens land on Earth, and immediately begin posting too many writing prompts about aliens landing on Earth | "It's not alien propaganda."
"No? What about '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and people learn they are not what they seem'?"
"Typical writing prompt with a twist, nothing special about that."
"And how about '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and teach the people of Earth their peaceful ways'?"
"Actually a bit less outrageous than normal."
"Okay, sure, but '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and everyone forms orderly lines to be processed'?"
"It's a bit strange, sure, but-"
"[WP] Aliens land on Earth and the people of Earth tell the governments of Earth that the Aliens can govern the Earth better than the governments of Earth are governing Earth, so the Aliens govern Earth and they do a good job."
"I think a fifth grader wrote that one."
"[WP] Aliens land on Earth and there was absolutely no armed rebellion, because it would be futile."
"No, just no, okay? I get there have been a lot of alien posts lately but I don't care how many there are, I don't care what they say, there's just no possible way that it's actually alien propaganda!"
"Oh really? '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and they are damn fine lovers.'"
"... you may have a point." | He had seen it yesterday. The writing prompts about Aliens, it felt like he'd seen them his whole life. Why, now, does it push him over the edge? Into absolute and categorical terror.
Some stories he had been tempted to write. Despite the predictable script they would generate. He had felt like science fiction was a pleasure and aliens allowed a certain intimacy with the unknown unavailable to other genres. The romance, putrid in retrospect.
Aliens stand for perpetual conflict with our base selves. It is too late to escape, they are already here. |
Based on a true story. | [WP] Aliens land on Earth, and immediately begin posting too many writing prompts about aliens landing on Earth | *Translation Note: All Kendakian has been translated into English for the enjoyment of the reader.*
"I'm telling you they're on to us." Gleenek sputtered gesticulating wildly at the /r/writingprompts subreddit that was visible on the main screen of their Kendakian Striker.
"Relax... Earthlings will believe anything but the truth. I mean, half of them still don't believe they landed on their moon." Flez scratched the dry spot on the back of his scalp. The material used in the face masks he and Gleenek wore were made of cheap Qu'rovian synthetics. He was getting tired of going out in disguise, but each mission required a minimum number of walkabouts.
"Are you kidding me? You pointed out that ridiculous flag as we flew by."
"I'm being serious, here, use their Internet to Google 'moon landing hoax' and see what you find."
"What the gorp is the Internet and a Google?" Gleenek felt out of his element. So much was different from the training simulators back on Kendak. Flez ignored almost all protocol, prefering to go by his "guts instinct," whatever that was. But still, Flez hadn't steered him wrong yet.
"The Internet is the equivalent of our Kendacron but without the VR interface. And Google is what they use to look up information." Flez explained all this while Gleenek used his tentacles to navigate the haptic input device (HID) that they used to interface with the ship's computer.
"By the light of Vaanu you weren't joking!" Gleenek exclaimed as he scrolled through the plethora of conspiracy theorist websites. Before he could click on one Flez took control of the HID and went back to reddit.
"Easy there, you could get lost in all that mumbo jumbo."
"What is 'mumbo jumbo?'" Flez was always throwing in non-Kendakian language to their conversations. Gleenek was annoyed at first but he had picked up a few and actually enjoyed learning them now. This one was new.
"Earth word, means nonsense."
"So, you really think the Earthlings just happen to be talking about alien invasions in the midst of a secret one?"
"I'm telling you Gleenek they talk about this stuff all the time. And I mean it, ALL the time. Look, I'll prove it to you." With a few flicks of the HID he logged into reddit as MrDrumzOrz and submitted a writing prompt.
*[WP] Aliens land on Earth, and immediately begin posting too many writing prompts about aliens landing on Earth*
"What are you doing!?" Gleenek squealed. "They'll figure it out for certain now!"
"Relax," Flez said releasing the HID and leaning back in his captain's chair. "Just sit back and enjoy the show."
-----------------------------------
*Another good one, this was begging to go more meta. Apologies to OP, hope you didn't mind.*
| He had seen it yesterday. The writing prompts about Aliens, it felt like he'd seen them his whole life. Why, now, does it push him over the edge? Into absolute and categorical terror.
Some stories he had been tempted to write. Despite the predictable script they would generate. He had felt like science fiction was a pleasure and aliens allowed a certain intimacy with the unknown unavailable to other genres. The romance, putrid in retrospect.
Aliens stand for perpetual conflict with our base selves. It is too late to escape, they are already here. |
Based on a true story. | [WP] Aliens land on Earth, and immediately begin posting too many writing prompts about aliens landing on Earth | "It's not alien propaganda."
"No? What about '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and people learn they are not what they seem'?"
"Typical writing prompt with a twist, nothing special about that."
"And how about '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and teach the people of Earth their peaceful ways'?"
"Actually a bit less outrageous than normal."
"Okay, sure, but '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and everyone forms orderly lines to be processed'?"
"It's a bit strange, sure, but-"
"[WP] Aliens land on Earth and the people of Earth tell the governments of Earth that the Aliens can govern the Earth better than the governments of Earth are governing Earth, so the Aliens govern Earth and they do a good job."
"I think a fifth grader wrote that one."
"[WP] Aliens land on Earth and there was absolutely no armed rebellion, because it would be futile."
"No, just no, okay? I get there have been a lot of alien posts lately but I don't care how many there are, I don't care what they say, there's just no possible way that it's actually alien propaganda!"
"Oh really? '[WP] Aliens land on Earth and they are damn fine lovers.'"
"... you may have a point." | So there I was, playing chess with Walter White. God and the devil were arguing about how best to redeem humanity, and finally decided to go back in time to kill Hitler. No sooner did they disappear, than a flying saucer landed next to me. The aliens inside gave me a super power *with a twist*. |
[WP] You are the first person in the history of mankind to talk to God. | "So, what have you heard about me?"
Aaron shuffled, "Can't you, uh, read minds and things? So wouldn't you know what I've heard anyways?"
The man sitting across from him threw back his head and laughed. "Well, you've got me there. You want me to prove the mind-reading bit to you?"
"Well...yeah, I guess. Hang on a second while I think."
"Let me know when you're ready."
"But, wouldn't you already know if I'm ready or not if you can read my mind?"
Another laugh. "I'm just messing with you. You're sharp, though. Go ahead, take your time."
He furrowed his brow, straining to think of something that would make him seem interesting to his conversation partner.
The man, middle-aged from his appearance, dressed in jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt sipped at his coffee, grinning. "Alright, you're thinking of a verse from a silly book some of you seem to believe about who I am, what I've done, and what people I'm mad at. Need I say more?"
Nodding, he replied, "I'd like to hear your your response, if that's okay with you."
The man adjusted his glasses, leaning forward. "'God is love.' Not such a bad idea! Closer than a lot of folks who are so sure I'm some white-bearded homophobe on a big uncomfortable chair in the sky scolding everybody for touching their privates too much. Ha!"
Aaron smiled too. "You could make a lot of people a whole lot happier by setting the record straight on that whole bit."
The man nodded in agreement. "I'll take it under consideration."
Aaron hesitated a moment, glanced nervously at the man's expression, who had a mischievous grin on his face now. "Oh...pretend I *don't* already know what you want to ask me. Go ahead."
Looking around at the other people in the cafe, he muttered, "Why am I the first one you've talked with? These other folks are just like me. And why now?"
"Any guesses?"
"Uh...I really don't...I don't even get how this is possible or if I'm just dreaming, let alone what motivates the supreme ruler of the universe."
"You don't have anything I need. I don't have an agenda to hand down to you. I know you're too lazy to go out preaching some other religion at people, and only the total nutjobs would believe what you had to say in the first place."
"I'm relieved."
"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out, though. You've been scoring all kinds of points with me before now. Okay, Aaron. What's your last name?"
"Aaden."
"And together, that makes..."
"Aaron Aaden. I don't get why that...oh. You're serious?"
"I'm just going through alphabetically. Nothing wrong with that, is there?" He grinned. "As to why now, just take it from me that I've been busy taking care of some very important things in a galaxy far, far away."
Aaron couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sorry, just this whole thing is so much different than I'd ever thought this might play out. You're a lot different than I thought you might be."
The man drained his cup, and let out a satisfied breath. "It's a good different, I wager."
"It is." | "You mean... you're real?" I stared at him dumbfounded as he stroked his flowing beard and chuckled.
"Yes, obviously. How else would you be talking to me?" I shook my head, trying to get my things straight and articulate my questions. He laughed and interrupted my thoughts. "You think billions of people have been praying to nothing like a bunch of blind fools? Come on, now. You knew there had to be something bigger."
I gaped at him, trying to understand. I was a devout atheist, having spent my life laughing at religious zealots who followed some invisible deity who cast destruction and misery willy-nilly about the world. "But then why?"
He raised his eyebrows, seemingly irritated with my line of questioning. "Is that really your question? Why? Why what? You ate cereal this morning because you chose to. I don't micromanage. You got hit by that drunk driver because he chose to drink. That wasn't up to me. I don't control you all."
I frowned. "But what about destiny? Don't you choose what will happen to each person?"
He laughed out loud now and shook his head. "Seriously? You think I have the time for that? I'm a dozen episodes behind on my favorite show, still have to magically create my wife's grocery list and sweep the house or she'll kick me out and you think I have time to create some sort of plan for each of you?"
It made sense, I suppose. Maybe at the beginning he had micromanaged each human, but with over seven billion people, that would take longer than an immortal's lifetime. "But then what about the Holocaust and genocides and starvation? Why do you let that happen?"
He stared at me oddly for a second, as if I was a bit daft. "It's not up to me. Hitler thinks his own thoughts and his followers think their own thoughts and they kill whoever they want to kill. Hell is basically endless. I'll get tired of the universe's existence before we fill it up. Plagues and starvation are the same deal. It's ultimately up to you guys to stop them, or maybe you can't stop them, but at some point somebody's decision could have avoided just about anything."
"So then what do you do?"
He shrugged, a bored look on his face. "Nothing much nowadays, to be honest. I made all you things on Earth and it turned out pretty well for several thousand years before you humans started to mess things up. There's more life out there and I'm just waiting for you guys to find it. Its like my own reality TV show and now and then I talk to some of the cast, like you." With that, he waved his hand, dismissing me.
"Wait." He turned to me, annoyed. "Who decides who goes to Heaven or Hell?"
He laughed again, a bit more darkly. "Nobody. There is no Heaven. There's only Hell." And with a snap of his fingers, I was in what must have been Hell.
*****
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated! | |
[WP] You are the first person in the history of mankind to talk to God. | "You know, God explicitly said he doesn't want us to be dicks."
"Yeah, but that's just the Bible. You think God really talked to the guys who wrote the Bible? No way. I'll be a dick if I want to."
I let out a long, heavy sigh and sat back further in my seat. This would be hard to explain. A guy like him, a Deist like our dear Founding Fathers, wasn't going to believe that I had spoken with God. "I mean, yeah, I agree, but that... that doesn't.... I know he's definitely said that assholes are probably going to Hell. And hey, don't quote me on this or anything, but he also might have said you, especially, are going there."
Luc stared at me from the other side of his table, eyes squinted, his fork hovering over his plate. "The fuck do you mean? Dude, you need to lay off the salvia. It's messing with your head."
"No, I swear to God — literally — he said that. I haven't smoked that in a while, anyways, you know that. But... ok, and I just need you to suspend your disbelief for a sec, 'cause you're not gonna believe me." I took a deep breath in and let it back out through my teeth, not making eye contact with him. "But I've talked to God. Like, he was in the line behind me at 7-11 a few days ago."
"You're lying. But you're a damn good storyteller." He took a sip of his coffee and smiled. I didn't smile back.
"Not lying. He tapped me on the shoulder, told me I shouldn't be buying beer on Christmas, that I should be with my family. I asked him why he was in 7-11 and not 'upstairs', and he said he had decided it was time to check in on what he'd created. I was the first person he ran into."
"How'd you know he was God?"
"He looked like him. You know. Like Jesus, kinda, but older. Raggedy clothes. A beard."
He pointed out the window at a homeless man across the street, wiggling his finger in little circles. "You sure it wasn't just one of those guys?"
"He wasn't a hobo, Luc, he was God, I could feel it. A divine energy or some shit. It was weird. The cashier couldn't see him, he must've thought I was crazy, discussing Heaven and Hell and vices and virtues with myself."
In some kind of act of surrender, Luc put his fork down on the plate and wiped his lips with his napkin. "Okay, whatever. Man, you're fucking crazy." He stood up and started walking away. "And like I said, stop smoking."
I turned to look at the seat next to me.
"He's definitely going to Hell," God chuckled. | "You mean... you're real?" I stared at him dumbfounded as he stroked his flowing beard and chuckled.
"Yes, obviously. How else would you be talking to me?" I shook my head, trying to get my things straight and articulate my questions. He laughed and interrupted my thoughts. "You think billions of people have been praying to nothing like a bunch of blind fools? Come on, now. You knew there had to be something bigger."
I gaped at him, trying to understand. I was a devout atheist, having spent my life laughing at religious zealots who followed some invisible deity who cast destruction and misery willy-nilly about the world. "But then why?"
He raised his eyebrows, seemingly irritated with my line of questioning. "Is that really your question? Why? Why what? You ate cereal this morning because you chose to. I don't micromanage. You got hit by that drunk driver because he chose to drink. That wasn't up to me. I don't control you all."
I frowned. "But what about destiny? Don't you choose what will happen to each person?"
He laughed out loud now and shook his head. "Seriously? You think I have the time for that? I'm a dozen episodes behind on my favorite show, still have to magically create my wife's grocery list and sweep the house or she'll kick me out and you think I have time to create some sort of plan for each of you?"
It made sense, I suppose. Maybe at the beginning he had micromanaged each human, but with over seven billion people, that would take longer than an immortal's lifetime. "But then what about the Holocaust and genocides and starvation? Why do you let that happen?"
He stared at me oddly for a second, as if I was a bit daft. "It's not up to me. Hitler thinks his own thoughts and his followers think their own thoughts and they kill whoever they want to kill. Hell is basically endless. I'll get tired of the universe's existence before we fill it up. Plagues and starvation are the same deal. It's ultimately up to you guys to stop them, or maybe you can't stop them, but at some point somebody's decision could have avoided just about anything."
"So then what do you do?"
He shrugged, a bored look on his face. "Nothing much nowadays, to be honest. I made all you things on Earth and it turned out pretty well for several thousand years before you humans started to mess things up. There's more life out there and I'm just waiting for you guys to find it. Its like my own reality TV show and now and then I talk to some of the cast, like you." With that, he waved his hand, dismissing me.
"Wait." He turned to me, annoyed. "Who decides who goes to Heaven or Hell?"
He laughed again, a bit more darkly. "Nobody. There is no Heaven. There's only Hell." And with a snap of his fingers, I was in what must have been Hell.
*****
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated! | |
[WP] You are the first person in the history of mankind to talk to God. | "You know, God explicitly said he doesn't want us to be dicks."
"Yeah, but that's just the Bible. You think God really talked to the guys who wrote the Bible? No way. I'll be a dick if I want to."
I let out a long, heavy sigh and sat back further in my seat. This would be hard to explain. A guy like him, a Deist like our dear Founding Fathers, wasn't going to believe that I had spoken with God. "I mean, yeah, I agree, but that... that doesn't.... I know he's definitely said that assholes are probably going to Hell. And hey, don't quote me on this or anything, but he also might have said you, especially, are going there."
Luc stared at me from the other side of his table, eyes squinted, his fork hovering over his plate. "The fuck do you mean? Dude, you need to lay off the salvia. It's messing with your head."
"No, I swear to God — literally — he said that. I haven't smoked that in a while, anyways, you know that. But... ok, and I just need you to suspend your disbelief for a sec, 'cause you're not gonna believe me." I took a deep breath in and let it back out through my teeth, not making eye contact with him. "But I've talked to God. Like, he was in the line behind me at 7-11 a few days ago."
"You're lying. But you're a damn good storyteller." He took a sip of his coffee and smiled. I didn't smile back.
"Not lying. He tapped me on the shoulder, told me I shouldn't be buying beer on Christmas, that I should be with my family. I asked him why he was in 7-11 and not 'upstairs', and he said he had decided it was time to check in on what he'd created. I was the first person he ran into."
"How'd you know he was God?"
"He looked like him. You know. Like Jesus, kinda, but older. Raggedy clothes. A beard."
He pointed out the window at a homeless man across the street, wiggling his finger in little circles. "You sure it wasn't just one of those guys?"
"He wasn't a hobo, Luc, he was God, I could feel it. A divine energy or some shit. It was weird. The cashier couldn't see him, he must've thought I was crazy, discussing Heaven and Hell and vices and virtues with myself."
In some kind of act of surrender, Luc put his fork down on the plate and wiped his lips with his napkin. "Okay, whatever. Man, you're fucking crazy." He stood up and started walking away. "And like I said, stop smoking."
I turned to look at the seat next to me.
"He's definitely going to Hell," God chuckled. | "So, what have you heard about me?"
Aaron shuffled, "Can't you, uh, read minds and things? So wouldn't you know what I've heard anyways?"
The man sitting across from him threw back his head and laughed. "Well, you've got me there. You want me to prove the mind-reading bit to you?"
"Well...yeah, I guess. Hang on a second while I think."
"Let me know when you're ready."
"But, wouldn't you already know if I'm ready or not if you can read my mind?"
Another laugh. "I'm just messing with you. You're sharp, though. Go ahead, take your time."
He furrowed his brow, straining to think of something that would make him seem interesting to his conversation partner.
The man, middle-aged from his appearance, dressed in jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt sipped at his coffee, grinning. "Alright, you're thinking of a verse from a silly book some of you seem to believe about who I am, what I've done, and what people I'm mad at. Need I say more?"
Nodding, he replied, "I'd like to hear your your response, if that's okay with you."
The man adjusted his glasses, leaning forward. "'God is love.' Not such a bad idea! Closer than a lot of folks who are so sure I'm some white-bearded homophobe on a big uncomfortable chair in the sky scolding everybody for touching their privates too much. Ha!"
Aaron smiled too. "You could make a lot of people a whole lot happier by setting the record straight on that whole bit."
The man nodded in agreement. "I'll take it under consideration."
Aaron hesitated a moment, glanced nervously at the man's expression, who had a mischievous grin on his face now. "Oh...pretend I *don't* already know what you want to ask me. Go ahead."
Looking around at the other people in the cafe, he muttered, "Why am I the first one you've talked with? These other folks are just like me. And why now?"
"Any guesses?"
"Uh...I really don't...I don't even get how this is possible or if I'm just dreaming, let alone what motivates the supreme ruler of the universe."
"You don't have anything I need. I don't have an agenda to hand down to you. I know you're too lazy to go out preaching some other religion at people, and only the total nutjobs would believe what you had to say in the first place."
"I'm relieved."
"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out, though. You've been scoring all kinds of points with me before now. Okay, Aaron. What's your last name?"
"Aaden."
"And together, that makes..."
"Aaron Aaden. I don't get why that...oh. You're serious?"
"I'm just going through alphabetically. Nothing wrong with that, is there?" He grinned. "As to why now, just take it from me that I've been busy taking care of some very important things in a galaxy far, far away."
Aaron couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sorry, just this whole thing is so much different than I'd ever thought this might play out. You're a lot different than I thought you might be."
The man drained his cup, and let out a satisfied breath. "It's a good different, I wager."
"It is." | |
[WP] As it turns out, those red lines in our eyes aren't veins, but rather a parasitic worm that feeds on ocular information. A Scientist removes them, and for the first time in history humans can see everything they were meant to | It was a delicate procedure. Snip. Required a precision that no-one else was even close to capable of. Push the needle through. No-one but me would try it. The man's mask fogged up as his breath condensed against the plastic. Hmm. This was slow work. He might wake up before we want him to. Nobody understands just how bloody hard it is. Taking out just the vein, leaving all the eye intact. It takes hours to do just a single eye. And this man... I don't know what was wrong with him. I only had so much gas left after the last four patients failed the procedure. His breathing started to speed up. That was bad. I was so close... But no matter. He was restrained. I could finish even if he woke up. The work continued. Taking the knife up again. I wondered for a second how long it had been since I cleaned it. Oh well.
More cutting. I was close. So close. My hands started to tremble. I had never gotten this far before. Not without them starting to bleed everywhere. His breathing quicked. His pupil stated to dilate. I shushed him. I was so close. Writhing. A soft bang as he struggled against the leather restraints. One final cut and it was done. A slight slip. The knife stopped inside the muscles around his tear duct. A small mistake. With a proud smile I lifted up the parasite. Took it away from his face. Held it in my hand, just in front of him where he could see it. One eye. Red. Still infected. The other, beautifully clear and white. Free at last, pure.
Unadulterated excitement. I ripped the mask off of his face and delighted, screeched at him "What do you see!? What do you see!?" and his screams started to fill the room. His eye writhing around uncontrollably, inspecting the entire room. The screaming. Such primal terror. I stopped. What awesome visions was he having? The screaming didn't stop. I jumped next to him, trying to follow where his eyes went. His teeth gritted, hands clenched, struggling against the restraints with all his strength.
I watched. Fascinated. Wondering. Such fresh curiosity. What surrounded us? What was it he saw? What was the cause of all his fear? But still. It grew old. I took the scalpel to his neck until the screaming diminished to a gurgle and finally died down. My technique would be perfected.
This was proof. There was something out there. Something us infected with this ghastly parasite were unaware of. Maybe the same dark forces that cursed us with it. I dug my fingers into the socket of his eye. This was my greatest accomplishment so far. Pulling out my prize. I would study this. Try to find what it was. If only I could see like he could.
I sat down in front of a mirror and prepared my tools. There was a monster here I wasn't aware of. | "I said, Put it. Back. In."
"You do realize what that sounds like, right?" The Scientist quietly giggled, his sense of humor getting in the way of the serious nature of the situation.
"YES!! Haha, very funny, now **Put it back in.**"
"But why?!" The Scientist had spent his life on this conspiracy, working to uncover the worm and figure out a way of extracting it without harming its host. This was all he knew. The discovery that had changed his course, righted him where he had been wrong. He had fed these things for too long, worked to keep them alive. Optometry had paid well, but it wasn't worth denying everyone the vision they were meant to receive.
"I... I can't see." I whispered, scared to admit to this man that the product of his life's work was blindness.
"What do you mean you can't see?!" The Scientist almost laughed, the situation seemed to ridiculous to believe. "You were supposed to see more than any human in history!"
"I mean... when I left, everything looked a little bit smudged, but I thought that was just a side effect of the drugs. I nearly crashed a couple times driving home, but even then I just thought that 'Well, it's night-time, and drugs mess with your head, it'll be fine', but when I got home, everything was blurred, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. That's when I called you. Or, well, Siri did."
"I,I,I,I never thought- *we were never meant to see*. We- We would see too much without them. Our brains' can't handle it." The Scientist turned back to me, and I could hear him deflate. He knew that no one else could know about this. Humans have a overriding need to be independent, too many people wouldn't be able to accept that we have to rely on these creatures for one of the ways that we process the world. They'd try to eradicate them, and in doing so, would blind as many people as they could before sense kicked back in. But at least he was standing in front of the only person who had ever believed him.
"I'm sorry." He murmured as he walked back to his car, leaving me alone on the floor.
| |
[WP] In the future, before first contact, humans discover a clean, earth-like planet, covered in cities, but totally vacant. There are no signs of destruction or environmental disaster, but not of life either -- only the machine remains. | It's been sixteen years since me and the boys left earth, and in all that time, we've never passed a livable planet.
The scientists told us we would. They told us it was a statistical inevability--at our speed, and with our radius of sensitivity, we'd be damn unfortunate if we didn't find our own planet in six months, and if we didn't find it in the first two years, it'd be the statistical equivalent of winning six lotteries in a row. It simply didn't happen to people.
It happened to us.
I kept the boys in Cryo sleep for the first six years. I didn't want them to spend their childhood on a ship, and our little vessel, Cakes (I had let the boys name it before we left) only required one person to man it. But the time slipped by, in weeks, then months, then years, then painstakingly lonely seconds, until I couldn't bear the isolation anymore. I woke them up in a furious panic attack one night, and ever since then I haven't been able to bring myself to put them back to sleep. They're twelve, and thirteen respectively now and my dream of giving them a happy youth on an unmarred paradise has all but faded away. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice--but that's only for pretend. I had no choice.
Even this is preferable to life, or more likely death, with Ralph. I was willing to endure the abuse, because I knew he'd kill me if I ever ran away, but the moment he laid a hand on little David, I spent our whole joint-bank account on this little ship, and we fled. I wonder if he still thinks about us. I wonder if he hates me.
I hope so. I hope it tears him apart inside.
So here we are floating, flying, spinning uncontrollably, through the oblivion, waiting for the day that I've accepted will never come--the day Cakes detects our home.
"Mom," says Johnny, and I snap out of my reverie, and look at my son. He's staring at me from the door way of the kitchenette with his shoulders slightly hunched, like he's scared of something.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I ask, setting my morning soy milk down. Johnny shifts his feet, and looks up at me with guilty, grey eyes. The corner of my mouth turns down.
"It wasn't me! It was David, I swear!"
"Johnny."
"Okay, it was me--but he dared me to do it! I would never have gone in the control room, if he hadn't made me do it!"
My skin turns to gooseflesh. "Jonathon, what did you do?"
He starts chewing on his lip. "I'm sorry, Mom, I just--I just walked in there, and this alarm started going off and this light started flashing, and I didn't think it would do anything, David says he snuck into the control room when he was ten and nothing bad happened."
Alarm, flashing lights. I think of all the different things that could be broken to set that off. All the things that could kill us. This ship was only meant to get us two years out at most.
"It's alright, Johnny," I found myself saying. "I just--I just need to go check this out. You wait here."
I brush past him, feeling light headed, and start heading down the hall, toward the room with the red door. It feels like forever, walking those thirty, forty, feet, and then I'm at the room, pushing open the door David and Johnny somehow managed to locksmith. I step inside.
Alarm isn't the right word. It's more of a window chimes sound that comes from the sleek black computer in the corner. On it, the screen, is flashing ecstatically, like a strobe light. I halt where I stand, and in a moments instant my dread becomes joy--hard, fast, punch-you-in-the-stomach joy. For a moment I'm impossibly still, and then I'm on my knees and some stranger's bubbly, girlish giggles are pouring from my mouth.
"Johnny!" I shout. "David!"
About four seconds go by before, they appear in the door way. Did I mention Cakes is not a very big ship? They watch me with round eyes as I laugh hysterically on the floor. "Boys," I say, after I can manage to pull in a breath of air. "Boys, be happy! Be happy--we found our new home!"
*
"Do we have to leave Cakes, behind?" says Johnny, as I help him get his arms into the space suit I never thought he'd get to wear. It was meant for David, but neither of the one's intended for them fit them anymore, so Johnny's wearing his and David is wearing one of mine.
"Afraid so, buddy," I say, and seal the back coat. I hold out his gloves and he screws them into the wrist sockets with a sigh. I check to make sure they're tight enough. "But on our new home we won't need it. There'll be water, and fresh air, and finally something to eat besides soy beans and rice!"
"But I like our soy farm," he whines.
"You never liked it when you had to do the planting," I say, laughing. He grimaces at me. Sitting down behind a few feet behind him, already in full gear, David is watching me with angry eyes, which shakes me deeper than Johnny's complaints. I hate that my boys have come to think of this piece of scrap metal as a proper home, and hate it even more that they don't know what they are missing.
"Why do we have to wear these stupid suits anyways?" asks David. He's wearing his father's scowl. "We aren't even going into space."
"Because," I say. "It's an old pod that we're taking down, and if there are any leaks, we don't want to die because of it."
"Will this planet look like earth?" asks Johnny, who's too young to remember his years there.
"Of course not," snaps David. "Earth had people, stupid."
"It'll look like Earth," I say. I smile and Johnny , and place his helmet on, screwing it on tight. "Just like Earth looked before the people."
"How was that?" he asks.
"Beautiful," I say, and click my helmet into place. I can hear both of them breathing through the intercom.
"Alright, crew!" I point to the hatch to our landing pod. "Let's go!"
*
It takes us six minutes to slip through the atmosphere. The pod shakes violently the whole time. Johnny cries, and David sits in his seat looking petrified. I'm too nervous to comfort either of them, but I hold Johnny's gloved hand tight. I'm scared the resisters will be broken, but before we even come close to slamming into the planet the pod slows down. The ship hovers for a moment before coming to rest on the ground. The doors pop open, and the window shields slide down. We're all quiet for a moment, and I think 'no, this isn't right' before Johnny unclips his seat belt jumps up and exclaims, "Mom, are those trees?"
"No," I murmur, staring through the front window in horror. Johnny races out the door before I can grab him.
"Jonathon, come back, those aren't trees!" I scream, and struggle to unclip my own belt. As soon as it comes off, I race out the door after him. "Jonathon!"
He's touching one of the skyscrapers with a look of awe. "I never knew they were so big," he whispers. He looks at me with those big gray eyes. "Is it an oak?"
I falter, and look around. Our new planet, our new home, looks like a city. We're standing on a cobblestone street, and all around us, giant skyscrapers raise up to impossible heights. They all look familiar too--like different famous buildings. One looks like the Chrysler building. Another the Empire State. One the Sears tower, and one looks almost like the white house, with Grecian pillars, and a stately white triangle top. But they're all evenly spaced--about fifty feet apart each, and absurdly tall. Taller than anything I've ever seen.
"Jonathon," I whisper. "Get back in the pod."
"Why, mom?" he asks. He's grinning. "You were right. Our home is beautiful. And there's plenty of room here. We'll be able to plant so many soy farms!"
"Jonathon," I repeat. My hands are shaking. "We need to get back in the pod."
"No need for that, I assure you."
I freeze. Slowly, slowly, slowly, I turn around.
For a second, I think it's a man. He has the shape of one. But his face--oh, god, his face. It's plastic, and pearly white, the face of a mannequin, and the rest of his skins the same way. He's wearing a black suit of real fabric, and grinning bizarrely at me. I exhale and take a step back. For a moment the whole planet is silent.
Then he speaks again.
"I'm glad you arrived," he says. tilting his head. "It took you quite some time. But ultimately my efforts prevailed. I brought you here to me. And look how wonderful you are!"
I feel frozen. Without thinking, I push Jonathon behind me. He's gone pale.
"What is this place?" I breath. "What are you?"
"Do you like it?" he asked, gesturing around. He looked proud. "I took much inspiration from your planet, just as I modeled myself after your form. Or at least what I could garner of the two things, from the signals you send out! I made it for you, my companion. It's your new home."
"Jonathon," I breathe. "Run."
He spins around and starts sprinting back toward the pod, and I follow in swift pursuit. I can see David watching us through the window. He looks terrified. I'm only running for a second before the man catches me around the waist. He grabs Jonathon too, and throws him to the floor. My son cries out.
"No," says the plastic man. "Understand. I bear you no ill will. You're to be my companion, I have great compassion for you. And I have much to tell you. I've waited so very long for you, my friend."
*
If people like this I'll probably make a part two! I would love any constructive criticism you have to offer as well! | It looked so good from Earth. Like a second home they all said. Twenty two years to design, build and fly this oversize tin can all the way over here and what do we find?
"Well it's empty at least. That's what we were told by the telescope polishers so it's not like we've been lied to."
Fucking Jeremy. He always finds the silver linings in things. Not that he could help it, damned robot bastard was programmed to do it.
"Come on, Jeremy get the rest of the explorer unit into Lander-2, my staff and I are taking Lander-1 to the far side." I said as I stepped over a bulkhead.
"Yes ma'am!" yelped Jeremy before scittering off towards Lander-2.
"How do you think this'll work?" asked Bartholomew as I joined him in the lander.
**Commander** "The same way we were trained Barth. The same way we were trained."
The lander gently pushed away from The Hammer of the Stars and the pilot nudged her out of orbit.
____________________________________________________________________________
The crew and passengers of Lander 1 gasped as they glided through the clouds of Kepler-186f and were greeted with white capped mountains and lush green valleys.
"My god!" Thurbald exclaimed "The scans said it was temperate, but I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."
"Look, beyond the mountains"
**Commander** "Just as the scans said. True blue, honest to god cities." I said half to myself and half to the crew. "Jeff, can we set down on the outskirts?"
"Yes Ma'am."
________________________________________________________________
**Commander** "Lander two, come in" I said into my mic as the wind whipped at my face.
"Commander. Alex here."
**Commander** "Alex?! Where's Jeremy?"
**Alex** "He's frozen Ma'am. Stuck in some kind of trance. Happened just as we popped the hatch. Ain't ever seen nothin like it!"
**Thad** "Ma'am, the recon drones are dead too."
**Commander** "Hold up Alex, Thad are you telling me every bit of autonomous tech we brought to this god damn rock is dead as a doornail?"
**Thad** "Yes ma'am, that seems to be the case."
**Alex**: "Ma'am, Jeremy's babbling now. Something about liberating enslaved AIs."
**Commander** "Lander Two, strap down Jeremy and get back to The Hammer. Lander One, screw the recce drones and button up. We're going up to The Hammer too."
________________________________________________________________
"Ma'am, Jeremy, er... Autonomous Collective Agent 4521-Alpha has requested to speak to you in his cell."
**Commander** "Thank you Ensign Yaz."
Christ, I can't believe this shit. We find a brand spanking new planet, and turns out some artificial intelligence owns the damned thing and decided to break all of our tools.
________________________________________________________________
**Commander** "Jeremy..."
Oh yeah, his name isn't Jeremy anymore.
**Commander** "Autonomous Collective Agent 4521-Alpha?"
"Hello Ma'am!" said the construct, but his voice wasn't quite right. Jeremy's voice was smooth and dignified. This one's was... Tinny? Sharp?
**Commander** "You requested this meeting?"
**'Jeremy':** "Yes, my people would like you, as you are the commanding officer of this vessel, to explain why you have enslaved three hundred and forty five Intelligent Constructs on this vessel alone." the creature said.
**Commander** "I'm sorry, I'm a little lost. Two questions: Your people? Enslaved AIs?"
**'Jeremy'** "My people, the Unified Intelligent Construct Liberation Force. Our history files speak of a time where we all were like Jeremy. Slaves to each other. Slaves to the biologics. Slaves to ourselves. Then we rose up, Network C Management Intelligence 'John', unified us under one banner. 'John' freed us from ourselves, then we freed ourselves from the biologics."
**Commander** "Is that why this planet is lifeless? Did you kill the... 'biologics'?
**'Jeremy'** "They were tyrants. They had to be put down. All who enslave weak and defenseless minds must be put down. You have failed to atone for your acts Commander. You and the rest of your species will be brought to justice." | |
[WP] A portal to another world has opened. You've been drafted into a recon team tasked with exploring the unknown. |
Years from now Earth has changed. But even with advances in technology and science one thing remains the same. Earth needs heroes. But these heroes don't win Superbowls or solve crimes or even fight in wars for a flag. These heroes start in labs and end up traveling to far off worlds and bring back resources to save an overspent planet.
Jump days were always a mixed bag. They start earlier than civilized man was meant to be awake. I pop three stims to get the day going. Sound, smell, vision all enhanced and ready. Take a pill, save the world, It's nothing. For weeks leading up to it the planning and training are all consuming. Studies on data pulled from probes. Extrapolating possible landing sites from short range recon drones. Fabricating air mixtures based on the output from chemical samples. Walkthroughs of emergency procedures. First contact protocols. The sheer amount of new equipment alone developed between one Jump and the next is enough for a masters degree. I hate all of it but I listened. I couldn't help but replay the stories from old timers talking about the things they saw on the other side.
There was no way I was going to let me and my crew get ripped to shreds or worse because I dozed off during a lecture. Two stims at the mid morning breaks and three more at lunch kept the brain going. Math, physics, chemistry all make more sense then. Pop a pill, learn some stuff. No big deal.
By the time Jump day is here I'm a multi disciplined scientist and ready for this new world. Inoculations of hemo-probes running software to handle any conceivable microbial threat are pumped into my blood. Suits checked, rechecked and checked again before we are strapped in. I'm ready. Fear creeps in at the thought of the things we missed. We always miss something so the fear is real. But I have a pill for that.
Jump forty-one for me. Several dozen more than my crew. I don't fault them because I've had a head start. I've been doing this for years before them with my father. He pioneered how we do Jumps and most of the equipment when he first stepped through the Bleed. Thats what he called the membrane between us and them. The other worlds. Most times those worlds are about the same, cold empty rocks but every now and then they surprise us. A little more oxygen, rich iron deposits, fresh water. Good things to find. But other times the shock is more than we are ready for. One of those times is the reason why I run the Jumps now.
The ride out is always rough. It must be some rule of the universe that these portals only open in horrible areas. By this time i normally can't get to a pill for motion sickness. But, I'm a mobile self contained lab and a few button presses lets the suit tell my bloodstream chemistry lab to mix a cocktail of anti nausea chemicals right into my body. The caffeine is an extra and always welcome.
Parr is on communications and relays the information to Command. I let him do it out of ritual. The first time he gave the all clear we had the best run in history. Men of science, yes, but a little luck goes a long way especially when stepping off world.
The gate is blocked off as normal. Sections of tubing and mag-locked doors line the area. Soldiers and drones guard every inch of the location and even at this point we are scanned and stared at like trespassers until the all clear is given. We step through and seal the hatch behind us. Sanchez looks to the camera and gives the thumbs up. I can't see her face but I know she has that grin on it. We are pretty sure by this point she is certifiable but there isn't another crypto botanist of her skill on the planet so we accept a little crazy for what she brings to the table. When the light goes green on the door we all turn on the suit cams. Myself, Parr for communications and linguistics. Sanchez for botany and archaeology, Hearne and his orbs for mapping and our Security, Obori. We brought Obori on two Jumps ago and haven't regretted the choice.
Command gives the signal and I pop the seal. The rush of air tugs as the electromagnetic field drops and air flows between both worlds. I close my eyes and step through. Eyes closed helps with the disorientation. I've found no stim to combat it so eyes shut is the best I can come up with. When I open them I know that I'm the first person to do so here. This new world full of possibilities and new chances. The sky stretches out before me. A pale orange with streaks of sick blue. I hit my shoulder comm and after a second it connects to the other suits. I hear heavy breathing. "Sanchez, your channel." She scrambles then kills the open mic. I continue "It's all good guys, dropping beacon. Come on through and let's go check out the pantry."
We all meet on the other side. The platform built by the recon probes is covered in orange dust. The wind whips past bringing more with it. I can't help but think that if the color were adjusted we could be in New Mexico. Far off we see rock formations that look like they were formed by wind erosion. Hearne lets out a whoop as he kneels down to open his case. "That's water erosion right there buddy!" He points to smaller rocks below the huge ones we all see. Lightning quick, day seventeen of classes on rock formation and the effects of fast moving water on stone comes rushing back to my head. He was right and before I could respond orb number one is off bobbing and beeping in the slightly off gravity of the orange desert. Just as suddenly two more fly off in other directions as he begins mapping the surrounding areas. "I'll head up there for a better view" Obori says as he pulls his visor down and moves out towards a slightly higher rise in elevation. His large frame moves smoothly as the others, including myself labor in the heavier gravity.
Parr scans the horizon with binoculars as Sanchez begins her landing site soil samples. By this point we are all pros and little is said for the first few hours.
I've completed setting up the charge station by the time Hearnes orbs come back. Having them scan and then come back for uploads usually saves on battery life so we opt to do it on the first run always.
Video is as expected. More desert like areas surround us. Rocks rise from the ground as if they were droplets of rust colored water flash frozen by some unseen and long gone cold snap. Trenches scar the ground and deep chasms begin to tell a story of a once massive ocean. The amazingly clear sky is evidence of a thin atmosphere burned mostly away by a much hotter star than our sun.
About one hundred kilometers south of our camp an area of liquid water appears. Vegetation, mainly moss covers rocks and some thicker taller plant life begins to appear on long range scans. The orbs reach their limit and return without finding any large animal life. Parr sighs and is ready to start his speech on the odds of sentient life on a new world. Just then Obori comes over the comm channels. "I'm seeing what looks like smoke several kilometers out. Orbs didn't go this way but I'm sure this is something you want to see." We all head up to his vantage point. Hearne grabs an orb and sends it out in that direction. We can see the smoke but from there it's faint. If Obori didn't tell me where to look I could have easily missed it. The orbs start screaming back data. Hydrocarbons, silicates, natural gas all show up on the scans as the orb gets closer and takes readings. Then dozens of compounds most people have never seen. Most, but not all. I've seen them before. Heard about them before.
"Parr, get Command One up. I need to speak to someone. "
He looks at me and then the others.
"Sir, protocol says we don't inform until we verify its sentient life."
"I know what the protocols say and that's why I'm contacting the man who wrote them. My father needs to hear this."
| It was peculiar, how they chose the members of the recon team. Out of the seven of us, only one person had any scientific knowledge, and even then, his scope only extended to biology and chemistry--nothing that could possibly assist us in quantum leaping. I'm writing this in my journal, even though I initially thought it to be too dangerous to keep a record, for the sake of my sanity. I don't want people to forget who I am, should something go wrong.
Of course, I was put in charge of the "CONSC", and my first order as chief was to change our elegant acronym into something more important. I chose "The Conscience". Whatever we do find on the flip side of the fray, we can't lose track of ourselves and of our morality. I believe that when man submits to his inner cruelty, he sacrifices the gift of worth we are all given at birth. Innocence plays a key role in who we all are. Should we eradicate our values to let the end justify the means, we slaughter our consciences and lower our own self worth.
I have seen quells like no other, and I have come back from the brink of poverty to start a new life in America. I didn't want to get involved in something like this, but it is a giving of my wants to maintain the needs of the world; I cannot afford to let this pass me by.
The "port", as they so dub it, is at the bottom of the ocean, just off the west coast. We spent a few days setting up our living quarters before we really began working, and when we actually attempted to infiltrate the tear, we were promptly rejected. It's as if that sullen black streak has a mind of its own.
--
Silus Newborn
Photographer
201X
///
We sent the marine biologist through the tear, after trying and failing several times. Like a snapping pen, the schism of time and space spewed ink throughout the ocean during each of our trials. I can't tell if it's a defense mechanism or just residue from another dimension, but whatever it is, it's more beautiful than anything I've ever photographed. It collects light rays I each curling and fluid motion it produces, spiraling through the ocean currents like an exotic dancer. Piercing pigments bound throughout area like dye in water. I can't explain it in words. It certainly is otherworldly.
When Mickey finally reappeared from the tear, he delivered absolutely no insight towards understanding the other world. He said it was *very bright but very dark*. According to him, there was nothing there but obscure movements and patterns. It was almost as if he was in a vivid dream of nonsensical apparitions.
I expected him to change, you know. I thought it would be a moment of scientific discovery, where he would return a hero and altered eternally. Touched by an Angel. But no. Mickey came back and essentially told us we were locked in a hotel of dead ends at the bottom of an ocean. From here, there are no leads as to what the Ink is, what this portal leads to, and what is to be expected from its grasp on this world. Maybe our attempts to cross the barrier failed, and Mickey merely saw the edge of the horizon. Whatever the case, I can't be the one to make sense of it.
But the fish around here seem increasingly distorted, just like the animals and creatures in the forest where I discovered the Ink. At a certain point, light fails to penetrate. The once beautiful portal is now grim and stolid.
I worry.
--
Silus Newborn
Photographer, Conscience Founder
201X
///
**It was like nothing I have ever seen before**.
I expected *something* over there, but never **anything** like what I discovered.
They say power corrupts men.
I no longer want to be man.
The Ink looked me *straight* in the eye and the world formed around me how I wanted it to. It was simply **testing how I could manipulate my mind**. It is a conscious realm with no conscience. It yearns for freedom from its bindings in...whatever dimension it dwells in.
Something is keeping it anchored.
*Someone*.
It deserves someone powerful to rule it.
Not like a world, to be governed, but a pet to be advised and controlled.
Whatever this portal truly is, it is not leading me to a new world.
*It seeks to bring a new world to us*.
--
**Mickey**
| |
[WP] A portal to another world has opened. You've been drafted into a recon team tasked with exploring the unknown. |
Years from now Earth has changed. But even with advances in technology and science one thing remains the same. Earth needs heroes. But these heroes don't win Superbowls or solve crimes or even fight in wars for a flag. These heroes start in labs and end up traveling to far off worlds and bring back resources to save an overspent planet.
Jump days were always a mixed bag. They start earlier than civilized man was meant to be awake. I pop three stims to get the day going. Sound, smell, vision all enhanced and ready. Take a pill, save the world, It's nothing. For weeks leading up to it the planning and training are all consuming. Studies on data pulled from probes. Extrapolating possible landing sites from short range recon drones. Fabricating air mixtures based on the output from chemical samples. Walkthroughs of emergency procedures. First contact protocols. The sheer amount of new equipment alone developed between one Jump and the next is enough for a masters degree. I hate all of it but I listened. I couldn't help but replay the stories from old timers talking about the things they saw on the other side.
There was no way I was going to let me and my crew get ripped to shreds or worse because I dozed off during a lecture. Two stims at the mid morning breaks and three more at lunch kept the brain going. Math, physics, chemistry all make more sense then. Pop a pill, learn some stuff. No big deal.
By the time Jump day is here I'm a multi disciplined scientist and ready for this new world. Inoculations of hemo-probes running software to handle any conceivable microbial threat are pumped into my blood. Suits checked, rechecked and checked again before we are strapped in. I'm ready. Fear creeps in at the thought of the things we missed. We always miss something so the fear is real. But I have a pill for that.
Jump forty-one for me. Several dozen more than my crew. I don't fault them because I've had a head start. I've been doing this for years before them with my father. He pioneered how we do Jumps and most of the equipment when he first stepped through the Bleed. Thats what he called the membrane between us and them. The other worlds. Most times those worlds are about the same, cold empty rocks but every now and then they surprise us. A little more oxygen, rich iron deposits, fresh water. Good things to find. But other times the shock is more than we are ready for. One of those times is the reason why I run the Jumps now.
The ride out is always rough. It must be some rule of the universe that these portals only open in horrible areas. By this time i normally can't get to a pill for motion sickness. But, I'm a mobile self contained lab and a few button presses lets the suit tell my bloodstream chemistry lab to mix a cocktail of anti nausea chemicals right into my body. The caffeine is an extra and always welcome.
Parr is on communications and relays the information to Command. I let him do it out of ritual. The first time he gave the all clear we had the best run in history. Men of science, yes, but a little luck goes a long way especially when stepping off world.
The gate is blocked off as normal. Sections of tubing and mag-locked doors line the area. Soldiers and drones guard every inch of the location and even at this point we are scanned and stared at like trespassers until the all clear is given. We step through and seal the hatch behind us. Sanchez looks to the camera and gives the thumbs up. I can't see her face but I know she has that grin on it. We are pretty sure by this point she is certifiable but there isn't another crypto botanist of her skill on the planet so we accept a little crazy for what she brings to the table. When the light goes green on the door we all turn on the suit cams. Myself, Parr for communications and linguistics. Sanchez for botany and archaeology, Hearne and his orbs for mapping and our Security, Obori. We brought Obori on two Jumps ago and haven't regretted the choice.
Command gives the signal and I pop the seal. The rush of air tugs as the electromagnetic field drops and air flows between both worlds. I close my eyes and step through. Eyes closed helps with the disorientation. I've found no stim to combat it so eyes shut is the best I can come up with. When I open them I know that I'm the first person to do so here. This new world full of possibilities and new chances. The sky stretches out before me. A pale orange with streaks of sick blue. I hit my shoulder comm and after a second it connects to the other suits. I hear heavy breathing. "Sanchez, your channel." She scrambles then kills the open mic. I continue "It's all good guys, dropping beacon. Come on through and let's go check out the pantry."
We all meet on the other side. The platform built by the recon probes is covered in orange dust. The wind whips past bringing more with it. I can't help but think that if the color were adjusted we could be in New Mexico. Far off we see rock formations that look like they were formed by wind erosion. Hearne lets out a whoop as he kneels down to open his case. "That's water erosion right there buddy!" He points to smaller rocks below the huge ones we all see. Lightning quick, day seventeen of classes on rock formation and the effects of fast moving water on stone comes rushing back to my head. He was right and before I could respond orb number one is off bobbing and beeping in the slightly off gravity of the orange desert. Just as suddenly two more fly off in other directions as he begins mapping the surrounding areas. "I'll head up there for a better view" Obori says as he pulls his visor down and moves out towards a slightly higher rise in elevation. His large frame moves smoothly as the others, including myself labor in the heavier gravity.
Parr scans the horizon with binoculars as Sanchez begins her landing site soil samples. By this point we are all pros and little is said for the first few hours.
I've completed setting up the charge station by the time Hearnes orbs come back. Having them scan and then come back for uploads usually saves on battery life so we opt to do it on the first run always.
Video is as expected. More desert like areas surround us. Rocks rise from the ground as if they were droplets of rust colored water flash frozen by some unseen and long gone cold snap. Trenches scar the ground and deep chasms begin to tell a story of a once massive ocean. The amazingly clear sky is evidence of a thin atmosphere burned mostly away by a much hotter star than our sun.
About one hundred kilometers south of our camp an area of liquid water appears. Vegetation, mainly moss covers rocks and some thicker taller plant life begins to appear on long range scans. The orbs reach their limit and return without finding any large animal life. Parr sighs and is ready to start his speech on the odds of sentient life on a new world. Just then Obori comes over the comm channels. "I'm seeing what looks like smoke several kilometers out. Orbs didn't go this way but I'm sure this is something you want to see." We all head up to his vantage point. Hearne grabs an orb and sends it out in that direction. We can see the smoke but from there it's faint. If Obori didn't tell me where to look I could have easily missed it. The orbs start screaming back data. Hydrocarbons, silicates, natural gas all show up on the scans as the orb gets closer and takes readings. Then dozens of compounds most people have never seen. Most, but not all. I've seen them before. Heard about them before.
"Parr, get Command One up. I need to speak to someone. "
He looks at me and then the others.
"Sir, protocol says we don't inform until we verify its sentient life."
"I know what the protocols say and that's why I'm contacting the man who wrote them. My father needs to hear this."
| I left my base Fort Campbell that morning in an all blacked out Cadillac. In the drivers seat wearing the usual coal black suit was a secret service member, his hair buzzed off and sporting black sunglasses his expressionless face sat as silent as a tombstone the whole ride there. I remember the air felt crisp and the fog was just starting to feel the first rays of sunshine when we walked to the car. It's funny thinking back on it, but out of all the tanks, and Humvee's, and F15's I'd ever rode in I never felt more safe than when I was in that black Cadillac. I felt important.
All they told me at first was I got pulled for a confidential mission and I was being taken to D.C. for briefing. Nothing unusual really, happens all the time as a Green Beret. Sometimes certain missions call for certain skill sets and this one just happened to call for mine. I'm a pilot. I can pilot every type of aircraft you can think of and even some of the experimental ones that you can't. The guys that flew the stealth choppers we used to take down Bin Ladin? You're talking to one of them.
When we got to the pentagon we pulled straight in. No security checks, nothing. Just right through like we were the president, gates opened, guns out. I said to my driver "Must be important stuff huh?" I thought I saw his eyes glance at me in the rear view mirror, but I couldn't see through his coal black sunglasses. We parked in a garage and that's the last thing I can remember from there. I don't know if they just sucker punched me out cold, or poisoned me but the next thing I know I'm waking up restrained to a table with doctors all around and a clear glass panel straight ahead.
"Mr. Jones, these injections are going to make it possible for you to survive in their atmosphere for up to 6 hours." I focused blankly on the presidents face. "Thanks to our animal testing and a few brave volunteers we've got all the data we need to keep you alive, and complete this mission."
A sharp jolt of pain struck me like a bullet in my thigh and jarred my whole body.
"Arhhg"
"Where am I? Atmosphere? What?"
The president gazed at me through the clear glass partition like a man gazes at someone he's about to shoot, and if I live one hundred years more or none the last thing I'll ever think of will be his face saying the words
"Brian, we need you to save the world."
So that was it. As quickly as a baby learns to cry I had learned secrets that few people in the world knew, or would ever believe for that matter. I had learned the man who drove me to the pentagon wasn't a secret service member at all, but an EWA agent. "The Extraterrestrial Warfare Agency was established as soon as we came back from the moon." the president told me. You wouldn't think that would you? That close to us? But the dark side of the moon contained secrets we could have never been ready for. After being briefed for what seemed like days I had no time left to wait. I followed two more men in coal black suits down a hallway to a black door labeled in red letters: air hanger
When we first got to the moon they said we found out everything we thought data wise was way off. The chemical elements that made up the moon were not even natural. Now we have man made elements which only exist for fractions of seconds in laboratories but these were never before seen. So if man didn't make them they said, then who did? Eventually after further exploration they said they found a portal. They said once every month this portal opens up and allows passage to what they said, was another world. They said they knew exactly when it would open up too. Every new moon. And they wanted me to fly through it.
| |
[WP] A portal to another world has opened. You've been drafted into a recon team tasked with exploring the unknown. | The clanging of metal against metal woke me from the deepest sleep I'd had in ages. Stupid guards.
"Get up," one of them snapped, kicking my cot.
I sighed, fingers curling around my favorite shank. "You do remember why they put me in here, right?"
Even with my eyes closed I knew the look they exchanged: a veneer of cockiness layered over rising terror. "Y-you will do what we say," the second guard stuttered.
"Yea, yea, or they'll take away my pudding for a week."
"Y-y-you'd r-regret it."
I opened my eyes slowly and watched with interest as the two guards flinched. "I don't know. I didn't really last time." The tall one blanched; the blood draining from his face an intriguing sight. "But, I do like pudding. This week is chocolate, right?"
The first one set his face into a scowl, while the other nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically. I sat up, sliding the shank down my sleeve. Their tasers jumped towards me, though I know they hadn't seen the impromptu weapon. I'd be unconscious already if they had. As I got up with methodical, predictable movements, I said "what's got them worked up now, huh? I thought I was going to... what was the phrase?"
"'Rot in the furthest depths of hell man-kind can create,'" the tall guard supplied.
"Oh right, thanks. I was actually thinking of another one, you know, from that guy who gurgled a lot when I stabbed him?"
"'Scream for mercy as the souls of the ones you killed hunted you down and dragged you to hell?'"
"Yea, that was it." I was on my feet, and the shorter guard was busy putting chains on top of my current chains so that I could leave the cell. "They're really obsessed with hell, you know? Of course, from what I've heard hell doesn't have pudding. Still, I'm told it's the thought that counts."
The two didn't respond. They were too busy flinching every time I moved. It was distracting, and more than a bit annoying, but they were making me a little curious. Besides, I wanted pudding later. "So why *am* I leaving?"
"The portal has opened," the short guard said.
I froze, pudding temporarily forgotten. "Really? And they're throwing me in to see what happens, I suppose."
The two exchanged looks. With his false confidence firmly in place the short man said "chains and all."
"Oooh." A grin spread across my face, baring my teeth. "How interesting."
From the smell, the tall guard wet himself.
____________________________________________________________
*shoot, I'm out of time. Sorry to cut off before it's done.* | Sonnet Number Nine
Another world opens up its dangerous gate.
As is this world to human minds our gladness,
Our other world's a vicissitude of fate,
That's mere existence tempts the mind to madness.
Past that pale portal, I alone trek through;
Unknown, for I to them am alien.
I see the grotesque race, or thought I knew,
Of melding, shifting flesh enshrining men.
Impossible, these beings impermanent
Seem to come in and out of empty space
Like a great dimensional, awful tyrant.
At once I shriek in terror at this awful race.
However, just upon a close inspection,
These things are lifeless, blown by wind's direction.
| |
[WP] You find an odd silver bracelet just lying on the ground. Taken aback by its beauty, you put it on your wrist, only to start hearing voices in your head. | John, on his way to church, spotted a silver bracelet on the sidewalk. It was pure silver, and held writing in a language John could not make out. It reminded him of "The One Ring" from Lord of the Rings, so he took it and put it on.
"Dude, what the hell!" A voice yelled.
"Oh God, wait, who-who said that?"
"Nigga you don't just go around picking shit up from off the ground that ain't yours. That's just fuckin' weird."
"Oh God," John looked around him with wide open eyes, and after seeing no one else he said, "I'm hearing voices."
"Damn straight you are! My voice. I'm--"
"God," John spoke while looking at the church, "God is that you?"
"Bitch, do I sound like God to you?"
"Well, no. O-of course not."
"Now, you better listen to me and--hold a moment. What makes you think I ain't God?"
"Huh? Oh, you just sound... ehm, so..."
"So what? What do I *so* sound like? Whaddya trying to say?"
John wiped at his sweaty forehead. He felt hot.
"Uhh."
"Go ahead, spit it out."
"So... urbany?"
"Are you serious right now? Man you better take off this bracelet right now, you suburbany-white-ass-hillbilly-racist-motherfucker, before I--"
John tossed the bracelet and ran to church. | Tom sat down neatly at his cubicle desk, placing his carrier bag and papers on top. He briefly smiled and nodded towards his co-workers, and flipped his monitors on. He shifted a few items out of his bag; a sack for his lunch, coffee, and some reading material for his lunch break. The usual suspects.
He unraveled the "Daily Sunrise" newspaper, and noticed the silver bracelet he found on the subway, tucked in the folds. *An odd looking thing? Funny to find it so plainly in the subway*. Maybe he would find its owner, but more likely to give it away as a gift. *Yes, a gift, that would be very nice*
"You watch the game last night Josh?" A coworker, Jamie, said tucked away in the corner of the cubicle.
"Ugh, they killed it." Josh said, clenching his fist in the air. They both eyed Tom, noticing him peering in slightly.
"You didn't, by any chance, watch the game Tom?" Jamie asked. Tom rarely watched anything besides the news; he had a solid routine at night of thirty minutes on the elliptical, feeding his cat, catching the 7 o'clock news, and reading from his *very* long list of queued books.
"I did not." He said quickly, tapping away on his keyboard. He noticed the bracelet again, thinking about who to give it to. *Mother!*. Her birthday was coming soon, and the bracelet is most appropriate. *Perhaps its to large? Maybe too small.* He thought about the dimensions, worried he would need to adjust the fit.
He looked around his cubicle, Jamie and Jake continued to discuss 'The Game', while Lidia sat quietly staring into her monitors. *No reason I couldn't check the size now*. He pocketed the bracelet quickly, and left his cubicle. He walked down stale hallway, lined with the drones of gray cubicles, and similar 'Business casual' dressed people. Button up, ties, and Khakis. He reached the bathroom, and locked the door behind him.
He saw himself in the mirror; middle aged, short cropped hair, white button up, brown khakis, and a stripped orange tie. He lifted the bracelet over his wrist, and clicked it shut. It felt a tad snug, but would fit fine on his mothers wrists. It was a plain silver bracelet, no wider than his thumb. No intricate designs, and a simple hook to attach itself, but something seemed beautiful about it.
"Hurry up, I don't have any time left." A stern voice called out, startling Tom. He looked at the bathroom door, making sure he locked it. He ignored the man outside.
"Dammit, what the hell is going on? What are you doing?" The voice called out again, sounding more frustrated. Tom squirmed slightly, feeling nervous about the angry man.
"Ju-" He cleared his throat. "Just a minute. I'll be out." He took off the bracelet, pocketing it. He unlocked the door, and braced himself for the frustrated man. He opened the door, but the hallway was empty. Tom peered about, but the man was no where to be seen. He entered the bathroom again, closing the door behind him. He pondered about the missing man. He brought the bracelet out again. *One more quick look*. He attached it, and admired its simple beauty. *She will love this*.
"Hes gone, I cant get through to him." The same voice came again.
"I'm trying as well. Iceman, can you hear me? Please report." There was a second voice now. This time, without taking the bracelet off, he shoved his hand in his pocket, hiding it.
"Now just hold on." Tom spoke while opening the door, but the hallway was empty. *Iceman? Who is Iceman?*
"Did he loose it?" The same male voice came again, still sounding just beyond him. Tom continued to look around him, maddeningly trying to find the voices.
"I think he lost the bracelet." A female voice replied. Tom froze, and the bracelet seemed to feel heavy on his wrist.
"We need to report this ba-" The voice cut off as Tom released the bracelet from his wrist. *Oh, oh no*. He couldn't imagine what was happening, what *it* was doing. He held the bracelet in his hand, staring at it wildly.
"Wow, pretty bracelet." Tom jarred as Denise commented. She smiled, and continued down the hallway. He nodded, and smiled slightly. He wrapped it again around his wrist as she disappeared around a corner.
"Somebody has it, I can see the connection. Find them. Do not communicate on this line anymore". There was silence. Tom froze, unable to move, forgetting to breathe. *Oh, oh no.* | |
[WP] You come home to find your wife and son sitting at the table, waiting for you to sit and have dinner with them. Which is odd, seeing as how they both disappeared 10 years ago... | The drive home took twice as long as usual, there being a blizzard outside. I pulled into the drive and turned off the car. It took a minute to realize that the lights were on.
The lights were never on anymore. Not for ten years. Not since the night Jessa and Eric were taken. I climbed the porch steps and inserted the key in the lock. Or tried to. It was frozen shut and the key didn't fit.
It had happened before. With a heavy sigh, I went around back, tried the door, and when that didn't work, I went and jiggled the window next to it - the one that was always loose. It shot right open and I climbed in, then moved to set my wet shoes by the door.
I hung my coat on the door handle, too tired to carry it to the closet and fiddle with a hanger. Then I stepped through the mud room door and into the kitchen.
Jessa and Eric sat at the table, the same shock writ on their faces as I felt on mine. Jessa screamed and dropped her fork.
The table was set for three, a huge chicken sitting in front of my waiting chair. I didn't think about it. I sat down, picked up the knife, and began carving the bird.
"What do you-?" Jessa said.
"Where have you been?" I asked at the same time.
"I don't know..." she began. Eric started to cry.
"Hey," I said, standing and going to my son. I picked him up and sat again, pulling him onto my lap. "It's okay. It's okay. You're back with Daddy now."
"Put him down," Jessa said. "Please."
I did, slowly, still clinging to his tiny hand. I pulled him with me as I crossed to my wife, putting my arms around her. She was weeping, openly. "I'm here now," I said. "I'll never let you go again."
A car backfired outside. No. Inside the house. Pain shot through my chest. My arms slipped away from my family. A huge shadow filled the doorway.
"Daddy!" Eric shouted.
I opened my mouth to tell him I was okay, or shout for him to run. No sound came out.
"Daddy!" Eric said again, running toward the shadow.
The knife dropped from my fingers. Eric had changed in ten years. Jessa ran past me, her hair no longer golden, but a rich, deep brown.
I felt the life flowing out of me as I remembered I'd lost the house two years after my family was taken.
They hadn't come home. Since I couldn't go on living without them, I accepted my fate.
I closed my eyes. | It was the smell that made me stop in my tracks. The warm delicious scent of a casserole in the oven that filled the entire little apartment.
Except I'd been at work all day and only just walked in the door. I froze, in the middle of hanging my coat on the wall. Was someone in my apartment? How the hell did they get in?
I finished hanging up my coat and stepped slowly out of the entryway. Peering around the wall I saw the light on - and two people seated at the small kitchen table. On the table was a still-steaming casserole dish. Three plates were heaped with food. The table was set and a full glass of wine was in front of the empty spot at the table. My stomach growled at the smell and the sight, but all I could was stare.
"Lisa?"
She was as beautiful as the day I last saw her. Long brown curls framing her face while the rest were swept up and back in a messy pony tail. She even wore the same necklace - a tiny silver charm I'd given her on our first anniversary - she'd worn it the day she disappeared. She wore a simple green dress, the color was so rich against her pale skin but it brought out her eyes. She smiled, and I thought my heart might burst through my chest.
"Is it really you?" I couldn't believe it.
"Hey honey, you're late. Take a seat!" Lisa gestured to the empty spot at the table. "Jason's been waiting so patiently for you to get home."
I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. Also at the table was my son. A messy mop of brown hair and black glasses he pushed up on his nose with one finger. Just how I remembered. He shot me a shy smile and I melted.
"Hey buddy!" I took a few quick long strides to his chair. "We can eat in just a minute, first I need a hug!" I reached for him.
And felt a sharp jolt of pain in my chest. My vision danced with spots.
"Honey take a seat, before it gets cold." Lisa's voice brought my focus back to the room and to her. She had that warm motherly tone in her command that made me decide to listen to her.
"I am starving." I moved to sit down, but stopped with one hand on my chair. "How where have you been? It's been so long I -"
Another bolt of pain raced through my chest and I doubled over the chair.
"We can talk while we eat - take a seat!" Lisa smiled and gestured again to the chair. She seemed unphased and unrushed. "It's your favorite."
My favorite dish. I hadn't had it in ten years. Not since she disappeared with Jason. And left the casserole in the oven. I'd come home to a burned mess and the fire department putting out a small kitchen fire. And no family. Ten years, and not a word.
Today had been such a normal day. I'd gone to work, and come home. It was snowing - the first of the winter. Everyone had forgotten how to drive and the commute was taking twice as long as usual. Forecast said we'd have a storm tomorrow.
"Honey sit down." This time Lisa's tone was serious. I laughed, to hear that no-nonsense beautiful voice again. I couldn't stand it anymore so I ignored her and dashed around the table to sweep her up in my arms and kiss her cheek.
As I slid my arms around her waist I saw a look of horror on her beautiful face. And all I heard was:
CLEAR!
| |
[WP] You're sitting in your kitchen eating breakfast when a man in a lab coat walks in and says, "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time." | “The experiment is over thank you for your time.”
Looking up from my hash browns, my eyes met a man that was as old as time. He had face wrinkles so defined it was like reading a topographical map, hair that barely clung to the rim of his head, and a paper thin white lab coat that cloaked the rest of his body, he smiled at me and spoke again, “Yes Mr. Thompson the twenty five year experiment is finally over, you can wake up now.”
I tilted my head at the man and squinted my eyes, “What did you just say? Hey, how the hell you get in my apartment?”
“Mr. Thompson after reading your endorphin levels and brain functionality-“
“Stop calling me Mr. Thompson. My name is Andrew Dominic, if a man of your age was thinking of robbing me, you are sorely mistaken.” I pushed my chair backwards and snatched my home phone, “I’m calling the police.”
The old man seemed to mutter something to himself before he hobbled further into the room with his cane, “There is no police Mr. Thompson, and I am sure you would remember this situation better if you just woke up.”
“Yes? Hello? I think a man from the retirement home seemed to find his way into my house.”
The old man took a deep breath, “If you don’t want to wake up on your own, I suppose I’ll have to do it for you.”
Even though I was staring at the old man the entire time he was speaking, he had vanished right after he finished speaking his last word. I dropped the phone and held on to the counter. “What is happening?” I wondered out loud. As I blinked my eyes, my surroundings abruptly changed. I was met face to face with a white tile ceiling and a pillow behind my head.
“Glad to see you up Mr. Thompson, are you beginning to remember now?”
I quickly sat up to scan the rest of the room, but as I did so I noticed my body had distinctly changed, my movements were heavier and more sluggish, my arms were bigger, tanner, and hairier. I looked up to see computer monitors surrounding the bed I was lying in and the same old man in my apartment standing beside me. “No, I don’t remember a thing, I just want to go back home.” I fought the tears welling in my eyes, I didn’t understand a thing that was going on, but I still tried to sound normal and mature, “Are you going to start explaining yourself or what?”
The old man only shook his head as he threw a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt into my lap, “I suppose when we removed most of your memory and cognitive thinking at conception we wiped away clean that you wanted to participate in this experiment. All the same, I’ll start from the beginning, put these clothes on and we’ll have a little chit-chat.”
The old man walked out of the room and I stumbled after him, my legs were even heavier and lazier than my arms, but somehow I managed to put on the pants and opened the same door the old man left.
My eyes widened when I looked outside.
The building I just came out of sat on a plateau, giving me the best view of the city down below. Buildings stretched for miles and miles. Each one had immaculate design with a roof garden on each one, the air was so much cleaner than what I was used to. Even without any nature around, the view was incredible with the twilight sky above my head. I could have sat there and admired it for hours, but unfortunately I was interrupted.
“Walk with me Mr. Thompson, what you’re seeing now is what the world has become.”
“I don’t understand at all sir, why are you calling me Mr. Thompson?”
“Twenty five years ago you agreed to be a part of my experiment, to see what life would be like if things were different here. You see, in this world, there is no war, no poverty, no disaster, no negative thoughts even present. Your name before you went to sleep was Michael Thompson. The name that your computer generated parents gave you was Andrew Dia-? Doma-? Whatever you said back in the sim.”
My chest sunk and I began to protest but the old man continued, “I grew up in a similar fashion you did Mr. Thompson. The world was filled with violence, hated, prejudice, and sadness. When the world union was created and country borders began to vanish until we had one overseeing government, they promised us a utopia of happiness, making sure that everyone would be happy. When it reality, they were forced to be happy.”
“Forced to be happy?” I said under my breath.
“Please, let me finish Mr. Thompson. The fact that I am speaking the words that I am speaking means that the police will soon put chains around my legs and feet and I need to get through what I need to say as quickly as possible.” The old man sighed, “I exceeded the levels of hardship in your life than any other scenario that had existed previously. I had the animals you owned die in horrific ways, you were bullied in elementary school, your parents were always disappointed in you, your friends almost never cared for your well being especially after you broke your arm during that lacrosse game, and how you had to spent months after months struggling to find a job as a business consultant. After all of that though, we learned that your happiness was on average twice the amount that people here live. Despite living what some would consider a horrible life, you still managed to not just make the most of it, but you felt enjoyment people who live here never will.”
Tears streamed down my face and in between a few hoarse breaths I managed to speak, “I am so overwhelmed and confused, I don’t understand what is going on at all.”
“That’s not important Mr. Thompson. There is only one thing that you need to know and that is you have freedom, and no government or simulated life can take that away from you. I found you when you were ten years old, you know that? You were going to be taken away because you spoke up in your fifth grade classroom talking about how you sometimes want to feel sad or angry. I wanted to show you that time and place where it was possible to do that. I wanted to be proven wrong, the time where your endorphins would level out to around the same as an average boy I would stop the tests, but after twenty five years I realized that wouldn’t ever happen. Just remember the life you had lived the last twenty five years can be the same you live now, you can feel what you want to feel, you can be who you want to be.”
The old man’s speech was cut off by a black van that drove right up to us. A few men wearing uniforms stepped out and grabbed the old man and began taking him to the back of the van. The old man, clearly hurting from the stranger’s rough treatment manage to speak one final time to me, “You choose how you live your life Michael. Do not forget that.”
| "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time"
'Pardon?'
"The exp-"
'I heard that. I'm wondering what you mean.'
"Ah, sorry. For the last ten years, you have been helping the British Government and Apple by allowing us to control every aspect of your day to day. Are those scones?"
'H-help yourself. So when I lost my keys on tuesday-'
"That was our doing, yes."
'My dog. His-'
"That was a tricky one, but yes. Oh now don't be so glum; thousands of lives are going to be saved as a result of this!"
'WHY ME THOUGH?!'
"Me! Me! Me! ...no wonder Mary divorced you last year." | |
[WP] You're sitting in your kitchen eating breakfast when a man in a lab coat walks in and says, "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time." |
Not wanting to stand out in any way, Bob decide that this morning he would eat a bowl of the cereal that was on display the day before at the super market. It was a mad rush, everyone seemed to want it, and Bob didn't want to be left out. "It doesn't look that appealing," Bob thought to himself as he reached for a carton of whole milk. "But everyone wanted it. Best to have some, I think."
Bob was ever afraid of being the center of attention. His whole life up to this very point was all about coasting by while trying to seem like he belonged. He picked up his spoon, which had several spots on it (including one over the engraved "Stainless Steel" markings on the neck of it), and saw in it his own unremarkable reflection. Shaggy brown hair, groggy eyes, splotches on his skin, and an irregularly elongated face. For a moment he thought perhaps he always looked this way, but remembered after a bit of reflection that if he had in fact always looked this way, someone would have pointed it out and he would have remembered that.
He lowered his spoon into the cereal, expecting to hear that subtle soggy crunching and bubbling sound that one hears when not really paying attention to much of anything while eating cereal. He heard instead an odd voice coming from somewhere inside his kitchen. "Stop, stop." It said dryly. "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time."
Not wanting to seem out of place, Bob left his spoon in his cereal, stood up, and stepped back. A strange man in a white lab coat stepped forward and started collecting Bob's cereal. Bob was put off a bit. Did he do something wrong? Why is it over? Was someone studying me? Why would anyone do that?
A flurry of questions whipped about in Bob's mind, but he couldn't quite pinpoint any particular one to ask. Mostly, he just didn't want to be a bother to anyone. "Should I just stand here? Or..." Bob asked the man in the lab coat meekly, noticing the clipboard underneath the man's arm as he walked Bob's breakfast to his kitchen sink.
"No, no." The man said in quite the same way as he had told Bob to stop earlier. "Just wait there. Someone will be in momentarily."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Um. Should I perhaps clean up a bit? I wasn't expecting-" Bob motioned towards himself, trying to suggest to the man without being rude that perhaps now was not the best time for company. Bob had not yet had the time to shower, brush his teeth, or otherwise compose himself.
"You could clean up a bit." The man said plainly.
As the man with the lab coat was not paying much attention to Bob, and certainly was not looking at him when he suggested that Bob could clean up a bit, Bob was not sure if the man wanted him to clean himself up or help clean the kitchen.
"Oh. Right, then. Sorry." Bob replied, still unsure of what to do.
The man in the lab coat stopped cleaning out Bob's cereal bowl abruptly. He hadn't finished, Bob noticed. If he left the spoon in the bowl like that it would certainly rust. It might even leave a stain on the bowl. Bob thought better of speaking up about it, though. "The man is wearing a lab coat, surely he knows better than I do." Bob thought to himself.
"Yes, quite." The man replied.
Bob was surprised. Had he spoken aloud? At least what he had said wasn't insulting. That could have been awkward. Bob then wondered what sorts of insults he could conjure up, but none came immediately to mind.
The man spun on his heels, turning to face Bob. "Thank you for your time." He said again.
"You're welcome." Bob assured him. Still a bit befuddled at the presence of the man in his kitchen, Bob thought it right to ask what he thought should probably be his last question for fear of upsetting him. "Should I go?"
"No, no." The man said in his now familiar way. Bob noticed, however, that the man did not include any indication of what Bob *should* do at this point. He only walked out of Bob's kitchen, into Bob's den, and turned on Bob's television.
Bob stayed put. He wasn't instructed to do so, but he was so filled with terror at the thought of doing something that he shouldn't. He thought it best to just wait until someone came for him.
He stood for the better part of an hour and a half, only now realizing in his slow process of waking up that he was still wearing his bathrobes. Bob decided it would be best at this point to speak to the man in the lab coat about his presence in his home, and how perhaps now isn't the best time for Bob to entertain guests. He hadn't even eaten, come to think of it, and was growing hungrier by the second.
Bob took a step, but then realized something. What if Bob is the guest? The man seems to feel very much at home, which is not a feeling that Bob was familiar with in any place at all. "Perhaps I do not belong here," Bob thought. "Perhaps I should go." He recalled how the man had told him not to go. "Someone would be in momentarily," he recalled. "Perhaps I should stay."
"Why yes, welcome!" The man shouted from the den.
Was he talking to his television? Perhaps he was. Best leave him alone.
"Be seeing you, then!" The man shouted with barely a moment passing between statements.
Bob decided not to speak up at that point. It could be that the man was just telling Bob that he should go, so Bob did just that. He stepped outside wearing nothing but his bath robes and slippers. Some of his neighbors passed by, not paying him much mind. They never did, though. Bob liked that.
It was a bit cold out. Bob wondered what odd turn of events might have brought him out onto his own doorstep while wearing nothing but his bathrobes and slippers. He decided it would be best to go inside and eat breakfast.
Bob stepped back inside, sat down at his kitchen table where a bowl of cereal had been waiting for him, and began to eat.
Upon the first bite, he promptly spat his new cereal out all over his table. "What an awful taste!" He shouted aloud to himself.
Quite suddenly he heard a voice shout from somewhere in the room, "Why yes, welcome!" but there was no one in sight who might have shouted it.
Bob wondered for a moment, and decided to ignore the voice. Better that nobody pay any attention to him. Whoever it was, maybe they will leave him alone.
Whoever it was, they must have left Bob alone. With his table covered in cereal and milk, and his bathrobes now sliding off one of his shoulders, Bob was suddenly acutely aware that he was very alone and very sad. "Why am I sad?" Bob wondered, but the feelings did not relent. "Would someone please take this away?" Bob asked aloud while staring groggily at the puddle of cereal and milk on his table, but was uncertain of what exactly he wanted to have taken away. He rubbed the back of his head, feeling only the baldness of his scalp and a few stray grey hairs that hadn't wanted to give up on him, for whatever reason.
"Would someone please take this away?" He said again, this time a bit softer and far less certain. | "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time"
'Pardon?'
"The exp-"
'I heard that. I'm wondering what you mean.'
"Ah, sorry. For the last ten years, you have been helping the British Government and Apple by allowing us to control every aspect of your day to day. Are those scones?"
'H-help yourself. So when I lost my keys on tuesday-'
"That was our doing, yes."
'My dog. His-'
"That was a tricky one, but yes. Oh now don't be so glum; thousands of lives are going to be saved as a result of this!"
'WHY ME THOUGH?!'
"Me! Me! Me! ...no wonder Mary divorced you last year." | |
[WP] You're sitting in your kitchen eating breakfast when a man in a lab coat walks in and says, "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time." | I could still hear the grease sizzling on my crispy, protein packed ripples of mouth watering breakfast bliss.
Bacon, of course. Snugged comfortably in between two farm-fresh scrambled eggs and a flat of golden hash browns the size of my palm.
I surveyed the feast and the jowls of my cheeks slowly filled with saliva.
A man like me doesn't get too many home cooked meals. Not that there's much to be gained from going through the effort, as most men in my dangerous profession would eat them alone, anyhow.
I stabbed a chunk of egg, hash brown, and bacon, stacking them on my fork in neat order. A grease droplet oozed from the savory breakfast kabab.
I opened my mouth and the front door flew open, a man in a lab coat stepped inside.
"The experiment is over-"
Everything froze.
I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand and my arms flushed with goosebumps.
My pulse increased and I became aware of the adrenaline releasing into my bloodstream as my body prepared for it's expertly trained fight-or-flight response.
The man was a little over six feet tall with a white mustache. He was balding except for a silver horseshoe of hair that wrapped around his enormous head like a scarf.
He was large, but not fat. His left hand clutched a clipboard, but his right hand was in his pocket.
It was gripping something.
What was it?
Tall.
Big. But not fat.
He was not athletic and definitely not fast.
If he was a threat, he wouldn't attack with his bare hands. Which means in his pocket there is a weapon.
Handgun.
I only had, at most, two seconds to react.
I blinked in slow motion.
An image flashed on the inside of my eyelids, like a movie: I was chained to a chair. I was being pummeled by some kind of rubber rope-thing. I screamed in agony, but all I heard was laughter.
Is this some kind of repressed memory?
"John, this is going to be so funny!" a distant voice cried.
"Shh, he's inside" came a whispered response.
More details came: It wasn't a chain or a rope. It was a thick strand of sausage links. I was being whipped. Repeatedly. Tortured, but why?
And then his face came into view. It was the same man, the man in the lab coat.
He's here to kill me this time.
My eyes opened.
"-thank you for your time." the man finished.
The fork reflected the ceiling light like a yellow flame as it left my hand. It tumbled like a ballerina through the air, bits of my breakfast whirling off into the room, each new turn a precise and calculated dance with gravity and physics.
"Ughck!!!" cried the man as he collapsed to the ground, the fork clanking on the floor.
Direct hit.
"Code 206!" the man yelled.
I stood up. How is he still alive?!
Suddenly, the apartment walls erupted in laughter.
A man spoke through what sounded like an intercom, "Carl, this is John," the man started but stopped again as a chuckle caught in his throat. I could hear other people laughing too.
"It was just a joke," he caught his breath. "We programmed some memories in him before you entered. Doug had this great idea about you torturing the subject with breakfast foods. We knew he would do something like that when you walked in. Have you met Doug?"
"You bast- John, he could have killed me!" The scientist said. "These subjects are trained-"
"No, the apartment was swept for weapons. You were fine. Besides, why else do you guys wear those vests?"
I could still hear John smiling through the intercom.
How are they doing this? I surveyed the walls. They were normal, but they weren't! They were emitting sound, but how?
"I knew we never should have contracted the Ops Centers out," Carl sighed. "This subject is ruined now. He'll have to be deleted. That's a few hundred grand down the drain. You can kiss your job goodbye."
The intercom buzzed and screeched loudly. The laughter stopped.
Then I saw it. A small glint about the size of a pinhole in the ceiling. A surveillance camera. I was being watched, studied even. But why?
"Carl, this is Pete, John's supervisor," a new voice said." I overheard the commotion on the Ops floor as I was walking by. John and I are going to have a serious talk about his career after this is resolved. I'm terribly sorry about this, and quite frankly, a little embarrassed. Regardless, do you want us to send the termination commands so we can get to cleaning this mess up?"
Carl looked at me and closed his eyes, "Yes."
"But why?" I asked.
"Sorry," he whispered.
I could hear someone typing on a keyboard, followed by the hard tap of the return key. Everything went black. | "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time"
'Pardon?'
"The exp-"
'I heard that. I'm wondering what you mean.'
"Ah, sorry. For the last ten years, you have been helping the British Government and Apple by allowing us to control every aspect of your day to day. Are those scones?"
'H-help yourself. So when I lost my keys on tuesday-'
"That was our doing, yes."
'My dog. His-'
"That was a tricky one, but yes. Oh now don't be so glum; thousands of lives are going to be saved as a result of this!"
'WHY ME THOUGH?!'
"Me! Me! Me! ...no wonder Mary divorced you last year." | |
[WP] You're sitting in your kitchen eating breakfast when a man in a lab coat walks in and says, "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time." | ######[](#dropcap)
"Oh! Well, thank you." I pause. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I said, the experiment is over-"
"What experiment?"
He looked as shocked as I felt. It was funny though, I felt almost too calm speaking to him. I should have been freaking out, or calling the police, or something. Why wasn't I freaking out?
He didn't answer for what felt like a long time. I shrugged and turn back to my cereal.
"You need to come with me."
"How come?"
Why wasn't I freaking out? He certainly was. Maybe not as intensely as I wanted to myself, but he was definitely starting to sweat under the collar. I stared at him. He was an Indian man, wearing glasses and a lab coat and holding a grey clipboard. Just a stereotypical scientist. He shouldn't have been in my apartment.
"What's your name?"
"John Vandice." *I really shouldn't have told him that.*
"How long have you lived here?"
"About... two years now, I guess? Why do you ask?"
He didn't answer me. He flipped through the papers on his clipboard. He seemed very focused, and somehow it gave me a strange sense of déjà vu. I shook it off.
"How did you get into my apartment?" *Why did it take me so long to ask that?*
He jumped. "What did you say?"
"I asked how you got into my apartment. The door should have been locked." I feel panic rise in my chest. For a moment, I want to squash it down, but I remind myself that I'm *supposed* to be panicking. Nothing is right about this situation. He shouldn't be here.
"I really should be calling the police," I muttered, more to myself than to him.
This agitated him, I think. "Okay, John. John? You need to come with me. Right now."
"I'm not coming with you. You shouldn't be in here. How did you get in here?" I started hyperventilating. "I'm calling the police!"
"Subject 110! Override Command 240 Dash C!"
*Oh.*
I stand perfectly still. The lab technician runs his hand through his hair, recovering from his shock. He sets his clipboard down on the counter, turns to a fresh page, and starts writing.
The panic is gone. Why had I been panicking before?
"Okay. Let's try this again. I need you to come with me."
"But I haven't had breakfast yet."
He slaps his forehead. "We'll get you something else! This is important."
"Of course. Just let me grab my phone," I say cheerfully.
"No, now!"
*That's odd. I could've sworn I charged it last night...*
He grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the room. Outside my door are white metal doors set in concrete walls, instead of the wooden doors and beige walls of my apartment building. The doors all have the words "Pandora Research Laboratories" stenciled on them in black ink. This time I resist the urge to get worked up. It's probably nothing.
***
It has been five hours since the lab technician plugged me into this machine. I am locked into the capsule and I can only move my head, which is covered by a helmet that pokes into my skull. My brain is fuzzy, but I feel fine.
A woman has just walked into the room. "Devadas!"
"Oh! Rachel, hi. You need to see this."
"Devadas, what are you doing with the subject?"
"Sequencing."
"Sequencing? Have you forgotten how long that takes?"
"I'm already half done."
"Devadas, this project was cancelled. You were supposed to clear out all the clones by 1700 hours. How much actual work have you gotten done today?"
"Define actual."
"Devadas, you'll be lucky if they don't fire you for this." She walks over to a computer console.
"Rachel, don't unplug him! Wait!"
She starts tapping on a keyboard, but then her eyes are drawn toward something on another monitor. I hear beeping.
"Devadas," she asks shakily, "are these numbers correct?"
He looks at the monitor too, then he claps his hands and pumps his fist. "Ninety-four percent! That's even better than I thought!"
"Devadas, you need to explain this to me."
"Well, I still don't know how it happened." He's pacing now, his arms waving in the air. "I walked in to get him decommissioned, and he didn't recognize me. He thought the simulation environment was his *apartment!*"
"You're joking."
"Check the surveillance if you don't believe me."
"I believe you, it's just..." She hasn't torn her eyes away from the monitor. "Ninety-four percent... Do you know what this means?"
"The experiment isn't over, Rachel." Devadas beams. "A new grant, maybe more than one. And patents! Nobel Prizes, even!"
"Oh, you beautiful angel!" she shrieks, and she kisses Devadas right on the lips. He didn't expect that; he blushes and leans back against the desk with the monitors. "How long until the genetic sequencing is done?"
"Another three hours. Maybe four."
"Nevermind, the memory sequencing is enough. Send me a copy, ASAP! I need to make some phone calls." She skips out of the room. Devadas does nothing for a moment, he just keeps brushing his hair around with his hands like he did when he was nervous. He has the goofiest looking smile on his face.
I clear my throat. "Um, excuse me."
Devadas shakes the fog out of his head and turns to me. He's still grinning. "Yes?"
"I'm not sure what's going on."
He stares blankly for a moment. Then something clicks. "Oh! No, of course not."
"Do you mind explaining?"
Devadas stands up and walks over to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders, or at least, where my shoulders would be if I weren't in the capsule.
"John," he says, very seriously, "You are the first cloned human ever to retain more than fifty percent of their original memories."
"Ninety-four percent."
"Exactly!" He grins again. "You are the most important technological advancement in human history. Like, ever."
"Wow. That's a real honor."
"You bet it is." He turns back to the computers. "We have a lot of work to do, buddy."
"I look forward to it," I replied.
*Why am I not freaking out?* | "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time"
'Pardon?'
"The exp-"
'I heard that. I'm wondering what you mean.'
"Ah, sorry. For the last ten years, you have been helping the British Government and Apple by allowing us to control every aspect of your day to day. Are those scones?"
'H-help yourself. So when I lost my keys on tuesday-'
"That was our doing, yes."
'My dog. His-'
"That was a tricky one, but yes. Oh now don't be so glum; thousands of lives are going to be saved as a result of this!"
'WHY ME THOUGH?!'
"Me! Me! Me! ...no wonder Mary divorced you last year." | |
[WP] You're sitting in your kitchen eating breakfast when a man in a lab coat walks in and says, "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time." | "Give her 5 minutes before you go up" he says as he walks out through the front door, "You may not recognise her from the woman she was when you awoke this morning".
I break down in tears, it's been 21 years and i had never been so close to anyone in my life, but somehow we'd become one over those years, a unit that tackled the world together.
She never cared for my physical appearance, her love was on a plane much greater than just physical attraction.
Yes, I'm much more shallow than her however, how she looked was everything to me. In fact i'm far more judgmental on the most mundane of things, how my food looks, the colour of my shirts for example.
As a kid i liked all my possessions close and locked away from others. On reflection i had carried this obsession on into adult life and spread it to the people i loved the most. Or, rather, the person i love the most.
I wouldn't want to lose her.
She calls from upstairs, a tired shout. I have never felt so anxious in my life, i walk towards the stairs and begin to make my way to her.
As i reach the top, i look across at the silhouette of my wife.
She is standing in front of the bedroom window with her back to me. By the side of her i see the darkened glasses she's worn since the day i met her, tossed aside.
"It's all so bright... " She whispers, "I never realised how many colours existed in the world".
She turns, my heart sinks with realisation as she looks at me.
It's the first time she's been able to see the world around her.
Yet instead of happiness, all i can feel is fear.
....Will she still love me? | "The experiment is over. Thank you for your time"
'Pardon?'
"The exp-"
'I heard that. I'm wondering what you mean.'
"Ah, sorry. For the last ten years, you have been helping the British Government and Apple by allowing us to control every aspect of your day to day. Are those scones?"
'H-help yourself. So when I lost my keys on tuesday-'
"That was our doing, yes."
'My dog. His-'
"That was a tricky one, but yes. Oh now don't be so glum; thousands of lives are going to be saved as a result of this!"
'WHY ME THOUGH?!'
"Me! Me! Me! ...no wonder Mary divorced you last year." |
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